The War Of The End Of The World Part 22

"And in the third dispatch he quotes the text of a letter, found in the pocket of a jagunco jagunco taken prisoner, which is unsigned but written in an unmistakably aristocratic hand," the journalist went on, not even hearing his question. "Addressed to the Counselor, explaining to him why it is necessary to reestablish a conservative, G.o.d-fearing monarchy. Everything points to the fact that the person who wrote that letter was you." taken prisoner, which is unsigned but written in an unmistakably aristocratic hand," the journalist went on, not even hearing his question. "Addressed to the Counselor, explaining to him why it is necessary to reestablish a conservative, G.o.d-fearing monarchy. Everything points to the fact that the person who wrote that letter was you."

"Were you really so naive as to believe everything you read in the papers?" the baron asked him. "You, a journalist?"

"And there is also the dispatch of his about signaling with lights," the nearsighted journalist went on, without answering him. "Thanks to such signals, the jaguncos jaguncos were able to communicate with each other at night over great distances. The mysterious lights blinked on and off, transmitting a code so clever that army signal corps technicians were never able to decipher the messages." were able to communicate with each other at night over great distances. The mysterious lights blinked on and off, transmitting a code so clever that army signal corps technicians were never able to decipher the messages."

Yes, there was no doubt about it, despite his bohemian pranks, despite the opium, the ether, the candombles candombles, there was something ingenuous and angelic about him. This was not strange; it was often the case with intellectuals and artists. Canudos had changed him, naturally. What had it made of him? An embittered man? A skeptic? A fanatic, perhaps? The myopic eyes stared at him intently from behind the thick lenses.

"The important thing in these dispatches are the intimations," the metallic, incisive, high-pitched voice said. "Not what they say but what they suggest, what's left to the reader's imagination. They went to Canudos to see English officers. And they saw them. I talked with my replacement for an entire afternoon. He never once lied deliberately, he just didn't realize he was lying. The simple fact is that he didn't write what he saw but what he felt and believed, what those all around him felt and believed. That's how that whole tangled web of false stories and humbug got woven, becoming so intricate that there is now no way to disentangle it. How is anybody ever going to know the story of Canudos?"

"As you yourself see, the best thing to do is forget it," the baron said. "It isn't worth wasting your time over it."

"Cynicism is no solution, either," the nearsighted journalist said. "Moreover, I can scarcely believe that this att.i.tude of yours, this proud disdain for what really happened, is sincere."

"It is indifference, not disdain," the baron corrected him. The thought of Estela had been far from his mind for some time, but it was there again now and with it the pain, as mordant as acid, that turned him into a completely crushed, cowed being. "I've already told you that what happened at Canudos doesn't matter to me in the slightest."

"It does matter to you, Baron," the vibrant voice of the nearsighted journalist interjected. "For the same reason it matters to me: because Canudos changed your life. Because of Canudos your wife lost her mind, because of Canudos you lost a large part of your fortune and your power. Of course it matters to you. It's for that reason that you haven't thrown me out, for that reason that we've been talking together for so many hours now..."

Yes, perhaps he was right. The Baron de Canabrava was suddenly aware of a bitter taste in his mouth; although he had had more than enough of the man and there was no reason to prolong the conversation, he found himself unable to dismiss him. What was keeping him from it? He finally admitted the truth to himself: it was the idea of being left all alone, alone with Estela, alone with that terrible tragedy.

"But they didn't merely see what didn't exist," the nearsighted journalist went on. "Besides that, none of them saw what was really there."

"Phrenologists?" the baron murmured. "Scottish anarchists?"

"Priests," the nearsighted journalist said. "n.o.body mentions them. And there they were, spying for the jaguncos jaguncos or fighting shoulder to shoulder with them. Relaying information or bringing medicine, smuggling in saltpeter and sulfur to make explosives. Isn't that surprising? Wasn't that of any importance?" or fighting shoulder to shoulder with them. Relaying information or bringing medicine, smuggling in saltpeter and sulfur to make explosives. Isn't that surprising? Wasn't that of any importance?"

"Are you certain of that?" the baron said, p.r.i.c.king up his ears.

"I knew one of those priests. I might even go so far as to say that we became friends," the nearsighted journalist said, nodding his head. "Father Joaquim, the parish priest of c.u.mbe."

The baron looked closely at his caller. "That little cure who's fathered a whole pack of kids? That toper who regularly commits all the seven capital sins was in Canudos?"

"It's an excellent index of the Counselor's powers of persuasion," the journalist a.s.serted, nodding again. "He not only turned thieves and murderers into saints; he also catechized the corrupt and simoniacal priests of the sertao sertao. A disquieting man, wouldn't you say?"

That episode from years back seemed to leap to the baron's mind from the depths of time. He and Estela, escorted by a small band of armed capangas capangas, had just entered c.u.mbe and had headed immediately for the church on hearing the bells ring summoning people to Sunday Ma.s.s. Try as he might, the notorious Father Joaquim was unable to hide the traces of what must have been a night of debauchery-guitars, cane brandy, womanizing-without a wink of sleep. The baron remembered how vexed the baroness had been on seeing the priest stumble over the liturgy and make mistakes, begin to retch violently right in the middle of Ma.s.s, and dash from the altar to go vomit outside. He could even see vividly once again in his mind's eye the face of the cure's concubine: wasn't it the young woman whom people called "the water divineress" because she knew how to detect unsuspected underground wells? So that rake of a cure had also become one of the Counselor's faithful followers, had he?

"Yes, one of his faithful followers, and also something of a hero." The journalist broke into one of those bursts of laughter that sounded like light stones sliding down his throat; as usually happened, this time, too, his laughter turned into a fit of sneezing.

"He was a sinful cure but he wasn't an idiot," the baron reflected. "When he was sober, one could have a decent conversation with him. A man with a lively mind and one who was even fairly well read. I find it difficult to believe that he, too, would fall under the spell of a charlatan, like the unlettered people of the backlands..."

"Culture, intelligence, books have nothing to do with the story of the Counselor," the nearsighted journalist said. "But that's the least of it. The surprising thing is not that Father Joaquim became a jagunco jagunco. It's that the Counselor made a brave man of him, when before he'd been a coward." He blinked in stupefaction. "That's the most difficult, the most miraculous conversion of all. I can personally testify to that, for I know what fear is. And the little cure of c.u.mbe was a man with enough imagination to know what it's like to be seized with panic, to live in terror. And yet..."

His voice grew hollow, emptied of substance, and the expression on his face became a grimace. What had happened to him all of a sudden? The baron saw that his caller was doing his utmost to calm down, to break through something that was holding him back. He tried to help him go on. "And yet...?" he said encouragingly.

"And yet he spent months, years perhaps, going all about the villages, the haciendas, the mines, buying gunpowder, dynamite, fuses. Making up elaborate lies to justify these purchases that must have attracted a great deal of attention. And when the sertao sertao began to swarm with soldiers, do you know how he risked his neck? By hiding powder kegs in his coffer containing the sacred objects of wors.h.i.+p, the tabernacle, the ciborium with the consecrated Hosts, the crucifix, the chasuble, the vestments that he carried about to say Ma.s.s. And smuggling them into Canudos right under the noses of the National Guard, of the army. Can you have any idea of what that means when you're a coward, trembling from head to foot, bathed in cold sweat? Can you have any idea of how strong a conviction that takes?" began to swarm with soldiers, do you know how he risked his neck? By hiding powder kegs in his coffer containing the sacred objects of wors.h.i.+p, the tabernacle, the ciborium with the consecrated Hosts, the crucifix, the chasuble, the vestments that he carried about to say Ma.s.s. And smuggling them into Canudos right under the noses of the National Guard, of the army. Can you have any idea of what that means when you're a coward, trembling from head to foot, bathed in cold sweat? Can you have any idea of how strong a conviction that takes?"

"The catechism is full of stories like that, my friend," the baron murmured. "Martyrs pierced with arrows, devoured by lions, crucified...But, I grant you, it is difficult for me to imagine Father Joaquim doing things like that for the Counselor."

"It requires total conviction," the journalist repeated. "Profound, complete certainty, a faith that doubtless you have never felt. Nor I..."

He shook his head once more like a restless hen and hoisted himself into the armchair with his long, bony arms. He played with his hands for a few seconds, focusing all his attention on them, and then went on. "The Church has formally condemned the Counselor as a heretic, a believer in superst.i.tion, a disseminator of unrest, and a disturber of the conscience of the faithful. The Archbishop of Bahia has forbidden parish priests to allow him to preach in their pulpits. If one is a priest, it takes absolute faith in the Counselor to disobey the Church and one's own archbishop and run the risk of being condemned for helping him."

"What is it you find so distressing?" the baron asked. "The suspicion that the Counselor was really another Christ, come for the second time to redeem men?"

He said this without thinking, and the minute the words were out of his mouth he felt uncomfortable. Had he been trying to make a joke? Neither he nor the nearsighted journalist smiled, however. He saw the latter shake his head, which might have been a reply in the negative or a gesture to chase a fly away.

"I've thought about that, too," the nearsighted journalist said. "If it was G.o.d, if G.o.d sent him, if G.o.d existed...I don't know. In any event, this time there were no disciples left to spread the myth and bring the good news to the pagans. There was only one left, as far as I know; I doubt that that's sufficient..."

He burst out laughing again and the ensuing sneezes occupied him for some time. When he had finished, his nose and eyes were badly irritated.

"But more than of his possible divinity, I thought of the spirit of solidarity, of fraternity, of the unbreakable bond that he was able to forge among those people," the nearsighted journalist said in a pathetic tone of voice. "Amazing. Moving. After July 18, the only trails left open were the ones to Chorrocho and Riacho Seco. What would have been the logical thing to do? For people to try to get away, to escape along those trails, isn't that true? But exactly the opposite happened. People tried to come to Canudos, they kept flocking in from all over, in a desperate hurry to get inside the rat trap, the h.e.l.l, before the soldiers completely encircled Canudos. Do you see? Nothing was normal there..."

"You spoke of priests in the plural," the baron interrupted him. This subject, the jaguncos jaguncos' solidarity and their collective will to sacrifice themselves, was disturbing to him. It had turned up several times in the conversation, and each time he had skirted it, as he did again now.

"I didn't know the other ones," the journalist replied, as though he, too, were relieved at having been obliged to change the subject. "But they existed. Father Joaquim received information and help from them. And at the end they, too, may very well have been there, scattered about, lost among the mult.i.tudes of jaguncos jaguncos. Someone told me of a certain Father Martinez. Do you know who it was? Someone you knew, a long time ago, many years ago. The filicide of Salvador-does that mean anything to you?"

"The filicide of Salvador?" the baron said.

"I was present at her trial, when I was still in short pants. My father was a public defender, a lawyer for the poor, and it was he who was her defense attorney. I recognized her even though I couldn't see her, even though twenty or twenty-five years had gone by. You read the papers in those days, didn't you? The entire Northeast was pa.s.sionately interested in the case of Maria Quadrado, the filicide of Salvador. The Emperor commuted her death sentence to life imprisonment. Don't you remember her? She, too, was in Canudos. Do you see how the whole thing is a story that never ends?"

"I already knew that," the baron said. "All those who had accounts to settle with the law, with their conscience, with G.o.d, found a refuge thanks to Canudos. It was only natural."

"That they should take refuge there, yes, I grant you that, but not that they should become different people altogether." As though he didn't know what to do with his body, the journalist flexed his long legs and slid back down onto the floor. "She was the saint, the Mother of Men, the Superior of the devout women who cared for the Counselor's needs. People attributed miracles to her, and she was said to have wandered everywhere with him."

The story gradually came back to the baron. A celebrated case, the subject of endless gossip. She was the maidservant of a notary and had suffocated her newborn baby to death by stuffing a ball of yarn in his mouth, because he cried a great deal and she was afraid that she would be thrown out in the street without a job on account of him. She kept the dead body underneath her bed for several days, till the mistress of the house discovered it because of the stench. The young woman confessed everything immediately. Throughout the trial, her manner was meek and gentle, and she answered all the questions asked her willingly and truthfully. The baron remembered the heated controversy that had arisen regarding the personality of the filicide, with one side arguing that she was "catatonic and therefore not responsible" and the other maintaining that she was possessed of a "perverse instinct." Had she escaped from prison, then?

The journalist had changed the subject once more. "Before July 18 a great many things had been hideous, but in all truth it was not until that day that I touched and smelled and swallowed the horror till I could feel it in my guts." The baron saw the journalist pound his fist on his stomach. "I met her that day, I talked with her, and found out that she was the filicide that I had dreamed about so many times as a child. She helped me, for at that point I had been left all alone."

"On July 18 I was in London," the baron said. "I'm not acquainted with all the details of the war. What happened that day?"

"They're going to attack tomorrow," Abbot Joao said, panting for breath because he'd come on the run. Then he remembered something important: "Praised be the Blessed Jesus."

The soldiers had been on the mountainsides of A Favela going on a month, and the war was dragging on and on: scattered rifle shots and cannon fire, generally at the hours when the bells rang. At dawn, noon, and dusk, people walked about only in certain places. Men gradually grow accustomed to almost anything, and establish routines to deal with it, is that not true? People died every day and every night there were burials. The blind bombardments destroyed countless houses, ripped open the bellies of oldsters and of toddlers, that is to say, the ones who didn't go down into the trenches. It seemed as though everything would go on like that indefinitely. No, it was going to get even worse, the Street Commander had just told them. The nearsighted journalist was all alone, for Jurema and the Dwarf had gone off to take food to Pajeu, when the war leaders-Honorio Vilanova, Big Joao, Pedrao, Pajeu himself-met in the store. They were worried; you could smell it; the atmosphere in the place was tense. And yet no one was surprised when Abbot Joao announced that the dogs were going to attack the next day. He knew everything. They were going to sh.e.l.l Canudos all night long, to soften up its defenses, and at 5 a.m. the a.s.sault would begin. He knew exactly which places they would charge. The jagunco jagunco leaders were talking quietly, deciding the best posts for each of them to take, you wait for them here, the street has to be blockaded there: we'll raise barriers here, I'd better move from over there in case they send dogs this way. Could the baron imagine what he felt like, hearing that? At that point the matter of the paper came up. What paper? One that one of Pajeu's "youngsters" had brought, running as fast as his legs could carry him. They all put their heads together and then asked him if he could read it. He did his best, peering through his monocle of shards, in the light of a candle, to decipher what it said. But he was unable to. Then Abbot Joao sent someone to fetch the Lion of Natuba. leaders were talking quietly, deciding the best posts for each of them to take, you wait for them here, the street has to be blockaded there: we'll raise barriers here, I'd better move from over there in case they send dogs this way. Could the baron imagine what he felt like, hearing that? At that point the matter of the paper came up. What paper? One that one of Pajeu's "youngsters" had brought, running as fast as his legs could carry him. They all put their heads together and then asked him if he could read it. He did his best, peering through his monocle of shards, in the light of a candle, to decipher what it said. But he was unable to. Then Abbot Joao sent someone to fetch the Lion of Natuba.

"Didn't any of the Counselor's lieutenants know how to read?" the baron asked.

"Antonio Vilanova did, but he wasn't in Canudos just then," the journalist answered. "And the person they sent for also knew how to read. The Lion of Natuba. Another intimate, another apostle of the Counselor's. He could read and write; he was Canudos's man of learning."

He fell silent, interrupted by a great gust of sneezes that made him double over, clutching his stomach.

"I was unable to see in detail what he looked like," he said afterward, gasping for breath. "Just the vague outline, the shape of him, or, rather, the lack of shape. But that was enough for me to get a rough idea of the rest. He walked about on all fours, and had an enormous head and a hump on his back. Someone went to fetch him and he came with Maria Quadrado. He read them the paper. It was the instructions from the High Command for the a.s.sault at dawn."

That deep, melodious, normal voice read out the battle plan, the disposition of the regiments, the distances between companies, between men, the signals, the bugle commands, and meanwhile he for his part grew more and more panic-stricken, more and more anxious for Jurema and the Dwarf to return. Before the Lion of Natuba had finished reading, the first part of the battle plan was already being carried out: the bombardment to soften them up.

"I now know that at that moment only nine cannons were bombarding Canudos and that they never shot more than sixteen rounds at a time," the nearsighted journalist said. "But it seemed as if there were a thousand of them that night, as if all the stars in the sky had begun bombarding us."

The din made the sheets of corrugated tin on the roof of the store rattle, the shelves and the counter shake, and they could hear buildings caving in, falling down, screams, feet running, and in the pauses, the inevitable howling of little children. "It's begun," one of the jaguncos jaguncos said. They went outdoors to see, came back in, told Maria Quadrado and the Lion of Natuba that they wouldn't be able to get back to the Sanctuary because the only way there was being swept with cannon fire, and the journalist heard the woman insist on going back. Big Joao finally dissuaded her by swearing that the moment the barrage let up he would come and take them back to the Sanctuary himself. The said. They went outdoors to see, came back in, told Maria Quadrado and the Lion of Natuba that they wouldn't be able to get back to the Sanctuary because the only way there was being swept with cannon fire, and the journalist heard the woman insist on going back. Big Joao finally dissuaded her by swearing that the moment the barrage let up he would come and take them back to the Sanctuary himself. The jaguncos jaguncos left, and he realized that Jurema and the Dwarf-if they were still alive-were not going to be able to get back from Rancho do Vigario to where he was either. He realized, in his boundless fear, that he would have to go through the coming attack with no one for company except the saint and the quadrumanous monster of Canudos. left, and he realized that Jurema and the Dwarf-if they were still alive-were not going to be able to get back from Rancho do Vigario to where he was either. He realized, in his boundless fear, that he would have to go through the coming attack with no one for company except the saint and the quadrumanous monster of Canudos.

"What are you laughing at now?" the Baron de Canabrava asked.

"Something I'd be ashamed to own up to," the nearsighted journalist stammered. He sat there lost in thought and then suddenly raised his head and exclaimed: "Canudos changed my ideas about history, about Brazil, about men. But above all else about myself."

"To judge from your tone of voice, it hasn't been a change for the better," the baron murmured.

"You're right there," the journalist said, lower skill. "Thanks to Canudos, I have a very poor opinion of myself."

Wasn't that also his own case, to a certain degree? Hadn't Canudos turned his life, his ideas, his habits topsy-turvy, like a hostile whirlwind? Hadn't his convictions and illusions fallen to pieces? The image of Estela, in her rooms upstairs, with Sebastiana at her side in her rocking chair, perhaps reading aloud to her pa.s.sages from the novels that she had been fond of, perhaps combing her hair, or getting her to listen to the Austrian music boxes, and the blank, withdrawn, unreachable face of the woman who had been the great love of his life-the woman who to him had always been the very symbol of the joy of living, beauty, enthusiasm, elegance-again filled his heart with bitterness.

With an effort, he seized on the first thing that pa.s.sed through his mind. "You mentioned Antonio Vilanova," he said hurriedly. "The trader, isn't that right? A moneygrubber and a man as calculating as they come. I used to see a lot of him and his brother. They were the suppliers for Calumbi. Did he become a saint, too?"

"He wasn't there to do business." The nearsighted journalist had recovered his sarcastic laugh. "It was difficult to do business in Canudos. The coin of the Republic was not allowed to circulate there. It was the money of the Dog, of the Devil, of atheists, Protestants, Freemasons, don't you see? Why do you think the jaguncos jaguncos made off with the soldiers' weapons but never with their wallets?" made off with the soldiers' weapons but never with their wallets?"

"So the phrenologist wasn't all that crazy, after all," the baron thought. "In a word, thanks to his own madness Gall was able to intuit something of the madness that Canudos represented."

"Antonio Vilanova wasn't someone who went around continually crossing himself and beating his breast in remorse for his sins," the nearsighted journalist went on. "He was a practical man, eager to achieve concrete results. He was constantly bustling about organizing things-he reminded you of a perpetual-motion machine. All during those five endless months he took it upon himself to ensure that Canudos had enough to eat. Why would he have done that, amid all the bullets and dead bodies? There's no other explanation: the Counselor had struck some secret chord within him."

"As he did you," the baron said. "He barely missed making you a saint, too."

"He went out to bring food back till the very end," the nearsighted journalist went on, paying no attention to what the baron had said. "He would steal off, taking just a few men with him. They would make their way through the enemy lines, attack the supply trains. I know how they did that. They would set up an infernal racket with their blunderbusses so as to make the animals stampede. In the chaos that ensued, they would drive ten, fifteen of the bullocks to Canudos. So that those who were about to give their lives for the Blessed Jesus could fight on for a little while more."

"Do you know where those animals came from?" the baron interrupted him.

"From the convoys that the army was sending out from Monte Santo to A Favela," the nearsighted journalist said. "The same place the jaguncos jaguncos' arms and ammunition came from. That was one of the oddities of this war: the army provided the supplies both for its own forces and for the enemy."

"What the jaguncos jaguncos stole was stolen property," the baron sighed. "Many of those cattle and goats were once mine. Very few of them had been bought from me. Almost always they'd been cut out of my herds by gaucho rustlers hired on by the army. I have a friend who owns a hacienda, old Murau, who has filed suit against the state for the cows and sheep that the army troops ate. He's asking for seventy contos in compensation, no less." stole was stolen property," the baron sighed. "Many of those cattle and goats were once mine. Very few of them had been bought from me. Almost always they'd been cut out of my herds by gaucho rustlers hired on by the army. I have a friend who owns a hacienda, old Murau, who has filed suit against the state for the cows and sheep that the army troops ate. He's asking for seventy contos in compensation, no less."

In his half sleep, Big Joao smells the sea. A warm sensation steals over him, something that feels to him like happiness. In these years in which, thanks to the Counselor, he has found relief for that painful boiling in his soul from the days when he served the Devil, there is only one thing he sometimes misses. How many years is it now that he has not seen, smelled, heard the sea in his body? He has no idea, but he knows that it has been a long, long time since he last saw it, on that high promontory amid cane fields where Mistress Adelinha Isabel de Gumucio used to come to see sunsets. Scattered shots remind him that the battle is not yet over, but he is not troubled: his consciousness tells him that even if he were wide awake it would make no difference, since neither he nor any of the men in the Catholic Guard huddled in the trenches round about him have a single Mannlicher bullet left, not one load of shotgun pellets, not one grain of powder to set off the explosive devices manufactured by the blacksmiths of Canudos whom necessity has turned into armorers.

So why are they staying, then, in these caves on the heights, in the ravine at the foot of A Favela where the dogs are waiting, crowded one atop the other? They are following Abbot Joao's orders. After making sure that all the units of the first column have arrived at A Favela and are now pinned down by the fire from the jagunco jagunco sharpshooters who are all around on the mountainsides and are raining bullets down on them from their parapets, their trenches, their hiding places, Abbot Joao has gone off to try to capture the soldiers' convoy of ammunition, supplies, cattle and goats which, thanks to the topography and the hara.s.sment from Pajeu and his men, has fallen far behind. Hoping to take the convoy by surprise at As Umburanas and divert it to Canudos, Abbot Joao has asked Big Joao to see to it that the Catholic Guard, at whatever cost, keeps the regiments at A Favela from retreating. In his half sleep, the former slave tells himself that the dogs must be stupid or must have lost many men, since thus far not a single patrol has tried to make its way back to As Umburanas to see what has happened to the convoy. The Catholic Guards know that if the soldiers make the slightest move to abandon A Favela, they must fling themselves upon them and bar their way, with knives, machetes, bayonets, tooth and nail. Old Joaquim Macambira and his men, hiding in ambush on the other side of the trail cleared for the infantry and the wagons and cannons to advance on A Favela, will do likewise. The soldiers won't try to retreat; they are too intent on answering the fire in front of them and on their flanks, too busy bombarding Canudos to tumble to what is happening at their backs. "Abbot Joao is more intelligent than they are," he thinks in his sleep. Wasn't it his brilliant idea to lure the dogs to A Favela? Wasn't he the one who thought of sending Pedrao and the Vilanova brothers to wait for the other devils in the narrow pa.s.s at Cocorobo? There, too, the sharpshooters who are all around on the mountainsides and are raining bullets down on them from their parapets, their trenches, their hiding places, Abbot Joao has gone off to try to capture the soldiers' convoy of ammunition, supplies, cattle and goats which, thanks to the topography and the hara.s.sment from Pajeu and his men, has fallen far behind. Hoping to take the convoy by surprise at As Umburanas and divert it to Canudos, Abbot Joao has asked Big Joao to see to it that the Catholic Guard, at whatever cost, keeps the regiments at A Favela from retreating. In his half sleep, the former slave tells himself that the dogs must be stupid or must have lost many men, since thus far not a single patrol has tried to make its way back to As Umburanas to see what has happened to the convoy. The Catholic Guards know that if the soldiers make the slightest move to abandon A Favela, they must fling themselves upon them and bar their way, with knives, machetes, bayonets, tooth and nail. Old Joaquim Macambira and his men, hiding in ambush on the other side of the trail cleared for the infantry and the wagons and cannons to advance on A Favela, will do likewise. The soldiers won't try to retreat; they are too intent on answering the fire in front of them and on their flanks, too busy bombarding Canudos to tumble to what is happening at their backs. "Abbot Joao is more intelligent than they are," he thinks in his sleep. Wasn't it his brilliant idea to lure the dogs to A Favela? Wasn't he the one who thought of sending Pedrao and the Vilanova brothers to wait for the other devils in the narrow pa.s.s at Cocorobo? There, too, the jaguncos jaguncos must have wiped them out. As he breathes in the smell of the sea it intoxicates him, takes him far away from the war, and he sees waves and feels the caress of the foamy water on his skin. This is the first time he has had any sleep, after forty-eight hours of fighting. must have wiped them out. As he breathes in the smell of the sea it intoxicates him, takes him far away from the war, and he sees waves and feels the caress of the foamy water on his skin. This is the first time he has had any sleep, after forty-eight hours of fighting.

At two in the morning a messenger from Joaquim Macambira awakens him. It is one of Joaquim's sons, young and slender, with long hair, crouching patiently in the trench, waiting for Big Joao to rouse himself from his sleep. The boy's father needs ammunition; his men have almost no bullets or powder left. With his tongue still thick with sleep, Big Joao explains that his men don't have any left either. Have they had any news from Abbot Joao? None. And from Pedrao? The youngster nods: he and his men have had to fall back from Cocorobo they have no ammunition left and have had heavy losses. And they have not been able to stop the dogs in Trabubu either.

Big Joao feels wide awake at last. Does that mean that the army advancing by way of Jeremoabo is coming here?

"Yes," Joaquim Macambira's son answers. "Pedrao and all the men of his who aren't dead are already back in Belo Monte."

Maybe that is what the Catholic Guard should do: go back to Canudos to defend the Counselor from the attack that now seems inevitable if the other army is coming this way. What is Joaquim Macambira going to do? The youngster doesn't know. Big Joao decides to go talk to the boy's father.

It is late at night and the sky is studded with stars. After instructing his men not to budge from where they are, the former slave slips silently down the rocky slope, alongside young Macambira. Unfortunately, with so many stars out, he is able to see the dead horses with their bellies ripped open, being pecked at by the black vultures, and the body of the old woman. All the day before and part of the night he has kept coming across these officers' mounts, the first victims of the fusillade. He is certain that he himself has killed a number of them. He had to do it, for the sake of the Father and Blessed Jesus the Counselor and Belo Monte, the most precious thing in his life. He will do it again, as many times as necessary. But something within his soul protests and suffers when he sees these animals fall with a great whinny, agonize for hour after hour, with their insides spilling out on the ground and a pestilential stench in the air. He knows where this sense of guilt, of committing a sin, that possesses him every time he fires on the officers' horses comes from. It stems from the memory of the great care that was taken of the horses on the hacienda, where Master Adalberto de Gumucio had instilled the veritable wors.h.i.+p of horses in his family, his hired hands, his slaves. On seeing the shadowy bulks of the animals' carca.s.ses scattered about as he goes along the trail, crouching at young Macambira's side, he wonders whether it is the Father who makes certain things that go back to the days when he was a sinner-his homesickness for the sea, his love of horses-linger so long and so vividly in his memory.

He sees the dead body of the old woman at the same time, and feels his heart pound. He has glimpsed her for only a few seconds, her face bathed in moonlight, her eyes staring in mad terror, her two remaining teeth protruding from her lips, her hair disheveled, her forehead set in a tense scowl. He has no idea what her name is, but he knows her very well; she came to settle in Belo Monte long ago, with a large family of sons, daughters, grandchildren, nieces and nephews, and homeless waifs that she had taken in, in a little mud hut on the Coracao de Jesus, a narrow back street. It was the first dwelling to have been blown to bits by the Throat-Slitter's cannons. The old woman had been in the procession, and when she returned home, her hut was a heap of rubble beneath which were three of her daughters and all her nieces and nephews, a dozen young ones who slept one on top of the other on the floor and in a couple of hammocks. The woman had climbed up to the trenches at As Umburanas with the Catholic Guard when it went up on the heights there three days ago to wait for the soldiers. She had cooked and brought water to the jaguncos jaguncos from the nearby water source, along with the rest of the women, but when the shooting began, Big Joao and his men saw her take off amid the dust, stumble down the gravel slope, and reach the trail at the bottom where-slowly, without taking any precautions-she began wandering about among the wounded soldiers, giving them the from the nearby water source, along with the rest of the women, but when the shooting began, Big Joao and his men saw her take off amid the dust, stumble down the gravel slope, and reach the trail at the bottom where-slowly, without taking any precautions-she began wandering about among the wounded soldiers, giving them the coup de grace coup de grace with a little dagger. They had seen her poke about among the uniformed corpses, and before the hail of bullets blew her to pieces, she had managed to strip some of them naked, lop off their privates, and stuff them in their mouths. All during the fighting, as he saw infantrymen and cavalrymen pa.s.s by, saw them die, fire their rifles, fall over each other, trample their dead and wounded underfoot, flee from the rain of gunfire and run for their lives along the slopes of A Favela, the only way left open, Big Joao's eyes kept constantly looking back toward the dead body of that old woman that he has just left behind. with a little dagger. They had seen her poke about among the uniformed corpses, and before the hail of bullets blew her to pieces, she had managed to strip some of them naked, lop off their privates, and stuff them in their mouths. All during the fighting, as he saw infantrymen and cavalrymen pa.s.s by, saw them die, fire their rifles, fall over each other, trample their dead and wounded underfoot, flee from the rain of gunfire and run for their lives along the slopes of A Favela, the only way left open, Big Joao's eyes kept constantly looking back toward the dead body of that old woman that he has just left behind.

As he approaches a bog dotted with thornbushes, cacti, and a few scattered imbuzeiros imbuzeiros, young Macambira raises the cane whistle to his lips and blows a shrill blast that sounds like a parakeet's screech. An identical blast comes in reply. Grabbing Joao by the arm, the youngster guides him through the bog, their feet sinking into it up to the ankles, and soon afterward the former slave is drinking from a leather canteen full of fresh sweet water, squatting on his heels alongside Joaquim Macambira beneath a shelter of boughs beyond which are many pairs of gleaming eyes.

The old man is consumed with anxiety, but Big Joao is surprised to discover that the one source of his anxiety is the big, extra-long, s.h.i.+ning cannon drawn by forty bullocks that he has seen on the Juete road. "If A Matadeira goes into action, the dogs will blow up the towers and the walls of the Temple of the Blessed Jesus and Belo Monte will disappear," he mutters gloomily. Big Joao listens to him attentively. He reveres Joaquim Macambira; he has the air of a venerable patriarch. He is very old, his white locks fall in curls that reach down to his shoulders, his little snow-white beard sets off his dark weather-beaten face with a nose like a gnarled vine shoot. His eyes buried in deep wrinkles sparkle with uncontainable energy. He was once the owner of a large plot of land where he grew manioc and maize, between Cocorobo and Trabubu, in the region known in fact as Macambira. He worked that land with his eleven sons and had many a fight with his neighbors over boundary lines. But one day he abandoned everything and moved with his enormous family to Canudos, where they occupy half a dozen dwellings opposite the cemetery. Everyone in Belo Monte approaches the old man very warily because he has the reputation of being a fiercely proud, touchy man.

Joaquim Macambira has sent messengers to ask Abbot Joao whether, in view of the situation, he should continue to mount guard at As Umburanas or withdraw to Canudos. He has had no answer as yet. What does Big Joao think? The latter shakes his head sadly: he doesn't know what to do. On the one hand, what seems most urgent is to hasten back to Belo Monte so as to protect the Counselor in case there is an attack from the north. But, on the other hand, hasn't Abbot Joao said that it is essential that they protect his rear?

"Protect it with what?" Macambira roars. "With our hands?"

"Yes," Big Joao says humbly. "If that's all there is."

They decide that they will stay at As Umburanas until they receive word from the Street Commander. They bid each other goodbye with a simultaneous "Praised be Blessed Jesus the Counselor." As he starts to wade through the bog again, alone this time, Big Joao hears the whistles that sound like the screeching of parakeets, signaling to the jaguncos jaguncos to let him through. As he splashes through the mud and feels mosquitoes biting his face, arms, and chest, he tries to picture A Matadeira, that war machine that so alarms Macambira. It must be enormous, deadly, a thundering steel dragon that vomits fire, if it frightens as brave a man as old Macambira. The Evil One, the Dragon, the Dog is really tremendously powerful, with endless resources, since he can keep hurling more and more enemies, better and better armed, into the battle against Canudos. For how long a time would the Father continue to test the faith of the believers of Belo Monte? Hadn't they suffered enough? Hadn't they endured enough hunger, death, privation, sorrow? No, not yet. The Counselor has told them as much: our penance will be as great as our sins. Since Joao's burden of sin is heavier than that of the others, he will doubtless have to pay more. But it is a great consolation to be fighting for the right cause, on St. George's side, not the Dragon's. to let him through. As he splashes through the mud and feels mosquitoes biting his face, arms, and chest, he tries to picture A Matadeira, that war machine that so alarms Macambira. It must be enormous, deadly, a thundering steel dragon that vomits fire, if it frightens as brave a man as old Macambira. The Evil One, the Dragon, the Dog is really tremendously powerful, with endless resources, since he can keep hurling more and more enemies, better and better armed, into the battle against Canudos. For how long a time would the Father continue to test the faith of the believers of Belo Monte? Hadn't they suffered enough? Hadn't they endured enough hunger, death, privation, sorrow? No, not yet. The Counselor has told them as much: our penance will be as great as our sins. Since Joao's burden of sin is heavier than that of the others, he will doubtless have to pay more. But it is a great consolation to be fighting for the right cause, on St. George's side, not the Dragon's.

By the time he gets back to the trench, dawn has begun to break; the sentinels have climbed up to their posts on the rocks, but all the rest of the men, lying on the ground on the slope, are still sleeping. Big Joao curls up in a ball and feels himself beginning to drowse when the sound of hoofbeats causes him to leap to his feet. Enveloped in a cloud of dust, eight or ten hors.e.m.e.n are approaching. Scouts, the vanguard of troops come to protect the convoy? In the still-dim light a rain of arrows, stones, lances descends upon the patrol from the hillsides and he hears shots from the bog where Macambira is. The hors.e.m.e.n wheel their mounts around and gallop toward A Favela. Yes, he is certain now that the troops reinforcing the convoy will be appearing at any moment, countless numbers of them, too many to be held off by men whose only remaining weapons are hunting crossbows, bayonets, and knives, and Big Joao prays to the Father that Abbot Joao will have time to carry out his plan.

They appear an hour later. By this time the Catholic Guard has so thoroughly blockaded the ravine with the carca.s.ses of horses and mules and the dead bodies of soldiers, and with flat rocks, bushes, and cacti that they roll down from the slopes, that two companies of engineers are obliged to move up to clear the trail again. It is not an easy task for them, since in addition to the curtain of fire laid down by Joaquim Macambira and his band with their very last ammunition, which forces them to fall back several times just as the engineers have started clearing the obstacles away with dynamite, Big Joao and some hundred men crawl over to them on their hands and knees and engage them in hand-to-hand combat. Before more soldiers appear, Joao and his men wound and kill a number of them and also manage to make off with several rifles and some of their precious knapsacks full of cartridges. By the time Big Joao gives a blast on his whistle and shouts out the order to fall back, several jaguncos jaguncos are lying on the trail, dead or dying. Once back on the slope above, protected by the stone-slab parapet against the hail of bullets from below, the former slave has time to see if he's been wounded, and finds himself unharmed. Spattered with blood, yes, but it is not his blood; he scrubs it off with fine sand. Is it the hand of Divine Providence that in three days of fighting he has not received so much as a scratch? Lying on his belly on the ground, panting for breath, he sees that the soldiers are now marching four abreast along the trail, cleared at last, headed toward the spot where Abbot Joao has posted himself. They go past by the dozens, by the hundreds. They're no doubt on their way to protect the convoy, since despite all the hara.s.sment from the Catholic Guard and from Macambira and his men, they are not even bothering to climb up the slopes or venture into the bog. They merely rake the slopes on both flanks with rifle fire from little groups of snipers who rest one knee on the ground as they shoot. Big Joao hesitates no longer. There is nothing more he can do here to help the Street Commander. He makes certain that the order to fall back reaches everyone, leaping from one crag and hillock to another, making his way from trench to trench, going over the crest line and down the other side to make sure that the women who came to cook for the men have left. They are no longer there. Then he, too, heads back toward Belo Monte. are lying on the trail, dead or dying. Once back on the slope above, protected by the stone-slab parapet against the hail of bullets from below, the former slave has time to see if he's been wounded, and finds himself unharmed. Spattered with blood, yes, but it is not his blood; he scrubs it off with fine sand. Is it the hand of Divine Providence that in three days of fighting he has not received so much as a scratch? Lying on his belly on the ground, panting for breath, he sees that the soldiers are now marching four abreast along the trail, cleared at last, headed toward the spot where Abbot Joao has posted himself. They go past by the dozens, by the hundreds. They're no doubt on their way to protect the convoy, since despite all the hara.s.sment from the Catholic Guard and from Macambira and his men, they are not even bothering to climb up the slopes or venture into the bog. They merely rake the slopes on both flanks with rifle fire from little groups of snipers who rest one knee on the ground as they shoot. Big Joao hesitates no longer. There is nothing more he can do here to help the Street Commander. He makes certain that the order to fall back reaches everyone, leaping from one crag and hillock to another, making his way from trench to trench, going over the crest line and down the other side to make sure that the women who came to cook for the men have left. They are no longer there. Then he, too, heads back toward Belo Monte.

He does so by following a meandering branch of the Vaza-Barris, which fills up only during big floods. Walking in the stony riverbed with only a trickle of water in it, Joao feels the chill morning air grow warmer. He works his way to the rear, checks how many dead there are, foreseeing how sad the Counselor, the Little Blessed One, the Mother of Men will be when they learn that those brothers' bodies will rot in the open air. It pains him to remember those boys, many of whom he taught to shoot a rifle, to know that they will turn into food for vultures, without a burial or a prayer over their graves. But how could they have rescued their mortal remains?

All the way back they hear shots, coming from the direction of A Favela. One jagunco jagunco says that it seems odd that Pajeu, Mane Quadrado, and Taramela, who are firing on the dogs from that front, should be doing so much shooting. Big Joao reminds him that when the ammunition was divided up, most of it was given to the men posted in those trenches forming a bulwark between Belo Monte and A Favela. And that even the blacksmiths went out there with their anvils and their bellows so as to go on melting lead for bullets right alongside the combatants. However, the moment they spy Canudos beneath little clouds of smoke which must be grenades exploding-the sun is now high in the sky and the towers of the Temple and the whitewashed dwellings are giving off dazzling reflections-Big Joao suddenly guesses the good news. He blinks, looks, calculates, compares. Yes, they are firing continuous rounds from the Temple of the Blessed Jesus, from the Church of Santo Antonio, from the parapets at the cemetery, as well as from the ravines of the Vaza-Barris and the Fazenda Velha. Where has all that ammunition come from? Moments later, a "youngster" brings him a message from Abbot Joao. says that it seems odd that Pajeu, Mane Quadrado, and Taramela, who are firing on the dogs from that front, should be doing so much shooting. Big Joao reminds him that when the ammunition was divided up, most of it was given to the men posted in those trenches forming a bulwark between Belo Monte and A Favela. And that even the blacksmiths went out there with their anvils and their bellows so as to go on melting lead for bullets right alongside the combatants. However, the moment they spy Canudos beneath little clouds of smoke which must be grenades exploding-the sun is now high in the sky and the towers of the Temple and the whitewashed dwellings are giving off dazzling reflections-Big Joao suddenly guesses the good news. He blinks, looks, calculates, compares. Yes, they are firing continuous rounds from the Temple of the Blessed Jesus, from the Church of Santo Antonio, from the parapets at the cemetery, as well as from the ravines of the Vaza-Barris and the Fazenda Velha. Where has all that ammunition come from? Moments later, a "youngster" brings him a message from Abbot Joao.

"So he got back to Canudos!" the former slave exclaims.

"With more than a hundred head of cattle and loads of guns," the lad says enthusiastically. "And cases of rifle cartridges and grenades, and big drums of gunpowder. He stole all that from the dogs, and now everyone in Belo Monte is eating meat."

Big Joao places one of his huge paws on the youngster's head and contains his emotion. Abbot Joao wants the Catholic Guard to go to the Fazenda Velha to reinforce Pajeu, and the former slave to meet him at the Vilanovas'. Big Joao guides his men past the line of shacks along the Vaza-Barris, a dead angle that will protect them from the gunfire from A Favela, to the Fazenda Velha, a maze of trenches and dugouts a kilometer long, constructed by taking advantage of the twists and turns and accidents of the terrain, that is the first line of defense of Belo Monte, barely fifty yards away from the soldiers. Since his return, the caboclo caboclo Pajeu has been in command on this front. Pajeu has been in command on this front.

When he arrives back in Belo Monte, Big Joao can hardly see a thing because of the dense cloud of dust that blurs everything. The gunfire is very heavy, and he hears not only the deafening rifle reports but also the sound of roof tiles breaking, walls collapsing, and sheets of corrugated tin clanging. The "youngster" takes him by the hand: he knows where there are no bullets falling. In these two days of fusillades and cannonades people have learned the geography of safety and go back and forth only along certain streets and certain angles of each street so as to be sheltered from the heavy fire. The cattle that Abbot Joao has brought in are being butchered in the narrow Rua do Espirito Santo, which has been converted into a cattle pen and an abattoir, and there is a long line of oldsters, women, and children waiting there for their share, while Campo Grande resembles a military encampment because of the number of cases of ammunition and barrels and kegs of powder amid which a great many jaguncos jaguncos are bustling back and forth. The pack mules that have hauled in this load are clearly marked with regimental brands and some of them have b.l.o.o.d.y whiplashes; they are braying in terror at the din. Big Joao sees a dead burro that emaciated dogs are devouring amid swarms of flies. He spies Antonio and Honorio Vilanova, standing on a wooden platform; with shouts and gestures, they are supervising the distribution of the cases of ammunition, which are being carried off by pairs of young are bustling back and forth. The pack mules that have hauled in this load are clearly marked with regimental brands and some of them have b.l.o.o.d.y whiplashes; they are braying in terror at the din. Big Joao sees a dead burro that emaciated dogs are devouring amid swarms of flies. He spies Antonio and Honorio Vilanova, standing on a wooden platform; with shouts and gestures, they are supervising the distribution of the cases of ammunition, which are being carried off by pairs of young jaguncos jaguncos, who take off with them on the run, hugging the sides of the dwellings facing south; some of them are little more than children, like the "youngster" with him, who will not allow him to go see the Vilanovas even for a moment and imperiously herds him toward the onetime steward's house of Canudos, where, he tells him, the Street Commander is waiting for him. It was Pajeu's idea to have the kids of Belo Monte serve as messengers, now known as "youngsters." When he proposed this, right here in the Vilanovas' store, Abbot Joao said that it was risky; they weren't responsible and their memories couldn't be trusted. But Pajeu insisted, claiming the contrary: in his experience, children had been swift, efficient, and also loyal and steadfast. "It was Pajeu who was right," the former slave thinks, seeing the little hand that does not let go of his until he has led him straight to Abbot Joao, who is leaning on the counter calmly eating and drinking as he listens to Pedrao, along with a dozen other jaguncos jaguncos around him. When he catches sight of Big Joao he motions to him to come over and gives him a hearty handshake. Big Joao wants to tell him how he feels, to thank him, to congratulate him for having brought in those arms, that ammunition and food, but as always, something holds him back, intimidates him, embarra.s.ses him: only the Counselor is able to break through that barrier which ever since childhood has prevented him from sharing his intimate feelings with people. He greets the others, nodding or patting them on the back. He suddenly feels dead tired and squats down on his heels. a.s.suncao Sardelinha places a bowlful of roast meat and manioc meal and a jug of water in his hands. For a time he forgets the war and who he is, and eats and drinks with gusto. When he is through, he notices that Abbot Joao, Pedrao, and the others are standing there silently, waiting for him to finish, and he feels embarra.s.sed. He stammers an apology. around him. When he catches sight of Big Joao he motions to him to come over and gives him a hearty handshake. Big Joao wants to tell him how he feels, to thank him, to congratulate him for having brought in those arms, that ammunition and food, but as always, something holds him back, intimidates him, embarra.s.ses him: only the Counselor is able to break through that barrier which ever since childhood has prevented him from sharing his intimate feelings with people. He greets the others, nodding or patting them on the back. He suddenly feels dead tired and squats down on his heels. a.s.suncao Sardelinha places a bowlful of roast meat and manioc meal and a jug of water in his hands. For a time he forgets the war and who he is, and eats and drinks with gusto. When he is through, he notices that Abbot Joao, Pedrao, and the others are standing there silently, waiting for him to finish, and he feels embarra.s.sed. He stammers an apology.

He is in the middle of explaining to them what has happened in As Umburanas when the indescribable roar lifts him off the floor and jolts every bone in his body. For a few seconds they all remain motionless, crouching with their hands over their ears, feeling the stones, the roof, the merchandise on the shelves of the store shake, as though everything were about to shatter into a thousand pieces from the interminable aftershock of the explosion.

"See what I mean, all of you?" old Joaquim Macambira, covered with so much mud and dust that he is barely recognizable, bellows as he enters the store. "Do you see now what a monstrous thing A Matadeira is, Abbot Joao?"

Instead of answering him, the latter orders the "youngster" who has brought Big Joao there-and who has been thrown into Pedrao's arms by the explosion, from which he emerges with his face transfixed with fear-to go see if the cannon blast has damaged the Temple of the Blessed Jesus or the Sanctuary. Then he motions to Macambira to sit down and have something to eat. But the old man is all upset, and as he nibbles on the chunk of meat that Antonia Sardelinha hands him, he goes on and on about A Matadeira, his voice full of fear and hatred. Big Joao hears him mutter: "If we don't do something, it'll bury us."

And all of a sudden Big Joao sees before him, in a peaceful dream, a troop of spirited chestnut horses galloping down a sandy beach and leaping into the white sea-foam. The scent of cane fields, of fresh mola.s.ses, of crushed cane perfumes the air. But the joy of seeing these horses with their s.h.i.+ning coats, whinnying joyfully in the cool ocean waves, is soon ended, for suddenly the long muzzle of the deadly war machine emerges from the bottom of the sea, spitting fire like the Dragon that Oxossi, in the voodoo rites of the Mocambo, slays with a gleaming sword. Someone says in a booming voice: "The Devil will win." His terror awakens him.

Through eyelids sticky with sleep, in the flickering light of an oil lamp, he sees three people eating: the woman, the blind man, and the dwarf who came to Belo Monte with Father Joaquim. Night has fallen, there is no one left in the store, he has slept for hours. He feels such remorse that it brings him wide awake. "What's happened?" he cries, leaping to his feet. The blind man drops a chunk of meat and he sees his fingers fumble all about on the floor for it.

"I told them they should let you sleep," he hears Abbot Joao's voice say and sees his st.u.r.dy silhouette emerge from the shadow. "Praised be Blessed Jesus the Counselor," the former slave murmurs and starts to apologize, but the Street Commander cuts him short: "You needed sleep, Big Joao-n.o.body can live without sleeping." He sits down on top of a barrel alongside the oil lamp, and the former slave sees that he is exhausted, his face deathly pale, his eyes sunken, his forehead deeply furrowed. "While I was lost in dreams of horses, you were out fighting, running, helping," he thinks. He feels so guilty that he scarcely notices when the Dwarf comes over to them with a tinful of water. After he has drunk from it, Abbot Joao pa.s.ses it to him.

The Counselor is safe and sound in the Sanctuary, and the atheists have not budged from A Favela; from time to time there is a burst of gunfire. There is a worried expression on Abbot Joao's tired face. "What's happening, Joao? Is there something I can do?" The Street Commander looks at him affectionately. Though they seldom talk together, the former slave has known, ever since their days of wandering all about with the Counselor, that the former cangaceiro cangaceiro esteems him: he has demonstrated the respect and admiration he feels for him many a time. esteems him: he has demonstrated the respect and admiration he feels for him many a time.

"Joaquim Macambira and his sons are going to climb to the top of A Favela to silence A Matadeira," he says to him. The three persons sitting on the floor stop eating and the blind man cranes his neck, his right eye glued to that monocle of his that is a patchwork of slivers of gla.s.s glued together. "They'll have trouble getting up there. But if they manage to, they can put it out of commission. It's easy. All they have to do then is smash the detonating mechanism or blow up the chamber."

"Can I go with them?" Big Joao breaks in. "I'll ram powder down the barrel and blow it to pieces."

"You can help the Macambiras get up there," Abbot Joao answers. "But you can't go all the way with them, Big Joao. Just help them get up there. It's their plan, their decision. Come on, let's go."

As they are leaving, the Dwarf goes over to Abbot Joao and says to him in a sweet, fawning voice: "Whenever you'd like, I'll recite the Terrible and Exemplary Story of Robert the Devil for you, Abbot Joao." The former cangaceiro cangaceiro pushes him aside without answering. pushes him aside without answering.

Outside, it is pitch-dark and foggy. There is not one star in the sky. There is no gunfire to be heard, and not a soul in sight on Campo Grande. Nor a single light in any of the dwellings. The captured animals have been taken, once night fell, to pens behind the Mocambo. The narrow street of Espirito Santo reeks of butchered meat and dried blood, and as he listens to the Macambiras' plan, Big Joao is aware of the countless flies hovering above the remains of the slaughtered animals that the dogs are poking through. They go up Campo Grande to the esplanade between the churches, fortified on all four sides with double and triple barriers of bricks, stones, large wooden boxes full of dirt, overturned carts, barrels, doors, tin drums, stakes, behind which hordes of armed men are posted. They are stretched out on the ground resting, talking together around little braziers, and on one of the street corners a group of them are singing, accompanied by a guitar. "Why is it men can't resist staying up all night without sleeping even if what's at stake is saying their souls or burning in h.e.l.l forever?" he thinks in torment.

At the door of the Sanctuary, hidden behind a tall parapet of sandbags and boxes filled with dirt, they talk with the men of the Catholic Guard as they wait for the Macambiras. The old man, his eleven sons, and their wives are with the Counselor. Big Joao mentally selects which of the sons the father will be taking with him and thinks to himself that he would like to hear what the Counselor is saying to his family about to make this sacrifice for the Blessed Jesus. When they come out, the old man's eyes are s.h.i.+ning. The Little Blessed One and Mother Maria Quadrado accompany them as far as the parapet and bless them. The Macambiras embrace their wives, who cling to them and burst into tears. But Joaquim Macambira puts an end to the scene by saying that it is time to leave. The women go off with the Little Blessed One to the Temple to pray.

As they head for the trenches at Fazenda Velha, they pick up the equipment that Abbot Joao has ordered: crossbars, wedges, petards, axes, hammers. The old man and his sons hand them round without a word, as Abbot Joao explains to them that the Catholic Guards will distract the dogs by making a feigned attack while the Macambiras are crawling up to A Matadeira. "Let's see if the 'youngsters' have located it," he says.