Albert Sanchez Pinol - Victus - The Fall of Barcelona

The driver of my carriage, an older man I’d chatted with a little in the jib, came up behind me, tugged on my arm, and hissed: “Don’t be an imbecile.”

“But what can these children and grayheads have done that’s so bad?” I cried. “And where are they being taken?”

“What do you want to be?” he said in my ear. “A good engineer or a Good Samaritan?” To try to calm things down, he turned a smile at the man on the horse, saying: “Hi, friend! How did it go in Játiva?”

“No such place as Játiva now,” said the brute, spurring his horse away.

So the people were from Játiva, deported to Castile, an express wish of Little Philip’s. After the city was conquered, thousands were enslaved, including from the nearby settlements. Even Játiva’s name was eliminated, the place rechristened Colonia de San Felipe. Had I not seen this sorry column with my own eyes, I would have refused to believe it.

I spoke very little in the ensuing days. I had been educated to believe in a certain basic idea, that a king fights to defend or win territories — never to destroy them. Such an absurdity could make sense only in the mind of a madman. What use could there be in taking control of a place that has been flattened? Játiva, the city of a thousand wells, wiped from the face of the earth because a king had pointed his finger at a map.

As soon as we crossed into Catalonia, we began to see people hanged from the branches of trees. The convoy’s slow advance was now constantly presided over by these oscillating bodies. On the larger trees, there were sometimes five, six, seven cadavers swinging from the branches, some higher, some lower, feet stirred by the wind. Most were men of all ages, but I did see a woman hanged from one solitary oak. They had not even bothered to tie her hands behind her. Beneath her on the ground were a little girl and a dog; its snout thrust in the air, the animal let out heartrending yowls, snorting through its nostrils like a bellows. The dog knew the woman was dead, but most harrowing of all, the child did not.

Official historians limit themselves to official history. They omit to mention that in 1708 the war had reached Catalonia, and thousands of Catalan irregulars joined in the fight. “Volunteers” would be one name for them, “militia,” or “mountain fusiliers,” but we called them Miquelets. These require a little explanation; otherwise, what was going on will make no sense.

“Miquelet” itself is simply a transcription of the original Catalan word Miquelet . The origin is possibly Michaelmas ( Sant Miquel ), when harvesting would traditionally commence. Anyone who didn’t find work at harvest would look for alternatives, such as enlisting in the French or Spanish armies. If, for instance, the French were raising war against southern Protestants, the paymasters would hurry to Catalonia to recruit Miquelets. Miquelets were vehemently opposed to putting on army uniforms and footwear, and they even armed themselves. The French and Spanish high command considered them undisciplined hillmen, savages almost, unpredictable and unorthodox — none of which stopped them from appreciating their virtues as warriors. As light infantry, they were peerless. Excellent in forest combat, and as snipers, they always took on perilous roles in the vanguard, ravaging enemy lands. “ Les Miquelets ont fait des merveilles ” was the view of French officialdom. Which was why they were quick to enroll as many as possible: They cost half that of a professional unit and were twice as effective.

The problem was that some of them took a liking to the life of pillaging and slaughtering in the name of others. Whenever demobilized, they’d roam the hills and tracks as bandits, waiting for the next call-up. Catalan civilians came to abhor them — at least in the cities, Miquelets were thought of as outlaws.

1708 was the first time a Bourbon army had set foot in Catalonia. As was to be expected, the Miquelets took exception to the invaders. Until that point, they hadn’t cared a radish for the war, but all that changed when their own lands were advanced upon. Though nominally under the command of the Allied armies, they acted of their own accord. In any case, the fact that they wore no uniforms meant the Bourbons didn’t recognize them as combatants bound by the usual treaties, which made hostilities unprecedentedly ferocious.

A captured Miquelet would usually be hanged. For their part, the Miquelets were no less cruel. Any soldiers they took prisoner would have their feet scorched and, before execution, be made to hop around like dancing bears. Sometimes the Miquelets would send them up onto the edge of a cliff or gully, where the enemy could see them. A horn would be sounded to draw the attention of the Bourbon soldiers. The prisoners, in single file, would have their ankles tied together with a long rope. Then the first one would be pushed over the edge. Then the second and the third, until the weight of the fallen, combined, would pull the others over. I was witness to one of these savage reprisals. Ten or twelve soldiers, hands tied behind their backs, ankles connected by the same rope. The more who fell, the harder it would be for those at the top to hold the weight. My God, their shrieks and cries. What a sight, these lines of white uniforms falling, vanishing without a trace. Nothing, I can assure you, could possibly lay a man’s heart any lower.

Here’s a representative account of the Miquelets, to show what kind of people they were. A case that, unfortunate that I was, I had to experience in the flesh.

Eighty or so Miquelets had at that time made an incursion into an area on the Catalan frontier called Beceite. Typical Miquelet behavior: They’d take out a small Bourbon detachment, then spend a few days in the liberated settlement, living more comfortably than up in the hills. But the fates were against them on this occasion, as the unit I was traveling in to Tortosa was passing very near to Beceite. We came across a couple of fear-stricken Spanish soldiers, who had managed to get away, and they told us what had happened at Beceite.

The Spanish caught the Miquelets with their breeches around their ankles that day. They were out in the town square celebrating their small victory, half drunk, when two cavalry squadrons rode in. The Miquelets fled in disarray, and thirty of their number were killed and one taken prisoner.

When it was all done, our unit took over the town, and I can assure you this was no pretty sight. In one corner, like a pile of discarded horseshoes, lay the soldiers who had died when the Miquelets first attacked; strewn across the square, the thirty Miquelets ridden down and bayoneted by the cavalry. Day was already well advanced, and it was decided that we would stay the night in Beceite, so “hospitality,” as the officers put it, was “arranged.”

Doors were kicked down and the civilians rounded up in the square. The skirmish was over, but the screaming and wailing had barely begun. Once all the townspeople were there, the officers, in order of rank, began picking out the prettiest girls and taking them back to their houses, where they would exercise what they termed their right to “hospitality.” In other words, raping these women, whether they were virgins or had husbands, all in plain view of their families.

Back in the square, the mayor was down on his knees, and one of the captains had a sword at his neck. The town had always been loyal to Philip V, protested the mayor.

“He’s lying,” said the driver of my carriage.

“How do you know?” I said.

In answer, he pointed at the bell tower, which was empty. “Any town without a bell supports the archduke,” he explained. “They were all handed over and melted down to make cannons.” He winked at me. “Well, these are Catalans, so no doubt they made a little money out of it. But the end result’s the same.”