À bas Villabajo
Le maraud!
À bas Villarriba
Le gros Verrat!
À bas Vendôme,
Ce sale bonhomme!
Which might be loosely translated as:
Neither Villabajo nor Villarriba. Oh, Vendôme, but what a fool you are.
Well, it obviously sounded better in French, because it rhymed.
The Retreat of 1710 can be summarized as one long, unending logistical nightmare. Geographers can say what they like, but having experienced the Retreat, I can tell you that in my opinion, Barcelona will always be farther away from Toledo than the Land of Saturn.
Stanhope and his Englishmen insisted on marching parallel to the bulk of the army. Maintaining communication between the two bodies of men complicated everything. An army advancing or retreating lays waste to a huge area around it for its own maintenance. With the Castilian land being so poor and the winter so harrowing, it is understandable that the two columns needed to be moving very far apart from each other. “Close together when in combat, far apart when on the move,” so says the military maxim. But not quite that far apart, caray!
On December 8, Stanhope—that conceited ass Stanhope—allowed himself to be surrounded in a small town by the name of Brihuega. He didn’t know how near or far behind the enemy was. Unbelievable though it sounds, he stopped in Brihuega for three whole days so that his army could rest and he could have himself a nice little cup of hot tea. Before he knew what was happening, Vendôme was upon him. He dug himself in at Brihuega. He sent the bulk of the army as many as six desperate messages, begging them to come to the rescue of the English.
How could he have allowed himself to get trapped so easily? The explanation is simple. Stanhope didn’t have Don Antonio’s eyes. His heavy cavalry did not move easily in that war of feints and dodges. And Stanhope was a great Coehoornian brute, capable of heavy frontal batterings and nothing else.
After some conference between the senior command, Don Antonio came out of the tent to tell us how things were going. When we asked his opinion, he shook his head. “There aren’t enough of the English to survive a mass assault. Vendôme knows that, and he’ll throw everything he’s got at the attack. They’ll never make it.”
But the Allied army went to their aid. The trumpets sounded, and the whole army turned tail and headed for Brihuega at a forced march. The political and military consequences of losing the entire English contingent would be equally serious. After so many protracted maneuvers, after making such efforts to put some distance between us, we turned around and headed of our own free will into the battle we had striven so hard to avoid. Well, Lord In-a-Trice, thank you very much!
Oh, but let us be a little more indulgent; perhaps it was not such a senseless maneuver after all. The Allied army was hastening to the rescue; if In-a-Trice could hold out a little, we would be able to catch the Bourbons between the devil and the deep blue sea. While we were driving our mounts to their limit, Vendôme surrounded Brihuega and demanded the surrender of the English forces. Stanhope responded with a most peculiar note: “Inform the Duc de Vendôme that my Englishmen and I shall defend ourselves to the bitter end.”
Somebody ought to have explained to In-a-Trice that heroic proclamations only become a source of perpetual ridicule for anyone who fails to live up to them. By the third attack, he was having doubts. Why die in some godforsaken Castilian village in the middle of nowhere if he could spend that night dining on pheasant with his opponent general, Vendôme? When we approached the outskirts of Brihuega, the sound of cannon fire had already stopped. It wasn’t hard to guess what had happened: The English, the entire English force, had surrendered.
Four thousand veterans taken with all their weapons and all their equipment! And General Stanhope at their head, the same man who had arrived in Spain so very generously supplied with arrogance and with horses. I’ll sort this out in a trice! And now his four thousand Englishmen were marching toward captivity, heads lowered and with a bayonet escort.
Well, we planted ourselves on the outskirts of Brihuega, gasping for breath. And who should be waiting for us, rubbing his hands in glee? Only Vendôme and the entire Army of the Two Crowns, in perfect battle formation.
The Bourbons exceeded us in number by two to one. Our men and horses were exhausted after a day and a night’s marching to rescue Stanhope. And with the enemy so close, we had no way to retreat. Never has a battle been so unlooked for and yet so unavoidable.
An engineer will never be a soldier. Our mentality differs in one fundamental point: Why are human beings so keen on killing each other out in the open when we’ve invented such marvels of self-preservation as trenches and bastions? In case it comes in useful to you one day, let me cite Martí Zuviría’s Brief Instruction Manual for Surviving a Pitched Battle. Thus it goes:
CHAPTER ONE: Devise some good excuse to separate yourself from your fighting formation.
CHAPTER TWO: Drop to the ground facedown, feigning death, with your head behind the biggest rock you can find, and don’t move till your ears inform you the shooting is over.
CHAPTER THREE: Instruction Manual concludes.
I can assure you, it has been of great use to me, as evidenced by the fact that at the age of ninety-eight, here I am, with half my face missing and three holes in my ass but still dictating my memoirs to my dear vile Waltraud. The only defect of this guide is that in certain circumstances, such as in Brihuega, it is not possible to put it into practice. And do you know why? Because of all the generals in the world, I had to be serving the only one who used his rank not to hide behind but to make himself more exposed.
Villarroel had been born in a uniform, and for a fellow like that, dying in battle was one more perk of the job. That particular battle had been lost before it was even begun; anyone could see that. My own war vehicle was a horse who had been worn out by the cold, the deprivation, and his exertions. His ribs were so prominently visible, his flanks looked like a bellows. My horse stood beside that of Don Antonio, who, without looking at me, gave me a telling-off: “Sit up straight, Captain Zuviría! Any soldier who happens to glance to one side should see his officers proud and ready for the attack. And you look like a limp head of lettuce.”
I did not answer. He gave me a sharp blow to the kidneys with his riding crop and added: “An officer is the spirit and the mirror of the troops. If an officer has doubts, the men will collapse.”
I straightened up a little, not much. I, too, spoke without looking at him. It was as though we were in a horseback confessional.
“I’m not an officer, sir, you know that as well as I do,” I said sadly. “Merda.”
That Catalan word, merda, made him smile. “You might not know it, but I was born in Barcelona.”
I looked at him, astonished. Villarroel, the epitome of Castilian virtues: severe, inflexible, and just. That piece of news simply astonished me.
“My father was also a soldier, and he was posted there,” he explained. “Which was why my mother gave birth to me in Barcelona. Beautiful city.”
While Villarroel made a happy speech about the beauties of Barcelona as seen through the eyes of a Castilian, the fighting stretched all the way down the line. From where we sat, we could just hear the din of the gunfire, see the injured men pouring back toward the rearguard, hear the yells of the sergeants trying to maintain order in the ranks.
“Don Antonio,” I groaned, “this is madness. There’s no way we can possibly win this battle, you know that already.”
In reply, he stuck his riding whip under my chin, raised it, and exclaimed: “You will address me as ‘General’! My staff officers are allowed the familiarity because they are men who have shown their valor under my command. That is not true of you.”
At that moment, a messenger on horseback, sweating despite the cold, approached us. “General! The enemy is breaking through on the left flank! Marshal Starhemberg requests that you return to the front.”
Villarroel put the crop away,
drew his sword, and cried: “It was about time, damn it!”
Half the Allied cavalry followed him. I did, too, in spite of myself.
And so, a day of suffering. When the Bourbons broke our line, there was Don Antonio’s cavalry, ready to close up the breach. I spent the whole battle riding side by side with that man.
“I’m your faithful squire, Don Antonio!” I shouted, for want of anything better to say.
“In that case, tell me,” he retorted, laughing, “why is it that when the enemy is to our right, you ride to my left, and when we have them on our left, you switch sides and position yourself to my right? You wouldn’t happen to be using my body as a moving fajina, would you?”
Have you ever had a nightmare that lasted five whole hours? That’s what Brihuega was like. From noon until sunset, the Bourbons tried to break through the Allied lines. Our officers tightened up the battalions, rebuilt the walls of bayonets. The regiments were sturdy but badly depleted, nervous exhaustion visible on their faces. By around three in the afternoon the infantry were so desperate that they began to form squares.
My dear vile Waltraud, who knows nothing about anything, asks me to explain. How easy that is! Basically, we were giving up.
When an infantry battalion is cornered, it literally forms a human square, with the soldiers pointing the bayonets outward and the officers, the drummers, and the wounded in the center. It is an agonizing method of resistance, especially against a cavalry. A troop who resorts to that is admitting that they are abandoning any kind of attack. (Do you understand me finally, my little blond she-bear?) And back they come, the Bourbons, and again, and again. When a breach is opened, there goes Don Antonio and his cavalry, closing up the gaps with a charge of scrawny old nags, again and again.
If you ever find yourselves compelled to take part in a cavalry charge, do the following: The most important thing is to avoid the violence of the impact. At the last moment, dip your head down behind your horse’s neck to hide a sharp tug on the reins that will stop the animal. In the confusion, nobody will notice what was holding back the momentum. Throw all the strength in your body into your calves, squeezing them to the horse’s flanks as though they were forceps. Position yourself between the first and second line of attacking riders. If the enemy flees, spur on your mount and go for it, yelling as though you’ve broken through the line alone (thereby allowing yourself much vaunting about the battle afterward). If they stand their ground, swing your sword above your head, cursing your fellow riders who are getting between you and your adversaries. But do not advance! In the case of a retreat, turn tail and flee shamelessly. The front line of idiots you allowed to go ahead of you will protect your back.
The battle of Brihuega was decided by exhaustion. Or, rather, not decided. The Bourbons had thrown all their wood on the fire without breaking the cohesiveness of the Allied army. Some regiments suffered up to a dozen consecutive assaults. And when they faltered, there was Don Antonio charging over with riders to drive the enemy away.
In the last countercharge the momentum took us out beyond the Allied infantry. When we stopped, we were surrounded by the bodies of the enemy dead, a real carpet of white uniforms. I gave a childish howl: “What a sight, Don Antonio! Look at this slaughter!” I leaped off my horse and stared around me. There were so many dead bodies, I had to take great strides so as not to tread on them. “You were right after all! We haven’t lost! And Vendôme thought he had us. Ha!”
Then the general dismounted, came over, and with fury in his eyes, gave me a resounding slap. And left.
I was dazed, but more by the offense than by the pain. I couldn’t understand it. Villarroel had spent the whole day scolding me for my lack of military spirit and enthusiasm, and when I showed a bit of fire, he struck me. No, I still hadn’t understood that war, his occupation, increased Don Antonio’s pain and his contradictions. With one hand on the offended cheek, I protested, “What have I said now?”
One of his adjutants explained for him: “You imbecile, not twelve months ago these were the lads under Don Antonio’s command.”
8
Don Antonio called for me at the first chance the army got to pause for breath after Brihuega. It was late, the retreat had already been sounded, and the night was so cold that just to cross the short distance to his tent, I had to wear my whole arsenal of warm clothes.
The staff officers were delighted; the official report of the battle praised my great general to the skies. But I had never seen him in a good mood. And as for his relationship with me, the most recent episode we had shared had been a slap in the middle of the battle.
His campaign tent was more Spartan than Leonidas’s. His mattress was thinner than a plank of wood. The rest of the furniture amounted to a folding seat, a small table, and a couple of candles shivering at the icy air that sneaked through the thousand cracks in the canvas.
He wasn’t looking good. He wasn’t sitting on his chair but on the camp bed, drinking straight from a bottle. I’d rarely seen him drink. Well, all warriors are familiar with the melancholy that arises after a battle. He looked at me with eyes hooded by red, drooping lids. Outside, the Castilian wind howled like a monster calling out to you from your nightmares.
“I struck you,” he said, skipping past any formalities. “I was wrong to do that.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond.
“My apologizing has nothing to do with your foolishness,” he went on, “only with your uniform, however provisional it may be. You don’t strike an officer. It’s ugly, degrading to the rank.”
“Yes, Don Antonio.”
“General, damn it! Address my person by the rank I hold.”
He looked up, and I saw he was half-drunk. “Yes, General.”
“As for the rest, I have signed up a man who is mean and selfish. All armies have blisters popping out all over their ass, and you are the fattest, most pus-filled in the entire Allied coalition.”
That is an “apology” as understood by Don Antonio de Villarroel: He summons me to ask for forgiveness and ends up calling me a purulent blister. He pointed at me with the mouth of the bottle and added: “I ought to hang you.”
“You’re right, Don Antonio.”
“But as an engineer, you do have a certain competence. I’ve seen you carry out maneuvers that might lack grace, though they are amusing.” He sighed deeply. “It’s my fault; engineers are no use on horseback. No. Your skill is hiding away between chunks of stone.”
“Yes, Don Antonio. I mean, no, Don Antonio. Whatever you say.”
He looked at me a moment, his eyes glassy with wine. He patted the mattress a couple of times. “Sit here!”
I obeyed, and he put an arm around my shoulders. He smelled of sour wine. And then, to my surprise, he showed an affection toward me that I had known nothing of. “You needn’t worry, son. You’re a coward, I know that, but few men are born brave. Bravery is something you learn, just like a child learning to speak. Do you understand?”
“I’m not sure, Don Antonio.”
He squeezed me a little tighter, jostling me like a wisp of straw. He waved a fist under my nose. “The good Lord has placed a barrier between each man and his destiny. Our mission in this life is to get past it, to go beyond it, to have the courage to learn what there is on the other side.” He stopped, pensive. “Whatever that may be.”
“But Don Antonio,” I replied, shriveling up, “that does sound rather dangerous.”
I shouldn’t have said that. He stared at me with his drunken pop eyes and, with his booming Castilian voice, let out some words that I can remember down to the last drop of saliva: “So what the fuck did that French engineer teach you, then?”
“How to fortify, storm, and defend fortresses, Don Antonio.”
“And what else?”
I hesitated. “What else, Don Antonio?”
He shook me. “Yes, yes! What else?”
I must have been brought low by the carnage, by being far from home. By that night, one
more night camped out in the cold. The wind howling like a pack of wild hounds. The post-battle melancholy had struck me, too.
“Don Antonio,” I confessed, “I’ve lied to you. I’m not an engineer. The French marquis never approved the fifth Point that was to make me an engineer.”
He didn’t hear me, or if he did, he didn’t care. “Damn battle,” he whispered. “Damn it . . . The world is a thousand souls lighter. And what for? Nothing has changed.”
The wine had gone to his head much more than I had realized. He curled up his knees like an old man, arms folded, and lay down on the camp bed. I stayed where I was for a few minutes, watching the great man sleeping after his victory. In Bazoches, I had been taught to look at objects that hung from invisible threads, to decode them and understand them in their vast humility. How could my eyes not be drawn to the human enormity of Don Antonio?
I felt a rush of pity toward him. That night, as the man snored, sleeping like a fetus, I would have given my life to protect his rest. His whole life was service, discipline, a just measure of rigor. I saw each of the pores on his mature cheeks, everything I knew about him, and told myself that this cavalry general had chosen his own path to le Mystère. Then I understood his most deeply hidden secret, perhaps better than he understood it himself: that ever since he had started, he had sought to die in a heroic cavalry charge, so beautiful in its despair.
It wasn’t a simple, senseless death wish. For somebody so self-denying, so possessed by the spirit of chivalry, to fall before his men did not signify the end of an existence but the perfecting of one. At Brihuega, he had spent the entire battle right at the front of every single Allied charge and countercharge. But death had eluded him, stubbornly, mockingly. As for me, I found myself at the opposite end of the moral arc. And yes, thanks to the senses I had developed at Bazoches, I understood, or at least respected, his code of intransigent rectitude. For this very reason, what a tragic irony in his life! In 1705 he had begun the war on the Bourbon side and, in 1710, had moved over to the pro-Austrian side. A path on which the view of the enemy had changed places and faded away, stripped of any meaning. To protect today’s friends, he would kill yesterday’s. Sad, sad, sad. It might be that le Mystère was keeping him for that apex of all dramas that was Barcelona on September 11, 1714. Like it was keeping me.