The thing was, Villarroel quickly realized that this army was not like other armies. The Coronela was a collection of armed civilians, and the usual conventions could not be applied to them. He would get much further with encouragement than with strict discipline.
I’ve never seen a commander in chief who spent so much time among his troops. He would show up all of a sudden and unannounced at some post or other on the walls, then another, then another. He was in the habit of calling the soldiers “my boys,” which they loved. On one occasion when most of the armed citizens surrounding him were his own age or older, he corrected himself in the middle of his sentence: “My boys — I mean, sorry, I meant to say, my brothers. . ”
The soldiers burst out laughing. And the old codgers among them were allowed to pat him affectionately on the back! In any other army, that would have cost you fifty lashes.
This would have been all well and good were it not for the fact that, since I was so young, in public he would call me fillet. That is, “son.” It must have been the only Catalan word he ever learned, the stubborn old thing. What’s more, he pronounced it wrong, which I think he did on purpose, because instead of fillet, he would pronounce it fiyé, emphasizing his Castilian accent, which the soldiers found hilarious.
Decades later, I served under that Prussian, Frederick. And — my God — the difference between Barcelona’s conscripts and the regiments of Prussia! To Frederick, a soldier was less than a dog. Much less! I can assure you — and this is no exaggeration — that any German soldier would have jumped for joy to be treated like a dog. Just one detaiclass="underline" When the Prussian regiments were on the move, in order to prevent desertions, the soldiers were forbidden from getting more than six meters away from the formation; this was surrounded by horsemen armed with carbines, with orders to shoot to kill. Can you imagine the Prussian tyrant addressing a soldier as “my brother”? Please! That was the difference, the big difference, between our army and any other. Don Antonio was a real military man, but he was able to see the nub of the truth: that the Coronela was made up of free men defending their freedom, and you cannot lead men like that by watering down the principles that drive them.
Right, enough of this sentimental rot.
More often than I would have liked, Don Antonio called me to attend meetings of his staff officers. My main concern was the engineering works, so my presence at these meetings felt like a waste of time. The Bourbons were approaching, and I have described to you already the state in which our defenses found themselves. Normally, I didn’t say much. But one day the discussion turned to the troops and how few of them there were. Somebody — I do not recall who — suggested incorporating groups of Miquelets into the official soldiery. The government of Red Pelts was prepared, reluctantly, to grant permission. Ballester’s name was the first to crop up in this argument. My notional superior as head of the engineers was one Santa Cruz, a man well connected among the Red Pelts whom Don Antonio had no choice except to tolerate, but whom he ignored. Santa Cruz was radically opposed to raising Ballester up to the honorable state of a soldier. Don Antonio asked my opinion.
“No, I don’t believe Ballester is a mere bandit,” I said with certainty. “A fanatic, yes, and bloodthirsty. But deep down, he is a man of great nobility. It may be that he has kidnapped the odd Red Pelt — excuse me, the odd wealthy gentleman from the government — however, he is ruled not by a desire for profit but by hatred of the Bourbons, be they French or Spanish.”
“General. .,” Santa Cruz interrupted me, “seeing as we already have discipline problems among the Coronela men, what would happen when they have these people of such dissolute morals as their examples? And we all know how lenient I am when it comes to using those words, ‘dissolute morals.’ ”
“With Ballester or without him,” I argued, “discipline will never be the Coronela’s forte. And if Ballester agrees to join us, it will always be in his natural role as part of the light cavalry. We could use him as a link to the Miquelets on the outside, to reconnoiter the terrain or cause trouble for the enemy’s foragers. We will hardly see him, since he will be as little use to us posted on a bastion as a Coronela battalion on horseback.”
Don Antonio was staring into the void, saying nothing, lost in his ruminations. At that moment, I realized just how much good old Zuvi wanted Ballester brought in. My old arguments with him no longer meant anything; I could judge Ballester as he was, a shrewd, capable leader, whether in a uniform or not. And we were desperately short of men with experience.
It was an age before Villarroel pronounced his verdict. Finally, he passed judgment: “We’re so short on troops that we have nothing to lose by offering him the chance to join up to serve in the armed forces, and now with honor. If he turns down the offer, well, then it’s between him and his conscience.”
“Very well said, Don Antonio!” I cried.
His eyes drilled into me. It was very hard to bear that look of disapproval, severer than any words he could have spoken. Don Antonio needed to attend to some dispatches, and the rest of us officers turned to leave. I remember Santa Cruz shaking his head, disapproving.
“Zuviría.” Don Antonio stopped me when I had already reached the threshold. “One more thing: You are to take charge of making Ballester this offer yourself.”
I thought I was going to have a fit. “Me? But Don Antonio, that’s just not possible! I have a mountain of work to do, reinforcing the walls and bastions.”
“Well, I believe it is indeed possible,” he interrupted me. “Because I am your superior, and that is what I have ordered you to do, and because it has become clear that you are a great supporter of Ballester’s. Doubtless he will be more sensitive to your requests than anyone else’s.”
Sensitive to my requests? What I naturally could not tell him was that Ballester had laid siege to me in a masía, and that before that he had robbed me, he had stripped me naked and hanged me from a fig tree.
“Come on, fiyé, what’s that face for?” Villarroel said consolingly. “You think I’m going to risk losing an aide-de-camp when the enemy is just six days’ march away? I’ll make sure you are supplied with an adequate escort.”
The “escort” consisted of two gentlemen, one of them very thin on horseback and the other smaller and sitting on a mule. The one on the horse apparently knew more or less where the Bourbons’ advance guard had gotten to, and the one on the mule knew all the habitual hiding places used by Ballester and his villains. They were every bit as terrified as I was. The quartermaster’s store loaned me the uniform of an infantry lieutenant colonel. To make me more respected, according to Don Antonio. I doubted that very much. Ballester was perfectly happy slitting the gullets of officers, and he absolutely didn’t care which side they were on. What was more, the coat was so tight on me that I couldn’t do up the front. Still, this was hardly a time to start seeking out a good tailor.
We rode out of Barcelona, passing through a number of towns, finding nothing visibly changed. The countryfolk were on our side and gave us news about the advance of Philip’s army, then under the command of one duke of Pópuli. Pópuli! Another name to consign to the bonfires of history. And when I tell you why, I’m certain you will agree with me.