The War Of The End Of The World Part 20

"I suddenly remembered Gentil de Castro just now," the Baron de Canabrava murmured. "The stupefaction he must have felt on learning why his newspaper offices were being burned down, why they were destroying his house."

The nearsighted journalist thrust his head forward. The two of them were sitting face to face in the leather armchairs, separated by a little table with a pitcher full of papaya-and-banana punch on it. The morning was going by quickly; the light that beat down on the garden was already a noon light. Cries of peddlers hawking food, parrots, prayers, services came over the tops of the walls.

"This part of the story can be explained," the man with loose-hinged limbs said in his piercing voice. "What happened in Rio de Janeiro, in Sao Paulo, is logical and rational."

"Logical and rational that the mob should pour out into the streets to destroy newspaper offices, to attack private houses, to murder people unable to point out on a map where Canudos is located, because a handful of fanatics thousands of kilometers away defeated an expeditionary force? That's logical and rational?"

"They were roused to a frenzy by propaganda," the nearsighted journalist insisted. "You haven't read the papers, Baron."

"I learned what happened in Rio from one of the victims," the latter replied. "He came within a hair's breadth of being killed himself."

The baron had met the Viscount de Ouro Preto in London. He had spent an entire afternoon with the former monarchist leader, who had taken refuge in Portugal after hurriedly fleeing from Brazil following the terrifying uprisings that had taken place in Rio de Janeiro when the news of the rout of the Seventh Regiment and the death of Moreira Cesar had reached the city. Incredulous, dumfounded, frightened out of his wits, the elderly ex-dignitary had witnessed, from the balconies of the town house of the Baroness de Guanabara, where he had chanced to pay a call, a crowd of demonstrators parade down the Rua Marques from the Military Club, carrying posters calling for his head as the person responsible for the defeat of the Republic at Canudos. Shortly thereafter, a messenger had come to inform him that his house had been sacked, along with those of other well-known monarchists, and that the offices of A Gazeta de Noticias A Gazeta de Noticias and and A Liberdade A Liberdade were burning down. were burning down.

"The English spy at Ipupiara. The rifles being sent to Canudos that were discovered in the backlands. The Kropatchek projectiles used by the jaguncos jaguncos that could only have been brought by British s.h.i.+ps. And the explosive bullets. The lies that have been harped on night and day have turned into truths." that could only have been brought by British s.h.i.+ps. And the explosive bullets. The lies that have been harped on night and day have turned into truths."

"You are overestimating the audience of the Jornal de Noticias Jornal de Noticias." The Baron de Canabrava smiled.

"The Epaminondas Goncalves of Rio de Janeiro is named Alcindo Guanabara and his daily A Republica A Republica," the nearsighted journalist stated. "Since Major Febronio's defeat, A Republica A Republica hasn't let a single day go by without presenting conclusive evidence of the complicity between the Monarchist Party and Canudos." hasn't let a single day go by without presenting conclusive evidence of the complicity between the Monarchist Party and Canudos."

The baron barely heard him, for he was hearing in his mind what the Viscount de Ouro Preto, wrapped in a blanket that barely left his mouth free, had told him: "What's pathetic is that we never took Gentil de Castro seriously. He was a n.o.body in the days of the Empire. He never was awarded a t.i.tle, an honor, an official post. His monarchism was purely sentimental; it had nothing to do with reality."

"The conclusive evidence, for example, with regard to the cattle and arms in Sete Lagoas, in the state of Minas Gerais," the nearsighted journalist went on to say. "Weren't they being sent to Canudos? Weren't they being convoyed there by Manuel Joao Brandao, the known leader of thugs in the hire of monarchist caudilhos? caudilhos? Hadn't Brandao been in the service of Joaquim Nabuco, of the Viscount de Ouro Preto? Alcindo gives the names of the police who arrested Brandao, prints word for word his statements confessing everything. What does it matter if Brandao never existed and such a consignment of arms was never discovered? It appeared in print, so it was true. The story of the spy of Ipupiara all over again, blown up to even greater proportions. Do you see how logical, how rational all that is? You weren't lynched, Baron, because there aren't any Jacobins in Salvador. The only thing that excites Bahians is carnival time. They couldn't care less about politics." Hadn't Brandao been in the service of Joaquim Nabuco, of the Viscount de Ouro Preto? Alcindo gives the names of the police who arrested Brandao, prints word for word his statements confessing everything. What does it matter if Brandao never existed and such a consignment of arms was never discovered? It appeared in print, so it was true. The story of the spy of Ipupiara all over again, blown up to even greater proportions. Do you see how logical, how rational all that is? You weren't lynched, Baron, because there aren't any Jacobins in Salvador. The only thing that excites Bahians is carnival time. They couldn't care less about politics."

"Well, I see you're ready to work for the Diario da Bahia Diario da Bahia," the baron said jokingly. "You already know all about our adversaries' vile deeds."

"You aren't any better than they are," the nearsighted journalist muttered. "Have you forgotten that Epaminondas is your ally and that your former friends are members of the government?"

"You're discovering a little too late that politics is a dirty business," the baron said.

"Not for the Counselor," the nearsighted journalist answered. "It was a clean and clear-cut one for him."

"It was for poor Gentil de Castro, too." The baron sighed.

On returning to Europe, he had found on his desk a letter sent from Rio several months before, in which Gentil de Castro himself had asked him, in his careful handwriting: "What is this Canudos affair all about, my dear Baron? What is happening there in your beloved lands in the Northeast? They are laying all sorts of conspiratorial nonsense at our doorstep, and we are not able even to defend ourselves because we haven't the least idea what is going on. Who is Antonio Conselheiro? Does he even exist? Who are these Sebastianist despoilers with whom the Jacobins insist on linking us? I would be much obliged to you if you would enlighten me in this regard..." And now the elderly man whom the name of Gentil fit so well was dead because he had organized and financed a rebellion aimed at restoring the Empire and making Brazil the slave of England. Years before, when he had first begun receiving copies of A Gazeta de Noticias A Gazeta de Noticias and and A Liberdade A Liberdade, the Baron de Canabrava wrote to the Viscount de Ouro Preto, asking him what sort of absurd business all this was, putting out two papers nostalgically yearning for a return to the good old days of the monarchy, at a time when it was obvious to everyone that the Empire was forever dead and buried. "What can I tell you, my dear friend?...It wasn't my idea, or Joao Alfredo's, or any of your friends' here; on the contrary, it was Colonel Gentil de Castro's idea, and his alone. He's decided to throw away his money by bringing out these publications in order to defend the names of those of us who served the Empire from the contumely to which we are subjected. We are all of the opinion that it is quite untimely to seek to restore the monarchy at this juncture, but how to put a damper on poor Gentil de Castro's pa.s.sionate enthusiasm? I don't know if you remember him. A good man, but never an outstanding figure..."

"He wasn't in Rio but in Petropolis when the news arrived in the capital," the viscount said. "I sent word to him through my son, Afonso Celso, that he shouldn't even think of returning to Rio, that his newspaper offices had been burned to the ground and his house destroyed, and a mob in the Rua do Ouvidor and the Largo de Sao Francisco was demanding his death. That was enough to make Gentil de Castro decide to return."

The baron pictured him, pink-cheeked, packing his valise and heading for the railway station, as meanwhile in Rio, in the Military Club, twenty officers or so mingled their blood before a square and compa.s.s and swore to avenge Moreira Cesar, drawing up a list of traitors to be executed. The name heading it: Gentil de Castro.

"In Meriti Station, Afonso Celso bought him the daily papers," the Viscount de Ouro Preto went on. "Gentil de Castro was able to read about everything that had happened the day before in the federal capital. The demonstrations, the closing of stores and theaters, the flags at half staff and the black crepe on the balconies, the attacks on newspaper offices, the a.s.saults. And, naturally, the sensational news in A Republica A Republica: 'The rifles found at A Gazeta de Noticias A Gazeta de Noticias and and A Liberdade A Liberdade are of the same manufacture and the same caliber as those in Canudos.' And what do you think his reaction was? are of the same manufacture and the same caliber as those in Canudos.' And what do you think his reaction was?

"'I have no choice save to send my seconds to Alcindo Guanabara,' Colonel Gentil de Castro muttered, smoothing his white mustache. 'His infamy has taken him beyond the pale.'"

The baron burst out laughing. "He wanted to fight a duel," he thought. "The one thing that occurred to him was to challenge Epaminondas Goncalves to a duel from Rio. As the mob was searching for him to lynch him, he was thinking of seconds dressed in black, of swords, of duels to end only with the drawing of first blood or death." He laughed till tears came to his eyes, and the nearsighted journalist stared at him in surprise. As all that was happening, the baron had been journeying to Salvador, admittedly stunned by Moreira Cesar's defeat, though at the same time able to think only of Estela, to count how many hours it would be before the doctors of the Portuguese Hospital and the Faculty of Medicine could put his mind at ease by a.s.suring him that it was a crisis that would pa.s.s, that the baroness would once again be a happy, lucid woman, full of life. He had been so dazed by what was happening to his wife that his memories of the events of recent months seemed like a dream: his negotiations with Epaminondas Goncalves and his feelings on learning of the vast national mobilization to punish the jaguncos jaguncos, the sending of battalions from all the states, the forming of corps of volunteers, the fairs and the public raffles at which ladies auctioned off their jewels and locks of their hair to raise money to outfit new companies about to march off to defend the Republic. He felt once again the vertigo that had overtaken him on realizing the enormity of all that had happened, the labyrinth of mistakes, mad whims, barbarities.

"On arriving in Rio, Gentil de Castro and Afonso Celso slipped to the house of friends, near the Sao Francisco Xavier Station," the Viscount de Ouro Preto added. "My friends took me there out of sight and out of the hand of the mobs that were still in the streets. It took some time for all of us to persuade Gentil de Castro that the only thing left for us to do was flee Rio and Brazil at the earliest possible moment."

It was agreed that the group of friends would take the viscount and the colonel to the station, their faces hidden by their capes, arriving seconds before six-thirty in the evening, the hour of the departure of the train to Petropolis. Once they had arrived there, they were to remain on a hacienda while arrangements were being made for their flight abroad.

"But fate was on the side of the a.s.sa.s.sins," the viscount murmured. "The train was half an hour late. That was more than enough time for the group of us, standing with our faces hidden in our capes, to attract attention. Demonstrators running up and down the platform shouting 'Long life to Marshal Floriano and death to the Viscount de Ouro Preto' started toward us. We had just climbed onto the train when a mob armed with revolvers and daggers surrounded us. A number of shots rang out just as the train pulled out. All the bullets. .h.i.t Gentil de Castro. I don't know why or how I escaped with my life."

The baron pictured in his mind the elderly man with pink cheeks, his head and chest riddled with bullets, trying to cross himself. Perhaps meeting his death in that way would not have displeased him. It was a death befitting a gentleman, was it not?

"That may well be," the Viscount de Ouro Preto said. "But I am certain that his burial didn't please him."

He had been buried secretly, on the advice of the authorities. Minister Amaro Cavalcanti warned the family that, in view of the agitation in the streets, the government could not guarantee their security if they tried to hold an elaborate graveside ceremony. No monarchist attended the burial rites and Gentil de Castro was taken to the cemetery in an ordinary carriage, followed by a coach bearing his gardener and two nephews. The latter did not allow the priest to finish the prayers for the dead, fearing that the Jacobins might appear at any moment.

"I see that the death of that man, there in Rio, moved you deeply." The nearsighted journalist's voice had once again roused him from his thoughts. "Yet you're not moved at all by the other deaths. Because there were others, there in Canudos."

At what moment had his caller risen to his feet? He was now standing in front of the bookshelves, bent over, contorted, a human puzzle, looking at him-in fury?-from behind the thick lenses of his gla.s.ses.

"It's easier to imagine the death of one person than those of a hundred or a thousand," the baron murmured. "When multiplied, suffering becomes abstract. It is not easy to be moved by abstract things."

"Unless one has seen first one, then ten, a hundred, a thousand, thousands suffer," the nearsighted journalist answered. "If the death of Gentil de Castro was absurd, many of those in Canudos died for reasons no less absurd."

"How many?" the baron said in a low voice. He knew that the number would never be known, that, as with all the rest of history, the figure would be one that historians and politicians would increase and decrease in accordance with their doctrines and the advantage they could extract from it. But he could not help wondering nonetheless.

"I've tried to find out," the journalist said, walking toward him with his usual unsteady gait and collapsing in the armchair. "No precise figure has been arrived at."

"Three thousand? Five thousand dead?" the baron murmured, his eyes seeking his.

"Between twenty-five and thirty thousand."

"Are you including the wounded, the sick, in that figure?" the baron muttered testily.

"I'm not talking about the army dead," the journalist said. "There exists an exact accounting of them. Eight hundred twenty-three, including the victims of epidemics and accidents."

A silence fell. The baron lowered his eyes. He poured himself a little fruit punch, but scarcely touched it because it had lost its chill and reminded him of lukewarm broth.

"There couldn't have been thirty thousand souls living in Canudos," he said. "No settlement in the sertao sertao can house that many people." can house that many people."

"It's a relatively simple calculation," the journalist answered. "General Oscar had a count made of the dwellings. You didn't know that? The number has been published in the papers: five thousand seven hundred eighty-three. How many people lived in each one? Five or six at the very least. In other words, between twenty-five and thirty thousand dead."

There was another silence, a long one, broken by the buzzing of bluebottle flies.

"There were no wounded in Canudos," the journalist said. "The so-called survivors, those women and children that the Patriotic Committee organized by your friend Lelis Piedades parceled out all over Brazil, had not been in Canudos but in localities in the vicinity. Only seven people escaped from the siege."

"Are you certain of that, too?" the baron said, raising his eyes.

"I was one of the seven," the nearsighted journalist said. And as though to avoid a question, he quickly added: "It was a different statistic that was of greatest concern to the jaguncos jaguncos. How many of them would be killed by bullets and how many finished off by the knife."

He remained silent for some time; he tossed his head to chase away an insect. "It's a figure that it's impossible to arrive at, naturally," he continued, wringing his hands. "But there is someone who could give us a clue. An interesting individual, Baron. He was in Moreira Cesar's regiment and returned with the fourth expeditionary force as commanding officer of a company from Rio Grande do Sul. Second Lieutenant Maranhao."

The baron looked at the journalist. He could almost guess what he was about to say.

"Did you know that slitting throats is a gaucho specialty? Second Lieutenant Maranhao and his men were specialists. It was something the lieutenant was both skilled at and greatly enjoyed doing. He would grab the jagunco jagunco by the nose with his left hand, lift his head up, and draw his knife across his throat. A fifteen-inch slash that cut through the carotid: the head fell off like a rag doll's." by the nose with his left hand, lift his head up, and draw his knife across his throat. A fifteen-inch slash that cut through the carotid: the head fell off like a rag doll's."

"Are you trying to move me to pity?" the baron asked.

"If Second Lieutenant Maranhao told us how many jaguncos jaguncos he and his men slit the throats of, we'd be able to know how many he and his men slit the throats of, we'd be able to know how many jaguncos jaguncos went to heaven and how many to h.e.l.l," the journalist said with a sneeze. "That was another drawback of having one's throat slit. The dead man's soul apparently went straight to h.e.l.l." went to heaven and how many to h.e.l.l," the journalist said with a sneeze. "That was another drawback of having one's throat slit. The dead man's soul apparently went straight to h.e.l.l."

The night he leaves Canudos, at the head of three hundred armed men-many more than he has ever been in command of before-Pajeu orders himself not to think about the woman. He knows how important his mission is, as do his comrades, chosen from among the best walkers in Canudos (because they are going to have to go a long way on foot). As they pa.s.s the foot of A Favela they halt for a time. Pointing to the spurs of the mountainside, barely visible in the darkness alive with crickets and frogs, Pajeu reminds them that it is up there that the soldiers are to be drawn, driven, surrounded, so that Abbot Joao and Big Joao and all those who have not headed off to Jeremoabo with Pedrao and the Vilanovas to meet the troops coming from that direction can shoot at them from the neighboring hills and plateaus, where the jaguncos jaguncos have already taken up their positions in trenches full of ammunition. Abbot Joao is right; that is the way to deal that accursed brood a mortal blow: push them toward this bare slope. "Either the soldiers fall in the trap and we tear them to pieces, or we fall," the Street Commander has said. "Because if they surround Belo Monte we won't have either the men or the arms to keep them from entering. It depends on you, boys." Pajeu advises the men to h.o.a.rd the ammunition, to aim always at those dogs who have stripes on their sleeves, or have sabers and are mounted on horseback, and to keep out of sight. He divides them up into four groups and arranges for everyone to meet the following day at dusk, at Lagoa da Laje, not far from Serra de Aracati, where, he calculates, the avant-garde that left Monte Santo yesterday will be arriving about then. None of the groups must fight if they run into enemy patrols; they must hide, let them go on, and at most have a tracker follow them. No one, nothing must make them forget their one responsibility: drawing the dogs to A Favela. have already taken up their positions in trenches full of ammunition. Abbot Joao is right; that is the way to deal that accursed brood a mortal blow: push them toward this bare slope. "Either the soldiers fall in the trap and we tear them to pieces, or we fall," the Street Commander has said. "Because if they surround Belo Monte we won't have either the men or the arms to keep them from entering. It depends on you, boys." Pajeu advises the men to h.o.a.rd the ammunition, to aim always at those dogs who have stripes on their sleeves, or have sabers and are mounted on horseback, and to keep out of sight. He divides them up into four groups and arranges for everyone to meet the following day at dusk, at Lagoa da Laje, not far from Serra de Aracati, where, he calculates, the avant-garde that left Monte Santo yesterday will be arriving about then. None of the groups must fight if they run into enemy patrols; they must hide, let them go on, and at most have a tracker follow them. No one, nothing must make them forget their one responsibility: drawing the dogs to A Favela.

The group of eighty men that remains with him is the last to set out again. Headed for war again. He has gone off in the night like this so many times since he reached the age of reason, hiding out so as to pounce or keep from being pounced on, that he is no more apprehensive this time than he was the others. To Pajeu that is what life is: fleeing an enemy or going out to meet one, knowing that before and behind, in s.p.a.ce and in time, there are, and always will be, bullets, wounded, and dead.

The woman's face steals once again-stubbornly, intrusively-into his mind. The caboclo caboclo tries his best to banish the image of her pale cheeks, her resigned eyes, her lank hair dangling down to her shoulders, and anxiously searches for something different to think about. At his side is Taramela, a short, energetic little man, chewing on something, happy to be marching along with him, as in the days of the tries his best to banish the image of her pale cheeks, her resigned eyes, her lank hair dangling down to her shoulders, and anxiously searches for something different to think about. At his side is Taramela, a short, energetic little man, chewing on something, happy to be marching along with him, as in the days of the cangaco cangaco. He suddenly asks him if he has with him that egg-yolk poultice that is the best remedy against snake bite. Taramela reminds him that when they were separated from the other groups he himself handed round a bit of it to Joaquim Macambira, Mane Quadrado, and Felicio. "That's right, I did," Pajeu says. And as Taramela looks at him, saying nothing, Pajeu wonders aloud whether the other groups will have enough tigelinhas tigelinhas, those little clay lamps that will allow them to signal to each other at a distance at night if need be. Taramela laughs and reminds him that he himself has supervised the distribution of tigelinhas tigelinhas at the Vilanovas' store. Pajeu growls that his forgetfulness is a sign that he's getting old. "Or that you're falling in love," Taramela teases. Pajeu feels his cheeks burn, and the memory of the woman's face, which he has managed to drive out of his mind, comes back again. Feeling oddly abashed, he thinks: "I don't know her name, or where she's from." When he gets back to Belo Monte, he'll ask her. at the Vilanovas' store. Pajeu growls that his forgetfulness is a sign that he's getting old. "Or that you're falling in love," Taramela teases. Pajeu feels his cheeks burn, and the memory of the woman's face, which he has managed to drive out of his mind, comes back again. Feeling oddly abashed, he thinks: "I don't know her name, or where she's from." When he gets back to Belo Monte, he'll ask her.

The eighty jaguncos jaguncos walk behind him and Taramela in silence, or talking so quietly that the sound of their voices is drowned out by the crunching of little stones and the rhythmic shuffle of sandals and espadrilles. Among these eighty are some who were with him in his walk behind him and Taramela in silence, or talking so quietly that the sound of their voices is drowned out by the crunching of little stones and the rhythmic shuffle of sandals and espadrilles. Among these eighty are some who were with him in his cangaco cangaco, along with others who were marauders in Abbot Joao's band or Pedrao's, old pals who once served in the police flying brigades, and even onetime rural guards and infantrymen who deserted. That men who were once irreconcilable enemies are now marching together is the work of the Father, up there in heaven, and of the Counselor, here below. They've worked the miracle of reconciling Cains, turning the hatred that reigned in the backlands into brotherhood.

Pajeu steps up the pace and keeps it brisk all night long. When, at dawn, they reach the Serra de Caxamango and halt to eat, with a palisade of xiquexiques xiquexiques and and mandacarus mandacarus for cover, all of them are stiff and sore. for cover, all of them are stiff and sore.

Taramela awakens Pajeu some four hours later. Two trackers have arrived, both of them very young. Their voices choke as they speak and one of them ma.s.sages his swollen feet as they explain to Pajeu that they have followed the troops all the way from Monte Santo. It's true: there are thousands of soldiers. Divided into nine corps, they are advancing very slowly because of the difficulty they are having dragging along their arms, their carts, their portable field huts, and because of the enormous hindrance represented by a very long cannon they are bringing, which keeps getting stuck in the sand and obliges them to widen the trail as they go along. It is being drawn by no less than forty oxen. They are making, at most, five leagues a day. Pajeu interrupts them: what interests him is not how many of them there are but where they are. The youngster rubbing his feet reports that they made a halt at Rio Pequeno and bivouacked at Caldeirao Grande. Then they headed for Gitirana, where they halted, and finally, after many hitches, they arrived at Jua, where they encamped for the night.

The route the dogs have taken surprises Pajeu. It is not that of any of the previous expeditions. Do they intend to come via Rosario, instead of via Bendengo, O Cambaio, or the Serra de Canabrava? If that is their plan, everything will be easier, for with a few skirmishes and ruses on the part of the jaguncos jaguncos, this route will take them to A Favela.

He sends a tracker to Belo Monte, to repeat what he has just been told to Abbot Joao, and they begin marching again. They go on without stopping till dusk, through stretches of scrub that are a tangle of mangabeiras, cipos mangabeiras, cipos, and thickets of macambiras macambiras. The groups led by Mane Quadrado, Macambira, and Felicio are already at Lagoa da Laje. Mane Quadrado's has run into a mounted patrol that was scouting the trail from Aracati to Juete. Squatting down behind a hedge of cacti, they saw them go by, and then come back that way a couple of hours later. There is no question, then: if they are sending patrols out toward Juete it means that they've chosen to take the Rosario road. Old Macambira scratches his head: why choose the longest way round? Why take this indirect route that will mean a march fourteen or fifteen leagues longer?

"Because it's flatter," Taramela says. "There are almost no uphill or downhill stretches if they go that way. It'll be easier for them to get their cannons and wagons through."

They agree that that is the most likely reason. As the others rest, Pajeu, Taramela, Mane Quadrado, Macambira, and Felicio exchange opinions. As it is almost certain that the troop will be coming via Rosario, they decide that Mane Quadrado and Joaquim Macambira will go post themselves there. Pajeu and Felicio will track them from Serra de Aracati on.

At dawn, Macambira and Mane Quadrado take off with half the men. Pajeu asks Felicio to go ahead of him with his seventy jaguncos jaguncos to Aracati, posting them along the half-league stretch of road so as to scout the movements of the battalions in detail. He will remain where they are now. to Aracati, posting them along the half-league stretch of road so as to scout the movements of the battalions in detail. He will remain where they are now.

Lagoa da Laje is not a lagoon-though it may have been one in the very distant past-but a damp ravine where maize, ca.s.sava, and beans used to grow, as Pajeu remembers very well from having spent many a night in one or other of the little farmhouses now burned to the ground. There is only one with the facade still intact and a complete roof. One of his jaguncos jaguncos, a man with Indian features, points to it and says that the roof tiles could be used for the Temple of the Blessed Jesus. No roof tiles are being turned out in Belo Monte these days because all the kilns are being used to make bullets. Pajeu nods and orders the tiles taken down. He stations his men all round the house. He is giving instructions to the tracker that he is about to send to Canudos when he hears hoofbeats and a whinny. He drops to the ground and slips away among the rocks. Once under cover, he sees that the men have had time to take cover, too, before the patrol appeared-all of them except the ones removing the tiles from the roof of the little house. He sees a dozen troopers pursuing three jaguncos jaguncos who are running off in a zigzag line in different directions. They disappear amid the rocks, apparently without being wounded. But the fourth one does not have time to leap down from the roof. Pajeu tries to see who it is: no, he can't, he is too far away. After looking down for a few moments at the cavalrymen aiming their rifles at him, the man raises his hands to his head as though he were surrendering. But all of a sudden he leaps down on top of one of the cavalrymen. Was he trying to get possession of the horse and gallop off to safety? If so, his trick doesn't come off, for the cavalryman drags him to the ground with him. The who are running off in a zigzag line in different directions. They disappear amid the rocks, apparently without being wounded. But the fourth one does not have time to leap down from the roof. Pajeu tries to see who it is: no, he can't, he is too far away. After looking down for a few moments at the cavalrymen aiming their rifles at him, the man raises his hands to his head as though he were surrendering. But all of a sudden he leaps down on top of one of the cavalrymen. Was he trying to get possession of the horse and gallop off to safety? If so, his trick doesn't come off, for the cavalryman drags him to the ground with him. The jagunco jagunco hits out right and left till the squad leader fires at him point-blank. It is obvious that he is annoyed at having had to kill him, that he would rather have taken a prisoner to bring in to his superiors. The patrol rides off, followed by the eyes of those hiding in the brush. Pajeu tells himself, in satisfaction, that the men have resisted the temptation to kill that bunch of dogs. hits out right and left till the squad leader fires at him point-blank. It is obvious that he is annoyed at having had to kill him, that he would rather have taken a prisoner to bring in to his superiors. The patrol rides off, followed by the eyes of those hiding in the brush. Pajeu tells himself, in satisfaction, that the men have resisted the temptation to kill that bunch of dogs.

He leaves Taramela in Lagoa da Laje to bury the dead man, and goes to take up a position on the heights halfway to Aracati. He does not allow his men to advance in groups now; he orders them to stay a fair distance apart and well off to the side of the road. Shortly after reaching the crags-a good lookout point-he spies the avant-garde approaching. Pajeu can feel the scar on his face: a drawing sensation, as though the old wound were about to open again. This happens to him at crucial moments, when he is having some extraordinary experience. Soldiers armed with picks, shovels, machetes, and handsaws are clearing the trail, leveling it, felling trees, removing rocks. They must have had hard work of it in the Serra de Aracati, a steep, rugged climb; they are moving along with their torsos bared and their blouses tied around their waists, three abreast, with officers on horseback at the head of the column. There are lots and lots of dogs coming, that's certain, if more than two hundred have been sent ahead to clear the way for them. Pajeu also spies one of Felicio's trackers following close behind these engineer corpsmen.

It is early in the afternoon when the first of the nine army corps comes by. When the last one pa.s.ses, the sky is full of stars scattered about a round moon that bathes the sertao sertao in a soft yellow glow. They have been pa.s.sing by, grouped together at times, at times separated by kilometers, dressed in uniforms that vary in color and type-gray-green, blue with red stripes, gray, with gilt b.u.t.tons, with leather bandoleers, with kepis, with cowboy hats, with boots, with shoes, with rope sandals-on foot and on horseback. In the middle of each corps, cannon drawn by oxen. Pajeu-he has not ceased for a moment to be aware of the scar on his face-tots up the train of ammunition and supplies: seven wagons drawn by bullocks, forty-three donkey carts, some two hundred bearers (many of them in a soft yellow glow. They have been pa.s.sing by, grouped together at times, at times separated by kilometers, dressed in uniforms that vary in color and type-gray-green, blue with red stripes, gray, with gilt b.u.t.tons, with leather bandoleers, with kepis, with cowboy hats, with boots, with shoes, with rope sandals-on foot and on horseback. In the middle of each corps, cannon drawn by oxen. Pajeu-he has not ceased for a moment to be aware of the scar on his face-tots up the train of ammunition and supplies: seven wagons drawn by bullocks, forty-three donkey carts, some two hundred bearers (many of them jaguncos jaguncos) bent double beneath their burdens. He knows that these wooden cases are full of rifle bullets, and his head whirls trying to calculate how many bullets per inhabitant of Belo Monte they add up to.

His men do not move: it is as though they'd even stopped breathing, blinking, and not a one of them opens his mouth. Dead silent, motionless, become one with the rocks, the cacti, the bushes that hide them, they listen to the bugles pa.s.sing on orders from battalion to battalion, see the banners of the escorts fluttering, hear the servers of the artillery pieces shouting to urge the bullocks, the mules, the burros on. Each corps advances in three separate sections, the one in the center waiting for each of the two on the flanks to move forward and only then advancing in turn. Why are they going through this maneuver that holds them up and appears to be as much a retreat as an advance? Pajeu realizes that it is to keep from being surprised from the flank, as happened to the Throat-Slitter's animals and men, which the jaguncos jaguncos were able to attack from the edge of the trail. As he listens to the deafening din, contemplating the multicolored spectacle slowly unfolding at his feet, he keeps asking himself the same questions: "What route are they planning to take to Canudos? And what if they fan out so as to enter Belo Monte from ten different places at once?" were able to attack from the edge of the trail. As he listens to the deafening din, contemplating the multicolored spectacle slowly unfolding at his feet, he keeps asking himself the same questions: "What route are they planning to take to Canudos? And what if they fan out so as to enter Belo Monte from ten different places at once?"

After the rear guard has pa.s.sed by, he eats a handful of flour and raw brown sugar and he and his men head for Juete, two leagues away, to wait for the soldiers. On their way there, a trek that takes them about two hours, Pajeu hears his men grimly commenting on the size of the great long cannon, which they have baptized A Matadeira-the Killer. He shuts them up. They are right, though, it is enormous, doubtless capable of blowing several houses to smithereens with one sh.e.l.l, and perhaps of piercing the wall of the Temple under construction. He will have to warn Abbot Joao about A Matadeira.

As he has calculated, the soldiers bivouac in Lagoa da Laje. Pajeu and his men pa.s.s so close to the field huts that they hear the sentinels talking over the day's happenings. They meet up with Taramela before midnight, in Juete. They find there a messenger sent by Mane Quadrado and Macambira; the two of them are already in Rosario. On the way there, they have seen cavalry patrols. As the men get water to drink and rinse their faces by the light of the moon in the little lagoon of Juete to which the shepherds in the region used to bring their flocks in the old days, Pajeu dispatches a tracker to Abbot Joao and stretches out on the ground to sleep, between Taramela and an old jagunco jagunco who is still talking about A Matadeira. It would be a good idea if the dogs were to capture a who is still talking about A Matadeira. It would be a good idea if the dogs were to capture a jagunco jagunco who would tell them that all the ways into Belo Monte are well defended, except for the slopes of A Favela. Pajeu turns the thought over in his mind till he falls asleep. The woman visits him in his dreams. who would tell them that all the ways into Belo Monte are well defended, except for the slopes of A Favela. Pajeu turns the thought over in his mind till he falls asleep. The woman visits him in his dreams.

As it is beginning to get light, Felicio's group arrives. He has been surprised by one of the patrols of soldiers protecting the flanks of the convoy of cattle and goats trailing along behind the column. Felicio's men scattered and did not suffer any casualties, but it took them a long time to regroup, and there are still three men missing. When they learn what happened in Lagoa da Laje, a half-breed Indian boy, who can't be more than thirteen and whom Pajeu uses as a messenger, bursts into tears. He is the son of the jagunco jagunco who had been removing the tiles on the rooftop of the little house when the dogs surprised and killed him. who had been removing the tiles on the rooftop of the little house when the dogs surprised and killed him.

As they are advancing toward Rosario, split up into very small groups, Pajeu goes over to the youngster, who is trying his best to hold back his tears though every so often a sob escapes him. Without preamble, he asks him if he would like to do something for the Counselor, something that will help avenge his father. The youngster looks at him with such determination in his eyes that he needs no other reply. He explains to him what he wants him to do. A circle of jaguncos jaguncos gathers round to listen, looking by turns at him and at the boy. gathers round to listen, looking by turns at him and at the boy.

"There's more to it than just letting yourself be caught," Pajeu says. "They have to think that that was the last thing you wanted. And there's more to it than just starting to blab. They have to think they made you talk. In other words, you must let them beat you and even torture you with knives. They have to think you're terrified. That's the only way they'll believe you. Can you do that?"

The boy is dry-eyed and the look on his face is that of an adult, as though he had grown five years older in five minutes. "I can, Pajeu."

They meet up with Mane Quadrado and Macambira on the outskirts of Rosario, in the ruins of what were once the slave quarters and the manor house of the hacienda. Pajeu deploys the men in a ravine that lies at a right angle to the trail, with orders to fight just long enough for the dogs to see them turn tail and head in the direction of Bendengo. The boy is at his side, his hands on the shotgun that is very nearly as tall as he is. The engineer corpsmen pa.s.s by without seeing them, and a while later, the first battalion. The fusillade begins and raises a cloud of gunsmoke. Pajeu waits for it to disperse a little before shooting. He does so calmly and deliberately, aiming carefully, firing at intervals of several seconds the six Mannlicher bullets that he has had with him since Uaua. He hears the din of whistles, bugle calls, shouts, sees the troops' disorder. Once they have overcome their confusion somewhat, the soldiers, urged on by their officers, begin to fall to their knees and return fire. There is a frantic flurry of bugle calls; reinforcements will soon be arriving. He can hear the officers ordering their men to enter the caatinga caatinga in pursuit of their attackers. in pursuit of their attackers.

He then reloads his rifle, rises to his feet, and, followed by other jaguncos jaguncos, steps out into the center of the trail, facing the soldiers, fifty yards away, head on. He aims at them and shoots. His men, who have taken their stand all round him, do likewise. More jaguncos jaguncos emerge from the brush. The soldiers, finally, advance toward them. The youngster, still at his side, shoulders his shotgun, closes his eyes, and shoots. The backfire of the buckshot leaves him blood-spattered. emerge from the brush. The soldiers, finally, advance toward them. The youngster, still at his side, shoulders his shotgun, closes his eyes, and shoots. The backfire of the buckshot leaves him blood-spattered.

"Take my piece, Pajeu," he says, handing it to him. "Take care of it for me. I'll escape and make my way back to Belo Monte."

He throws himself on the ground and begins to scream in pain, clutching his face in his hands. Pajeu breaks into a run-bullets are whistling by from all directions-and disappears into the caatinga caatinga, followed by the jaguncos jaguncos. A company of soldiers plunges into the scrub after them and they allow themselves to be pursued for quite some time; they get the company completely disoriented in the thickets of xiquexiques xiquexiques and tall and tall mandacarus mandacarus, till suddenly it finds itself being sniped at from behind by Macambira's men. The soldiers decide to retreat. Pajeu also falls back. Dividing his men up into the four usual groups, he orders them to turn around, get ahead of the troops, and wait for them in Baixas, half a league from Rosario. On the way there, all of them talk of how plucky the youngster is. Have the Protestants been fooled into believing they've wounded him? Are they interrogating him? Or are they so furious at being ambushed that they're hacking him to pieces with their sabers?

A few hours later, from the dense brush on the clayey plateau of Baixas-they have rested, eaten, counted their men, discovered that there are two missing and eleven wounded-Pajeu and Taramela see the vanguard approaching. At the head of the column, in the midst of a group of soldiers, hobbling after a cavalryman who is leading him along on a rope, is the youngster. He is walking along with his head hanging down, a bandage round it. "They've believed him," Pajeu thinks. "If he's up there in the front of the column, it's because they're making him act as a guide." He feels a sudden wave of affection for the young half-breed.

Taramela nudges him and whispers that the dogs are no longer disposed in the same marching order as at Rosario. It is true: the banners of the escorts of the head of the column are red and gold instead of blue, and the cannons-A Matadeira among them-are now in the vanguard. In order to protect them, there are companies out combing the caatinga caatinga; if the jaguncos jaguncos stay where they are, they will soon find themselves nose to nose with one or another of them. Pajeu tells Macambira and Felicio to go ahead to Rancho do Vigario, where the troops will doubtless bivouac. Crawling on all fours without a sound, without their movements so much as stirring a leaf, Felicio's band and old Macambira's take off and disappear from sight. Shortly thereafter, shots ring out. Have they been discovered? Pajeu doesn't move a muscle: through the bushes he has spied, just five yards away, a mounted squad of Freemasons, armed with long lances tipped with metal. On hearing the shots, the cavalrymen step up the pace; he hears horses galloping, bugles blowing. The fusillade continues, grows heavier. Pajeu does not look at Taramela, does not look at any of the stay where they are, they will soon find themselves nose to nose with one or another of them. Pajeu tells Macambira and Felicio to go ahead to Rancho do Vigario, where the troops will doubtless bivouac. Crawling on all fours without a sound, without their movements so much as stirring a leaf, Felicio's band and old Macambira's take off and disappear from sight. Shortly thereafter, shots ring out. Have they been discovered? Pajeu doesn't move a muscle: through the bushes he has spied, just five yards away, a mounted squad of Freemasons, armed with long lances tipped with metal. On hearing the shots, the cavalrymen step up the pace; he hears horses galloping, bugles blowing. The fusillade continues, grows heavier. Pajeu does not look at Taramela, does not look at any of the jaguncos jaguncos hugging the ground, curled up in a ball amid the branches. He knows that the hundred fifty men are there all around him, like himself not breathing, not moving, thinking that Macambira and Felicio are perhaps being wiped out...The sudden deafening roar of the cannon sets him shaking from head to foot. But what frightens him more than the cannon report is the little cry that it calls forth, despite himself, from a hugging the ground, curled up in a ball amid the branches. He knows that the hundred fifty men are there all around him, like himself not breathing, not moving, thinking that Macambira and Felicio are perhaps being wiped out...The sudden deafening roar of the cannon sets him shaking from head to foot. But what frightens him more than the cannon report is the little cry that it calls forth, despite himself, from a jagunco jagunco behind him. He does not turn round to reprimand him: what with the whinnying of the horses and the shouts of the cavalry troops, it is not likely that they have heard him. After the cannon report, the shooting stops. behind him. He does not turn round to reprimand him: what with the whinnying of the horses and the shouts of the cavalry troops, it is not likely that they have heard him. After the cannon report, the shooting stops.

In the hours that follow, Pajeu's scar seems to become incandescent, emitting red-hot waves that reach his brain. His choice of a place to rendezvous has been a bad one; twice, patrols pa.s.s by just behind him, accompanied by men in peasant dress armed with machetes who swiftly hack the brush away. Is it a miracle that the patrols do not spy his men, even though they pa.s.s by so close they almost step on them? Or are those machete-wielders elect of the Blessed Jesus? If they are discovered, few will escape, for with all those thousands of soldiers it will be no trick at all to surround them. It is the fear of seeing his men decimated, without having fulfilled his mission, that is turning his face into a live wound. But it would be madness to change place now.

As dusk begins to fall, by his count twenty-two donkey carts have pa.s.sed by; half the column is yet to come. For five hours he has seen troops, cannons, animals go past. He would never have dreamed that there were that many soldiers in the whole world. The red ball in the sky is rapidly setting; in half an hour it will be pitch-dark. He orders Taramela to take half the men with him to Rancho do Vigario and arranges to meet him in the caves where there are arms hidden. Squeezing his arm, he whispers to him: "Be careful." The jaguncos jaguncos move off, bending over so far that their chests touch their knees, by threes, by fours. move off, bending over so far that their chests touch their knees, by threes, by fours.

Pajeu stays there where he is till stars appear in the sky. He counts ten carts more, and there is no doubt now: it is obvious that no battalion has taken another route. Raising his cane whistle to his mouth, he gives one short blast. He has not moved for so long a time that his body aches all over. He vigorously ma.s.sages the calves of his legs before he starts walking. As he reaches up to pull his sombrero over his ears, he discovers that he is bareheaded. He remembers then that he lost it at Rosario: a bullet knocked it off, a bullet whose heat he felt as it went past.

The journey on foot to Rancho do Vigario, two leagues from Baixas, is slow, tiring: they proceed along the edge of the trail, single file, halting again and again to drop down and crawl like worms across the open stretches. It is past midnight when they arrive. Bypa.s.sing the mission that has given the place its name, Pajeu detours westward, heading for the rocky defile leading to hills dotted with caves. That is where all of them are to rendezvous. They find waiting for them not only Joaquim Macambira and Felicio, who have lost only three men in the skirmish with the soldiers. Abbot Joao is there, too.

Sitting on the ground in a cave with the others, around a little lamp, as he drinks from a leather pouch full of brackish water that tastes wonderful to him and eats mouthfuls of beans with their still-fresh savor of oil, Pajeu tells Abbot Joao what he has seen, done, feared, and suspected since leaving Canudos. Joao listens to him without interrupting, waiting for him to drink or chew before asking questions. Sitting round him are Taramela, Mane Quadrado, and old Macambira, who joins in the conversation to put in a few words about the frightening prospects that A Matadeira represents. Outside the cave, the jaguncos jaguncos have stretched out on the ground to sleep. It is a clear night, filled with the chirping of crickets. Abbot Joao reports that the column mounting from Sergipe and Jeremoabo numbers only half as many troops as this one, a mere two thousand men. Pedrao and the Vilanovas are lying in wait for it at Cocorobo. "That's the best place to fall upon it," he says. And then he immediately returns to the subject that weighs most heavily on their minds. He agrees with them: if it has advanced as far as Rancho do Vigario, the column will cross the Serra da Angico tomorrow. Because otherwise it would have to veer ten leagues farther west before finding another way to get its cannons through. have stretched out on the ground to sleep. It is a clear night, filled with the chirping of crickets. Abbot Joao reports that the column mounting from Sergipe and Jeremoabo numbers only half as many troops as this one, a mere two thousand men. Pedrao and the Vilanovas are lying in wait for it at Cocorobo. "That's the best place to fall upon it," he says. And then he immediately returns to the subject that weighs most heavily on their minds. He agrees with them: if it has advanced as far as Rancho do Vigario, the column will cross the Serra da Angico tomorrow. Because otherwise it would have to veer ten leagues farther west before finding another way to get its cannons through.

"It's after Angico that we're endangered," Pajeu grumbles.

As in the past, Joao makes traces on the ground with the point of his knife. "If they veer off toward O Taboleirinho, all our plans will have gone awry. Our men are waiting for them to come via A Favela."

Pajeu pictures in his mind how the slope forks off in two directions after the rocky, th.o.r.n.y ascent to Angico. If they fail to take the fork leading to Pitombas, they will not go by way of A Favela. Why would they take the one to Pitombas? They might very well take the other one, the one that leads to the slopes of O Cambaio and O Taboleirinho.

"Except for the fact that if they go that way they'll run into a hail of bullets," Abbot Joao explains, holding up the lamp to light his scratches in the dirt. "If they can't get through that way, the only thing they can do is go via Pitombas and As Umburanas."

"We'll wait for them then as they come down from Angico," Pajeu agrees. "We'll lay down gunfire all along their route, from the right. They'll see that that route is closed to them."

"And that's not all," Abbot Joao says. "After that, you have to allow yourselves enough time to reinforce Big Joao, at O Riacho. There are enough men on the other side. But not at O Riacho."

Fatigue and tension suddenly overcome Pajeu, and Abbot Joao sees him slump over on Taramela's shoulder, fast asleep. Taramela slides him gently to the floor and takes away his rifle and the half-breed youngster's shotgun, which Pajeu has been holding on his knees. Abbot Joao says goodbye with a quickly murmured "Praised be Blessed Jesus the Counselor."

When Pajeu wakes up, day is breaking at the top of the ravine, but it is still pitch-dark around him. He shakes Taramela, Felicio, Mane Quadrado, and old Macambira, who have also slept in the cave. As a bluish light comes over the hills, they busy themselves replenis.h.i.+ng their store of ammunition, used up at Rosario, from the cases buried by the Catholic Guard in the cave. Each jagunco jagunco takes three hundred bullets with him in his big leather pouch. Pajeu makes each of them repeat what it is he must do. The four groups leave separately. takes three hundred bullets with him in his big leather pouch. Pajeu makes each of them repeat what it is he must do. The four groups leave separately.

As they climb the bare rock face of the Serra do Angico, Pajeu's band-it will be the first to attack, so that the troops will pursue them through these hills to Pitombas, where the others will be posted-hears, in the distance, the bugles blowing. The column is on the march. He leaves two jaguncos jaguncos at the summit and descends with his men to the foot of the other face, directly opposite the steep slope down which the column must come, since it is the only place wide enough for the wheels of their wagons to slip through. He scatters his men about among the bushes, blocking the trail that forks off toward the west, and tells them once more that this time they are not to start running immediately. That comes later. First they must stand their ground and withstand the enemy's fire, so that the Antichrist will be led to believe that there are hundreds of at the summit and descends with his men to the foot of the other face, directly opposite the steep slope down which the column must come, since it is the only place wide enough for the wheels of their wagons to slip through. He scatters his men about among the bushes, blocking the trail that forks off toward the west, and tells them once more that this time they are not to start running immediately. That comes later. First they must stand their ground and withstand the enemy's fire, so that the Antichrist will be led to believe that there are hundreds of jaguncos jaguncos confronting him. Then they must let themselves be seen, be put on the run, be followed to Pitombas. One of the confronting him. Then they must let themselves be seen, be put on the run, be followed to Pitombas. One of the jaguncos jaguncos he has left at the summit comes down to tell him that a patrol is coming. It is made up of six men; they let them pa.s.s by without shooting at them. One of them falls from his horse, for the rock slope is slippery, especially in the morning, because of the dew that has collected in the night. After that patrol, two more go by, preceding the engineer corps with their picks, shovels, and handsaws. The second patrol heads off toward O Cambaio. A bad sign. Does it mean that they are going to deploy at this point? Almost immediately thereafter the vanguard appears, close on the heels of those who are clearing the way. Will all nine corps be that close together? he has left at the summit comes down to tell him that a patrol is coming. It is made up of six men; they let them pa.s.s by without shooting at them. One of them falls from his horse, for the rock slope is slippery, especially in the morning, because of the dew that has collected in the night. After that patrol, two more go by, preceding the engineer corps with their picks, shovels, and handsaws. The second patrol heads off toward O Cambaio. A bad sign. Does it mean that they are going to deploy at this point? Almost immediately thereafter the vanguard appears, close on the heels of those who are clearing the way. Will all nine corps be that close together?

Pajeu has already put his gun to his shoulder and is aiming at the elderly cavalryman who must be the leader when a shot rings out, then another, then several bursts of fire. As he observes the disorder on the slope, the Protestants piling up on top of each other, and begins shooting in his turn, he tells himself that he will have to find out who started the fusillade before he had fired the first shot. He empties his magazine slowly, taking careful aim, thinking that through the fault of the man who started shooting the dogs have had time to withdraw and take refuge at the summit.

The gunfire ceases once the slope is empty. At the summit red-and-blue caps, the gleam of bayonets can be seen. The troops, under cover behind the rocks, try to spot them. He hears the sound of arms, men, animals, occasional curses. All of a sudden a cavalry squad, headed by an officer pointing to the caatinga caatinga with his saber, dashes down the slope. Pajeu sees that he is digging his spurs mercilessly into the flanks of his nervous, pawing bay. None of the cavalrymen falls on the slope, all of them arrive at the foot of it despite the heavy fire. But they all fall, riddled with bullets, the moment they enter the with his saber, dashes down the slope. Pajeu sees that he is digging his spurs mercilessly into the flanks of his nervous, pawing bay. None of the cavalrymen falls on the slope, all of them arrive at the foot of it despite the heavy fire. But they all fall, riddled with bullets, the moment they enter the caatinga caatinga. The officer with the saber, hit several times, roars: "Show your faces, you cowards!"

"Show our faces so you can kill us?" Pajeu thinks. "Is that what atheists call courage?" A strange way of looking at things; the Devil is not only evil but stupid. He reloads his overheated rifle. The slope is swarming with soldiers now, and more are pouring down onto the rock face. As he takes aim, still calm and unhurried, Pajeu calculates that there are at least a hundred, perhaps a hundred fifty, of them.

He sees, out of the corner of his eye, that one of the jaguncos jaguncos is fighting hand to hand with a soldier, and he wonders how the dog got there. He puts his knife between his teeth; that is how he has always gone into the fray, ever since the days of the is fighting hand to hand with a soldier, and he wonders how the dog got there. He puts his knife between his teeth; that is how he has always gone into the fray, ever since the days of the cangaco cangaco. The scar makes itself felt and he hears, very close by, very loud and clear, shouts of "Long live the Republic!"

"Long live Marshal Floriano!"

"Death to the Englis.h.!.+" The jaguncos jaguncos answer: "Death to the Antichrist!" answer: "Death to the Antichrist!"

"Long live the Counselor!"