Chapter 38: Orbea Hermanos
A shallow canal started to form where the soldiers worked the ground with their hoes and spades. The dirt, moist from the morning dew, made a rhythmic squelch followed by a grating scrape. Those not working on the long line that stretched as far as the train station unleashed their bolo blades to clear the grass, trees, and bushes around the trench under construction.
It was a good position—slightly sloped and near the road. I could see the fingerprints of Heneral Luna’s expert hands all over the work being done.
For their part, the soldiers worked hard, even under the angry Filipino sun. So much so that I felt guilty just sitting comfortably on the crate under the cover of a tall, old mango tree. Sheltering with me was Vicente, my escolta, and two horses tied to the large protruding roots.
Teniente Ronaldo Dimalanta had gone on ahead with the sargento primero in search of the owner of the horses. Dimalanta insisted I ’borrow’ them for our journey to Cavite, saying it wouldn’t look right for a general to travel on foot. I was against it, but the young man—eager to prove I made the right decision in bringing him along—was gone before I could stop him.
The nearby soldiers told us the horses belonged to their Capitan and his ayudante. Dimalanta was having trouble locating the officer among the train of soldiers, all in identical uniforms. The Capitan might have joined in the digging, which would make it harder for him—and his tiny shoulder rank patches—to stand out.
It was taking a while. While waiting, I decided to examine my newly acquired weapon. I pulled the revolver out of the holster already fixed on my waist and beamed at the sight of it. The golden lanyard around my neck was attached to the bottom of the pistol’s grip.
I was more into rifles than pistols in my gun collection. But the handgun in my hand was famous enough for me to recognize at first glance, even if I hadn’t personally owned one. It had that top-break mechanism with an auto-ejector that spit out spent cartridges with a satisfying snap.
A brand-new, pristine-looking, polished Smith & Wesson Model 3 ’Schofield’ revolv—
"Ah... an Orbea Hermanos," Vicente said, noticing I had drawn my sidearm. He leaned a little closer over my shoulder. "And an 1886 model at that."