The Lions of Catalunya Page 17

  Gradually, however, the mass of humanity disintegrated as one by one, and in small groups, they stopped, whether from exhaustion, or simply because they had found somewhere to make an encampment. As the sun rose, the creeping, hideous mass of people stopped, and turned, and looked back at the blaze which had been their home.

  “Macia,” said Carla, mindful of others within earshot, “go back to the hut and stand guard. We have but little, but we cannot risk losing anything, nor indeed, possession of our hut. I will go and hunt for my parents. Wait for me at the hut. If I find them I’ll bring them to you.”

  Rafael, guarding their tiny shack, watched as others arrived on the foreshore, some with bundles of clothing and possessions, and some even managing to drag a handcart through the sand. Group by group, they set up small encampments, and sat, exhausted, among or on their bundles. Mostly they appeared to have brought some food with them, and once they had recovered a little from the stress of the evacuation, they took out various scraps of cheese and dried meat. Rafael was again struck by the incongruity of the situation. The autumn sun had risen into a clear blue sky, and the Mediterranean sparkled blue beneath it. Facing east into the dazzle of the sun, the scene was peaceful and idyllic; but turning west the clouds of black smoke, the crackle and roar of the flames, and most of all, the smell of the conflagration told of nothing but unspeakable horrors.

  A young man, perhaps much his own age, came over to him. Rafael was eager for news, although frightened of what he might hear. The young man told him of how the Mossos had come in the evening and told them to be away by dawn. The whole of La Ribera was to be raised to the ground. King Philip, in Madrid, hearing the story of the siege and eventual defeat of Barcelona, was determined that no such insurrection against Spain could happen again. The king had decided that all the opposition to Madrid, and all the organisation of the Catalonians, originated in La Ribera, and so he had ordered the entire slum to be raised to the ground. The population had been given just one night in which to prepare to leave their homes, and most had spent the night desperately trying to work out what they could carry, and what would be abandoned to the flames. The youth knew the Macia butcher’s shop, but he had no idea where Senor and Senora Macia might be.

  In the middle of the day, Carla returned empty handed and with no news. “Everywhere was the same,” she told Rafael. “Dazed people, sitting on bundles of possessions, no-where to go. There are hundreds of disposed people; the whole of the Ribera slum has come to the sea.”

  Carla set out again in the afternoon, and occasionally found people who knew of her parents, but none knew whether they had escaped the inferno, nor had seen them on the beach. With the sun setting, she arrived back at the sea’s edge, south of their own hut, and was about to give up for the day, when she heard her name.

  “Carla!” It was the voice of her father. She turned to see her father struggling towards her. Her parents had skirted along the southern edge of the dunes, dragging with them a fully laden handcart. “Your mother is exhausted,” said her father. “We can’t drag this thing any further.” He stopped, too drained and empty even to show his relief at finding his daughter.

  Carla flung her arms around her father, and then turned to the bundle of rags leaning on the back of the handcart. “Mother,” she said, “I didn’t think I’d find you. I have been imagining the worst all day. Thanks to the Virgin who looks over us, you’re safe now.”

  “I think we are a bit too old for all this,” said her mother weakly.

  Carla held tightly to her mother. “You’ve done very well, mother. And now we’ve found one another, you will be alright. By a miracle, you have found me very near the shack, where Rafael is waiting. It’s not much of a shelter, but it’s a lot better than nothing. I’ll bring you to Rafael – he’ll be so pleased to know you are safe.”

  “We were always frightened of Hell when we heard about it in church,” began her father, “but I never expected that we would see it. La Ribera is a vision of hell, fires burning on every street, frightened people running every which way, and a smell beyond description. If this is the Lord’s plan for us, it’s terrible.”

  “We watched the fire this morning. We felt so hopeless, just watching and unable to do anything,” said Carla.

  “Thanks to the Virgin, we got a warning. Most people escaped, just carrying what they could. Like everyone else, we have nothing left except what we could carry, or bring on the cart,” said her mother.

  “Dragging this cart has been a nightmare,” said Carla’s father, “but looking at what’s happening around us, I’m glad we did.”

  “Whatever have you brought, father?” asked Carla.

  Carla’s father leaned close and whispered, “It’s all the meat from the shop. I brought the lot. And if anyone tries to steal any of it, I’ve brought my best knives as well!”

  “You’ll be telling me your senyera is under there too,” said Carla.

  “Of course it is!”

  Rafael was quite worried that it had taken Carla so long to get back to him, but he was delighted that she was bring his grandparents. He limped forward to help the other three drag the handcart to the shack. The old couple collapsed onto the beach by the hut, Rafael sat near to them, and Carla provided what little succour she could from their meagre supply of water. Oblivious to the magnificent sunset casting a warm glow over the beach, they huddled together, and slept fitfully.

  In the morning, as another beautiful day dawned, they began to recover a little from the previous day’s effort. Noting yet again the irony of such wonderful weather and the calm blue sea, Rafael looked at his grandfather. “So,” he began, “what’s the plan?”

  “I’ve no idea,” replied Grandfather Macia. “I just couldn’t leave all my stock to the Spanish soldiers, so we loaded it all onto the cart. My knives are my most precious possessions as a butcher, so we brought them.”

  “I told him he was mad,” said grandmother. “We nearly killed ourselves dragging that cart. Mind you, I would have been pleased to see the faces of the soldiers when they got to the shop, and expecting to find a room full of meat, found it empty instead.”

  “It’s mostly dried and smoked meat,” said grandfather, “and there is quite a lot of it, as you could tell from the weight of the cart.”

  “I was thinking after we pulled that load to the hut last night,” said Rafael. “There’s hundreds of people here, all refugees, and they’ve brought all kinds of stuff. They’re sitting beside and on the bundles they’ve brought, mostly just waiting to see what will happen. They don’t know where they will live, or even how they will live. We were like that at first. You’re just so desperate and tired and distressed, you don’t know what to do. Soon their food will run out, they’ll all be hungry and they’ll realise they have no way of cooking. Hopefully they’ve brought their money with them. With all this meat from grandfather’s shop, we can set up a kitchen in the hut, right here on the beach, and feed at least a few of them.”

  “It would be really difficult, Rafael,” said Carla. “We have no way of cooking anything properly. We have been barely able to feed ourselves. We can’t begin to feed others. It’s too hard. How could we do such a thing?”

  “Tell us what you’re thinking, boy,” said his Grandfather.

  “You’ve brought all this meat, Grandfather. You said you brought your good knives, so you can cut it for us, and we will cook it over the fire. That’s the fresh meat, which will not last long anyway. The dried and smoked meats don’t need cooking and grandfather is an expert at cutting them. We could ask those with money to pay with cash, or partly with bundles of firewood they collect on the beach. For those without money, we’d be able to barter for something they’ve brought, or found. If one or two of them could find some stone or bricks perhaps we could even build a kind of oven….”

  “Slow down,” smiled Carla, shaking her head. “Just cooking over the fire will have to be good enough at first.”

  “When we’ve unloa
ded the cart, it will make a table to work on, and with grandmother here to guard the hut and our things, I can go further afield to hunt for other stuff! What do you think grandfather?”

  “Thank the Virgin for young people,” smiled grandfather. “We are beset with terror and troubles, and you come up with a plan. We must try to make the best of a dreadful situation, young man. You give us hope, where there was none.”

  “Perhaps one or two of the refugees will be able to catch rabbits for us – that would be a good start for getting more fresh meat,” continued Rafael.

  “A kind of kitchen on the beach,” mused Carla. “It might just work.”

  “Yes,” repeated Rafael, thinking aloud. “A chiringuito, a little kitchen on the beach.”

  The afternoon was a lot more difficult than Rafael expected, as it was not simply a matter of unloading the cart. Grandfather insisted that all the legs of pig which had been hanging in his shop needed to be hung in the hut. This seemed to be the bulk of what he had brought out of La Ribera, and tying each hunk of meat to the makeshift beams of the tiny hut was very hard. Grandmother was convinced that the weight of meat would bring the whole structure collapsing down on them, but Rafael and grandfather worked hard and with enthusiasm.

  As night fell, and the task was almost complete, grandfather produced the senyera he had hidden on the cart, and in the twilight, the four stood around it, each with their own silent thoughts about the horrors of recent days.

  “We cannot hang it up for fear of our lives,” said Rafael, “but we must keep it safe, with the ….” and he stopped, and looked at his mother for reassurance.

  “Go on,” she said. “It is the right time to tell the secret.”

  His grandparents looked at Rafael in astonishment as he started to tell the story.

  “I was very lucky in the fighting,” he began, “ and was not injured. I walk with this strange limp for a very different reason. I am carrying the Blanxart sword; it is strapped to my leg to keep it hidden, and I have kept it safe and out of the hands of the Spanish by keeping it with me.”

  “I don’t understand,” said grandfather. “The Blanxart sword? What’s that?”

  “Many years ago, nearly a hundred, my great, great grandfather, Joan Blanxart was murdered in his baker’s shop in La Ribera. His son Miquel, my great grandfather, kept the Castilian sword which killed his father, and vowed to use it to seek vengeance for the murder. The sword has been passed from father to son ever since from Miquel to Perot, my grandfather, and from Perot to Perez my father. My father Perez used it at the barricades of Barcelona. I was with him when he sliced a Castilian soldier in two with it. When he was arrested, he handed me the sword. I am the youngest Blanxart ever to carry the responsibility. One day, as we have said before, perhaps many years from now, the sword will be carried through the streets of Barcelona, when we celebrate the rise once more of our beloved Catalunya.”

  “An astonishing story, Rafael,” said grandfather. “And you keep it on your person?”

  “At all times. It literally never leaves my side. And until there is somewhere safe to hide it, it will remain tied to me. We must keep your senyera equally safe. One day our flag of blood will fly again in Catalunya. Father’s senyera stayed with him through the torture and was burned with his body in the winery fire. Your flag has survived the destruction of La Ribera, and thus takes its place in the history of our nation.”

  “We never know when the Mossos will be coming to check up on us, and they’ll certainly notice us when we start to try and sell the meat,” said Carla. “The senyera must stay hidden if it is to be kept safe for the future.”

  “Grandfather,” said Rafael, “with your permission, I would like to wrap the sword in your senyera. That way both will be safe.”

  “I can think of nothing better; but if you are found with the senyera under your clothes, you will be condemned. Anyone showing the senyera, or using our own Catalan language, or anything else demonstrating our loyalty to Catalunya, will be put to death.”

  With the bravado of youth, Rafael was confident. “I won’t be caught, grandfather. I am the lion of La Ribera, and whilst I am in disguise now, I will rise again, and my children and children’s children will preserve the traditions of Catalunya.”

  In the darkness of the hut, under the hanging meat, and surrounded by the only family he had left, Rafael solemnly peeled away the rags of his beggar’s disguise, and revealed the sword. Hesitantly Grandfather and Grandmother Macia held out their hands and touched the sword as if it were a holy relic.

  “May I hold it? asked grandfather, taking it reverently. “My, it’s heavy,” he exclaimed. “What a weight you are carrying.”

  “It’s warm,” muttered grandmother.

  Carla smiled. “It’s the warmth of Rafael’s body,” she said.

  With a twist of butcher’s string, grandfather helped Rafael wrap and secure the senyera flag around the sword, and Rafael strapped it back to his body. “It has started to feel like a part of me,” he said. “I missed it when I took it off, and it’s like an old friend coming back to me now.”

  Helping him back into his rags, grandfather joked, “You might be the lion of La Ribera, but you still stink!”

  “I fear we will all stink, living here on the beach,” said Carla.

  “But we have the sea, the great blue Mediterranean sea, on our doorstep,” remarked grandmother. “I, for one, intend to take regular baths!”

  The next day, with grandmother guarding the hut, Carla took Rafael with her to collect water. Everywhere the beach was crowded with refugees, many of them still dazed by the abrupt loss of their home. On the whole they appeared to have little ability to cope with the distressing circumstances, and many were openly weeping. Few had realised that they needed to make the best of the dreadful circumstances, and despite his own terrible loss, Rafael hoped that getting the chiringuito started would help a little towards some kind of positive feeling amongst this sea of despair.

  Returning with the water, Carla gathered more edible herbs and plants, and Rafael accumulated a large bundle of firewood. Arriving back at the hut, they discovered that grandfather had been busy on the shoreline picking up drift wood, and had even dragged a few large timbers back to start extending the shack. Together, they found and dragged several very large boulders to make a hearth, and by the end of the day, they were ready to start cooking. Various other people, drifting aimlessly, watched them at work, and asked what they were doing. “Come back tomorrow,” they said, “and you will find out.”

  The chiringuito was a success, as so many of the hordes of people were desperate and hungry. Most of the refugees had some money with them and many were ready to collect firewood and pay for a slice of pork in exchange for a small coin and a bundle of sticks. Before the first day was over it was obvious that they would need to find a way to bake, and thus serve the meat wrapped in bread. As the small coins began to accumulate, grandmother counted them up and declared that she would venture out and buy flour.

  Happily, several of the refugees proved to be skilled at catching rabbits, so quickly the stock of fresh meat was replenished.

  From this tiny beginning, a small business developed over the next few weeks. Some of the refugees found employment, mainly in the massive work needed to rebuild the shattered city, and a strange calm came upon the shanty town on the beach. Once in control, the Spanish seemed to have no appetite to continue the purge against the Catalans, preferring, it appeared, to let well alone on the beach.

  Each day saw a small development or improvement in the chiringuito. A wood fired bread oven was built, and the crude hearth for roasting meat was rebuilt and improved, and the hut extended. Carla was the driving force behind much of the daily routine of the chiringuito, with grandmother taking on the unexpected role of baker. Grandfather and Rafael spent much of their day assisting with chores at the cafe, but also had time to wander through the crowded camp. Grandfather found a number of their old friends and neighb
ours from La Ribera, and all had the same story to tell, of the dreadful flight in the night, carrying or dragging as much as they could, and everyone recalled that terrible moment when they turned and watched La Ribera in flames. For the time being, Rafael maintained his disguise, and told everyone he was Joan Macia.

  As winter approached, most of the refugees contrived to make their huts and shacks into something weatherproof. The mild autumn weather assisted greatly as the displaced community came to terms with its loss, and re-grouped in a new, and not altogether unpleasant environment. Within a few days of the fire, some refugees had ventured back into La Ribera and returned with blacked pots and pans, but little else remained of what had been a flourishing and vibrant community.

  Some of those visiting the charred remains of the slum reported mysterious activities with soldiers measuring and staking out what appeared to be a gigantic building. Rafael and his grandfather were watching from a sand dune near the sea gate, when a neighbour came rushing towards them.

  “It’s a fort!” the neighbour exclaimed. “They’re building a giant fort!”

  There followed a period of extraordinary irony, as many of the men amongst the refugees found work on the enormous building site. How odd it was to be digging foundations into the charred remains of their own homes. How strange to help with the obliteration of their own alleys and streets. How bizarre to be using stones from their own dwellings, or torn from their city walls, to form the foundations of the massive new structure.

  During that first winter of 1714, the community settled into a routine of sorts, living on the beach and in the dunes of Barceloneta. With the income earned from labouring on the site of the new fort, some of the inhabitants were able to make themselves reasonably comfortable in their shanty town. The Botiflers, settled in a variety of local and government posts, were clear that their duty to King Philip included re-establishing Barcelona as a significant, and peaceful, trading port, and thus they continued to administer the city with a light touch. After the initial violence in the aftermath of the siege, they had no taste for further torture or execution, and most of the former inhabitants of the Ribera slum, began to feel safe, if not settled.