Some men are born to be happy, just as others might be born lame or with blue eyes. Dalmau had one of those smiling “all will be well” countenances, and coming from him, it seemed like certainty rather than wishful thinking. He had a very Barcelonan way of looking at things. War, to him, was at root a transaction, with one’s homeland as a business and one’s family as shareholders. Properly considered, in a civilian army, he was the ideal kind of commander.
As for the other officials who boarded ships on that expedition, we need mention only one other, a German colonel. And the less said about him, the better. In siege situations, dark things happen.
This colonel was one of the few, the very few, who chose to come over and serve the Generalitat when the Allies withdrew. But he wasn’t motivated by any noble cause. Various common crimes — including looting from dead bodies — meant his reputation preceded him. Word had it, he’d led a troop who had stripped dead soldiers of their possessions before burying them en masse.
His position in the Allied army had therefore become untenable, and when the Crida went out, he defected, claiming that the Catalan cause was close to his heart. For the Generalitat’s part, it was short of officers and admitted him without asking questions. Even so, he was such a scoundrel that the German volunteers in Barcelona refused to serve under him. Don Antonio set out for him, in no uncertain terms, his choices: Either he could restore his reputation when the bloodiest fighting came, or pack his bags for Vienna, where the hangman would be waiting. He had no choice but to join the expedition.
His favorite word was Scheisse. He said it so often, the men ended up calling him Scheissez. Just so you know, my dear vile Waltraud, in Spanish surnames, the ending — ez means “son of.” Perez, son of Pere; Fernandez, son of Fernando, et cetera. What the Barcelonans didn’t know was that Scheisse means “shit” in German. So every time they addressed him, they were calling their superior officer “Shitson.” Shitson himself wasn’t amused, but since Don Antonio had made it clear he wouldn’t tolerate the man abusing his authority, he had to grin and bear it. He was always looking at you out of the corner of his eye. During the voyage, we were constantly glancing at each other. He was like any of the other rats on board, the one difference being that rats are the first to abandon a sinking ship, whereas Shitson was looking for a way off as soon as possible, whether the vessel was seaworthy or not.
For my part, I couldn’t seem to shake that look Don Antonio had given me just before the order to join the expedition. Now the outcome of the war depended on the thousand men sailing with me. Perhaps I was on my way to learning the definitive lesson. That of The Word.
Ballester and his crew of ten were also with us. They’d be sure to come in handy as scouts. As for the French flotilla blocking our exit, that was the least of our worries. Our ships were dodgers, built to hug the shore; theirs had deep hulls and could never get anywhere near the coast. The journey to Arenys wouldn’t take long, not over six hours if the winds were favorable, and we wanted to be swift so we could travel under cover of dark. As for the embarkation, I’ll save the details: forty-seven ships of all different sizes, a thousand infantry, and several cavalry squadrons boarding them. The voyage I’ll skip as well — owing to my rank, I spent the duration alongside Berenguer, his farts, and his oafs.
As with the voyage, disembarking was a tedious affair. There weren’t many barges to transfer the troop to dry land, and since the bay at Arenys was shallow, the majority of the men jumped over the sides and waded to shore, powder and rifles above their heads. The horses were simply thrown into the water; instinct sent them inland. I was one of the first to get down after Ballester and his men. It wasn’t bravery but, rather, that I couldn’t stand being on the ship a second longer. When I set foot on dry land, I felt like someone had replaced my head with a whirligig. The sea! Here’s a question: What’s big and useless like the sea? Only one thing: my dear vile Waltraud! Ha! Oh! Not laughing?
To make things that bit more complicated, the people of Arenys welcomed us as though we were liberating them. Lovely, but if you want to create a huge amount of confusion, mix together a soaking-wet regiment, barges with men and equipment being off-loaded, horses running up and down the shore, officers raw-voiced from shouting, and then add in hundreds of old people, women, and children running and hugging a thousand dizzy soldiers. Great care was required with Deputy Berenguer; carrying his wheelchair to dry ground provided quite a spectacle. Since no adequate barge could be found for the grand so-and-so, someone came up with the brilliant idea of carrying him instead, the porters wading waist-deep with him on their shoulders. First the wheelchair was handed down to them, then the deputy. What they hadn’t accounted for was how heavy the flatulent general was. He settled into the chair and the poor porters sank up to their necks. A little more and they’d have gone under. Berenguer, though, was very happy, going along the surface of the water like Jesus of Nazareth in a wheelchair.
Almost recovered from the seasickness, I walked up to the top of a dune from which the whole beach could be seen. I caught sight of Ballester, his men around him on the rocks having breakfast, him standing looking pensively out at the sea, his horse’s reins in one hand. For mountain folk, the sea will always be a mystery that stirs them. It was going to be a good while longer until everyone had disembarked, and I went over for a chat.
“Tedious. Shall we head out? A race?” I said, challenging him. “Bet you anything you like I can get to Mataró before you.”
Mataró was under enemy occupation. It was as though I were daring him to a harebrained race to a cliff edge — whoever stops, loses. He snorted contemptuously. “The army up to its neck in water,” he said, still looking out, “and you talking about horse racing.”
It was precisely his gruffness that made him so much fun to needle.
“You’re just afraid to lose!” I said. “I bet a peso.”
He abruptly turned to face me, the blue vein on his forehead standing out.
“You have to obey my orders, remember?” I added. “Well then — mount up!”
And up we got. In no time at all, we were galloping at breakneck speed. I know, it was sheer stupidity, as well as an affront to all common sense. But know something, my dear vile Waltraud? We were only young.
We entered a pine forest on a narrow path. His horse was black, mine a dun white. They were neck and neck for a good long while. Every so often I turned my head and stuck out my tongue. This enraged Ballester — sense of humor not being his strongest suit — and he spurred his horse to go faster. I don’t know what happened with mine — perhaps it saw a snake, perhaps a hoof struck a pine root — but it pulled up suddenly, and I went sailing forward over its back. Luckily, it had rained recently, and the muddy ground cushioned my landing.
I got up, assessing the surrounding greenery with all my sharpened senses. It struck me how foolhardy we’d been. We’d gone a good way south, and it couldn’t have been over two or three miles from Arenys to Mataró. There was no way the Bourbons wouldn’t have garrisoned a place like Mataró, so near to Barcelona.