On the third of February, the French gained possession of the Convent
of Jerusalem,[1] which was between Santa Engracia and the hospital. The
battle which succeeded the conquest of such an important position was
as bloody as those of Las Tenerias.
[1] To-day the Convent of Jerusalem still exists in a restored
condition. Its façade is towards the Hall of Independence. The
hospital occupied the place where the Hotel de l'Europe stands. The
present Palace of Deputies for the Province was constructed on the
site of the Convent of San Francisco.
Don Marcos Simono, the distinguished commander of engineers, was one
of those who died there. In the suburb, the besiegers had advanced
but little; and in six or seven days' effort, they had not gained
possession of the Calle de Puerta Quemada.
The authorities understood that it would be difficult to prolong the
resistance much longer, and with offers of money and honors tried to
rouse the patriots anew. In a proclamation of the second of February,
asking for means, Palafox said, "I am giving my two watches and twenty
silver dishes, which are all I have left." In that of the fourth of
February, he offered to give especial honors, to make caballeros of
the twelve men who should most distinguish themselves; a military
order of nobility was created for them, called the Infanzones. In the
proclamation of the ninth, he mourned the indifference and readiness
to yield, exhibited by some citizens at the misfortunes of their
country; and after intimating that this loss of heart was brought about
by French gold, he threatened dire punishment for those who showed
themselves cowards.
The battles of the third, fourth, and fifth were not so bloody as the
last which I have described. The French and Spanish were perishing with
fatigue. The street entrances which we were holding in the Plazuela
de la Magdalena were defended with cannon, and repulsed the enemy's
two advances from the Calle de Palomar and the Calle de Pabostre. The
remains of the Seminary were also bristling with artillery; and the
French, sure of not being able to drive us from there by ordinary
means, were working at their mines without ceasing.
My battalion was now one with that of the Estremadura, and indeed what
was left of both was scarcely three companies. Augustine Montoria was
captain, and I was promoted lieutenant on the second. We did not return
to service in Las Tenerias. They sent us to guard San Francisco,--a
vast edifice which offered good positions for our guns against the
French, who were established in the Convent of Jerusalem. Very short
rations were now dealt out to us; and those of us who were counted
among the officers ate in the same mess with the soldiers. Augustine
kept his bread to give to Mariquilla.
After the fourth day, the French began mining towards the hospital and
San Francisco, in order to take it; for they knew well that it would be
impossible in any other way. In order to hinder them we countermined,
intending to blow them up before they could blow us up. This toilsome
labor in the bowels of the earth can be compared to nothing else in
the world. We seemed to ourselves to have left off being men, and to
be converted into another kind of creatures, into cold inhabitants of
caverns, without feeling, far from the sun and the pure air and the
lovely light of day. We built long galleries, working ceaselessly like
the worm that builds his house in the darkness of earth, shaping it
like his own body. Between the blows of our picks, we heard, like a
muffled echo, the picks of the French. After having been beaten and
destroyed on the surface, we expected momentarily to be exterminated in
the dreadful night of those sepulchres.
The Convent of San Francisco had vast subterranean wine-cellars under
its choir. The edifices which the French occupied farther down had
these also, and it was unusual for a house not to have a deep cellar.
In these many of our enemies perished, sometimes by the falling in of
floors, sometimes wounded from afar by our balls, which penetrated
into the most hidden places. The galleries opened by the spades of
both sides met at last in one of these cellars. By the light of our
torches, we saw the French, like fantastic goblin figures engendered by
the reddish light and the sinuosities of the old Moorish dungeon. They
did not see us, and we began firing at them; but as we were provided
with hand-grenades, we hurled these also, putting them to flight,
following them afterwards at arms-length the whole distance through
their galleries. All this seemed a nightmare,--one of those dreadful
struggles which at times we all wage with the abhorrent figures that
people the terrible caverns of our dreams. But it was not a dream,
though it repeated itself at many points.
In this pursuit, we showed ourselves frequently; and at last emerged
in the Coso,--the central place of reunion, and at the same time,
park, hospital, and general cemetery of the besieged. One afternoon
(I believe it was the fifth), we were in the gateway of the convent,
with several boys of the battalion of Estremadura and San Pedro. We
were talking about the way the siege dragged along, and all agreed that
resistance would very soon be impossible. Our group was constantly
enlarged. Don José de Montoria came up, and, saluting us with a sad
face, seated himself upon a wooden bench near the doorway.
"Do you hear what they are saying here, Don José?" I said to him. "They
believe that it is impossible to hold out many days more."
"Don't get discouraged, boys," he answered. "The Captain-General
says truly in his proclamation that a good deal of French gold is in
circulation in this city."
A Franciscan who had come to nurse several dozen of the sick took up
the word, and said,--
"It is painful to hear them. They do not talk of anything but surrender
here. It does not seem as if this is Saragossa any longer. Who could
believe it of a people tried in the fire of the first siege?"
"Your reverence is right!" exclaimed Montoria. "It is shameful; and
even those of us who have hearts of bronze feel ourselves attacked by
this weakness, which spreads faster than the epidemic. In casting up
the accounts, I don't know how to reckon for this novelty of surrender,
when we have never done it before, porra! If there is something to come
after this world, as our religion teaches us, why should we worry about
a day more or less of life?"
"The truth is, Señor Don José," said the friar, "that the provisions
are going fast; and when there is no flour everybody is irritable."
"Fiddle-de-dee, Father Luengo," exclaimed Montoria. "Yet if these
people, accustomed to the luxury of other times, cannot get along
without bread and meat, there is nothing to say! As if there were not
other things to eat! I believe in resisting to the last breath of life,
cost what it may. I have experienced terrible misfortunes; the loss
of my first-born and of my grandson has filled my heart with sorrow;
but at times my regard for national honor fills my soul so that there
is no room left for any other sentiment. One son is left to me, the
only consolation of my life, the one hope of my house and my name. Far
from taking him out of danger, I insisted upon his persisting in the
defence. If I should lose him, I would die of grief; but in order to
save our national honor, I am willing that my only child shall perish."
"And according to what I have heard," said Father Luengo, "the Señor
Augustine has performed prodigies of valor. It is plain that the
greenest laurels of this campaign belong to the brilliant fighters of
the Church."
"No; my son no longer belongs only to the Church. It is necessary that
he should renounce the plan of being a clergyman. I cannot be left
without direct succession."
"Ah, you are talking of succession and of marriages! Augustine must
have changed since he became a soldier. Formerly his conversation was
all of theology, and I never heard him talk of love. He is a chap who
has Saint Thomas at his finger-tips, and does not know in what part of
their faces girls carry their eyes."
"Augustine will sacrifice his beloved vocation for my sake. If we come
out alive from the siege, and the Virgin del Pilar grants me life, I
intend to marry him quickly to a woman who is his equal in position
and fortune."
While he was saying this, we saw Mariquilla Candiola approaching us,
sobbing; on coming up to me she asked,--
"Señor de Araceli, have you seen my father?"
"No, Señorita Doña Mariquilla," I answered, "I have not seen him since
yesterday. It may be that he is in the ruins of his house, busying
himself trying to get something out."
"No, he is not," said Mariquilla, anxiously; "I have looked for him
everywhere."
"Have you been over back here, near San Diego? Señor Candiola sometimes
goes to look at his house los Duendes, to see if it has been destroyed."
"I am going there instantly!"
As she disappeared, Montoria said, "She is, I am told, the daughter of
the miser Candiola. Faith, she's very pretty, and does not look like
the daughter of such a wolf--God forgive me, I mean good man."
"She's not bad looking," said the friar; "but I imagine she's a good
one. Saints don't come of Candiola timber."
"One must not speak ill of one's neighbor," said Don José.
"Candiola is nobody's neighbor. The girl is always in the company of
the soldiers since they lost their house."
"She goes among them to help take care of the wounded."
"It may be; but it looks to me as if she likes best those who are
strong and hearty. Her charming little face does not show a whiff of
shame."
"You snake in the grass!"
"It is the truth," said the friar. "She's a chip of the old block. Do
they not say all sorts of things about her mother, Pepa Rincon?"
"Perhaps she used to take a little something to make her happy."
"It's not a bad kind of happiness. When she was abandoned by her third
gallant, Señor Don Jeronimo took charge of her."
"Enough of scandal," said Montoria. "Even when we talk of the
worst people in the world, we can at least leave them to their own
consciences."
"I would not give a farthing for the souls of all the Candiolas put
together," replied the friar. "But there comes the Señor Don Jeronimo,
if I am not mistaken. He has seen us, and is coming over here."
Candiola was indeed coming slowly along the Coso, and came up to the
convent door.
"Good-evening to you, Señor Don Jeronimo," said Montoria. "I live in
hope that our grudge is all gone."
"A moment ago your innocent young daughter was here looking for you,"
said Luengo, maliciously.
"Where is she?"
"She has gone to San Diego," said a soldier. "Maybe some of the French
about here have carried her off."
"Perhaps they respect her, knowing that she is the daughter of Señor
Don Jeronimo," said Luengo. "Is this true, friend Candiola, that they
are telling about here?"
"What?"
"That you have been inside the French lines, holding confabs with that
mob?"
"I? What vile calumny!" exclaimed the miser. "My enemies are saying
that to ruin me. Is it you, Señor de Montoria, who have set these
stories going?"
"Not even in thought," said the patriot; "but I have certainly heard
others say it. I remember defending you, assuring them that Señor
Candiola is incapable of selling himself to the French."
"My enemies, my enemies wish to ruin me! What calumnies they invent
against me! They wish to make me lose my honor, since I have lost my
estate. Gentlemen, my house in the Calle de la Sombra has lost part
of its roof. Is there any such trouble as mine! The one that I have
here back of San Francisco, next to the garden of San Diego, is still
preserved; but it is occupied by the troops, and they will finish it
for me, and it's a beauty."
"That house is worth very little, Señor Don Jeronimo," said the friar.
"If I have not forgotten, it is ten years since anybody would live in
it."
"That is because some crazy people gave out that it has ghosts in it.
But let us drop that. Have you seen my daughter about here?"
"That virginal white lily has gone over to San Diego in search of her
amiable papa."
"My daughter has lost all her good sense."
"Something of that sort."
"Yet Señor de Montoria is all to blame for it. My wicked enemies give
me no time to breathe."
"What do you say?" exclaimed my protector. "How am I to blame for what
this child has inherited of the evil ways of her mother? I mean to say
(my cursed tongue!) that her mother was an exemplary lady."
"The insults and scorn of Señor Montoria do not affect me," said the
miser, with biting contempt. "Instead of insulting me, the Señor Don
José ought to keep his son Augustine in order, that libertine who has
turned my daughter's head. No, I will not give her to him in marriage,
though he begs on his knees. He wants to rob me of her. A pretty
fellow, that Don Augustine! No, no, he shall not have her for a wife.
She can do better, much better, my Mariquilla!"
Don José de Montoria turned white on hearing this, and stepped hastily
towards Candiola, with the intention doubtless of renewing the scene
in the Calle de Anton Trillo. But he restrained himself, and said in a
mournful voice,--
"My God, give me strength to govern my anger. Is it possible to keep my
temper and to have humility in the presence of this man? I asked his
pardon for the wrong which I did him. I humbled myself before him. I
offered him a friendly hand; and now he is here injuring and insulting
me in the most disgusting fashion. Wretched man! beat me, kill me,
drink all my blood, and sell my bones afterwards to make buttons; but
let not that vile tongue of yours cast ignominy upon my beloved son.
What is this that you say about my Augustine?"
"The truth."
"I do not know how to contain myself! Gentlemen, witness my
self-control. I do not wish to let myself go. I do not wish to trample
on any one. I do not wish to offend God. I forgive this man his
calumnies; but on condition that he quit my presence at once, because
seeing him I cannot answer for myself."
Candiola, alarmed at these words, entered the convent gate. Father
Luengo took Montoria down the Coso.
At the same time there began to be heard among the soldiers there
an angry murmur which indicated sentiments hostile to the father of
Mariquilla, who, accustomed to this sort of thing, did not realize that
it was anything unusual. He tried to get away, as they pushed him from
one to the other; but they held him, and, without knowing exactly how,
he was brought swiftly into the cloister by the threatening group. Then
a voice cried, in angry accents,--
"To the well, throw him into the well!"
Candiola was seized by many hands, pounded and torn, and pulled about
more than ever before.
"He is one of those who go about distributing French bribes to the
troops," said one.
"Yes, yes!" cried others. "Yesterday they say that he was walking about
in the market distributing money."
"Gentlemen," said the unfortunate man, in a choked voice, "I swear to
you that I have never distributed any money."
And this was the truth.
"Last night they say he was seen sneaking over into the French camp."
"He did not come back until morning. To the well with him!"
One of my comrades and I tried for awhile to save Candiola from certain
death; but we only succeeded by force of prayers and persuasions,
saying,--
"Boys, do not commit an outrage. What harm can this ridiculous old
wretch do?"
"It is true," said Candiola, with the calmness of despair; "what harm
can I do who am always busy aiding those in need? Do not kill me! You
are soldiers of the Estremadura and las Peñas de San Pedro; you are
all good fellows. You were burning those houses in Las Tenerias where
I found the chicken that I sold for a doubloon. Who says that I sell
myself to the French? I hate them; I cannot bear to look at them; and I
love you as my own life. I have lost everything. Leave me my life, at
least."
These pleadings, and my prayers and those of my friend, softened the
soldiers a little; and, when their first outburst of anger was over,
it was easy for us to save the wretched old man. The soldiers were
presently relieved, and he was in perfect safety; but he never even
thanked us when we offered him a bit of bread, after saving his life. A
little later, when he recovered his breath enough to walk, he went on
out of the street and joined his daughter.