He heads toward Queimadas, gleaming brightly in the distance beneath a sun that is now directly overhead. Rufino's silhouette disappears around a bend of the promontory, then reappears, trotting amid the lead-colored stones, cacti, yellowish brush, the sharp-pointed palisade fence round a corral. Half an hour later he enters the town by way of Avenida Itapicuru and walks up along it to the main square. The sun reflects like quicksilver off the little whitewashed houses with blue or green doors. The soldiers who have beaten a retreat after the defeat at O Cambaio have begun to straggle into town, ragged strangers who can be seen standing about on the street corners, sleeping underneath the trees, or bathing in the river. The guide walks past them without looking at them, perhaps without even seeing them, thinking only of the townspeople: cowhands with tanned, weather-beaten faces, women nursing their babies, hors.e.m.e.n riding off, oldsters sunning themselves, children running about. They bid him good day or call out to him by name, and he knows that after he has pa.s.sed by, they turn round and stare at him, point a finger at him, and begin to whisper among themselves. He returns their greetings with a nod of his head, looking straight ahead without smiling so as to discourage anyone from trying to have a word with him. He crosses the main square-a dense ma.s.s of sunlight, dogs, hustle and bustle-bowing to left and right, aware of the murmurs, the stares, the gestures, the thoughts he arouses. He does not stop till he reaches a little shop with candles and religious images hanging outside, opposite the little Chapel of Our Lady of the Rosary. He removes his sombrero, takes a deep breath as though he were about to dive into water, and goes inside. On catching sight of him, the tiny old woman who is handing a package to a customer opens her eyes wide and her face lights up. But she waits until the buyer has left before she says a word to him.

The shop is a cube with holes through which tongues of sunlight enter. Candles and tapers hang from nails and lie lined up on the counter. The walls are covered with ex-votos and with saints, Christs, Virgins, and devotional prints. Rufino kneels to kiss the old woman's hand: "Good day, Mother." She traces the sign of the cross on his forehead with her gnarled fingers with dirty nails. She is a gaunt, grim-faced old woman with hard eyes, all bundled up in a shawl despite the stifling heat. She is holding a rosary with large beads in one hand.

"Caifas wants to see you, to explain to you," she says. She has difficulty getting the words out, either because she finds the subject painful or because she has no teeth. "He'll be coming to the Sat.u.r.day market. He's come every Sat.u.r.day to see if you're back yet. It's a long journey, but he's come anyway. He's your friend-he wants to explain to you."

"Meanwhile, Mother, tell me what you know," the guide mutters.

"They didn't come to kill you you," the little old woman answers straightaway. "Or her either. They were only out to kill the stranger. But he put up a fight and killed two of them. Did you see the crosses there in front of your house?" Rufino nods. "n.o.body claimed the bodies and they buried them there." She crosses herself. "May they be received in Thy holy glory, Lord. Did you find your house in order? I've been going out there every so often. So you wouldn't find it all dirty."

"You shouldn't have gone," Rufino says. He stands there with his head bowed dejectedly, his sombrero in his hand. "You can hardly walk. And besides, that house is dirty forever now."

"So you already know," the old woman murmurs, her gaze seeking his, but he avoids her eyes and continues to stare down at the floor. The woman sighs. After a moment's silence, she adds: "I've sold your sheep so they wouldn't be stolen, the way the chickens were. Your money's in that drawer." She pauses once more, trying to postpone the inevitable, to avoid talking about the only subject that interests her, the only one that interests Rufino. "People are malicious. They said you weren't going to come back. That they'd conscripted you in the army perhaps, that you'd died in the battle perhaps. Have you seen how many soldiers there are in Queimadas? There were lots of them that died back there, it seems. Major Febronio de Brito's here, too."

But Rufino interrupts her. "The ones who came to kill him-do you know who their leader was?"

"Caifas," the old woman answers. "He brought them there. He'll explain to you. He explained to me. He's your friend. They weren't out to kill you. Or her. Just the redhead, the stranger."

She falls silent, as does Rufino, and in the burning-hot, dark redoubt the buzzing of bluebottles, of the swarms of flies circling about among the images, can be heard.

Finally the old woman makes up her mind to speak again. "Lots of people saw them," she exclaims in a trembling voice, her eyes suddenly blazing. "Caifas saw them. When he told me, I thought: I've sinned, and G.o.d is punishing me. I brought my son misfortune. Yes, Rufino: Jurema, Jurema. She saved his life, she grabbed Caifas's hands. She went off with him, with her arm around him, leaning on him." She stretches out a hand and points in the direction of the street. "Everybody knows. We can't live here any longer, son."

There is not a twitch of a muscle, the blink of an eye in the angular, beardless face darkened by the deep shadow in the room.

The little old woman shakes her tiny gnarled fist and spits scornfully in the direction of the street. "They came to commiserate with me, to talk to me about you. Their every word was a knife in my heart. They're vipers, my son!" She pa.s.ses the black shawl across her eyes, as though she were wiping away tears, but her eyes are dry. "You'll clear your name of the filth they've heaped upon it, won't you? It's worse than if they'd plucked out your eyes, worse than if they'd killed me. Talk with Caifas. He knows the insult to your name, he knows what honor is. He'll explain to you."

She sighs once again, then kisses the beads of her rosary with fervent devotion. She looks at Rufino, who hasn't moved or raised his head. "Many people have gone off to Canudos," she says in a gentler tone of voice. "Apostles have come. I would have gone, too. But I stayed because I knew you'd come back. The world's going to end, my son. That's why we're seeing what we're seeing. That's why what's happened has happened. Now I can leave. Will my legs hold up for such a long journey? The Father will decide. It is He who decides everything."

She falls silent, and after a moment Rufino leans over and kisses her hand again. "It's a very long journey and I advise you not to make it, Mother," he says. "There's fighting, fires, nothing to eat on the way. But if that's your wish, go ahead. Whatever you do will always be the right thing to do. And forget what Caifas told you. Don't grieve or feel ashamed on that account."

When the Baron de Canabrava and his wife disembarked at the Navy Yard of Salvador, after an absence of several months, they could judge from the reception they received how greatly the strength of the once-all-powerful Bahia Autonomist Party and of its leader and founder had declined. In bygone days, when he was a minister of the Empire or the plenipotentiary in London, and even in the early years of the Republic, the baron's returns to Bahia were always the occasion for great celebrations. All the notables of the city and any number of landowners hastened to the port, accompanied by servants and relatives carrying welcome banners. The city officials always came, and there was a band and children from parochial schools with bouquets of flowers for Baroness Estela. The banquet was held in the Palace of Victory, with the governor as master of ceremonies, and dozens of guests applauded the toasts, the speeches, and the inevitable sonnet that a local bard recited in honor of the returning couple.

But this time there were no more than two hundred people at the Navy Yard to applaud the baron and baroness when they landed, and there was not a single munic.i.p.al or military or ecclesiastical dignitary among them. As Sir Adalberto de Gumucio and the deputies Eduardo Glicerio, Rocha Seabra, Lelis Piedades, and Joao Seixas de Ponde-the committee appointed by the Autonomist Party to receive their leader-stepped up to shake the baron's hand and kiss the baroness's, from the expressions on their faces one would have thought they were attending a funeral.

The baron and baroness, however, gave no sign that they noticed what a different reception they were receiving this time. They behaved exactly as always. As the baroness smilingly showed the bouquets to her inseparable personal maid Sebastiana, as though she were amazed at having been given them, the baron bestowed backslaps and embraces on his fellow party members, relatives, and friends who filed past to welcome him. He greeted them by name, inquired after their wives, thanked them for having taken the trouble to come meet him. And every so often, as though impelled by some intimate necessity, he repeated that it was always a joy to return to Bahia, to be back with this sun, this clean air, these people. Before climbing into the carriage that awaited them at the pier, driven by a coachman in livery who bowed repeatedly on catching sight of them, the baron bade everyone farewell with both arms upraised. Then he seated himself opposite the baroness and Sebastiana, whose skirts were full of flowers. Adalberto de Gumucio sat down next to him and the carriage started up the Ladeira da Conceicao da Praia, blanketed in luxuriant greenery. Soon the travelers could see the sailboats in the bay, the Fort of Sao Marcelo, the market, and any number of blacks and mulattoes in the water catching crabs.

"Europe is always an elixir of youth," Gumucio congratulated them. "You look ten years younger than when you left."

"I owe that more to the ship crossing than to Europe," the baroness said. "The three most restful weeks of my life!"

"You, on the other hand, look ten years older." The baron looked out the little window at the majestic panorama of the sea and the island spread out wider and wider as the carriage climbed higher, ascending the Ladeira de s...o...b..nto now, heading for the upper town. "Are things as bad as all that?"

"Worse than you can possibly imagine." He pointed to the port. "We wanted to have a big turnout, to stage a great public demonstration. Everybody promised to bring people, even from the interior. We were counting on thousands. And you saw how many there were."

The baron waved to some fish peddlers who had removed their straw hats on seeing the carriage pa.s.s by the seminary.

"It's not polite to talk politics in the presence of ladies. Or don't you consider Estela a lady?" the baron chided his friend in a mock-serious tone of voice.

The baroness laughed, a tinkling, carefree laugh that made her seem younger. She had chestnut hair and very white skin, and hands with slender fingers that fluttered like birds. She and her maidservant, an amply curved brunette, gazed in rapture at the dark blue sea, the phosph.o.r.escent green of the sh.o.r.eline, the blood-red rooftops.

"The only person whose absence is justified is the governor," Gumucio said, as though he hadn't heard. "We were the ones responsible for that. He wanted to come, along with the Munic.i.p.al Council. But the situation being what it is, it's better that he remain au-dessus de la melee au-dessus de la melee. Luiz Viana is still a loyal supporter."

"I brought you an alb.u.m of horse engravings," the baron said, to raise his friend's spirits. "I presume that political troubles haven't caused you to lose your pa.s.sion for equines, Adalberto."

On entering the upper town, on their way to the Nazareth district, the recently arrived couple put on their best smiles and devoted their attention to returning the greetings of people pa.s.sing by. Several carriages and a fair number of hors.e.m.e.n, some of them having come up from the port and others who had been waiting at the top of the cliff, escorted the baron through the narrow cobblestone streets, amid curious onlookers standing crowded together on the sidewalks or coming out onto the balconies or poking their heads out of the donkey-drawn streetcars to watch them pa.s.s. The Canabravas lived in a town house faced with tiles imported from Portugal, a roof of round red Spanish-style tiles, wrought-iron balconies supported by strong-breasted caryatids, and a facade topped by four ornaments in gleaming yellow porcelain: two bushy-maned lions and two pineapples. The lions appeared to be keeping an eye on the boats arriving in the bay and the pineapples to be proclaiming the splendor of the city to seafarers. The luxuriant garden surrounding the mansion was full of coral trees, mangoes, crotons, and ficus sighing in the breeze. The house had been disinfected with vinegar, perfumed with aromatic herbs, and decorated with large vases of flowers to receive its owners. In the doorway, servants in white balloon pants and little black girls in red ap.r.o.ns and kerchiefs stood clapping their hands to greet them. The baroness began to say a few words to them as the baron, taking his place in the entryway, bade those escorting him goodbye. Only Gumucio and the deputies Eduardo Glicerio, Rocha Seabra, Lelis Piedades, and Joao Seixas de Ponde came inside the house with him. As the baroness went upstairs, followed by her personal maid, the men crossed the foyer, an anteroom with pieces of furniture in wood, and the baron opened the doors of a room lined with shelves full of books, overlooking the garden. Some twenty men fell silent as they saw him enter the room. Those who were seated rose to their feet and all of them applauded.

The first to embrace him was Governor Luiz Viana. "It wasn't my idea not to appear at the port," he said. "In any event, you see here before you the governor and each and every member of the Munic.i.p.al Council, your obedient servants."

He was a forceful man, with a prominent bald head and an aggressive paunch, who did not trouble to conceal his concern. As the baron greeted those present, Gumucio closed the door. There was more cigar smoke than air in the room. Pitchers of fruit punch had been set out on a table, and as there were not enough chairs to seat everyone, some of the men were perched on chair arms and others were standing leaning against the bookshelves. The baron slowly made his way around the room, greeting each man. When he finally sat down, there was a glacial silence. The men looked at him and their eyes betrayed not only concern but also a mute plea, an anxious trustfulness. The expression on the baron's face, until that moment a jovial one, grew graver as he looked about at the others' funereal countenances.

"I can see that the situation is such that it wouldn't be apropos to inform you whether or not the carnival in Nice is the equal of ours," he said, very seriously, his gaze seeking Luiz Viana's. "Let's begin with the worst that's happened. What is it?"

"A telegram that arrived at the same time you did," the governor murmured from an armchair he appeared to be buried in. "Rio has decided to intervene militarily in Bahia, after a unanimous vote in Congress. A regiment of the Federal Army has been sent to attack Canudos."

"In other words, the federal government and the Congress are officially accepting the view that a conspiracy is afoot," Adalberto de Gumucio interrupted him. "In other words, the Sebastianist fanatics are seeking to restore the Empire, with the aid of the Count of Eu, the monarchists, England, and, naturally, the Bahia Autonomist Party. All the humbug churned out by the Jacobin breed suddenly turned into the official truth of the Republic."

The baron showed no sign of alarm. "Intervention by the Federal Army comes as no surprise to me," he said. "At this juncture it was inevitable. What does surprise me is this business of Canudos. Two expeditions roundly defeated!" He gestured in amazement, his eyes seeking Viana's. "I don't understand, Luiz. Those madmen should have been either left in peace or wiped out the first time round. I can't fathom why the government botched so badly, let those people become a national problem, freely handed our enemies a gift like that..."

"Five hundred troops, two cannons, two machine guns-does that strike you as a paltry force to send against a band of scalawags and religious fanatics?" Luiz Viana answered heatedly. "Who could have imagined that with strength like that Febronio de Brito could be hacked to pieces by a few poor devils?"

"It's true that a conspiracy exists, but it's not our doing," Adalberto de Gumucio interrupted him once more, with a worried frown and nervously clenched hands, and the thought crossed the baron's mind that he had never seen him this deeply upset by a political crisis. "Major Febronio is not as inept as he would have us believe. His defeat was a deliberate one, bargained for and decided in advance with the Jacobins in Rio de Janeiro, with Epaminondas Goncalves as intermediary. So as to bring about the national scandal that they've been looking for ever since Floriano Peixoto left power. Haven't they been continually inventing monarchist conspiracies since then so that the army will adjourn the Congress and set up a Dictatorial Republic?"

"Save your conjectures for later, Adalberto," the baron interjected. "First I want to know exactly what's been happening: the facts."

"There aren't any facts, only wild imaginings and the most incredible intrigues," Deputy Rocha Seabra broke in. "They're accusing us of stirring up the Sebastianists, of sending them arms, of plotting with England to restore the Empire."

"The Jornal de Noticias Jornal de Noticias has been accusing us of that and even worse things ever since the fall of Dom Pedro II," the baron said with a smile, accompanied by a scornful wave of his hand. has been accusing us of that and even worse things ever since the fall of Dom Pedro II," the baron said with a smile, accompanied by a scornful wave of his hand.

"The difference is that now it's not only the Jornal de Noticias Jornal de Noticias but half of Brazil," Luiz Viana put in. The baron saw him squirm nervously in his chair and wipe his bald head with his hand. "All of a sudden, in Rio, in Sao Paulo, in Belo Horizonte, all over the country, people are beginning to mouth the egregious nonsense and the calumnies invented by the Progressivist Republican Party." but half of Brazil," Luiz Viana put in. The baron saw him squirm nervously in his chair and wipe his bald head with his hand. "All of a sudden, in Rio, in Sao Paulo, in Belo Horizonte, all over the country, people are beginning to mouth the egregious nonsense and the calumnies invented by the Progressivist Republican Party."

Several men spoke up at once and the baron motioned to them with upraised hands not to ride roughshod over each other. From between his friends' heads he could see the garden, and though what he was hearing interested him and alarmed him, from the moment that he entered his study he had been wondering whether or not the chameleon was hiding among the trees-an animal that he had grown fond of as others conceive an affection for dogs or cats.

"We now know why Epaminondas organized the Rural Police," Deputy Eduardo Glicerio was saying. "So that it would furnish proof at the right moment. Of contraband rifles for the jaguncos jaguncos, and even of foreign spies."

"Ah, you haven't heard the latest news," Adalberto de Gumucio said on noting the intrigued expression on the baron's face. "The height of the grotesque. An English secret agent in the backlands. His body was burned to a cinder when they found it, but he was English. How did they know? Because of his red hair! They exhibited it in the Rio parliament, along with rifles supposedly found alongside his corpse, in Ipupiara. n.o.body will listen to us; in Rio, even our best friends are swallowing all this nonsense. The entire country is convinced that the Republic is endangered by Canudos."

"I presume that I'm the dark genius behind this conspiracy," the baron muttered.

"You've had more mud slung at you than anyone else," the owner-publisher of the Diario da Bahia Diario da Bahia said. "You handed Canudos over to the rebels and took a trip to Europe to meet with the emigres of the Empire and plan the rebellion. It's even been said that there was a 'fund for subversion,' that you put up half the money and England the other half." said. "You handed Canudos over to the rebels and took a trip to Europe to meet with the emigres of the Empire and plan the rebellion. It's even been said that there was a 'fund for subversion,' that you put up half the money and England the other half."

"A fifty-fifty partner of the British Crown," the baron murmured. "Good heavens, they overestimate me."

"Do you know who they're sending to put down the restorationist rebellion?" asked Deputy Lelis Piedades, who was sitting on the arm of the governor's chair. "Colonel Moreira Cesar and the Seventh Regiment."

The Baron de Canabrava thrust his head forward slightly and blinked.

"Colonel Moreira Cesar?" He sat lost in thought for some time, moving his lips from time to time as though speaking under his breath. Then he turned to Gumucio and said: "Perhaps you're right, Adalberto. This might well be a bold maneuver on the part of the Jacobins. Ever since the death of Marshal Floriano, Colonel Moreira Cesar has been their top card, the hero they're counting on to regain power."

Again he heard all of them trying to talk at once, but this time he did not stop them. As his friends offered their opinions and argued, he sat there pretending to be listening but with his mind elsewhere, a habit he readily fell into when a discussion bored him or his own thoughts seemed to him to be more important than what he was hearing. Colonel Moreira Cesar! It did not augur well that he was being sent to Bahia. He was a fanatic and, like all fanatics, dangerous. The baron remembered the cold-blooded way in which he had put down the federalist revolution in Santa Catarina four years before, and how, when the Federal Congress asked him to appear before that body and give an account of the executions by firing squad that he had ordered, he had answered with a telegram that was a model of terseness and arrogance: "No." He recalled that among those sent to their deaths by the colonel there in the South there had been a marshal, a baron, and an admiral that he knew, and that on the advent of the Republic, Marshal Floriano Peixoto had ordered him to purge the army of all officers known to have had ties with the monarchy. The Seventh Infantry Regiment against Canudos! "Adalberto is right," he thought. "It's the height of the grotesque." He forced himself to listen once more.

"It's not the Sebastianists in the interior he's come to liquidate-it's us," Adalberto was saying. "He's coming to liquidate you, Luiz Viana, the Autonomist Party, and hand Bahia over to Epaminondas Goncalves, who is the Jacobins' man here."

"There's no reason to kill yourselves, gentlemen," the baron interrupted him, raising his voice slightly. He was serious now, no longer smiling, and spoke in a firm voice. "There's no reason to kill yourselves," he repeated. He looked slowly about the room, certain that his friends would find his serenity contagious. "n.o.body's going to take what's ours away from us. Haven't we present, right here in this room, the political power of Bahia, the munic.i.p.al government of Bahia, the judiciary of Bahia, the journalism of Bahia? Aren't the majority of the landed property, the possessions, the herds of Bahia right here? Even Colonel Moreira Cesar can't change that. Finishing us off would be to finish off Bahia, gentlemen. Epaminondas Goncalves and his followers are an outlandish curiosity in these parts. They have neither the means nor the men nor the experience to take over the reins of Bahia even if they were placed square in their hands. The horse would throw them immediately."

He paused and someone solicitously handed him a gla.s.s of fruit punch. He savored each sip, recognizing the pleasantly sweet taste of guava.

"We're overjoyed, naturally, at your optimism," he heard Luiz Viana say. "You'll grant, however, that we've suffered reverses and that we must act as quickly as possible."

"There is no doubt of that," the baron agreed. "We shall do so. For the moment, what we're going to do is send Colonel Moreira Cesar a telegram immediately, welcoming his arrival and offering him the support of the Bahia authorities and of the Autonomist Party. Is it not in fact in our interest to have him come to rid us of the thieves who steal our land, of the fanatics who sack haciendas and won't allow our peasants to work the fields in peace? And this very day we're also going to begin taking up a collection that will be handed over to the Federal Army to be used in the fight against the bandits."

He waited until the murmur of voices died down, taking another sip of punch. It was hot and his forehead was wet with sweat.

"I remind you that, for years now, our entire policy has been to prevent the central government from interfering too zealously in Bahia affairs," Luiz Viana finally said.

"That's all well and good, but the only policy left us now, unless we choose to kill ourselves, is to demonstrate to the entire country that we are not the enemies of the Republic or of the sovereignty of Brazil," the baron said dryly. "We must put a stop to this intrigue at once and there is no other way to do so. We'll give Moreira Cesar and the Seventh Regiment a splendid reception. It'll be our welcome ceremony-not the Republican Party's."

He mopped his forehead with his handkerchief and waited once again for the murmur of voices, even louder than before, to die down.

"It's too abrupt a change," Adalberto de Gumucio said, and the baron saw several heads behind him nod in agreement.

"In the a.s.sembly, in the press, our entire strategy has been aimed at avoiding federal intervention," Deputy Rocha Seabra chimed in.

"In order to defend Bahia's interests we must remain in power and in order to remain in power we must change our policy, at least for the moment," the baron replied softly. And as if the objections that were raised were of no importance, he went on laying down guidelines. "We landowners must collaborate with the colonel. Quarter his regiment, provide it with guides, furnish it supplies. Along with Moreira Cesar, we'll be the ones who do away with the monarchist conspirators financed by Queen Victoria." He simulated a smile as he again mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. "It's a ridiculous farce, but we have no other choice. And when the colonel has liquidated the poor cangaceiros cangaceiros and plaster saints of Canudos we'll stage all sorts of grand celebrations to commemorate the defeat of the British Empire and the Braganca dynasty." and plaster saints of Canudos we'll stage all sorts of grand celebrations to commemorate the defeat of the British Empire and the Braganca dynasty."

No one applauded him; no one smiled. They were all silent and ill at ease. But as he observed them the baron saw that already there were some who were admitting to themselves, however reluctantly, that there was nothing else they could do.

"I'll go to Calumbi," the baron said. "I hadn't planned on doing so just yet. But it's necessary. I myself will place everything that the Seventh Regiment needs at its disposal. All the landowners in the region should do likewise. Let Moreira Cesar see whom that part of the country belongs to, who is in command there."

The atmosphere was very tense and everyone wanted to ask questions, to reply to these remarks. But the baron deemed that this was not the proper time to discuss the matter further. After they had eaten and drunk throughout the afternoon and into the night, it would be easier to make them forget their doubts, their scruples.

"Let us join the ladies and have lunch," he proposed, rising to his feet. We'll talk afterward. Politics shouldn't be everything in life. Pleasant things ought to have their place too."

[II].

Transformed into a camp, Queimadas is a beehive of activity in the strong wind that covers it with dust: orders are barked out and troops hurriedly fall into formation amid cavalrymen with drawn sabers who are shouting and gesticulating. Suddenly bugle calls cleave the dawn and the curious bystanders run along the bank of the Itapicuru to watch the stretch of bone-dry caatinga caatinga that disappears on the horizon in the direction of Monte Santo: the first corps of the Seventh Regiment are setting out and the wind carries away the marching song that the soldiers are singing at the tops of their lungs. that disappears on the horizon in the direction of Monte Santo: the first corps of the Seventh Regiment are setting out and the wind carries away the marching song that the soldiers are singing at the tops of their lungs.

Inside the railroad station, since first light, Colonel Moreira Cesar has been studying topographical maps, giving instructions, signing dispatches, and receiving the duty reports of the various battalions. The drowsy correspondents are harnessing their mules and horses and loading the baggage cart outside the door of the station-all of them except the scrawny reporter from the Jornal de Noticias Jornal de Noticias, who, with his portable desk beneath his arm and his inkwell fastened to his sleeve, is prowling about the place trying to make his way to the colonel's side. Despite the early hour, the six members of the Munic.i.p.al Council are on hand to bid the commander of the Seventh Regiment farewell. They are sitting waiting on a bench, and the swarm of officers and aides coming and going around them is paying no more attention to them than to the huge posters of the Progressivist Republican Party and the Bahia Autonomist Party that are still hanging from the ceiling. But they are amused as they watch the scarecrow-thin journalist, who, taking advantage of a moment of calm, has finally managed to approach Moreira Cesar.

"May I ask you a question, Colonel?" he says in his thin, nasal voice.

"The press conference was yesterday," the officer answers, examining him from head to foot as though he were a being from another planet. But the creature's outlandish appearance or his audacity causes the colonel to relent: "All right, then. What's your question?"

"It's about the prisoners," the reporter murmurs, both his squint eyes fixed on him. "It has come to my attention that you are taking thieves and murderers into the regiment. I went down to the jail last night with the two lieutenants, and saw them enlist seven of the inmates."

"That's correct," Moreira Cesar says, looking him up and down inquisitively. "But what's your question?"

"The question is: Why? What's the reason for promising those criminals their freedom?"

"They know how to fight," Colonel Moreira Cesar says. And then, after a pause: "A criminal is a case of excessive human energy that flows in the wrong direction. War can channel it in the right one. They know why they're fighting, and that makes them brave, even heroic at times. I've seen it with my own eyes. And you'll see it, too, if you get to Canudos. Because"-he inspects him from head to foot once again-"from the looks of you, you're likely not to last one day in the backlands."

"I'll try my best to hold up, Colonel." The nearsighted journalist withdraws and Colonel Tamarindo and Major Cunha Matos, who were standing waiting behind him, step forward.

"The vanguard has just moved out," Colonel Tamarindo says.

The major explains that Captain Ferreira Rocha's patrols have reconnoitered the route to Tanquinho and that there is no trace of jaguncos jaguncos, but that the road is full of sudden drops and rough stretches that are going to make it difficult to get the artillery through. Ferreira Rocha's scouts are looking to see if there is some way around these obstacles, and in any case a team of sappers has also gone on ahead to level the road.

"Did you make sure the prisoners were separated?" Moreira Cesar asks him.

"I a.s.signed them to different companies and expressly forbade them to see each other or talk to each other," the major a.s.sures him.

"The animal convoy detail has also left," Colonel Tamarindo says. And after a moment's hesitation: "Febronio de Brito was very upset. He had a crying fit."

"Any other officer would have committed suicide" is Moreira Cesar's only comment. He rises to his feet and an orderly hastens to gather up the papers on the table that the colonel has been using as a desk. Followed by his staff officers, Moreira Cesar heads toward the exit. People rush forward to see him, but before he reaches the door he remembers something, shifts course, and walks over to the bench where the munic.i.p.al councillors of Queimadas are waiting. They rise to their feet. They are simple folk, farmers or humble tradesmen, who are dressed in their best clothes and have shined their big clumsy shoes as a mark of their respect. They are carrying their sombreros in their hands, and are plainly ill at ease.

"Thanks for your hospitality and collaboration, gentlemen." The colonel includes all of them in a single conventionally polite, almost blank sweep of his eyes. "The Seventh Regiment will not forget the warm welcome it received in Queimadas. I trust you will look after the troops that remain here."

They haven't time to answer, for instead of bidding each of them farewell individually, he salutes the group as a whole, raising his right hand to his kepi, turns round, and heads for the door.

The appearance of Moreira Cesar and his escort outside in the street, where the regiment is lined up in formation-the ranks of men disappear from sight in the distance, one company behind another as far as the railroad tracks-is greeted by applause and cheers. The sentinels stop the curious from coming any closer. The handsome white horse whinnies, impatient to be off. Tamarindo, Cunha Matos, Olimpio de Castro, and the escort mount their horses, and the press correspondents, already in the saddle, surround the colonel. He is rereading the telegram to the Supreme Government that he has dictated: "The Seventh Regiment beginning this day, 8 February, its campaign in defense of Brazilian sovereignty. Not one case of indiscipline among the troops. Our one fear that Antonio Conselheiro and the Restorationist rebels will not be awaiting us in Canudos. Long live the Republic." He initials it so that the telegraph operator can send it off immediately. He then signals to Captain Olimpio de Castro, who gives an order to the buglers. They sound a piercing, mournful call that rends the early-morning air.

"It's the regimental call," Cunha Matos says to the gray-haired correspondent next to him.

"Does it have a name?" the shrill, irksome little voice of the man from the Jornal de Noticias Jornal de Noticias asks. He has equipped his mule with a large leather pouch for his portable writing desk, thus giving the animal the air of a marsupial. asks. He has equipped his mule with a large leather pouch for his portable writing desk, thus giving the animal the air of a marsupial.

"Call to charge and slit throats," Moreira Cesar answers. "The regiment has sounded it ever since the war with Paraguay, when for lack of ammunition it was obliged to attack with sabers, bayonets, and knives."

With a wave of his right hand he gives the order to march. Mules, men, horses, carts, artillery pieces begin moving off, amid clouds of dust that a strong wind sends their way. As they leave Queimadas, the various corps of the column are grouped close together, and only the colors of the pennons carried by their standard-bearers differentiate them. Soon the uniforms of officers and men become indistinguishable, for the strong wind that is blowing forces all of them to lower the visors of their caps and kepis and many of them to tie handkerchiefs over their mouths. Little by little, battalions, companies, and platoons march off in the distance and what appeared on leaving the station to be a compact living creature, a long serpent slithering over the cracked ground, amid dry dead trunks of thornbushes, breaks up into independent members, smaller serpents that in turn draw farther and farther apart, losing sight of each other for a time and then descrying each other again as they wind their way across the tortuous terrain. Cavalrymen constantly move back and forth, establishing a circulatory system of information, orders, inquiries between the parts of that scattered whole whose head, after a few hours' march, can already make out in the distance the first village on their line of march: Pau Seco. The vanguard, as Colonel Moreira Cesar sees through his field gla.s.ses, has left traces of its pa.s.sage there among the huts: a small signal flag, and two men who are doubtless waiting for him with messages.

The cavalry escort rides a few yards ahead of the colonel and his staff officers; behind these latter, exotic parasites on this uniformed body, are the correspondents, who, like many of the officers, have dismounted and are chatting together as they walk along. Precisely in the middle of the column is the battery of cannon, drawn by teams of bullocks that are urged on by some twenty men under the command of an officer wearing on his sleeves the red diamond-shaped emblem of the artillery corps: Captain Jose Agostinho Salomao da Rocha. The shouts of the men, to spur the animals on or get them back on the trail when they wander off it, are the only sounds to be heard. The troops talk in low voices to save their strength, or march along in silence, scrutinizing this flat, semibarren landscape that they are seeing for the first time. Many of them are sweating, what with the hot sun, their heavy uniforms, and the weight of their knapsacks and rifles, and following orders, they try not to lift their canteens to their mouths too often since they know that the first battle to be waged has already begun: that against thirst. At mid-morning they overtake the supply train and leave it behind them; the cattle, sheep, and goats are being herded along by a company of soldiers and cowhands who have started off the night before; at their head, grim-faced, moving his lips as though refuting or setting forth an argument in an imaginary dialogue is Major Febronio de Brito. At the rear of the line of march is the cavalry troop, led by a dashing, martial officer: Captain Pedreira Franco. Moreira Cesar has been riding along for some time without saying a word, and his adjutants fall silent, too, so as not to interrupt their commanding officer's train of thought. On reaching the straight stretch of road leading into Pau Seco, the colonel looks at his watch.

"At this rate, that Canudos bunch is going to give us the slip," he says, leaning over toward Tamarindo and Cunha Matos. "We're going to have to leave the heavy equipment behind in Monte Santo and lighten the men's knapsacks. It's certain that we have more than enough ammunition. It would be too bad to go all the way there and find nothing but vultures."

The regiment has with it fifteen million rifle cartridges and seventy artillery sh.e.l.ls, in carts drawn by mules. This is the princ.i.p.al reason why they are making such slow progress. Colonel Tamarindo remarks that once they have pa.s.sed Monte Santo they may advance even more slowly, since according to the two engineer corps officers, Domingo Alves Leite and Alfredo do Nascimento, the terrain is even rougher from there on.

"Not to mention the fact that from that point on there are going to be skirmishes," he adds. He is exhausted from the heat and keeps mopping his congested face with a colored handkerchief. He is past retirement age and nothing obliges him to be here, but he has insisted on accompanying the regiment.

"We mustn't allow them time to get away," Colonel Moreira Cesar mutters. This is something that his officers have heard him say many times since they boarded the train in Rio. Despite the heat he is not sweating. He has a pale little face, eyes with an intense, sometimes obsessive gaze, and rarely smiles; his voice is very nearly a monotone, thin and flat, as though he were keeping a tight rein on it as is recommended in the case of a skittish horse. "The minute they discover we're getting close they'll bolt and the campaign will be a resounding failure. We cannot allow that to happen." He looks once again at his companions, who listen to him without saying a word in reply. "Southern Brazil has now realized that the Republic is a fait accompli fait accompli. We've brought that home to them. But here in the state of Bahia there are still a great many aristocrats who haven't yet resigned themselves to that fact. Especially since the death of the marshal; with a civilian without ideals heading the country, they think they can turn the clock back. They won't accept the irreversible till they've had a good lesson. And now is the time to give them one, gentlemen."

"They're scared to death, sir," Cunha Matos says. "Doesn't the fact that the Autonomist Party organized the reception for us in Salvador and took up a collection to defend the Republic prove they've got their tails between their legs?"

"The crowning touch was the triumphal arch in the Calcada Station calling us saviors," Tamarindo recalls. "Just a few days before, they were violently opposed to the intervention of the Federal Army in Bahia, and then they toss flowers at us in the streets and the Baron de Canabrava sends us word that he's coming to Calumbi to place his hacienda at the disposal of the regiment."

He gives a hearty laugh, but Moreira Cesar does not find his good humor infectious.

"That means that the baron is more intelligent than his friends," the colonel replies. "He couldn't keep Rio from intervening in an out-and-out case of insurrection. So then he opts for patriotism, in order not to be outdone by the Republicans. His aim is to distract and confuse people for the moment so as to be in a position to deal us another blow later. The baron has been well schooled: in the English school, gentlemen."