As I have said, Palafox pulled us together; and although we abandoned
almost all of the Calle de Pabostre, we remained strong in the Puerta
Quemada. If the battle was bloody until three, the hour when we centred
in the Plaza de la Magdalena, it was not less bloody there until night.
The French began to raise works in the houses ruined by the mines, and
it was curious to see how among the masses of rubbish and beams small
armed squares and covered ways were made and platforms to connect the
artillery. That was a battle which every moment appeared less and less
like any other known warfare.
From this new phase of contest resulted an advantage for us and a
hindrance for the French. The demolition of the houses permitted
them to place some new pieces, but the men were unprotected. To our
misfortune, we could not avail ourselves of this because of the
explosions. Fright made us think the danger multiplied a hundredfold,
when in reality it was diminished. Not wishing to do less than they in
that fiery duel, the Saragossans began to burn the houses in the Calle
de Pabostre which they could not hold.
Besiegers and besieged, desirous of coming to an end of this, and
not being able to attain it in such intricate burrowing warfare,
began to destroy, one side by mining, the other by burning, remaining
unprotected like the gladiator who throws away his shield.
What an afternoon! What a night! Arriving here, I pause, wearied and
breathless. My recollections are obscured, dimmed as my thoughts and my
feelings were dimmed on that dreadful night. There came indeed a moment
when being unable to resist longer, my body, like that of others of my
comrades who had the fortune or misfortune to be still alive, dragged
itself back across the gutters, stumbling over unburied bodies that
seemed less than human among the debris. My feelings had flung me into
an extreme of delirium, and I did not clearly know where I was. My idea
of living was a confused, vague mixture of unheard-of miseries. It did
not seem as if it was day, because in so many places the murk hung low,
obscuring everything. Nor could I think it night, for flames like those
we imagine in hell reddened the city on every side.
I only know that I dragged myself, stepping upon bodies, some dead and
some still moving, and that farther on, always farther on, I thought
I might find a piece of bread and a mouthful of water. What horrible
mental dejection! What hunger! What thirst! I saw many running swiftly.
I cried out to them. I saw their strange shadows throwing grotesque
figures upon the neighboring walls. They were going and coming, I know
not whence nor where. I was not the only one who, with body and soul
exhausted after so many hours of fighting, had given out completely.
Many others who had not the steel nerves of the Aragonese were dragging
themselves along like myself, and we begged one another for a little
water. Some, more fortunate than the rest, had the strength to look
about among the corpses and find crusts of rations not eaten, fragments
of meat, cold and dirty on the ground, which they devoured with avidity.
Somewhat revived, we went on looking, and I took my part of the tidbits
of the feast. I did not know if I was wounded. Some of those who were
talking with me, telling me of their dreadful hunger and thirst, had
terrible wounds and burns and contusions. At last we came to some women
who gave us water to drink, although it was muddy and warm. We disputed
over the jug, and then in the hands of one of the dead we found a
kerchief containing two dried sardines and little cakes. Encouraged
by these repeated finds, we went on pillaging, and at last the little
which we were able to eat, and, more than anything else, the dirty
water we drank, gave us back a little strength.
I now felt myself able to walk a little, although with difficulty.
I saw that my clothing was all soaked with blood. Feeling a lively
smarting in my right arm, I supposed that I was severely wounded; but
the hurt turned out to be an insignificant contusion, and the stains on
my clothing came from creeping along through the pools of blood and mud.
I could now think clearly again. I could see plainly, and could hear
distinctly the shouts and the hurried footsteps, the cannon-shots near
and afar in dreadful dialogue. Their crashings here and yonder seemed
like questions and replies.
The burning went on. There was a dense cloud over the city formed of
dust and smoke, which, with the splendor of the flames, revealed
horrible unearthly scenes like those of dreams.
The mangled houses, with their windows and openings glaring with the
light like hellish eyes, the projecting angles of the smoking ruins,
and the burning beams formed a spectacle less sinister than that of
those leaping and unwearied figures that did not cease to move about
here and there, almost in the centre of the flames. They were the
peasants of Saragossa, who were still fighting with the French, and
disputing with them every hand's breadth of this hell.
I found myself in the Calle de Puerta Quemada. That which I have
described was seen by looking in two directions from the Seminary, and
from the entrance of the Calle de Pabostre. I went on a few steps,
but fell again, overcome by fatigue. A priest, seeing me covered with
blood, came up to me and began to talk to me of the future life, and of
the eternal rewards destined for those who die for their country. He
told me that I was not wounded; but that hunger, weariness, and thirst
had prostrated me, and that I seemed to have the early symptoms of the
epidemic. Then the good friar, in whom I recognized at once Father
Mateo del Busto, seated himself beside me, sighing deeply.
"I can keep up no longer. I believe that I am going to die."
"Is your reverence wounded?" I asked, seeing a linen cloth bound upon
his right arm.
"Yes, my son. A ball has destroyed my shoulder and arm. I am in the
greatest pain, but I must bear it. Christ suffered more for us. Since
daybreak I have been busy, caring for the wounded and pointing the
dying to heaven. I have not rested a moment for sixteen hours, nor have
I eaten nor drank anything. A woman tied this linen on my right arm,
and I went about my work. I believe that I shall not live long. What a
death! My God, and all these wounded with no one to take care of them!
But, oh, I can no longer stand! I am dying! Have you seen that trench
which is at the end of the Calle de los Clavos? Over there poor Coridon
is lying, lifeless, the victim of his own courage. We were passing
along there to take care of some of the wounded, when we saw, near the
garden of San Augustine, a group of Frenchmen who were passing from
one house to another. Coridon, whose impetuous blood impelled him to
the most daring acts, threw himself upon them. They bayoneted him, and
flung him in the ditch. How many victims in a single day, Araceli!
Indeed, you are fortunate in not being hurt. But you will die of the
epidemic, and that is worse. To-day I have given absolution to sixty
who were dying of the epidemic. I give it to you also, my friend,
because I know you have committed no sins, only peccadilloes, and that
you have borne yourself valiantly in these days. How is it? Do you feel
worse? Truly you are yellower than these corpses about us. To die of
the epidemic during this horrible siege is to die for one's country.
Courage, young man! Heaven is open to receive you, and the Virgin del
Pilar will welcome you with her mantle of the stars. Life is nothing.
How much better it is to die honorably, and to gain eternal glory by
the suffering of a day! In the name of God, I forgive you your sins!"
Then after murmuring the prayer appropriate to the occasion, he blessed
me, and pronounced the _Ego te absolvo_, and then lay down upon the
ground. He looked very badly, and although I did not call myself well,
I thought myself in a better state of health than the good friar. That
was not the only time when the confessor died before the dying one, and
the physician before the patient.
I spoke to Father Mateo, and he did not answer me, except with piteous
moans. I went a little way to look for some one who might be able to
help him. I met several men and women, and told them, "Father Mateo del
Busto is over there and cannot move;" but they took no notice of me and
went on. Many of the wounded called upon me, begging for aid; but I
took no notice at all of them. Near the Coso, I met a child of eight or
ten years, who was alone, and weeping in the sorest distress. I stopped
him. I asked him where his parents were, and he pointed to a place near
where there was a great number of the wounded and dead. Afterwards I
met the same child in several places, always alone and always crying
aloud very bitterly. No one cared for him. I heard no questions, but,
"Have you seen my brother?" "Have you seen my son?" "Have you seen
my father?" But none of these were to be found in any direction. No
one tried to take any of the wounded to the churches, because all or
nearly all were crowded. The cellars and lower rooms which at first
had been considered good places of refuge, were now infected with a
death-dealing atmosphere. There came a time when the best place for the
wounded was in the middle of the street.
I directed my steps towards the centre of the Coso, because they said
that there they were giving out something to eat, but I received
nothing. I was returning to Las Tenerias, and at last, in front of
Almudi, they gave me a little hot food. That which seemed a symptom of
the epidemic disappeared, for indeed my malady was only of the sort
that can be cured with bread and wine. I remembered Father Mateo del
Busto, and with some others went to help him. The unfortunate old man
had not moved, and when we came up, and asked him how he found himself,
he answered thus,--
"What is it? Has the bell sounded for matins? It is early. Leave me to
rest. I find myself much fatigued, Father Gonzalez. I have been picking
flowers in the garden for sixteen hours, and I am tired."
In spite of his entreaty, we four took him up; but we had carried him
only a short distance before he was dead in our arms.
My comrades ran to the front, and I was preparing to follow them,
when I happened to see a man whose looks attracted my attention. It
was Candiola. He was coming out of a house near by with his clothing
scorched, and grasping between his hands a fowl, which cackled at being
held captive. I stopped him in the middle of the street, questioning
him about his daughter and Augustine. He answered me in a very
disturbed way,--
"My daughter--I do not know--there she is--somewhere. All, all! I have
lost all. The receipts, the receipts were burned. Fortunately I got out
of the house, and as I fled I came upon this chicken which, like me,
was flying from the dreadful flames. Yesterday, a hen was worth five
duros. But my receipts! Holy Virgin del Pilar, and thou, dear little
Santo Domingo of my soul, why have ye let my receipts be burned? They,
at least, might have been saved. Do you wish to help me? The tin box
which held them is still there pinned down under a great beam. Where
can you find half a dozen men for me? Good God, this junta, these
authorities, this Captain-General, what are they thinking of?" And he
went on, calling out to the passers-by, "Eh, peasant, friend, dear man,
let us see if we cannot lift the beam which has fallen into the corner.
Oh, friends, put down that dying man you are carrying to the hospital,
and come and help me. Oh, pitiless Saragossans, how God is chastising
you!" Seeing that none came to help him, he went into the house, but
came out again, crying out in desperation, "Already it is too late to
save anything! Everything is on fire. Oh, my Virgin del Pilar, why dost
thou not perform a miracle for me? Why not give me such a gift as that
bestowed upon the children in the fiery furnace of Babylon, so that I
could go into the teeth of the fire and save my receipts!"