The Sun Over Breda

harquebuses. I glanced at Diego Alatriste and saw that like most of the soldiers, both those holding weapons on our side and those facing us, stoically waiting to be fired upon, he was looking toward Sergeant-Major Idiaquez. The captains and sergeants of the companies were also looking toward him, but he in turn had his eye on his most supreme excellency the colonel. Who was not looking at anyone, as if he were engaged in an exercise he simply found annoying. Jinalasoga had already lifted his hand when we all saw—or thought we saw—Idiaquez give a slight negative shake of his head, barely a movement that could not really be called a movement, and therefore it could not be said to contradict discipline, so later, when responsible parties made their inquiries, no one could swear he had seen it. And with that gesture, just at the instant don Pedro de la Daga called “Fire!” the eight loyal companies lowered their pikes and the harquebusiers as a single man and laid their weapons on the ground.

4. TWO VETERANS

It took three days of negotiation, half payment of back wages, and a personal appearance from our General don Ambrosio Spinola to restore obedience among the Oudkerk mutineers. Three days in which the discipline of the old Cartagena tercio was more iron-fisted than ever, with officers and standards of all the companies gathered together in the town and the tercio itself camped outside the walls. I have already reported how the tercios were never more disciplined than when they were mutinying. On this occasion they even reinforced the advanced watch posts to prevent the Dutch from taking advantage of circumstances and falling upon us like pigs upon grain. As for the soldiers, the system of order established by elected representatives functioned very efficiently and without oversight, even going so far as to execute, this time without protest from anyone, five scruffy miscreants who had thought they could sack the town on their own. They were reported by citizens, and in a summary trial, before a tribunal composed of their fellow soldiers, they were sentenced to be shot in front of the cemetery wall, where they would find peace and later glory. In fact, at first there were only four men, but two other criminals guilty of lesser crimes had been sentenced to have their ears cut off, and one of them protested the judgment with many “’Pon my lifes” and “’Fore Gods,” averring that an hidalgo and old Christian like himself, a descendent of Mendozas and Guzmans, would rather see himself dead than suffer such insult. So, the tribunal—unlike our commander and being composed of soldiers and comrades—was understanding on points of honor and decided to show mercy upon the ear, exchanging it for the ball from a harquebus and without according the scoundrel the change of heart—he was no doubt a fickle hidalgo— that overcame him when he found himself with both ears intact by the cemetery wall.

That was the first time I saw don Ambrosio Spinola y Grimaldi, otherwise known as Marques de las Balbases, grandee of Spain, captain of the Flanders forces, whose image—wearing blued, gold-studded armor, a general’s baton in his left hand, large white collar of Flemish lace, red sash, and antelope boots, courteously preventing the conquered Dutchman from bowing before him—would live forever in history thanks to the brushes of Diego Velazquez. I will speak more of that famous painting when the time comes, for it is not irrelevant that it was I who, years later, provided the painter with the details he required.

At the time of Oudkerk and Breda our general was fifty-five or fifty-six years old, slim in body and face, pale, with gray beard and hair. His astute and resolute character was not at odds with his Genoese homeland, which he had left by choice in order to serve our kings. A patient soldier favored by fate, he did not have the charisma of the iron man the Duque de Alba, nor the cunning of some of his other ancestors. His enemies at court, a number that increased with each of his successes—it could be no other way among Spaniards—had accused him both of being a foreigner and of becoming overly ambitious. But the indisputable fact was that he had achieved Spain’s grandest military triumphs in the Palatinate and in Flanders, investing his personal fortune in those successes and mortgaging his family estates to pay his troops. He even lost his brother Federico in a naval battle against rebellious Hollanders. In that period his military prestige was enormous, to the degree that when Mauricio de Nassau, a general in the enemy camp, was asked who was the best soldier of the era, he had replied, “Spinola is the second.” Our don Ambrosio was a man with a great deal of backbone, which had earned him a reputation among the troops in campaigns prior to the Twelve Years’ Truce. Diego Alatriste could give personal testimony to that from his own memories of Spinola when he came to lend aid at Sluys, and also during the siege of Ostend. In the latter, the marques had been in such a dangerous position in the midst of the fray that the soldiers, Alatriste among them, lowered their pikes and harquebuses, refusing to fight until their general took himself to a place of safety.

The day that don Ambrosio Spinola personally broke up the mutiny, many of us watched him as he emerged from the campaign tent where the negotiations had been carried out. His staff and our colonel, hanging his head, filed out behind him. De la Daga was chewing the ends of his mustache, furious that his proposal of hanging one of every ten mutineers to serve as a lesson had not been accepted. But don Ambrosio, with his intelligence and good nature, had declared the matter closed, restoring the formal discipline of the tercios and returning officers and banners to their companies. Eager soldiers lined up before the tables of the paymasters—the money had come from the private coffers of the general—and from all around the camp, sutlers, prostitutes, merchants, and other parasites of war flocked to receive their share of the torrent of gold.

Diego Alatriste was among those in the vicinity of the tent. For this reason, when don Ambrosio Spinola came out, pausing a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the light, the notes of the bugle drew Alatriste and his companions closer in order to get a good look at the general. As was the custom among the old soldiers, most of them had brushed their oft-mended clothing; their weapons were polished; and even their hats seemed dashing despite stitched tears and holes, for these soldiers who took pride in their way of life were eager to demonstrate that a mutiny was not without its touches of gallantry among the men. This produced a strange paradox: Seldom had the soldiers of the Cartagena tercio looked better than when viewed by their general at the conclusion of the events at Oudkerk. And Spinola—Golden Fleece gleaming upon his gorget, escorted by his select harquebusiers and trailed by his staff, seemed to appreciate the sight as he strolled among the clusters of men who fell back to open a path for him and cheered him wildly just for being who he was and especially for delivering their pay. They also cheered to emphasize the contrast between him and don Pedro de la Daga, who was walking behind his captain-general and stewing over not having an excuse to illustrate the charms of his rope. There was, too, the sting of the admonishment that don Ambrosio had administered to him in private and in great detail, threatening to remove him from his command if he did not care for his soldiers as he would “little girls who were the light of his eyes.” This is precisely what we heard from those who knew, although I doubt the part about the little girls. Everyone knows that compassionate or tyrannical, stupid or wise, all generals and colonels are dogs from the same litter and that none has the least concern for the soldiers, whose unique purpose in their minds is to garner them gold medallions and laurel wreaths. But that day the Spaniards, happy about the felicitous outcome of their mutiny, were ready to accept any rumor and any development. Don Ambrosio was smiling paternally left and right, greeting “his gallant soldiers” and “his sons,” saluting genially from time to time with his baton and occasionally, when he recognized the face of an officer or veteran soldier, devoting a few courteous words directly to him. In short, he was doing his job. And by my faith, he was doing it well.

Then he came to Captain Alatriste, who was standing apart with his comrades watching the general’s progress. It is true that the group was a striking sight, for as I have written, my master’s squad was composed almost entirely of veteran soldiers, men with copious mustaches and scars on skin like Cordovan leather. Especially attired in all their trappings—bandoliers with the “twelve apostles,” sword, dagger, harquebus, or musket in hand—no one would question that there was no Dutchman or Turk or creature from hell who could stop them once the drums beat the tattoo to charge and give no quarter. Don Ambrosio looked the squad over, admiring the picture they made, and was about to smile and walk on by when he recognized my master, stopped, and said in his soft Spanish with its Italian cadences, “Pardiez, Captain Alatriste. Is it really you? I thought we had left you behind forever in Fleurus.”

Alatriste doffed his hat and stood with it in his left hand, the wrist of his right draped over the barrel of his harquebus.