"Long live Belo Monte!"

"We can't stay here, Pajeu," Taramela says to him. A compact ma.s.s is descending the slope now: soldiers, bullock carts, a cannon, cavalrymen, protected by two companies of infantrymen that charge into the caatinga caatinga. They fling themselves into the scrub and sink their bayonets in the bushes in the hope of running their invisible enemy through. "Either we get out now or we won't get out, Pajeu," Taramela insists, but there is no panic in his voice. Pajeu wants to make sure that the soldiers are really heading toward Pitombas. Yes, there is no question of it, the river of uniforms is definitely flowing northward; n.o.body except the men who are combing the brush veers off toward the west. He keeps shooting till all his bullets are gone before taking the knife out of his mouth and blowing the cane whistle with all his might. Jaguncos Jaguncos instantly appear here and there, crouching over, crawling on all fours, turning tail, leaping from one refuge to another, some of them even slipping right through a soldier's legs, all of them decamping as fast as they can. He blows his whistle again and, followed by Taramela, beats a hasty retreat, too. Has he waited too long? He does not run in a straight line but in a ragged tracery of curves, back and forth, so as to make himself a difficult target to aim at; he glimpses, to his right and his left, soldiers shouldering their rifles or running with fixed bayonets after instantly appear here and there, crouching over, crawling on all fours, turning tail, leaping from one refuge to another, some of them even slipping right through a soldier's legs, all of them decamping as fast as they can. He blows his whistle again and, followed by Taramela, beats a hasty retreat, too. Has he waited too long? He does not run in a straight line but in a ragged tracery of curves, back and forth, so as to make himself a difficult target to aim at; he glimpses, to his right and his left, soldiers shouldering their rifles or running with fixed bayonets after jaguncos jaguncos. As he heads into the caatinga caatinga, as fast as his legs can carry him, he thinks of the woman again, of the two men who killed each other because of her; is she one of those women who bring bad luck?

He feels exhausted, his heart about to burst. Taramela is panting, too. It is good to have this loyal comrade here with him, his friend for so many years now, with whom he has never had the slightest argument. And at that moment four uniforms, four rifles suddenly confront him. "Hit the dirt, hit the dirt," he shouts to Taramela. He throws himself to the ground and rolls, hearing at least two of them shoot. By the time he manages to get himself in a squatting position he has his rifle already aimed at the infantryman coming toward him. The Mannlicher has jammed: the pin hits the head of the cartridge but does not fire. He hears a shot and one of the Protestants falls to the ground, clutching his belly. "Yes, Taramela, you're my good luck," he thinks as he flings himself upon the three soldiers who have been thrown into confusion for a moment on seeing their comrade wounded, using his rifle as a bludgeon. He strikes one of them and sends him staggering, but the others leap on top of him. He feels a burning, shooting pain. Suddenly blood spurts all over the face of one of the soldiers and he hears him howl with pain. Taramela is there, landing in their midst like a meteor. The enemy that it falls to Pajeu's lot to deal with is not a real adversary to Pajeu's way of thinking: very young, he is dripping with sweat, and the uniform he is bundled up in barely allows him to move. He struggles till Pajeu gets his rifle away from him and then takes to his heels. Taramela and the other soldier are fighting it out on the ground, panting. Pajeu goes over to them and with a single thrust buries his knife in the soldier's neck up to the handle; he gurgles, trembles, and stops moving. Taramela has a few bruises and Pajeu's shoulder is bleeding. Taramela rubs egg poultice on it and bandages it with the shirt of one of the dead soldiers. "You're my good luck, Taramela," Pajeu says. "That I am," Taramela agrees. They are unable to run now, for each of them is now carrying not only his own knapsack and rifle but also those of one of the soldiers.

Shortly thereafter they hear gunfire. It is scattered at first, but soon grows heavier. The vanguard is already in Pitombas, being fired on by Felicio and his men. He imagines the rage the soldiers must feel on finding, hanging from the trees, the uniforms, the boots, the caps, the leather chest belts of the Throat-Slitter's troops, the skeletons picked clean by the vultures. During nearly all of their trek to Pitombas, the fusillade continues and Taramela comments: "Anybody who's got all the bullets in the world, the way those soldiers do, can shoot just to be shooting." The fusillade suddenly ceases. Felicio must have started falling back, so as to lure the column into following them along the road to As Umburanas, where old Macambira and Mane Quadrado will greet them with another hail of bullets.

When Pajeu and Taramela-they must rest awhile, for the weight of the soldiers' rifles and knapsacks plus their own is twice as tiring-finally reach the scrubland of Pitombas, there are still scattered jaguncos jaguncos there. They are firing sporadically at the column, which pays no attention to them and continues to advance, amid a cloud of yellow dust, toward the deep depression, once a riverbed, that the there. They are firing sporadically at the column, which pays no attention to them and continues to advance, amid a cloud of yellow dust, toward the deep depression, once a riverbed, that the sertanejos sertanejos call the road to As Umburanas. call the road to As Umburanas.

"It must not hurt you very much when you laugh, Pajeu," Taramela says.

Pajeu is blowing his cane whistle to let the jaguncos jaguncos know he's arrived, and thinks to himself that he has the right to smile. Aren't the dogs taking off down the ravine, battalion after battalion of them, on the road to As Umburanas? Won't that road take them, inevitably, to A Favela? know he's arrived, and thinks to himself that he has the right to smile. Aren't the dogs taking off down the ravine, battalion after battalion of them, on the road to As Umburanas? Won't that road take them, inevitably, to A Favela?

He and Taramela are on a wooded promontory overlooking the bare ravines; there is no need to hide themselves, for they are not only standing at a dead angle but are shielded by the sun's rays, which blind the soldiers if they look in this direction. They can see the column below them turn the gray earth red, blue. They can still hear occasional shots. The jaguncos jaguncos appear, climbing on all fours, emerging from caves, letting themselves down from lookout platforms hidden in the trees. They crowd around Pajeu, to whom someone hands a leather flask full of milk, which he drinks in little sips and which leaves a little white trickle at the corners of his mouth. No one questions him about his wound, and in fact they avert their eyes from it, as though it were something indecent. Pajeu then eats a handful of fruit they give him: appear, climbing on all fours, emerging from caves, letting themselves down from lookout platforms hidden in the trees. They crowd around Pajeu, to whom someone hands a leather flask full of milk, which he drinks in little sips and which leaves a little white trickle at the corners of his mouth. No one questions him about his wound, and in fact they avert their eyes from it, as though it were something indecent. Pajeu then eats a handful of fruit they give him: quixabas quixabas, quarters of umbu, pinhas umbu, pinhas. At the same time, he listens to the report of two men whom Felicio left there when he went off to reinforce Joaquim Macambira and Mane Quadrado in As Umburanas. Constantly breaking in on each other, they tell how the dogs did not react immediately to being fired upon from the promontory, because it seemed risky to climb up the slope and present a target to the jagunco jagunco sharpshooters or because they guessed that the latter were such small groups as to be insignificant. Nonetheless, when Felicio and his men advanced to the edge of the ravine and the atheists saw that they were beginning to suffer casualties, they sent several companies to hunt them down. That's how it had gone for some time, with the companies trying to climb the slope and the sharpshooters or because they guessed that the latter were such small groups as to be insignificant. Nonetheless, when Felicio and his men advanced to the edge of the ravine and the atheists saw that they were beginning to suffer casualties, they sent several companies to hunt them down. That's how it had gone for some time, with the companies trying to climb the slope and the jaguncos jaguncos withstanding their fire, until finally the soldiers slipped away through one opening or another in the brush and disappeared. Felicio had left shortly thereafter. withstanding their fire, until finally the soldiers slipped away through one opening or another in the brush and disappeared. Felicio had left shortly thereafter.

"Till just a little while ago," one of the messengers says, "it was swarming with soldiers around here."

Taramela, who has been counting the men, informs Pajeu that there are thirty-five of them there. Should they wait for the others?

"There isn't time," Pajeu answers. "We're needed."

He leaves a messenger to tell the others which way they've gone, hands out the rifles and knapsacks they've brought, and heads straight for the ravines to meet up with Mane Quadrado, Felicio, and Macambira. The rest he has had-along with having had something to eat and drink-has done him good. His muscles no longer ache; the wound burns less. He walks fast, not hiding himself, along the broken path that forces them to zigzag back and forth. Below him, the column continues to advance. The head of it is now far in the distance, perhaps climbing A Favela, but even in spots where the view is un.o.bstructed he is unable to catch a glimpse of it. The river of soldiers, horses, cannons, wagons is endless. "It's a rattlesnake," Pajeu thinks. Each battalion is a ring, the uniforms the scales, the powder of its cannons the venom with which it poisons its victims. He would like to be able to tell the woman what has happened to him.

At that moment he hears rifle reports. Everything has turned out as Abbot Joao has planned it. They are up ahead shooting at the serpent from the rocks of As Umburanas, giving it one last push toward A Favela. On rounding a hill, they see a squad of cavalry coming up. Pajeu begins shooting, aiming at their mounts to make them roll down into the ravine. What fine horses, how easily they scale the very steep slope! The burst of fire downs two of them, but a number of them reach the top. Pajeu gives the order to clear out, knowing as he runs that the men must resent his having deprived them of an easy victory.

When they finally reach the ravines where the jaguncos jaguncos are deployed, Pajeu realizes that his comrades are in a tough spot. Old Macambira, whom it takes him some time to locate, explains to him that the soldiers are bombarding the heights, causing rockslides, and that every corps that pa.s.ses by sends out fresh companies to hunt them down. "We've lost quite a few men," the old man says as he energetically unfouls his rifle and carefully loads it with black powder that he extracts from a horn. "At least twenty," he grumbles. "I don't know if we'll withstand the next charge. What shall we do?" are deployed, Pajeu realizes that his comrades are in a tough spot. Old Macambira, whom it takes him some time to locate, explains to him that the soldiers are bombarding the heights, causing rockslides, and that every corps that pa.s.ses by sends out fresh companies to hunt them down. "We've lost quite a few men," the old man says as he energetically unfouls his rifle and carefully loads it with black powder that he extracts from a horn. "At least twenty," he grumbles. "I don't know if we'll withstand the next charge. What shall we do?"

From where he is standing, Pajeu can see, very close by, the range of hills of A Favela, and beyond them, Monte Mario. Those hills, gray and ocher, have now turned bluish, reddish, greenish, and are moving, as though they were infested with larvae.

"They've been coming up for three or four hours now," old Macambira says. "They've even gotten the cannons up. And A Matadeira, too."

"Well then, we've done what we had to do," Pajeu says. "So let's all go now to reinforce O Riacho."

When the Sardelinha sisters asked her if she wanted to go with them to cook for the men who were waiting for the soldiers in Trabubu and Cocorobo, Jurema said yes. She said it mechanically, the way she said and did everything. The Dwarf reproached her for it and the nearsighted man made that noise, halfway between a moan and a gargle, that came from him every time something frightened him. They had been in Canudos for more than two months now and were never apart.

She thought that the Dwarf and the nearsighted man would stay behind in the city, but when the convoy of four pack mules, twenty porters, and a dozen women was ready to leave, both of them fell in alongside her. They took the road to Jeremoabo. No one was bothered by the presence of these two intruders who were carrying neither weapons nor pickaxes and shovels for digging trenches. As they pa.s.sed by the animal pens, now rebuilt and full once more of goats and kids, everyone began singing the hymns that people said had been composed by the Little Blessed One. Jurema walked along in silence, feeling the rough stones of the road through her sandals. The Dwarf sang along with the others. The nearsighted man, concentrating on seeing where he was stepping, was holding to his right eye the tortoisesh.e.l.l frame of his gla.s.ses, to which he had glued little shards of the shattered lenses. This man who seemed to have more bones than other people, to stagger about in a daze, holding this artifact made of slivers up to his eye, who approached persons and things as though he were about to b.u.mp into them, at times kept Jurema from dwelling on her unlucky star. In the weeks during which she had been his eyes, his cane, his consolation, she had thought of him as her son. Thinking of this gangling beanpole of a man as "my son" was her secret game, a notion that made her laugh. G.o.d had brought strange people into her life, people she never dreamed existed, such as Galileo Gall, the circus folk, and this pitiful creature alongside her who had just tripped and fallen headlong.

Every so often they would run into armed groups of the Catholic Guard in the scrub on the mountainsides and stop to give them flour, fruit, brown sugar, jerky, and ammunition. From time to time messengers appeared, who on spying them stopped short to talk with Antonio Vilanova. Rumors spread in whispers through the convoy after they had gone on. They were always about the same thing: the war, the dogs that were on their way. She finally pieced together what had been happening. There were two armies approaching, one of them by way of Queimadas and Monte Santo and the other by way of Sergipe and Jeremoabo. Hundreds of jaguncos jaguncos had taken off in those two directions in recent days, and every afternoon, during the counsels, which Jurema had faithfully attended, the Counselor exhorted his flock to pray for them. She had seen the anxiety that the imminent threat of yet another war had aroused. Her one thought was that, because of this war, the robust, mature had taken off in those two directions in recent days, and every afternoon, during the counsels, which Jurema had faithfully attended, the Counselor exhorted his flock to pray for them. She had seen the anxiety that the imminent threat of yet another war had aroused. Her one thought was that, because of this war, the robust, mature caboclo caboclo, the one with the scar and the little beady eyes that frightened her, would not be back for some time.

The convoy arrived in Trabubu as night was falling. They distributed food to the jaguncos jaguncos entrenched amid the rocks and three women stayed behind with them. Then Antonio Vilanova ordered the rest of the convoy to go on to Cocorobo. They covered the last stretch in darkness. Jurema led the nearsighted man along by the hand. Despite her help, he stumbled and fell so many times that Antonio Vilanova had him ride a pack mule, sitting on top of the sacks of maize. As they started up the steep pa.s.s to Cocorobo, Pedrao came to meet them. He was a giant of a man, nearly as stout and tall as Big Joao, a light-skinned mulatto well along in years, with an ancient carbine slung over his shoulder that he never removed even to sleep. He was barefoot, with pants that reached down to his ankles and a sleeveless jacket that left his huge st.u.r.dy arms bare. He had a round belly that he kept scratching as he spoke. On seeing him, Jurema felt apprehensive, because of the stories that had circulated about his life in Varzea da Ema, where he had perpetrated many a b.l.o.o.d.y deed with the band that had never left his side, men with the fearsome faces of outlaws. She had the feeling that being around people such as Pedrao, Abbot Joao, or Pajeu was dangerous, even though they were saints now-like living with a jaguar, a cobra, and a tarantula who, through some dark instinct, might claw, bite, or sting at any moment. entrenched amid the rocks and three women stayed behind with them. Then Antonio Vilanova ordered the rest of the convoy to go on to Cocorobo. They covered the last stretch in darkness. Jurema led the nearsighted man along by the hand. Despite her help, he stumbled and fell so many times that Antonio Vilanova had him ride a pack mule, sitting on top of the sacks of maize. As they started up the steep pa.s.s to Cocorobo, Pedrao came to meet them. He was a giant of a man, nearly as stout and tall as Big Joao, a light-skinned mulatto well along in years, with an ancient carbine slung over his shoulder that he never removed even to sleep. He was barefoot, with pants that reached down to his ankles and a sleeveless jacket that left his huge st.u.r.dy arms bare. He had a round belly that he kept scratching as he spoke. On seeing him, Jurema felt apprehensive, because of the stories that had circulated about his life in Varzea da Ema, where he had perpetrated many a b.l.o.o.d.y deed with the band that had never left his side, men with the fearsome faces of outlaws. She had the feeling that being around people such as Pedrao, Abbot Joao, or Pajeu was dangerous, even though they were saints now-like living with a jaguar, a cobra, and a tarantula who, through some dark instinct, might claw, bite, or sting at any moment.

Right now, Pedrao seemed harmless enough, lost in the shadows talking with Antonio and Honorio Vilanova, the latter having materialized like a ghost from behind the rocks. A number of silhouettes appeared with him, suddenly popping up out of the brambles to relieve the porters of the burdens they were carrying on their backs. Jurema helped light the braziers. The men busied themselves opening cases of ammunition and sacks of gunpowder, distributing fuses. She and the other women began preparing a meal. The jaguncos jaguncos were so hungry they seemed scarcely able to wait for the pots to come to a boil. They congregated around a.s.suncao Sardelinha, who filled their bowls and tins with water, as other women handed out fistfuls of manioc; as things became somewhat disorderly, Pedrao ordered the men to calm down. were so hungry they seemed scarcely able to wait for the pots to come to a boil. They congregated around a.s.suncao Sardelinha, who filled their bowls and tins with water, as other women handed out fistfuls of manioc; as things became somewhat disorderly, Pedrao ordered the men to calm down.

Jurema worked all night long, putting the pots back on the fire to warm again and again, frying pieces of meat, reheating the beans. The men showed up in groups of ten, of fifteen, and when one of them recognized his wife among the women cooking, he took her by the arm and they withdrew to talk together. Why had it never occurred to Rufino, as it had to so many other sertanejos sertanejos, to come to Canudos? If he had done so, he would still be alive.

Suddenly they heard a clap of thunder. But the air was dry; it couldn't be a sign of a rainstorm about to break. She realized then that it was the boom of a cannon; Pedrao and the Vilanova brothers ordered the fires put out and sent the men who were eating back to the mountaintops. Once they had left, however, the three stayed there talking. Pedrao said that the soldiers were on the outskirts of Canche; it would be some time before they arrived. They did not march by night; he had followed them from Simao Dias on and knew their habits. The moment darkness fell, they set up their portable huts and posted sentinels and stayed put till the following day. At dawn, before leaving, they fired a cannon shot in the air. That must have been what the cannon report was; they must just be leaving Canche.

"Are there many of them?" a voice from the ground that resembled the screeching of a bird interrupted him. "How many of them are there?"

Jurema saw him rise to his feet and stand, frail and spindly, in profile between her and the men, trying to see though his monocle of splinters. The Vilanovas and Pedrao burst out laughing, as did the women who were putting away the pots and the food that was left. She refrained from laughing. She felt sorry for the nearsighted man. Was there anyone more helpless and terrified than her son? Everything frightened him: the people who brushed past him, cripples, madmen, and lepers who begged for alms, a rat running across the floor of the store. Everything made him give that little scream of his, made him turn deathly pale, made him search for her hand.

"I didn't count them." Pedrao guffawed. "Why should I have, if we're going to kill all of them?"

There was another wave of laughter. On the heights, it was beginning to get light.

"The women had best leave here," Honorio Vilanova said.

Like his brother, he was wearing boots and carrying a pistol as well as a rifle. In their dress, their speech, and even their physical appearance, they seemed to Jurema to be quite different from the other people in Canudos. But no one treated them as though they were any different.

Forgetting about the nearsighted man, Pedrao motioned to the women to follow him. Half the bearers had already gone up the mountainside, but the rest were still there, with their loads on their backs. A red arc was rising behind the slopes of Cocorobo. The nearsighted man stayed where he was, shaking his head, when the convoy set out to take up positions amid the rocks behind the combatants. Jurema took him by the hand: it was soaking wet with sweat. His gla.s.sy, unfocused eyes looked at her gratefully. "Let's go," she said, tugging at him. "They're leaving us behind." They had to wake the Dwarf, who was sleeping soundly.

As they reached a sheltered hillock near the crest, the advance guard of the army was entering the pa.s.s and the war had begun. The Vilanovas and Pedrao disappeared, and the women, the nearsighted man, and the Dwarf stayed behind amid the weathered rocks, listening to the gunfire. It seemed to be scattered and far off. Jurema could hear the shots on the right and on the left, and she thought to herself that the wind must be carrying the sound away from them, for from there it was very m.u.f.fled. She could not see anything; a wall of mossy stones hid the sharpshooters from sight. The war, despite being so close, seemed very far away. "Are there many of them?" the nearsighted man stammered. He was still clutching her hand tightly. She answered that she didn't know and went to help the Sardelinha sisters unload the pack mules and set out the earthen jars full of water, pots full of food, strips of cloth and rags to make bandages, and poultices and medicines that the apothecary had packed in a wooden box. She saw the Dwarf climbing up toward the crest. The nearsighted man sat down on the ground and hid his face in his hands, as though he were weeping. But when one of the women shouted to him to gather branches to make an overhead shelter, he hastily rose to his feet and Jurema saw him set to work eagerly, feeling all around for stems, leaves, gra.s.s, and stumbling back to hand them to the women. That little figure moving back and forth, tripping and falling and picking himself up again and peering at the ground with his outlandish monocle, was such a funny sight that the women finally began pointing at him and making fun of him. The Dwarf disappeared amid the rocks.

Suddenly the shots sounded louder, closer. The women stood there not moving, listening. Jurema saw that the crackle of gunfire, the continuous bursts had instantly sobered them: they had forgotten all about the nearsighted man and were thinking of their husbands, their fathers, their sons who were the targets of this fire on the slope opposite. The shooting dazed her but it did not frighten her. She felt that this war did not concern her and that the bullets would therefore respect her. She felt such drowsiness come over her that she curled up against the rocks, at the Sardelinha sisters' side. She slept though not asleep, a lucid sleep, aware of the gunfire that was shaking the mountain slopes of Cocorobo, dreaming twice of other shots, those of that morning in Queimadas, that dawn when she had been about to be killed by the capangas capangas and the stranger who spoke in some odd language had raped her. She dreamed that, since she knew what was going to happen, she begged him not to do it because that would be the ruin of her and of Rufino and of the stranger himself, but not understanding her language, he had paid no attention to her. and the stranger who spoke in some odd language had raped her. She dreamed that, since she knew what was going to happen, she begged him not to do it because that would be the ruin of her and of Rufino and of the stranger himself, but not understanding her language, he had paid no attention to her.

When she awoke, the nearsighted man, at her feet, looked at her the way the Idiot from the circus had. Two jaguncos jaguncos were drinking from one of the earthen jugs, surrounded by the women. She rose to her feet and went to see what was happening. The Dwarf had not come back, and the gunfire was deafening. The were drinking from one of the earthen jugs, surrounded by the women. She rose to her feet and went to see what was happening. The Dwarf had not come back, and the gunfire was deafening. The jaguncos jaguncos had come to get more ammunition; they were so tense and exhausted they could barely speak: the pa.s.s was crawling with atheists, who were dropping like flies every time they tried to take the mountainside. They had charged twice, and each time they had been pushed back before they were even halfway up the slope. The man speaking, a short little man with a spa.r.s.e beard sprinkled with white, shrugged: the only thing was, there were so many of them that there was no way to force them to withdraw. What was more, the had come to get more ammunition; they were so tense and exhausted they could barely speak: the pa.s.s was crawling with atheists, who were dropping like flies every time they tried to take the mountainside. They had charged twice, and each time they had been pushed back before they were even halfway up the slope. The man speaking, a short little man with a spa.r.s.e beard sprinkled with white, shrugged: the only thing was, there were so many of them that there was no way to force them to withdraw. What was more, the jaguncos jaguncos were beginning to run out of ammunition. were beginning to run out of ammunition.

"And what will happen if they take the slopes?" Jurema heard the nearsighted man stammer.

"They won't be able to stop them in Trabubu," the other jagunco jagunco said in a hoa.r.s.e voice. "There are almost no men left there. They've all come here to give us a hand." said in a hoa.r.s.e voice. "There are almost no men left there. They've all come here to give us a hand."

As though that had reminded them of the need to leave immediately, the two men murmured. "Praised be the Blessed Jesus," and Jurema saw them scale the rocks and disappear. The Sardelinha sisters said that the food should be reheated, since more jaguncos jaguncos would be turning up at any moment. As she helped them, Jurema felt the nearsighted man tremble as he clung to her skirts. She sensed how terrified, how panicked he was at the thought that all of a sudden uniformed men might spring out from amid the rocks, shooting and bayoneting anyone who got in their way. In addition to the rifle fire, there was cannonading; each time a sh.e.l.l landed, it was followed by an avalanche of stones that roared down the mountainside. Jurema remembered her poor son's indecision all these many weeks, not knowing what to do with himself, whether to stay or try to get away. He wanted to leave, that was what he yearned to do, and as they lay on the floor of the store at night, listening to the Vilanova family snore, he told her so, trembling all over: he wanted to get out of there, to escape to Salvador, to c.u.mbe, to Monte Santo, to Jeremoabo, to a place where he could find help, where he could get word to people who were his friends that he was still alive. But how to get away if they had forbidden him to leave? How far could he get all by himself and half blind? They would catch up with him and kill him. In these whispered dialogues in the dark of the night, he sometimes tried to persuade her to lead him to some hamlet where he could hire guides. He would offer her every reward conceivable if she helped him, but then a moment later he would correct himself and say that it was madness to try to escape since they would find them and kill them. As he had once trembled with fear of the would be turning up at any moment. As she helped them, Jurema felt the nearsighted man tremble as he clung to her skirts. She sensed how terrified, how panicked he was at the thought that all of a sudden uniformed men might spring out from amid the rocks, shooting and bayoneting anyone who got in their way. In addition to the rifle fire, there was cannonading; each time a sh.e.l.l landed, it was followed by an avalanche of stones that roared down the mountainside. Jurema remembered her poor son's indecision all these many weeks, not knowing what to do with himself, whether to stay or try to get away. He wanted to leave, that was what he yearned to do, and as they lay on the floor of the store at night, listening to the Vilanova family snore, he told her so, trembling all over: he wanted to get out of there, to escape to Salvador, to c.u.mbe, to Monte Santo, to Jeremoabo, to a place where he could find help, where he could get word to people who were his friends that he was still alive. But how to get away if they had forbidden him to leave? How far could he get all by himself and half blind? They would catch up with him and kill him. In these whispered dialogues in the dark of the night, he sometimes tried to persuade her to lead him to some hamlet where he could hire guides. He would offer her every reward conceivable if she helped him, but then a moment later he would correct himself and say that it was madness to try to escape since they would find them and kill them. As he had once trembled with fear of the jaguncos jaguncos, he now trembled with fear of the soldiers. "My poor son," she thought. She felt sad and disheartened. Would the soldiers kill her? It didn't matter. Was it true that when any man or woman of Belo Monte died, angels would come to carry off their soul? True or not, death in any event would be a repose, a sleep with no sad dreams, something not as bad as the life that she had been leading after what had happened in Queimadas.

All the women suddenly looked up. Her eyes followed to see what they were watching: ten or twelve jaguncos jaguncos leaping down the slope from the crest. The cannonade was so heavy that it seemed to Jurema that sh.e.l.ls were bursting inside her head. Like the other women, she ran to meet the men and heard them say that they needed ammunition: they had none left to shoot back with and were in a desperate rage. When the Sardelinha sisters answered, "What ammunition?" since the last case of it had been carried off by the two leaping down the slope from the crest. The cannonade was so heavy that it seemed to Jurema that sh.e.l.ls were bursting inside her head. Like the other women, she ran to meet the men and heard them say that they needed ammunition: they had none left to shoot back with and were in a desperate rage. When the Sardelinha sisters answered, "What ammunition?" since the last case of it had been carried off by the two jaguncos jaguncos a while before, the men looked at each other and one of them spat and stamped his feet in fury. The women offered them something to eat, but they took time only to have a drink of water, pa.s.sing a dipper from hand to hand: the moment they had all had a drink, they ran back up the mountainside. The women watched them drink and take off again, dripping with sweat, frowning, the veins at their temples standing out, their eyes bloodshot, and did not ask them a single question. a while before, the men looked at each other and one of them spat and stamped his feet in fury. The women offered them something to eat, but they took time only to have a drink of water, pa.s.sing a dipper from hand to hand: the moment they had all had a drink, they ran back up the mountainside. The women watched them drink and take off again, dripping with sweat, frowning, the veins at their temples standing out, their eyes bloodshot, and did not ask them a single question.

The last one to leave turned to the Sardelinha sisters and said: "You'd best go back to Belo Monte. We can't hold out much longer. There are too many of them, and we've no bullets left."

After a moment's hesitation, instead of heading for the pack mules, the women also began scrambling up the mountainside. Jurema scarcely knew what to make of it. They were not going to war because they were madwomen; their men were up there, and they wanted to know if they were still alive. Without another thought, she ran after them, shouting to the nearsighted man-standing there petrified, his mouth gaping open-to wait for her.

As she clambered up the slope she scratched her hands and twice she slipped and fell. It was a steep climb; her heart began to pound and she found herself short of breath. Up above, she saw great ocher, lead-colored, orange-tinted clouds that the wind drove together, drove apart, drove together again, and along with scattered gunfire, close at hand, she could hear unintelligible shouts. She crawled down a slope without stones, trying to see. She came upon two big rocks leaning against each other and peered out from behind them at the clouds of dust. Little by little she was able to see, intuit, guess. The jaguncos jaguncos were not far off, but it was hard to make them out because they blended in with the slope. She gradually located them, curled up behind boulders or clumps of cacti, or hiding in hollows with only their heads peeking out. On the slopes opposite, whose broad outlines she managed to make out in the dust, there were also many were not far off, but it was hard to make them out because they blended in with the slope. She gradually located them, curled up behind boulders or clumps of cacti, or hiding in hollows with only their heads peeking out. On the slopes opposite, whose broad outlines she managed to make out in the dust, there were also many jaguncos jaguncos, spread out, buried in the dirt, shooting. She had the impression that she was about to go deaf, that the earsplitting gunfire was the last thing she would ever hear.

And at that moment she realized that the dark spot, like a thicket, that the slope turned into fifty yards down was soldiers. Yes, there they were: a splotch climbing farther and farther up the mountainside, in which there were glints, bright spots, reflections, little red stars that must be rifle shots, bayonets, swords, and glimpsed faces that appeared and disappeared. She looked to both sides, and on the right the splotch had now climbed as high as the place where she was. She felt her stomach writhe, retched, and vomited across her arm. She was alone in the middle of the slope and that tide of uniforms was about to flood over her. Without thinking, she let herself slide, sitting down, to the nearest nest of jaguncos jaguncos: three sombreros, two leather ones and one straw one, in a hollow. "Don't shoot, don't shoot," she shouted as she slid. But not one of them turned around to look at her as she leapt into the hole protected by a parapet of stones. She then saw that two of the three men inside were dead. One of them had been hit by a projectile that had turned his face into a vermilion blob. He was lying in the arms of the other one who was dead, his eyes and mouth full of flies. They were holding each other up like the two big rocks behind which she had hidden herself. After a moment, the jagunco jagunco who was still alive looked at her out of the corner of one eye. He was aiming with his other eye closed, calculating before shooting, and with each shot the rifle recoiled and hit him in the shoulder. Without halting his fire, he mumbled something. Jurema did not understand what he said. She crawled toward him, to no avail. The buzzing in her ears was still the only thing she could hear. The who was still alive looked at her out of the corner of one eye. He was aiming with his other eye closed, calculating before shooting, and with each shot the rifle recoiled and hit him in the shoulder. Without halting his fire, he mumbled something. Jurema did not understand what he said. She crawled toward him, to no avail. The buzzing in her ears was still the only thing she could hear. The jagunco jagunco motioned to her, and she finally realized that he wanted the pouch that was lying next to the dead body without a face. She handed it to him and saw the motioned to her, and she finally realized that he wanted the pouch that was lying next to the dead body without a face. She handed it to him and saw the jagunco jagunco, sitting with his legs crossed, clean the barrel of his rifle and calmly reload it, as though he had all the time in the world.

"The soldiers are right on top of us," Jurema screamed. "Heaven help us, what's going to become of us?"

He shrugged and took up his position behind the parapet again. Should she leave this trench, go back to the other side of the slope, flee to Canudos? Her body would not obey her, her legs had gone as limp as rags, if she stood up she would fall down. Why didn't the soldiers appear with their bayonets, what were they waiting for if they'd spied them only a few yards away? The jagunco jagunco moved his lips again, but all she could hear was that buzzing in her ears and now, too, metallic sounds: bugles? moved his lips again, but all she could hear was that buzzing in her ears and now, too, metallic sounds: bugles?

"I can't hear a thing, not a thing," she shouted at the top of her lungs. "I've gone deaf."

The jagunco jagunco nodded and motioned to her, as though indicating that someone was moving off. He was a young man, with long kinky hair tumbling out from under the brim of his leather sombrero with a greenish tinge, and wearing the armband of the Catholic Guard. "What?" Jurema shouted. He gestured to her to look over the parapet. Pushing the two dead bodies aside, she peeked out of one of the openings between the stones. The soldiers were now lower down on the slope. It was they who were moving off. "Why are they going off if they've won?" she wondered, watching them being swallowed up by the swirls of dust. Why were they moving off downhill instead of climbing up the hill to kill off the survivors? nodded and motioned to her, as though indicating that someone was moving off. He was a young man, with long kinky hair tumbling out from under the brim of his leather sombrero with a greenish tinge, and wearing the armband of the Catholic Guard. "What?" Jurema shouted. He gestured to her to look over the parapet. Pushing the two dead bodies aside, she peeked out of one of the openings between the stones. The soldiers were now lower down on the slope. It was they who were moving off. "Why are they going off if they've won?" she wondered, watching them being swallowed up by the swirls of dust. Why were they moving off downhill instead of climbing up the hill to kill off the survivors?

When Sergeant Frutuoso Medrado-First Company, Twelfth Battalion-hears the bugle command to retreat, he thinks he is going mad. His squad of cha.s.seurs is at the head of the company and the company at the head of the battalion as they launch a bayonet charge, the fifth one of the day, on the western slopes of Cocorobo. The fact that this time-when they have taken three-quarters of the mountainside, flushing out, with bayonet and saber, the English from the hiding places from which they were sniping at the patriots-they are being given orders to retreat is simply beyond all understanding as Sergeant Frutuoso sees it, even though he has a good head for such things. But there is no doubt about it: there are now many bugles ordering them to withdraw. His eleven men are crouching down looking at him, and in the windblown dust enveloping them Sergeant Medrado sees that they are as taken aback as he is. Has the field commander lost his mind, robbing them of victory when only the heights remained to be cleared of the enemy? The English are few in number and have almost no ammunition; glancing up toward the crest, Sergeant Frutuoso Medrado spies those of them who have managed to escape from the waves of soldiers breaking over them, and sees that they are not shooting: they are simply brandishing their knives and machetes, throwing stones. "I haven't gotten myself my Englishman yet," Frutuoso thinks.

"What are your men waiting for? Why aren't they obeying the order?" the commanding officer of the company, Captain Almeida, who suddenly materializes at his side, shouts in his ear.

"First squad of cha.s.seurs! Retreat!" the sergeant immediately yells, and his eleven men dash down the slope.

But he is in no hurry; he starts back down at the same pace as Captain Almeida. "The order took me by surprise, sir," he murmurs, placing himself on the officer's right. "What sense is there in retreating at this point?"

"It is not our duty to understand but to obey," Captain Almeida growls, sliding downhill on his heels, leaning on his saber as though it were a cane. But a moment later he adds, without trying to hide his anger: "I don't understand it either. All we had to do was to kill them off-mere child's play."

Frutuoso Medrado thinks to himself that one of the few disadvantages of this military life that he relishes so is the mysterious nature of certain command decisions. He has taken part in the five charges on the heights of Cocorobo, and yet he is not tired. He has been fighting for six hours, ever since his battalion, marching in the vanguard of the column, suddenly found itself caught in a cross fire early this morning at the entrance to the pa.s.s. In the first charge, the sergeant was behind the Third Company and saw how Second Lieutenant Sepulveda's cha.s.seurs were mowed down by bursts of rifle fire whose source no one was able to pin down. In the second, the death toll was also so heavy that they were obliged to fall back. The third charge was made by two battalions of the Sixth Brigade, the Twenty-sixth and the Thirty-second, but Colonel Carlos Maria da Silva Telles ordered Captain Almeida's company to carry out an enveloping movement. It was not successful, for after scaling the spurs of the mountainside they discovered that they were being slashed to ribbons by the th.o.r.n.y brush along the razorback crest. As he was coming back down, the sergeant felt a burning sensation in his left hand: a bullet had just blown off the tip of his little finger. It didn't hurt him, and once back in the rear guard, as the battalion doctor was applying a disinfectant, he cracked jokes so as to raise the morale of the wounded being brought in by the stretcher-bearers. He took part in the fourth charge as a volunteer, arguing that he wanted to wreak his vengeance for that bit of finger he had lost and kill himself an Englishman. They had managed to get halfway up the slope, but with such heavy losses that once again they were forced to fall back. But in this last charge they had defeated the enemy all along the line: so why withdraw? Perhaps so that the Fifth Brigade could finish them off and thus allow Colonel Donaciano de Araujo Pantoja, General Savaget's favorite subordinate, to reap all the glory? "That might be why," Captain Almeida mutters.

At the foot of the slope, where there are infantrymen from companies trying to regroup, pushing and shoving each other about, troops trying to yoke the draft animals to cannons, carts, and ambulance wagons, contradictory bugle commands, wounded screaming, Sergeant Frutuoso Medrado discovers the reason for the sudden retreat: the column coming from Queimadas and Monte Santo has fallen into a trap, and the second column, instead of invading Canudos from the north, must now make a forced march and get them out of the trap they are caught in.

The sergeant, who entered the army at the age of fourteen, fought in the war against Paraguay, and in the campaigns to put down the uprisings that broke out in the South following the fall of the monarchy, does not blanch at the idea of withdrawing through unknown territory after having spent the entire day fighting. And what a battle! The bandits are courageous, he must admit. They have withstood several heavy cannonades without budging an inch, forcing the troops to rout them out with bayonets and fight it out in fierce hand-to-hand combat: the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds are as tough as the Paraguayans. Unlike himself-he feels refreshed and ready for action again after a few swallows of water and a couple of pieces of hardtack-his men look exhausted. They are raw troops, recruited in Bage in the last six months; this has been their baptism of fire. They have behaved well; he has not seen a single one panic. Can they be more afraid of him than of the English? He is a strict disciplinarian; at their first breach of conduct, his men have him personally to deal with. Instead of the regulation punishments-loss of leave, the stockade, floggings-the sergeant is partial to clouts on the head, ear-pulling, kicks in the behind, or a flying trip into a muddy pigpen. They are well trained, as they have proved today. All of them are safe and sound, with the exception of Private Corintio, who has tripped over some rocks and is limping. A skinny little runt, he is walking bent over double beneath the weight of his knapsack. A good sort, Corintio, timid, obliging, an early bird, and Frutuoso Medrado shows certain favoritism toward him because he is Florisa's husband. The sergeant feels a sudden itch and laughs to himself. "What a hot b.i.t.c.h you are, Florisa-here I am, miles away in the middle of a war, and still you've made me get a hard-on," he thinks. He feels like bursting out laughing at the silly things that pop into his head. He looks at Corintio, limping along all hunched over, and remembers the day he first presented himself, as cool as you please, at the laundress's hut: "Either you sleep with me, Florisa, or Corintio will be confined to barracks every weekend, without visitors' rights." Florisa held out for a month; she gave in at first so as to be able to see Corintio, but now, Frutuoso believes, she continues to sleep with him because she likes it. They do it right there in the hut or at the bend in the river where she goes to do her washing. It is a relationship that makes him feel as proud as a peac.o.c.k when he's drunk. Does Corintio suspect anything? No, not a thing. Or does he simply let it pa.s.s, for what can he do when he's up against a man like the sergeant, who, on top of everything else, is his superior?

He hears shots on his right, and so he goes looking for Captain Almeida. The order is to keep moving on, to rescue the first column, to keep the fanatics from wiping it out. Those shots are a tactic to distract them; the bandits have regrouped in Trabubu and are trying to pin them down. General Savaget has dispatched two battalions from the Fifth Brigade to answer the challenge, while the others meanwhile are continuing the forced march to the place where General Oscar is trapped. Captain Almeida looks so down in the mouth that Frutuoso asks him if something has gone wrong.

"Many casualties," the captain says in a low voice. "More than two hundred wounded, seventy dead, among them Major Tristao Sucupira. Even General Savaget is wounded."

"General Savaget?" the sergeant says. "But I just saw him ride by on horseback, sir."

"Because he's a brave man," the captain answers. "He has a bad bullet wound in the belly."

Frutuoso goes back to his squad of cha.s.seurs. With so many dead and wounded, they've been lucky: except for Corintio's knee and the sergeant's little finger, not one of them has a scratch. He looks at his finger. It doesn't hurt but it's bleeding; the bandage has turned a dark red. The doctor who treated him, Major Neri, laughed when the sergeant wanted to know if he'd be invalided out of the army. "Haven't you noticed how many officers and men in the army are maimed?" Yes, he's noticed. His hair stands on end when he thinks that they might discharge him. What would he do then? Since he has no wife, no children, no parents, the army is all of these things to him.

During the march, as they skirt the mountains that surround Canudos, the infantry, artillery, and cavalry troops of the second column hear shots, coming from the direction of the brush, several times. One or another of the companies drops back to launch a few volleys, as the rest go on. At nightfall, the Twelfth Battalion finally halts. The three hundred men unburden themselves of their knapsacks and rifles. They are worn out. This is not like all the other nights since they left Aracaju and marched to this spot via Sao Cristovao, Lagarto, Itaporanga, Simao Dias, Jeremoabo, and Canche. On each of the other nights when they halted to bivouac, they butchered animals and went out searching for water and wood, and the darkness was full of the sound of guitars, songs, voices chatting. Now no one says a word. Even the sergeant is tired.

The rest does not last long for him. Captain Almeida calls the squad leaders together to find out how many cartridges they still have left and replace the ones that have been used up, so that all the men can leave with two hundred rounds each in their knapsacks. He announces to them that the Fourth Brigade, to which they belong, will now be in the vanguard and their battalion in the vanguard of the vanguard. The news restores Frutuoso's enthusiasm, but knowing that they will be the spearhead does not arouse the slightest reaction among his men, who begin marching again with great yawns and without comment.

Captain Almeida has said that they will make contact with the first column at dawn, but it is not yet two o'clock in the morning when the advance units of the Fourth Brigade spy the dark bulk of A Favela, where, according to General Oscar's messengers, he is encircled by the bandits. The sound of bugles blowing cleaves the warm night without a breath of wind, and shortly thereafter they hear other bugles answering in the distance. A chorus of cheers runs through the battalion: their buddies, the men in the first column, are there. Sergeant Frutuoso sees that his men are excited too, waving their kepis in the air and shouting: "Long live the Republic!"

"Long live Marshal Floriano!"

Colonel Silva Telles gives orders to proceed to A Favela. "It goes against the official rules of military tactics to leap into the lion's mouth in unknown terrain," Captain Almeida snorts to the lieutenants and the sergeants as he gives them their final instructions. "Advance like scorpions, first one little step here, then another and another, keep your proper distance apart, and watch out for surprises." It doesn't strike Sergeant Frutuoso as an intelligent move either to proceed like this in the dark since they know that the enemy is somewhere between the first column and their own. All of a sudden, the proximity of danger occupies his mind entirely; from his position at the head of his squad he sniffs the stony expanse to the right and to the left.

The fusillade begins all at once, very close, intense, drowning out the sound of the bugle commands from A Favela that are guiding them. "Get down, get down!" the sergeant roars, flattening himself against the sharp stones. He p.r.i.c.ks up his ears: are the shots coming from the right? Yes, from the right. "They're on your right," he roars. "Fire away, boys." And as he shoots, supporting himself on his left elbow, he thinks to himself that thanks to these English bandits he is seeing strange things, such as withdrawing from a skirmish that's already been won and fighting in the dark, trusting that G.o.d will guide the bullets they are firing against the invaders. Won't they end up hitting their own troops instead? He remembers several maxims that he has drilled into his men: "A wasted bullet weakens the one who wastes it; shoot only when you can see what you're shooting at." His men must be laughing like anything. From time to time, amid the gunfire, curses and groans can be heard. Finally the order comes to cease fire; the bugles blow again from A Favela, summoning them. Captain Almeida orders the company to hug the ground till he is certain that the bandits have been driven off. Sergeant Frutuoso Medrado's cha.s.seurs lead the march.

"Eight yards between companies. Sixteen between battalions. Fifty between brigades." Who can maintain the proper distance in the dark? The Official Rule Book of Tactics also states that a squad leader must go to the rear of his unit during an advance, to the head during a charge, and to the center when in square formation. The sergeant nonetheless goes to the head of his squad, thinking that if he positions himself in the rear his men may lose courage, nervous as they are at marching in this darkness where every so often the shooting starts again. Every half hour, every hour, perhaps every ten minutes-he can no longer tell, since these lightning attacks, which last almost no time at all, which tell on their nerves much more than on their bodies, have made him lose all notion of time-a rain of bullets forces them to hit the dirt and respond with another just like it, more for reasons of honor than of effectiveness. He suspects that the attackers are few in number, perhaps only two or three men. But the fact that the darkness gives the English an advantage, since they can see the patriots while the latter can't see them, makes the sergeant feel edgy and tires him badly. And what can it be like for his men if he, with all his experience, feels that way?

At times, the bugle calls from A Favela seem to be coming from farther away. The calls and the ones in answer set the cadence of the march. There are two brief halts, so that the soldiers may drink a little water and casualties may be counted. Captain Almeida's company has suffered none, unlike Captain Noronha's, in which there are three wounded.

"You see, you lucky b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, you're leading a charmed life," the sergeant says to raise his men's spirits.

Day is beginning to break, and in the dim light the feeling that the nightmare of the shooting in the dark is over, that now they'll be able to see where they're setting their feet down and where their attackers are, brings a smile to his lips.

The last stretch is child's play by comparison to what has gone before. The mountain spurs of A Favela are very near, and in the glow of the rising sun the sergeant can make out the first column, some bluish patches, some little dots that little by little turn into human figures, animals, wagons. There seems to be vast disorder, enormous confusion. Frutuoso Medrado tells himself that this piling up of one unit on top of another is also scarcely what is laid down in the Official Rule Book. And just as he is remarking to Captain Almeida-the squads have regrouped and the company is marching four abreast at the head of the battalion-that the enemy has vanished into thin air, all of a sudden, out of the ground just a few steps away, amid the branches and bushes of the scrub, there pop up heads, arms, barrels of rifles and carbines all spitting fire at once. Captain Almeida struggles to remove his revolver from its holster and doubles over, his mouth gaping open as though gasping for air, and Sergeant Frutuoso Medrado, his thoughts racing in that big head of his, realizes almost instantly that throwing himself flat on the ground would be suicide since the enemy is very close, as would turning tail, since that would make him a perfect target. So, rifle in hand, he shouts to his men at the top of his lungs: "Charge, charge, charge!" and sets them an example by leaping in the direction of the trenchful of Englishmen whose opening yawns wide behind a little low parapet of stones. He falls inside it and has the impression that the trigger of his rifle is jammed, but he is sure that the blade of his bayonet has sunk into a body. It is now stuck fast in it and he is unable to pull it out. He tosses the rifle aside and flings himself on the figure closest to him, going for the neck. He keeps shouting "Charge, charge, fire away!" as he hits, b.u.t.ts, grapples, bites, and is caught up in a milling ma.s.s of men in which someone is reciting elements which, according to the Official Rule Book of Tactics, const.i.tute a properly executed attack: reinforcement, support, reserves, cordon.

When he opens his eyes, a minute or a century later, his lips are repeating: reinforcement, support, reserves, cordon. That is the mixed attack, you sons of b.i.t.c.hes. What convoy are they talking about? He is lucid. Not in the trench, but in a dry gorge; he sees in front of him the steep side of a ravine, cacti, and overhead the blue sky, a reddish ball. What is he doing here? How did he get here? At what point did he leave the trench? Something about a supply train rings in his ears again, repeated in an anguished, sobbing voice. It costs him a superhuman effort to turn his head. He then spies the little soldier. He feels relieved; he was afraid it was an Englishman. The little soldier is lying face down, less than a yard away, delirious, and the sergeant can barely make out what he is saying because the man's mouth is against the ground. "Do you have any water?" he asks him. Pain stabs the sergeant's brain like a red-hot iron. He closes his eyes and tries his best to control his panic. Has he been hit by a bullet? Where? With another enormous effort, he looks at himself: a sharp-edged root is sticking out of his belly. It takes him a while to realize that the curved lance has not only gone straight through him but has pinned him to the ground. "I'm run through, I'm nailed down," he thinks. He thinks: "They'll give me a medal." Why can't he move his hands, his feet? How have they been able to carve him up like this without his seeing or hearing? Has he lost much blood? He doesn't want to look at his belly again.

He turns to the little soldier. "Help me, help me," he begs, feeling his head splitting. "Pull this out of me. Unpin me. We have to climb up the ravine, let's help each other."

All of a sudden, it strikes him as stupid to be talking about climbing up that ravine when he can't even move a finger.

"They took all the supplies, and all the ammunition, too," the little soldier whimpers. "It's not my fault, sir. It's Colonel Campelo's fault."

He hears him sob like a babe in arms and it occurs to him that he's drunk. He feels hatred and anger toward this b.a.s.t.a.r.d who's sniveling instead of pulling himself together and going to fetch help. The little soldier lifts his head and looks at him.

"Are you from the Second Infantry?" the sergeant asks him, noticing as he speaks how stiff his tongue feels. "From Colonel Silva Telles's brigade?"

"No, sir," the little soldier says, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up his face and weeping. "I'm from the Fifth Infantry of the Third Brigade. Colonel Olimpio da Silveira's brigade."

"Don't cry, don't be stupid, come over here and help me get this thing out of my belly," the sergeant says. "Come here, you son of a b.i.t.c.h."

But the little soldier buries his head in the dirt and weeps.

"In other words, you're one of those we came to rescue from the English," the sergeant says. "Come over here and save me now, you idiot."

"They took everything we had away from us! They stole everything!" the little soldier whimpers. "I told Colonel Campelo that the convoy shouldn't fall so far behind, that we could be cut off from the column. I told him, I told him! And that's what happened, sir! They even stole my horse!"

"Forget the convoy they robbed you of, pull this thing out of me!" Frutuoso calls out. "Do you want us to die like dogs? Don't be an idiot-think about it!"

"The porters double-crossed us! The guides double-crossed us!" the little soldier whines. "They were spies, sir, they fired on us with shotguns, too. Count things up for yourself. Twenty carts with ammunition, seven with salt, flour, sugar, cane brandy, alfalfa, forty sacks of maize. And they made off with more than a hundred head of cattle, sir! Do you see what an insane thing Colonel Campelo did? I warned him. I'm Captain Manuel and I never lie, sir: it was his fault."

"You're a captain?" Frutuoso Medrado stammers. "A thousand pardons, sir. Your gold braid isn't showing."

The reply is a death rattle. His neighbor is silent and motionless. "He's dead," Frutuoso Medrado thinks. He feels a shiver run down his spine. He thinks: "A captain! I took him for a raw recruit." He, too, is going to die at any moment. The Englishmen got the better of you, Frutuoso. Those G.o.dd.a.m.ned foreign b.a.s.t.a.r.ds have killed you. And just then he sees two figures silhouetted on the edge of the ravine. The sweat running into his eyes keeps him from making out whether or not they are wearing uniforms, but he shouts "Help, help!" nonetheless. He tries to move, to twist about, so that they'll see that he's alive and come down. His big head is a brazier. The silhouettes leap down the side of the ravine and he feels that he is about to burst into tears when he realizes that they're dressed in light blue and are wearing army boots. He tries to shout: "Pull this stick out of my belly, boys."

"Do you recognize me, Sergeant? Do you know who I am?" says the soldier who, like an imbecile, instead of squatting down to unpin him, stands there resting the tip of his bayonet on his neck.

"Of course I recognize you, Corintio," he roars. "What did you think, you idiot? Pull this thing out of my belly! What are you doing, Corintio? Corintio!"

Florisa's husband is plunging his bayonet into his neck beneath the revolted gaze of the other one, whom Frutuoso Medrado also recognizes: Argimiro. He manages to say to himself that Corintio did know, after all.

[III].

"Why wouldn't those who took to the streets to lynch monarchists have believed it, down there in Rio, in Sao Paulo, if those who were at the very gates of Canudos and could see the truth with their own eyes believed it?" the nearsighted journalist asked.

He had slid out of the leather armchair and was now sitting on the floor with his knees doubled up and his chin resting on one of them, speaking as though the baron weren't there. It was early in the afternoon and the study was filled with sunlight, so warm it made one drowsy, filtering through the lace curtains of the window overlooking the garden. The baron had become used to the journalist's habit of suddenly changing the subject without warning, in obedience to his own urgent inner promptings, and was no longer bothered by a conversation with him that proceeded by fits and starts, intense and sparkling for a time, then bogged down in the long empty periods that ensued when he, or the journalist, or both, lapsed into silence to reflect or remember.

"The press correspondents," the nearsighted journalist explained, contorting himself in one of his unpredictable movements that made his skeleton-like frame shak