Albert Sanchez Pinol - Victus - The Fall of Barcelona

All there was for me to do then was sit at the foot of a tree with my head in my hands.

The pendulum of war, indeed. Lose, win, lose again. Everything changed within minutes, incomprehensibly, and on the basis of decisions that seemed divorced from the military. How were we to stand any chance of winning with this kind of people leading the way? They cared more about their own kind, even if they were botifleros , than their own soldiers.

Before I realized it, Ballester had come up and was standing next to me. “I’ve just come back from reconnaissance with my men,” he said. “Mataró is impossible to defend, and the garrison is a trifle. Should I report to someone with the details?”

I didn’t answer but kept my head buried in my hands. Ballester hit me on the shoulder. “Are the battalions ready?” he asked. “There are three entry points. I don’t even think we’ll need them; they’ll surrender as soon as we come into view.”

I could hardly look at him. “There isn’t going to be an attack,” I said. “Mataró isn’t going to be taken.”

An eternity seemed to pass before he spoke again: “But why not? Why not?”

It was one of the few times when I saw him become upset. I found this show of vulnerability unbearable; I felt responsible.

“Ballester,” I stuttered, “I’m sorry. You’re right about the Red Pelts. I shouldn’t have made you come.” I got to my feet, avoiding eye contact. “You should take your men and leave. Or join up with Busquets. Do what you like.”

He took me by the scruff of the neck and slammed me against the tree. “Who do you think you are? Who, damn it? You’ve as little right to eject me as you had to make me join up! Now tell me: Why no attack on Mataró?”

I didn’t even try to resist. In my confusion, I was as sincere as I could possibly be: “I don’t know why.”

Just then a couple of officers came by. “Ho! What’s happening here?”

“What’s happening,” said Ballester, letting go of me and beginning to walk away, “is that there are some people who have no idea what’s truly happening.”

There is perhaps only one thing sadder than watching fortune slip between your fingers, and that is to be moving away from it out of your own free choosing. It had been decided: The expedition would move on, no attempt would be made to take Mataró, and so we went on, like a treasure seeker who, having orders to bring back gold, discards a diamond as big as a rock. The cavalry went first, with the infantry bringing up the rear. A late-summer Mediterranean downpour began to fall.

The Miquelets under Busquets watched the army leave; despairing, grievous looks they gave us. Their silence was an accusation. I’d met them after a defeat — this was worse still. It was as though their souls had been extracted from their bodies. Even in victory, they’d suffered a defeat, and yet none could tell at whose hands.

The only one to raise his voice was Busquets. As the rain came down, he rode alongside the ranks of blue-uniformed soldiers.

“Why, why go?” he cried. “Victory’s right there!” He gestured in the direction of Matarós. “We only need to knock on the door, and the whole rotten building will come tumbling down!”

I have stored up a great array of memories in my life, and the image of Busquets then is one of the most pathetic. His arm in a sling, his long blond hair wet with rain, his useless entreaties.

Ballester and his nine Miquelets were in the column’s rearguard. They looked up at Busquets impassively, but I knew them, I knew that inside they were on fire. I spurred my horse over to where Ballester was. “If you want to leave,” I said, “do it now. It wouldn’t be good for the officers to catch wind of it. Legally, they could have you for desertion.”

He turned his head and spat by the feet of my horse. “You’re the deserters,” he retorted.

Busquets came over, bedraggled and weeping. “Ballester!” he said beggingly. “If we joined forces, maybe we could try it ourselves?”

Ballester just shook his head. “They’ll have been warned by now,” he said. “And they’ll be getting reinforcements soon enough.” Then he flashed a rare smile. “Anyway, what would be the point of staying here with you? You’ll be dead before you ever pay me back.”

“It’s for Saint Peter to decide how long we’re for this earth,” said Busquets. “And my bullet pouch is still only half empty.”

“Or half full,” said Ballester.

Busquets and his men made their way away from the column. I had no notion where they were headed. They didn’t even bid us farewell.

And what about me, why did I carry on under the orders of that insect Deputy Berenguer? I don’t very well know. Don Antonio had ordered me to go with him, and I found it unthinkable to disobey Don Antonio. I believe I may also have been moved by the impulse, latent in every person, to drink a bitter cup to the very last dregs.

It rained for the rest of that day.

Things went from bad to worse after Mataró. When Pópuli learned of the expedition, having recovered from the fright, he threw all he could at us. Thousands of Spanish and French were sent from their posts across Catalonia to seek us out and crush us. Pópuli went so far as to take a handful of battalions away from the cordon to join the hunt; he knew very well how dangerous a mass uprising would be to him. Sad to say, but our enemies had more faith in the Catalan peasantry than our own leaders did.

With such inferior numbers, the expedition soon became the fox trying to outrun the pack of hounds. We’d enter a town or village with trumpets blaring and the silver mace up front. Deputy Berenguer had given the order for us all to wear our finest attire, to make a stronger impression. To begin with, the order was obeyed. Then we ran out of changes of clothes. Soon enough we became unkempt, had no footwear, and our blue tunics were covered in mud and patches. In spite of everything, the marching band always had a full complement; its upbeat songs contrasted with our general aspect. Pu-rum pum pum! We’d come into a town square and the Crida would be read out, along with a little oration from Deputy Berenguer. And the following day, or the one after that, we’d have reports from our patrols that entire enemy regiments were approaching, and we’d have to take to our heels — Deputy Berenguer aloft, truly almost shitting himself.

Well, all this was more or less to be expected. (The Bourbon attempts to pin us down, I mean, not Deputy Berenguer’s flatulence.) Evading ambushes became our specialty; we traveled light and had a thousand eyes to inform us of the enemy’s positions. But the true disaster had already happened, and its name was Mataró.

Word of the Crida from Barcelona spread, along with news of the fiasco at Mataró. People aren’t stupid. With precedents like that, how could they trust the deputy? When he harangued them, his argument was based around three things. One, that Archduke Charles was a pious man, deeply, deeply pious. (As if it mattered in the slightest that a king, in some far-off place called Vienna, loved God.) Two, that they should trust in Our Lord God, for He would come to devout Catalonia’s aid. (If everything was in God’s hands, and if God was on our side, why had He stood by and watched the country’s current plight?) Three, so as not to scandalize the upstanding Christians in the crowd, he would keep quiet about the enemy’s iniquitous outrages. (No, man, no! That you want to shout from the rooftops! Let even the deaf know that we share their pain!) I remember Dalmau, during Deputy Berenguer’s speeches in the town squares, looking to the heavens and showing his opposition with the occasional snort.