Ballester’s relationship with death was something I could never get my head around, never. The Frenchman was certainly dying, nothing could have saved him, and I agree, the most humane thing was to end his suffering. But for Ballester, shooting a man was like tying his shoelaces. A trivial act, devoid of reflection or consequence. There I was, whey-faced, kneeling, arms to the heavens, whereas Ballester’s response was to take out his pistol.
“Take me to the man leading your unit,” he said to the Miquelet interrogating me. “He owes me twenty pesos.” Looking over at me, he said: “Busquets is terrible when it comes to dice.”
They led us to a clearing in the woods containing a group of men. There was something in the air, a tangible despondency, the leadenness that is the mark of a defeat. Those not injured and grumbling looked downcast, like scarecrows whose supports had been removed. It had begun drizzling.
Unlike Ballester’s men, hardened in a thousand battles, Busquets’s were civilians only recently incorporated to mountain life. They still had shoes on their feet, and not the rope-soled sandals; they didn’t have the usual blue hooded knee-length cloaks; and their weapons seemed cobbled together, kitchen knives and old muskets that made you think they must have grabbed whatever they could on the way out the door.
None of this was of the slightest interest to Ballester. He walked straight over to a man sprawled on his back against a saddle, with a blond beard and mane of hair. The gold earrings he wore suggested he must be the leader, the previously mentioned Busquets. He’d been shot in the left shoulder, and there was a man next to him delving into the hole with a pair of pincers. Not the easiest task, given that Busquets, in between slugs from a bottle of liquor, was squealing like a boar in a trap, spraying out mouthfuls of liquid when the pain became too much.
Recognizing Ballester, Busquets thrust the bottle in his direction. “You! What on earth are you doing here?”
Ballester held his hand out. “You owe me twenty pesos.”
Busquets looked baleful, fit to murder; Ballester just kept his hand outstretched. I feared the worst and glanced around at the rest of the men. But then Busquets burst out laughing, with his good hand grabbed hold of Ballester’s forearm, and called him “whoreson,” in a nice way. The surgeon, who had retracted the pincers, looked at me as if to say: Do these seem like adequate working conditions to you? Anyway, this was how it was with the Miquelets.
As for me, Busquets seemed skeptical. “Lieutenant Colonel? How wonderful.” He drank another slug and let out a howl at the surgeon. “Trying to treat me or finish me off?”
Not knowing how best to address him, I opted for the most formal and generic. “If you wouldn’t mind, Captain Busquets, could you tell us what’s been going on in the locality?”
Busquets didn’t seem to think I could be trusted. Tilting his head to one side, Ballester said: “I know he acts like one, but he isn’t actually a Red Pelt.”
Sighing, grumbling at the surgeon throughout, Busquets told us what had been going on. “We made an attack on Mataró. You know, all the botifleros in Catalonia have taken refuge there. And they force the town to feed and shelter them. Which helps us—more recruits. Those damned botifleros, so conceited, so insufferably arrogant . . . They pitch families out of their houses or use the inhabitants as servants. They’re being served from silver platters while the people starve. Forced to cook for them, empty their pisspots.” He became angrier as he went on. “Who do they think they are? Taking over our houses, treating us like slaves, and—the cheek!—they accuse us of rebellion!”
The surgeon was still digging around, and Busquets let out another howl. “So,” he said when he’d recovered, “someone blabbed, or maybe it was just that they were sent some reinforcements, I’m not sure.” He took a breath. “Infantry came for us, but they had cavalry, too. We don’t do so well against cavalry. We were trounced.”
“When?” I said.
“Just yesterday.”
“They’ve had more patrols out,” said Ballester. “Trying to surround you.”
“I know. They don’t have enough troops to surround a forest as big as this, though. Plus, I’ve sent a company to their rearguard to monitor their movements. Now I’m just waiting for the last of my men to join up with us so we can get out of here.” Liquor all over his chin, he turned to the surgeon. “And for this sawbones to patch up the wounded!”
“Shut it,” said the surgeon. “You’re not making this any easier. Taking bullets out isn’t exactly what I was trained to do.”
“Isn’t that what surgeons do?” I said.
“Surgeon?” the man said back, matching the sarcasm of my tone, not stopping what he was doing. “I fled Mataró because I was afraid I might slip and cut some botiflero’s throat.” Looking over at me, he said: “I’m a barber.”
I took Ballester to one side. “Busquets hasn’t done anyone any favors,” I whispered. “If everyone was fighting their own little wars, there’s no way we’d win the main one. Do you see that now?”
“Busquets did well,” Ballester said. “This is his home, and he fought to protect it. What did you expect? For him to sit there waiting for us to show up? Until last week, not even we knew we were going to come to Mataró.”
Despite the distance between us, Busquets had overheard. “At least I tried, damn it. We gave it a go!” he shouted, leaning on his elbow against the saddle. “And now you show up, from God knows where, and start criticizing.”
I went over to him. “I have no issue with you killing Bourbons. But you’ve also been making it easy for them to kill patriots.” I gestured around us. “Look at your men, torn to shreds, holed up in the middle of some dreary forest. And Mataró still in Bourbon hands.” I crouched down so we could speak eye to eye. “These men will listen to you, Busquets. Order them to join the Army of the Generalitat.” I turned to Ballester to try to get him to help. “Say something, man.”
He held out his hand. “You owe me twenty pesos.”
“To hell with you,” shouted Busquets, his blond mane and long gold earrings shaking, “you and your twenty pesos! And you”—he pointed at me—“can leave off. The deputy! My men don’t trust the Red Pelts, to them they’re as good as botifleros. We’ve no grand strategies, all we want is to get the enemy out of our homes, and have a home again. No, we won’t go running around all of Catalonia, we won’t abandon our families.” He sighed bitterly. “And what kind of leader would I be who orders his men to do something they don’t want to?”
His invective was interrupted by one last howl. The barber had finally extracted the bullet. “For you,” he said, placing a bloody red ball in Busquets’ hand. Kissing it, Busquets then introduced it delicately into a small leather pouch. Lead against lead—that was the sound it made dropping in.
Ballester whispered in my ear: “Busquets collects all the bullets that enter his body. Saint Peter told him he’d only open his gates when the pouch was full.”
“And you,” said Busquets, addressing Ballester now, “I’d like to know what you think you’re doing running around doing the deputy’s bidding. He’s one of the worst Red Pelts around.”
Ballester’s look became more sarcastic still. “Twenty pesos,” he said.
Same old story. Put three Catalans in a room, and you’ll have four different opinions. Shaking my head, I said to Ballester: “This is pointless, let’s go.”
“Fine, go, then!” shouted Busquets, incensed, as we made our way out of the clearing. “I expected nothing more from Red Pelts! We’ll keep up the fight though! You hear? We’ll carry on fighting as long as one of us remains alive!”
I wafted my hand in the air, not turning around, as though bidding farewell to an incurable madman.
“And yet we’re supposed to follow you!” Busquets ranted. “Well, I’ll have you know: We’re going to liberate Mataró, and its storehouses, and its sixty thousand cuarteras of wheat!”
I stopped in my tracks as though I’d walked into an invisible wall. I
strode back over to Busquets. “What did you say? Say it again? Sixty thousand cuarteras of wheat? Are you sure?”
“The storehouses are full to bursting. Mataró’s the natural place for the Bourbon army to keep their provisions. Very close to their cordon at Barcelona, and the patriots all fled from the town. No fear of sabotage.”
I stood staring ahead, my jaw on the ground. Sixty thousand cuarteras of wheat! The besieging army’s entire supply, a stone’s throw from where we were. The Two Crowns had no idea about the deputation having disembarked. Which explained their having placed only a few cavalry squadrons at Mataró, sufficient to keep a few flighty Miquelets at bay and nothing more.
“Captain Busquets!” I cried. “You are under orders from the deputy now, and you will obey them. Work with the army, and we’ll have taken Mataró in no time.”
Busquets screwed up his pained face even more. “But you yourself said a second ago that we would have to follow where you went, and that taking Mataró was a useless enterprise!”
Ballester and I led the horses away, crossing through the thick undergrowth, crestfallen. When we reached the path again, I couldn’t keep myself from hugging Ballester, who was taken aback by my enthusiasm. “We’re going to turn the siege of Barcelona into a latter-day Cannae!”
“What do you mean, ‘can I’?” he said, annoyed. “Explain yourself, damn it! I haven’t read as many books as you.”
“Think about all the prisoners and deserters who come over to our side. They all say the same: They’ve got no decent footwear, they’re eating insipid gruel day after day. Which is to be expected—the Bourbons have ravaged the country so badly, there’s nowhere to get supplies. They’re like the gluttonous fox after it’s eaten the whole chicken house.”
“And? You have no idea what hunger is. When push comes to shove, people will always resort to stealing.”
“That’s your view; you lead a small crew of mountain men. But at Barcelona, there are forty thousand mouths to feed, and they’re stuck there. We’ve got enough to feed them all right here: the foodstuff in Mataró. The Bourbons are doubtless thinking they can starve Barcelona into submission.”
“And what about can I?”
“Cannae was Imperial Rome’s worst defeat. Hannibal was facing a Roman army that had twice his number. When battle commenced, he let his frontline buckle back, drawing the Romans in, and, meanwhile, had his Carthaginian cavalry come down the wings and encircle the enemy. Our cavalry will be the wheat they’ve stolen. If we deprive them of wheat, and the deputation is situated at the Bourbon cordon’s rear, all will be lost for them. The besieger, besieged.”
There was a hint of a smile on Ballester’s face. He took my meaning. “Forty thousand men can’t survive for weeks and months on empty bellies. They’ll have no choice but to lift the siege.”
Before we mounted up again, I hugged Ballester. “Setting up a new siege will be totally impractical for them. Their morale will be rock-bottom; the military coffers in Madrid, empty. Europe’s sick of war. Little Philip will come under pressure from all different ministries to sign a pact with the Generalitat.”
We rode as hard as we could back to the deputation. They’d posted themselves inside an old country house. Deputy Berenguer, Dalmau, and the other staff officers were holding a council of war. Shitson was there as well, which meant we’d arrived just in time.
I was so excited, I could barely get my words out straight. Deputy Berenguer was annoyed. “This Busquets you speak of, he’s nothing but a petty tyrant! He has neither title nor uniform. We can’t be sure to whom he owes loyalty.”
“But Your Excellence,” I said, “the man’s wounded. I saw him with my own two eyes.”
“You’ve been fooled, then,” retorted Deputy Berenguer. “You just don’t have the brain to see it. How can we be sure his reports are accurate?”
“Because Busquets and his men are from Mataró,” said Ballester dryly.
Dalmau stood up and, with his usual congenial smile, made a proposal: “Leave them to me, Your Excellence. We lose nothing by moving out a little from our current position.”
We led the cavalry and the whole regiment to Busquets’s wood. When the Miquelets saw us, they erupted in sheer delight: a whole army come to rescue them! War, that great pendulum. A few hours earlier, Busquets was wounded and far from help in some forest, and now here was an army, well equipped and ready to go. Mataró would open its gates to us, the enemy storehouses would be ours, and, with a little luck, the final victory, too. Busquets’s Miquelets were over the moon. They embraced Dalmau’s men, weeping with pure joy. It was the first time I had felt at all optimistic during the war—and it would be the last. We didn’t need to win it; it was good enough not to lose.
At midafternoon I was called in to join the general staff. Members of the senior military were posted in the country house down near the beach where we’d landed. A debate was going on, a most heated one, between Deputy Berenguer and Dalmau. The former nestled in his pisspot throne, the latter with his fists thrust against the table, leaning forward.
“Our objective is to raise recruits and then go and liberate Barcelona!” bellowed Deputy Berenguer.
“Our objective is to win the war!” replied Dalmau from his side of the table. Seeing me come in, he said: “Ah, Zuviría. You, I believe, interrogated a couple of French prisoners whom Busquets was holding.”
“I did, Colonel.”
“And they corroborated the information on the storehouses?”
“In every respect, sir,” I said, not understanding the argument.
Dalmau turned to face Deputy Berenguer, his energies renewed. “Do you hear that? If you don’t trust Busquets, at least have faith in his enemies. Four and a half million kilos of wheat! Their whole foodstuff supply! We’re past harvest now, the land’s going to be producing nothing more; they’ll have no way of feeding their army! Plus, imagine what it’ll do for morale to take control of those stores. We can easily sail a portion into Barcelona as a trophy. Or better still: Transport all we can and share it out among the most needy! They’ll enlist in droves!”
Deputy Berenguer, though listening, was clearly annoyed. “And I say again,” he said, “the decision’s been made by our superiors, quite apart from the circumstances we’re faced with here. Obey orders! Your attitude is near insubordinate!”
I couldn’t help but get involved. “Your Excellence, may I ask what you mean by a decision made by our superiors?”
Dalmau had subsided into a chair, looking like he’d given up. He passed a tired hand over his face. “We’re not going to be attacking Mataró,” he said dispiritedly. “The deputy’s against it.”
I was astonished. “Mataró will open its gates to us!” I cried. “No blood need even be spilled! We lose nothing by attacking and gain everything. It might even mean the end of the war!”
“You will obey my orders, as I will obey those of my superiors,” said the deputy before I had finished. “I have instructions from the government not to enter Mataró. And that’s how it will be.”
I was speechless. This was beyond me. Our own deputy refusing to use force against the enemy. “Your Excellence,” I said, my mouth dry. “Your opinion may be down to the fact you’ve never seen our lads in action. They’d storm Paris and Madrid, given the order. Have faith in them, I beg you.”
“Come now, you don’t fool me,” he said with disdain. “I may be old, my legs may not work anymore, but my eyes still do.” Pointing at me, he addressed Dalmau once more. “The man who accompanied Lieutenant Colonel Zuviría before, was that not the infamous Ballester? Ballester! A country bandit, a prince among brigands! I myself sent out a decree to have him hunted down a couple of years ago, calling for him to be hanged, drawn and quartered, and his body displayed as an example.” He took a breath. “War indeed inverts and subverts the natural order of things. And you, Dalmau, know very well, better than anyone, that the men in your regiment are little different. The lowest of the low and, a
s such, prey to the basest urges.”
Dalmau protested. “My men fight like lions!”
“And I congratulate you on that,” said the deputy. “Your regiment has only recently been assembled, and they’ve very quickly shown themselves to be hardy. But Dalmau, tell me something: Have you ever given them an order not to use violence?”
“If you are referring to discipline, all the officers here will back me up in saying there have never been any issues.”
“In Barcelona!” specified the deputy, wagging a finger. “Under the watchful and paternal eye of the Generalitat. But once inside Mataró, can you guarantee that discipline will hold?” He turned and addressed me once more. “Lieutenant Colonel Zuviría, I hear you served as an engineer in His Majesty’s army in 1710?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell us, in that case: Is it reasonable to suppose of a place that has been turned into a general storehouse, and in which a huge quantity of grain has been gathered, that other goods and stuffs will also be gathered in that place?”
“Of course, Your Excellence,” I said, because it was true, and because this way there would be more arguments in favor of an attack. “Weaponry, munitions, material that can be used for sapping and for building trenches, certainly, and possibly carts and horses we’ll need to transport it all away—”
That old graybeard with his drooping eyes was both canny and astute, because before I could finish, he cut in. “What about wine? Cheap liquor?”
“Well—” I hesitated. “Possibly.”
He raised his voice. “Possibly? They’ll have food enough for an entire army and not a drop of filthy alcohol? Lieutenant Colonel! Before an attack, what do men use to calm their nerves?”
I gave in, to my great regret. “A little alcohol, doubtless.”
“Not a little, a lot!” he said scornfully. Taking a couple of breaths, he turned back to Dalmau. “The first thing your men will do is to get drunk. And once they’ve turned into a drunken mob, any discipline you’ve instilled will melt; nothing will hold them back. There are very many of the most noble families in Mataró, lineages going back to King Jaume I. Ill-advisedly, they’ve betrayed their country, but we can’t allow them to be massacred, least of all without any kind of a trial! We have here the ideal conditions for the lowest plebes to wreak the lowest vengeance: stabbing noblemen and taking advantage of ladies. Need I tell you what our enemies would do if they heard news of such an atrocity? Spread it around Europe, debasing Catalonia’s blessed name! We’re a small country; international consensus matters to us. No, sirs, I will not allow a minor victory to annihilate all our possibilities.”
Victus Page 40
