The Lions of Catalunya Page 14

  Silently Perez pulled his sword from his belt. The Mossos took up a defensive stance, thinking he was going to attempt to attack them, but he did not. Instead, and without a word, he handed the sword to Rafael. Turning back to the former soldiers, he spoke loudly and clearly.

  “I will defend Catalonya until the last breath leaves my body. I will never acknowledge your king in Madrid. I will accompany you with dignity, unarmed, and carrying my senyera. I beg you wait whilst I say farewell to my family.”

  The Mossos were unaccustomed to such a measured and dignified response to their boorish behaviour, and were taken aback. Carla walked unsteadily from the parlour doorway, where she had been watching proceedings, and handed the large bloodstained Catalonian flag, the one that Rafael had rescued from the final battle, to her husband. He kissed her, and embraced and kissed Rafael. Whispering in his son’s ear, he muttered “The sword is yours now, my son.” He hesitated, as if he wanted to say more. “Use it … well.” Turning back to the Mossos, he said simply, “I am ready.”

  Whilst the Mossos had been in the Blanxart shop arresting Perez, word of what was happening had flashed around La Ribera, and the soldiers were shocked to find the streets lined with angry neighbours. Perez himself may have walked silently and with dignity, but the crowd voiced their opinion very loudly indeed. The Mossos shouted back, to no avail, and finally fired a volley of shots over the heads of the crowd to silence it. This was effective and the neighbours cringed back into their doorways. Poking Perez unnecessarily with their rifles, the Mossos pushed on towards the city.

  As he left the Ribera slum, close by the walls of Santa Maria del Mar, Perez turned, raised his bloody senyera aloft, and called loud and clear, in Catalonian, “Long live Catalonya!”

  The newly appointed officers in the city were known as “Botiflers” and had a background of the torturing methods used by the Inquisition, and indeed the tools and facilities used by that hated institution. Perez had no idea what horrors would be inflicted upon him, and although he walked steadily onwards, inwardly he trembled at the thought of what might happen. Pulling his senyera tightly around himself like a cloak, he prayed that he would die quickly, and not betray the part played by his son Rafael. He had heard terrible rumours of the tortures used, but had never known how much was true, and how much had been invented by the catholic inquisitors to instil fear into the people.

  As they approached the doors of the Generalitat, the Mossos shouted “God Save the King!”, and with an echoing shout from inside, the great doors were opened. Turning away from the great staircase which led to the council chamber above, the soldiers pushed him into a small cell, and slammed the door. He was surprised to find himself alone, in a tiny dimly lit room with light filtering from a small slit high on one wall. The cell was entirely empty. Perez, sat on the floor, pulled his senyera around himself, and waited.

  In the stunned silence of the wine shop, it was Carla who had the presence of mind to bring together the older Blanxart children, and start to make a plan.

  “None of us are safe,” she began, “but you, Rafael, are the most vulnerable of all. The Mossos will be back for you, I am sure.”

  “I will be ready for them mother,” replied Rafael. “Father gave me the Blanxart sword as he was being arrested, and I will cut down any Mossos who try to arrest me.”

  “No, you won’t,” said his mother, “as you won’t be here. No, listen to me,” she continued as Rafael began to protest, “You are surely their prime target. The rest of us are of little consequence, but they know you have been beside your father during the siege, and I am certain you are on their ‘wanted’ list. What’s more, I am sure they will plan to torture your father, and as soon as he gives your name, they’ll be here for you.”

  “Father will never betray me mother,” said Rafael reproachfully. “He will never betray any of us.”

  “I know,” replied Carla, “but who knows what agony he will be put through? He has never been tested in this way, none of us have, and we cannot be sure how he will be.”

  Some of the younger children, who were already crying softly, started to weep louder and cling to their mother. Anna sat with them.

  “Your mother is right,” said Anna. “You must go into hiding, and take the sword with you. They will surely search the house for you, and you must be gone. We cannot send you to San Cougat, as the house there is occupied by the Frenchies, but we must get you out of La Riberia. The city is not safe, but you can hide among the gypsies and vagrants in the sand dunes of Barceloneta. The girls will bring you food, and you can keep out of sight until it’s safe to be seen again.”

  “Grandmother, I feel as if I’m running away and betraying father. I should stand and fight, not hide.”

  “You have no chance against these forces,” said Anna glumly. “You are more use alive than dead.”

  “At nightfall, under cover of darkness, I’ll come with you down to the sea. It’s your best chance of survival,” said Carla. “When the time is right, you’ll come back into this house as the man of the house; meanwhile you must stay safe, my son.”

  There was a numbness in the house as preparations were made for Rafael to go into hiding. The Blanxart sword was wrapped in a Catalan flag, and then wrapped again in rags. Rafael fastened a belt around his waist, and hung the sword from it, under his clothes. Torn strips of cotton around his leg secured the sword. He could walk only rather stiffly, but the sword was securely out of sight. A black scarf tied bandit-style around his head, hid his golden curls. Pulling on an extra layer, and picking up the bundle of bread and dried meat Anna had prepared for him, Rafael was ready to go into the exile of Barceloneta. Carla pulled a black shawl over her head, and the two of them slipped out as soon as it was dark enough. The curfew was in place, and they knew the slightest move would be challenged by the bands of trigger-happy Mossos patrolling the streets. Dodging silently from doorway to doorway, they made their way across and out of the slum, and finally left the city by the sea gate, shuddering at the sight of General Moragues’s head freshly displayed.

  Perez, having fallen into a fitful sleep on the floor of the little holding cell, stirred at the sound of the bolts being drawn back, and was kicked awake by a soldier’s boot. “Stand up, traitor,” snarled the soldier, kicking Perez again.

  Perez got to his feet, and found himself pushed and shoved to the grand staircase. To his surprise, it was clear that he was to go up, and so he did with a small party of Mossos close behind. At the top, the doors to the grand chamber of the Generalitat were open and he was pushed forward to a table, where he was confronted by a trio of Botiflers. One of them spoke in clear Castilian.

  “Perez Blanxart, you are charged with a terrible list of crimes against his majesty, and against the royal kingdom of Spain. Let us start with the story of your ship, The Swan I believe. Tell us about the cargo it was bringing to Barcelona last year, the cargo which so spectacularly blew up. We do not think a few bales of English wool would explode with such an exciting effect. Perhaps you would like to tell us about your ship’s cargo.”

  “I do not recognise this court, and I will answer no questions.” stated Perez in Catalan.

  “Then let us talk about something else,” continued the councillor. “We have heard talk of singing coming from your shop, the wine merchant’s in the Ribera slum. Singing in Catalan, we understand, songs in Catalan, the banned language. Would you like to tell us about the way you have been brainwashing your children against their king?”

  “I will answer no questions,” said Perez again, still responding in Catalan to the Castilian questioning.

  “You are a strong healthy man, Senor Blanxart, but you will not stay that way for long when we have extracted the information we need. At the moment you are standing before us, but do not be mistaken, soon you will be unable to stand. Soon you will be begging to answer our questions, crawling on the floor to us, and desperate for death. But until that mercy comes to you, we will be diligent in asking
many more questions. Perhaps you are already changing your mind? Will you talk to us now?

  “I will answer no questions,” said Perez for a third time, and he stood up straight and adjusted his senyera cloak.

  Turning to the band of Mossos, the Botifler councillor instructed them to take Perez down. Grabbing at his bloodied and torn flag, one of the Mossos propelled Perez to the top of the stairs, and quickly down. He was not returned to the tiny holding cell near the doors of the Generalitat, but down more stairs into the cellars which until recently had held the same men who had interrogated him. Grabbing a heavy iron cuff attached to a short stout chain which was in turn secured to a pillar, the Mossos secured the cuff around one of Perez’s ankles, gave him a kick for good measure, and abandoned him. The door slammed, and he heard heavy bolts sliding into place.

  At first, in the darkness, he thought he was alone, but he gradually became aware of low groaning. Shuffling around the pillar to which he was chained, he whispered into the gloom, “Hello. Is anyone there?”

  “God and the Virgin help me,” came a low, thin voice, little more than a whisper. “Water, water. I have been left to die.”

  “Who is there?” whispered Perez.

  “Casanova, by the grace of God, barely living,” came the agonised voice again.

  “Chief Minister Rafael!” exclaimed Perez. “Do you remember me? I’m Perez Blanxart.”

  “Perez?” muttered Casanova.

  “Yes, Perez Blanxart. It was my ship, The Swan, that exploded. Do you remember?”

  “The Swan?”

  “Yes, last year, at the start of the war. You came down to the beach.”

  “Yes, I remember,” whispered Casanova. “Guns from London wasn’t it? It seems a very long time ago.”

  “Have they tortured you?” asked Perez.

  “No,” came the reply. “I was injured in the final battle, and dragged in here to die. My arm was almost hacked off by a cursed soldier from Madrid, and I was hit in the leg by a stray bullet. I’ve been chained here ever since, hardly anything to eat, and only filthy water to drink. They thought I would bleed to death within a day, but I’m still here.”

  “Chief Minister, what can I do?”

  “Tell me something, Senor Blanxart. Tell me about that sword. Is it true? True that your father took it to Madrid? Is it the sword from Corpus ….” but before he could finish, the old man groaned, “Bring me a swift death, Senor Blanxart.”

  “Alas, I cannot even see you, Chief Minister, and I fear I cannot help.”

  A sudden rattling of the bolts, the creak of the door, and a glimmer of light interrupted the whispered conversation. A harsh voice, accompanied by a swift kick, made Perez cringe.

  “Only here a few minutes, and chattering like an old fish wife? Perhaps we’re wasting time chaining you here. Come, let’s take you into the light, and hear what you have to say.”

  The heavy cuff was removed from Perez’s ankle and the gaoler led him out of the cellar. In an adjacent room, lit only by candles, the instruments of torture were laid out ready. Perez’s clothes were hastily ripped from him, revealing his strong musculature. The gaoler sneered. “So strong, Catalan, you think you’re so strong. But wait until we break this handsome body; you’ll not stand there so bold; in fact you’ll not be able to stand there at all.” Perez’s hands were tied together behind his back and the rope passed over a pulley hoisted over a beam.

  He swung round as he heard the door open, and saw the three Botiflers enter. “Well, now,” came the voice of one of them, “Perhaps you are ready to talk to us, just as you gossiped to that wretch Casanova. Guns, was it, that you tried to bring from England?”

  Perez said nothing, but trembled in anticipation of what was to come.

  “Now,” came the voice again, in a smooth melifluous tone, “Tell us about The Swan, your lovely boat. What was its cargo when it exploded? Sticks of cinnamon? Soft silks, and woollen fleeces? I don’t think so.”

  Perez continued to say nothing, and the gaoler hit him hard across his face, causing him to lose his balance and fall, with his full weight held by his arms and shoulders. Shrieking with the agony in his shoulders as his arms were wrenched from his shoulder blades, he tried to stagger back to his feet, only to fall again as the gaoler kicked his feet from under him. The agony in his shoulders was unexpected. He was horrified how quickly and easily such pain could be inflicted upon him.

  “And how about that day you led your neighbours to the barricades? It was you at the front of the group, wasn’t it? You, the lion of La Ribera. And who else was with you that day, marching against the king?”

  Again Perez remained silent, and again the gaoler hit him hard, crushing his nose into his face, and sending him spinning, his arms and shoulders being destroyed by his own body weight.

  Perez did not know how long he could stand this treatment, as the cycle of questions and pain continued. It was clear that the Botiflers knew a great deal about him and his family, and had information from a network of spies who had collected much evidence, before as well as during, the war. They knew a great deal about his life in la Ribera, knew much about his family, and clearly had more than enough to execute him as a traitor to the king of Spain. Before sentencing him, however, they were intent on securing a confession of guilt, and seeing how many others he would implicate in his activities.

  Drawing on unexpected reserves of strength, Perez continued to refuse to co-operate, and the gaoler gradually reduced his face to a bloody mess. Repeatedly he was hit about the head, and his legs kicked from under him, and he collapsed, his own body weight torturing his arms and shoulders. At last, tiring of his obstinacy, the questioning stopped and he could stand on two feet again. When his arms were released they hung uselessly at his sides, both shoulders dislocated beyond repair. His bloody senyera lay on the floor under his feet, his own blood mingling with the stains of Castilian blood already soiling the flag. Naked but still defiant, he was unable to pick it up with his hands, so he grovelled at the foot of his torturer, and defiantly snatched up the ruined flag with his teeth.

  He was led back to the cellar, the flag gripped between his teeth. Once he had been secured to the pillar and the door was bolted, and all was quiet, he spat the flag to the floor, and tried to speak again to Chief Minister Casanova, but this time there was no reply. ‘Let us hope he is with his Maker,’ said Perez to himself. In the darkness he could not see his flag, but he felt where it was, and lay down with his face on it. A fearful shivering racked his body as his blood continued to join the other stains on the senyera. ‘Oh, Chief Minister Casanova, where are you now? I pray I join you there soon.’ And he fell in and out of fitful sleep, unable to remain awake, and yet unable to sleep with the appalling agony of his destroyed shoulders.

  Rafael and his mother had found their way to the scattered huts and hovels, the shanty town of Barceloneta which was home to various itinerant vagrants and dispossessed people. Here and there small fires burned and in the darkness the dunes appeared to be strangely peaceful. It would not look the same in daylight, but Rafael did not think about this. Leading her son to a quiet corner, darker than the rest, where even moonlight would not penetrate, Carla sat down. Rafael had limped beside his mother, walking as if he had a war wound, severely restricted by the sword strapped to his leg. With some difficulty, he managed to sit by his mother. “Stay here,” said his mother. “I’ll send the little ones to find you in the morning.”

  “They’ll never find me,” said Rafael.

  “I have chosen carefully and know exactly where we are. I will make sure they know how to find you. Now try to sleep.”

  “Sleep? That’s a joke mother. I’ll be awake all night.”

  Kissing him, Carla vanished into the darkness. He lay back and stared at the stars, his head on the bundle with the bread and meat. Gripping the hidden sword, and despite his anxiety, he did sleep.

  Despite his agony, Perez also fell asleep. He was awakened by a bucket of icy water b
eing thrown over him. Spluttering, he struggled up, his arms hanging useless at his sides. “Water for you,” laughed the guard, offering him a cup. Unable to take it, Perez stood eyeing the man. “Oh well,” continued the guard, “I don’t suppose you wanted it anyway,” and with a further laugh, threw the water to the floor. “Never mind, there’s plenty of water for you today. Don’t forget your rag, you’ll need that.” And he picked up the ruined senyera, and pushed the end of it roughly into Perez’s mouth.

  Rafael was wakened by a small child trying to steal his bread from the bundle under his head. “Get away,” he hissed, and the child, startled by Rafael’s voice, ran off. Half sitting and half lying, restricted in his movement by the sword tied to him, he looked around in the half light of dawn. He was in a narrow space between a tall structure and a sand dune. Shifting slightly he realised that the structure was a crucifix, and a shrine for those wandering in the confusing dunes. Thus, although well hidden behind the shrine, it would not be difficult for his mother or any others of the family, to find him.

  Perez, naked and still clutching his precious senyera between his teeth, was kicked and pushed to the adjoining room, and manhandled onto a long narrow table. Coarse rope was wound around him, biting into his flesh, securing him firmly to the table. The ragged flag was taken from his mouth. The guard ripped a corner from the flag, wound it around the narrow end of a crude funnel, and rammed it back into Perez’s mouth, creating a gag. A couple of the Mossos had come into the room to watch the torture and were soon joined by the trio of Botfliers. The guard started to pour water from a large jug into the funnel. Swallowing hard, and unable to breathe, Perez had the sensation that he would drown, and he choked and coughed against the onslaught of the water. Abruptly, the water stopped and the gag was pulled from his mouth.

  “Ready to talk to us now?” asked one of the Mossos, in Castilian.