I opened it, finding it full of bullets. A number had flecks of dried blood on them.
“Do you believe in destiny?” he asked me.
“No,” I said.
“Nor do I. But it so happens that there are nineteen bullets there, and I in my time have killed nineteen men, in duels or in battle.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“I ran my saber through his chest, right up to the hilt. The look on his face — it had to be seen to be believed. He tried to say something to me with his last breath. I couldn’t make it out.”
“Doubtless he was cursing you.”
Bardonenche turned to look at the fire again. “Yes, most likely.”
“Tiredness” and “Bardonenche” were two words that didn’t usually go together. But he seemed exhausted that night, hugging his knees, Busquets’s pouch held in one hand. Busquets, the Miquelet captain I met during the expedition, the one who was so intent on liberating Mataró. His superstition was that he wouldn’t die until that pouch was full. It seemed Saint Peter had finally opened his gates.
“Why hold on to such a macabre keepsake?” I said, gazing at the pouch as though it were a crystal ball.
“I don’t know,” he said, groaning. “I feel as though it belongs to me now. I’ve tried to get rid of it, but I can’t.”
I smiled incredulously. “Can’t? I’ll take it from you if you like.”
He shook his head once more. “Why could anyone possibly want to carry around a pouch of used bullets?”
“No idea,” I said, sighing. “Perhaps the man wanted his killer to have it. Or perhaps it’s something more sinister.”
“More sinister?”
I tried to put myself in a Miquelet’s shoes. “When the Miquelets find a Frenchman or a Spaniard with a rifle whose flint is Catalan, or a sword with a Catalan coat of arms on the cuff, they execute their prisoner using that same stolen weapon. The owner’s name is sewn onto the pouch—‘Jaume Busquets, capitá.’ If any friends of the dead man were to capture you, they’d make you swallow the contents. That’s their way.”
The moment I’d spoken, I regretted it. Saying anything cruel to Bardonenche was akin to being nasty to a child, for all that the man was the best swordsman in Europe. Needing to get back to the Guinardó house, I stood up.
“My fine friend,” said Bardonenche, bidding me farewell without getting up, “it’s wonderful you’re serving with us. Do you know what I mean? I’ve thought on more than one occasion, Dear Lord, if this carries on to the bitter end, there’s the chance you’re going to have to kill your Bazoches companion.”
I wasn’t sure what to say. “Antoine,” I mused aloud, “it could be that things are a little more complicated than our parents and teachers told us.”
The clearsightedness of his answer, when usually, he was so puerile, took me aback. “That would be very sad,” he said. “Our love for our betters would mean we’ve embraced lies. But as good sons and good students, what choice did we have?” In a funereal tone, he added: “I have no desire to kill you.”
This sent chills through me; perhaps he wasn’t as clueless as he seemed. Our friendship, perhaps, meant he was able to deduce various things. Including the fact that a “rebel” lieutenant colonel, so committed to the defense of his own city, would not so easily switch sides. Perhaps Bardonenche demonstrated the most generous kind of friendship that night: to not betray the traitor.
“Do you believe in premonitions?” he asked me.
“No,” I said.
“I do. If Barcelona doesn’t surrender, and we embark on the full assault, it will be the death of me. I know it.”
Saying this, he turned his gaze back to the fire.
9
The trench was begun on July 11, 1714, in the night.
Jimmy was well stocked on all counts: The first parallel had thirty-five hundred men to dig it, and these received cover from ten infantry battalions and ten companies of grenadiers. Accustomed to war being waged on a shoestring, I couldn’t but envy such fabulous resources.
My French captain’s uniform made it easy for me to infiltrate myself into the trench. No sooner had the digging begun than I hopped in. And how hard they worked! Thousands of spades, in a line over half a mile long, flinging earth forward, toiling as hard as galley slaves.
The furrow went from knee-deep to chest-deep in a small space of time. Thousands of the fajina baskets were being circulated around. These they would line with stones and sand and then place on the front edge of the trench, followed by further reinforcing shovelfuls of earth. I despaired over the Coronela’s inaction — What are you waiting for? I thought. Attack, you ought to have attacked already!
You can usually bank on a counter-assault the first day a trench begins. The men working, and the troops providing covering fire, are very exposed. The most common maneuver consists of an artillery bombardment followed by large numbers of men carrying out a lightning sortie. If they plan properly and have fortune on their side, the besieged troops will overrun the men covering the trench; the parallel is not very deep yet and doesn’t provide much shelter. The idea of this first sortie is to ruin the works, even fill in what’s been dug, then immediately fall back. It doesn’t seem like much, but in war, morale is crucial. The city sends the attacking army a message: “What you’ve done is undone. Come and get us!” The works have to start all over again.
The Bourbons were vulnerable, as is the case on the first day of any siege. But my redesign of Verboom’s trench also meant that they’d be beginning particularly close to the ramparts. An unusually short distance, truly. Only two thousand feet, which was one and a half times the distance a rifle could shoot. My secret hope — which, naturally, I didn’t communicate to Verboom — was that a general as attentive as Don Antonio would notice the works and attack. Everything would play in our favor. With this first parallel so close to the ramparts, our lads would be able to tackle the trench in an instantaneous charge. If they charged quickly, they’d have no losses until arm-to-arm combat began, and then their zeal would surely be far greater than that of the Beast’s French mercenaries or Little Philip’s Spanish recruits.
Jimmy gave the order for drums to be played throughout the night, a standard procedure to drown out the sound of the men at work. A waste of time. Even if the works begin in the middle of the night, several thousand men digging are impossible to hide. The next morning is the worst for the sappers: Following a long night’s work, they’re exhausted, and as the sun comes up, they relax — nothing’s happened yet. That’s when a lightning attack comes from the besieged army.
But on this occasion, the sun was already up, and there was no sign of any activity on the city walls. Why didn’t the Barcelonans attack, why? I broke down inside: Don’t you see? I said to myself. Sweet Jesus, attack! And then I experienced the most atrocious feeling, one I’d never wish on another living soul. “My God,” I said, “maybe you designed it too well, Martí!”
Of course Don Antonio was planning a lightning attack on the trench the moment it began — which I, not being inside the city, naturally had no way of knowing. So what was going on? The Red Pelts — for a change — had stuck their oars in. Don Antonio spent the night of the twelfth preparing the sortie, and the very first thing on the thirteenth, he sent word to his wife up on Mount Montjuic that he would come to her at nine in the morning and they would later take lunch together. The letter was dictated publicly, so that at eight in the morning the whole city knew that, instead of attacking, General Villarroel was going to spend the entire day dining sumptuously. A truly Homeric snub to the enemy! “They begin their trench? In that case, I shall fill my belly. See how little I care for what they do or do not do!”