Albert Sanchez Pinol - Victus - The Fall of Barcelona

I remember Don Antonio smiling — a rare sight! All our hardships had not been for nothing, all our struggles had borne fruit: The enemy was willing to enter discussions. If our diplomats were worth their salt, the core of the Catalan constitutions and liberties might, might, be upheld.

But the meeting with the high command did not go well. I remember the large rectangular table, packed tightly around with officers. Their uniforms clean but in tatters, and everyone gaunt. Not one of them went along with their commander in chief’s suggestion. Not one could look him in the eye. It wasn’t that they doubted his authority, he was still revered, but they simply weren’t in agreement with the idea of surrendering.

Don Antonio refused to give up yet, and he turned to Casanova to urge a vote in the council. Casanova went along with it, but coolly; he knew better than anyone the leanings of Barcelona’s so very isocratic government.

The vote was a landslide — in the wrong direction. Of thirty representatives, only three were in favor of Casanova’s motion to negotiate with the Bourbons: It was twenty-six against four. For only three to vote with the head of the government said everything about Casanova’s isolated position. In such circumstances, how could policies ever be enforced?

Everything was topsy-turvy now: The only people willing to end the war were the generals.

The news came to us the following day: Don Antonio had stood down. In the face of the inevitable disaster to come, he sent word to the government: Honor prevented him from taking charge of a rout. Therefore, with all military means exhausted, he requested to be put aboard a ship. He’d waive all moneys owed along with all privileges.

I view this as one last attempt to win them over: Either they negotiate or lose him. Unfortunately, the situation had gone beyond all reasonable bounds. The government merely assented: If he wanted to stand down, they would provide him with a couple of swift ships, and he could try and slip through the blockade. Our small, easily maneuverable ships were always used whenever evacuating anyone important, the French ships’ hulls being too deep for them to venture into the shallows. The small Catalan vessels would depart under cover of dark, hugging the coast, and sail through the night in the direction of Mallorca.

I was so stunned by the news, I almost thought it was a prank. Don Antonio was leaving us! Dumbfounded, I didn’t ask who was replacing him. I could imagine no one capable of taking the role, and indeed, no one was whom they appointed. That is: The Virgin Mary was proclaimed commander in chief.

The Virgin Mary! It had to be a joke. But no, anything but. Martí Zuviría, educated in all the possible nuances of compass and telescope, in precisely displacing exact amounts of earth, would from now on be taking orders from the mother of Jesus.

In the small hours of the next morning, while I was taking an uncomfortable nap against a battlement wall, a liaison officer came and woke me. “Don Antonio is boarding a boat and wishes to see you.”

There were chests and trunks piled up in his courtyard, ready to be taken down to the port. Officers hurried in and out of the premises; even at this late stage, Don Antonio was keeping abreast of the situation on the ramparts. I found it strange seeing him dressed in full regalia now that he was no longer general. It is, and always will be, my belief that he clung to the hope that the government would change its mind and reinstate him. To the last instant. Seeing me, he said: “Have you not heard? Then I’ll tell you: I’m no longer commanding the forces of Barcelona. Someone else will be giving the orders.”

“Who? The Virgin?”

He was moved. Unusually for him, he made the effort to pronounce “son” properly in Catalan. “Be content, fiyé . Now that I am a private citizen, you can call me Don Antonio, as you’ve always wanted.”

“Thank you, General,” I said, grinding my teeth on the irony in my words. “You can’t imagine how happy that makes me.”

Unfazed, he adjusted his sword in his belt. “Didn’t you hear? I’m not your commander anymore, I’m Don Antonio to you now. All these years I’ve been slapping your wrist when you have had the impertinence to call me that, and now you can. From now on I am, to you and to anybody else, just another citizen. Don Antonio, if that’s what you wish. Understand?”

“Loud and clear, General.” And I added: “From today, I’m allowed to address you as a simple fellow citizen, General.”

For a brief second, emotion seemed to creep into his mien. The ongoing cannon fire added melancholic urgency to his reflections. For I had spoken on behalf of all who loved him. During the time he had commanded armed civilians, they had considered him one of their own, another Barcelonan. And now that he was leaving, the least obedient of these Barcelonans had shown him his true standing, not so much in a military as a moral sense.

Of course, a man like Don Antonio wouldn’t allow himself to be overcome by emotion. He began pacing up and down. As he spoke, he became increasingly incensed. “I’ve done everything I can, I’ve argued and begged, I’ve warned the government of all the ills to come! Defending this city is pure madness now! Staying would mean signing my men’s death warrants. Leaving, I abandon them. What have I done to deserve such ignominy?”

I tried to calm him down. It was then that he revealed the real reason he’d sent for me.

“I saved you from bondage once before, at Illueca. I see no reason why I shouldn’t do so once more. We’ll wake tomorrow in Mallorca, and after that go on to Italy, and from there to court. In Vienna, all your unpaid wages will be seen to: Remember that yours was a royal conscription, not a municipal one. Which means your allegiance is not to Barcelona, and to board a ship would not constitute desertion. And, when I am given a post in the imperial army, I will want an engineer on my staff.”

Before I could speak, he went on: “You have a wife and children, as I do. There are a number of spare berths on the ships. Go and gather up your family, and do it now.” He bade me hurry with a wave of the hand.

I stayed where I was. Knowing what that meant, he demanded I explain myself. I remember the way my voice didn’t seem to belong to me: “General, I cannot,” I said.

He looked me up and down, and finally, our eyes met.

“I don’t understand. Your temperament is entirely opposed to that of the brave men out there still fighting. The city is being sacrificed, and to what end? Answer me that!”

I did not know what to say.

“So starved you’ve eaten your own tongue?” he went on, raising his voice. “What makes you want to be a part of the carnage now? You’ve always been against it. What? You’ve always been the first to support any retreat! Why stay? Tell me your reasoning!”

In spite of myself, I said nothing. Don Antonio insisted. “Say something, even if just a word. One word, Lord above, at least give me a word!”

One word. Seven years on, and Vauban, in the shape of Don Antonio, was asking me that question again. I blinked, cleared my throat. I racked my brains, but nothing.

I’d unwittingly inflicted more pain on an already suffering soul, an immaculate hero whose very honor was forcing him to depart. Even Martí Zuviría, prince among cowards, had decided to stand and fight. A contrast that undoubtedly would have pained him.

Bewildered, I put my tricorn on my head and, without asking his permission, made to leave. He stopped me: “Wait. You were with me at the Toledo retreat and at Brihuega as well. And you’ve been with me throughout this siege. It’s only right you share in my punishment.”