We never heard another word about Shitson. Either the Bourbons hanged him, or those troops he’d been left to lead did it themselves. If you want my view, knowing what Dalmau’s men were like, I’d say it was probably the latter. But this is all supposition. If I ever did find out, I’ve forgotten. Thanks be to forgetfulness!
Come on, enough of the weepy bits. Chin up, never mind! That’s what I say. Or, as we said in Barcelona, via fora to the sadness. At least I made it home in one piece — no mean feat. Having embraced the members of my odd little family, I collapsed into an armchair, gazing on the walls as though civility were a distant memory. I didn’t talk much. I looked out from our balcony, which had a view of the city walls. The cooper company was on patrol up on the Saint Clara bastion. They’d lit several small bonfires to cook their dinner over. It was good to know they were there, and to know that it was for one reason: so that I could sleep safely in my home that night. By this point I had far more faith in these coopers-turned-soldiers than in any unit of regulars.
Nan brought in a pot containing hot water and left it at my feet: his way of celebrating my return. And Amelis dropped a handful of salt in — my God, a hot footbath, surrounded by your nearest and dearest. This was a home. Anfán bade me tell them about my heroic exploits. .
As I took off my boots, I turned my mind to those interminable marches, day and night, all those thousands of men with threadbare espadrilles on their feet, or simply going barefoot. I thought of the smell of burned gunpowder, and of the dead we’d left behind, to no end. I could still smell the stench of rusted bayonets and old leather. And all of it for what? So that that swine Berenguer could sit in his little palace, surrounded by his dozens of oafs, denying that he’d had anything to do with anything.
“Heroic exploits?” I said. “Know the one thing I’ve brought with me to say? That the reason I went was so you might never have to.”
I wasn’t fully happy until I laid my head down on my pillow. Amelis joined me a little while later. The room was dark and I couldn’t see her, I only heard the door. She came in and got on top of me, both of us unclothed. Food had begun to grow scarce in the city, and she was thinner than before. Through the window came the occasional far-off explosion, illuminating the room, accompanied by sounds of artillery. Bourbon artillery, not ours, but I felt sure we had nothing to fear. They were only calibrating their cannons in case they decided to attack the Capuchin convent one day, and that was outside the main walls. Amelis’s hair fell over my face, and I could smell the mint tea she’d drunk before coming in. Running a hand over my face, she said: “Do you want to go to sleep?”
Sleep? I hadn’t heard anything so funny in a long while. Chin up, Martí Zuviría, never mind! There are few things as intense as making love to the sound of a cannonade. And in this life, take it from me, there’s only one thing that ranks above first love, and that’s the second.
I forgot to say anything in the last chapter about the expedition’s very last upshot. Well, I’ll do so now, and that’ll be that. You put the chapters in order as best you can, that’s what I pay you for.
I found myself up on the Saint Clara bastion early one morning, involved in a cannonade, when Francesc Castellví appeared. He was the captain of a Valencian company, with pretensions to be a historian. But there are some who don’t know when it’s the right — or the wrong — time for courteous greetings.
From time to time, our sentries would spy a group of enemy foragers in no-man’s-land. The alarm would be raised across the bastion tops and our cannons trained on the foragers. From the cordon, the Bourbons would use their longer-range artillery to provide cover, and an artillery exchange would commence.
I thought it the most ridiculous waste of ammunition. At that distance, our cannon fire almost never reached the besiegers’ positions, and vice versa. But so things go in war. Our chief gunner, a man named Costa, asked me to authorize returning fire. We were still well stocked with gunpowder, and his Mallorcans could use the chance to train the city gunners.
“Great that you’re back in one piece!” said Castellví, shouting to make himself heard over the detonations.
“Right, yes,” I said, otherwise occupied and as good as ignoring him. “Thanks.”
“And you look well. A little thinner, yes.”
“Haven’t you got a company of men to be looking out for?”
“No, not today. Today’s a rest day for us. I’m going around visiting friends.”
There I was, giving orders to the munitions carriers, verifying hits and misses, and keeping a close check on how much gunpowder was being used. And here was Castellví asking after my health.
Most of the enemy’s shots fell short. One or two would reach the walls, but so tired by that point that they’d bounce off the walls, to the rumbling, scraping sound of stones. Crrrack! The cannonballs would roll slowly back down the rampart walls, wreathed in smoke. Each army used the same caliber, which meant each could also use the other’s; the same cannonballs would end up going back and forth time after time. Some became airborne letters. Using chicken blood or carbon, the Bourbons would write, for instance, “Up yours, rebels.” To which our men would reply, on a different part of the cannonbalclass="underline" “Stick this up your Bourbon behinds.” That sort of thing, with pictures of cocks, anuses, and mouths to match.
“And you must be happy your little friend’s back, too!” persevered Castellví.
“Friend? What friend do you mean?”
“What friend do you think I mean? Ballester! Along with his men!”
“No!” I cried. “There must be some mistake! They stayed in Alella! We’ll never see them around these parts again!”
“It’s true, I tell you! They crossed the cordon in the night! On horseback, just before dawn, a few hours ago! They’re here in the city!”
“You’re wrong, I say! It can’t be him! Ballester will never forgive us for leaving them the way we did!”
The Mallorcans were shouting out orders, and what with their devilish accents, the noise of the cannons, and the commotion of the carriers, it was almost impossible to hear. We’d have lost our voices soon enough. Where were the Vaubanians to teach the Valencians sign language?
“It was Ballester!” Castellví insisted exasperatingly. “This war must be recounted afterward, down to the very last detail! And I am determined to do that!”
“Fine! Recount the war, off you go. I’m rather busy just now waging that war!” Before he left, I added: “But you’re wrong! Ballester hates us! What on earth could move him to risk his hide getting back into Barcelona?”
I stopped midsentence. Very often it’s the words themselves that clarify thought, and not the other way around.
“What’s wrong?” said Castellví. “You’ve gone completely white! Cannonballs frighten you?”
“Stand in for me, would you?” I shouted at the top of my voice. “I’ll owe you one!”
“But I’m infantry!” he protested. “I haven’t the first clue—”
And now I’m going to leave you to guess the reason for my haste and where I was headed. My dear vile Waltraud knows. But how clever you are, my lovely little buffalo!
There could be only one motive for Ballester to come back: to murder Berenguer. According to his Miquelet logic, the aberration at Alella wasn’t down to politics but to real individuals, and as such, the only answer could be to slit real throats.