Re: Blood and Iron

Chapter 605: Negotiating and End to Hostilities

The walls of the hall still bore the scars of artillery shelling, hastily patched over with plaster and fresh coats of paint, but the cracks ran deeper than the walls.

They ran through the soul of a nation stretched to breaking, and through the last threadbare illusions of American control in the Pacific.

President Franklin D. Roosevelt sat beneath a lacquered American eagle, his wheelchair carefully positioned behind a long mahogany table.

On the other side sat three men, representatives of the Civic Front, the nominal political face of the insurgency that had bled American forces dry from Luzon to Sulu.

Roosevelt’s voice was measured, statesmanlike. But his eyes were tired.

“Gentlemen,” he began, adjusting the papers in front of him. “The American people want peace. They want their sons home. And I imagine yours do as well.”

The man in the center, Senator Teodoro Marasigan, was lean, neatly dressed, and calm in demeanor.

This was despite the knowledge that he had once drafted orders for ambushes and mine-laying campaigns in Samar under a different name.

“Mr. President,” he said evenly, “we appreciate your willingness to speak with us openly. Many of our people feared you would never recognize the Civic Front’s legitimacy.”

FDR offered a thin smile. “Let’s not flatter ourselves. Legitimacy is a political convenience. What I recognize is the cost of war.”

Marasigan inclined his head slightly. “Then let us discuss the cost. We do not want vengeance. We want independence. Genuine independence. Not one dressed up with flags and kneecapped by treaty clauses.”

Roosevelt glanced at his aides, then leaned forward.

“A full and immediate withdrawal,” he said slowly, “is not politically viable back home. Not after the years we’ve spent. The blood. The treasure. The elections.”

“We understand,” said the second representative, Mayor Inigo Cruz of Cavite, himself rumored to be an old field commander.

“But nor can we allow you to install another ’friendly’ government that answers to Washington while suppressing our people.”

FDR took a deep breath.

“Then we find a third way. A roadmap to independence. A timetable. Elections monitored by neutral observers. Transitional economic aid.”

Marasigan’s brows rose. “And who governs in the interim?”

Roosevelt looked him in the eye. “You do. The Civic Front. On the condition that hostilities end. That the insurgency disarms. And that the new Philippine Constitution protects American economic interests for the next decade.”

Marasigan leaned back. “You want peace with dignity for America. But you’re asking us to codify dependence.”

FDR’s tone was sharper now. “I’m offering you a republic, not a colony. But if you want that republic recognized on the world stage, you’ll need to meet us halfway.”

There was silence.

Then Marasigan spoke carefully. “We’ll take your offer. On paper. And present it to our council. But know this, Mr. Roosevelt, if our people smell another leash beneath the velvet, they will snap it.”

Roosevelt nodded. “I would expect nothing less from a nation that’s fought this hard.”

He extended his hand. Reluctantly, Marasigan took it.

Outside, the rain began to fall on Manila’s scorched rooftops, washing away the ash, but not the blood.

—

The walls of the mountain retreat were thick adobe, cool despite the tropical heat.

A single gas lamp flickered over a hand-drawn map of Luzon nailed to the back wall.

Around the wooden table sat the leadership council of the Civic Front, politicians, former field commanders, teachers, and priests turned revolutionaries.

The room was quiet, save for the distant whine of cicadas and the soft thrum of rain on the tiled roof.

Senator Teodoro Marasigan, still wearing his pressed suit from the Manila meeting, stood at the head of the table, Roosevelt’s signed proposal in his hands.

“He calls it a transition,” Marasigan said, laying the document down, “but make no mistake… this is a leash. Just one that glitters more than the last.”

General Emilio Salazar, the former commander of the Luzon resistance, tapped the table with a calloused finger.

“A leash is still a step away from the cage,” he grunted. “And the people are tired. Our caches are low. Our fighters are stretched thin. You think we can keep this up another year?”

“There’s another issue,” said Inigo Cruz. “Katipunan ng Dugo at Laya. They’ve already posted pamphlets in Cebu. ’No negotiations. No elections. Only blood cleans the wound.’”

He spat on the dirt floor.

“They’re growing,” said Maria Ysabel del Rosario, the Civic Front’s minister for public communication. “They’re not even trying to win the war. They just want to burn the system down, and we’re the ones standing in their way now.”

Marasigan frowned. “If we refuse Roosevelt’s deal, and Katipunan steps up their attacks on civilians, public markets, American outposts, then Washington will have every excuse they need to tighten their grip again. They’ll paint us as two faces of the same monster.”

“And if we do accept it,” Salazar snapped, “Katipunan will call us traitors. Puppets. Cowards. And they’ll have the sympathy of every angry, hungry citizen that feels betrayed.”

“So either way,” said Cruz darkly, “we’re holding the knife by the blade.”

Silence.

Finally, Ysabel spoke, her voice calm but firm. “Then we must do both. Accept the transition plan, but control the narrative. Make it our victory. Not a concession.”

Salazar raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You think our people care about ’narratives’ while rationing rice and burying sons?”

“I think they’ll care who’s still standing when the dust settles,” she said. “Roosevelt wants a deal. That gives us leverage. We demand international observers, not just American ones. German and Siamese. Anyone with neutral eyes.”

Marasigan nodded slowly. “And in the meantime, we send envoys to the Katipunan’s fringe elements. Anyone not fully lost to extremism, we offer them seats at the table. The rest…”

His voice hardened. “…we isolate. Cut off their funding. Let the Americans handle the backlash. We make it clear… we are the path to peace, not them.”

“And if the Americans betray us?” Salazar asked, leaning back with folded arms.

“Then we fight again,” Marasigan said simply. “But next time, the world will know who broke the peace.”

The rain thickened outside, beating like distant drums.

In that remote hideout, surrounded by misty jungle and ghosts of fallen comrades, the Civic Front chose the razor’s edge. Peace would not come easily. But if it came, it would be theirs.

Or no one’s.