The Sun Over Breda

ground, and all those rough and formidable men wept from shame and dishonor.

Bowing to tradition, Captain Bragado, with great reluctance, broke from formation, taking with him the unit’s banner, Soto, Minaya, the sergeants, and the few corporals and soldiers who followed. Jaime Correas, enchanted with the pandemonium, ran from one side to the other, finally joining in the call for “Guzmanes out!” I too was fascinated with all the uproar, and at one moment yelled along with everyone else, although I stopped when I saw that the officers were actually leaving the company. As for Diego Alatriste, I can report that I had found a place near him and his friends in the squad. His face was grave; he had placed his harquebus butt-down on the ground and was standing with both hands resting on the mouth of the barrel. In his group, no one was talking, nor did they seem in any way perturbed, the exception being Garrote, who had already fallen in with the other soldiers and was singing the lead part. When finally Bragado and the officers left, my master turned to Mendieta, Rivas, and Llop, who shrugged their shoulders and, without any fuss, joined the group of mutineers. Copons, however, started after the flag and the officers without a comment to anyone. Alatriste breathed a quiet sigh, shouldered his harquebus, and followed Copons. It was then that he noticed that I was right beside him, thrilled to be in the middle of things and with no intention whatsoever of leaving. He gave me a pinch on the nape of my neck that I won’t forget, forcing me to follow him.

“Your king is your king,” he said.

He threaded his way among soldiers who stepped aside to let him pass, and as they watched him leave, no one dared offer a reproach. Once the two of us were out on open ground, we found ourselves near a group of ten or twelve men composed of Bragado and his loyal soldiers, although, like Copons, who stood there without a word as if this had nothing to do with him, Alatriste kept himself a little apart, almost halfway between the loyalists and the company. Alatriste again set his harquebus on the ground, placed his hands over the mouth of the barrel, and with the shadow of his hat rim shading his gray-green eyes, stood stock still, taking everything in.

Jinalasoga was still as unyielding as iron. The German guards were stringing up the two prisoners amid the riotous clamor of the troops, whose officers, with their banners, had already separated from their units. I could count four companies that were mutinying among the twelve that formed the tercio, and the rebels were beginning to group together with yells and threats. I heard a shot, though I have no idea who fired it, and it hit no one. Then the colonel ordered his bandera to aim harquebuses and muskets in the direction of the mutineers and the loyal soldiers to reposition themselves in his ranks. There were orders, drum rolls, and bugles, and don Pedro de la Daga spurred his horse, sprinting from one side of the field to the other, readying his troops for battle. I have to acknowledge that he showed a lot of backbone, for malcontents could easily have sprayed a shower of harquebus shots that would have left him at the end of his rope. Being courageous and being a whoreson are not always mutually exclusive. Loyal companies were maneuvered into positions facing the rebel soldiers, albeit with manifest reluctance. Then there were more drums and bugles, orders to officers and loyal soldiers to join companies already in formation, and Bragado and the others fell into line. Copons was beside Diego Alatriste and me, but as I said, somewhat apart from the others. And on hearing the order and affirming that the tercio was in place facing the rebels, weapons in hand and slow matches smoking, the two veterans laid their harquebuses on the ground, took off the bandoliers containing twelve charges of powder—the belts they called “the twelve apostles”— and, thus stripped of weapons, set off behind their banner.

I had never seen anything like it. As the soldiers loyal to the tercio took up battle positions, the four mutinying companies took theirs. They, too, adopted battle formation: pikemen in the center and detachments of harquebuses in the corners. In the absence of officers, squad corporals, even ordinary soldiers, took command. With the natural instinct of veterans, the mutineers were aware that lack of order would be their ruin, and that—now here’s a military paradox—only discipline could save. So that without standing down a point, they executed their maneuvers according to traditional patterns, one by one slipping into place in line. Soon we smelled the unmistakable odor of lit saltpeter-soaked harquebus cords and saw forks for the muskets set into the ground, preparing the weapons to be fired.

The colonel was determined to have either blood or obedience. The two sentenced men were already hanging from a tree, and with that matter resolved, the German escorts—tall, blond, and as unfeeling as slabs of meat— again surrounded don Pedro de la Daga, halberds upraised. Their leader gave new orders, the drums, bugles, and fifes sounded one more time, and still with that irritating right fist planted on his hip, Jinalasoga watched as his loyal companies began to advance toward the mutineers.

“Cartagena tercio! Haaaalt!”

Suddenly everything went silent. Loyal and rebel companies were in close rows some twenty-five meters apart, pikes at the ready and harquebuses loaded. The banners removed from mutinying units joined together the center of the formation, along with the loyal soldiers escorting them. I was right among them, for I wanted to stand beside my master, who had taken his place with the dozen men in his company who had not chosen the other side. With no harquebus, his sword in its scabbard, and his thumbs hooked into his belt, Diego Alatriste gave the impression he was merely an observer; nothing in his attitude indicated that he was prepared to attack his former companions.

“Cartagena tercio! Reaaaaaady harquebuses!”

Down the rows echoed the metallic sounds of harquebusiers packing powder into the pans and smoldering cord in the striker. Through the grayish smoke from the ignited cords I could see the faces of the men we were confronting: tanned, bearded, scarred, with expressions of grim resolve beneath their helmets and ripped hat brims. Triggered by the movements of our harquebusiers, some on the rebel side made the same preparations, and many of the coseletes in the first rows set their pikes. But cries and protests could be heard among them—“Senores, senores, let us use reason!”—and nearly all the harquebuses and pikes of the mutineers were again held upright, giving to understand that it was not their intention to attack their companions. On our side, we all turned to look at de la Daga when his voice resounded across the open field.

“Sergeant-major! Make those men swear obedience to their king.”

Sergeant-Major Idiaquez stepped forward, baton in hand, and demanded that the rebels immediately renounce their demands. It was a mere formality, and Idiaquez, a veteran who had mutinied no few times himself—especially in the year 1598, when unpaid wages and lack of discipline had caused us to lose half of Flanders—intervened briefly and succinctly, returning to our lines without waiting for a reply. For their part, none of the men in front of us seemed to grant any importance to the command the sergeant-major had issued, and all we heard were isolated cries of “Pay! Pay!” After which, as erect as ever in his saddle and implacable in his tooled cuirass, don Pedro de la Daga lifted one antelope-gloved hand.

“Aimmm harquebuses!”

The harquebusiers set their weapons against their cheeks, fingers on the triggers of the strikers, and blew on the lit cords. The heavier fork-mounted muskets were pointed straight at the opposing ranks, where some were beginning to stir in their lines, restless but with no signs of hostility.

“Order to fire! At my command!”

That command boomed across the esplanade, and although some few men in the rebel lines stepped back, I must say that nearly all were dauntless, remaining in place despite the menacing barrels of the loyalists’