The Sun Over Breda

We crossed over to the side of the river by means of a palisade-reinforced pontoon bridge that led to a dike separating the left bank from the swamps. The white blur of Captain Alatriste moved on in silence, as always. I had watched him slowly equip himself at sunset: buffcoat beneath his shirt and outside it the large belt with sword, dagger, and the pistol Second Lieutenant Minaya had returned to him, its pan well greased to protect it from the wet. He also tied to his belt a small flask of powder, a pouch with ten musket balls, and spare flint, tinder, and steel, should they be needed. Before tying on the powder, he had checked its color, not too black or too gray; its grain, which was hard and fine; and touched a little to his tongue to test the saltpeter. Then he had asked Copons for his whetstone and spent a long time sharpening both edges of his dagger. Those in the lead, which was his group, were not carrying harquebuses or muskets, for the first assault would be made with blades until the site was secured for their comrades. For that task it was best to be lightly armed, with hands free of encumbrance. The quartermaster of our bandera had asked for young and able mochileros

, and Jaime Correas and I had volunteered, reminding him that we had already performed well in the surprise attack at Oudkerk. When Captain Alatriste saw me with my shirt on the outside and my dagger in my belt, he had not said that it seemed a good idea to him, but then again, he had not said it didn’t. All he did was nod and point to one of the packs. Then, in the misty light of the bonfires, we all knelt, prayed an Our Father in a murmur that ran down the rows, crossed ourselves, and started off toward the northwest.

The line suddenly stopped, and the men crouched down and in low voices sent back the password, which Captain Bragado had decided only then: Antwerp

. Everything had been so well planned before we left that, without need for orders or commentary, a succession of white shirts now filed past me, dividing to the left and right. I heard the splashing of men along both sides of the dike, wading in water up to their waists, and the soldier behind me touched my shoulder and took the pack. His face was a dark blur, and I could hear his agitated breathing as he fastened the straps and continued forward. When I turned back and looked ahead, Captain Alatriste’s shirt had disappeared into the darkness and the fog. Now the last shadows passed me by, fading away with the muted sounds of steel being drawn from sheaths and the soft chink chink of harquebuses and pistols finally being loaded and primed. I went a few steps farther with them, and then I lay face down on the edge of the slope, on the wet grass where the soldiers’ footsteps had churned up mud. Someone crawled up beside me from behind. It was Jaime Correas, and the two of us stayed there, talking in whispers, staring anxiously into the darkness that had swallowed forty-four Spaniards who meant to give the heretics a bad night.

About the time it took for two rosaries passed by. My comrade and I were numb with cold, and we pressed close to share our warmth. We could hear nothing but the water running along the side of the dike leading to the river.

“They’re taking a long time,” Jaime whispered.

I did not answer. At that moment I was thinking of Captain Alatriste in cold water up to his chest, pistol held high to keep the powder dry, a dagger or sword in the other hand, creeping up on the Dutch sentinels guarding the locks. Then I thought of Caridad la Lebrijana and ended up thinking about Angélica de Alquézar as well. Often, I told myself, women do not know what perfection and perdition lie in the hearts of men.

A harquebus shot rang out: only one, distant, isolated, in the night and fog. I estimated it to be more than three hundred paces before us, and we flattened ourselves against the slope even more. The silence returned for an instant, and then a furious succession of shots rang out, pistols and muskets. On edge, feverish from the uproar, Jaime and I tried to peer into the dark but to no avail. Now the firing was coming from both directions, growing louder and more frequent, reverberating across sky and earth as if a storm were discharging its thunder and lightning under the cover of darkness. There was a sharp, loud report, and two more followed. Then we could see that the fog was lifting a little: A pale, milky, then reddish glow grew, diffusing itself in the tiny droplets that filled the air and were reflected in the dark water below the slope where we lay. The Sevenberge dike was aflame.