by Matthew Carr
Mendoza turned back down the main street, past the ramshackle inner barricade where a group of Moriscos were waiting with a collection of steel and wooden weapons.
“Courage, señores,” he said. “Remember you are fighting for your homes today.”
The Moriscos nodded, but some of them were no older than Gabriel, and their fear was obvious. Ventura presented a very different spectacle. He was sitting calmly on the edge of the lavadero while Martín and a group of about twenty armed Moriscos looked down at the valley, where a large mass of men was moving slowly along the road toward the village. His cousin appeared relaxed and at ease, as he always did on these occasions, and some of the Moriscos were clearly mystified and fascinated by his calm demeanor.
“There you are, cousin,” he said. “I was beginning to think you were going to sleep through this.”
“I tried.” Mendoza glanced at the two intertwined tree trunks and a cluster of stakes jutting upward in front of a shallow trench that had been constructed just inside the entrance to the town. “I see you’ve been busy.”
“It won’t keep them out, but it may slow them down.”
Mendoza studied the advancing column below. At first sight it looked like a single prickly mass, but as it drew closer, he saw that there were gaps and bulges in their formation that suggested an armed mob rather than a disciplined army.
“How many do you think there are?” he asked.
“A hundred. Maybe a hundred and fifty.”
“There might be the same numbers coming down from the ridge. It looks like they’re going to come along the road and the ravine.”
“The wall and the cemetery are well defended,” Ventura said. “The other entrances are all blocked. They’re too narrow for that many to get through anyway.”
“How many guns do we have?”
“Five harquebuses and three hunting rifles, two escopetas and about twenty pistols, but plenty of wood and steel and men who want to fight.” Ventura grinned at the watching Moriscos. “Are you ready to fight, brothers?”
“Yes!” the Moriscos chorused back.
“I asked if you’ll fight!” Ventura roared.
This time the response was more aggressive and visceral.
“Then I’ll fight with you!” Ventura raised his sword high. Mendoza noticed that his wounded arm remained stiffly by his side, and he suspected that his cousin had aggravated his wound during the night’s preparations. The Moriscos now took up their positions in a line behind the trench, and Martín and two harquebusiers crouched down near the barricade. Behind them they heard the sound of shooting coming from the direction of the ravine. Some of the Moriscos peered around nervously, and Ventura told them to keep looking downward as the bandits and montañeses drew closer. The front ranks were mounted on horses, mules and donkeys, and some horsemen were riding back and forth on either side of the columns in an attempt to coordinate their movements and keep them in some kind of order.
Soon the front of the column reached the point where the road began to climb upward, and the horsemen disappeared. They appeared a few minutes later at the brow of the hill, followed by a churning sea of armed fighters wearing an assortment of head scarves, morions, leather doublets and metal breastplates. Some wore white tunics with red crosses. Others were barefoot and wore clothes made from animal skins. They continued to swarm over the hill, spilling off the road and brandishing their weapons as they yelled insults and threats.
“Morisco dogs!”
“Heretics!”
“Murderers!”
One of the horsemen raised his sword above his head, and the noise immediately subsided.
“For Spain and Saint James!” he yelled. The ragged army of bandits, shepherds and would-be Crusaders echoed back the refrain that Mendoza himself had shouted in very different circumstances, and then the sword fell downward. With a great roar, the soldiers and horsemen came charging toward them.
Martín fired three times, his companion fired twice, and five bodies fell before the first wave of men and horses crashed into the cheval-de-frise. Ventura and the Moriscos surged forward, stabbing, slashing and jabbing at them with the swords and stakes while others fired crossbows down from the roofs of the outlying buildings. For the first time in thirteen years, Mendoza heard the sounds of battle as the street echoed with the crack of pistol shots, clashing swords, the wild neighing of horses and the grunts and curses of fighting men.
The Moriscos fought with furious desperation as the horsemen fired at them and the bandits and montañeses swarmed over the barricade. Mendoza saw one Morisco die from a pistol shot and another from a sword thrust to the throat, while yet another let out a terrible scream as a halberd swept down and nearly cleaved his arm at the shoulder. One bandit was pulled down onto a stake. Others screamed as they fell under the horses’ hooves or were trampled by their companions. Despite the Moriscos’ tenacious resistance, their line of defense began to bulge almost immediately from the sheer weight of numbers as the foot soldiers clambered over the barricades while the horsemen fired with pistols down at the defenders.
Within minutes it was difficult to determine where one side ended and another began as the bandits pushed their way in through the slender gap between the washroom and the opposite wall. Mendoza stood at the lavadero with Necker’s spare pistol and calmly shot one of the horsemen. He quickly reloaded, but there was no time to fire another shot as the Moriscos dropped back and the bandits poured through the gap. He clipped the pistol onto his belt and ran out into the street with his sword in one hand and his stick in the other, pushing and shoving the Moriscos and shouting at them to turn and face the enemy and line up their weapons in a semblance of order as the bandits dragged the barricades and the horses pushed their way in through the narrow funnel, and the crush of bodies continued to push them inexorably backward.
• • •
OVER BY THE VILLAGE WALL, a very different battle was unfolding as the bandits and montañeses scrambled up the path and terraces, taking shelter behind the olive and apple trees or ducking beneath the terraces as the Moriscos fired pistols and crossbows and hurled rocks and stones down upon them. Necker raced back and forth between the cemetery and the lower wall, encouraging, cajoling and bullying the defenders and pointing out targets and gaps to be filled. He had positioned his two harquebusiers and five pistoleers at the point where the cemetery wall curved up and overlooked the terraces, so that they could fire at a downward angle into them.
From this distance it was difficult to miss, but there were so many attackers swarming up the terraces that they kept on coming even as their dead and wounded comrades fell in front of them. Some of them were carrying ladders, and others took up positions behind the trees and fired back at the Moriscos, forcing them to duck behind the walls. The shooting was also coming from behind them. One woman was shot down as she ran toward the wall from the cemetery, and Necker saw the harquebusiers firing at them from the cliff overlooking the town.
The Moriscos were beginning to leave their positions to seek cover from the crossfire, so that the bandits were able to get close enough to the walls to use their ladders. Others cupped their hands and hoisted each other up till they began spilling over the walls, pushing the defenders back toward the road and driving Necker and his men back into the cemetery. Necker ordered one of the harquebusiers to take up a position in the church tower and fire at the cliff.
Farther up the road, Gabriel and a group of Moriscos watched anxiously as the harquebusier came running at them in a low crouch and ran into the church. Gabriel still felt afraid as he watched the bandits fighting their way up the road toward him, but he knew that he would not run and that he would stay and fight for those who were inside the church, even if he died in the process. From where he was standing, he could see that the fighting in the cemetery was savage as the Moriscos and bandits closed on one another among the tombstones with kni
ves and swords, in some cases writhing on the ground with their hands on each other’s throats, pummeling each other like drunkards in a tavern brawl, till men fell dying or wounded among the already dead, and still the bandits continued to clamber over the wall.
Gabriel watched all this as he stiffened himself for the fight he knew would come. He was promising himself that he would do nothing to make his guardian ashamed of him when he heard the shot from directly above him. He looked up and saw the smoking harquebus pointing from the church tower toward the cliff, and a body tumbled down from the rock face into the town. Other shots quickly followed, and the firing from the cliff became more sporadic. Some of it was now directed against the church tower, pinging off the bell with a deep metallic gong, but the harquebusier continued to fire steadily back.
Still the bandits continued to pour up the hill. All over the road between the church and the old wall, men were fighting with swords and stabbing and hacking at each other with halberds, lances and billhooks. Necker and the Moriscos had fallen back now to protect the church, and Gabriel felt comforted and emboldened by the imposing presence of the German nearby as a group of bandits surged up the road, yelling and waving their weapons. Now the battle engulfed them, and there was no longer any time to think about what might happen as instinct took over and he jabbed his sword in the vague direction of the faces and bodies.
He felt the blade penetrate soft flesh and heard someone cry out in pain. Beside him a Morisco raised his hand to his neck, where a halberd blade had cut him. Gabriel saw the blood gushing from the wound, and the sight of the man’s wild, staring eyes filled him with terror and also with fury. He was no longer conscious of anything but the fighting raging around him as he stabbed and slashed at the men who wanted to kill him and whom he wanted only to kill. For a few minutes, the two sides seemed evenly matched and neither was able to gain ground, and then the mobile fighters whom Ventura had withheld as reinforcements joined the Morisco ranks, and they began to push the bandits back down the road.
Suddenly the bandit line broke and the attackers began to run down toward the wall, and Necker and the Moriscos charged forward, letting out fierce, incoherent cries. Gabriel heard himself yelling, too, as he ran forward waving his bloodstained sword. It was only then that he noticed that one of the bandits had not run down the road but had managed to get around the church and was struggling to open the door. Without even thinking he ran toward the man. The bandit turned and raised his sword, but he had no time to bring it down before Gabriel thrust his sword into his stomach, all his weight behind it, and pinned him up against the wooden door.
• • •
IN THE NARROW FUNNEL between the lavadero and the main square, the attackers were also gaining ground as more men and horses poured in through the main entrance. Mendoza had withdrawn to the second barricade and watched as Ventura and his men were driven slowly back. His cousin was at the front as always, despite his wounded arm, and as Mendoza watched the fighting, it occurred to him for the first time that Ventura’s courage was not simply the result of an indifference to death and that perhaps there was a part of him that actually wanted to die.
Soon the fighting engulfed them, too, and Ventura and his men joined them at the barricade. Now the young men Mendoza had seen nervously standing at the barricade less than an hour before found themselves at the front line and stabbed and chopped with their homemade weapons as the bandits and montañeses hurled themselves against them. Once again the barricade was breached, and again the distinctions between attackers and defenders broke down as the two sides dissolved into a fluid melee. Some of the attackers crashed through the Morisco defense and ran toward the main square, only to be turned back by Morisco reserves freed by the battle at the church.
The entire street from the main square to the lavadero had now become a battlefield that echoed with the sounds of screams, curses, shots and clashing swords. Ventura and Necker were still trying to form the Moriscos into compact lines, but all semblance of military discipline had fallen apart on both sides as men and women hurled tiles, pots and pieces of furniture down on them from the upper windows and the bandits shot at them with their crossbows and pistols.
Although the horses helped push the Moriscos back, the narrow street and the crush of bodies made it difficult for them to maneuver and exposed their riders to attack from the ground and also from the rooms and rooftops above them. Some of the Morisca women who had not taken shelter in the church now joined their men, just as they had in Granada, and charged at the bandits with kitchen knives, chair legs and frying pans. After more than an hour of this, exhaustion forced a temporary respite, and bandits and Moriscos ducked into doorways or sheltered behind the remains of barricades and dead horses to pause for breath and curse one another. But then the fighting resumed once again, and the bandits continued to push them back toward the village hall.
Mendoza’s sword arm was aching, and he shouted at the Moriscos to hold their positions as they fell back toward the main square. At the far end of the street near the lavadero, Ventura pointed out the Catalan, who was waving his silver mace and urging his men onward. He yelled at Martín to try to shoot him, but the constant forward movement of men and horses made it impossible for him even to load his weapon, let alone fire it.
Whether it was the Catalan’s galvanizing influence or the realization that they were within reach of the Plaza Mayor, the bandits and montañeses now seemed to sense that victory was at hand, and some of them formed themselves into something resembling a phalanx and pushed forward in a close, compact mass. Most of the fighting was taking place on the main street or spilling out into the surrounding streets and alleyways, but some of the bandits with firearms fought or broke their way into the houses and took up firing positions in the upper windows and balconies.
Mendoza had taken shelter in an open doorway, and he managed to shout at Martín to go inside and fire back. Within a few minutes, the militiaman was exchanging shots with the bandits on the other side of the street. Mendoza was still standing just inside the doorway when he heard a shot from his side of the street and a Morisco collapsed right in front of him. Leaning out, he saw a bandit firing a harquebus down from a first-floor window only two houses away from where he was standing. The bandit was out of the line of fire of Martín and his companions, and he seemed able to pick out his targets at will as he calmly fired at the Moriscos and reloaded.
Mendoza fired at him with his pistol, but a moment later the harquebusier leaned out and fired again, and another Morisco fell, holding his arm. Mendoza edged his way along the wall past the mass of fighting men and slipped into the half-open doorway. Inside the house it was cool and dark, and the noises of the battle were slightly muffled as he paused to reload his pistol and made his way up the wooden stairs, which despite his caution creaked loudly with each step. He hoped that the noise in the street would conceal his presence from the sharpshooter upstairs, and when he reached the first floor, he was surprised to see that the balcony was empty.
For a moment he thought that the bandit might have been shot, but there was no sign of his body. He peered around the corner and immediately ducked back as he saw the flash in the darkened bedroom doorway, and the ball smashed into the wall behind him. He stepped into the room and fired at the doorway, but now the bandit was rushing toward him holding the harquebus by the barrel with both hands and swinging it like a club. The butt caught Mendoza a painful blow on the left shoulder, pushing him back onto the stairs. He drew his sword, but it was difficult to get within striking distance as the bandit jabbed the butt repeatedly at his face.
Mendoza retreated step by step as the bandit thrust the gun at him in an attempt to keep him at a distance. One blow caught him on the chin so that he stepped back and nearly lost his footing. Sensing victory, the bandit dropped the gun, pulled a dagger from behind his belt and hurled himself forward. In the same moment, Mendoza bent down, holding his sword with both hands
, and thrust it into the center of the bandit’s stomach just below the rib cage. The weight of the bandit’s body knocked Mendoza over and sent him tumbling backward to the next floor.
He scrambled to his feet and extricated the sword, pausing to load his pistol once again. Downstairs the Moriscos had been pushed even farther back, and the street immediately in front of him was filled with bandits and montañeses. No sooner had he opened the door than some of the bandits came rushing toward him. He slammed the door, bolted it shut and dragged a table in front of it, but it was already beginning to give from the force of bodies as he dropped his stick and stood waiting in the cool darkness with his sword and pistol for the end that now seemed inevitable. He did not feel afraid, but disappointed at the thought that he would have to leave the world so soon. He hoped that Gabriel and the others would die quickly as he prepared to make his attackers pay as high a price for his life as possible.
The door was about to break when he heard two blasts on a trumpet coming from the direction of the lavadero. To his surprise, the banging on the door immediately stopped and the noise outside in the street began to recede. He waited a few moments before opening the door. There were now more horsemen than ever in the main entrance, but the Catalan was no longer visible among them, and Ventura and the Moriscos had regained the ground they’d lost.
As he watched the battle unfolding near the lavadero, Mendoza realized to his amazement that the bandits were also being attacked from behind and that they were trying to retreat. Within minutes he was back at the main entrance to the village, where an astonishing scene was unfolding. All across the hilltop, bandits were trying to fight their way past the mounted pistoleers and swordsmen wearing red sashes around their waists, who were coming up from the valley below on foot and on horseback. Others tried to avoid the road altogether and jumped down the rocks even as they were being shot at. Some of the bandits and montañeses threw down their weapons and begged for mercy from the oncoming horsemen and the advancing Moriscos, and not all of them received it.