Albert Sanchez Pinol - Victus - The Fall of Barcelona

“General. .,” Santa Cruz interrupted me, “seeing as we already have discipline problems among the Coronela men, what would happen when they have these people of such dissolute morals as their examples? And we all know how lenient I am when it comes to using those words, ‘dissolute morals.’ ”

“With Ballester or without him,” I argued, “discipline will never be the Coronela’s forte. And if Ballester agrees to join us, it will always be in his natural role as part of the light cavalry. We could use him as a link to the Miquelets on the outside, to reconnoiter the terrain or cause trouble for the enemy’s foragers. We will hardly see him, since he will be as little use to us posted on a bastion as a Coronela battalion on horseback.”

Don Antonio was staring into the void, saying nothing, lost in his ruminations. At that moment, I realized just how much good old Zuvi wanted Ballester brought in. My old arguments with him no longer meant anything; I could judge Ballester as he was, a shrewd, capable leader, whether in a uniform or not. And we were desperately short of men with experience.

It was an age before Villarroel pronounced his verdict. Finally, he passed judgment: “We’re so short on troops that we have nothing to lose by offering him the chance to join up to serve in the armed forces, and now with honor. If he turns down the offer, well, then it’s between him and his conscience.”

“Very well said, Don Antonio!” I cried.

His eyes drilled into me. It was very hard to bear that look of disapproval, severer than any words he could have spoken. Don Antonio needed to attend to some dispatches, and the rest of us officers turned to leave. I remember Santa Cruz shaking his head, disapproving.

“Zuviría.” Don Antonio stopped me when I had already reached the threshold. “One more thing: You are to take charge of making Ballester this offer yourself.”

I thought I was going to have a fit. “Me? But Don Antonio, that’s just not possible! I have a mountain of work to do, reinforcing the walls and bastions.”

“Well, I believe it is indeed possible,” he interrupted me. “Because I am your superior, and that is what I have ordered you to do, and because it has become clear that you are a great supporter of Ballester’s. Doubtless he will be more sensitive to your requests than anyone else’s.”

Sensitive to my requests? What I naturally could not tell him was that Ballester had laid siege to me in a masía , and that before that he had robbed me, he had stripped me naked and hanged me from a fig tree.

“Come on, fiyé , what’s that face for?” Villarroel said consolingly. “You think I’m going to risk losing an aide-de-camp when the enemy is just six days’ march away? I’ll make sure you are supplied with an adequate escort.”

The “escort” consisted of two gentlemen, one of them very thin on horseback and the other smaller and sitting on a mule. The one on the horse apparently knew more or less where the Bourbons’ advance guard had gotten to, and the one on the mule knew all the habitual hiding places used by Ballester and his villains. They were every bit as terrified as I was. The quartermaster’s store loaned me the uniform of an infantry lieutenant colonel. To make me more respected, according to Don Antonio. I doubted that very much. Ballester was perfectly happy slitting the gullets of officers, and he absolutely didn’t care which side they were on. What was more, the coat was so tight on me that I couldn’t do up the front. Still, this was hardly a time to start seeking out a good tailor.

We rode out of Barcelona, passing through a number of towns, finding nothing visibly changed. The countryfolk were on our side and gave us news about the advance of Philip’s army, then under the command of one duke of Pópuli. Pópuli! Another name to consign to the bonfires of history. And when I tell you why, I’m certain you will agree with me.

They had seen only a handful of Bourbon patrols on horseback, only fleetingly, no sign of the columns of infantry or convoys of artillery. They were moving at that slow pace because they wanted to secure all the towns as they went. The Crida notwithstanding, the Bourbons didn’t think the Barcelonans so crazy as to close their city walls to such an impressive army.

As for Ballester, finding him was easier than we had anticipated. He didn’t bother to hide. With the evacuation of the Allied troops, especially outside Barcelona’s walls, any last trace of authority had disappeared.

We found him in an opulent country mansion, a residence that had been abandoned by a notable botiflero . Through the windows, we could hear the sounds of a frenzied party. Men singing and shouting, wild laughter from the women, and the crash of bottles smashing against the floor or the walls.

“Are you really planning to go into that den?” asked my escorts.

“There’s no need for you to come with me. If all goes well, we’ll see each other again soon. And if not. . ” I gave a resigned sigh. “In that case, inform Barcelona.”

No sooner had I walked through the door than I found myself in a very spacious hall. Everything was turned upside down. And there, like a gang of drunken monks, were Ballester’s men. The drunkest of them was a great hulk of a man. Around his neck, he was wearing a curtain as though it were a cloak, and he had a chicken spitted on his sword. I can see it now, that chicken with its beak half-open, its eyes closed.

I counted five women and ten men. One of the men was in women’s clothing and was dancing with the body of a dead Bourbon soldier. The dead man’s head swung like a pendulum, falling backward or leaning forward onto the cross-dresser’s shoulder, and the man hugged him, lavishing caresses on his cheeks. Another fellow was suspended from the big chandelier on the ceiling, making howling noises. He must have been the joker of the group. His audience laughed, simultaneously reprimanding him and egging him on. Everyone but Ballester.

He was sitting in a corner, on a sofa that had been disemboweled by bayonets. On either side of him, a couple of tarts from the town had their arms around his neck, one of them laughing like a madwoman, the other, who was drunk, with her head resting on his chest. Ballester was the first to see me.

At that moment, the lamp gave in to the weight of the man who was swinging from it. Man and lamp fell together in a thundering of broken glass. The great roars of laughter stopped dead: The monkey man had landed right at my feet.

The hulk approached me with sword and chicken raised. He wanted to babble some kind of threat, but he was so drunk that he tripped on what was left of the lamp and he, too, fell flat on his face.

Ballester made a clicking sound with his lips, sarcastically. “What bad luck you seem to be having with me!” he said, not deigning to stand up. “You come here to rescue your little botiflero friends, and look who you find.”

“I have found,” I replied, “exactly the person I was looking for.”

One of his men approached me, dagger drawn, to eliminate me without further ado. I held up the tube in which I was carrying the rolled-up documents, with the seal of the Generalitat on the outside. “This,” I announced, “is an official commission and in the interests of all those present. Would you like me to read it? I’m sure you would, because if you slit my throat, I don’t imagine anyone here can read.”

At least they hesitated long enough for me to add: “The government has decided to confer the rank of captain of a volunteer regiment to Señor Esteve Ballester. With uniform and remuneration as befits this position. In addition, Captain Ballester shall have the right to enlist whichsoever men he chooses, who will be admitted into service as honorable soldiers of the emperor and on a wage from the Generalitat.”