As they spoke, there was a great hammering at the door, and they opened hesitantly. One of Anna’s younger brothers tumbled breathlessly into the shop. “They’re everywhere,” he said, “I got through by luck. They’re everywhere…” For a moment, struggling to hold back the tears, he gasped for breath: but then sitting, he collapsed with the horror of his news, and the tears started to flow.
Rafael had never seen a grown man cry, and was moved to comfort this unknown uncle who had suddenly appeared. With Rafael’s hand on his shoulder, the older man looked up, “God and the Virgin preserve us,” he said, “Young man, I am so sorry that you should witness such a moment as this.”
“I’m so sorry,” he muttered again as Anna brought her brother a cup of wine. Sitting with him, she tried to comfort him as he began to tell his story. Slowly the truth came out of how the farmhouse at Sant Cougat had been surrounded, and how the French-Castilian troops had battered down the door. Some of the family had fled, but he didn’t know who had died and who had survived. Anna’s father defiant to the last, had defended his flag with its four blood red stripes, and had been hacked down on the turret of the building, and thrown into the mud of the farmyard below. His senyera had been thrown down after him, and lay in the mud beside him. Anna’s brother completed his story by telling how he had run to warn the Blanxart family, and had made the whole journey on foot, dodging into bushes and shadows whenever he had seen enemy soldiers. The family surrounded him in shocked silence, broken only by gentle sobbing from Anna.
“So,” said Perez in slow measured tones, “They’re at the gates.”
The night was spent in anxious sleeplessness. An odd silence settled uneasily over La Ribera. The usual barking of dogs ceased, as if even the local hounds sensed the impending battle. As dawn broke, Perot went down into the cellar and organised bringing the weaponry he had amassed over the years up to the shop. Perez was surprised how many old swords and muskets his father had hidden, but was alarmed to find so many were too antiquated or damaged to be of much use. The old man was proud of his accumulated store, and Perez did not disillusion him; but he despaired of defending the city with such motley arms.
The Blanxart sword, however, was in excellent condition. Perez took it from its sheath of rags and the family were astonished to find it sharpened and polished ready for its bloody business. It gleamed as Perez held it before him.
Suddenly the uneasy silence was broken by thunderous canon fire.
“By all the saints, what’s that?” muttered the old man.
“Castillian canons, I fear,” replied Anna’s brother wearily.
Across the city, dogs which had been strangely silent all night, started barking and howling, sending weird warning signals through the lanes and alleyways of the city; and almost at the same time, another hammering came at the door. Opening, they found two of Carla’s brothers, armed and breathless.
“To the barricades,” they shouted, “the city is besieged!”
The women and younger children crowded into the shop, and watched, horror-struck, as the men chose their weapons from Perot’s collection. Perez thrust the Blanxart sword into his belt, and found a serviceable-looking pistol; Perot picked up a huge and fearsome looking musket, but realised he was not strong enough to use it, and changed it for a smaller weapon; and Rafael, uncertain how to load or fire any of the small arms, found a modest sword. Carla rushed forward to try to prevent her oldest son from going to battle, but Perot defended him.
“He is old enough to fight,” he declared, “And he deserves the honour of playing his part. You others, barricade yourselves into the house.” Handing the familiar senyera flag to Perez, he instructed his son to tie it to the sword and hold it aloft as they marched.
The three men, three generations of the family, opened the door cautiously, but were rewarded with a cheer from neighbours gathering outside. Breaking into a broad grin, Perez recognised many friends in the small crowd. Brandishing their weapons, they broke into song, one of their great Catalonian patriotic songs, the deep bass voices of the armed neighbours in the street and the treble voices inside the house joining in enthusiastic harmony. As Perot lead them down the street, with his son on one side and his grandson on the other, it was as if they were marching to a party or celebration, not to war. As they passed the humble houses and shops of La Ribera, others joined them.
Viewed from outside, the rag-tag army would have looked pathetic, with its mixture of assorted weapons, many too old to be useful, and lack of any armour: but within the group, the atmosphere was of optimism and enthusiasm. At last the moment they had been expecting had arrived. They would finally defeat the Castillians, and defend their beloved homeland.
The three Blanxarts at the head of the little army, complete with the blood stripes of the flag, were a particularly striking sight, with their manes of curly blond hair. “There go the Lions,” mothers told their children, peeping from shuttered windows. There go the Lions of Catalunya!”
“We are marching for grandfather Joan; we are marching for my father Miquel; we are marching for Catalunya,” stated Perot. Rafael, beside him, was too excited to reply, but simply grinned as he walked, overjoyed to be leaving his childhood behind, and relishing his new status as a fighting man.
Reaching Santa Maria del Mar, the three Blanxarts, called a halt to the marchers. Leaving guns outside in the care of a group of street urchins, but carrying their swords, they went into the church to seek a blessing from the priest. Back out into the sunshine, they found others waiting for them, anxious to join the band. Marching on past the sea gate, they headed towards Montjuic, splashing like excited children through the polluted stream that flowed to the sea. As they approached the city walls, they could see hundreds of other citizens, similarly armed, arriving with similar purpose and with much the same joyous determination.
The initial volley of cannon shot had died away, and again a silence held over the city. Clambering up to any vantage point they could find, the citizens’ army could see guns massed upon Montjuic, the splashes of red uniform of the Castilian troops, and the blue of the French.
“By our Lady of the Sea,” said Perez, “there’s thousands of them.”
Another roar of canon sent a mass of smoke into the air, and the destruction of several of the small outlying buildings in the rough land between the city wall and the mountain. The citizens watched impotently. Their ramshackle weaponry was useless against such canon-fire; not one of them had a gun which could fire as far as the army on the mountain. They could do nothing but stand and watch as the canons fired towards them. All along the wall fluttered the Catalonian flags, their defiant red and yellow stripes tantalising the distant enemy.
A disturbance in the street behind them distracted them from watching the enemy. Several men on horses had appeared, and one of them, recognising Perot, called to him to come down. Perot clambered down from the wall, and greeted the chief minister of Catalonia, Rafael Casanova.
“What news, Senor Casanova?” asked Perot.
“No good, my friend Blanxart,” replied the chief minister, jumping down from his horse. “There’s Frenchies up there as well as the troops from Madrid. We think there’s forty thousand of them. They have overrun the countryside, and murdered many loyal Catalonians.”
“So we have heard,” replied Perot. “We got news only yesterday, of the deaths of my daughter-in-law’s family up at Sant Cougat.”
“A wretched business. God rest their souls,” returned Casanova. “Is that your son I see on the wall above? Let us call him down. And is that young lion your grandson? I fear I have never met him. Call them both.”
Perot was excited to greet the chief minister, and delightedly introduced his son. “Another Rafael, Senor Casanova!”
“A pleasure to meet you, young lion!” said Casanova, and Rafael, uncertain how to respond to the chief minister, simply responded, “Long live Catalunya!” The cheers from the group surrounding them were drowned in another volley of c
anon-fire.
Casanova moved close to Perez. “That’s a fine sword, Senor Perez. It would not be a particularly famous one, would it?”
“I don’t know if it’s famous, senor,” replied Perez, “but yes, it’s very fine, and has been in my family for many years. It was my father’s and one day will be my son’s.”
“I would love to know its history,” stated Casanova.
Rafael looked towards his father, alarmed that he was about to betray the secret, but Perot simply laughed, “I expect you would, chief minister, but you will not hear it from me. The secret remains a secret.”
Another massive volley of canon-fire roared overhead. “They’re getting closer,” shouted a voice from the wall. The chief minister remounted and his group rode on, as the Blanxarts resumed their positions on the wall.
In fact, it was clear that the enemy troops were not advancing, but simply using canon-fire to clear the ground between themselves and the city walls. With a wide strip of land laid barren, it would be impossible for anyone to leave the city without being seen, and thus killed, by the enemy. The word went along the walls. “We are besieged.”
“Son,” Perez addressed Rafael, “It looks as if nothing will happen for a while. The immediate crisis is over. Run home and tell your mother and grandmother what’s happening, and bring back something to eat. God, we left home without breakfast. Tell them not to worry, and that we may even sleep in our own beds tonight.”
As Rafael ran back towards the shop, Perot turned to his son, “Some of us may sleep in our beds, but others must keep watch. These bastards may attack at any time, and we must be vigilant.”
“You’re right. But by hesitating on the mountain, they are giving us time to get organised. There may be forty thousand of them, but we are strong, and our warehouses are full. We are in good shape to withstand a siege.”
The day continued as it had started, with spasmodic firing of canons from the mountain, and the Barcelona citizens, lining the walls, watching the farms and smallholdings of the Raval reduced to rubble. Mid-afternoon a messenger came along the line inviting leaders of the little scratch armies to go to the Placa Sant Jaime to discuss strategy and make plans. Although Perot had led the Ribera group, he sent Perez, as the younger and fitter fighting man, to the strategy meeting. At Placa Sant Jaime, the fighters were addressed by chief minister Casanova, standing on a crate.
“Brothers in arms!” began the chief minister, addressing the crowd in Catalan, “When news of the advance of the Madrid army first broke, we made arrangements for those in power in our city, loyal to Madrid, to be put into a safe position in the cellars under the Generalitat. At this moment, that is where they remain.” A cheer went up from the assembled crowd. “Our city is in the control once again of loyal Catalonians.” A further cheer erupted. “Many of you already know General Moragues. He is to lead our strategy, and will lead us to victory.”
The chief minister climbed down from the crate, and made way for General Moragues. As the most senior army officer loyal to Catalunya, the general was well respected in the citizens’ army, and was greeted with more cheers, which were drowned out by more canon-fire.
“Citizens,” began the general as the cheering and canon-fire died down, “many of us have known that the day would come when we fight for our land. That day has arrived, and the canons of the enemy are at our gates. I cannot offer you an easy fight, nor a quick solution. We face a siege, and we face a large and experienced army. We must fight them with cunning and guile. Our greatest strength lies in our passion for Catalunya. They fight for their king, but we fight for our women and children!”
The crowd, already excited by the atmosphere, cheered the general, but he waved them down.
“Do not shout so hard or long until the fight is won,” he said. “We must bring discipline to our volunteer army, order to our defences, and a system of good communication. We must know always what our enemy is doing, we must anticipate his moves, and we must be ready to defend our city in the face of unknown firepower.”
The men, recognising that the general did not want enthusiastic cheering, but rather a sober acknowledgement of the task ahead, simply murmured their assent, and leaned forward to hear everything he said.
“As volunteers, I know you do not have the discipline or experience of a regular army,” continued the general, “but I believe your loyalty to your homeland is strong, and you will serve the cause of this war steadfastly and courageously.”
“Our first task is to prepare to deal with a breach of the city walls. The French and Castillian fire power is such that they will, I am sure, aim to demolish the wall. This they will do with canon-fire without themselves coming within range of our small arms. If we allow them to breach the walls, they will then pour through and we will be defeated.”
“At the same time, we must be watchful of snipers. They will undoubtedly bring marksmen within range of the city walls, and aim to demoralise us with random killings of our men. We will not see them, as they will hide in the rubble and ruins of La Raval. I need to know which of our men are good shots, and to post them on the walls as snipers of our own, ready to return fire if it appears, always, of course, keeping hidden as much as possible.”
“Finally, we must be ready for a prolonged siege. Tell your wives to take care of their stores. Whilst we can maintain some communication by sea, there will be shortages and we must conserve all that is in the city. Those of you with storehouses will know we are well-placed at the moment, but this enemy is determined, and the siege could be long. Remain steadfast, and remain patient.”
“My priority today is to set up communications and ensure we can get messages as quickly as possible from my headquarters here to all of you on the front line, and all along the line. Return now to your post and await further orders. May the Virgin and our own Blessed Saint Eulalia be with us all.”
A loud “Amen” from the crowd signalled the end of the meeting, and the men hurried back to their positions.
Back at the walls, the general’s speech was repeated from man to man. The realisation of a prolonged siege started to settle into their minds, and many messages were sent back to the men’s families to start preparations.
By this time, Rafael had returned with provisions, and the three Blanxart lions conferred together. “We shall take it in turns to return home to sleep,” said Perez. “We will ensure that there are always two of us on duty alongside our neighbours here on the wall. You go home now, father, and instruct the women to get ready for a long siege.”
Suddenly their conversation was interrupted by another volley of canon-fire, but this time directed out to sea.
“What the devil?” said Perot.
“There’s a ship in the bay,” said Rafael.
“It’s The Swan,” gasped Perez. “She’s very early. Must have made good time across Biscay I suppose, and sailed straight into the Castilian canons.”
Abandoning their position on the city walls, the three men ran to the beach where they found Anna and Carla amongst the small knot of people gathering to watch the ship sail straight into the sights of the canons on Montjuic. Anna handed a telescope to Perot as canon shot peppered the water around the ship.
“Why are they firing, grandfather?” asked Rafael. “How do they know it’s our ship?”
Screwing up his eyes, Perot peered through the glass. “They’ve a huge British flag flying,” he announced. “Madrid cannot resist the chance to sink a British ship, especially such an easy target as The Swan.”
Perez turned away from the sea, his head in his hands. “No,” he moaned, “not this one. Not this time. Santa Maria save us.”
Rafael grabbed his father. “They may escape, father,” he said urgently. “The cargo may get to us yet.”
“But a direct hit?” said Perez, “You alone know what’s on that ship. It cannot survive a direct hit.”
Trying to comfort his distraught father, Rafael repeated, “They may escape.”
; “Oh my God,” spoke Anna, “There’s no escape.”
They watched, horrified, as the sailing ship, painfully slowly, attempted to turn and escape the range of the canon, but it was no use. Shot after shot rang out across the water, and the Blanxart family could imagine the gleeful laughter of the soldiers on Montjuic as they fired at their sitting-duck target.
The canon-fire started to shred the sails, and the main mast was demolished. Abruptly a huge explosion ripped across the water as The Swan exploded. A huge fire-ball rose into the air, with a roar beyond any they had ever heard. The noise echoed like thunder around the mountains, and a cloud of black smoke rose from the water. The group on the beach stood frozen by the shock. None had ever seen such an explosion before, and many crossed themselves, thinking that the world was ending, and they knelt horrified on the shore. A calm descended, and in the blink of an eye the Swan was no more.
“What the devil?” gasped Rafael, falling to his knees on the beach.
“What cargo did The Swan carry, son?” asked Perot suspiciously, kneeling beside his sobbing son.
His shoulders shaking, as he hugged the Blanxart sword, Perez choked and tried to answer. “Explosives,” he answered. “I did a secret deal with our agents in London to smuggle gunpowder and arms to Barcelona. The British were always ready to help our struggle.”
The noise of a horse clattering over the cobbles, and then onto the beach made them look up.
“What was that?” shouted chief minister Casanova, jumping down from the horse.
Rising to his feet, his clothes wet and muddy from the beach, tears still streaming down his face, Perez turned to the minister. “My ship exploded,” he said simply. “It blew up.”
“I don’t understand.” replied the minister.
“My father was smuggling arms and ammunition from London,” explained Rafael. “The ship was loaded, like a giant bomb ready to explode. Only my father and I knew what the secret cargo was. A few bales of cheap cotton lay across many tons of explosives.”
“There were even English canons on board, replacing the ballast at the bottom of the hold,” said Perez. “What a difference they would have made to our fight.”
The Lions of Catalunya Page 12