Busquets screwed up his pained face even more. “But you yourself said a second ago that we would have to follow where you went, and that taking Mataró was a useless enterprise!”
Ballester and I led the horses away, crossing through the thick undergrowth, crestfallen. When we reached the path again, I couldn’t keep myself from hugging Ballester, who was taken aback by my enthusiasm. “We’re going to turn the siege of Barcelona into a latter-day Cannae!”
“What do you mean, ‘can I’?” he said, annoyed. “Explain yourself, damn it! I haven’t read as many books as you.”
“Think about all the prisoners and deserters who come over to our side. They all say the same: They’ve got no decent footwear, they’re eating insipid gruel day after day. Which is to be expected — the Bourbons have ravaged the country so badly, there’s nowhere to get supplies. They’re like the gluttonous fox after it’s eaten the whole chicken house.”
“And? You have no idea what hunger is. When push comes to shove, people will always resort to stealing.”
“That’s your view; you lead a small crew of mountain men. But at Barcelona, there are forty thousand mouths to feed, and they’re stuck there. We’ve got enough to feed them all right here: the foodstuff in Mataró. The Bourbons are doubtless thinking they can starve Barcelona into submission.”
“And what about can I?”
“Cannae was Imperial Rome’s worst defeat. Hannibal was facing a Roman army that had twice his number. When battle commenced, he let his frontline buckle back, drawing the Romans in, and, meanwhile, had his Carthaginian cavalry come down the wings and encircle the enemy. Our cavalry will be the wheat they’ve stolen. If we deprive them of wheat, and the deputation is situated at the Bourbon cordon’s rear, all will be lost for them. The besieger, besieged.”
There was a hint of a smile on Ballester’s face. He took my meaning. “Forty thousand men can’t survive for weeks and months on empty bellies. They’ll have no choice but to lift the siege.”
Before we mounted up again, I hugged Ballester. “Setting up a new siege will be totally impractical for them. Their morale will be rock-bottom; the military coffers in Madrid, empty. Europe’s sick of war. Little Philip will come under pressure from all different ministries to sign a pact with the Generalitat.”
We rode as hard as we could back to the deputation. They’d posted themselves inside an old country house. Deputy Berenguer, Dalmau, and the other staff officers were holding a council of war. Shitson was there as well, which meant we’d arrived just in time.
I was so excited, I could barely get my words out straight. Deputy Berenguer was annoyed. “This Busquets you speak of, he’s nothing but a petty tyrant! He has neither title nor uniform. We can’t be sure to whom he owes loyalty.”
“But Your Excellence,” I said, “the man’s wounded. I saw him with my own two eyes.”
“You’ve been fooled, then,” retorted Deputy Berenguer. “You just don’t have the brain to see it. How can we be sure his reports are accurate?”
“Because Busquets and his men are from Mataró,” said Ballester dryly.
Dalmau stood up and, with his usual congenial smile, made a proposaclass="underline" “Leave them to me, Your Excellence. We lose nothing by moving out a little from our current position.”
We led the cavalry and the whole regiment to Busquets’s wood. When the Miquelets saw us, they erupted in sheer delight: a whole army come to rescue them! War, that great pendulum. A few hours earlier, Busquets was wounded and far from help in some forest, and now here was an army, well equipped and ready to go. Mataró would open its gates to us, the enemy storehouses would be ours, and, with a little luck, the final victory, too. Busquets’s Miquelets were over the moon. They embraced Dalmau’s men, weeping with pure joy. It was the first time I had felt at all optimistic during the war — and it would be the last. We didn’t need to win it; it was good enough not to lose.
At midafternoon I was called in to join the general staff. Members of the senior military were posted in the country house down near the beach where we’d landed. A debate was going on, a most heated one, between Deputy Berenguer and Dalmau. The former nestled in his pisspot throne, the latter with his fists thrust against the table, leaning forward.
“Our objective is to raise recruits and then go and liberate Barcelona!” bellowed Deputy Berenguer.
“Our objective is to win the war!” replied Dalmau from his side of the table. Seeing me come in, he said: “Ah, Zuviría. You, I believe, interrogated a couple of French prisoners whom Busquets was holding.”
“I did, Colonel.”
“And they corroborated the information on the storehouses?”
“In every respect, sir,” I said, not understanding the argument.
Dalmau turned to face Deputy Berenguer, his energies renewed. “Do you hear that? If you don’t trust Busquets, at least have faith in his enemies. Four and a half million kilos of wheat! Their whole foodstuff supply! We’re past harvest now, the land’s going to be producing nothing more; they’ll have no way of feeding their army! Plus, imagine what it’ll do for morale to take control of those stores. We can easily sail a portion into Barcelona as a trophy. Or better stilclass="underline" Transport all we can and share it out among the most needy! They’ll enlist in droves!”
Deputy Berenguer, though listening, was clearly annoyed. “And I say again,” he said, “the decision’s been made by our superiors, quite apart from the circumstances we’re faced with here. Obey orders! Your attitude is near insubordinate!”
I couldn’t help but get involved. “Your Excellence, may I ask what you mean by a decision made by our superiors?”
Dalmau had subsided into a chair, looking like he’d given up. He passed a tired hand over his face. “We’re not going to be attacking Mataró,” he said dispiritedly. “The deputy’s against it.”
I was astonished. “Mataró will open its gates to us!” I cried. “No blood need even be spilled! We lose nothing by attacking and gain everything. It might even mean the end of the war!”
“You will obey my orders, as I will obey those of my superiors,” said the deputy before I had finished. “I have instructions from the government not to enter Mataró. And that’s how it will be.”
I was speechless. This was beyond me. Our own deputy refusing to use force against the enemy. “Your Excellence,” I said, my mouth dry. “Your opinion may be down to the fact you’ve never seen our lads in action. They’d storm Paris and Madrid, given the order. Have faith in them, I beg you.”
“Come now, you don’t fool me,” he said with disdain. “I may be old, my legs may not work anymore, but my eyes still do.” Pointing at me, he addressed Dalmau once more. “The man who accompanied Lieutenant Colonel Zuviría before, was that not the infamous Ballester? Ballester! A country bandit, a prince among brigands! I myself sent out a decree to have him hunted down a couple of years ago, calling for him to be hanged, drawn and quartered, and his body displayed as an example.” He took a breath. “War indeed inverts and subverts the natural order of things. And you, Dalmau, know very well, better than anyone, that the men in your regiment are little different. The lowest of the low and, as such, prey to the basest urges.”
Dalmau protested. “My men fight like lions!”
“And I congratulate you on that,” said the deputy. “Your regiment has only recently been assembled, and they’ve very quickly shown themselves to be hardy. But Dalmau, tell me something: Have you ever given them an order not to use violence?”
“If you are referring to discipline, all the officers here will back me up in saying there have never been any issues.”