By Victoria Roberts
It was a simple task, delivering a basket of apples to the Spanish militia. The one duty a woman could perform in Zaragoza. But in her basket, Agustina transported divine Aragon apples, sourced from the local orchard believed to be blessed by saints, that offered strength to all who ate them. The last in their supply after a two-month siege.
Agustina hiked up her skirts as she neared the battle. Gunshots rang through the air, followed by the roar of cannon fire. She tightened her hold on the basket. Every day she made it through the lines, fortifying the soldiers and returning to her sister’s home to tuck in her son Eugenio before facing the war again. Today would be no different.
Bodies littered the smoky streets. Bloodied. Lifeless. Beyond her help. She fixed her gaze on the battle ahead. She could not dwell on the dead. Grieving would come after the war.
As she approached the raging battle, a group of Spanish soldiers ran toward her, shouting. She paused, trying to make out their words. Bodies rushed past, jostling her in every direction. She clutched the apples closer, screaming above the noise.
“What’s happening? ¿Ganamos?”
A soldier slammed into her. She gasped, falling backward, hitting the ground in a flurry of skirts and dirt. Curling her body inward, she protected her head as the rest of the soldiers passed, leaving her in a tornado of dust.
She coughed and pushed against the ground, something wet squishing between her fingers. She gasped. The apples. Swatting away the dust, she spotted them, strewn across the ground, trampled beneath the boots of the Spanish army. She cursed, glaring at the fleeing soldiers, now entering the houses of citizens who depended on them for protection.
“Cowards,” she whispered.
Picking through the squashed fruit, she managed to salvage an armful and placed them back in her basket. Part of her wanted to follow the retreating men. Could she use the apples to turn their hearts back to war? But no. Better to offer her best fruit to the ones still fighting.
Hefting the apples in her arms, she forged forward. Over strewn corpses. Around sandbags creating barriers should the French break through. The cries of the soldiers pushed her forward, like the cries of Eugenio on sleepless nights. She would succor them soon.
She climbed a wall of bodies to reach the portillo, the town’s militia-defended gate. Here Spanish soldiers mixed with the French in active battle, creating a maze she pushed through with ferocity. No one noticed a woman shoving against the fray when they were fighting for their lives. Finally, she arrived at the portillo barricade.
One lone gunner hoisted a rammer against a French soldier at the helm of the canon that fired moments before. With a shout, he ran to meet the enemy. The French soldier’s bayonet pierced him in the chest, ending his defense. The French soldier grinned, catching sight of Agustina. She gripped the apple basket, looking around for help. No other men from the Spanish army remained. The soldier advanced, eyes glittering with ill intent.
Agustina’s heart hammered in her chest. The image of the retreating militia tugged at her, urging her to run. She was of no use here. She would not surrender the apples to the enemy. She had no one left to feed.
What about you?
The thought halted her imminent retreat. She looked down at the apples. She’d seen them fill the weakest men with unrivaled power. But she’d always been forbidden from taking the fruit. The world didn’t need women to be strong and courageous, only soft and compliant. Could she be both? Isn’t that why she’d watched the soldiers since she was thirteen?
She looked past the approaching soldier to the abandoned cannon. She’d learned from her estranged husband how to fire the weapon. She could defend the city. She just needed an extra bit of strength.
Reaching into the basket, she pulled out one of the apples and bit into it. As she chewed the sweet fruit, a fire grew in her veins, strengthening her resolve. The French soldier stopped before her, hoisting his weapon. As he rammed his bayonet toward her, Agustina raised her basket. The weapon pierced the remaining apples, burrowing into the woven grooves of her basket. With a heave, she twisted it, ripping the soldier’s gun from his arms and shoving him to the ground. His cry of outrage ended in a strangled, gurgling gasp as he fell upon a Spanish lance still gripped in the hands of its dead wielder.
She rushed toward the cannon and pulled the dying gunner’s linstock and matches from his pocket. With steady hands, she lit the cannon’s fuse. The weapon roared, shattering the oncoming wave of French soldiers, declaring the battle far from won.
Over and over again she filled the cannon until her arms trembled and ash covered her. Then others joined her. Tired soldiers took up arms and pushed back the ensuing French. Women from the city prepped and cleaned the cannon for the next shot. She didn’t notice when the strength from the apple vanished, for the help of her fellow man buoyed her fighting spirit. Together they rallied until the French retreated.
Agustina collapsed against the cannon, tears streaming down her soot-streaked face. Her body begged for rest, even as the sweet taste of victory demanded celebration. She did not stay on the ground for long. The soldiers and citizens of Zaragoza surrounded her, lifting her with a shout.
“¡Bendita sea, Agustina!”
Through the streets they carried her, lauding their victory. As they passed Conception’s house, she rushed out to meet them, Eugenio in her arms. Agustina reached for him and thrust him into the sky, above the smoke of war, to the freedom of fresh air. His laughter rang out like a battle hymn, filling her with new strength that rivaled the magic of an Aragon apple.
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