The Lions of Catalunya

by Jeremy D. Rowe

  But it was not to be. The family’s fragile peace did not last long. Disaster came from a very unexpected direction.

  Frightening news of the continued skirmishes between Castilians, Frenchies and Catalonians, meant that Jordi’s regular trips to the vineyards were always dangerous. Emilia found herself more worried about him than she was about Jose on the high seas, or Javier in London, and was always mightily relieved when she heard Jordi’s horse in the lane. She would rush out to greet him, and on this particular occasion, that’s just what she did.

  “Jordi, my son, welcome home, safe and well, welcome!”

  “Safe,” replied a grim faced Jordi, “but far from well.” As he slipped down from the saddle, he was doubled up with an acute spasm of coughing. Emilia rushed to embrace him, but he pushed her away, spluttering between the coughs to warn her. “Mother, stay back, I think I am infected with the plague.”

  Emilia recoiled in horror for a moment, but then flung herself upon her son. “I am not afraid of my own son,” she stated. “You may be a man in the countryside, but you’re still my son at home. Come inside, tell me all.”

  Miquel and Elena rushed to greet Jordi. When the coughing had subsided, and he had managed a mouthful of brandy, he told his story.

  “Last night I stayed in a farmhouse near Prat de Lobregat; simple good people, loyal to the Catalan flag. They have a smallholding and outbuildings where they produce some of our finest brandy. The quantity is not great, perhaps a dozen casks a year, but the quality is excellent and they earn, and deserve, a good price.”

  He stopped, racked by another coughing fit. Miquel and Elena stepped back, fearing the worst, but Emilia remained cradling her son. After a while, last he could continue.

  “We talked late into the evening, and enjoyed some of the good brandy, and it was too late and just a bit too far to ride home last night. I lay in one of the stables, just as I often do on my country trips, and slept on the straw.”

  “I awoke at sunrise to see many rats running around; nothing unusual in that, but I awoke with a terrible itching all over, and realised I had been bitten by many fleas.”

  At that moment Perot ran into the room. “Uncle Jordi, Uncle Jordi!”, but as he was about to fling himself into his uncle’s arms, Miquel grabbed him and pulled him back. Elena took Perot firmly, and retreated to the far corner of the room. Jordi continued the tale.

  “There’s not much more to tell. Before I left, the farmer told me that there had been much talk of plague in the area; and that some distant farmers and their families were reported to have died; but he didn’t think it had come to his farm yet. I fear, mother, he is wrong. As I have been riding this short distance from Lobregat, I have had this cough, and it’s getting worse. Help me mother. I must undress and see for myself if I have been smitten.”

  As he went to stand, the coughing started again, and to the horror of the family, he spat a mouthful of blood onto the straw-covered floor. Emilia turned to the others. “Get out, and get right away. I will stay with Jordi, but you must keep well clear.”

  Miquel, Elena and Perot went out to the front shop, almost frozen with fear. “Plague?” asked Elena.

  “It looks like it.” said Miquel. “Oh God, not now, not with The Swan due any day.”

  They stood silently in the shop, listening intently, but hearing nothing but Jordi’s coughing and groaning. Suddenly Emilia let out a scream. Indicating to Elena to stay where she was, Miquel rushed to the parlour. A half naked Jordi lay slumped across the table, with a splattering of blood on his torso and on the table. Emilia stood transfixed, and simply pointed to her son’s arms. There Miquel could see clearly the buboes of the plague, fearful red swellings in Jordi’s armpits.

  Emilia, trembling, said, “It is, as he feared.”

  Miquel stuttered, all his bravado gone, and could only say feebly, “It takes hold so fast. He’s a strong young man, but his body cannot resist the disease. Mother, stand back from him, or you will surely be infected.”

  Emilia smiled, “If that will happen, then it is already too late. I will nurse Jordi and comfort him, but you and your children must keep away.”

  Miquel shook his head. “Oh mother,” he said, “I will go to Santa Maria; I will take all the children and my sister, and she and Elena and I will pray to the Virgin. Santa Maria brought Jose and the Swan safely back to us; let us pray she will give mercy to Jordi.”

  On the way to the church, they agreed to say nothing in order to avoid a panic, but they immediately encountered a neighbour with similar news. “There is plague in Sant Antoni. My daughter and son-in-law live there. I am going to pray for them.”

  Others were on the street, some hurrying to the church, others hurrying away, but the word from all was “plague”. The dreaded disease was heading for La Ribera, and Jordi was only one of many.

  They tried to sleep in the shop that night, but tossed and turned, unable to sleep, listening to the groans and cries of Jordi. The next morning, Miquel stood at the parlour door. His exhausted mother said nothing, but turned to Jordi. The red buboes had grown huge and turned black; he continued to cough blood and he was racked with pain. “I’m so sorry,” he said repeatedly, “I’m so sorry.”

  “Hush, baby,” whispered his mother. “Santa Maria is watching you and calling you. Soon you will be with grandmother Marta.” And she tried to give him a sip of brandy. Abruptly there came a scream from the shop.

  “My babies, my babies,” screamed Elena. Miquel turned back to his wife. She was kneeling in front of the six children, undressing them one by one. Each revealed the horrifying red marks in their armpits of the beginnings of the disease. The five dark-haired boys were finally lined up, all crying, all clearly ill, all smitten. Finally she reached Perot. Miquel darted forward and pulled his jerkin over his head. No buboes. No plague. Perot, for the time being, had been spared.

  “Take him,” Elena said, “Take him to the church and stay there. Stay there with him. Stay there until you get a message. He is our only hope. Go quickly Miquel.”

  Stunned and numb, Miquel picked up the little curly haired boy, and went to the door. With tears in his eyes, he looked back at the rest of his beautiful boys, knowing he would never see them again.

  Miquel ran full-tilt to the church. Neighbours stood back, seeing the tears streaming from the man, and the cries of the frightened little boy. Not pausing at the door, he ran into the church, skirting through the kneeling worshippers, until he was at the foot of the statue of the Virgin. “Santa Maria, take me, let me come to you, but spare my boys, spare my boys.” Unaware that he was shouting, and disturbing the normal peace of the church, he continued in his panic and fervour, “I have sinned and deserve to die, but my boys are innocent; my brother is innocent, spare him, spare them.”

  He felt the hand of a priest on his shoulder. “Come with me, Senor Blanxart. I will help you to pray as you should. Let us go to the chapel of Sant Antoni. He understands disease, and will provide intercession for us.” Picking up the little Perot, and guiding Miquel with the other arm, the priest took them to a small chapel to one side of the high altar.

  Miquel and Perot remained in the tiny chapel of Sant Antoni for the rest of the day. The priest returned with bread and water, and Miquel fed the boy, but took nothing himself. They remained there all the following night. Whilst he tried to comfort the boy and coax him to sleep, Miquel kept up a vigil on his knees, praying to St Antoni. He did not let himself sleep, nor rise from his knees. In the morning, the priest returned with more bread and water, and Miquel tried to feed Perot again, but again took nothing himself.

  A voice behind him startled him, and he turned to see an exhausted Elena. “My wife, my good precious wife, what news?”

  Elena collapsed beside him, shaking her head. “All gone,” she sobbed, “All gone. They were so young, the plague took them easily. Thank God their agony was short. Jordi lingers, but nothing will save him. His agony goes on and on. Your mother is strong, but I fear
for her. I cannot believe she will escape. Your sister has gone to the nunnery at Santa Anna, where she will be safe.”

  Perot had wakened at the sound of his mother’s voice, and climbed onto her lap. She held him tight. “Let us pray together that the Blessed Virgin will let us keep you, my pretty Perot. Let us pray together.”

  Miquel could only guess at the hell his wife had endured in the last two days. Sleepless, she had tended her five older boys, and watched as each one died in her arms. Gently she had laid each little body in the straw on the floor, found cloths to wind each in, and prepared for them to be taken. Day had turned to night and back to day again, but she had not noticed.

  Jordi lingered for five days more; his strong young body fought hard against the disease, and his mother began to wonder if he would survive. The coughing, the shortness of breath and the agony of aching limbs never left him, and she watched the black buboes grow and burst. Jordi was decomposing before her eyes, and yet there was still life in him. At last the time had come. “Sleep, Jordi, sleep,” whispered Emilia. “See the angels have come for you. Now is the time. Sleep my baby, sleep.” and finally Jordi slipped away in her arms.

  By a miracle, Emilia and Elena survived, and Perot remained immune. The three generations of the family clung together, marvelling at their survival, fearful that it was only a temporary respite.

  Miquel was distraught that the bodies of his boys had been taken to the mass grave at Poblenou; and went there to search for them. The stench of the limepit and the scene from hell that he encountered, drove him back. Determined to avoid a similar fate for Jordi, he carried his brother’s body to Monjuic where it was laid to rest close to his grandmother. Emilia, Elena and Perot walked with him on that sad journey, and the four of them sat quietly by the sea reflecting on the terrible disease and how it had devastated their family.

  Suddenly little Perot leapt up. “Look, father, look! There’s the Swan!”

  Startled, they jumped up. Perot was right. The Swan was on the horizon, and with a fair wind would be with them within the day. “How can we tell Jose?” wailed Emilia. “He will be full of excitement and news as he was before, and will have no idea of the misfortune that has befallen us.”

  “I will take a boat and go out to meet him. It is the least I can do after the sacrifices you two have made in the last few days. It is my duty. I will sit with him on the ship, and tell him everything, and prepare him for his sad homecoming. Then I will bring him to Santa Maria to pray for the souls of our lost boys, and of his brother. Wait for us at the church. We will pray at the chapel of Sant Antoni whose intercession saved the life of Perot.”

  “Father, take me to the Swan,” pleaded Perot. “I’m big enough now to come with you.” Smiling for the first time in many days, Miquel agreed to take the boy.

  Waiting in the cool of the great church, the two women felt much calmer now that Jordi had been laid to rest; Miquel eventually arrived with a rather sleepy Perot in his arms; and the women were startled to see Jose carrying a small barrel, and looking very grim-faced. Silently he put down the barrel and embraced his mother and Elena. He then turned and indicated a pretty young woman standing a little behind him. Beckoning her forward, Emilia kissed the woman, who said not a word. Jose turned to the image of Sant Antoni, and knelt. The family knelt with him, and so did the mysterious young woman.

  After a while Miquel and Jose stood and led the little procession out into the evening sun. The brothers walked silently down to the shoreline, and found a place to sit on logs between the rough working boats. Jose put down the barrel, and the young woman sat on it. The brothers stared out to sea for a long time, contemplating the Swan as it lay at anchor bathed in the glow of the setting sun. At last Jose turned to his mother, a trickle of tears running down his face.

  “This was to have been such a glorious homecoming, mother,” he said. “The Swan is laden with wondrous goods, the wine has sold well in London, better even than before, and best of all,” and he paused, and put his hand upon the arm of the young woman, “I want you to meet my wife. Mother, this is Elizabeth.”

  The young woman smiled, and leaned forward to Emilia. “Please forgive her, mother, but Elizabeth is English and knows very little Catalan. She has been trying to learn from me on the voyage, but my English is now good, and we forget and speak English all the time.”

  “Welcome to our family,” said Emilia. “I am only sorry you come at such a sad time. We will do our best to make you comfortable. Jose, please tell her what I am saying.”

  Jose translated, and the others were amazed to hear how fluent his English had become. “Me?” he joked, “You think my English is good? You should hear Javier! He sounds like a real Englishman! They call him Harry in London!”

  “Let us go home,” said Miquel. “Jordi and the boys are all now at peace with the Virgin. Let us go and make our home peaceful again.”

  As they walked, Jose described to Elizabeth, in English, all that they were seeing, and became quite animated when they reached the Ribera slum. Behind them, Elena asked Miquel why his brother was carrying a barrel. “It was hardly appropriate to bring it to the church, unless it was good wine for the priest. What ever is it?”

  “Vinegar, wife, the finest!”

  “Vinegar!” she exclaimed, “He’s carrying a barrel of vinegar!”

  “Yes,” replied Miquel. “When I told him on the ship of the plague and all that had happened, he begged it from the captain. It is an old remedy for disease on ships. They wash the decks with vinegar to keep the pox away. We are to wash everything at home with it – everything. Jose tells me we will then be safe from the plague.”

  A strange mix of emotions swirled around the family for some time. The shock of losing all but one of her children was exceptionally hard for Elena to bear, and she prayed for them daily at the chapel of Sant Antoni. Miquel’s way of coping with the devastation of his family was to throw all his energy into little Perot, constantly talking to him, amusing him, protecting him and most of all giving him the benefit of all his knowledge of Catalan culture, all he had learned from his father Joan. Soon Perot was a walking encyclopaedia of Catalan heroes, reciting their names and deeds to anyone who would listen. Little did he know, that the blood-thirsty story of Corpus de Sang included a central part played by his own father.

  Emilia also found it hard to deal with the deaths; but she devoted herself to learning a little English, and teaching some basic Catalan to Elizabeth; thus she got to know her new daughter-in-law, and to hear something of life in London. She was particularly pleased to discover that the English dislike of the Castilians was as strong as her own.

  For the first time, Miquel sent the fully-laden Swan back to London without Jose on board. Miquel had honoured all his debts to John Shaw of Gravesend, and trusted the boat’s captain and owner to deliver the cargo to Javier. Jose worked alongside his brother developing the businesses in Barcelona.

  Meanwhile, the war had rumbled on, and on. There were many who could not remember a time of peace in the land. At times the Frenchies seemed to be winning, and Barcelona was full of French soldiers, speaking their strange language which was not unlike Catalan, but wasn’t Catalan; and at other times it seemed they had all vanished, and groups of well-armed Castilian soldiers would occupy the city, shouting orders in their hated Castilian language. The population of La Ribera hated both groups of soldiers with equal venom, and no opportunity was missed to quietly despatch one or two of them in a dark alley. Miquel displayed surprising agility at coming over a rooftop, and silently cutting the throat of an unsuspecting soldier. A small arsenal of weapons was accumulated in the wine merchant’s cellars.

  It was just before Christmas 1659, that Miquel, along with a number of other prominent businessmen of Barcelona, were summoned to the Generalitat. Perot was by now nine years old, and Miquel was involving him in all aspects of the business; he thus took both his son and his brother with him to the meeting. The newly-appointed president of the G
eneralitat, Canon Pau d’Ager from Lleida, looking distinctly uncomfortable and under some duress, welcomed them hesitantly, and they were outraged that his welcome was given in Castilian, not the usual Catalan. They had an ominous feeling that this was going to be a very uncomfortable meeting. The Canon had even provided placatory cups of wine – from Miquel’s own cellar, of course – and invited them to sit. Beside him was an unknown nobleman, and a number of heavily armed Castilian soldiers.

  Standing, and drawing himself to his full height, the strange nobleman announced, “I am the emissary and representative of the Count-Duke of Olivares, minister to his majesty King Philip.” At this, the Castilian soldiers let rip with a loud shout of “God save King Philip”.

  “Gentlemen,” said Canon d’Ager, “I have to tell you that the Castilians and the French have finally signed a peace treaty. It is to be known as the Treaty of the Pyrenees, and was finalised on 7th November, a month ago. This peace has not been won without a cost. A cost not only of lives,” continued the Canon, with a nervous pause, “ but of Catalan land.”

  Miquel and his fellow business men gasped, as the emissary interrupted the Catalan Canon.

  “King Philip, through his representative the Count of Barcelona, and myself his emissary, has conceded much of Catalonian land to Castile.”

  There were increased murmurings amongst the businessmen.

  “I would prefer to continue with you in silence,” snarled the nobleman. The horrified men fell silent. “Thank you. Castile, in return, has given large tracts of Catalonian land in the Pyrenees to France. Catalunya has lost all of the county of Roussillon with its capital Perpignan, and we have given El Conflent, El Capicir,” – the mutterings and murmurings were increasing – “El Vallespir and part of La Cerdanya, to France.”