I stood and faced him. “Work it out!” I shouted. “When Berwick comes, it won’t be Navarran bumpkins we’re up against! He’s bringing Louis’s finest fighters, along with cannons and tons of ammunition. Dragoons, grenadiers, crack troops from the Rhine. The ramparts are in a state, the city half destroyed. Defended by civilians, not soldiers, and most of them famished and ill. I know precisely how Jimmy will go about things, and trust me, either we send an emissary or he’ll crush us.”
“I see it now,” he scoffed. “It’s all still ideas and numbers to you.”
That was too much. “Ideas and numbers that take into account how many have died! How many more? You lost three on the expedition — want them all gone?”
Ballester punched the battlement. “I want their deaths not to have been for nothing!”
“The point of defending a city,” I cried, even more exasperated, “is to save women and children and the sacred places! If we carry on, they’ll all be lost! We fight to safeguard them, not to see them devoured!”
“And the Catalan liberties, the constitutions?” he said. “Who’s going to safeguard them?”
“How should I know?” I said, holding my arms out wide. “Ask Casanova, ask the politicians. I’m just an engineer.”
He gave me the angriest, most accusing glance. “I don’t talk to politicians or engineers,” he said. “I only talk to men.” Then, lowering his voice, he whispered something deeply philosophical (not that he probably knew). “But such are few and far between in this city.”
Before I could manage a response, he turned and walked away.
In the following days, it was tenser than ever between Ballester and me. Rather than trying to do anything about it, I ignored him. When we came into contact, I acted like he wasn’t there. I refused an order to lead his men on a job. Which he took as an insult. Which it was. His problem, I thought. But the absence of our usual arguments, of those disputes both surly and lubricating, rather than easing things, increased the tension between us.
In a sense, we were a reflection of the mood of the city. Understandably, the news of Berwick’s approach didn’t do wonders for morale. And vague promises were all we had from the diplomats outside. Nice little letters from Vienna praising our constancy and fidelity. Doubtless Archduke Charles dictated them while mounting the queen, the two of them doing their utmost to ensure the “so-desired succession.”
During that period one day, I went with Don Antonio to a government meeting. He wanted me to help them understand the parlous state of our defenses. His reception was glacial.
It was beyond the Red Pelts’ powers of comprehension. They were, as a rule, whiners, consummate defeatists, and I thought my report would be used to win over the reticent few. On the contrary. They didn’t want to hear a word of what I had to say. Casanova, in particular, looked straight through me with his dark eyes.
I was very young. The public side of things wasn’t my affair; I’d been giving my all to the defense of the city. But that day, I had a chance to consider something that occurs only between political leaders.
Casanova was against the resistance and had always been. If, reader, you’ve been paying attention, you’ll know that he did everything in his power to stop the portcullis from being lowered and the city armed. Why, then, was he now so strongly defending those who wanted to carry on fighting, or why at least did he comply with them?
The answer wasn’t above but below. In France, the Beast’s subordinates obeyed blindly. But in our old besieged city, with the people in turmoil and a government more akin to Athens’s model than Sparta’s, it was the other way around: The leaders did what the governed told them to. Casanova knew there was no way he could challenge the popular will, which was in favor of holding out. His innermost thought? Impossible to know. I imagine — and this is mere supposition — that in his opinion, it was better to remain in control, in the hope that some chance to end it all would present itself, thereby avoiding greater ills.
Don Antonio merely backed up what I had already said: Berwick was bringing with him a force that would crush us; the council could draw its own conclusions. Here I ought to point out a minor detail — something, though, that in such a tight situation, had an effect: Don Antonio didn’t speak Catalan.
Like all educated Catalans, the Red Pelts spoke perfect Castilian. When addressing Don Antonio, they did so in his language, out of deference. But there is something insuperable in Catalans that prevents them from speaking anything but their own tongue to one another. So fragments of the discussions were lost to Don Antonio. I translated for him, whispering in his ear what they were saying when things became heated, which was often. But you surely know good old Zuvi by now: When whoever was speaking became animated, instead of translating the debate, I’d stick my oar in. The only thing the councilors agreed on was the need for drastic measures. And what they came up with was a plan to attack the enemy positions, to raise morale in the city. What a magnificent idea!
Such an attack would be madness. If it went badly, which it was bound to, morale would plummet still further. But then Don Antonio demonstrated perfectly the position he was in: that of a military commander subordinate to a government. He agreed to follow their orders, for all that he personally disagreed.
As in the human body, the nerves in an army are invisible and run from top to bottom. If the officers were unconvinced about the attack, how could the rank and file possibly feel confident? The whole thing was hastily cobbled together. I was one of those to bear the brunt. Orders were sent out in a hurry and got scrambled along the way. I thought I’d been ordered to take part in the assault, but it turned out Don Antonio wanted me in the rearguard. You know, that abject troupe of priests and surgeons meant for evacuating the wounded, and officers whose job it was to stop any who turned back during the opening exchanges, to send them back into the slaughter.
The troops, a thousand men and more, gathered at three of the city gates. The idea was to charge out, form up, and attack the cordon as one. Overrun it and withdraw. Give them a scare so they knew we weren’t intimidated by Berwick. As I say, pure imbecility. Jimmy hadn’t arrived yet, and he wouldn’t care in the slightest about anything that happened before he got there. The Bourbons knew us by that point, and such a limited attack would achieve nothing, nothing besides a gratuitous bloodbath. Dear God, I couldn’t think of anything less lovely than to die on such a beautiful spring day.
There are few feelings to match participating in an attack you feel is bound to fail. The relevant thing was not what the officers said to the men but, rather, what they didn’t say: They shouted at the men to line up but had no words to suggest they believed in the endeavor. I accompanied the priests as they went up and down the ranks, sprinkling the men with holy water and spouting phrases in Latin. We came upon Ballester and his men.
“Oh ho! Here’s our man,” he sneered. “Happy about sending us to certain death?”
“I’ve never argued for harebrained attacks,” I retorted. “That was always you. Or have you forgotten? Attack, attack, attack. Well, here’s your attack!”
I shoved him back into line. But Ballester would never tolerate anyone laying a finger on him. He came back at me, lifting his hand to my face and pushing me, and saying a few choice words about my mother. That was the last straw.