A great stack of images, yes, but above and beyond any of them, prevailing in the tragedy, an appearance that enshrined that man in the memory of the righteous: Don Antonio de Villarroel Peláez. Don Antonio! What was he still doing in Barcelona? He was supposed to be miles away, out across the ocean, when he suddenly burst into a meeting between members of the high command. His booming voice.
He was supposed to be in Vienna, safe, covered in praise, and forging a future for himself at Charles’s court. But he was here. These are the facts: He had waited until the last possible moment for the government to come to their senses and restore him. But that moment didn’t come, and as he walked down to the beach of his salvation, he halted, turned around, and simply returned to the ramparts. He knew very well he was signing his own death warrant. “I wish I could die shoulder to shoulder with these men, like any other soldier,” he’d said. Why are there such men as Don Antonio in the world? I don’t know the reason why. I only know that, when they appear, it is impossible not to love them.
For a very brief moment, he and I were alone in his study. I didn’t know what to say or do. It still pains me that I failed to find the words to tell him what it meant to me that he’d come back. I suppose it doesn’t matter. Throughout the rest of the defense, Don Antonio never made a single mention of what he’d given up. Only in that moment, with no one to see or hear, did he let his gaze become abstracted and, smoothing down his uniform, say: “To hell with sailing away.”
On that September 11, the head of the government, Rafael Casanova, also played his part, though without attaining the heights of Don Antonio’s greatness. Were I an indulgent person, I’d say that Casanova was more of a tragic character than a deplorable one, trapped between his own reasoning, the reasoning of the state, and the people’s willingness to go on fighting. But I don’t happen to be an indulgent person: If you want to be beloved by your country, you have to be prepared to sacrifice yourself for it. Don Antonio, not even a Catalan, come the final hour, understood this far more clearly than all the Casanovas in the world.
Don Antonio ordered two concentric attacks. He’d lead one and Casanova would lead the other, carrying the Saint Eulalia flag at the head of the troops. Tradition states that that sacred banner should be brought out only if the city is in grave danger. Could there ever be a more grave danger? Don Antonio knew what it would do for the élan of the soldiers to see the Eulalia flying high among them.
The problem was, protocol also demanded that any attack with the sacred ensign had to be led by the city’s highest-ranking political representative. The coward Casanova, in other words. I wasn’t at the meeting, no, but it most likely took some enraged officer to point a gun at him for Casanova to put on his colonel’s uniform. Soldiering and politics don’t, or at least shouldn’t, mix. But because Casanova was, at least in name, the leader of the Coronela, that meant he really had no choice but to put on that jacket with its golden braids, mount a tired old nag, and head up the attack. His demeanor, it struck me, was like that of an actor being made to play a role he disliked: resigned but at the same time wrapped up in the new part, brandishing his sword above his tricorn, simulating passions he didn’t at all feel.
The troop left the Saint Jordi Hall. The roar from the people announced the fact. Desperate, filthy citizens tacked on to the party as it came past. People appeared at balconies and windows, blowing kisses to the violet saint. The same color, as it happened, as the jackets worn by the Sixth Battalion, which was made up of tailors, tavern owners, and tinkers, and which was in the vanguard in front of the banner.
I also remember one of the Red Pelts, still dressed in those claret robes, who rode to one side of the banner. He went along shouting up at the women in the balconies to save their prayers and come and join the sacrifice. I remember the women, who were so weak they could barely stand, propping themselves up on the balcony railings and shouting: “Doneu-nos pa i hi anirem!” Give us bread, and we’ll come.
It must have been seven in the evening when I saw them pass by on the way to the front, half army, half sword-brandishing mob. The Eulalia banner had returned to the origin of all banners: a nadir that joins men together in a single cause. Once a significant crowd had gathered, a phalanx of bayonets along its front edge, they set out to retake the bastions.
I also say: There are moments when even the stoniest hearts melt. Above the throng, the large rectangular standard rippled in the wind, the Eulalia sewn on it seeming alive. That girl, so young and sad. The banner, drawing nearer to its own demise, fluttered, and it was as though she were looking out at you — and only you.
Fleeting images, yes: I can see Costa, leaning his elbows on the stock of an empty cannon, observing the long column in tears.
“For God’s sake!” I cried. “Stop crying and give them some cover.”
He shook his head and, turning his palms up, said: “It’s over.”
So, this jumble of trained soldiers and seething civilians, they attacked. Their objective was to scour the ramparts of enemies, from Portal Nou to Saint Clara. They would have had less of a job tearing the Rock of Gibraltar out of the ocean and bringing it back to exhibit at Saint María del Mar.
Jimmy had already positioned thousands of soldiers and hundreds of sappers on and around the ramparts, in case some lunatic should come and try to retake them. The tragedy was that it wasn’t one lunatic but hundreds and hundreds of lunatics. They followed the banner of Saint Eulalia, crushed together like a herd of sheep, more concerned about protecting the standard than killing any enemies. It was a gruesome sight. Rifle fire strafed them from all sides. Dozens fell to the hail of bullets, but still the advance continued.
They came to the ramparts; the walkway around them was perhaps ten feet wide. Like rams, the two vanguards clashed. Another image from that day: the violet uniforms of our Sixth Battalion merging in bayonet combat with the whites of the enemy. Against all expectation, they overran a long stretch of the Bourbon-controlled ramparts. The multitude surrounding the violet girl thinned out as they pushed ahead, shouting battle curses and forcing the enemy back.
I was ordered to make my way to the center point of the Bourbon assault — thankfully, as it meant not having to witness the playing out of that mass suicide. Casanova, who claimed to have been injured in the leg, was evacuated from the fighting a little later. We saw him being carried past on a stretcher. I’m no surgeon, but to me, he seemed only lightly injured. He was more dejected than in physical danger, that much was certain, because when he came past us and people asked what was happening, he raised his head and said: “Go, sirs, and spur on the people, for the dangers are many.”
What no one knew at that point was that while a tourniquet was applied to his leg, his doctor was writing a certificate for him so he’d be able to flee the city. Enough about him.
Images, images, a constant stream of them. Barricades at every entrance to every street that fed onto the rampart area, to impede the Bourbon advance into the city center. Against all established siege wisdom, and to Jimmy’s surprise, taking the ramparts didn’t mean the end of the assault; it was merely the prologue. In any other siege, the defenders would have entered discussions at that point. In Barcelona, people fought on, in street skirmishes and from their windows, converting buildings into ramparts. I became an engineer once more: The streets were so narrow that small barriers could be thrown up in a heartbeat. While these parapets were being piled up by civilians, soldiers stationed themselves behind and began firing on the approaching Bourbons.