Albert Sanchez Pinol - Victus - The Fall of Barcelona

In reply, he stuck his riding whip under my chin, raised it, and exclaimed: “You will address me as ‘General’! My staff officers are allowed the familiarity because they are men who have shown their valor under my command. That is not true of you.”

At that moment, a messenger on horseback, sweating despite the cold, approached us. “General! The enemy is breaking through on the left flank! Marshal Starhemberg requests that you return to the front.”

Villarroel put the crop away, drew his sword, and cried: “It was about time, damn it!”

Half the Allied cavalry followed him. I did, too, in spite of myself.

And so, a day of suffering. When the Bourbons broke our line, there was Don Antonio’s cavalry, ready to close up the breach. I spent the whole battle riding side by side with that man.

“I’m your faithful squire, Don Antonio!” I shouted, for want of anything better to say.

“In that case, tell me,” he retorted, laughing, “why is it that when the enemy is to our right, you ride to my left, and when we have them on our left, you switch sides and position yourself to my right? You wouldn’t happen to be using my body as a moving fajina , would you?”

Have you ever had a nightmare that lasted five whole hours? That’s what Brihuega was like. From noon until sunset, the Bourbons tried to break through the Allied lines. Our officers tightened up the battalions, rebuilt the walls of bayonets. The regiments were sturdy but badly depleted, nervous exhaustion visible on their faces. By around three in the afternoon the infantry were so desperate that they began to form squares.

My dear vile Waltraud, who knows nothing about anything, asks me to explain. How easy that is! Basically, we were giving up.

When an infantry battalion is cornered, it literally forms a human square, with the soldiers pointing the bayonets outward and the officers, the drummers, and the wounded in the center. It is an agonizing method of resistance, especially against a cavalry. A troop who resorts to that is admitting that they are abandoning any kind of attack. (Do you understand me finally, my little blond she-bear?) And back they come, the Bourbons, and again, and again. When a breach is opened, there goes Don Antonio and his cavalry, closing up the gaps with a charge of scrawny old nags, again and again.

If you ever find yourselves compelled to take part in a cavalry charge, do the following: The most important thing is to avoid the violence of the impact. At the last moment, dip your head down behind your horse’s neck to hide a sharp tug on the reins that will stop the animal. In the confusion, nobody will notice what was holding back the momentum. Throw all the strength in your body into your calves, squeezing them to the horse’s flanks as though they were forceps. Position yourself between the first and second line of attacking riders. If the enemy flees, spur on your mount and go for it, yelling as though you’ve broken through the line alone (thereby allowing yourself much vaunting about the battle afterward). If they stand their ground, swing your sword above your head, cursing your fellow riders who are getting between you and your adversaries. But do not advance! In the case of a retreat, turn tail and flee shamelessly. The front line of idiots you allowed to go ahead of you will protect your back.

The battle of Brihuega was decided by exhaustion. Or, rather, not decided. The Bourbons had thrown all their wood on the fire without breaking the cohesiveness of the Allied army. Some regiments suffered up to a dozen consecutive assaults. And when they faltered, there was Don Antonio charging over with riders to drive the enemy away.

In the last countercharge the momentum took us out beyond the Allied infantry. When we stopped, we were surrounded by the bodies of the enemy dead, a real carpet of white uniforms. I gave a childish howl: “What a sight, Don Antonio! Look at this slaughter!” I leaped off my horse and stared around me. There were so many dead bodies, I had to take great strides so as not to tread on them. “You were right after all! We haven’t lost! And Vendôme thought he had us. Ha!”

Then the general dismounted, came over, and with fury in his eyes, gave me a resounding slap. And left.

I was dazed, but more by the offense than by the pain. I couldn’t understand it. Villarroel had spent the whole day scolding me for my lack of military spirit and enthusiasm, and when I showed a bit of fire, he struck me. No, I still hadn’t understood that war, his occupation, increased Don Antonio’s pain and his contradictions. With one hand on the offended cheek, I protested, “What have I said now?”

One of his adjutants explained for him: “You imbecile, not twelve months ago these were the lads under Don Antonio’s command.”

Don Antonio called for me at the first chance the army got to pause for breath after Brihuega. It was late, the retreat had already been sounded, and the night was so cold that just to cross the short distance to his tent, I had to wear my whole arsenal of warm clothes.

The staff officers were delighted; the official report of the battle praised my great general to the skies. But I had never seen him in a good mood. And as for his relationship with me, the most recent episode we had shared had been a slap in the middle of the battle.

His campaign tent was more Spartan than Leonidas’s. His mattress was thinner than a plank of wood. The rest of the furniture amounted to a folding seat, a small table, and a couple of candles shivering at the icy air that sneaked through the thousand cracks in the canvas.

He wasn’t looking good. He wasn’t sitting on his chair but on the camp bed, drinking straight from a bottle. I’d rarely seen him drink. Well, all warriors are familiar with the melancholy that arises after a battle. He looked at me with eyes hooded by red, drooping lids. Outside, the Castilian wind howled like a monster calling out to you from your nightmares.

“I struck you,” he said, skipping past any formalities. “I was wrong to do that.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond.

“My apologizing has nothing to do with your foolishness,” he went on, “only with your uniform, however provisional it may be. You don’t strike an officer. It’s ugly, degrading to the rank.”

“Yes, Don Antonio.”

“General, damn it! Address my person by the rank I hold.”

He looked up, and I saw he was half-drunk. “Yes, General.”

“As for the rest, I have signed up a man who is mean and selfish. All armies have blisters popping out all over their ass, and you are the fattest, most pus-filled in the entire Allied coalition.”

That is an “apology” as understood by Don Antonio de Villarroel: He summons me to ask for forgiveness and ends up calling me a purulent blister. He pointed at me with the mouth of the bottle and added: “I ought to hang you.”

“You’re right, Don Antonio.”

“But as an engineer, you do have a certain competence. I’ve seen you carry out maneuvers that might lack grace, though they are amusing.” He sighed deeply. “It’s my fault; engineers are no use on horseback. No. Your skill is hiding away between chunks of stone.”

“Yes, Don Antonio. I mean, no, Don Antonio. Whatever you say.”

He looked at me a moment, his eyes glassy with wine. He patted the mattress a couple of times. “Sit here!”

I obeyed, and he put an arm around my shoulders. He smelled of sour wine. And then, to my surprise, he showed an affection toward me that I had known nothing of. “You needn’t worry, son. You’re a coward, I know that, but few men are born brave. Bravery is something you learn, just like a child learning to speak. Do you understand?”