The Sun Over Breda

That was out of place, for everyone knew that no prisoners were taken in the caponnieres, just as the Spaniards, when dealt a bad hand, expected no quarter. The voice soon gurgled in a death rattle when one of the attackers, guided by sound, reached the heretic and silenced him with his dagger. Alatriste heard more sounds of fighting and paused to listen, motionless and alert. There were two more shots, and in their flash, he saw Copons close by, locked in a struggle with a Hollander, rolling across the ground. Then he heard the Olivares brothers calling each other in low voices. Copons and the Dutchman were not making any noise, and for an instant the captain wondered who was alive and who not.

“Sebastián!” he whispered.

Copons answered with a grunt, clarifying any doubt. Now there was almost no sound except for a low moan here and there, some ragged breathing, and the scraping sound of men crawling across the tunnel floor. Alatriste moved forward again on his knees, one hand held before him, groping in the darkness, the other tense and ready by his side, clutching his dagger. The last sputter of the lantern showed that the mouth of the tunnel leading to the enemy trenches was filled with rubble and splintered wood. A body lay sprawled there, motionless, and after striking twice with his dagger to be sure, the Captain crawled over it toward the tunnel. He paused a few instants, listening. There was nothing but silence on the other side, but he caught an odor.

“Sulfur!” he yelled.

The toxic cloud moved slowly down the tunnel, undoubtedly propelled by bellows the Dutch were pumping in order to flood the passage with a haze of burnt straw, tar, and sulfur. They obviously did not have the welfare of any compatriots still alive in mind, or perhaps by that point they were convinced that no one could have survived. The current of air favored their operation, and in less time than it takes to recite an Our Father, the noxious smoke would have poisoned the air. With a sudden sense of urgency, Alatriste scrabbled back through the rubble and bodies, bumped into the comrades clogging the mouth of the caponniere, and finally, after what seemed like years, was again pulling his body rapidly through fallen earth and remains from The Cemetery. The grunts and curses of someone he thought was Garrote pressed him from behind. The captain passed beneath the opening in the ceiling of the caponniere, desperately gasped air from outside, and then continued along the tight passageway, lips pressed and breath held, until over the head of the comrade preceding him he saw light ahead, gradually growing brighter. At last he emerged into the large tunnel, which had been abandoned by the German sappers, and then fell into the Spanish trench. He ripped the kerchief from his mouth and frantically gulped air, then used the cloth to scrub the sweat and dirt from his face. All around him, like cadavers restored to life, were the wan, grimy faces of his comrades, exhausted and blinded by the light. Finally, once his eyes had adjusted, he saw Captain Bragado waiting with the German sappers and the rest of the group.

“Is everyone here?” Bragado asked.

Rivas and one of the Olivares brothers were missing. Pablo, the younger one, his hair and beard no longer black but gray from powder and dirt, started toward the tunnel to look for his brother but was held back by Garrote and Mendieta. The Dutch, enraged by this turn of events, were now sending heavy fire our way from the other side, and musket balls whizzed past heads and bounced off the gabion baskets of the trench.

“Well, we really fucked them,” said Mendieta.

There was no triumph in his tone, only profound weariness. He still had his spade in his hand, covered with clumps of blood and earth. Copons lay on the ground beside Alatriste, breathing with difficulty, his face covered with a shining mask of sweat and clay.

“Whoresons!” the younger of the Olivares brothers shouted. “Heretic sons of beggars’ bawds, may you roast in hell!”

His imprecations ceased as Rivas’s head emerged from the mouth of the tunnel; he was dragging the other Olivares, half suffocated but still alive. The Galician’s blue eyes were bloodshot.

“God a’ mercy.”

His blond hair was smoking with sulfur. He clawed the kerchief from his face, coughing up dirt.

“Thanks be to God,” he said, filling his lungs with fresh air.

One of the Germans brought a small wineskin of water, and the men drank greedily, one after the other.

“Even if it were ass’s piss,” Garrote muttered, spilling water down his chin and chest.

Leaning against the trench wall and feeling Bragado’s eyes on him, Alatriste cleaned the dirt and blood from his vizcaína.

“How is the tunnel?” the officer asked finally.

“Clean as this dagger.”

Without another word Alatriste sheathed the weapon. Then he removed the primer charge from the pistol he had not needed to use.

“Thanks be to God,” Rivas repeated over and over, crossing himself. His blue eyes wept black earth.