Our battalion remained in the redoubt raised at the outer end of the Huerva bridge. The radius of our fire was considerable, crossing that of San José. The batteries of Los Martires, of the Botanical Garden, and of the Torre del Pino further within the city were less important than the two bodies holding the advanced positions, and served as auxiliaries.
Numbers of Saragossan volunteers were with us in the garrison, some of the soldiers of the guard, and various armed peasants who rather elected themselves to our corps than came into it by our choice. Eight cannons held the redoubt. Don Domingo Larripa was our leader. The artillery was commanded by Don Francisco Betbezé. As chief of engineers, we had the great Simono, high official of that distinguished service, and a man of such quality that he was able to quote himself as a model of all good military men, both in valor and in knowledge.
The redoubt was a work sufficiently strong for the purpose, and not lacking in any material requisite for defending itself. Over the entrance gate at the extremity of the bridge its constructors had placed a tablet with this inscription—
The indestructible redoubt of our Lady of the Pillar. Saragossans! Die for the Virgin del Pilar or conquer!
We had our lodging within the redoubt, and though the place was not altogether bad, we went on poorly enough. The rations were provided by a committee recommended by the military administration; but this committee, to our sorrow, was not able to attend to us properly. By good fortune, and to the honor of that generous people, food was sent to us from the neighboring houses, the best of their provisions; and we were frequently visited by the charitable women, who since the battle of the thirty-first had taken it upon themselves to nurse and care for our poor wounded heroes.
I have not spoken of Pirli. Pirli was a boy from outside the city, a rustic about twenty years of age, and in such jolly condition that the most dangerous situations only moved him to a nervous and feverish joy. I never saw him sad. He met the French singing; and when the bullets whistled past his head, he capered about, making a thousand grotesque gestures, throwing up his hands and fairly dancing. When the fire was thick as hail, he called the bullets “hailstones.” He called the cannonballs “hot cakes;” he called the hand-grenades, “señoras;” and the powder he called “black flour,” using other queer terms which I do not now remember. Pirli, although not at all a serious person, was a charming companion.
I do not know whether I have spoken of Tío Garces. He was a man of forty-five years, a native of Garrapinillos, very brave, bronzed, sawed-off looking, with limbs of steel; there was no one so active or so imperturbable under fire. He was somewhat talkative, and was a little inclined to be imprudent in his conversation, but with a certain wit in his garrulity. He had a small estate in the environs, and a very modest house; but he had levelled it with his own hands, and cut down his pear-trees, so that the enemy could not use them. I heard of a thousand of his valorous deeds in the first siege, and he wore a decoration on his right sleeve, the embroidered shield of distinction of the sixteenth of August. He dressed badly, and went almost half-naked, not because he lacked clothing, but because he had not time to put it on. He and others like him were without doubt those who inspired the celebrated phrase of which I have already made mention: “Their bodies were clothed only in glory.” He slept without shelter, and ate less than an anchorite; indeed with two pieces of bread and a couple of bites of dried beef hard as hide, he had rations for the day.
He was a man somewhat given to meditation. When he saw the works of the second parallel, he said, looking at the French: “Thanks be to God, they are drawing near. Cuerno! Cuerno! these people are a trial to one’s patience!”
“What a hurry you are in, Uncle Garces,” we said to him.
“I should say so. I want to plant my trees again before winter is over. And next month I want to build my little house again.”
Truly Tío Garces should have worn a tablet on his brow like that on the bridge, reading, “An unconquerable man.”
But who comes there, advancing slowly along the valley of the Huerva, leaning upon a thick stick and followed by a lively little dog which barked at all the passersby, merely for mischief, without any intention of biting? It is the friar, Father Mateo del Busto, reader and qualifier of the order of Saint Francis de Paula, chaplain of the second company of Saragossa volunteers, an important man, who, in spite of his age, was seen during the first siege in all places of danger, succoring the wounded, helping the dying, carrying ammunition to the well, and cheering all by his gentle accents. Entering the redoubt, he showed us a large and heavy basket which he had toiled to bring here, and in which was food better than that of our ordinary table.
“These cakes,” said he, placing it on the ground, and taking out one by one things which he named as he produced them, “have been given me in the house of that most excellent lady, the Countess de Bureta, and this in the house of Don Pedro Ric. Here you have a couple of slices of ham from my convent, which was for Father Loshollos, whose stomach is not strong, but he renounced this luxury and
