Albert Sanchez Pinol - Victus - The Fall of Barcelona

I ought to have begged for his help but instead opted for a few choice words about the gash he was born out of. A few more cannonballs landed around us, and the rest of our men made themselves scarce. What a calamity, that retreat! Some even tossed their rifles to the ground to help run faster; their only thought was reaching the cover of our cannons, where the enemy cavalry wouldn’t dare follow.

By now, Bourbon riders had reached the point where our advance had ceased. There was no chance I was going to make it back to the city gates, not even to the palisades. I dropped into a hollow in the ground, facedown, playing dead. With a little luck, I’d be able to wait for nightfall and then slink back to the city.

Well, fortune wasn’t favoring me that day. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw two Bourbon soldiers come up alongside the natural trench I was lying in. They were going around impaling bodies with their bayonets to make sure they were dead, and I was next.

“ Arretez! ” I shouted, rolling over to face them. “I’m a lieutenant colonel in His Majesty Carlos III’s army. Take me to your commander, and you’ll be rewarded.”

I could barely believe it, seeing the barriers to the Bourbon cordon swing shut behind me. I’d breakfasted in my home that morning, and now, just a few hours later, here I was in the enemy camp, a wound in my leg and two enemy soldiers keeping me captive.

There were few prisoners aside from me — which just goes to show that short, frightened legs are better than long, injured ones. The cordon had been refined and reinforced since the beginning of the siege, I noticed.

My captors weren’t overly discourteous. Pleased with their find, they were leading me to one of their superiors when we came past a surly-looking French captain. Seeing me, he let loose a few insults against the city and said what he thought should happen to the Barcelona “rebels.”

I shrugged. “We’ll be dining in Paris before that day comes,” I said in French.

I was merely referring to a rumor that had been making the rounds in the city: Catalan diplomats were said to be brokering a truce with the French. This captain, though, took me to mean something else altogether; it seemed he thought good old Zuvi was planning on invading France on his own, or somesuch. He snatched the rifle from one of the soldiers guarding me, and rammed the butt into my kidneys. I fell, letting out a helpless cry. What was he about? I looked him in the eye.

He was resolved to kill me: The look on his face stated this clearly. He might simply have been a madman, or perhaps it was the yearlong siege that had turned him into this bitter brute. I couldn’t say. But he began aiming the rifle butt, accurately and extremely painfully, at my ribs. I tried dragging myself out from under this barrage, and I cried out for help, but where to find help in an enemy encampment? It was more a harpooning than a beating. One blow to the base of my spine made my sight swim with yellow dots. He was going to kill me. I tried crawling away and got a kick to the head for my troubles.

I began not to feel the pain. I got to my knees, straightening up my body. Something wooden struck me between my shoulder blades, and I fell to the floor again. Just then, however, I caught a brief glimpse of someone.

On the cordon wall, a man standing on the highest tier, looking out over the city and the now deserted battlefield with a telescope.

I recognized the shape and size of the man. The expression, not so much venial as great: a pose that suggested solemnity in the face of trivialities, a silhouette with an invincible aura. “Martí,” I said, “it cannot be. This man is dead.” I straightened up again, still on my knees. Delirious or not, I would lose nothing by calling out to him. I held out my hand and cried: “Monsieur de Vauban!”

Without dropping the telescope, the man slowly turned his head.

“ C’est moi! Votre élève bien aimé de Bazoches !”

He looked down at me, frowning. “ C’est qui? ” he asked.

“ Moi! ” I replied, more a spit than a shout. “Martín Zuviría!”

“Martín? C’est toi? ”

His penetrating look gave way to astonishment. He descended the tiers and came toward me. A look was enough to send the captain packing. When he knelt down beside me, my vision had begun going blurry, all color gone.

He hesitated. Discreetly, I upturned my wrist and bared my forearm for him to see my Points.

Grabbing hold of his lapel, I said: “ Maréchal, quelle est la Parole? Dites-moi! S’il vous plaît, la Parole. ”

It wasn’t the marquis, of course, but, rather, his cousin, Dupuy, whom, if you remember, I met on one of his visits to Bazoches. The one who that day made reference to a “clause” preventing me from ever facing him in battle. Yes, isn’t life just like that. And my confusion wasn’t at all strange — the family resemblance was strong, even down to the way they carried themselves.

He took me to his tent and gave me some hot wine. He then had his private surgeon come and see to the bullet wound in my leg.

“The wound is clean,” said Dupuy. “The bullet has only punctured the thigh flesh. If it had hit the artery, you’d be dead by now.”

I rolled up my sleeve. I wanted to tell him about my Points once more, as the first time he’d been able to see only the ones nearest to my wrist.

“Four,” I said, preempting him. “The fifth hasn’t been validated.”

Dupuy was a very eminent man. “Yes, I thought as much,” he said. “Don’t forget, though: Whether or not it’s been validated, the tattoo is still there. And you must show that you deserve it.”

I changed the subject. What news?

“Marshal Berwick is yet to arrive,” he explained. “I was traveling with him, but what with the artillery train, and Miquelets constantly ambushing us, progress was so slow that he asked me to come ahead. He wants me to weigh up the situation. And from what I can tell, this siege has been managed badly, very badly. All the men are on edge. As your treatment shows very well.”

I was about to speak, but he put a finger to his lips. “Listen: I’m not in a position to help you as I’d like, unfortunately. You’re outside of what I can control; the siege is still being run by the Spanish. You know how thin-skinned they are. You’re a lieutenant colonel, and you’re their prisoner; I can’t just take you off them.”

Again I was going to say something, but Dupuy made me be quiet. “Shut up and listen! This is how it’s going to go: They’ll interrogate you, but they won’t be too rough. Yes, yes, I know we’re at war, all courtesy’s gone out the window, and torture’s become de rigueur. Don’t worry, though, I’ve found someone. He serves King Philip, but he’s one of ours. You’ll be interrogated, but not roughly. A few days with our man, then you’ll be under me.”

“Who is this individual?” I asked. “French or Spanish?”

He smiled, pointing at the entrance to the tent. “The first person to come through there and use sign language with you. Whoever that is.” Before leaving, he asked me, “Martí, do you mind telling me what you were doing inside a city besieged by the king’s forces?”

His look was as withering as that of a Ten Points. Neither did I want to lie, nor could I have lied. I was both honest and concise. “I was working as an engineer,” I said.

His reaction was that of someone with more Points than I. “I see,” he said simply, and left the tent.

I had reason to fear what was coming to me next. So much had changed in such a short space of time that I couldn’t get my thoughts in order. The only people who came into the recently erected tent were Dupuy’s legion of servants, bringing in furniture, and one French officer who came hoping to pay his respects to the cousin of the great Vauban. And me in the field bed in one corner, bandaged up and unable to move. I carefully watched everyone who came in, waiting for someone to address me with the sign language of engineers. Nothing.