Hernando and the others arrived at night. Soon afterwards, a band of Moriscos trooped back defeated to Pampaneira, leaving behind some two hundred dead. Hernando was put to work at once: several horses had returned wounded, and Brahim offered his son to treat them.
Before the revolt, only a few of the outlaws had had horses, because Moriscos were forbidden to own any. Even if they wanted to put a donkey with mares or a stallion with jennies to produce mules, they had to obtain special permission. Thus they had no experts who could look after horses. By daylight the next morning, Hernando found himself in a field close to the one where he kept the mules, examining the injured horses. He stood there silently for some time, unprepared for what he was seeing: these were not the usual problems he met with his animals. He could not imagine how some of the horses had managed to get this far with the wounds they’d suffered. It was icily cold, and two horses lay in their death throes on the frosty ground. Others stood upright, but were obviously in pain from wounds left by lead harquebus balls, swords, lances or halberds wielded by the Christian soldiers. Clouds of vapour rose from their nostrils. Ubaid was a few paces away from him, also looking from horse to horse. The previous night, Hernando had made sure they slept well away from each other. He’d lain down next to La Vieja, and tied a rope from her to one of his legs: he knew she was always suspicious of anyone who tried to come close.
‘Get to work!’ he heard the order ring out behind him. Hernando turned to see Brahim and several of the armed bandits looking at him. ‘What are you waiting for? Look after them!’
Look after them? How? He was on the point of answering his stepfather back, but thought better of it. A gigantic Morisco fighter, armed with an harquebus that had a fine gold inlay and was twice as long as a normal one, pointed to a chestnut pony. He lifted the weapon with one arm as though it weighed no more than a silk handkerchief.
‘That one is mine, lad. I will need it soon,’ said the warrior, who was known as El Gironcillo.
Hernando glanced at the pony. How could the poor thing take all his weight? The harquebus alone must be a heavy load.
‘Get on with it!’ Brahim shouted.
Why not? thought Hernando. He could start with any of the injured animals.
‘You examine those two,’ he told Ubaid, pointing to the horses stretched out on the grass. He made his way over to the chestnut, all the time checking out of the corner of his eye that the Narila muleteer was obeying his instructions.
In spite of the hobbles on its legs, when Hernando tried to approach the horse it limped off a few paces. A bloody wound was slashed across its right hindquarters down to its haunch. He won’t get far at that speed, thought Hernando. If he wanted to, Hernando could seize the horse’s bridle in two bounds, and yet . . . He pulled up some dried grass and held it out in his hand, whispering to the horse. The chestnut did not even deign to look at him.
‘Get hold of him!’ Brahim shouted behind him.
Hernando was still whispering to the horse, reciting the first sura as rhythmically as he could.
‘Grab him!’ his stepfather insisted.
‘Be quiet,’ muttered Hernando, without turning round.
Brahim leapt towards him, but before he could land a blow El Gironcillo grasped him by the shoulder and forced him to be still. Hernando heard the scuffle and waited, the muscles on his back knotted. When nothing happened, he began whispering again. After a long pause, the chestnut pony turned its head towards him. Hernando stretched his arm out further, but the horse made no attempt to reach for the grass. Many more anxious moments went by, and Hernando had almost come to an end of the suras he knew. At last, when the horse was breathing steadily once more, he went quietly up to it and gently took hold of the bridle.
‘How are the other two?’ he asked Ubaid.
‘They will die,’ the muleteer responded gruffly. ‘One has lost all its guts, the other’s chest is shot away.’
‘Let’s go,’ El Gironcillo said to Brahim. ‘Your boy seems to know what he’s doing.’
‘Finish them off,’ Hernando said, pointing to the horses on the ground. ‘They should not suffer any longer.’
‘You do it,’ replied Brahim, still scowling at him. ‘At your age you should be killing Christians.’ He burst out laughing, threw Hernando a knife, and then walked off with the other soldiers.
9
Puente de Tablate, gateway to the Alpujarra
Monday, 10 January 1569
HERNANDO WALKED down from Pampaneira to the bridge at Puente de Tablate. He had no mules with him, and, like all the more than 3,500 Moriscos heading to meet the Marquis of Mondéjar’s forces, he was on foot. Thanks to bonfires his scouts had lit on the tallest peaks, Aben Humeya had learnt of the Christian army’s movements, and had given orders that the marquis was not to cross the bridge that gave access to the Alpujarra.
Before leaving, El Gironcillo had examined the silk thread stitches that the lad had used to sew up his pony’s wound. He had nodded approvingly as he clambered on to his mount.
‘You are to stay beside me,’ he ordered Hernando. ‘In case my horse needs you.’
So Hernando trotted alongside him, listening to El Gironcillo talking to other Morisco leaders.
‘They say there are only two thousand Christian infantry,’ one of them remarked.
‘And a hundred knights!’ added another.
‘There are a lot more of us . . .’
‘But we don’t have weapons to match theirs.’
‘We have God on our side!’ roared El Gironcillo.
As he said this, the Morisco commander thumped his saddle. Hernando shrank back in alarm, but the horse and the stitches over the wound both held firm. He looked among the few horses of the Morisco cavalry, but could not see the other three animals he had treated. Then he looked down at his clothes, caked in blood.
As soon as Brahim and the bandit leaders had left that morning, Hernando had decided to put the two other wounded horses out of their misery. He strode resolutely up to the first of them, the one whose stomach had been ripped out by a lance.
He was a man now! he told himself over and over. Many Moriscos of his age were already married and had children. He must be able to kill a horse! He reached the animal, lying motionless on the ground. Its forelegs were bent under its body, so that its abdomen was pressing against the frosty ground as if in an attempt to relieve the pain from the savagely deep wound. Hernando had often seen slaughterers kill cattle in his village. The Christian butcher did it in public. He slaughtered the animal in such a way that its Adam’s apple came away with the windpipe and lungs. The Muslims were forced to carry out their prohibited rites in secret outside the village. They lined the animal up facing the kiblah, then slit its throat so that the Adam’s apple stayed with the head of the beast.
Hernando stood behind the dying horse. He took its mane in his left hand, and encircled its neck with his right arm. He hesitated. Above or below the Adam’s apple? The Moriscos were forbidden to eat horse meat, so what did it matter how he killed it? He exchanged looks with Ubaid, who was scowling at him from some way off. He had to show him . . . Hernando closed his eyes and drew the knife across the horse’s neck as hard as he could. As soon as it felt the knife cutting into it, the horse threw back its head, striking Hernando in the face, and struggled to its feet, whinnying loudly. It wasn’t hobbled, and galloped off in panic across the field, blood spurting from its jugular and its guts hanging out. It seemed to take an age before it finally bled to death. Pale-faced, bile rising in his throat, Hernando watched the animal breathe its last. And yet . . . he looked round for Ubaid. It was amazing what Nature could do: even when fatally wounded the horse had fought until its final breath! He realized yet again how careful he must be: the muleteer had only lost a hand.
To despatch the second horse, Hernando first found a rope and tied the animal’s legs. It did not have the strength to resist. As before, he slit the beast’s throat with all the strength he could must
er. This time, he managed to avoid the head as it jerked back, and went on plunging the knife in until nearly all his body was covered in warm blood. The horse died swiftly, without moving from the spot.
The sweet smell of the second horse’s blood filled Hernando’s nostrils as he returned to the others. He listened to what a group of them were saying.
‘The marquis could not wait for more reinforcements to arrive,’ one of them said. ‘In Órgiva the Christians have been besieged in the church for two weeks already, resisting all attacks. He has to enter the Alpujarra as soon as he can to go to their rescue.’
‘Let’s give thanks to the Christians of Órgiva then,’ laughed a brigand who must have just joined the group. Hernando saw he was riding another of the mounts he had treated.
They camped for the night on top of the bluff above Puente de Tablate. Under the bridge ran a deep rocky gorge, and on the far side were the slopes of Lecrín valley. When he dismounted and saw that the stitches on his pony had resisted the tough day’s ride, El Gironcillo rewarded Hernando with a dark smile and a powerful slap on the back. Hernando spent much of that night tending to the horses once more.
At first light the Morisco scouts announced that the Christian army was approaching. Aben Humeya ordered his men to destroy the bridge. Hernando watched a party demolishing the wooden structure until all that was left was the arches and a few planks, which they had to use to return to the Morisco ranks. Three of the men fell through the skeleton of the bridge; their cries gradually tailed off as they plummeted down the apparently bottomless ravine.
‘Come,’ El Gironcillo said to him, forcing him to look away from the chasm where the last of the Moriscos had perished. ‘We need to take up our positions to give those infidels the reception they deserve.’
‘But . . .’ Hernando protested, pointing towards the horses.
‘The children can look after them. Your stepfather is right. You’re old enough to fight, and I want you by my side. I think you bring me luck.’
Hernando followed El Gironcillo down the mountainside. In a few minutes, the slopes were covered with more than three thousand men, all of them waiting joyfully and confidently for the clash with the Christian army. The ravine of Tablate was in front of them, and beyond that the slopes down which the marquis’s army would have to advance.
Somebody began a song, and then a drum sounded. Another Morisco stood up and waved a huge white banner. Further on a red one suddenly appeared, and then another, and another . . . a hundred of them! Hernando could feel the hairs rising on his arms as three thousand Moriscos sang as one. The drums resounded, and hundreds of banners turned the mountainside into a vast red-and-white carpet.
And so they met the army commanded by the Marquis of Mondéjar, captain-general of the kingdom of Granada. Hernando was swept along by the Moriscos’ enthusiasm. Standing beside the huge figure of El Gironcillo, he shouted his defiance of the Christian army with all his might.
His armour gleaming in the sun, the marquis took up his position at the head of his troops. He ordered the cavalry to the rear, deployed the footsoldiers across the slopes, and gave the order for the harquebusiers to advance. The Moriscos took up their positions.
They responded to the attack by firing what few guns and crossbows they had. Their main weapons though were the stones they rained down with their slings on the Christian forces across the narrow ravine. Hernando could smell the gunpowder from El Gironcillo’s harquebus. He himself did not even have a sling, so had to throw stones as hard as he could, yelling all the while. His aim was good: he had thrown stones at animals, and had also practised out in the fields. He struck one footsoldier, and this encouraged him to get closer and closer, exposing himself to the enemy fire.
‘Take cover!’ The Morisco reached and tugged him down. Then he began loading his gun once more. Hernando stood up to throw another stone, but El Gironcillo stopped him. ‘I am a target among the thousands of us here,’ he said. ‘My harquebus attracts their fire.’ He slipped a lead ball into the harquebus’s muzzle and rammed it in as hard as he could. ‘I don’t want you to be killed because of me. Throw your stones but do it without standing up!’
The exchange of stones and gunfire did not last very long. The Moriscos could not withstand the Christians’ superior firepower. The marquis’s men loaded and fired repeatedly, causing many casualties. El Gironcillo ordered his men to withdraw to higher ground, out of range of the harquebus balls.
‘They won’t be able to cross the bridge,’ the Moriscos consoled themselves as they withdrew.
When he saw that the harquebuses were having no effect, the marquis ordered a ceasefire. At this, the Moriscos started singing and shouting once more. Many of them went on firing missiles from their slings, thinking they could reach further than the Christian guns, but they did little damage. Helmet in hand, the marquis and his uniformed captains came down to examine the ruined bridge. Impossible for an army to cross it!
Both sides fell silent, and they all saw the marquis shake his head. The Moriscos burst out yelling again, and waved all their banners. Hernando shouted as well, raising his fist to the sky. The Christian captain-general was walking away disconsolately when all of a sudden a Franciscan friar ran out of the infantry ranks. He was carrying a cross in his right hand, and his habit was tucked up to his waist. Without so much as looking back at the marquis, he started to run across the dangerous bridge. The Moriscos’ triumphant chants died away. The marquis ordered covering fire for the man of God. For a few moments everyone on both sides of the ravine had eyes only for the friar as he advanced precariously across the bridge, holding the cross proudly up for the Moriscos to see.
Before he reached the far bank, two more footsoldiers had followed him. One of them missed his step and fell into the void. As his body crashed into the side of the ravine, it was as though his death was a rallying cry to his companions: the shout went up from the Christian soldiers: ‘Santiago!’1
The battle cry was still echoing as a long line of soldiers rushed to the end of the bridge and began crossing it. The friar had almost reached the far end. The Christian sergeants urged the harquebusiers to fire as quickly as they could to prevent the Moriscos coming down from the heights and attacking the soldiers on the bridge. Although many tried, the fire from the Christian guns proved effective. Within a few minutes, a squad of soldiers, together with the friar who by now was on his knees praying, the cross held aloft, were able to defend the bridge from the Alpujarra side.
Aben Humeya ordered the retreat. A hundred and fifty Moriscos had lost their lives at Puente de Tablate.
‘Get on,’ El Gironcillo told Hernando, pointing to a horse. They had both reached the summit of the mountain. ‘His rider is dead,’ he explained when he saw the lad hesitate. ‘We mustn’t leave the horse for the Christians. Cling to its neck and let it carry you,’ he added, galloping off.
1 According to legend, Saint James the Apostle came to Spain to evangelize soon after the death of Jesus. In the ninth century, Saint James/Santiago is said to have appeared to Christian troops at the battle of Clavijo, the beginning of the ‘Reconquest’ of Spain by the Christians. In later centuries, the battle cry of ‘Santiago y cierra’ was commonly used to rally Christian forces. The remains of Saint James are said to be buried at Santiago de Compostela.
10
ABEN HUMEYA fled with his men towards Juviles. The Marquis of Mondéjar pursued him and took all the villages between Puente de Tablate and Juviles. His army looted the houses, took the Morisco women and children who had stayed behind prisoner, and seized a large amount of booty.
In Juviles castle, the Moriscos argued about their situation and what they could do. Some wanted to surrender; the outlaws, who knew they would be punished without mercy, were all for a fight to the death; still others were in favour of fleeing to the high mountains.
When their scouts announced that the Christian army was no more than a day’s march from Juviles, the Morisco commanders quickly a
dopted a compromise solution. The armed men would take flight with the spoils, after first releasing the more than four hundred Christian captives they were holding. They would do this as a goodwill gesture, in the hope of continuing with the peace negotiations that some of their leaders had already begun. Their terrified wives were forced to say goodbye to their husbands and wait in dread for the arrival of the Christians.
‘Do you want my children to die?’ Brahim shouted to Aisha from the saddle of his dappled horse when she suggested they escape from Juviles with him. ‘They would never withstand winter in the mountains. This is no picnic. It’s war!’
Aisha lowered her eyes to the ground. Dazed by all that was going on, Raissa and Zahara were sobbing. The boys, although they could feel the tension in the air, stared up at their father admiringly. At the head of his team of mules, which were laden down with all the booty from the castle, Hernando could feel his stomach churn. ‘We could—’ he tried to say.
‘Be quiet!’ His stepfather silenced him. ‘I know you wouldn’t care if your brothers and sisters died.’ Then he barked at Aisha: ‘Stay here and take good care of them!’
Brahim spurred his horse on. The mules followed him. Even Ubaid started on his way, but Hernando was still waiting for his mother to look up again. When finally she did so, there was a determined look in her eye.
‘Peace will come,’ she reassured her son. ‘Don’t worry.’ His eyes misting over, Hernando tried to embrace her, but she pushed him away. ‘Your mules have already gone,’ she said. ‘Go after them.’ She stretched up and ruffled his hair, as though to make light of the situation. When she saw the pained look in Hernando’s face, she repeated: ‘Go on!’
But the lad was still not ready to set off after them. He found Hamid at the ruins of the castle gate wishing the fighters well. He was encouraging them, telling them God was with them, and would never abandon them.
The Hand of Fatima Page 9
