Albert Sanchez Pinol - Victus - The Fall of Barcelona

Ah, laughter, that great outlet for fear, which buries it but does not drive it away. Because the third phase is terror.

Terror arrived in the city like the plague, brought in by travelers. Everyone fleeing from the interior of Catalonia converged at Barcelona. And whenever they came in through the city gates, the Barcelonans would pounce on them, questioning them about what was happening inland. They always gave the same answer: “All the horizons are on fire.”

And it was true. If a place did not surrender at once, it was blasted by cannon fire and attacked by the cavalry. The Bourbon columns that had followed the Allies in our retreat were not content with riding into the towns and cities. They demanded that the mayors come out to meet them and offer their submission.

Terror can play out in opposing reactions. Submission to the threat, most commonly. But sometimes, just occasionally, it incites a mood as uncommon as it is dangerous: collective rage.

The last columns of Allied soldiers retreating toward the coast were no longer being begged to stay; the civilians threw stones at them. The height of indignation came when proof emerged that there was treachery in addition to desertion — not only were they going, but as they beat their retreat, the Allies had handed the keys to cities and strongholds to the Bourbon commanders!

In the closing days of June 1713, Barcelona was seething with indignation. People are not stupid; they know full well whom to blame for their misfortunes. Hundreds of furious people gathered outside the residence of Viceroy Starhemberg and stuck chicken talons and feathers to the door. They were wrong in one respect: Starhemberg was no chicken, nothing of the kind, just as executioners are neither cowardly nor brave; they are simply despicable.

The Red Pelts came to ask him for an explanation as to why the Allies were retreating, why they were abandoning defenseless cities to such a cruel enemy, and finally, what Charles meant to do to prevent the execution of an entire population who had been faithful to him ever since the war started.

Starhemberg’s answer should go down in the history of cynicism: “My finest feelings and affection are with you, Excellencies.”

And he left. That same afternoon he climbed into his coach, leaving through the back door, on the pretext that he was off on a hunting party. He never came back. The truth was that he had gone to join the Allied troops who were about to embark at the mouth of the Besòs River, to the north of the city. The English fleet was there to prevent trouble in case of altercations in the port of Barcelona. Our loyal allies!

They say that Starhemberg did not even resign his post as viceroy. It’s hard to imagine any greater ignominy. Even men condemned to death are allowed to receive extreme unction.

And while our allies were departing, leaving us on the palisades, and the Bourbon columns made their implacable approach toward Barcelona, what did the Red Pelts decide to do? Nothing. Even as Starhemberg was packing his bags, up till the very last moment, they were still sending him dispatches for signature. According to their twistedly legalistic logic, that Austrian vulture was still viceroy. The machinery of state really ought to keep up appearances. The fact that Starhemberg was in league with the enemy, that he was handing over our homes and our freedom, well, heavens, that hardly seemed important!

Among the Allied regiments boarding ships were a few Catalans, though not many, who in their day had been enlisted in Charles’s imperial army. They weren’t Miquelets, halfway between hell and the law, merely men who wanted to make careers in a regular army. They knew exactly what was going on. They weren’t at the heart of government, they didn’t have daily dealings with the executive and their elevated politics, and yet they understood what was up and to whom they owed their fidelity. Right up until the final day, there were men who abandoned the ranks of the Allied forces, even some who leaped overboard from ships to head for Barcelona. Starhemberg exceeded mere rigor, ending up in cruelty: He gave orders that deserters should be executed, when the truth was that throughout the whole war, he had been quite unenthusiastic in his pursuit of deserters. And so our most generous young lads were left hanging from trees, dotting the path of retreat, and all the while the Red Pelts were bowing down before these boys’ murderer.

Toward the end of 1713, the Red Pelts decided to call the Catalan parliament. They were so disconcerted at the situation that the session could be summarized in one single point: How to face the Bourbon advance, submit or fight?

I should clarify that our parliament was divided into three groups, or branches: One was made up of the nobility; the second represented the common people; and the third, inevitably, consisted of the cockroaches from the Vatican.

As for you, woman, you are not to interrupt me or correct me when I pick on the priests! I’m perfectly aware of what I’m saying, and I’m going to speak my mind.

I am not saying that all priests are bad people. It’s not that. During the siege, you could see certain priests who were thinner than cypresses, fragile as glass, still and impassive as they faced enemy fire. With no earthly possessions but their cassock, they had bullets buzzing past their ears and they remained imperturbable on their knees, administering the sacrament to the dying on the front line. Their bishops, however, were like the Red Pelts, but black. You need only to look at the behavior of the cardinal and bishop of Barcelona himself, the wretched Benet Sala.

On the first day of discussion, the secretary to the parliament asked the ecclesiastical branch their view. As theirs was the smallest group of the three, it seemed logical that this should be cleared up before the others. Their answers were evasive. Not a yes, not a no. They just contended theological abstractions, according to which war is itself a bad thing, and when it breaks out between Christians, the good Lord weeps blood.

A fine bunch of Philistines! To the best of my knowledge, the Vatican has blessed dozens of wars, and they have never been too bothered that people have died in them. What was more, up till now, for thirteen long years of world war, it had never for a moment occurred to them to think that war was a very unpleasant thing. And then came the knife in the back.

Benet Sala had a good pretext for leaving Barcelona. Around that time, he had been called to Rome. And in one of those ruses so very typical of the Vatican, he had coordinated with Starhemberg to set sail the same time as the Allied forces.

Suddenly, the Barcelonans found themselves abandoned by the army who had been protecting their bodies and, simultaneously, by the shepherd who was meant to be caring for their souls. Naturally, Benet’s aim was to demoralize the very Christian people to whom he owed spiritual service, so that they would waver, surrender, and go into the slaughterhouse as docile as lambs. When I die, I hope to be able to have a few words with Benet Sala. Because I have no doubt we will both roast in the cauldron of Pere Botero, that devil of legend, but I can swear that Sala will also be drowned in it, strangled by yours truly in the soup.

Meanwhile, in the city, emotions were running higher and higher. What happened next is hard to explain.

Religious expression has always been a good outlet for feelings of powerlessness. The streets were filled with processions praying for the city’s salvation. They were an absolute nuisance, making trouble under our window day and night. While they were no more than murmuring crowds at first, their excitement grew with the city’s. The procession that caused the greatest impact was the one made up of the dozen young women who went off on pilgrimage to the holy mountain of Montserrat in a quest for divine intervention. (Montserrat is a very curious mountain to the northwest of Barcelona. It looks like a blunt-edged handsaw, at the summit of which is kept a strange virgin with black skin.)