The Cripple was pensive, his eyes on the far distance, the pith of darkness. “I have difficult days ahead, Eustaquio. I am depressed by the way the war is being fought, and now, all these personal problems, too. As you very well know, Cayo, my secretary, is not well. He is in Balungaw with my servant, in the hot springs there, recuperating from this fever and I don’t know how long he will be there. Thank God, it is not the pox. I need someone to transcribe what I have written, to remember the things that I say. Your Spanish is polished — as if you grew up with the language. Do you have difficulty recalling it?”
“Yes, Apo,” Istak said.
“You will do. And as for Tagalog, it Does not matter that you don’t speak it. You can learn enough so that you will understand what I automatically say sometimes.”
This kind of work was beyond his expectations. He should forget the dream but in his heart he was glad that the Cripple saw value in him still. But what was this votive flame that was drawing him closer to this cause that led men to their graves? Would he eventually be singed by it, would it scorch all the allegiances of the blood?
“What are your feelings toward the language of our masters, which we have learned? Does it give you a sense of pride? Of being equal to them?” the Cripple suddenly asked.
It had never occurred to him this way. Language was a window through which he could see — as Padre Jose had said, and indeed, he saw so much, learned so much. But how was he to explain this now? He turned to the side of the room where the bookshelves were. All those books were in Spanish, and perhaps, a couple or so in Ilokano.
“I have made their language mine, Apo,” Istak said finally. “And with it, I am able to speak with you, to Don Jacinto — but to my relatives, my wife, I have to speak in my own tongue, which I love no less.”
The Cripple smiled, that cryptic smile that could be mistaken for cynicism. “And I have to write in Spanish, and this then will have to be translated into English by our friends in Hong Kong. English, the language of our enemy — so that it can then be spread to many corners of the earth. To reach our own people, we have to use the language of foreigners. But someday we will be able to talk with everyone in a language that is our own. Yes, Eustaquio — there is so much the world does not know, how the Americans have tortured our people, committed the most brutal crimes against humanity. And yet, read their own constitution — how civilized and humanitarian it is. Yes, we have so much to tell everyone.”
The Cripple paused as if a heavy cloak of weariness had descended upon him. “And Luna is dead. Only he really understood how the war should be fought by men lacking arms but not spirit. Everyone can help in this war, Eustaquio. Do you understand?”
Istak bowed. “I am just a poor farmer, Apo.” His voice did not rise above a whisper.
Perhaps, had the Cripple been able to, he would have risen quickly. He jolted himself upright, instead, his voice leaping, his eyes burning: “You are not a poor farmer! You are Eustaquio Samson — is that not your name? And you are a Filipino with a good head — this I recognize as you should recognize it, too. And this is what has always been wrong with us — yes, the Spaniards have succeeded in humiliating us, always they are the superior teachers — we the inferior pupils! Whatever we do that is honest and good, we must be proud of it. We must not be subservient to anyone, not you to me, as I have never been to anyone. In me, in you — in all of us is dignity. We should stand bravely because we are citizens of a sovereign nation no matter how weak that nation. We are Filipinos now, do you understand, Eustaquio?”
Istak did not move. The words swirled around him, engulfed him, lifted him off his feet. No one had ever spoken to him like this before; his parents had always stressed obedience, hard work, and Padre Jose — for all his goodness, what did he din into him but piety, love, respect, duty — how they differed from Mabini’s thralling call to pride.
“Yes, Apo,” Istak said.
“You do not know it,” the Cripple continued equably. “I am no longer an official in our government. What I do now I do as a duty, not to the president but to Filipinas. Our motherland, she is bigger than any of us, and we must serve her, and serving her means serving you and everyone who is Filipino. Even now, President Aguinaldo is fleeing from the Americans, just as I am hiding here, unable to run. He has a weak, undisciplined army — what is left of it — led by General Tinio. He will be safe. But the Americans will surely capture me — I don’t know when they will come or when I will be betrayed, just as I don’t know when they will catch up with the president. Some say that everything is lost, that all we can do now is run and hide, but we can still wage war from the mountains, from the swamps, where they cannot reach us. We know the folds of the hills, the depths of the muck — they don’t. But even if the war is lost, even if there is an American pointing a gun at each one of us, we must continue to oppose this new master till Filipinas is free.”
A long pause, then the Cripple continued sadly: “But when will Filipinas ever be free from its leaders who are wealthy and crooked, in whom we have put so much trust?”
To Istak’s questioning look, the man sighed. “I am voicing thoughts that I should keep to myself. But I have always mistrusted the wealthy men who have joined the revolution. I know that great wealth is always accumulated by foul means, by exploiting other people. If we have wealthy men at the helm, we can be sure that they will enrich themselves further. Virtue and wealth seldom go together. The greatest criminals are also the wealthiest men.”
Istak looked at his bare feet, at the shiny wooden floor. Was he the epitome of virtue because he was poor? How had it been in the village? There was foul gossip and cussedness anywhere in the world where small men had to think of their stomachs first before thinking about others. “The poor are not always virtuous, Apo,” he mumbled.
“Ah, but I did not say they are.” The Cripple became vibrant again. “What I do say is this: it is more difficult for the poor to be virtuous. When you are hungry and you steal a ganta of rice, that is not a crime; but when you are rich and you steal gold, is that not despicable? In this war, hundreds have died with honor, but I also know that some have already profited by their professions of patriotism. When this is all over, we will know who among the ilustrados have enriched themselves with the funds that should have gone for the purchase of guns, food, medicine for our soldiers. We will know who betrayed the revolution to the Americans. And because we are Filipinos, we may even proclaim these thieves as patriots. Patriots don’t become rich, Eustaquio.” The Cripple raised his hand in a gesture of futility and for the first time, Istak pitied him, his infirmity, his incapacity to express himself beyond words, in deeds that would bespeak iron physical courage as well.
What could a farmer like him do? Had the lives of people really changed during all the years that salvation was offered by the priests? If the revolution succeeded, what assurance was there that his life would change? Would brown rulers be different from the Spaniards? Would it not be worth waiting to find out what kind of rulers the Americans would be? He did not know much about America, but he had read about Lincoln and how he had freed the slaves. Surely, there must be some redeeming virtue in a nation which produced such a man.
“I don’t want to make you angry, Apo,” Istak said clearly. “All that I can look after is my own farm, serve those who seek me when they are sick. I have my children to look after so that they will not know what hunger is.”
The Cripple bowed as if enveloped in thought and for some time he did not speak. Darkness deepened, dishes clattered in the nearby kitchen, mice scurried in the attic, a dog howled somewhere in the vastness of the night. The Cripple spoke again. “I understand only too well what you are trying to say. That you are a farmer? Or that you are Ilokano? And if I ask you, what is under your skin, inside your skull, do not tell me it is blood and flesh and brains!” His gaze turned to the sky studded with stars and as if he had reached out for one and held it out to the farmer, his words took shape again, crystal-clear, lucid. “Don’t ever be a patriot, Eustaquio. Those who think they are or will be delude themselves. Patriotism is selfless. And it is not the generals who are the bravest — they usually have the means to stay away from the battle and thereby lengthen their lives. The bravest are usually those whom we do not know or hear about, those anonymous men who dig the trenches, who produce the food. They are the corpus — you understand that word — the body and also the soul of a nation. Eustaquio, my words are just words, but all through history — and you have studied it — it has always been the many faceless men, those foot soldiers, who have suffered most, who have died. It is they who make a nation.”