But let us return to Oudkerk. That was the first of the many mutinies that I would witness during the twenty years of adventure and military life that would take me to the last stand of the Spanish infantry at Rocroi, the day when Spain’s sun finally set in Flanders. During the time of my story, this kind of disorder had become a common institution among our troops, and the process, dating back even further than the days of the great emperor Charles V, was carried out in accord with a well-known and precise ritual. So that day men in some of the few companies began yelling “Pay! Pay!” and others joined in with “Mutiny! Mutiny!” And the first company, that of Captain Torralba, the one to which the two condemned men belonged, contributed their part to the furor. Prior to this moment there had been no handbills or conspiracy, so events developed spontaneously. Opinions were divided: Some were on the side of maintaining discipline, while others touted open rebellion. But what truly aggravated matters was the character of our colonel. Another, more flexible man would have set one candle to God and one to the devil, placating both sides, and soothed the soldiers with words they wanted to hear, for never, that I am aware, did words wound a miser where it hurts most: in his purse. I am referring to something in the vein of “My sons,” “My gallant soldiers,” words of that nature, which had been skillfully employed by the Duque de Alba, don Luis de Requesens, and Alejandro Farnesio, who at heart were as inflexible and scornful of their troops as don Pedro de la Daga was of his. But Jiñalasoga was faithful to his sobriquet, and he made it abundantly clear that he did not give a fig about anything his “gallant soldiers” might do or say. So he ordered the bailiff and his German escort to lead the two prisoners to the nearest tree, dead or green, it was all the same to him. Then he ordered his personal company, one-hundred-plus harquebusiers whom he, the colonel, commanded directly, to go to the center of the rectangle with cords lighted and balls in the barrel. This unit, which had also not been paid but which did enjoy certain privileges, obeyed without argument. That fired up spirits even more.
In truth, only about a fourth of the soldiers wanted to mutiny, but the agitators were scattered throughout the banderas, calling for insurrection, and many men could not make up their minds. In ours, Curro Garrote was the one fueling the disorder, finding a chorus in no few comrades, which, despite the efforts of Captain Bragado, threatened to break up the entire formation, as was already happening in some of the other companies. We mochileros ran to our own, determined not to be left out, and Jaime Correas and I pushed through the soldiers who were shouting in all the tongues of Spain, some with steel already bared in their hands. As usual, according to their tongues and lands of origin, men were lining up against one another: Valencians on one side and Andalusians on the other; Leonese confronting Castilians and Galicians; Cataláns, Basques, and Aragonese looking out for themselves and their interests; and the Portuguese, of whom there were a few, watching the groups form and having no part of it.
As a result, there were no two kingdoms or regions in agreement. Looking back, there is no way to explain the Reconquest other than by the fact that the Moors themselves were Spanish. As for Captain Bragado, he had a pistol in one hand and a dagger in the other, and with Lieutenant Coto and Second Lieutenant Minaya, who was the company standard bearer, he was trying to restore calm but with no success at all. From company to company you could begin to hear cries of “Guzmanes out!” This stage of banishing the nobles who were their commanders was a significant aspect of a curious phenomenon that arose during such insurrections. Soldiers always made a gala display of the status they derived from their profession, calling themselves hijosdalgos, men of quality, and they always wanted to make it clear that the mutiny was against their leaders, not the authority of the Catholic king. So, in order to avoid indicting that authority and dishonoring the tercio, a mutual accord was reached between troops and officers that allowed the latter to march out with their flags along with individual soldiers who chose not to disobey. In that way, officers and insignia were left without stain on their honor, the tercio with its reputation intact, and those mutinying could later make a disciplined return to serve the authority that they had never formally renounced. No one wanted a repeat of what had happened to the Leiva tercio, which was dissolved in Tilte following a mutiny, when tearful standard bearers burned their staffs and banners rather than surrender them, veteran soldiers bared chests riddled with scars, captains threw their broken cavalry lances to the ground, and all those rough and formidable men wept from shame and dishonor.
Bowing to tradition, Captain Bragado, with great reluctance, broke from formation, taking with him the unit’s banner, Soto, Minaya, the sergeants, and the few corporals and soldiers who followed. Jaime Correas, enchanted with the pandemonium, ran from one side to the other, finally joining in the call for “Guzmanes out!” I too was fascinated with all the uproar, and at one moment yelled along with everyone else, although I stopped when I saw that the officers were actually leaving the company. As for Diego Alatriste, I can report that I had found a place near him and his friends in the squad. His face was grave; he had placed his harquebus butt-down on the ground and was standing with both hands resting on the mouth of the barrel. In his group, no one was talking, nor did they seem in any way perturbed, the exception being Garrote, who had already fallen in with the other soldiers and was singing the lead part. When finally Bragado and the officers left, my master turned to Mendieta, Rivas, and Llop, who shrugged their shoulders and, without any fuss, joined the group of mutineers. Copons, however, started after the flag and the officers without a comment to anyone. Alatriste breathed a quiet sigh, shouldered his harquebus, and followed Copons. It was then that he noticed that I was right beside him, thrilled to be in the middle of things and with no intention whatsoever of leaving. He gave me a pinch on the nape of my neck that I won’t forget, forcing me to follow him.
“Your king is your king,” he said.
He threaded his way among soldiers who stepped aside to let him pass, and as they watched him leave, no one dared offer a reproach. Once the two of us were out on open ground, we found ourselves near a group of ten or twelve men composed of Bragado and his loyal soldiers, although, like Copons, who stood there without a word as if this had nothing to do with him, Alatriste kept himself a little apart, almost halfway between the loyalists and the company. Alatriste again set his harquebus on the ground, placed his hands over the mouth of the barrel, and with the shadow of his hat rim shading his gray-green eyes, stood stock still, taking everything in.