Saragossa: A Story of Spanish Valor

by Benito Pérez Galdós

"I can keep up no longer. I believe that I am going to die."

"Is your reverence wounded?" I asked, seeing a linen cloth bound upon his right arm.

"Yes, my son. A ball has destroyed my shoulder and arm. I am in the greatest pain, but I must bear it. Christ suffered more for us. Since daybreak I have been busy, caring for the wounded and pointing the dying to heaven. I have not rested a moment for sixteen hours, nor have I eaten nor drank anything. A woman tied this linen on my right arm, and I went about my work. I believe that I shall not live long. What a death! My God, and all these wounded with no one to take care of them! But, oh, I can no longer stand! I am dying! Have you seen that trench which is at the end of the Calle de los Clavos? Over there poor Coridon is lying, lifeless, the victim of his own courage. We were passing along there to take care of some of the wounded, when we saw, near the garden of San Augustine, a group of Frenchmen who were passing from one house to another. Coridon, whose impetuous blood impelled him to the most daring acts, threw himself upon them. They bayoneted him, and flung him in the ditch. How many victims in a single day, Araceli! Indeed, you are fortunate in not being hurt. But you will die of the epidemic, and that is worse. To-day I have given absolution to sixty who were dying of the epidemic. I give it to you also, my friend, because I know you have committed no sins, only peccadilloes, and that you have borne yourself valiantly in these days. How is it? Do you feel worse? Truly you are yellower than these corpses about us. To die of the epidemic during this horrible siege is to die for one's country. Courage, young man! Heaven is open to receive you, and the Virgin del Pilar will welcome you with her mantle of the stars. Life is nothing. How much better it is to die honorably, and to gain eternal glory by the suffering of a day! In the name of God, I forgive you your sins!"

Then after murmuring the prayer appropriate to the occasion, he blessed me, and pronounced the Ego te absolvo, and then lay down upon the ground. He looked very badly, and although I did not call myself well, I thought myself in a better state of health than the good friar. That was not the only time when the confessor died before the dying one, and the physician before the patient.

I spoke to Father Mateo, and he did not answer me, except with piteous moans. I went a little way to look for some one who might be able to help him. I met several men and women, and told them, "Father Mateo del Busto is over there and cannot move;" but they took no notice of me and went on. Many of the wounded called upon me, begging for aid; but I took no notice at all of them. Near the Coso, I met a child of eight or ten years, who was alone, and weeping in the sorest distress. I stopped him. I asked him where his parents were, and he pointed to a place near where there was a great number of the wounded and dead. Afterwards I met the same child in several places, always alone and always crying aloud very bitterly. No one cared for him. I heard no questions, but, "Have you seen my brother?" "Have you seen my son?" "Have you seen my father?" But none of these were to be found in any direction. No one tried to take any of the wounded to the churches, because all or nearly all were crowded. The cellars and lower rooms which at first had been considered good places of refuge, were now infected with a death-dealing atmosphere. There came a time when the best place for the wounded was in the middle of the street.

I directed my steps towards the centre of the Coso, because they said that there they were giving out something to eat, but I received nothing. I was returning to Las Tenerias, and at last, in front of Almudi, they gave me a little hot food. That which seemed a symptom of the epidemic disappeared, for indeed my malady was only of the sort that can be cured with bread and wine. I remembered Father Mateo del Busto, and with some others went to help him. The unfortunate old man had not moved, and when we came up, and asked him how he found himself, he answered thus,—

"What is it? Has the bell sounded for matins? It is early. Leave me to rest. I find myself much fatigued, Father Gonzalez. I have been picking flowers in the garden for sixteen hours, and I am tired."

In spite of his entreaty, we four took him up; but we had carried him only a short distance before he was dead in our arms.