Zaragoza. English

by Benito Pérez Galdós

  CHAPTER XXIV

  As I have said, Palafox pulled us together; and although we abandonedalmost all of the Calle de Pabostre, we remained strong in the PuertaQuemada. If the battle was bloody until three, the hour when we centredin the Plaza de la Magdalena, it was not less bloody there until night.The French began to raise works in the houses ruined by the mines, andit was curious to see how among the masses of rubbish and beams smallarmed squares and covered ways were made and platforms to connect theartillery. That was a battle which every moment appeared less and lesslike any other known warfare.

  From this new phase of contest resulted an advantage for us and ahindrance for the French. The demolition of the houses permittedthem to place some new pieces, but the men were unprotected. To ourmisfortune, we could not avail ourselves of this because of theexplosions. Fright made us think the danger multiplied a hundredfold,when in reality it was diminished. Not wishing to do less than they inthat fiery duel, the Saragossans began to burn the houses in the Callede Pabostre which they could not hold.

  Besiegers and besieged, desirous of coming to an end of this, andnot being able to attain it in such intricate burrowing warfare,began to destroy, one side by mining, the other by burning, remainingunprotected like the gladiator who throws away his shield.

  What an afternoon! What a night! Arriving here, I pause, wearied andbreathless. My recollections are obscured, dimmed as my thoughts and myfeelings were dimmed on that dreadful night. There came indeed a momentwhen being unable to resist longer, my body, like that of others of mycomrades who had the fortune or misfortune to be still alive, draggeditself back across the gutters, stumbling over unburied bodies thatseemed less than human among the debris. My feelings had flung me intoan extreme of delirium, and I did not clearly know where I was. My ideaof living was a confused, vague mixture of unheard-of miseries. It didnot seem as if it was day, because in so many places the murk hung low,obscuring everything. Nor could I think it night, for flames like thosewe imagine in hell reddened the city on every side.

  I only know that I dragged myself, stepping upon bodies, some dead andsome still moving, and that farther on, always farther on, I thoughtI might find a piece of bread and a mouthful of water. What horriblemental dejection! What hunger! What thirst! I saw many running swiftly.I cried out to them. I saw their strange shadows throwing grotesquefigures upon the neighboring walls. They were going and coming, I knownot whence nor where. I was not the only one who, with body and soulexhausted after so many hours of fighting, had given out completely.Many others who had not the steel nerves of the Aragonese were draggingthemselves along like myself, and we begged one another for a littlewater. Some, more fortunate than the rest, had the strength to lookabout among the corpses and find crusts of rations not eaten, fragmentsof meat, cold and dirty on the ground, which they devoured with avidity.

  Somewhat revived, we went on looking, and I took my part of the tidbitsof the feast. I did not know if I was wounded. Some of those who weretalking with me, telling me of their dreadful hunger and thirst, hadterrible wounds and burns and contusions. At last we came to some womenwho gave us water to drink, although it was muddy and warm. We disputedover the jug, and then in the hands of one of the dead we found akerchief containing two dried sardines and little cakes. Encouragedby these repeated finds, we went on pillaging, and at last the littlewhich we were able to eat, and, more than anything else, the dirtywater we drank, gave us back a little strength.

  I now felt myself able to walk a little, although with difficulty.I saw that my clothing was all soaked with blood. Feeling a livelysmarting in my right arm, I supposed that I was severely wounded; butthe hurt turned out to be an insignificant contusion, and the stains onmy clothing came from creeping along through the pools of blood and mud.

  I could now think clearly again. I could see plainly, and could heardistinctly the shouts and the hurried footsteps, the cannon-shots nearand afar in dreadful dialogue. Their crashings here and yonder seemedlike questions and replies.

  The burning went on. There was a dense cloud over the city formed ofdust and smoke, which, with the splendor of the flames, revealedhorrible unearthly scenes like those of dreams.

  The mangled houses, with their windows and openings glaring with thelight like hellish eyes, the projecting angles of the smoking ruins,and the burning beams formed a spectacle less sinister than that ofthose leaping and unwearied figures that did not cease to move abouthere and there, almost in the centre of the flames. They were thepeasants of Saragossa, who were still fighting with the French, anddisputing with them every hand's breadth of this hell.

  I found myself in the Calle de Puerta Quemada. That which I havedescribed was seen by looking in two directions from the Seminary, andfrom the entrance of the Calle de Pabostre. I went on a few steps,but fell again, overcome by fatigue. A priest, seeing me covered withblood, came up to me and began to talk to me of the future life, and ofthe eternal rewards destined for those who die for their country. Hetold me that I was not wounded; but that hunger, weariness, and thirsthad prostrated me, and that I seemed to have the early symptoms of theepidemic. Then the good friar, in whom I recognized at once FatherMateo del Busto, seated himself beside me, sighing deeply.

  "I can keep up no longer. I believe that I am going to die."

  "Is your reverence wounded?" I asked, seeing a linen cloth bound uponhis right arm.

  "Yes, my son. A ball has destroyed my shoulder and arm. I am in thegreatest pain, but I must bear it. Christ suffered more for us. Sincedaybreak I have been busy, caring for the wounded and pointing thedying to heaven. I have not rested a moment for sixteen hours, nor haveI eaten nor drank anything. A woman tied this linen on my right arm,and I went about my work. I believe that I shall not live long. What adeath! My God, and all these wounded with no one to take care of them!But, oh, I can no longer stand! I am dying! Have you seen that trenchwhich is at the end of the Calle de los Clavos? Over there poor Coridonis lying, lifeless, the victim of his own courage. We were passingalong there to take care of some of the wounded, when we saw, near thegarden of San Augustine, a group of Frenchmen who were passing fromone house to another. Coridon, whose impetuous blood impelled him tothe most daring acts, threw himself upon them. They bayoneted him, andflung him in the ditch. How many victims in a single day, Araceli!Indeed, you are fortunate in not being hurt. But you will die of theepidemic, and that is worse. To-day I have given absolution to sixtywho were dying of the epidemic. I give it to you also, my friend,because I know you have committed no sins, only peccadilloes, and thatyou have borne yourself valiantly in these days. How is it? Do you feelworse? Truly you are yellower than these corpses about us. To die ofthe epidemic during this horrible siege is to die for one's country.Courage, young man! Heaven is open to receive you, and the Virgin delPilar will welcome you with her mantle of the stars. Life is nothing.How much better it is to die honorably, and to gain eternal glory bythe suffering of a day! In the name of God, I forgive you your sins!"

  Then after murmuring the prayer appropriate to the occasion, he blessedme, and pronounced the _Ego te absolvo_, and then lay down upon theground. He looked very badly, and although I did not call myself well,I thought myself in a better state of health than the good friar. Thatwas not the only time when the confessor died before the dying one, andthe physician before the patient.

  I spoke to Father Mateo, and he did not answer me, except with piteousmoans. I went a little way to look for some one who might be able tohelp him. I met several men and women, and told them, "Father Mateo delBusto is over there and cannot move;" but they took no notice of me andwent on. Many of the wounded called upon me, begging for aid; but Itook no notice at all of them. Near the Coso, I met a child of eight orten years, who was alone, and weeping in the sorest distress. I stoppedhim. I asked him where his parents were, and he pointed to a place nearwhere there was a great number of the wounded and dead. Afterwards Imet the same child in several places, always alone and always cryingaloud very bitterly. No one
cared for him. I heard no questions, but,"Have you seen my brother?" "Have you seen my son?" "Have you seenmy father?" But none of these were to be found in any direction. Noone tried to take any of the wounded to the churches, because all ornearly all were crowded. The cellars and lower rooms which at firsthad been considered good places of refuge, were now infected with adeath-dealing atmosphere. There came a time when the best place for thewounded was in the middle of the street.

  I directed my steps towards the centre of the Coso, because they saidthat there they were giving out something to eat, but I receivednothing. I was returning to Las Tenerias, and at last, in front ofAlmudi, they gave me a little hot food. That which seemed a symptom ofthe epidemic disappeared, for indeed my malady was only of the sortthat can be cured with bread and wine. I remembered Father Mateo delBusto, and with some others went to help him. The unfortunate old manhad not moved, and when we came up, and asked him how he found himself,he answered thus,--

  "What is it? Has the bell sounded for matins? It is early. Leave me torest. I find myself much fatigued, Father Gonzalez. I have been pickingflowers in the garden for sixteen hours, and I am tired."

  In spite of his entreaty, we four took him up; but we had carried himonly a short distance before he was dead in our arms.

  My comrades ran to the front, and I was preparing to follow them,when I happened to see a man whose looks attracted my attention. Itwas Candiola. He was coming out of a house near by with his clothingscorched, and grasping between his hands a fowl, which cackled at beingheld captive. I stopped him in the middle of the street, questioninghim about his daughter and Augustine. He answered me in a verydisturbed way,--

  "My daughter--I do not know--there she is--somewhere. All, all! I havelost all. The receipts, the receipts were burned. Fortunately I got outof the house, and as I fled I came upon this chicken which, like me,was flying from the dreadful flames. Yesterday, a hen was worth fiveduros. But my receipts! Holy Virgin del Pilar, and thou, dear littleSanto Domingo of my soul, why have ye let my receipts be burned? They,at least, might have been saved. Do you wish to help me? The tin boxwhich held them is still there pinned down under a great beam. Wherecan you find half a dozen men for me? Good God, this junta, theseauthorities, this Captain-General, what are they thinking of?" And hewent on, calling out to the passers-by, "Eh, peasant, friend, dear man,let us see if we cannot lift the beam which has fallen into the corner.Oh, friends, put down that dying man you are carrying to the hospital,and come and help me. Oh, pitiless Saragossans, how God is chastisingyou!" Seeing that none came to help him, he went into the house, butcame out again, crying out in desperation, "Already it is too late tosave anything! Everything is on fire. Oh, my Virgin del Pilar, why dostthou not perform a miracle for me? Why not give me such a gift as thatbestowed upon the children in the fiery furnace of Babylon, so that Icould go into the teeth of the fire and save my receipts!"