The Beast and the Allies had formalized their agreement behind the scenes. The messenger arrived in Barcelona: Starhemberg should order and direct the evacuation of all Allied troops from Catalonia. Dutch, Germans, and Portuguese boarded the English fleet anchored at Barcelona. Didn’t this mean handing over this most faithful of countries to slaughter and butchery? Of course it did. And so what? It is not in the interest of England to preserve the Catalan liberties. Nor their lives.
Just imagine the astonishment of the Barcelonans when the news was made public. At first no one wanted to believe it. A wave of fatalism silenced every soul. On streets and in taverns, the inevitable was being discussed, and drunks sang the most gruesome ditties:
The Portuguese have signed the deal!
The Dutch will soon comply.
The English up and left us here. .
It’s time for us to die.
The walls of Barcelona were covered in posters, some of them of the very blackest humor:
The Comedy of Evacuation
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
Spain, as the friar’s ass; our freedoms, as a toilet brush; slavery in a number two role; and all the Allies playing the part of shit.
The positions, titles, and boons that Charles had signed lost all their value overnight. There was one clown who would go around ringing a bell, throwing confetti over passersby, shouting: Es venen senyories a preus d’escombaries! Titles for sale, at the price of wastepaper!
The thing is, sarcastic humor has always helped people keep control of their fear. One day I ran into Nan and Anfán very close to our home, in the popular Plaza del Born, where they were acting as street performers. The dwarf was performing in the nude — if you don’t count the funnel on his head — like a deformed Adam. He had bent his left leg back as though he were one-legged. He had tied a ham bone to his knee, extending the apparently mutilated leg. From the front, he looked like a creature with a pig’s leg and trotter. He was using a penknife to scratch the bare bone in search of the last little bits of flesh. He was feigning terrible pain, and as he swallowed the minuscule pieces of ham, he seemed to be weighing the pleasure he got from tasting it against the torture he was inflicting on himself. Meanwhile, Anfán walked among the spectators, holding out an open bag, asking for contributions, and singing a little rhyme that was very popular in those days: Entre Carlos tres i Felip cinc, m’han deixat ab lo que tinc! Between Charles number three and Phil number five, they’ve left us with barely enough to survive!
Ah, laughter, that great outlet for fear, which buries it but does not drive it away. Because the third phase is terror.
Terror arrived in the city like the plague, brought in by travelers. Everyone fleeing from the interior of Catalonia converged at Barcelona. And whenever they came in through the city gates, the Barcelonans would pounce on them, questioning them about what was happening inland. They always gave the same answer: “All the horizons are on fire.”
And it was true. If a place did not surrender at once, it was blasted by cannon fire and attacked by the cavalry. The Bourbon columns that had followed the Allies in our retreat were not content with riding into the towns and cities. They demanded that the mayors come out to meet them and offer their submission.
Terror can play out in opposing reactions. Submission to the threat, most commonly. But sometimes, just occasionally, it incites a mood as uncommon as it is dangerous: collective rage.
The last columns of Allied soldiers retreating toward the coast were no longer being begged to stay; the civilians threw stones at them. The height of indignation came when proof emerged that there was treachery in addition to desertion — not only were they going, but as they beat their retreat, the Allies had handed the keys to cities and strongholds to the Bourbon commanders!
In the closing days of June 1713, Barcelona was seething with indignation. People are not stupid; they know full well whom to blame for their misfortunes. Hundreds of furious people gathered outside the residence of Viceroy Starhemberg and stuck chicken talons and feathers to the door. They were wrong in one respect: Starhemberg was no chicken, nothing of the kind, just as executioners are neither cowardly nor brave; they are simply despicable.
The Red Pelts came to ask him for an explanation as to why the Allies were retreating, why they were abandoning defenseless cities to such a cruel enemy, and finally, what Charles meant to do to prevent the execution of an entire population who had been faithful to him ever since the war started.
Starhemberg’s answer should go down in the history of cynicism: “My finest feelings and affection are with you, Excellencies.”
And he left. That same afternoon he climbed into his coach, leaving through the back door, on the pretext that he was off on a hunting party. He never came back. The truth was that he had gone to join the Allied troops who were about to embark at the mouth of the Besòs River, to the north of the city. The English fleet was there to prevent trouble in case of altercations in the port of Barcelona. Our loyal allies!
They say that Starhemberg did not even resign his post as viceroy. It’s hard to imagine any greater ignominy. Even men condemned to death are allowed to receive extreme unction.
And while our allies were departing, leaving us on the palisades, and the Bourbon columns made their implacable approach toward Barcelona, what did the Red Pelts decide to do? Nothing. Even as Starhemberg was packing his bags, up till the very last moment, they were still sending him dispatches for signature. According to their twistedly legalistic logic, that Austrian vulture was still viceroy. The machinery of state really ought to keep up appearances. The fact that Starhemberg was in league with the enemy, that he was handing over our homes and our freedom, well, heavens, that hardly seemed important!
Among the Allied regiments boarding ships were a few Catalans, though not many, who in their day had been enlisted in Charles’s imperial army. They weren’t Miquelets, halfway between hell and the law, merely men who wanted to make careers in a regular army. They knew exactly what was going on. They weren’t at the heart of government, they didn’t have daily dealings with the executive and their elevated politics, and yet they understood what was up and to whom they owed their fidelity. Right up until the final day, there were men who abandoned the ranks of the Allied forces, even some who leaped overboard from ships to head for Barcelona. Starhemberg exceeded mere rigor, ending up in cruelty: He gave orders that deserters should be executed, when the truth was that throughout the whole war, he had been quite unenthusiastic in his pursuit of deserters. And so our most generous young lads were left hanging from trees, dotting the path of retreat, and all the while the Red Pelts were bowing down before these boys’ murderer.
Toward the end of 1713, the Red Pelts decided to call the Catalan parliament. They were so disconcerted at the situation that the session could be summarized in one single point: How to face the Bourbon advance, submit or fight?
I should clarify that our parliament was divided into three groups, or branches: One was made up of the nobility; the second represented the common people; and the third, inevitably, consisted of the cockroaches from the Vatican.
As for you, woman, you are not to interrupt me or correct me when I pick on the priests! I’m perfectly aware of what I’m saying, and I’m going to speak my mind.
I am not saying that all priests are bad people. It’s not that. During the siege, you could see certain priests who were thinner than cypresses, fragile as glass, still and impassive as they faced enemy fire. With no earthly possessions but their cassock, they had bullets buzzing past their ears and they remained imperturbable on their knees, administering the sacrament to the dying on the front line. Their bishops, however, were like the Red Pelts, but black. You need only to look at the behavior of the cardinal and bishop of Barcelona himself, the wretched Benet Sala.