This was the execution I mentioned before, the one I witnessed in the flesh. The unpredictable, what in military terms was irrational, was never clearer than in assaults like the one on Beceite. They themselves had been given a hiding; they’d fled leaving thirty dead and their little caudillo, Ballester, in enemy hands. Who could have expected a counterattack within half an hour, leaderless and against superior forces? But their regard for Ballester, and the chance to rescue him, quite simply, drew them back.
The Miquelets revealed a principle that is often ignored but that I have always had much respect for: lunacy. In war, it always lends the element of surprise. And they won the day! The Spanish officials were spread around in different houses throughout the town, each with his breeches down. The rank and file were not on guard and had no one to give them orders. Extremely cautiously, I peeked out of a window. At the end of the street, in the town square, I saw Ballester himself. Free once more, surrounded by his men, he was about to slit the throat of the captain who, moments before, had had him interrogated. The captain, kneeling; Ballester behind him. He lifted the captain’s chin with one hand and, with the other, drew a knife across the man’s gullet.
I barely need say how nervous that pretty little scene made me. In Ballester’s eyes, I was an accursed botiflero. I preferred not to think what he’d do if he caught me. The way the captain had been killed, I was sure, would be rather agreeable compared to what they would line up for me; bleeding cleanly to death was sweet in comparison with the inventive torture methods the Miquelets could surely come up with.
The only thing was to hide and await nightfall. Then make myself scarce. The two of us lay there for a long while, on the floor, under that mound of straw. I lay close to Amelis’s back, the two of us like spoons. My cheek against hers, my hand over her mouth once more: a forced, absurd intimacy. Her neck smelled lovely, and the straw made me think of Jeanne. This is what human beings are like: people being shot down in the street outside, me possibly next in line, and even so, I couldn’t avoid seeing, in Amelis’s outline, with all her clothes on, Jeanne naked.
Night finally fell. We were still lying down, and I whispered in the ear of my dark-haired beauty. “If I let you go now, you’ll give me away, and they’ll be straight after me. I’m going to keep you with me for a little while. All I want is to get out of here alive. Behave yourself and I’ll let you go once we’re clear of this place. Understand?”
She nodded, and I took my hand away from her mouth. Just to be safe, before I let her go, I spoke the most amorous words imaginable: “And if you cry out, I’ll strangle you.”
Outside the stable door lay the street, where I would inevitably run into one of those deadly Miquelets. Behind the stable, on the other hand, there was a wood not far off. Slip out of a back window, was my thought. The problem was how; the window was too narrow for us both to get through it at the same time. If she went first, she’d run off screaming the moment her feet touched the ground. If I went first, she’d turn on her heel and escape. She was a sharp girl and could see my problem without my having to explain it.
“Get out of here,” she hissed, more disgusted than hostile. “Why would I bother getting them to kill you? I won’t say anything to anyone.”
“And I’m supposed to believe that.”
I picked her up at her hips, lifting her onto the cramped window ledge, and then got up next to her, side by side. It was a thick adobe wall, made far thicker than usual, perhaps to keep the stable cool. That meant the window was reached by a long tube, a few feet in length. We were bound to get stuck with our arms in front, our heads outside, our bellies wedged together and our four feet dangling in the air behind us.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ve studied how to deal with situations like this.”
“Oh, really?” she replied. “Quite the student you’ve turned out to be.”
“Anatomical theory states that, if a man’s shoulders can fit through the width of a trench or a mine, the rest of the body can also get through. And if the cavity is too narrow, all you have to do is dislocate one shoulder. Once through, simply pop the shoulder back into place.”
Her large eyes grew even wider. “You’re going to dislocate your shoulder?”
“No, of course not,” I said. “I’ll do yours. I’ll put it back in afterward. It won’t be hard — both my hands are free, and I know how it’s done.”
At this point she began buffeting me about the head with her fists. “You’ve had your grubby hands on me for hours, and now you’re saying you want to break my back! I’m not going to let you touch me anymore, not even my shoulder!”
I put my hand over her mouth. “Quiet!”
I have no idea how we did eventually manage it. I believe I may have pulled off the wooden frame, widening the space somewhat, and we then slid out like boneless lizards. We fell to the floor outside, I lifted her up, and into the woods we went.
Beceite was surrounded by mountainous terrain, a delightful natural labyrinth for the Miquelet parties to shelter in. The Army of the Two Crowns was off to the southeast, and that was the way I headed.
It was a pinewood forest, not especially dense, and a full moon bathed everything in an amber light. There is no such thing as war for crickets, and the freshness of the night was a relief after the heat of the summer day. Had that group of senseless throat slitters not been so close by, it might have been a most pleasurable nighttime stroll. Once we were far enough away to make noise, I said: “Quite the friends you’ve got! That soldier who came into the stable — they beat him to death just to save on bullets!”
Though she was at my side, she made it clear she wanted to get away from me as soon as possible. “I don’t have any friends,” she said. “And even if I did, who are you to criticize? What does war have to do with the poor?”
“It’s possible to be poor and not a savage,” I said.
“At least they don’t go around raping their enemies’ women!”
“Neither do I!” I said, defending myself. “And, so you know, I’m an engineer. We professionals, engineers or soldiers, we serve the person who has contracted our services, whichever king it happens to be, and for the duration of the contract, and that’s all. Birth does not tie us to any particular sovereign, and therein lies our privilege. I might serve France today, Sweden or Prussia tomorrow, and no one could call me disloyal or a deserter, just as no one would be surprised to see a spider crossing the river by jumping from rock to rock.”
“To the Miquelets, you are a Bourbon,” she said. “And if the Bourbons go around hanging their parents and children, is it so surprising they want to kill you?”
“I am paid to carry out engineering works. To be honest with you, I couldn’t care less either way, Bourbon or pro-Austrian, one side or the other.”
Suddenly, she stopped. She looked around, smiling, and said: “Do you not hear that?”
The abrupt change of subject surprised me, but I answered: “You’re quite right, it’s very annoying having to walk in a pine forest. I supposed it would be pointless to ask you to stop stepping on pinecones; they crunch so loudly, you can hear them a mile off.”
“No, engineer,” she said, cutting me off, straining to hear. “I mean the music.”