Saragossa. Benito Pérez Galdós
Читать онлайн книгу.
all looked at the spot indicated, an edifice of huge dimensions which arose at our left, separated from the Puerta Quemada by the valley of the Huerva.
"There is Renovales," said Augustine—"the brave Don Mariano Renovales, who distinguished himself so highly in the other siege, who now commands the troops of Orihuela and of Valencia."
In our position we were all prepared for an energetic defence. In the redoubt del Pilar, in the battery of Los Martires, in the tower of Del Pino, the same as in the Trinitarios, the artillery stood guard with burning matches, and the infantry waited behind the parapets in positions that seemed to us quite secure, ready to fire if any columns should attempt to assault us. It was cold, and most of us were shivering. One might almost have believed that it was from fear; but no, it was cold, and anybody who had said the contrary would have lied.
The movement which I had foreseen was not slow in taking place, and the convent of San José was attacked by a strong column of French infantry. It was an attempt at an attack, or, rather, a surprise. To all appearances, the enemy had a poor memory, and in three months they had forgotten that surprises were impossible in Saragossa. None the less they arrived within gunshot, and doubtless the graceless whelps believed that merely at sight of them our warriors would fall dead with fear. The poor men had just arrived from Silesia, and did not know what manner of warfare there was in Spain. And, furthermore, as they had gained the Torrero with so little difficulty, they believed themselves in train to swallow the world. They were advancing thus, as I have said, and San José was not making any demonstration. When they were nearly within gunshot of the loopholes and embrasures of that edifice, all at once these began vomiting such a terrible fire that my brave Frenchmen took to their heels with the utmost precipitation. Having had enough doubtless, they remained stretched out at full length; and upon seeing the outcome of their valor, those of us who were watching the onset from the battery of Los Martires broke out into exclamations, applause, cries, and huzzas. In this ferocious manner the soldier celebrates in battle the death of his fellow-creatures. He who instinctively feels compassion at the slaying of a rabbit on a hunt jumps for joy on seeing hundreds of robust men fall—young, happy men who have never done harm to anybody.
Such was the attack upon San José, a futile attempt quickly punished. By that time, the French should have understood that if Torrero was abandoned, it was by calculation and not on account of weakness. Alone, embarrassed, deserted, without external defences, without forces or forts, Saragossa renewed again her earthworks, her defences of bricks, her bastions of mud heaped up the evening before to be again defended against the first soldiers, the first artillery, and the first engineers of the world. Pomp and show of a nation, formidable machines, enormous quantities of power, scientific preparation of materials, force, and intelligence in their greatest splendor, the invaders bring to attack the fortified place which appears to be guarded by boys. It is indeed almost like this: all succumb, all is reduced to powder in front of those walls which might be kicked over. But behind this movable defensive material is the well-tempered steel of Aragon souls, which cannot be broken or bent, nor cast into moulds, nor crushed, nor robbed of breath, and which surrounds the whole region like a barrier, indestructible by human means.
The whole district about the Torre Nueva was resounding with clamors and alarms. When to this district comes such mournful sounds, the city is in danger and needs all her sons. What is it? What is passing? What will happen?
"Matters must be going badly back of the town," said Augustine.
Meanwhile they attacked us yonder to occupy the attention of the crowd on this side of the river. The same thing was done in the first siege.
"Al arrabal, al arrabal!" was our cry. "To the suburb!"
And while we were saying this, the French sent us some balls to show us that we must stay where we were. Fortunately Saragossa had enough people within her walls, and could readily assist and support all parts.
My battalion abandoned the wall near Santa Engracia, and began to march towards the Coso. We did not know where we were being conducted, but it is probable that they were taking us to the suburb. The streets were full of people. Old men and women came out, impelled by curiosity, wishing to see at close quarters and near at hand the points of danger, since it was impossible for them to be placed in the same peril. The streets of San Gil, San Pedro, and La Cuchilleria, which lead to the bridge, were almost impassable. A great multitude of women were passing through them, all walking in the direction of the Pilar and La Seo.
The booming of the cannon excited rather than saddened the fervent people, and all were jostling one another to get nearest the front. In the Plaza de la Seo, I saw the cavalry which, with all these people, obstructed the bridge and obliged my battalion to look for an easier way to the other side. While we were passing before the porch of this sanctuary, we heard the sound of the prayers wherewith all the women of the city were imploring their holy patroness. The few men who wished to come into the temple were expelled by them.
We went to the bank of the river near San Juan de los Panetas, and took up our place on a mound, awaiting orders. In front and on the other side of the river, the field of battle was divided. We saw at the end nearest us the grove of Macanaz, over there and close to the bridge the little monastery of Altabas, yonder that of San Lazarus, and further on the Monastery of Jesus. Behind this scene, reflected in the waters of the great river, could be seen a horrible fire. There was an interminable turmoil, a hoarse clamor of the voices of cannon and of human yells. Dense clouds of smoke, renewed unceasingly, mounted confusedly to the heavens. All the breastworks of this position, which were constructed with bricks from neighboring brickyards, formed with the earth of the kilns a reddish mass. One might have believed that the ground had been mixed together with blood.
The French held their front towards the Barcelona road and the Juslibol, where more kilns and gardens lie at the left of the second of those two ways. Thence the Twelfth had furiously attacked our intrenchments, making their way by the Barcelona road, and challenging with impetuous intrepidity the cross-fires of San Lazarus and that of the place called El Marcelo. Their courage lay in striking audacious blows upon the batteries, and their tenacity produced a veritable hecatomb. They fell in great numbers; the ranks were broken, and, being instantly filled by others, they repeated the attack. At times they almost reached the parapets, and a thousand individual contests increased the horror of the scene. They went in advance of their leaders, brandishing their cutlasses, like desperate men who had made it a question of honor to die before a heap of bricks, and in that frightful destruction which wrenched the life from hundreds of men every minute, they disappeared, flung down upon mother earth, soldiers and sergeants, ensigns, captains, and colonels. It was a veritable struggle between two peoples; and while the fires of the first siege were burning in our hearts, the French came on thirsting for vengeance with all the passion of offended manhood, worse even than the passion of the warrior.
It was this untimely bloodthirstiness that lost them the day. They should have begun by demolishing our works with their artillery, observing the serenity which a siege demands, and not have engaged in those hand to hand combats before positions defended by a people like the one that they had met on the fifteenth of July, and the fourth of August. They ought to have repressed their feeling of contempt or scorn of the forces of the enemy—a feeling that has always been the bad star of the French. It was the same in the war with Spain, as in the recent conflict with Prussia. They ought to have put into execution a calmly considered plan which would have produced in the besieged less of disgust than exaltation.
It is certain that if they carried with them the thought of their immortal general who always conquered as much by his admirable logic as by his cannons, they would have employed in the siege of Saragossa a little of the knowledge of the human heart, without which the pursuit of war, brutal war—it seems a lie!—is no more than cruel carnage.
Napoleon, with his extraordinary penetration, would have comprehended the Saragossan character, and would have abstained from attacking the unprotected columns, whose boast was of individual personal valor. This is a quality at all times difficult and dangerous to encounter, but above all in the presence of nations who fight for an ideal and not for an idol.
I will not go into further details of the dreadful battle of the twenty-first of December,