The Lions of Catalunya

by Jeremy D. Rowe

  “You risked everything to bring arms and ammunition from London?” asked Casanova. “The city is in your debt.”

  “But now all is lost. How did they know?” muttered Perez. “We have been betrayed.”

  “No: I think your secret was safe. The soldiers up on the vantage point of Montjuic could not believe their luck when a ship with a British flag sailed into their sights. They would have sunk everything coming into range.” said the first minister. “I am sure they were as amazed as anyone when it exploded.”

  Looking out to sea, it was as if the boat had simply vanished. Where once there had been sails and cargo, and sailors, was nothing. The sea had an uncanny calm. Small fragments of the boat would be washed up on the shore for many weeks to come. It was clear there were no survivors.

  The group turned away from the sea. “Go home,” said Casanova. “You must recover, and our fight goes on.”

  Wiping his face, Perez spoke clearly, “We must go to our beloved Santa Maria del Mar, and pray for the souls of the sailors. Then we must to the barricades. This terrible victory for the Castilians will encourage them to further aggression, and we must be ready. God, if ever we needed something to strengthen our resolve, this was it.”

  Leading his horse, and walking with the family, the first minister spoke. “I will ensure that General Moragues knows of your efforts to support us all. It would be an honour if you will allow me to join your family in prayers, and then I will return to the Generalitat.”

  The siege settled into a kind of routine. Men were detailed to maintain the vigil on the city walls, whilst others went about their business. Apart from the occasional volleys of canon-fire, at first there was little evidence that they were at war. Trade, of course, ceased, and gradually the effect of this started to spread through the city. Shortages of meat came first, and then a lack of grain. Perez was concerned to guard his warehouse, leaving others to defend the walls; the warehouse had been full, awaiting the arrival of the Swan, and thus one of several warehouses able to provide food and refreshment for the city. As the population started to run low on stocks of food, the threat of looting became a worry, but General Moragues held a strict control over the men of the city and successfully averted widespread theft.

  Perez and Rafael were summoned to the Generalitat for a public acknowledgement of their courage in trying to smuggle arms and ammunition into the city, but the ceremony seemed very ironic in the light of the disastrous explosion. They were extremely concerned to get a message to London to prevent the Woodbird from sailing with another cargo of explosives, and one of Carla’s brothers agreed to make the journey overland, through France, to London. Although he was smuggled successfully out of the city, they never knew what happened to him, as he was never heard of again.

  Now and again, a stray canon-ball breached the city wall, but no major damage was done, and the holes were quickly patched up by the general’s team of carpenters and stonemasons. Occasionally a sniper successfully picked off one of the watchers from the walls, rarely killing them, but sometimes wounding. The women of the city worked hard to feed their men folk, and stop their diet from becoming too boring or inadequate, and as winter approached, started making little hoards of special treats for the Christmas Eve and Three Kings celebrations.

  It was rare that anyone got in or out of the city, but a few spies managed it. They reported widespread discontent amongst the French and Castilian troops, with many tired of the makeshift lodgings on the mountain top, and anxious to go home for Christmas.

  As the New Year approached, the people of Barcelona began to feel more and more optimistic; by maintaining their vigil on the walls, and hardly firing a shot, they felt they simply had to wait for the enemy troops to desert and melt away, and the victory would be theirs.

  The family arranged for all to be home to see in the new year. Anna was particularly pensive. “I remember a year ago,” she began, “we welcomed 1713. We looked forward to a year of peace. Little did we know we would spend so much of the year besieged in our city. Let us pray for peace in 1714. May God and the Virgin guard over us and bring victory to our dear Catalunya.” The family sang many of their traditional songs that night, and even found a bottle of their increasingly rare Cava to share at midnight.

  It was a clear moonlit night as Perot picked up his musket to walk to the walls where he was to stand watch. Perez stood to join him, grasping his Blanxart sword, and Rafael stood by him, his own sword at the ready. “My three lions,” exclaimed Anna, “If the enemy could see you now, they’d run for their lives!”

  “We will celebrate the arrival of 1714 together,” stated Perez, “With my father and my son, we proudly defend our city.”

  Anna and Carla stood at the open door and watched as the three men set off for the walls. The moonlight glinted off their weapons, as they reached the corner, turned and waved, and disappeared from sight.

  Anna turned to the rest of the family crowded around them. “Now, off to bed all of you. Nothing else will happen tonight.”

  As always in the moonlight, there were men walking in the streets as the three strode to their post. Some men were returning from watch duty, others taking their places, and a general atmosphere of goodwill existed in the streets. With the shortage of alcohol, and the seriousness of the situation, everyone remained literally and emotionally sober, but a general feeling of optimism remained. “Come the spring, they’ll be gone,” said one passer-by.

  Perot, Perez and Rafael took up their positions on their section of wall, which was now very familiar to them. A neighbour, who had held the spot for the first part of the night, greeted them, wished them a peaceful new year, and told them that all was quiet. The three men stared out into the night. With a cloudless winter sky, the moonlight illuminated the barren land, shelled into craters, with its dead trees and shattered farmhouses.

  Suddenly a voice, closer than usual, shouted, “Happy New Year!” in Catalan. Perot, fooled into thinking the voice was friendly, was about to shout a greeting in return, when there was a single rifle shot. The words froze in his mouth. The bullet hit him directly, and he fell back, instantly dead.

  “Grandfather!” shouted Rafael. There was immediate consternation amongst the others nearby on the wall, as Perez darted forward, too late to comfort his father.

  Perez enlisted the help of neighbours to carry his father back to the shop; Rafael ran ahead with the dreadful news, and Anna and Carla were waiting at the door, standing arm in arm, just as they had been a short while earlier watching the three lions marching away. The rest of the family, aroused from their beds crowded around as Perot’s body was laid on the trestle in the shop. In just the same way that Elena had prepared Miquel’s body for his funeral, so Anna prepared her husband. She spoke quietly as she washed him and wrapped him in a linen sheet.

  “Well old man,” she said, “you did well. Sixty-three … a good age … outlived all the rest of your generation … Catalan through and through. The fight will go on in your name. And now we lay you to rest with your forefathers….” She paused and looked up. “But we can’t, can we? The family tomb is on Monjuic and the enemy is there.” She looked wildly around the room. “What do we do?”

  “They are burying the martyrs of the cause in the cloister at Santa Anna. That’s where we’ll go in the morning,” said Perez gently. “Now Rafael and I will stay with him tonight. The lions will hold a vigil for him. Now go to bed, and try to sleep. Carla, take her up.”

  Relunctantly Anna allowed herself to be led out of the room. Slowly and silently the family drifted away. Perez took the Blanxart sword and laid it beside his father. “Let him hold it one last time,” he said, “before we use it to avenge his death.”

  The long night passed. Rafael slept for some of it, and Perez did not wake him. The house creaked and groaned around them, the usual nocturnal sounds. Faint sobs came to Perez as he sat beside his father: Anna, Carla, others of the family, all in private grief at the death of the head of the family.<
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  At dawn, a sad little procession set out for Santa Anna, past the great grey bulk of Santa Maria, up the hill past the cathedral, and finally towards the Angel Gate and the convent. The citizens keeping vigil at the Angel Gate, turned to watch the funeral procession. The word went round, “That’s Perot Blanxart, you know, the wine merchant in La Ribera. Hit by a sniper’s bullet last night. Died as the stroke of midnight faded.”

  An elderly sister met them at the convent door. “We bring the body of my father,” said Perez. “He’s Perot Blanxart.”

  “Perot,” said the nun. There was a long pause as she stared into the face of Perez. “I remember him well. He was my brother. The Lion of La Ribera.” The sister paused again, and then smiled. “I imagine you are now the Lion. I believe that you must be my brother’s son.”

  Managing a strained smile, Perez replied, “Indeed sister, I am Perez, the old lion now, and this is my son Rafael, the young lion.”

  “You both have the lion’s manes,” smiled the sister, touching Rafael’s luxuriant hair with her thin fingers. “I remember my brother’s. I never expected to receive a member of the family here, especially in such sad circumstances,” she continued, “but you are welcome, and it is very suitable for us to provide a resting place for one of the lions. You must be my sister-in-law,” continued the nun, turning to Anna. “May the peace of Santa Anna be with you at this time.”

  “Thank you sister,” said Anna quietly. “I am twice blessed, as I am named after your patron saint; I also am called Anna.”

  The simple chapel of Santa Anna provided a quiet haven for the funeral party. The warmth and smell of the candles helped them to find some inner calm. As they knelt in prayer, they heard quiet footsteps behind them, and they turned to see Rafael Casanova joining them. Nodding, he knelt silently beside them.

  After the mass had been said, the group went out into the cloister and watched as the gravediggers began to dig the grave. “A sad day for the Blanxart family,” said Casanova.

  “My father would expect and demand that we fight on,” said Perez.

  “The steadfast loyalty of your family has been well noticed,” said the chief minister, “and will be rewarded after the war. Victory is within our sights, as we are sure the Castilians will soon withdraw. The Frenchies have no taste for the fight either. It is now just a matter of time.”

  But the citizens’ army of Barcelona had underestimated the discipline of the opposing troops. Whilst the citizens were volunteers and not drilled as regular soldiers might be, the opposition was a well-disciplined fighting force, ordered to provoke and sustain a long siege. As 1714 dragged on from winter to spring, and then from spring into summer, the citizens could see no end to their plight. Food supplies were dangerously low, and General Moragues became increasingly worried that his stock of ammunition would not last through the summer.

  Matters came to a sudden head on 11th September 1714, when the dawn patrols were horrified to see a huge army marching towards the city. In the night, canons had been brought forward, and were blasting a huge hole through the wall, killing men and throwing the nearby streets of the city into confusion. All those on watch rushed towards the breach, and climbing on anything high enough, started firing desperately at the approaching army. The bourbon soldiers fired back, kneeling in formation to produce terrifying volleys of small arms fire, and the citizens’ army was rapidly decimated.

  Perez and Rafael, alerted by the noise and action, rushed with all their neighbours to the centre of the fighting. Climbing to a high point on the remnants of the wall, and firing at random into the heart of the bourbon troops, Perez and his son were sure they had despatched several of the hated Castilians. When one of them climbed up to their vantage point, Perez launched himself forward with a roar, screaming, “This is for my father!” and ran the Blanxart sword clean through the soldier.

  The Castilian and French armies continued to pour down from the mountain top; clearly for them a few hundred dead was of no consequence, and they were determined to bring an end to the action that day.

  Both General Moragues and chief minister Casanova joined the troops at the front line and fought valiantly. By lunchtime, hundreds of loyal Catalonians lay dead. The deadly fighting continued, and Rafael Casanova, his horse shot from under him, was badly wounded. Moragues, observing the bloodshed and deaths in his volunteer army, and seeing the wounds of Casanova, assessed that the battle could not be sustained, and surrendered.

  Seeing the general’s white flag, Perez shouted, “No! Never surrender!” but Rafael pulled him back.

  “Father, it’s over. We are beaten. We must stop now before more die.”

  Standing back, and dropping their weapons, the dishevelled remnants of General Moragues’s army stood defeated as the Castilian and French troops continued to pour into the city. By nightfall four thousand of Barcelona’s citizens were dead, and twenty thousand soldiers had occupied the city.

  Rafael stuffed his soiled and stained senyera under his shirt, and watched as an unknown officer of the victorious army, took the surrender from General Moragues, taking his pistol from him. He then arrested him. Wherever they could, the soldiers grabbed the offending senyera flags, and trampled them into the mud. Turning away from the sight of Moragues being dragged away, Rafael asked his father. “Is the sword safe?”

  “Yes, it is, and stained with Castilian blood,” replied Perez.

  “Then let us take it home. The women will be worried sick. They need to know that we have survived.”

  Slipping away from the crowd, the two lions slunk away, metaphorical tails between their legs. The streets had become unnaturally quiet as everyone waited to see what would happen next. Patrols of soldiers marched around the main streets, and Perez and Rafael had to dodge into doorways to avoid them. At last they got home to La Ribera slum, and recounted the terrible news of the day.

  A curfew was imposed, and the word went out that anyone seen in the streets at night would immediately be shot. For the first time since the canons’ roar the year before, Barcelona was quiet. Once again, even the dogs sensed the impending doom, and hushed their usual night howling.

  Unable to sleep, father and son sat up whispering together.

  “Where did it go wrong? Why did we not see that final push? Were there no spies, no intelligence to tell us what was coming?” worried Rafael. “After so long. We thought we had defeated them, but they won the day.”

  “Rafael,” said Perez, “I am still fit and young enough to wield the sword. This very day I sliced one of the enemy in two. But if anything should happen to me, the sword and all it stands for, and all the responsibility of it, falls to you.”

  “And I will gladly take it up,” replied Rafael, “But speak not of such a disaster. I do not expect to lose you now. We may have been on the losing side, but we survived; we are still here, and our family is safe.”

  “But we are famous for our opposition to the Castilians. I am sure there are files about us at the Generalitat. I do not think we are safe. Remember, they will have released from the cellars those Castilian supporters who dominated the Generalitat before the war. They will be angry after a year in prison, and will be seeking revenge. They are not soldiers who were camping on the mountain, they are men who know our city well. They know exactly those of us who continued to remain loyal to the senyera.”

  An atmosphere of fear and loathing stalked the streets of Barcelona. The city officials who had been supporters of the Madrid regime had spent over a year locked in the filthy cellars of the Generalitat, and upon their release by the Madrid soldiers, they were indeed intent upon revenge. They were quick to unearth the records in the offices, and soon found plenty of turncoat spies to aid and abet them, reporting to them the details of who had done what during the siege.

  From Madrid came extraordinary messages from the king, crowing about his success in crushing Barcelona, and celebrating the glory of a unified Spain. These royal statements inflamed the ardour of the Cast
ilians now commanding Barcelona, and made them bold in their dealings with the defeated population. With a huge number of Castilian soldiers to support them, they were ruthless and speedy in their removal of the leaders of the city. The defenders of Barcelona, those who had held their Catalan heritage most dear, were branded as traitors to Spain, and were in fear for their lives.

  The first and most prominent of the Catalonians to die was General Moragues. Following his arrest at the barricades, he was summarily tried by a military court, and condemned to death. He was hung in the Placa Sant Jaime, in front of the Generalitat building he had defended so nobly, and his body cut down whilst still breathing, and quartered. His head was hacked from his body and hung in a iron cage at the Portal de Mar where it would remain for twelve years. Following the brutal execution of Moragues, a reign of terror was inflicted upon Barcelona, with harsh and cruel repression imposed upon the people.

  It was not surprising, therefore, that a few days after the defeat of the city, there came a thunderous banging at the door of the Blanxart wine merchant’s shop. “Open up! Mossos!” came the shout. The newly formed brigades of Mossos were all former Madrid soldiers, and they prepared to break the door down and force themselves into the house.

  Rafael stood beside his father as Carla pulled back the bolts of the big doors. The group of Mossos stumbled forward, surprised that the doors had been opened, and halted, momentarily silent, before Perez.

  The leader found his tongue, and announced, “Perez Blanxart, I arrest you in the name of King Philip the Fifth of Spain, long may he live. You are charged with fermenting unrest and riot in the city; with displaying the Catalonya Flag, against the law of the land; with being one of the leaders of the illegal defence of the city against the loyal soldiers of the King; and with the murder of an unknown number of the King’s men. Further you are charged with attempting to import arms and ammunition to Barcelona, with the sole purpose of supplying weaponry to the Catalan rebels.”