Captain Alatriste

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  Once I had assured him that no one had asked for him, neither during the night nor this morning, he seemed a bit more at ease. La Lebrijana said the same in regard to the tavern: no strangers, no inquiries. Later, when I moved a little apart, I heard her ask in a low voice what trouble he had gotten himself into this time. I took care to watch them, without appearing to, and kept my ears cocked, but Diego Alatriste said nothing more, only stared at the windows of the English ambassador's mansion, his expression unreadable.

  Mixed in among the curious were people of quality: sedan chairs and coaches, including two or three carriages with ladies and their duennas peering between the curtains. I glanced at them through the itinerant vendors hurrying to offer them their wares, and thought I recognized one of the carriages. It was dark, with no coat of arms on the door, and had two good mules in the harness. The coachman was chatting with a group of bystanders, so I was able to approach the carriage without being run off. And there, at the little window, I needed only to see blue eyes and blond curls to confirm that my heart, which was pounding so madly I thought it might leap from my chest, had not erred.

  "At your service," I said, controlling my voice with great effort.

  I vow I do not know how, as young as Angelica de Alquezar was at the time, she—or anyone else—could learn to smile the way she smiled that morning in front of the House of Seven Chimneys. All I know is that she did. A slow smile, very slow, conveying both disdain and infinite wisdom. One of those smiles that no young girl has had time to learn in her brief life but that is born of the lucidity and penetrating gaze that is a female's exclusive territory, the fruit of centuries and centuries of silently observing men commit every manner of stupidity. I was too young to have learned how foolish we males can be, or how much can be learned from a woman's eyes and smile. No few misadventures in my adult life would have had a happier outcome had I devoted more time to that lesson. But no one is born wise, and often, just when a man is beginning to profit from such teachings, it is too late to benefit either health or fortunes.

  The fact is that the girl with the blond curls and eyes like the cold, clear skies of a Madrid winter smiled when she recognized me; she even leaned slightly toward me, accompanied by the sound of rustling silk, and placed a small, delicate white hand on the window frame. I was right by the footboard of my lady's coach, and the euphoria of the morning and the atmosphere of chivalry surrounding us spurred my audacity. My self-confidence was reinforced by the fact that I had dressed that day with a certain decorum, thanks to a dark brown doublet and a pair of old hose that had belonged to Captain Alatriste but looked like new after I had fitted them to my size with Caridad la Lebrijana's needle and thread.

  "Today there is no mud in the street," she said, and her voice shook me from my toes to the tip of my noggin. She spoke in a quiet, seductive tone; there was nothing childlike about it. Almost too serious for her age. Some ladies used that tone when addressing their gallants in the shows that strolling players presented in the plazas, and in the comedies in the theaters. But Angelica de Alquezar— whose name I did not yet know—was a young girl, not an actress. No one had taught her to feign that low throb in her voice, to enunciate her words in a way that made me feel like a grown man, and more . . . the only man for a thousand leagues around.

  "No, there is no mud," I repeated, unaware of what I was saying. "And I regret that, for it prevents me from being of service again."

  With those last words I placed my hand over my heart. You may conclude that I behaved rather well, and that the gallant reply and gesture were worthy of the lady and the circumstances. And it must have been so, because instead of turning away, she smiled again. And I was the happiest, the most gallant, the most hidalgo lad in the world.

  "This is the page I spoke of," she said then, turning to someone beside her in the coach, whom I could not see. "His name is Inigo, and he lives on Calle Arcabuz." Once more she turned toward me. I was staring at her open-mouthed, stunned that she had remembered my name. "With some captain, is that not true? A Captain Batiste, was it? Or Eltriste?"

  There was a movement inside the coach, and first a hand with dirty fingernails, then a black-clad arm emerged from the dark carriage to rest on the window frame. They were followed by a cloak—that, too, black—and a doublet bearing the red insignia of the Order of Calatrava. And finally, above a narrow, badly starched ruff, appeared the face of a man in his late forties or early fifties. His head was round, the sparse hair coarse, the mustache and goatee dull and gray. Everything about him, despite his solemn garb, seemed somehow vulgar: common, unpleasant features, thick neck, ruddy nose, filthy hands, the way he held his head to one side, and especially the arrogant and crafty expression that suggested the past of a laborer fallen on good times, a man puffed up with influence and power.

  In all, I had an uneasy feeling when I considered that this uncouth man shared a coach, and perhaps family ties, with the blonde and very young lady who had me enslaved. But the most disturbing thing about him was the strange brilliance of his eyes, and the hatred and choler I saw in them when the girl spoke the name of Captain Alatriste.

  VII. THE PRADO RUA

  The next day was Sunday. It began in celebration but soon went downhill for Diego Alatriste and me, finally ending in tragedy. But let us not get ahead of ourselves.

  The festivities centered around the rua—the rue, the street, the via—which, in expectation of their official presentation at court and to the infanta, King Philip the Fourth ordered in honor of his illustrious guests. In those days, hacer la rua—doing the rua—was what the traditional paseo was called. All Madrid participated, on foot, on horseback, or in a carriage, whether along Calle Mayor, between Santa Maria de la Almudena and the steps of San Felipe and the Puerta del Sol, or whether continuing down to the gardens of the Duque de Lerma, the monastery of Saint Jerome—the Hieronymites—and the meadowland park, El Prado. Calle Mayor was the obligatory part of the rua,

  from the center of the town to the Royal Palace, and it was also the location of silversmiths, jewelers, and elegant shops, which was why at dusk it was crowded with ladies' carriages and caballeros posturing before them. As for the prado of Saint Jerome, pleasant on sunny winter days and summer evenings, it was a green and leafy park with twenty-three fountains, many walled gardens, and a poplar-lined promenade where dignitaries in carriages and people strolling paused to exchange pleasantries. It was also a place for social meetings and trysts, perfect for furtive encounters, as well as the place where illustrious members of the court took their leisure. The one who best summed up the phenomenon of hacer la rua was Don Pedro Calderon de la Barca, several years later in one of his plays.

  In early morning you will find me At the church you often come to; And as dusk falls, at the rua, Pray, may we rendezvous? That night I shall drive through The Prado, in the dark of my coach; Then go on foot, in the dark of my cloak. In this manner, I shall learn whether With coach, mass, Prado, and my Many hours on Calle Mayor I have proven it is you I adore.

  Nowhere, then, more suitable for our monarch, the fourth Philip—a romantic, as was proper for his young years—to propose as the site of the first official meeting between his sister, the infanta, and her gallant English suitor. Everything, naturally, was to occur within the limits of the decorum and protocol demanded by the Spanish court; rules so stringent that it was established long in advance what the royal family were to do every day and every hour of their lives. It is therefore not surprising that the unexpected visit of the illustrious aspiring brother-in-law-to-be should be seized upon by the monarch as a pretext for breaking from rigid royal etiquette to improvise parties and outings. Metaphorical shoulders were set to the wheel, and a paseo of carriages organized in which everyone who was anyone at court participated; the people were thereby witness to the kind of palace pomp that gratified their national pride, ceremonies the English undoubtedly found singular and astonishing.

  Of course, when the future Charles the First inqu
ired about the possibility of greeting his betrothed in person, exchanging even so much as a simple "Good evening," the Conde de Olivares and the other Spanish counselors looked gravely at one another before communicating to His Highness, with much diplomatic and political circumlocution, that he was reaching for a star. It was unthinkable that anyone, even a Prince of Wales, who had yet to be officially presented, should speak or approach the Infanta dona Maria, or any other lady of the royal family. With great discretion, they would see each other in passing, and be grateful for that.

  I myself was among the curious lining the street, and I realized that the spectacle was the pinnacle of elegance and refinement, with the cream of Madrid decked out in their finery; but at the same time, because the visitors were still officially incognito, everyone was acting normally, as if this were a day like any other. The prince, Buckingham, the English ambassador, and the Conde de Gondomar, our diplomat for London, took up a place at the Guadalajara gate, in a closed coach—an invisible coach, for express orders had been issued not to cheer or note its presence—and from that vantage Charles watched as the carriages carrying the royal family rolled by. In one of them, beside our beautiful twenty-year-old queen, Isabel of Bourbon, was the Infanta, dona Maria. At last the Prince of Wales caught a glimpse of the blonde, pretty, circumspect girl she was in her youth. She was wearing a satiny brocade gown and, around her wrist, the blue ribbon that identified her to her suitor. Parading up and down Calle Mayor and the Prado, the carriage passed before the Englishmen three times that afternoon, and although the prince caught only glimpses of blue eyes and a head of golden hair adorned with plumes and precious stones, it was reported that he was immediately in thrall to our infanta.

  And that must have been true, because he stayed on in Madrid for several months, seeking her hand as his wife while the king entertained him like a brother and the Conde de Olivares played him like a torero plays a bull, always with the greatest diplomacy. The advantage for Spain was that as long as there was hope of a marriage, the English stopped thumbing their noses at us while their pirates, their corsairs, their Dutch friends—the whole mutual ass-wiping lot—picked off our galleons returning from the Indies. So, we made merry as long as it lasted.

  Ignoring the counsel of the Conde de Guadalmedina, Captain Alatriste did not raise a trail of dust getting out of town, or try to hide from anyone. I have recounted, in the previous chapter, how on the very morning that Madrid learned of the arrival of the Prince of Wales, the captain, as calm as you please, strolled back and forth in front of the House of Seven Chimneys. I even ran into him in the crowd on Calle Mayor in the midst of that festive Sunday rua, staring pensively at the Englishmen's carriage. True, the brim of his hat was pulled low over his face, and the concealing folds of his cape were carefully arranged. After all, neither courtesy nor courage demands sharing one's secrets with the town crier.

  Although the captain had not told me anything of his adventure, I was well aware that something had happened. The next night he had sent me to sleep at La Lebrijana's house, under the pretext that he was expecting guests in regard to a certain business dealing. But later I learned that he had spent the night awake, with two loaded pistols, a sword, and a dagger at his side. Nothing had happened, however, and with the light of dawn he lay down and slept the sleep of the just.

  That was how I found him when I returned in the morning; the lamp had burned down, and was smoking, and he was sprawled across the bed, still in his wrinkled outergarments, his weapons within reach, breathing loudly and regularly through his mouth, an obstinate frown on his face.

  Captain Alatriste was a fatalist. Perhaps his status as a former soldier—having fought in Flanders and the Mediterranean after running away from school to enlist as a page and drummer at the age of thirteen—was the reason he faced risk, misfortune, uncertainty, and the vagaries of a harsh and difficult life with the stoicism of one accustomed to expect nothing more. His nature was well defined in a description the French Marechal de Grammont would later write of the Spanish: "Courage comes quite naturally to them, as does patience in their labors and assurance in adversity.... Their gentleman soldiers rarely are amazed when things go badly, and they console themselves with the hope that soon their good fortune will return." Or what a Frenchwoman, Madame d'Aulnoy, once said: "You see them exposed to the affronts of weather and in extreme misery, yet despite all that, braver, haughtier, and prouder than they are amid opulence and prosperity."

  God knows that all this is true, and I, who knew such times, and some even worse that came later, give good witness to its truth. As for Diego Alatriste, he carried his hauteur and pride inside, and exhibited them only in his bullheaded silences. I have said already that unlike many braggarts who twirl their mustaches and talk loudly on street corners and at court, the captain was never heard to preen on the subject of his long military career. But sometimes, over a jug of wine, old comrades-in-arms dusted off stories about him, and I listened avidly. For to me in my young life, Diego Alatriste was the closest copy I had of the father who had fallen honorably in the wars of our lord and king. The captain was one of those small, tough, adamant men with whom Spain was always so well supplied, in good times and in bad, and to whom Calderon referred—and may my master Alatriste, be he in glory, or elsewhere, forgive me that I so often quote Don Pedro Calderon instead of his beloved Lope—when he wrote:

  ... they stand foursquare, Stalwart, stolid, whether well or poorly paid. They have never known the vile shadow of fear, And though haughty, come to any man's aid. They are firm in the face of the worst danger, And rebel only when addressed in anger.

  I remember one episode that especially impressed me, more than anything because of how clearly it showed the nature of Captain Alatriste's character. Juan Vicuna, the one who had been a sergeant in the horse guard of our regiments during the disaster among the dunes at Nieuwpoort—heavy-hearted the mother who had a son there—several times described the defeat suffered by the Spanish by laying out the battle lines on the table in the Tavern of the Turk, using hunks of bread and jugs of wine to demonstrate. He, my father, and Diego Alatriste had been among the fortunate who saw the sun set on that ill-fated day, something that cannot be said of five thousand of his compatriots, including a hundred and fifty officers and captains whose hides were tanned by the Dutch, English, and French. Although those countries often fought among themselves, they were quick enough to join together when it came to shoving it up our asses.

  In Nieuwpoort, everything went their way: our field commander, Don Gaspar Zapena, was dead, and Admiral de Aragon and other principal commanders captured. Our troops were in disarray, and Juan Vicuna, who had lost all his officers, and was himself wounded in one arm, which he would lose to gangrene several weeks later, retired with his decimated companies, along with the remaining foreign allied troops. And Vicuna recounted that when he looked back for the.last time, before putting on all speed to retreat, he saw the veteran Tercio Vie jo de Cartagena— which was the company of my father and Alatriste— attempting to quit a corpse-strewn battlefield through an impenetrable wall of enemies, who with harquebuses and muskets and artillery were making lace of the Spanish soldiers. There were dead, dying, and fleeing soldiers as far as the eye could see, Vicuna said.

  And in the midst of the disaster, under the blazing sun reflecting dazzling light off the dunes, amid howling wind and swirling sand that cloaked them in smoke and gunpowder, were the companies of the Tercio Vie jo, bristling with pikes, standing in square formation around flags shredded by gunfire, and spitting musket balls in all four directions. Amazingly, they were retreating at a measured pace, without breaking ranks, dauntless, closing every breach opened by an enemy artillery that did not dare come any closer to attack. On higher ground, the soldiers calmly consulted with their officers, and then resumed their march without missing a beat, terrifying even in defeat, as tightly organized and collected as if they were on parade, moving at the tempo set by the slow tattoo of their drums.


  "The Cartagena tercio reached Nieuwpoort at nightfall," Vicuna concluded, using his only hand to move the jugs and last pieces of bread. "Always in step and unhurried, just seven hundred left of the fifteen hundred and fifty who had begun the battle. Lope Balbuena and Diego Alatriste were with them, black with gunpowder, thirsty, exhausted. They had been saved by not breaking formation, by keeping their heads in the midst of the general disaster. And do Your Mercies know what Diego replied when I ran to embrace him and congratulate him for still being alive? Well, he looked at me with those eyes of his, icy as the ball-freezing Holland canals, and said, 'We were too tired to run.'"