And me? I’d become an observer of — and at the same time a participator in — that madness of ours. On my first night back, as I lay with Amelis in my arms under the canvas of our tent, we spoke very few words. The broken music box rested on the floor by our bed mat. I preferred not to say too much about what had gone on when I was in the Bourbon encampment. That morning, when the two of us had found each other again, the sight of her hands, bloody from hefting sharp rocks, had made my questions about Verboom feel somewhat less pressing. And now, together, with our naked skin touching, it seemed best just to say nothing.
“A favor” was the one thing I did say. “That Sunday dress of yours, the violet one. Burn it, would you.”
She let out a tired laugh. “Martí,” she said, “you perfect fool. It’s been a long while since I sold that dress, for money to buy food with. ”
Jimmy now aimed his artillery — all of it — on the bastions of Portal Nou and Saint Clara and on the stretch of rampart between. Pópuli’s murderous but erratic approach was over, replaced with one that was methodical and persistent, as well as adjusted to the way the trench was proceeding. And who had designed it? I found the thought growing and beginning to consume me. The furrow grew closer and closer, day and night, while the cannons sought to create a breach for the final assault.
Naturally, Costa and his Mallorcans did what they could to make life difficult for the enemy gunners. They aimed at the Bourbon cannons and the top of the trench, raining down death on as many sappers and soldiers as possible. The enemy also tried to pick out our cannons, and it was mayhem for all. Cannons from either side seeking each other out, and some of ours belching out grapeshot across their parallels, and some of theirs knocking down our walls and killing our men. Costa was always around, chewing on his parsley sprig, barking orders. Cannons fired, cannons dragged to a new position. And between them, the Coronela rifleman, making sure the soldiers in the trenches kept their heads down.
Those tailors, carpenters, and gardeners knew that until their shift was over, they’d be coming under cannon fire day and night, immured in the pentagonal tomblike bastions. They glanced nervously at the skies, in hope of clouds, as any rain would dampen the gunpowder and thereby slow the Bourbon artillery in their tasks. Alas, this was the peak of summer. The Mediterranean always makes Barcelona’s heat humid, and in August, the air turns to a horrible soup. Ah, yes, that blue cloudless sky, no promise of rain, blue, constantly blue: Never has the color blue seemed so uncompromising. And the heat — that of summer, combined with the heat of battle.
The bombardment was so intense that whenever you were up on one of the bastions, you’d constantly be breathing rock dust. Large motes floated on the air: Lifting your hand up was like stirring a dense pollen. A brief stint on Saint Clara or Portal Nou and the gaps between your teeth would fill up with earth; no, something worse, because you knew it was also formed of human remains, ground to stone and dust by the shelling. Some men grew snide, others lost their minds; not a man exists who can resist the effects of an endless bombardment, not a single one. Sometimes they’d crack suddenly, crawl off into a corner, and curl up, not let anyone come near. Their eyes would flutter faster than hummingbird wings, their hands make wringing motions. Madness is always a form of fleeing inside oneself.
The second parallel was reached. This enabled the Bourbons to install artillery that could then attack the ramparts side-on and from far closer. Costa could do little against so many. At this point, they began employing the “Ricochet,” a technique invented by none other than Marquis de Vauban himself.
Essentially, the Ricochet meant charging a cannon with only two thirds of the necessary gunpowder. Then the missiles wouldn’t punch into or embed in the walls but, rather, skim along like stones over the surface of a stream. It’s useful for clearing out cannons installed on ramparts. The missile would run the length of the bastion deck, flattening everything in its path. You’d see the cannonballs, the size of very large watermelons, almost seeming to gambol along and against the stoneworks. Each impact produced a horrifying noise, indifferent to human life. The Ricochet technique converted men into ants and bastions into trodden-on anthills. Hefty stone orbs bouncing, crunching, along the ground.
Left, right, and center they came — and from in front — and at times from all directions at once — and there were constant cries of: “A terra!”
If you did get down in time, it was unlikely that the weight of the cannonball would strike you dead — possibly landing on a soft part of your body, break a few ribs, at most. But they were deceptively quick, and their flight was mutilating. If you didn’t see one coming, it could tear off a limb and carry on past, impassively bouncing along the cobblestones. The sight of men chopped to pieces is a primordially terrifying one.
The battalions with orders to take their turn up on Portal Nou or Saint Clara would pause before ascending, and kneel down and pray. But they would go up. I’d do anything not to have to order men to occupy the entrances to the bastions. It would have been like supervising an execution of honorable men.
I believed that writing this book would unburden my memory. To let my treachery drain onto the pages, to liberate myself by speaking truth. I thought — oh, vanity — that deploying ink to honor the men and women who fought against all odds, for their liberty, would make me less miserable. But I now see it’s an impossible task. Why? Because of our concept of the heroic, which is so elusive, and so degenerate.
Our prototypical hero is proud Achilles. We see him standing victorious over Hector, sword raised. But how can we possibly extol the epic qualities of a filthy group of men when everything they do, their daily functions, is perfectly common? A single act doesn’t make a hero; constancy does. It isn’t a single bright point but a fine line, indestructibly modest: this ascent up onto inundated ramparts day after day after day. Leaving home and walking into the inferno, then returning home, and in the morning, joining in with death again. And given that so many heroic deeds were constantly being carried out, no one was seen as a hero. But this itself was what made them truly great. Heroes, like traitors, grow old. Those who sacrifice themselves remain; to them goes the glory. It’s impossible to live on in glory; only death has the power to confer the stamp of immortality.
Soon the third parallel was under way. I wept to see it, crouching down in a rubble-filled corner of one of the bastions, my hands covering my face, Ballester and his men standing around me. They didn’t understand my desolation, and at the same time, they intuited, knew, that my tears pertained to a superior knowledge, something beyond them. The Miquelets hid their feelings, always, and perhaps for that reason admired any open show of emotion.
The third parallel meant the beginning of the end. Goethe once asked me about Vauban’s philosophy. I summarized as best I could the basic principle of encircling a place with a trench comprising three large parallels. Goethe thought about it, then said: “It’s just as Aristotle said: All dramas consist of three acts.” I’d never thought of it like that before.