The Sun Over Breda

Down the rows echoed the metallic sounds of harquebusiers packing powder into the pans and smoldering cord in the striker. Through the grayish smoke from the ignited cords I could see the faces of the men we were confronting: tanned, bearded, scarred, with expressions of grim resolve beneath their helmets and ripped hat brims. Triggered by the movements of our harquebusiers, some on the rebel side made the same preparations, and many of the coseletes in the first rows set their pikes. But cries and protests could be heard among them—“Señores, señores, let us use reason!”—and nearly all the harquebuses and pikes of the mutineers were again held upright, giving to understand that it was not their intention to attack their companions. On our side, we all turned to look at de la Daga when his voice resounded across the open field.

“Sergeant-major! Make those men swear obedience to their king.”

Sergeant-Major Idiáquez stepped forward, baton in hand, and demanded that the rebels immediately renounce their demands. It was a mere formality, and Idiáquez, a veteran who had mutinied no few times himself—especially in the year 1598, when unpaid wages and lack of discipline had caused us to lose half of Flanders—intervened briefly and succinctly, returning to our lines without waiting for a reply. For their part, none of the men in front of us seemed to grant any importance to the command the sergeant-major had issued, and all we heard were isolated cries of “Pay! Pay!” After which, as erect as ever in his saddle and implacable in his tooled cuirass, don Pedro de la Daga lifted one antelope-gloved hand.

“Aimmm harquebuses!”

The harquebusiers set their weapons against their cheeks, fingers on the triggers of the strikers, and blew on the lit cords. The heavier fork-mounted muskets were pointed straight at the opposing ranks, where some were beginning to stir in their lines, restless but with no signs of hostility.

“Order to fire! At my command!”

That command boomed across the esplanade, and although some few men in the rebel lines stepped back, I must say that nearly all were dauntless, remaining in place despite the menacing barrels of the loyalists’ harquebuses. I glanced at Diego Alatriste and saw that like most of the soldiers, both those holding weapons on our side and those facing us, stoically waiting to be fired upon, he was looking toward Sergeant-Major Idiáquez. The captains and sergeants of the companies were also looking toward him, but he in turn had his eye on his most supreme excellency the colonel. Who was not looking at anyone, as if he were engaged in an exercise he simply found annoying. Jiñalasoga had already lifted his hand when we all saw—or thought we saw—Idiáquez give a slight negative shake of his head, barely a movement that could not really be called a movement, and therefore it could not be said to contradict discipline, so later, when responsible parties made their inquiries, no one could swear he had seen it. And with that gesture, just at the instant don Pedro de la Daga called “Fire!” the eight loyal companies lowered their pikes and the harquebusiers as a single man and laid their weapons on the ground.

4. TWO VETERANS