Albert Sanchez Pinol - Victus - The Fall of Barcelona

That was his signal: He launched himself at them with his sword drawn. The six of them had advanced two abreast, and Ballester aimed for the middle. He slashed at their necks, left and right, and all I remember is the animal cries — Ballester’s and those of the men as they fell. In the blink of an eye, six Frenchmen were down, either dead or wounded.

Gasping after that remarkable burst of energy, Ballester braced his arms against his knees. The look he gave me — was he begging forgiveness or arraigning me for frolicking with the butterflies? I was gasping, too, though in my case, it was from the shock.

Four more soldiers appeared on the path. They came at a pace and with their rifles up. They shouted something in French. They surely couldn’t believe what they were seeing: six of their colleagues dead and two men standing there.

“Drop your sword!” I said to Ballester.

He did so, but I already knew what was he was thinking: about freeing up both hands to draw his pistols. Better to be taken prisoner than die, I thought.

“Ballester!” I cried. “Don’t draw! Much as you want to, don’t do it!”

Everyone started shouting and screaming, everyone except Ballester. The French just about to pull their triggers, me saying we’d surrender. Ballester kept his arms across his torso, a hand on each of his pistol hilts. Ne tirez pas, nous nous rendons! A silly thing to point out, but one thing I remember is that all the butterflies were gone.

When I heard the shots, I threw myself to the ground and curled up in a ball, shielding my head. Three reports— crack crack crack —followed by three more, then another three.

But when I raised my head, I found that Ballester wasn’t dead, nor indeed was I; it was the four Frenchmen who had been shot down. From a bluff to our right, a dozen Miquelets were advancing, emerging from the thick woodland with the barrels of their rifles smoking.

And they were suspicious of us. “Who do you serve?” one asked.

“Emperor Charles,” I answered, on my knees and trembling. “And you?”

“Busquets. Hands up,” said the man who seemed to be their leader, pointing his rifle at me, “and keep them up. Elbows to ears.”

I did as he said, but I protested. “We’re with the army of the Generalitat!”

He only became more suspicious. A number of the others swung their rifles around in my direction. “You lie! And if you speak Catalan, that must make you a botiflero .”

As they waited to see what I’d do next, Ballester took the opportunity to finish off one of the dying Frenchmen next to him. A bullet through the nape of the neck — I remember it exiting through his mouth, as though he’d spat it.

Ballester’s relationship with death was something I could never get my head around, never. The Frenchman was certainly dying, nothing could have saved him, and I agree, the most humane thing was to end his suffering. But for Ballester, shooting a man was like tying his shoelaces. A trivial act, devoid of reflection or consequence. There I was, whey-faced, kneeling, arms to the heavens, whereas Ballester’s response was to take out his pistol.

“Take me to the man leading your unit,” he said to the Miquelet interrogating me. “He owes me twenty pesos.” Looking over at me, he said: “Busquets is terrible when it comes to dice.”

They led us to a clearing in the woods containing a group of men. There was something in the air, a tangible despondency, the leadenness that is the mark of a defeat. Those not injured and grumbling looked downcast, like scarecrows whose supports had been removed. It had begun drizzling.

Unlike Ballester’s men, hardened in a thousand battles, Busquets’s were civilians only recently incorporated to mountain life. They still had shoes on their feet, and not the rope-soled sandals; they didn’t have the usual blue hooded knee-length cloaks; and their weapons seemed cobbled together, kitchen knives and old muskets that made you think they must have grabbed whatever they could on the way out the door.

None of this was of the slightest interest to Ballester. He walked straight over to a man sprawled on his back against a saddle, with a blond beard and mane of hair. The gold earrings he wore suggested he must be the leader, the previously mentioned Busquets. He’d been shot in the left shoulder, and there was a man next to him delving into the hole with a pair of pincers. Not the easiest task, given that Busquets, in between slugs from a bottle of liquor, was squealing like a boar in a trap, spraying out mouthfuls of liquid when the pain became too much.

Recognizing Ballester, Busquets thrust the bottle in his direction. “You! What on earth are you doing here?”

Ballester held his hand out. “You owe me twenty pesos.”

Busquets looked baleful, fit to murder; Ballester just kept his hand outstretched. I feared the worst and glanced around at the rest of the men. But then Busquets burst out laughing, with his good hand grabbed hold of Ballester’s forearm, and called him “whoreson,” in a nice way. The surgeon, who had retracted the pincers, looked at me as if to say: Do these seem like adequate working conditions to you? Anyway, this was how it was with the Miquelets.

As for me, Busquets seemed skeptical. “Lieutenant Colonel? How wonderful.” He drank another slug and let out a howl at the surgeon. “Trying to treat me or finish me off?”

Not knowing how best to address him, I opted for the most formal and generic. “If you wouldn’t mind, Captain Busquets, could you tell us what’s been going on in the locality?”

Busquets didn’t seem to think I could be trusted. Tilting his head to one side, Ballester said: “I know he acts like one, but he isn’t actually a Red Pelt.”

Sighing, grumbling at the surgeon throughout, Busquets told us what had been going on. “We made an attack on Mataró. You know, all the botifleros in Catalonia have taken refuge there. And they force the town to feed and shelter them. Which helps us — more recruits. Those damned botifleros , so conceited, so insufferably arrogant. . They pitch families out of their houses or use the inhabitants as servants. They’re being served from silver platters while the people starve. Forced to cook for them, empty their pisspots.” He became angrier as he went on. “Who do they think they are? Taking over our houses, treating us like slaves, and — the cheek! — they accuse us of rebellion!”

The surgeon was still digging around, and Busquets let out another howl. “So,” he said when he’d recovered, “someone blabbed, or maybe it was just that they were sent some reinforcements, I’m not sure.” He took a breath. “Infantry came for us, but they had cavalry, too. We don’t do so well against cavalry. We were trounced.”

“When?” I said.

“Just yesterday.”

“They’ve had more patrols out,” said Ballester. “Trying to surround you.”

“I know. They don’t have enough troops to surround a forest as big as this, though. Plus, I’ve sent a company to their rearguard to monitor their movements. Now I’m just waiting for the last of my men to join up with us so we can get out of here.” Liquor all over his chin, he turned to the surgeon. “And for this sawbones to patch up the wounded!”

“Shut it,” said the surgeon. “You’re not making this any easier. Taking bullets out isn’t exactly what I was trained to do.”

“Isn’t that what surgeons do?” I said.

“Surgeon?” the man said back, matching the sarcasm of my tone, not stopping what he was doing. “I fled Mataró because I was afraid I might slip and cut some botiflero ’s throat.” Looking over at me, he said: “I’m a barber.”