None of this was of the slightest interest to Ballester. He walked straight over to a man sprawled on his back against a saddle, with a blond beard and mane of hair. The gold earrings he wore suggested he must be the leader, the previously mentioned Busquets. He’d been shot in the left shoulder, and there was a man next to him delving into the hole with a pair of pincers. Not the easiest task, given that Busquets, in between slugs from a bottle of liquor, was squealing like a boar in a trap, spraying out mouthfuls of liquid when the pain became too much.
Recognizing Ballester, Busquets thrust the bottle in his direction. “You! What on earth are you doing here?”
Ballester held his hand out. “You owe me twenty pesos.”
Busquets looked baleful, fit to murder; Ballester just kept his hand outstretched. I feared the worst and glanced around at the rest of the men. But then Busquets burst out laughing, with his good hand grabbed hold of Ballester’s forearm, and called him “whoreson,” in a nice way. The surgeon, who had retracted the pincers, looked at me as if to say: Do these seem like adequate working conditions to you? Anyway, this was how it was with the Miquelets.
As for me, Busquets seemed skeptical. “Lieutenant Colonel? How wonderful.” He drank another slug and let out a howl at the surgeon. “Trying to treat me or finish me off?”
Not knowing how best to address him, I opted for the most formal and generic. “If you wouldn’t mind, Captain Busquets, could you tell us what’s been going on in the locality?”
Busquets didn’t seem to think I could be trusted. Tilting his head to one side, Ballester said: “I know he acts like one, but he isn’t actually a Red Pelt.”
Sighing, grumbling at the surgeon throughout, Busquets told us what had been going on. “We made an attack on Mataró. You know, all the botifleros in Catalonia have taken refuge there. And they force the town to feed and shelter them. Which helps us — more recruits. Those damned botifleros, so conceited, so insufferably arrogant. . They pitch families out of their houses or use the inhabitants as servants. They’re being served from silver platters while the people starve. Forced to cook for them, empty their pisspots.” He became angrier as he went on. “Who do they think they are? Taking over our houses, treating us like slaves, and — the cheek! — they accuse us of rebellion!”
The surgeon was still digging around, and Busquets let out another howl. “So,” he said when he’d recovered, “someone blabbed, or maybe it was just that they were sent some reinforcements, I’m not sure.” He took a breath. “Infantry came for us, but they had cavalry, too. We don’t do so well against cavalry. We were trounced.”
“When?” I said.
“Just yesterday.”
“They’ve had more patrols out,” said Ballester. “Trying to surround you.”
“I know. They don’t have enough troops to surround a forest as big as this, though. Plus, I’ve sent a company to their rearguard to monitor their movements. Now I’m just waiting for the last of my men to join up with us so we can get out of here.” Liquor all over his chin, he turned to the surgeon. “And for this sawbones to patch up the wounded!”
“Shut it,” said the surgeon. “You’re not making this any easier. Taking bullets out isn’t exactly what I was trained to do.”
“Isn’t that what surgeons do?” I said.
“Surgeon?” the man said back, matching the sarcasm of my tone, not stopping what he was doing. “I fled Mataró because I was afraid I might slip and cut some botiflero’s throat.” Looking over at me, he said: “I’m a barber.”
I took Ballester to one side. “Busquets hasn’t done anyone any favors,” I whispered. “If everyone was fighting their own little wars, there’s no way we’d win the main one. Do you see that now?”
“Busquets did well,” Ballester said. “This is his home, and he fought to protect it. What did you expect? For him to sit there waiting for us to show up? Until last week, not even we knew we were going to come to Mataró.”
Despite the distance between us, Busquets had overheard. “At least I tried, damn it. We gave it a go!” he shouted, leaning on his elbow against the saddle. “And now you show up, from God knows where, and start criticizing.”
I went over to him. “I have no issue with you killing Bourbons. But you’ve also been making it easy for them to kill patriots.” I gestured around us. “Look at your men, torn to shreds, holed up in the middle of some dreary forest. And Mataró still in Bourbon hands.” I crouched down so we could speak eye to eye. “These men will listen to you, Busquets. Order them to join the Army of the Generalitat.” I turned to Ballester to try to get him to help. “Say something, man.”
He held out his hand. “You owe me twenty pesos.”
“To hell with you,” shouted Busquets, his blond mane and long gold earrings shaking, “you and your twenty pesos! And you”—he pointed at me—“can leave off. The deputy! My men don’t trust the Red Pelts, to them they’re as good as botifleros. We’ve no grand strategies, all we want is to get the enemy out of our homes, and have a home again. No, we won’t go running around all of Catalonia, we won’t abandon our families.” He sighed bitterly. “And what kind of leader would I be who orders his men to do something they don’t want to?”
His invective was interrupted by one last howl. The barber had finally extracted the bullet. “For you,” he said, placing a bloody red ball in Busquets’ hand. Kissing it, Busquets then introduced it delicately into a small leather pouch. Lead against lead — that was the sound it made dropping in.
Ballester whispered in my ear: “Busquets collects all the bullets that enter his body. Saint Peter told him he’d only open his gates when the pouch was full.”
“And you,” said Busquets, addressing Ballester now, “I’d like to know what you think you’re doing running around doing the deputy’s bidding. He’s one of the worst Red Pelts around.”
Ballester’s look became more sarcastic still. “Twenty pesos,” he said.
Same old story. Put three Catalans in a room, and you’ll have four different opinions. Shaking my head, I said to Ballester: “This is pointless, let’s go.”
“Fine, go, then!” shouted Busquets, incensed, as we made our way out of the clearing. “I expected nothing more from Red Pelts! We’ll keep up the fight though! You hear? We’ll carry on fighting as long as one of us remains alive!”
I wafted my hand in the air, not turning around, as though bidding farewell to an incurable madman.
“And yet we’re supposed to follow you!” Busquets ranted. “Well, I’ll have you know: We’re going to liberate Mataró, and its storehouses, and its sixty thousand cuarteras of wheat!”
I stopped in my tracks as though I’d walked into an invisible wall. I strode back over to Busquets. “What did you say? Say it again? Sixty thousand cuarteras of wheat? Are you sure?”
“The storehouses are full to bursting. Mataró’s the natural place for the Bourbon army to keep their provisions. Very close to their cordon at Barcelona, and the patriots all fled from the town. No fear of sabotage.”
I stood staring ahead, my jaw on the ground. Sixty thousand cuarteras of wheat! The besieging army’s entire supply, a stone’s throw from where we were. The Two Crowns had no idea about the deputation having disembarked. Which explained their having placed only a few cavalry squadrons at Mataró, sufficient to keep a few flighty Miquelets at bay and nothing more.
“Captain Busquets!” I cried. “You are under orders from the deputy now, and you will obey them. Work with the army, and we’ll have taken Mataró in no time.”