Albert Sanchez Pinol - Victus - The Fall of Barcelona

A war council was held. Dalmau wanted to put forward some ideas he’d formed while expeditioning alone.

All told we could bring together five thousand men now. He wanted to proceed in line with the original plan: Attack the Bourbon cordon at Barcelona and raise the blockade. The disparity in numbers meant outright victory would be impossible. To start with, we were surrounded by thousands of Bourbons who had been deployed throughout the area. If they realized where we were marching, they would simply form a wall between us and Barcelona.

“But if we were to evade them,” suggested Dalmau, “we’d be in a position to attack the cordon’s right wing.” He spread a map out on the table. Everyone present came closer in.

“The Bourbons have divided the cordon into three sectors,” Dalmau explained. “The right wing is made up of Spanish troops, and the area they’re positioned on is swampland. We’d be at an advantage attacking there. Spanish troops are less well trained than the French. And on such uneven terrain, our Miquelets would move around far better than regiments accustomed to fighting in formation.” He rubbed his eyes. “Coordinating the attack with the troops inside the city will be no easy task. Particularly if we decide to strike at night, which we’d need to do to compensate for our lack of numbers — use the element of surprise. But if we do our part and Villarroel does his — no doubt he will — I don’t see why we shouldn’t succeed.”

Well, this was the point of the expedition, to free Barcelona from the Bourbon siege. Everyone agreed that it was risky but not impossible. There was still the issue of the deputy: an attack by night, among five thousand men in swampy terrain, would be too much for old Berenguer. It would be fraught with danger. In the tumult of battle, and in the dark, anything might happen. That Deputy Berenguer was a good-for-nothing blackguard didn’t make him any less important a personage. He’d be quite a prize for the Bourbons, and it would be a heavy blow to the Catalans to lose him. No, he wouldn’t be killed. But they’d be in a position to mount him on a donkey and ride him around with a cylinder on his head.

Berenguer put his hands to his face and, in a pitiful performance, said the last thing he wanted was to be an obstacle for the fatherland. Finally, he had realized that’s what he was. The attempt must be made, he said. All he required was four trustworthy soldiers to be his bodyguards. If the situation became ugly, these four would have the blessed job of slitting his throat before the enemy kidnapped him.

The cheek of the man! For the duration of the expedition he’d been cowering, and now he wanted to make himself out as the hero. It was the height of imposture, and that in an era when heroism was the commonest currency. Men like Villarroel and Dalmau, warriors like Ballester and Busquets, would never make proclamations about their willingness to lay down their lives: They took it for granted, and would do it without a second’s hesitation. And there we had Deputy Berenguer, measuring his every word for its epic qualities, for how it would sound in the annals.

I stepped forward. “Oh, don’t worry about four men to slit your throat, Your Excellence. One would be sufficient. Me.”

“Zuviría!” he cried. “I’ve had enough of your insolence. Think you’re the army joker, don’t you? When we get back, the first thing I’m going to do is have you thrown in the Pi dungeons!”

Next, one of Berenguer’s oafs made a proposal: Try and reach the coast, and from there send the deputy off in a ship somewhere, before tackling the cordon. Everyone was happy — Dalmau because it meant being free from Berenguer, and Berenguer because it meant he’d be out of harm’s way.

Ballester and his light cavalry were sent ahead as an advance party, as usual, to be sure the nearby paths and trails were clear of Bourbons, and that the deputy could therefore be evacuated. I went with them. We reached a place called Alella by nightfall; to avoid unpleasant surprises, we chose to camp on the beach rather than trying at a house in the town.

During the ride, Ballester had seemed more on guard than usual. I put my sleeping mat next to his, the sand for a mattress. We bedded down a stone’s throw from the sea. The day had been clear, and the stars shone in the sky above. Like that poetic detail, my dear Waltraud? Pish, I say! If it was night, and there weren’t any clouds, why on earth wouldn’t the stars be shining? Anyway, you can keep it in — it will help give an idea of our melancholy mood that night. We were engaged in a cruel war, but the gentle cadence of the waves and the sound of the crickets cradled us for one peaceful moment: a feeling that moved me to speak.

“I want you to know something. I thought Mataró was an outrage as well.”

Ballester didn’t answer. Offended by his silence, I protested: “I’m trying to apologize! Though I’m hardly to blame.”

“Your Cannae went to the dogs,” he said finally.

“True. And the way we’re headed, there’s more bloodshed to come. Even if things go according to plan,” I lamented, looking up at the sky, “thousands will die. If only Vauban were alive. . ”

“What are you complaining about? It’s a war, people die. If they didn’t, it wouldn’t be war.”

I decided to change the subject. “Are you married, Ballester?” I asked.

“No, I have some women, but none of them are my wives. You?”

“There’s one who’s as good as my wife. I think she was a whore before me. Something like that.”

“Are you being serious?” said Ballester, taken aback — and not much could surprise that man.

“Whore, mischief maker, thief. . What does it matter? Needs must, these days. I live in a house along with her, an old man, a dwarf, and a young boy. You’ve met the boy.”

“I have?” he said, again surprised.

“Yes, when you laid siege to us in that masía .”

Ballester pulled his blanket over himself. “I only remember,” he said, yawning, “that I’d never seen such a soft lad.”

“You’re right there,” I said, and with the thought of Anfán, a daft feeling of happiness rose up my neck. “Though I’m not his father.”

“But you treat him as a son,” Ballester pointed out, yawning again.

“Well, let’s just say that, to him, I’m the one who makes the rules. That’s all.”

We were both tired, and Ballester’s eyes began to fall shut, but I pushed his arm again. “Do you have children, Ballester?”

Opening his eyes again, he looked up at the stars. “I think so. Maybe one or two. Difficult to know for certain. Women are always claiming I’m the father, though all they really want is the leader’s money.”

“But you’re not bringing them up.”

He sneered. “How could I? Their mothers don’t want for anything. I take care of all that.”

I tugged on his sleeve again, more earnestly still. “Ballester, I want to ask you something. Something between you and me.”

He lifted himself half up, suspecting some trick, his usual forest animal cautiousness. But all I wanted to know was: “Why do you fight?”

He meditated for a few moments, taking a fistful of sand and letting it drain away. As a prompt, I said, “I don’t need a long speech, you can keep it short,” before adding: “A word, please, just a word. It’s all I ask.”

But to my disappointment, he lay down again and, with a sigh, said simply: “If you haven’t understood it yet, what would be the point of telling you now?”

Perhaps I should not have been so surprised by the aberration that next took place. The full extent of Red Pelts’ mad legalism, the false emptiness of their patriotism — which was about to become apparent on the beach at Alella — anyone would have been hard pushed to surmise. My only thought at the time was that, finally, we were about to be rid of Deputy Berenguer and his clot-headed retinue.