"There's something I don't understand, Baron," Colonel Jose Bernardo Murau repeated, relaxing in the rocking chair in which he was swaying slowly back and forth, pushing it with his foot. "Colonel Moreira Cesar hates us and we hate him. His coming to Bahia is a great victory for Epaminondas and a defeat for the principle we've always upheld: that Rio is not to interfere in our affairs. Yet the Autonomist Party gives him a hero's welcome in Salvador, and now we're competing with Epaminondas to see which party will help Throat-Slitter the most."

The cool, whitewashed sitting room of the old manor house looked untidy and run-down: the bouquet of flowers in a large copper vase was faded, there were cracks in the wall, and the floor was chipped. Through the windows the cane field could be seen, burning-hot in the sun, and just outside the house a group of servants were hitching up a team of horses.

"The times are out of joint, my dear Jose Bernardo." The Baron de Canabrava smiled. "Even the most intelligent people are unable to make their way through the jungle we're living in."

"I never was intelligent. That's not a virtue characteristic of landowners," Colonel Murau growled. He made a vague gesture toward the outdoors. "I've spent half a century here, only to see everything beginning to fall apart in my old age. My one consolation is that I'm going to die one day soon and won't live to see the total ruin of this country."

He was indeed a very elderly man, mere skin and bones, with deeply tanned skin and gnarled hands that frequently scratched at his ill-shaven face. He was dressed like a peon, in a pair of faded pants and an open shirt topped by a rawhide vest that had lost all its b.u.t.tons.

"These bad times will end soon," Adalberto de Gumucio said.

"Not for me." The landowner cracked his knuckles. "Do you know how many people have left this part of the country in the last few years? Hundreds of families. The drought of '77, the mirage of the coffee plantations in the South, of rubber in the Amazon, and now that accursed Canudos. Do you have any idea how many people are going off to Canudos? Leaving everything behind: houses, animals, work? To go up there to wait for the Apocalypse and the coming of King Dom Sebastiao." He looked at them, overwhelmed by human stupidity. "I'm not intelligent, but I'll tell you what's going to happen. Moreira Cesar will set Epaminondas up as governor of Bahia and he and his men will give us so much trouble that we'll be forced to sell our haciendas at a sacrifice price, or give them away free, and go off too."

There was a little table with cool drinks and a basket of sweet biscuits, which no one had touched, in front of the baron and Gumucio. The baron opened a little box of snuff, offered some to his friends, and inhaled with delectation. He sat there for a moment with his eyes closed.

"We're not going to hand Brazil over to the Jacobins on a platter, Jose Bernardo," he said, opening his eyes. "Despite the fact that they've laid the groundwork very cleverly, they're not going to be able to pull their maneuver off."

"Brazil is already theirs," Murau interrupted him. "The proof is that Moreira Cesar's coming here, by order of the government."

"He was given command of the expedition because of pressure from the Military Club in Rio, a minor Jacobin stronghold that took advantage of the fact that President Moraes was ill," the baron said. "The truth of the matter is that this is a plot against Moraes. It's as plain as day what their plan is. Canudos is the pretext for their man to earn even more glory and prestige. Moreira Cesar crushes a monarchist conspiracy! Moreira Cesar saves the Republic! Isn't that the best possible proof that only the army can guarantee the safety of the nation? So the army is swept into power, and it's the Dictatorial Republic." He had been smiling up until then, but now his manner grew grave. "We are not going to allow that, Jose Bernardo. Because we're the ones who are going to crush the monarchist conspiracy, not the Jacobins." He grimaced in disgust. "We can't act like gentlemen, old boy. Politics is a job for ruffians."

These words released some spring within old Murau, for his face brightened and he burst out laughing.

"Very well, I surrender, you ruffians," he exclaimed. "I'll send Throat-Slitter mules, guides, provisions, and whatever else he needs. Must I also quarter the Seventh Regiment here?"

"I can a.s.sure you he won't pa.s.s through your land." The baron thanked him. "You won't even have to see his face."

"We can't allow Brazil to believe that we've risen up in rebellion against the Republic and are even plotting with England to restore the monarchy," Adalberto de Gumucio said. "Don't you realize that, Jose Bernardo? We must put an end to this plot, as quickly as possible. Patriotism isn't a game."

"It's one Epaminondas has been playing, and playing very well," Murau muttered.

"That's true," the baron admitted. "I, you, Adalberto, Viana, all of us thought that his little game didn't matter. But Epaminondas has proved to be a dangerous adversary."

"The entire plot against us is cheap, grotesque, and utterly vulgar," Gumucio said.

"But it's brought him good results, up to now." The baron glanced outside: yes, the horses were ready. He announced to his friends that he had best be off again, now that he'd achieved his objective: convincing the most stubborn landowner in all the state of Bahia. He was about to go see if Estela and Sebastiana were ready to leave, when Jose Bernardo Murau reminded him that a man who'd come from Queimadas had been waiting to see him for two hours. The baron had forgotten all about him. "That's right, that's right," he muttered, and had word sent to him to come in.

A moment later Rufino's silhouette appeared in the door. They saw him remove his straw sombrero, nod politely to the owner of the house and Gumucio, walk over to the baron, bend down and kiss his hand.

"How glad I am to see you, G.o.dson," the latter said to him, patting him affectionately on the back. "How good of you to come to see us. How is Jurema? Why didn't you bring her with you? Estela would have been so pleased to see her."

The baron noted that the guide was standing there before him with his head hanging, clutching his sombrero and looking extremely embarra.s.sed. He immediately suspected what the reason for his former peon's visit might be.

"Has something happened to your wife?" he asked. "Is Jurema ill?"

"Give me leave to break my promise, G.o.dfather," Rufino blurted out. Gumucio and Murau, whose attention had wandered, took a sudden interest in this conversation between the baron and this man who looked so shamefaced. In the tense, enigmatic silence that ensued, it took the baron some time to realize what those words might mean, to understand what it was that Rufino was asking of him.

"Jurema?" he said, blinking, stepping backward, searching his memory. "What's she done to you? She hasn't abandoned you, has she, Rufino? Do you mean to say that that's what she's done, that she's gone off with another man?"

The head of straight, dirty hair that was before him nodded almost imperceptibly. The baron then understood why his G.o.dson was hiding his eyes from him and realized what an effort this was costing him, how much he was suffering. He felt compa.s.sion for him.

"Why are you asking that of me, Rufino?" he said with a pained gesture. "What good would that do you? You'd be bringing misfortune on yourself twice over instead of once. If she's gone off, in a way she's already dead, she's killed herself without your having had a hand in it. Forget Jurema. Forget Queimadas for a while, too. You'll find yourself another wife who'll be faithful to you. Come with us to Calumbi, where you have so many friends."

Their curiosity aroused, Gumucio and Jose Bernardo Murau awaited Rufino's answer. Gumucio had poured himself a gla.s.s of punch and was holding it to his lips without drinking.

"Give me leave to break my promise, G.o.dfather," the guide said at last, not raising his eyes.

A cordial smile of approval appeared on Adalberto de Gumucio's face as he continued to listen with bated breath to this conversation between the baron and his former servant. Jose Bernardo Murau, on the other hand, had started to yawn. The baron told himself that there was no use arguing, that he had to accept the inevitable and say either yes or no, rather than deluding himself that he could change Rufino's mind.

Even so, he tried to stall for time. "Who stole her from you?" he murmured. "Who was it that she ran away with?"

Rufino paused a second before answering. "A foreigner who came to Queimadas," he said. He paused once again, and then added, speaking very slowly: "They sent him to my house. He was trying to get to Canudos, to bring the jaguncos jaguncos arms." arms."

The gla.s.s fell from Adalberto de Gumucio's hand and smashed to pieces at his feet, but neither the sound of the gla.s.s breaking nor the spattering punch nor the shower of shards distracted the three men as they stared at the guide in wide-eyed amazement. The latter stood there motionless, his head hanging down, saying not a word, seemingly unaware of the effect the words he had just uttered had produced.

The baron was the first to recover from the shock. "A foreigner was trying to bring arms to Canudos?" The effort he was making to speak in a normal tone of voice made him sound even more surprised.

"That's what he was trying to do, but he didn't get there." The mop of dirty hair nodded. Still with his head bowed respectfully, Rufino continued to gaze at the floor. "Colonel Epaminondas Goncalves ordered him killed. And he thinks he's dead. But he isn't. Jurema saved him. And now he and Jurema are together."

Gumucio and the baron looked at each other dumfounded, and Jose Bernardo Murau struggled to get up out of his rocking chair, muttering something. The baron was pale and his hands were trembling. Even now the guide did not appear to be aware of how badly he had upset the three men by the story he had recounted.

"In other words, Galileo Gall is still alive," Gumucio finally managed to say, striking the palm of one hand with the fist of the other. "In other words, the corpse burned to a cinder, the severed head, and all the other acts of violence..."

"They didn't cut his head off, sir," Rufino interrupted him, and again an electric silence reigned in the untidy little sitting room. "They only cut off his long hair. The dead body was a madman who'd murdered his children. The foreigner is still alive."

He fell silent, and though Adalberto de Gumucio and Jose Bernardo Murau asked him several questions at once and pressed him for details and demanded that he answer, Rufino remained stubbornly silent. The baron knew the people from his land well enough to know that the guide had said what he had to say and that there was not anybody or anything that could get another word out of him.

"Is there anything else that you can tell us, G.o.dson?" He had put one hand on Rufino's shoulder and was making no effort to conceal his emotion.

Rufino shook his head.

"I thank you for coming," the baron said. "You've done me a great service, my son. You've done us all one. And the country, too, even though you don't know it."

Rufino spoke out once again, his voice more insistent than ever: "I want to break the promise I made you, G.o.dfather."

The baron nodded, feeling greatly distressed. The thought crossed his mind that he was about to p.r.o.nounce a death sentence upon someone who was perhaps innocent, or who had acted for compelling reasons, out of estimable motives, and that he was going to feel remorse, repugnance even, for what he was about to say, and yet he could not do otherwise.

"Do what your conscience bids you," he murmured. "May G.o.d be with you and forgive you."

Rufino raised his head, sighed. The baron saw that his little eyes were bloodshot and br.i.m.m.i.n.g with tears, and that the expression on his face was that of a man who had survived a terrible test. Rufino knelt, and the baron made the sign of the cross on his forehead and extended his hand for him to kiss again. The guide rose to his feet and left the room without so much as a glance at the other two persons in it.

Adalberto was the first to speak. "I bow to you in due apology," he said, gazing at the shards of gla.s.s scattered all about at his feet. "Epaminondas is a man of great resources. I willingly concede that we are mistaken about him."

"Too bad he's not on our side," the baron added. But despite the extraordinary discovery he had made, he was not thinking about Epaminondas Goncalves, but about Jurema, the young woman whom Rufino was going to kill, and about how sorrow-stricken Estela would be if she learned of this.

[III].

"The order has been posted since yesterday," Moreira Cesar says, pointing with his whip to the official announcement ordering the civilian population to register all firearms in their possession with the Seventh Regiment. "And this morning, when the column arrived, it was read aloud publicly before the search. So you knew what you were risking, senh.o.r.es."

The prisoners are tied back to back, and there are no torture marks either on their faces or on their torsos. Barefoot and bareheaded, they could be father and son, uncle and nephew, or two brothers, since the younger one's features are exactly like the older one's, and both have a similar look in their eyes as they gaze at the little camp table at which the tribunal that has just tried them has sat. Of the three army officers who acted as judges, two are now walking off, with the same haste with which they came and pa.s.sed sentence on them, toward the companies that are continuing to arrive in Cansancao, in addition to those already camped in the town. Only Moreira Cesar is still there, standing next to the incriminating evidence: two carbines, a box of bullets, a little pouch full of gunpowder. Besides concealing arms, the prisoners have attacked and wounded one of the soldiers who arrested them. The entire population of Cansancao-a few dozen peasants-is in the clearing, behind soldiers with fixed bayonets who are keeping them from coming any closer.

"It wasn't worth the while for this junk." The colonel's boot brushes the carbines. There is not the slightest animosity in his voice. He turns to a sergeant standing next to him and, as though asking him the time, says to him: "Give them a swallow of brandy."

Right next to the prisoners, bunched together in a little group, not saying a word, with a look of fear and stupefaction on their faces, are the correspondents. Those not wearing hats have covered their heads with their handkerchiefs to shield them from the blazing sun. Beyond the clearing, the usual sounds can be heard: the clump of heavy shoes and boots against the earth, the pawing and whinnying of horses, voices shouting orders, creaking noises, bursts of laughter. It would appear that the soldiers who are arriving or who are already there resting couldn't care less about what is about to happen. The sergeant has uncorked a bottle and holds it up to the mouth of each of the prisoners in turn. Both take a long swallow.

"I want to be shot to death, Colonel," the younger one suddenly pleads.

Moreira Cesar shakes his head. "I don't waste ammunition on traitors to the Republic," he says. "Courage. Die like men."

He gives a signal and two soldiers unsheathe the knives at their waist and step forward. They move briskly and precisely, their gestures identical: each of them grabs the hair of a prisoner with his left hand, thrusts his head abruptly backward, and slits his throat with a deep slash that cuts short the animal moan of the younger one and the cry of the older one: "Long live Blessed Jesus the Counselor! Long live Belo..."

The soldiers close ranks, as though to block the villagers' path, though they haven't budged. Some of the correspondents have averted their eyes, one of them looks on in utter dejection, and the nearsighted reporter from the Jornal de Noticias Jornal de Noticias grimaces. Moreira Cesar gazes at the bloodstained bodies lying on the ground. grimaces. Moreira Cesar gazes at the bloodstained bodies lying on the ground.

"Leave them in plain sight at the foot of the posted order," he says in a soft voice.

He then appears to put the execution entirely out of his mind. With nervous, rapid strides, he starts off across the clearing toward the hut where a hammock has been put up for him. The group of correspondents takes off after him and catches up. He walks on in their midst, grave, calm, not sweating a drop, unlike the reporters, whose faces are flushed from the heat and the shock of what they have just witnessed. They have not yet recovered from the sight of those throats being slit just a few steps away from them: the meaning of certain words-war, cruelty, suffering, fate-has left the abstract domain in which it dwelt and taken on a measurable, tangible, carnal materiality that has left them speechless. They reach the door of the hut. An orderly hands the colonel a washbasin, a towel. The commanding officer of the Seventh Regiment rinses his hands and pats his face with cool water.

The correspondent who always goes about all bundled up stammers: "May we send dispatches about this execution, sir?"

Moreira Cesar does not hear or does not deign to answer. "In the last a.n.a.lysis, the one thing man fears is death," he says as he dries his hands and face. The words are spoken in a natural tone of voice, without grandiloquence, as in the conversations he has been heard to have at night with certain of his officers. "Hence it is the only effective punishment. Provided that it is justly administered. It edifies the civilian population and demoralizes the enemy. That sounds cruel, I know. But that is the way wars are won. You have had your baptism of fire today. You now know what to expect, gentlemen."

He dismisses them with the swift, icy nod that they have learned to recognize as the incontrovertible sign that an interview has ended. He turns his back to them and enters the hut, in which they manage to glimpse uniforms bustling about, a map spread out, and a handful of aides clicking their heels. Troubled, deeply distressed, taken aback, they go back across the clearing to the mess tent, where at each rest halt they receive their rations, identical to those of the officers. But it is certain that none of them will eat a bite today.

The five of them are worn out from the swift pace at which the column advances. They have aching backsides, stiff legs, skin badly burned by the sun of this sandy desert, bristling with cactus and thorn-bush, that lies between Queimadas and Monte Santo. They wonder how those who march on foot, the vast majority of the regiment, can hold up. But many of them do not hold up: they have seen them collapse and be dumped onto the medics' carts like so many sacks. They know now that these exhausted men, once they have come to, are severely reprimanded. "Is this what war is?" the nearsighted journalist thinks. For, before this execution, they have seen nothing resembling a war. Hence they do not understand why the commanding officer of the Seventh Regiment is driving his men on so heartlessly. Is this a race toward a mirage? There were admittedly all sorts of rumors about the violent deeds of the jaguncos jaguncos in the interior. But where are these rebels? They have come upon nothing but half-deserted villages, whose wretched inhabitants watch them pa.s.s with indifferent eyes and who, when questioned, always offer only evasive answers. The column has not been attacked; they have not once heard the sound of gunfire. Is it true that the cattle that have disappeared were stolen by the enemy, as Moreira Cesar a.s.sures them? They do not find this intense little man a likable sort, but they are impressed by his self-a.s.surance, his ability to go without eating or sleeping, his inexhaustible energy. As they wrap their blankets around themselves for a bad night's sleep, they see him still up and about, his uniform not yet unb.u.t.toned, the sleeves of it not yet rolled up, going up and down the ranks of soldiers, stopping to exchange a few words with the sentinels, or conversing with his staff officers. And at dawn, when the bugle sounds and they open their eyes, still drunk with sleep, he is there, washed and shaved, interrogating the messengers from the vanguard or inspecting the artillery pieces, as though he hadn't gone to bed at all. Until the execution a moment ago war, for them, was this man. He was the only one to talk constantly of it, with such conviction that he managed to convince them, to make them see themselves surrounded by it, besieged by it. He has persuaded them that many of those undaunted, starving creatures-exactly like the two men executed-who come out of their huts to watch them pa.s.s by, are the enemy's accomplices, and that behind those impa.s.sive eyes are intelligences that count, measure, calculate, register, and that this information, it too on its way to Canudos, always precedes the column. The nearsighted journalist recalls that the old man shouted "Long live the Counselor!" before dying and thinks: "Perhaps it's true. Perhaps all of them are the enemy." in the interior. But where are these rebels? They have come upon nothing but half-deserted villages, whose wretched inhabitants watch them pa.s.s with indifferent eyes and who, when questioned, always offer only evasive answers. The column has not been attacked; they have not once heard the sound of gunfire. Is it true that the cattle that have disappeared were stolen by the enemy, as Moreira Cesar a.s.sures them? They do not find this intense little man a likable sort, but they are impressed by his self-a.s.surance, his ability to go without eating or sleeping, his inexhaustible energy. As they wrap their blankets around themselves for a bad night's sleep, they see him still up and about, his uniform not yet unb.u.t.toned, the sleeves of it not yet rolled up, going up and down the ranks of soldiers, stopping to exchange a few words with the sentinels, or conversing with his staff officers. And at dawn, when the bugle sounds and they open their eyes, still drunk with sleep, he is there, washed and shaved, interrogating the messengers from the vanguard or inspecting the artillery pieces, as though he hadn't gone to bed at all. Until the execution a moment ago war, for them, was this man. He was the only one to talk constantly of it, with such conviction that he managed to convince them, to make them see themselves surrounded by it, besieged by it. He has persuaded them that many of those undaunted, starving creatures-exactly like the two men executed-who come out of their huts to watch them pa.s.s by, are the enemy's accomplices, and that behind those impa.s.sive eyes are intelligences that count, measure, calculate, register, and that this information, it too on its way to Canudos, always precedes the column. The nearsighted journalist recalls that the old man shouted "Long live the Counselor!" before dying and thinks: "Perhaps it's true. Perhaps all of them are the enemy."

This time, unlike previous halts, none of the correspondents stretches out to catch a few winks of sleep. Keeping each other company in their confusion and anguish, they linger by the mess tent, smoking, reflecting, and the reporter from the Jornal de Noticias Jornal de Noticias is unable to keep his eyes off the dead bodies of the two men stretched out at the foot of the tree trunk on which the order that they have disobeyed flutters in the wind. An hour later the correspondents are again at the head of the column, immediately behind the standard-bearers and Colonel Moreira Cesar, heading toward the war which for them has now really begun. is unable to keep his eyes off the dead bodies of the two men stretched out at the foot of the tree trunk on which the order that they have disobeyed flutters in the wind. An hour later the correspondents are again at the head of the column, immediately behind the standard-bearers and Colonel Moreira Cesar, heading toward the war which for them has now really begun.

Another surprise awaits them before they reach Monte Santo, at the crossroads where a small blurred sign indicates the turnoff to the hacienda of Calumbi; the column arrives there six hours after having resumed its march. Of the five correspondents, only the gaunt scarecrow from the Jornal de Noticias Jornal de Noticias will witness the incident at close hand. A curious relationship has sprung up between him and the commanding officer of the Seventh Regiment, which it would be inexact to call friendship or even congeniality. It is a question, rather, of a curiosity born of a mutual repulsion, of the attraction exerted by diametrical opposites. In any event, the man who appears to be a caricature of himself, not only when he sits writing at the outlandish portable writing table that he places on his knees or his saddle and dips his pen in the inkwell that looks more like the sort of horn in which the will witness the incident at close hand. A curious relationship has sprung up between him and the commanding officer of the Seventh Regiment, which it would be inexact to call friendship or even congeniality. It is a question, rather, of a curiosity born of a mutual repulsion, of the attraction exerted by diametrical opposites. In any event, the man who appears to be a caricature of himself, not only when he sits writing at the outlandish portable writing table that he places on his knees or his saddle and dips his pen in the inkwell that looks more like the sort of horn in which the caboclos caboclos carry about the poison for the arrows of the crossbows when they are out hunting, but also when he walks or rides, continually giving the impression that he is about to collapse, appears to be fascinated, bewitched, obsessed by the little colonel. He keeps watching him every minute, never missing a chance to approach him, and in his conversations with his colleagues, Moreira Cesar is very nearly the only subject that interests him, one that to all appearances matters more to him than Canudos and the war. And what is it about this young journalist that can have aroused the colonel's interest? His eccentric dress and his odd physique perhaps, his resemblance to a walking skeleton, those gangling limbs, that proliferation of hair and fuzz, those long fingernails now black with dirt, that spineless manner, that whole in which there is not the least sign of anything that the colonel would call virile, martial. But the truth remains that there is something about this grotesque figure with the unpleasant voice that, perhaps despite himself, the little officer with fixed ideas and forceful eyes finds attractive. He is the only one whom the colonel is in the habit of addressing when he holds press conferences, and sometimes he converses with him alone after the evening mess. During the marches, the reporter from the carry about the poison for the arrows of the crossbows when they are out hunting, but also when he walks or rides, continually giving the impression that he is about to collapse, appears to be fascinated, bewitched, obsessed by the little colonel. He keeps watching him every minute, never missing a chance to approach him, and in his conversations with his colleagues, Moreira Cesar is very nearly the only subject that interests him, one that to all appearances matters more to him than Canudos and the war. And what is it about this young journalist that can have aroused the colonel's interest? His eccentric dress and his odd physique perhaps, his resemblance to a walking skeleton, those gangling limbs, that proliferation of hair and fuzz, those long fingernails now black with dirt, that spineless manner, that whole in which there is not the least sign of anything that the colonel would call virile, martial. But the truth remains that there is something about this grotesque figure with the unpleasant voice that, perhaps despite himself, the little officer with fixed ideas and forceful eyes finds attractive. He is the only one whom the colonel is in the habit of addressing when he holds press conferences, and sometimes he converses with him alone after the evening mess. During the marches, the reporter from the Jornal de Noticias Jornal de Noticias, as though through his mount's initiative, habitually rides on ahead and joins the colonel. This is what has happened this time, after the column has left Cansancao. The nearsighted journalist, bouncing up and down like a puppet, is lost from sight amid the officers and aides surrounding Moreira Cesar's white horse, when the colonel, on arriving at the turnoff to Calumbi, raises his right hand: the signal to halt.

The escorts gallop off with orders, and the bugler sounds the call that will bring all the companies of the regiment to a halt. Moreira Cesar, Olimpio de Castro, Cunha Matos, and Tamarindo dismount; the journalist slides to the ground. To the rear, the correspondents and a great many soldiers go to dip their faces, arms, and feet in a pool of stagnant water. The major and Tamarindo examine a map and Moreira Cesar scans the horizon with his field gla.s.ses. The sun is disappearing behind a lone peak in the distance-Monte Santo-to which it has imparted a spectral form. As he puts away his gla.s.ses, the colonel's face has paled. He is visibly tense.

"What is it that's worrying you, sir?" Captain Olimpio de Castro asks.

"Time." Moreira Cesar speaks as though he had a foreign object in his mouth. "The possibility that they may take to their heels before we get there."

"They won't run away," the nearsighted journalist pipes up. "They believe that G.o.d is on their side. People in these parts like a good fight."

"As the old saying goes: 'Smooth the way for an enemy on the run,'" the captain says jokingly.

"Not in this case." The colonel has difficulty articulating the words. "We must teach them a lesson that will put an end to monarchist illusions. And avenge the affront to the army as well."

He speaks with mysterious pauses between one syllable and another, in a quavering voice. He opens his mouth again to say something, but not a word comes out. He is deathly pale, and his eyes are an angry red. He sits down on a fallen tree trunk and slowly removes his kepi. The reporter from the Jornal de Noticias Jornal de Noticias goes over and sits down, too, when he sees Moreira Cesar raise his hands to his face. The colonel's kepi falls to the ground and he leaps to his feet, staggering, his face beet-red, as he frantically rips off the b.u.t.tons of his blouse, as though suffocating. Moaning and frothing at the mouth, writhing uncontrollably, he rolls about at the feet of Captain Olimpio de Castro and the reporter, who have no idea what has come over him. As they bend over him Tamarindo, Cunha Matos, and several aides rush up. goes over and sits down, too, when he sees Moreira Cesar raise his hands to his face. The colonel's kepi falls to the ground and he leaps to his feet, staggering, his face beet-red, as he frantically rips off the b.u.t.tons of his blouse, as though suffocating. Moaning and frothing at the mouth, writhing uncontrollably, he rolls about at the feet of Captain Olimpio de Castro and the reporter, who have no idea what has come over him. As they bend over him Tamarindo, Cunha Matos, and several aides rush up.

"Don't touch him," Colonel Tamarindo shouts with an imperious gesture. "Quick, a blanket. Call Dr. Souza Ferreiro. Don't anybody come near him! Get back, get back!"

Major Cunha Matos pulls the reporter away and goes with the aides to confront the press. They rudely force the correspondents to keep their distance, as meanwhile a blanket is thrown over Moreira Cesar, and Olimpio de Castro and Tamarindo fold their tunics to serve as a pillow under his head.

"Open his mouth and get hold of his tongue," the old colonel instructs them, knowing exactly what must be done. He turns around to the two escorts and orders them to put up a tent.

The captain forces Moreira Cesar's mouth open. His convulsions continue for some time. Dr. Souza Ferreiro finally arrives, in a medical corps wagon. They have set up the tent and Moreira Cesar is lying in it on a camp cot. Tamarindo and Olimpio de Castro remain at his side, taking turns keeping his mouth open and seeing that he stays covered. His face drenched with sweat, his eyes closed, tossing and turning, emitting broken moans, from time to time the colonel foams at the mouth. The doctor and Colonel Tamarindo wordlessly exchange glances. The captain explains how the fit came over him, and how long ago, as Souza Ferreiro meanwhile goes on removing his uniform jacket and gestures to an aide to bring his medical kit to the cot. The officers leave the tent so that the doctor may give the patient a thorough examination.

Armed sentinels ring the tent to seal it off from the remainder of the column. Just beyond them are the correspondents, spying on the scene from between the rifles. They have plied the nearsighted journalist with questions, and he has told them what he has seen. Between the sentinels and the camp is a no-man's-land that no officer or soldier crosses unless summoned by Major Cunha Matos. The latter strides back and forth with his hands clasped behind his back. Colonel Tamarindo and Captain Olimpio de Castro join him and the correspondents see them pace round and round the tent. Their faces gradually grow darker as the great twilight conflagration dies away. From time to time, Tamarindo goes inside the tent, comes out again, and the three begin pacing about once more. Many minutes go by, half an hour, an hour perhaps, and then Captain de Castro suddenly walks over to the correspondents and motions to the reporter from the Jornal de Noticias Jornal de Noticias to come with him. A bonfire has been lighted and somewhere in the rear the bugler is blowing the evening mess call. The sentinels allow the nearsighted journalist, whom the captain is escorting to the colonel and the major, to pa.s.s. to come with him. A bonfire has been lighted and somewhere in the rear the bugler is blowing the evening mess call. The sentinels allow the nearsighted journalist, whom the captain is escorting to the colonel and the major, to pa.s.s.

"You know this region. You can help us," Tamarindo murmurs, in a tone of voice not at all like his usual amiable one, as though struggling to overcome a profound repugnance at being forced to discuss the matter at hand with an outsider. "The doctor insists that the colonel must be taken to a place where there are certain comforts and conveniences, where he can be well cared for. Is there any sort of hacienda nearby?"

"Certainly," the high-pitched voice says. "You know as well as I do that there's one."

"Apart from Calumbi, I mean," Colonel Tamarindo corrects himself, ill at ease. "The colonel refused in no uncertain terms the baron's invitation to quarter the regiment. It's not the proper place to take him."

"There isn't any other," the nearsighted journalist says trenchantly, gazing intently through the semidarkness at the field tent and the greenish glow coming from inside it. "Everything the eye can see between Cansancao and Canudos belongs to the Baron of Canabrava."

The colonel looks at him in distress. At that moment Dr. Souza Ferreiro comes out of the tent, wiping his hands. He is a man with silver-gray temples and a receding hairline, dressed in an army uniform. The officers surround him, forgetting the journalist, who remains standing there nonetheless, brazenly staring at them with eyes magnified by the lenses of his gla.s.ses.

"It's the nervous and physical fatigue of the last few days," the doctor says querulously, placing a cigarette between his lips. "Another attack, two years later, in the situation we're in. Bad luck, a trick of the Devil-who can say? I've bled him, for the congestion. But he needs baths, ma.s.sages, the whole treatment. You decide, gentlemen."

Cunha Matos and Olimpio de Castro look at Colonel Tamarindo. The latter clears his throat but says nothing. "Do you insist that we take him to Calumbi, when you know the baron's there?" he finally says.

"I didn't say a word about Calumbi," Souza Ferreiro shoots back. "I'm only talking about what the patient needs. And allow me to add one more thing. It's foolhardy to keep him here in these conditions."

"You know the colonel," Cunha Matos interjects. "He'll feel affronted, humiliated in the house of one of the leaders of the monarchist subversion."

Dr. Souza Ferreiro shrugs. "I respect your decision. I'm your junior officer. I've fulfilled my responsibility."

A commotion behind them causes the four officers and the journalist to turn around and look in the direction of the field tent. Moreira Cesar is standing in the doorway, dimly visible in the feeble light from the lamp inside, roaring something they fail to understand. Naked to the waist, leaning on the canvas with his two hands, he has dark, motionless patches on his chest that must be leeches. He has the strength to remain on his feet for only a few seconds. They see him collapse, a querulous moan on his lips. The doctor kneels down to force his mouth open as the officers pick him up by the feet, the arms, the shoulders, to carry him back to the folding cot.

"I a.s.sume the responsibility of taking him to Calumbi, sir," Captain Olimpio de Castro says.

"Very well," Tamarindo replies. "Take an escort and accompany Souza Ferreiro. But the regiment will not go to the baron's. It will camp here."

"May I go with you, Captain?" the nearsighted journalist asks in his importunate voice. "I know the baron. I worked for his paper before I went over to the Jornal de Noticias Jornal de Noticias."

They stayed in Ipupiara ten days more, after the visit from the capangas capangas on horseback, who took with them as their only booty a bright-red shock of hair. The stranger began to get better. One night the Bearded Lady heard him conversing, in labored Portuguese, with Jurema, asking her what country he was in, what month and day it was. The following evening he slid down off the wagon and managed to take a few tottering steps. And two nights later he was in the Ipupiara general store, his fever gone, thin as a rail but in good spirits, plying the storekeeper (who kept looking at his bare skull in amus.e.m.e.nt) with questions about Canudos and the war. Overcome with a sort of wild exhilaration, he made the man repeat several times that an army of half a thousand men, come from Bahia under the command of Major Febronio, had been demolished at O Cambaio. The news excited him so much that Jurema, the Bearded Lady, and the Dwarf thought he was about to rave deliriously in a strange tongue again. But after having had a little gla.s.s of on horseback, who took with them as their only booty a bright-red shock of hair. The stranger began to get better. One night the Bearded Lady heard him conversing, in labored Portuguese, with Jurema, asking her what country he was in, what month and day it was. The following evening he slid down off the wagon and managed to take a few tottering steps. And two nights later he was in the Ipupiara general store, his fever gone, thin as a rail but in good spirits, plying the storekeeper (who kept looking at his bare skull in amus.e.m.e.nt) with questions about Canudos and the war. Overcome with a sort of wild exhilaration, he made the man repeat several times that an army of half a thousand men, come from Bahia under the command of Major Febronio, had been demolished at O Cambaio. The news excited him so much that Jurema, the Bearded Lady, and the Dwarf thought he was about to rave deliriously in a strange tongue again. But after having had a little gla.s.s of cachaca cachaca with the storekeeper, Gall fell into a deep sleep for a good ten hours. with the storekeeper, Gall fell into a deep sleep for a good ten hours.

At Gall's insistence, they started out again. The circus people would rather have stayed a while longer in Ipupiara, where they could get themselves enough to eat, if nothing else, by entertaining the villagers with clown acts and stories. But the foreigner was afraid that the capangas capangas would come back and carry off his head this time. He had recovered: he talked with such whirlwind energy that the Bearded Lady, the Dwarf, and even the Idiot listened to him dumfounded. They had to guess at part of what he said, and his irresistible urge to talk about the would come back and carry off his head this time. He had recovered: he talked with such whirlwind energy that the Bearded Lady, the Dwarf, and even the Idiot listened to him dumfounded. They had to guess at part of what he said, and his irresistible urge to talk about the jaguncos jaguncos intrigued them. The Bearded Lady asked Jurema if he was one of those apostles of the Blessed Jesus who were wandering about all over. No, he wasn't: he hadn't been to Canudos, he didn't know the Counselor, and he didn't even believe in G.o.d. Jurema couldn't understand this mania of his either. When Gall announced to them that he was heading north, the Dwarf and the Bearded Lady decided to follow him. They wouldn't have been able to explain why. Perhaps it was gravity that was the cause-weak bodies magnetized by strong ones-or simply not having anything better to do, no alternative, no will to oppose that of someone who, unlike themselves, appeared to be following a definite path through life. intrigued them. The Bearded Lady asked Jurema if he was one of those apostles of the Blessed Jesus who were wandering about all over. No, he wasn't: he hadn't been to Canudos, he didn't know the Counselor, and he didn't even believe in G.o.d. Jurema couldn't understand this mania of his either. When Gall announced to them that he was heading north, the Dwarf and the Bearded Lady decided to follow him. They wouldn't have been able to explain why. Perhaps it was gravity that was the cause-weak bodies magnetized by strong ones-or simply not having anything better to do, no alternative, no will to oppose that of someone who, unlike themselves, appeared to be following a definite path through life.

They left at dawn and walked all day amid stones and th.o.r.n.y mandacarus mandacarus, not saying a word to each other, with the wagon in front, the Bearded Lady, the Dwarf, and the Idiot alongside, Jurema right next to the wheels, and Galileo Gall drawing up the end of the caravan. To shield himself from the sun, he had put on a sombrero that had once belonged to Pedrim the Giant. He had grown so thin that his pants were baggy and his shirt kept sliding off his shoulders. The red-hot bullet that had grazed him had left a purple mark behind his ear and Caifas's knife a sinuous scar between his neck and his shoulder. His thinness and paleness somehow made his eyes look wilder still. On the fourth day of their trek, at a bend in the road known as the Sitio das Flores, they ran into a band of starving outlaws, who took their burro away from them. They were in a thicket of thistles and mandacarus mandacarus, divided in two by a dry riverbed. In the distance they could see the mountainside of the Serra da Engorda. There were eight bandits, some of them dressed in leather, wearing sombreros decorated with coins, and armed with knives, carbines, and bandoleers. The leader-a short, paunchy man with the profile of a bird of prey and cruel eyes-was called Toughbeard by his men, even though he was beardless. He gave a few terse instructions, and in less time than it takes to tell, his cangaceiros cangaceiros killed the burro, skinned it, hacked it up, built a fire, and roasted great chunks of it, which a while later they fell upon voraciously. They must have gone without food for several days, for some of them, overjoyed at this feast, began to sing. killed the burro, skinned it, hacked it up, built a fire, and roasted great chunks of it, which a while later they fell upon voraciously. They must have gone without food for several days, for some of them, overjoyed at this feast, began to sing.

As he watched them, Galileo wondered how long it would take the scavengers and the elements to turn the carca.s.s into the little mounds of polished bones that he had grown accustomed to coming across in the backlands, skeletons, remains, mementos of man or animal that were grim reminders to the traveler of the fate that awaited him in case he fainted from exhaustion or died. He was sitting in the wagon alongside the Bearded Lady, the Dwarf, the Idiot, and Jurema. Toughbeard took off his sombrero, on the brim of which, above his forehead, a sovereign gleamed, and made signs to the circus people to eat. The first to dare to do so was the Idiot, who knelt down and reached his fingers out toward the dense cloud of smoke. The Bearded Lady, the Dwarf, Jurema followed his example. Gall walked over to the fire. Life in the open air had made him as tanned and weather-beaten as a sertanejo sertanejo. From the moment he saw Toughbeard take off his sombrero, his eyes never left the man's head. And Gall kept on looking at him intently as he raised a chunk of meat to his lips. On trying to swallow the first mouthful, he began to retch.

"He can only swallow soft things," Jurema explained to the men. "He's been sick."

"He's a foreigner," the Dwarf added. "He talks languages."