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Captain Alatriste.
He was not the most honest or pious of men, but he was
courageous. His name was Diego Alatriste y Tenorio, and he
had fought in the ranks during the Flemish wars. When I met
him he was barely making ends meet in Madrid, hiring himself
out for four maravedis in employ of little glory, often as a
swordsman for those who had neither the skill nor the daring
to settle their own quarrels. You know the sort I mean: a
cuckolded husband here, outstanding gambling debts there, a
petty lawsuit or questionable inheritance, and more troubles of
that kind. It is easy to criticize now, but in those days the
capital of all the Spains was a place where a man had to fight
for his life on a street corner lighted by the gleam of two blades.
In all this Diego Alatriste played his part with panache. He
showed great skill when swords were drawn, even more when
with left-handed cunning he wielded the long, narrow dagger
some call the vizcaina, a weapon from Biscay that
professionals often used to help their cause along. If a knife
will not do it, the vizcaina will, was the old saying. The
adversary would be concentrating on attacking and parrying,
and suddenly, quick as lightning, with one upward slash, his
gut would be slit, so fast he would not have time to ask for
confession. Oh yes, Your Mercies, those were indeed harsh
times.
Captain Alatriste, as I was saying, lived by his sword. Until I
came into the picture, that "Captain" was more an honorary
title than a true rank. His nickname originated one night when,
serving as a soldier in the king's wars, he had to cross an icy
river with twenty-nine companions and a true captain. Imagine,
Viva Espana and all that, with his sword clenched between
his teeth, and in his shirtsleeves to blend into the snow, all to
surprise a Hollandish contingent. They were the enemy at the time because they were fighting for independence. In fact,
they did win it in the end, but meanwhile we gave them a
merry chase.
Getting back to the captain--the plan was to stay there on the
riverbank, or dike, or whatever the devil it was, until dawn,
when the troops of our lord and king would launch an attack
and join them. To make a long story short, the heretics were
duly dispatched without time for a last word.
They were sleeping like marmots when our men emerged
from the icy water, nearly frozen, shaking off the cold by
speeding heretics to Hell, or wherever it is those accursed
Lutherans go. What went wrong is that the dawn came, and
the morning passed, and the expected Spanish attack did not
materialize. A matter, they told later, of old jealousies among
the generals and officers in the field. Fact is, thirty-one men
were abandoned to their fate, amid curses and vows,
surrounded by Low Dutch disposed to avenge the slashed
throats of their comrades. With less chance than the Invincible
Armada of the good King Philip the Second.
It was a long and very hard day. And in order that Your Mercies
may picture what happened, only two of the Spanish made it
back to the other bank of the river by the time night fell. Diego
Alatriste was one of them, and as all day long he had
commanded the troops--the authentic captain having been
rendered hors de combat in the first skirmish with two
handspans of steel protruding from his back--the title fell to
him, though he had no opportunity to enjoy the honor. Captainfor-
a-day of troops fated to die, and paying their way to Hell at
the cost of their hides, one after another, with the river to their
backs and blaspheming in good Castilian Spanish. But that is
the way of war and the maelstrom. That is the way it goes with
Spain.
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