Albert Sanchez Pinol - Victus - The Fall of Barcelona

Berwick must have been the most eminent bastard in all of Europe. The illegitimate son of the ousted James II, England’s last Catholic king, Berwick had grown up in France and always served the Beast. (Remember the letter he sent to Vauban in 1705 about the fall of Nice?) As the pompous name “The Army of the Two Crowns” indicated, it was made up of French and Spanish, that much is true, but also Irish (Berwick’s personal guard), Walloon mercenaries, Neapolitans (you always find a few of them about the place), and even a Swiss battalion. As for the Allies, aside from the English, Portuguese, and Dutch, there was a small corps of diehard Catalans and another of French Huguenots — to this day, I struggle to understand how a bunch of Huguenots pitched up in those desolate latitudes, a nook off to the west of Albacete.

Morale in the Two Crowns’ camp wasn’t precisely what you could call high. Everything had been withdrawn in the recent days. It was said that Galway had begun sarcastically referring to Berwick as his “innkeeper,” since the latter was continually taking up lodgings where he had slept the previous night. Berwick stopped at Almansa only because he’d run out of provisions.

This delay at least allowed Berwick to group together the reinforcements pouring in from far and wide. Some of these, such as the part of Bardonenche’s Couronne regiment in which I traveled, were top-notch. But the vast majority were press-ganged Spaniards — recruits, worth less than nothing.

A sorry sight they were. The day we arrived, they were being given some last-minute training. A regiment, however, is like an oak tree: some twenty years are needed for it to take shape. During the maneuvers, you saw the French advancing in straight lines, while the Spanish twisted about like vines. I didn’t want to think what they would be like under enemy fire. They had been given the gray and white uniforms of Bourbon France. Another strike on the part of the Beast: French companies had been given the contracts to provision all Spanish forces — by decree. In other words, your country gifts its throne to a French prince and, on top, has to pay him rent. Quite a racket. (At least the Catalans squeezed the English down to the very last coin.) The majority of the recruits were very young. Poor boys. They were having their heads introduced into the lion’s mouth because the textile companies in Lyon could claim their pay for the uniforms only when the bodies wearing them were dead. The encampment was an endless sea of tents — no doubt the canvases were from France as well, all bought at a pretty price dictated by the Beast.

Berwick was lodging at the mayor’s house, where the recently arrived officers were going to present themselves to him. Bardonenche wanted me to go with him. He was sitting at a table upon which a large map had been unrolled. Around him were a dozen or so high-ranking officers at a council of war. I found it strange that at a simple council, they would be wearing their armor. It must have been very uncomfortable debating and cogitating with those iron breastplates, shoulder and arm pieces on. Perhaps it was to accentuate their authority, or so everyone would understand the gravity of the situation. Berwick looked up as we came in.

The first, most noticeable thing about Berwick was his youthful mien — not very military. My God, I thought, how can a babe like that command the respect of a whole army? He was thirty-six, and his skin was still baby-soft. He had a perfect oval face. The nose, solid, thin, divided it in two; the lips, though wide, were also wildly sensuous, and the corners rose amiably upward. His fine arcing eyebrows had been heavily plucked. Rarely have I looked upon such black eyes. The right one was squinting somewhat, a feature I attributed to the overwhelming pressure he must have been under.

But James Fitz-James Berwick (Jimmy to his friends) was one of the most frequently depicted people this century (he was by no means immune to vanity). So instead of one plate I’ll give you two. You be the judges.

Ho! You like him, horrendous Waltraud? Don’t fool yourself. He would have barely glanced at you, for you are as ugly as a keg on legs, you are — well, other things besides.

Word in camp was that Berwick was backing off due to his English roots — he had a treacherous streak, so they said. Codswallop. But in Madrid they had taken the idea so seriously that crazy Philip V had sent the duke of Orléans to take over command! His opposite number in the Allied army, Galway, was a gruff general, fifty-nine years of age, and his right-hand man, the Portuguese Das Minas, a hoary old sixty-three. They felt certain they’d be having little bastard Berwick for breakfast. Even less flatteringly, Berwick’s own army was of the same opinion. I have already said a little as to the quality of the new recruits. Few generals have found themselves on the eve of battle with an outlook so dire.

I turned my Bazoches gaze on Berwick; I couldn’t help it. He was making a superhuman effort to try to master his own fate. The dilemma was clear: Brave a battle and his army would most likely be demolished, or shun it, and the duke of Orléans, who was soon to arrive, would wrest command from him. In terms of his personal interests, both outcomes were equally fatal.

Berwick came over to the recently entered officers, greeting them one by one. Bardonenche he knew personally and stopped at him. They were chatting away like old friends, when at a certain moment he noticed me. Pointing to me, acutely interested, he said: “And this handsome, stern-looking youth?”

“Ah, yes,” said Bardonenche. “Martí Zuviría, the most promising engineering cadet in all France, Your Excellence.”

I had studied at the Dijon academy? he asked.

“No, sir,” I answered. “I did my training under one engineer alone.”

He wanted to know the name. I didn’t want to bring up Bazoches. “Someone,” I said with diplomatic sarcasm, “to whom you once sent a missive regarding the happy conquest of Nice. . ”

His gaze grew sharp, and he said: “I was sorry not to have been able to make the funeral. As you can see, I have been somewhat busy of late.” Those around him burst out laughing. “Have I said something amusing?” barked the Englishman, turning on them.

His mood swings were dramatic and, as I would later discover, also predictable. It was his way of catching his subordinates off guard, a way of reminding them who was top dog. He waved a hand as though offended, and everyone withdrew. “Not you,” he ordered me. “I want you to tell me about the final moments in the great Vauban’s life.”

Ah! A little one-to-one chat, what about that! I had seen it coming the moment he called me a “handsome, stern-looking youth.” Converse about Vauban! If it had really been that, Bardonenche should have stayed, the aristocrat, the old friend, and someone who had been present in the marquis’s dying days. He had asked me to accompany him to his private chamber. How was I supposed to say no? Sometimes the predictable is unavoidable.

He led me up some stairs. We entered his room and he said, “Help me with my armor.”

The words were friendly, the tone, authoritative. He turned away from me, crossed his arms, and I undid his cuirass at the neck. I couldn’t help but let the armor fall to the floor with a clatter. More than asking, he ordered me: “Call me Jimmy.”

The brusqueness of the demand infuriated me. I gave him a fierce look. Outside of the field of battle, he was not accustomed to being disobeyed, and my hostility must have disarmed him, because he gave a surprisingly submissive wave of the hand, now saying, “ D’accord? ”