The Sun Over Breda

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  5. THE LOYAL INFANTRY

  The enemy attacked in the middle of the night, and the men at the “forlorn hope” postings were precisely that, without hope, slaughtered without even the time to flick an eyelash. Informed by his spies, Maurice of Nassau had seized the opportunity offered by the churning waters of the mutiny. Planning to install a relief unit of Dutch and English troops in Breda, he had approached Oudkerk from the north with large numbers of infantry and cavalry, and in their progress they had wreaked havoc and destruction at our advance posts. The Cartagena tercio, along with Don Carlos Soest’s Walloon infantry detachment, which was camped nearby, received the order to intercept the Hollanders and hold them back until our General Spínola could organize the counterattack. So in the middle of the night we were routed from sleep by drums and fifes and calls to collect our weapons. No one who has not lived such moments can imagine the clamor and confusion: lit torches illuminating running, pushing, startled figures, their faces serene, grave, terrorized. There were contradictory orders, captains shouting, sergeants hastily lining up rows of half-asleep, half-dressed soldiers and trying to get them outfitted for battle. All this chaos played out against the deafening rat-a-tat-tat of drums from the camp to the town, people scrambling to their windows and up on the walls, camps being struck, whinnying horses maddened by hands conveying the threat of combat. Battle-torn banners were drawn from their sheaths and unfurled to ripple in the breeze: crosses of Burgundy, bars of Aragon, quarters with castles and lions and chains, all rippling in the red light of torches and bonfires.

  Captain Bragado’s company was among the first to march off, leaving behind the fires of the fortified town and camp and plunging into darkness along a dike bordering vast salt marshes and peat bogs. The word ran down the line of soldiers that we were marching to the Ruyter mill, a place the Dutch would have to pass en route to Breda because the land was narrow there, and according to what we’d been told, it was not possible to ford the river anywhere else. I was walking with the other mochileros from Diego Alatriste’s company, carrying his and Sebastián Copons’s harquebuses. I stayed close behind them, for I was also carrying a store of powder and balls and part of their supplies. Despite the dubious privilege of being loaded like a mule, this daily exercise had the benefit of strengthening my arms and legs. We Spaniards always do find a way to shrug off our troubles: From every ill some good will come, or vice versa.

  Well, my brothers and señores,

  you know without my explanation

  an honor is never, ever, won

  except with extreme extenuation.

  The march was not easy in that murky light, for the moon was new and almost always hidden behind the clouds, so now and again some soldier would stumble, or the line would stop and you would bump into the person ahead of you, and then all along the dike the “’Pon my lifes” and “Pardiezes” erupted like a hailstorm of shot. My master was, as usual, a silent silhouette I followed like the shadow of a shadow. As we walked along, my head and my heart were filled with conflicting emotions: on one hand, a youth’s normal excitement about imminent action, but on the other, misgivings about the darkness and the prospect of battling a substantial number of enemies on open ground. Perhaps that was why it had made such an impression on me when, still in Oudkerk and just as the tercio had fallen in by the torchlight, even the most vocal nonbelievers had taken a moment to kneel and bare their heads as Chaplain Salanueva went up and down the rows giving us general absolution, just in case. For although the padre was a sullen and stupid priest who in his cups always tangled his Latin, he was, after all, the closest thing to a holy man we had. In any case, one thing does not cancel the other, and in a bad situation our soldiers always preferred an Ego te absolvo from a sinner’s hand to heading toward the next world with nothing to cover their sins.

  One detail disturbed me greatly, however, and from the comments I heard around me, the veteran soldiers had also given it some thought. As we crossed one of the bridges near the dike, we saw by the light of some lanterns that sappers—those entrusted with disarming the mines—with axes and mattocks were preparing to tear down the bridge behind us, no doubt to deprive the Dutch of a passage through that area. However, that also meant that we ourselves could not expect reinforcements from the rear. And also, if it eventually came to “every man for himself,” it would be impossible to retreat in that direction. There were other bridges, no doubt, but imagine, Your Mercies, the effect that had on us as we marched toward the enemy in that black night.

  Nevertheless, with or without a bridge behind us, we reached the Ruyter mill before dawn. From there you could hear the distant bursts of shots as our most advanced harquebusiers kept the Dutch entertained. A bonfire was burning, and in its splendor we could see the miller and his family, a woman and four very young children, all frightened and in their nightclothes, who had been driven from their home and were watching, powerless, as soldiers broke down doors and windows, fortified the upper floor, and piled up demolished furnishings to form a bulwark. As the flames reflected off helmets and corselets, the children sobbed from terror of those rough men clad in steel, and the miller held his head in his hands, watching as his livelihood was ruined, his property devastated, and no one was moved in the least by his fate. In war, tragedy becomes routine, and the soldier’s heart is hardened as much by the misfortune of others as by his own. As for the mill, our colonel had chosen it as a lookout and command post, and we could see don Pedro de la Daga in the doorway, conferring with the Walloon commander, each surrounded by his principal officers and flag bearers. From time to time they turned to look toward the distant fires a half league or so away as well as the hamlets burning in the distance, where the main body of the Dutch seemed to be concentrated.

  We were made to march on a little farther, leaving the mill behind, and the companies spread out in the darkness among the hedgerows and beneath the trees, walking through tall wet grass that soaked us to the knees. The order was to not light fires and to wait. Occasionally a nearby shot or a false alarm sent a shudder through our lines, evoking a burst of “Halt!” and “Who goes there?” Fear and watchfulness are bad companions to repose. The men in the vanguard were keeping their harquebus cords lit, and in the dark the red tips glowed like fireflies. The real veterans dropped to the wet ground right there, determined to rest before the battle. Others chose not to or were unable, and were wide awake, alert, their eyes staring into the night, attentive to the sporadic fire of the advance scouts skirmishing nearby.

  As for me, I kept as close as I could to Captain Alatriste, who, with the rest of his squad, had gone to lie down by a hedgerow. I followed them, feeling my way, and had the bad luck to run into a patch of brambles that tore at my face and hands. Twice I heard my master’s voice calling me to make sure I was keeping up. Finally he and Sebastián asked for their harquebuses, and they charged me with keeping a cord lit at both ends in case they needed it. So I took my steel and flint from my pack, and in the shelter of the hedge I struck my spark and did what they had ordered me to do. I blew hard on the slow match and hung it on a stick I set in the ground so it would stay dry and lit. Then I curled up with everyone else, trying to rest from the march and perhaps sleep a little. It was no use; it was too cold. Beneath me the wet grass soaked my clothing, and from above, the night dew drenched us thoroughly as if Beelzebub himself had ordered it. Scarcely aware, I pushed closer to the warmth of Diego Alatriste, who lay stretched out with his harquebus tucked between his legs. I could smell the odor of dirty clothes mixed with traces of leather and metal, and pushed closer still, seeking warmth. He did not discourage me but lay absolutely still when he felt me near. Only later, when the coming dawn streaked the sky and I began to shiver, did he turn over an instant and without a word cover me with his old soldier’s cape.

  The Hollanders appeared, capable and confident, with the first rays of the sun. Their light cavalry scattered our advance harquebusiers, and in no time they were upon us in close, orderly ro
ws, their aim to take control of the Ruyter mill and the road that led through Oudkerk to Breda. Captain Bragado’s bandera was ordered to form up with the rest of the tercio in a hedge-and-tree-bordered meadow between the marsh and the road. The Walloon infantry of don Carlos Soest—all Flemish Catholics are loyal to our lord and king—lined up on the other side of the road so that between our two tercios we covered a strip a quarter of a league wide through which the Dutch would have to pass. And by my faith, it was an admirable and noble sight, those two tercios stationed in the middle of the meadows with banners flying above a forest of pikes and detachments of harquebuses and muskets covering the front and the flanks, while the gentle roll of the land atop the nearby dikes was filled with the advancing enemy. That day we were going to be one against five; it almost seemed as if Maurice of Nassau had emptied the Estates of inhabitants in order to throw every one of them against us.

  “By heaven, this does not augur well,” I heard Captain Bragado say.

  “At least they don’t have artillery,” Lieutenant Coto, the standard bearer, pointed out.

  “At the moment.”

  With eyes squinting beneath the brims of their hats, they, like the rest of us Spaniards, were making a professional assessment of the glinting pikes, breastplates, and helmets that were beginning to blot out the landscape that spread before the Cartagena tercio. Diego Alatriste’s squad was at the forefront, harquebuses at the ready, their muskets resting in forks, musket balls in mouths, ready to be spat into barrels, and cords lit at both ends, forming a protective shield for the left wing of the tercio and aligned in front of the picas secas and coseletes who stood only half an arm’s length from the next. The former had only their pikes as protection while the latter were armored in helmet, gorget, and cuirasses, and waited with their sixteen-foot-long pikes rammed into the ground.

  I was within earshot of Captain Alatriste, ready to provide him and his comrades with powder, one-ounce lead shot, and water when they had need of it. My eyes traveled back and forth between the ever-thicker rows of Dutchmen and the expressionless faces of my master and his comrades, who were standing motionless in their positions. There was no conversation among them other than an occasional comment spoken quietly to the nearest companion, an appraising look here and there, a silently mouthed orison, a twist of a mustache, or a tongue run over dry lips. Waiting. Excited by the imminent combat and wanting to be useful, I went over to Captain Alatriste to see if he needed a drink or if there was anything I could bring him, but he scarcely took note of me. He was holding his harquebus by the barrel, with the butt set on the ground, and he had a smoldering cord wrapped around his left wrist, while he intently observed the enemy field with his gray-green eyes. The brim of his hat shaded his face, and his buffcoat was tightly wrapped beneath the bandolier with the twelve apostles and the belt with sword, vizcaína, and powder flask strapped over a faded red band. The aquiline profile dramatized by the enormous mustache, the tanned skin of his face, and the sunken cheeks unshaved since the previous day made him look even leaner than usual.

  “Eyes left!” Bragado alerted them, snapping his captain’s short lance to his shoulder.

  On our left, between the peat bogs and the nearby trees, several Dutch horsemen were reconnoitering, exploring the lay of the land. Without awaiting orders, Garrote, Llop, and four or five harquebusiers stepped forward a few paces, poured a bit of loose powder into their pans, and, aiming carefully, fired off shots in the direction of the heretics, who pulled up on their reins and retired without further ado. Across the road, the enemy had already reached Soest’s tercio and were battering them at close range with harquebus fire. The Walloons were firing back, shot for shot. I watched as a large company of horse approached with the intention of charging and saw the Walloon pikes tilt forward like a shimmering grove of ash wood and steel, ready to welcome them.

  “Here they come,” said Bragado.

  Lieutenant Coto, who was armored in a cuirass with chain-mail sleeves—in his role as standard bearer he was exposed to enemy fire and all manner of enemy aggression—took the banner from the hands of his second lieutenant and went to join the other banners in the center of the tercio. Outlined before us by the first horizontal rays of the sun, the Dutch were approaching in their hundreds, reforming their lines through trees and hedges as they came out into the meadow. They were yelling and shouting to keep up their courage, and the many Englishmen with them were as vociferous in fighting as they were in drinking. Still advancing, they lined up in perfect formation two hundred paces away, their harquebusiers already firing at us, though we were out of range.

  I have already told Your Mercies, I believe, that despite my experience in Flanders, this was my first combat in open country, and never until then had I witnessed Spaniards steadfastly standing their ground in the face of an attack. What was most memorable was the silence in which they waited, the absolute fixity with which those rows of dark-skinned, bearded men from the most undisciplined land on earth watched the enemy approach with ne’er a word, a flinch, a gesture that had not been regulated in accord with the commands of our lord and king. It was that day, there at the Ruyter mill, that I truly came to understand why our infantry was, and for so long had been, the most feared in all of Europe. The tercio was a faultless, disciplined military machine in which each soldier knew his role; that was their strength and their pride. For those men, a motley army composed of hidalgos, adventurers, and the ruffians and dregs of all the Spains, to fight honorably for the Catholic monarchy and for the true religion conferred on any who did so, even the lowest of the low, a dignity impossible to achieve in any other way.

  I left my land to fight in Flanders,

  Where, though not firstborn nor heir,

  younger sons, by being soldiers

  achieved in war what had not been theirs.

  The prolific genius of Toledo, Fray Gabriel Téllez, known by the more famous name of Tirso de Molina, wrote very knowingly on this subject. By basking in the unassailable reputation of the tercios, even the basest scalawag had reason to call himself an hidalgo.

  My lineage begins with me,

  for those men are better still

  who institute their ancestry;

  worse are those who would defame

  what once had been an honored name.

  As for the Dutch, they did not waste time putting on such airs, and they did not give a spoiled herring for bloodlines. No, that morning they were headed straight for Breda, valiant, determined to take the shortest route. A few of their muskets were already smoking, having propelled lead balls to the limit of their reach, where they rolled harmlessly across the grass. I saw our maestre don Pedro de la Daga, on his mount beside the standard bearers and heavily armored in Milanese iron, lower the sallet of his helmet with one hand and lift his baton of command with the other. With that, the lead drum sounded, and immediately all the others joined in. That drumming went on forever, and it seemed to have frozen everyone’s blood because a mortal silence fell over the field. The Dutch, so close now we could see their faces, also paused for an instant, hesitating, affected by the drumbeat issuing from the motionless lines blocking their passage. Then, whipped up by their corporals and officers, they resumed their advance, shouting as they came. By now they were very close, some sixty or seventy paces, with pikes at the ready and harquebuses aimed.

  Then a cry began to ripple through the tercio, a harsh, defiant shout repeated from line to line, rising in a clamor that drowned out the sound rolling off the drumheads:

  “Spain!…Spain!…Close in for Spain!”

  That Close in! was an old battle cry, and it always meant one thing: Watch out; Spain is on the attack. When I heard it, I caught my breath and turned to look at Diego Alatriste, but I couldn’t tell whether he had yelled the phrase or not. The first rows of Spaniards were moving forward to the beat of the drums, and the captain was advancing with them, his harquebus loose in his hands, elbow to elbow with his comrades: Sebastián Copons o
n one side and Mendieta on the other, tight to Captain Bragado’s side and leaving no spaces between them. The entire tercio was marching at the same slow, orderly, proud pace as though they were on parade before the king. Only a few days before, many of these same men had mutinied over unpaid wages, but now they were soldiers: Teeth clenched, mustaches and beards bristling, their rags covered by cuirasses of oiled leather and their weapons polished, they fixed their eyes on the enemy, an intrepid, terrible force that trailed the smoke of lit harquebus cords. I ran behind, not wanting to lose sight of the captain, through heretic fire that was truly raining down on us now that their coseletes and harquebusiers were well within range. I was breathless, deafened by the roar of my own blood, which was pounding in my veins and eardrums as if the tercio’s drums were reverberating in my innards.

  The Hollanders’ first round took down one of our men and enveloped us all in a cloud of smoke. When that dissipated I saw Captain Bragado with his captain’s lance upraised. Alatriste and his comrades had stopped, and with complete calm they had blown on their cords and positioned their harquebuses to their cheeks to take aim. And so, in battle mode, some thirty paces from the Hollanders, the old Cartagena tercio entered the fray.