The War Of The End Of The World (23 page)

The Honorable Deputy Epaminondas Gonçalves declared that the Honorable Deputies of the majority were becoming more and more bogged down in their own contradictions and lies, as inevitably happens to those who walk over quicksand. And he thanked heaven that it had been the Rural Guard that had captured the English rifles and the English agent Gall, for it was an independent, sound, patriotic, genuinely Republican corps, which had alerted the authorities of the Federal Government to the seriousness of the events that had taken place and taken all necessary measures to prevent any attempt to hide the proofs of the collaboration of the native monarchists with the British Crown in the plot against Brazilian sovereignty of which Canudos was the spearhead. In fact, had it not been for the Rural Guard, he declared, the Republic would never have learned of the presence of English agents transporting through the backlands shipments of rifles for the restorationists of Canudos. The Honorable Deputy Dom Eduardo Glicério interrupted him to inform him that the only trace of the famous English agent that had been found was a handful of hair that could well have been that of a redheaded woman or a horse’s mane, a sally that brought laughter from both the benches of the majority and those of the opposition. Continuing after this interruption, the Honorable Deputy Dom Epaminondas Gonçalves declared that he applauded the sense of humor of the Honorable Deputy who had interrupted him, but that when the sovereign interests of the Country were threatened, and the blood of the patriots who had fallen in defense of the Republic in Uauá and on the slopes of Monte Cambaio was still warm, the moment was perhaps not an appropriate one for jokes, a remark which brought thunderous applause from the Honorable Deputies of the opposition.

The Honorable Deputy Dom Eliseu de Roque reminded the Assembly that there was incontrovertible proof of the identity of the corpse found in Ipupiará, along with the English rifles, and declared that to refuse to admit the existence of such proof was to refuse to admit the existence of the light of day. He reminded the Assembly of the fact that two persons who had met the English spy Galileo Gall and been on friendly terms with him during his stay in Bahia, the citizen Jan van Rijsted and the distinguished physician Dr. José Batista de Sá Oliveira, had identified as being his the English agent’s clothes, his frock coat, his trousers belt, his boots, and, most importantly, the bright red hair that the members of the Rural Guard who found the corpse had had the good judgment to cut off. He reminded the Honorable Deputies that both citizens had also testified as to the revolutionary ideas of the Englishman and his obviously conspiratorial intentions with regard to Canudos, and that neither of them had been surprised that his dead body had been found in that region. And, finally, he reminded his hearers that many citizens of towns in the interior had given testimony to the Rural Guard that they had seen the stranger with red hair and an odd way of speaking Portuguese trying to secure guides to take him to Canudos. The Honorable Deputy Dom João Seixas de Pondé stated that no one denied that the individual called Galileo Gall had been found dead, with rifles in his possession, in Ipupiará, but that this was not incontrovertible evidence that he was an English spy, since in and of itself his being a foreigner proved nothing. Why might he not have been a Danish, Swedish, French, or German spy, or one from Cochin China?

The Honorable Deputy Dom Epaminondas Gonçalves declared that hearing the words of the Honorable Deputies of the majority, who, instead of shaking with anger when evidence was put before them that a foreign power was attempting to interfere in the domestic affairs of Brazil to undermine the Republic and restore the old feudal and aristocratic order, tried to divert public attention toward questions of secondary importance and look for excuses and extenuating circumstances to justify the behavior of the guilty parties, constituted the most categorical proof that the Government of the State of Bahia would not lift a finger to put an end to the Canudos rebellion, since, on the contrary, it gave them intimate satisfaction. The Machiavellian machinations of the Baron de Canabrava and of the Autonomists would not succeed, however, for the Army of Brazil was there to thwart them, and just as it had thus far put down all the monarchist insurrections against the Republic in the South of the country, it would also crush that of Canudos. He declared that when the sovereignty of the Country was at stake words were superfluous, and that the very next day the Progressivist Republican Party would open a drive for funds to buy arms to be delivered to the Federal Army. And he proposed to the Honorable Deputies of the Progressivist Republican Party that they leave the halls of the Assembly to those nostalgic for the old order and make a pilgrimage to Campo Grande to renew their vow of Republicanism before the marble plaque commemorating Marshal Floriano Peixoto. They proceeded to do so immediately, to the consternation of the Honorable Deputies of the majority.

Minutes later, the Honorable President of the Assembly, His Excellency Sir Adalberto de Gumúcio, adjourned the session.

Tomorrow we shall report on the patriotic ceremony held at Campo Grande, before the marble plaque commemorating the Iron Marshal, by the Honorable Deputies of the Progressivist Republican Party, at daybreak.

“It doesn’t need so much as a comma added or taken out,” Epaminondas Gonçalves says. The look on his face is one of relief, even more than of satisfaction, as though he had feared the worst from this article that the journalist had just read aloud to him, straight through without being interrupted even once by a sneezing fit. “I congratulate you.”

“Whether true or false, it’s an extraordinary story,” the journalist, who doesn’t seem to have heard him, mutters. “That a fairgrounds mountebank who went about the streets of Salvador saying that bones are the handwriting of the soul and who preached anarchy and atheism in the taverns should turn out to be an English agent plotting with the Sebastianists to restore the monarchy and end up being burned alive in the backlands—isn’t that extraordinary?”

“It is indeed,” the head of the Progressivist Republican Party agrees. “And what is even more so is that those people who seemed to be a bunch of fanatics could decimate and rout a battalion equipped with cannons and machine guns. Extraordinary, yes. But, above all, terrifying for the future of this country.”

It has become hotter and the nearsighted journalist’s face is bathed in sweat. He mops it with the bedsheet that serves him as a handkerchief and then wipes his fogged eyeglasses on his rumpled shirtfront.

“I’ll take this to the compositors myself and stay while they set the type,” he says, gathering together the sheets of paper scattered about on the desk top. “There won’t be any printer’s errors; don’t worry. You may sleep in peace, sir.”

“Are you happier working with me than on the baron’s paper?” his boss asks him, point-blank. “I know that you earn more here than on the
Diário da Bahia
. But I’m referring to the work. Do you like it better here?”

“In all truth, yes.” The journalist puts his eyeglasses back on and stands there for a moment petrified, waiting for the sneeze with his eyes half closed, his mouth half open, and his nose twitching. But it is a false alarm. “Political reporting is more entertaining than writing about the damage wreaked by fishing with explosives in the Ribeira de Itapagipe or the fire in the Magalhães Chocolate Factory.”

“And, what’s more, it’s helping build the country, contributing to a worthwhile national cause,” Epaminondas Gonçalves says. “Because you’re one of us, isn’t that so?”

“I don’t know what I am, sir,” the journalist replies, in that voice that, at times piercingly high-pitched and at times deep and sonorous, is as undependable as the rest of his body. “I don’t have any political convictions and politics don’t interest me.”

“I like your frankness.” The owner of the newspaper laughs, rising to his feet and reaching for his briefcase. “I’m happy with you. Your feature articles are impeccable. They say precisely what needs to be said, in just the right words. I’m glad I turned the most ticklish section over to you.”

He picks up the little desk lamp, blows the flame out, and leaves the office, followed by the journalist, who, on going through the door leading to the outer office, stumbles over a spittoon.

“Well then, I’m going to ask you a favor, sir,” he blurts out. “If Colonel Moreira César comes to put down the Canudos insurrection, I’d like to accompany him, as the correspondent of the
Jornal de Notícias
.”

Epaminondas Gonçalves has turned around to look at him and scrutinizes him as he puts his hat on.

“I suppose it’s possible,” he says. “You see—you really are one of us, even though politics don’t interest you. To admire Colonel Moreira César, a person has to be a republican through and through.”

“To be honest with you, I don’t know if it’s admiration exactly,” the journalist confesses, fanning himself with the sheaf of paper. “Seeing a flesh-and-blood hero, being close to someone very famous is a very tempting prospect. It would be like seeing and touching a character in a novel.”

“You’ll have to watch your step. The colonel doesn’t like journalists,” Epaminondas Gonçalves says. He is already heading toward the door. “He began his public life by shooting down a penpusher in the streets of Rio because he’d insulted the army.”

“Good night,” the journalist murmurs. He trots to the other end of the building, where a dark passageway leads to the print shop. The compositors, who have stayed on the job till this late hour waiting for his article, will surely invite him to have a cup of coffee with them.

The train whistles as it enters the Queimadas station, decorated with streamers welcoming Colonel Moreira César. A huge crowd has congregated on the narrow red-tile platform, beneath a large white canvas banner wafting out over the tracks: “Queimadas Welcomes Heroic Colonel Moreira César and His Glorious Regiment. Long Live Brazil!” A group of barefoot children wave little flags and there are half a dozen men dressed in their best Sunday suits, with the insignia of the Municipal Council on their breasts and hats in hand, surrounded by a horde of miserable people in rags and tatters who are standing looking on with great curiosity as beggars asking for alms and vendors peddling raw brown sugar and fritters move among them.

The appearance of Colonel Moreira César on the steps of the train—there are crowds of soldiers with rifles at all the windows—is greeted with shouts and applause. Dressed in a blue wool uniform with gold buttons and red stripes and piping, a sword at his waist, and boots with gold spurs, the colonel leaps out onto the platform. He is a man of small build, almost rachitic, very agile. Everyone’s face is flushed from the heat, but the colonel is not even sweating. His physical frailty contrasts sharply with the force that he appears to radiate round about him, due to the effervescent energy in his eyes or the sureness of his movements. He has the air of someone who is master of himself, knows what he wants, and is accustomed to being in command.

Applause and cheers fill the air all along the platform and the street, where the people gathered there are shielding themselves from the sun with pieces of cardboard. The children toss handfuls of confetti into the air and those carrying flags wave them. The town dignitaries step forward, but Colonel Moreira César does not stop to shake hands. He has been surrounded by a group of army officers. He nods politely to the dignitaries and then, turning to the crowd, shouts: “
Viva
the Republic!
Viva
Marshal Floriano!” To the surprise of the municipal councillors, who were no doubt expecting to hear speeches, to converse with him, to escort him, the colonel enters the station, accompanied by his officers. The councillors try to follow him, but are stopped by the guards at the door, which has just closed behind him. A whinny is heard. A beautiful white horse is stepping off the train, to the delight of the crowd of youngsters. The animal licks itself clean, shakes its mane, and gives a joyous neigh, sensing open countryside nearby. Lines of soldiers now climb down from the train, one by one, through the doors and windows, setting down bundles, valises, unloading boxes of ammunition, machine guns. A great cheer goes up as the cannons appear, gleaming in the sun. The soldiers are now bringing up teams of oxen to pull the heavy artillery pieces. With resigned expressions, the municipal authorities proceed to join the curious who have piled up at the doors and windows to peep inside the station, trying to catch a glimpse of Moreira César amid the group of officers, adjutants, orderlies who are milling about.

The inside of the station is a single large room, divided by a partition, behind which the telegrapher is working. The side of the room opposite the train platform overlooks a three-story building with a sign that reads: Hotel Continental. There are soldiers everywhere along the treeless Avenida Itapicuru, which leads up to the main square. Behind the dozens of faces pressed against the glass, peering inside the station, the troops are eagerly proceeding to detrain. As the regimental flag appears, unfurled and waved with a flourish by a soldier before the eyes of the crowd, another round of applause is heard. On the esplanade between the station and the Hotel Continental, a soldier curries the white horse with the showy mane. In one corner of the station hall is a long table laden with pitchers, bottles, and platters of food, protected by pieces of cheesecloth from the myriad flies that nobody takes any notice of. Little flags and garlands are suspended from the ceiling, amid posters of the Progressivist Republican Party and the Bahia Autonomist Party, hailing Colonel Moreira César, the Republic, and the Seventh Infantry Regiment of the Brazilian Army.

Amid all this bustling activity, Colonel Moreira César changes out of woolen dress uniform into a field uniform. Two soldiers have strung up a blanket in front of the partition marking off the telegrapher’s office, and the colonel tosses out from this improvised dressing room the various articles comprising his parade dress, which an adjutant gathers up and stores away in a trunk. As he dons his field dress, Moreira César speaks with three officers standing at attention outside.

“Report on our effective strength, Cunha Matos.”

With a slight click of his heels, the major announces: “Eighty-three men who have come down with smallpox and other illnesses,” he says, consulting a sheet of paper. “One thousand two hundred thirty-five troops ready for combat. The fifteen million rifle rounds and the seventy artillery rounds are intact and ready to fire, sir.”

“Have the order given for the vanguard to leave within two hours at the latest for Monte Santo.” The colonel’s voice is trenchant, toneless, impersonal. “You, Olímpio, present my apologies to the Municipal Council. I will receive them in a while. Explain to them that we are unable to waste time attending ceremonies or banquets.”

“Yes, sir.”

When Captain Olímpio de Castro takes his leave, the third officer steps forward. He is wearing colonel’s stripes and is a man advanced in years, a bit on the tubby side, with a calm look in his eye. “Lieutenant Pires Ferreira and Major Febrônio de Brito are here. They have orders to join the regiment as advisers.”

Moreira César is lost in thought for a moment. “How fortunate for the regiment,” he murmurs, in a voice that is almost inaudible. “Escort them here, Tamarindo.”

An orderly, on his knees, helps the colonel don a pair of riding boots, without spurs. A moment later, preceded by Colonel Tamarindo, Febrônio de Brito and Pires Ferreira arrive and stand at attention in front of the blanket. They click their heels, give their name and rank, and announce: “Reporting for duty, sir.” The blanket falls to the floor. Moreira César is wearing a pistol and sword at his side, his shirtsleeves are rolled up, and his arms are short, skinny, and hairless. He looks the newcomers over from head to foot without a word, with an icy look in his eyes.

“It is an honor for us to place our experience in this region at the service of the most prestigious military leader of Brazil, sir.”

Colonel Moreira César stares into the eyes of Febrônio de Brito, until the latter looks away in confusion.

“Experience that was of no avail to you when you were confronted with a mere handful of bandits.” The colonel has not raised his voice, yet the hall of the railway station seems to be electrified, paralyzed. Scrutinizing the major as he would an insect, Moreira César points a finger at Pires Ferreira: “This officer was in command of no more than a company. But you had half a thousand men at your command and allowed yourself to be defeated like a tenderfoot. The two of you have cast discredit on the army and hence on the Republic. Your presence in the Seventh Regiment is not welcome. You are forbidden to enter combat. You will remain in the rear guard to take care of the sick and the animals. You are dismissed.”

The two officers are deathly pale. Febrônio de Brito is sweating heavily. His lips part, as though about to say something, but then he decides merely to salute and withdraw with tottering footsteps. The lieutenant stands rooted to the spot, his eyes suddenly red. Moreira César walks by without looking at him, and the swarm of officers and orderlies go on with their duties. On a table maps and a pile of papers are laid out.

“Let the correspondents come in, Cunha Matos,” the colonel orders.

The major shows them in. They have come on the same train as the Seventh Regiment and they are plainly worn out from all the bumping and jolting. There are five of them, of different ages, dressed in leggings, caps, riding pants, and equipped with pencils and notebooks; one of them is carrying a bellows camera and a tripod. The one who most attracts people’s notice is the nearsighted young correspondent from the
Jornal de Notícias
. The sparse little goatee that he has grown is in keeping with his threadbare appearance, his extravagant portable writing desk, the inkwell tied to his sleeve, and the goose-quill pen that he nibbles on as the photographer sets up his camera. As he trips the shutter, there is a flash of powder in the pan that brings even louder screams of excitement from the youngsters crouching behind the windowpanes. Colonel Moreira César acknowledges the correspondents’ greeting with a slight nod.

“It surprised many people that I did not receive the people of note in Salvador,” he says, without polite formulas or warmth, by way of salutation. “There is no mystery involved, sirs. It is a question of time. Every minute is precious, in view of the mission that has brought us to Bahia. We shall bring it to a successful conclusion. The Seventh Regiment is going to punish the rebels of Canudos, as it did the insurgents of the Fortress of Santa Cruz and of Laje, and the federalists of Santa Catarina. There will not be any further uprisings against the Republic.”

The clusters of humanity behind the windowpanes have fallen silent, straining to hear what the colonel is saying; officers and orderlies are standing stock-still, listening; and the five journalists are gazing at him with mingled fascination and incredulity. Yes, it is he, he is here at last, in person, just as he appears in caricatures of him: thin, frail, vibrant, with little eyes that flash or drill straight through the person he is addressing, and a forward thrust of his hand as he speaks that resembles the lunge of a fencer. Two days previously, they had been waiting for him in Salvador, with the same curiosity as hundreds of other Bahians, and he had left everyone frustrated, for he did not attend either the banquets or the ball that had been arranged, or the official receptions and ceremonies in his honor, and except for a brief visit to the Military Club and to Governor Luiz Viana, he spoke with no one, devoting all his time to supervising personally the disembarkation of his troops at the port and the transportation of equipment and supplies to the Calçada Station, so as to leave the following day on this train that has brought the regiment to the backlands. He had passed through the city of Salvador as though he were fleeing on the run, as though fearing that he would be infected by some dread disease, and it was only now that he was offering an explanation of his conduct: time. But the five journalists, who are closely watching his slightest gesture, are not thinking about what he is saying at this moment, but recalling what has been said and written about him, mentally comparing that mythical creature, both despised and deified, with the very small-statured, stern figure who is speaking to them as though they were not there. They are trying to imagine him, a youngster still, enrolling as a volunteer in the war against Paraguay, where he received wounds and medals in equal number, and his first years as an officer, in Rio de Janeiro, when his militant republicanism very nearly caused him to be thrown out of the army and sent to jail, or in the days when he was the leader of the conspiracies against the monarchy. Despite the energy transmitted by his eyes, his gestures, his voice, it is hard for them to imagine him killing that obscure journalist, in the Rua do Ouvidor in the capital, with five shots from his revolver, though it is not difficult, on the other hand, to imagine his voice declaring at his trial that he is proud to have done what he did and would do so again if he heard anyone insult the army. But above all they recall his public career, after his years of exile in the Mato Grosso and his return following the fall of the Empire. They remember how he turned into President Floriano Peixoto’s righthand man, crushing with an iron fist all the uprisings that took place in the first years of the Republic, and defending in
O Jacobino
, that incendiary paper, his arguments in favor of a Dictatorial Republic, without a parliament, without political parties, in which the army, like the Church in the past, would be the nerve center of a secular society frantically pursuing henceforth the goal of scientific progress. They are wondering whether it is true that on the death of Marshal Floriano Peixoto he was so overwrought that he fainted as he was reading the eulogy at the cemetery. People have said that with the coming to power of a civilian president, Prudente de Moraes, the political fate of Colonel Moreira César and the so-called Jacobins is sealed. But, they tell themselves, this must not be true, since, if it were, he would not be here in Queimadas, at the head of the most famous corps of the Brazilian Army, sent by the government itself to carry out a mission from which—who can possibly doubt it?—he will return to Rio with greatly enhanced prestige.

“I have not come to Bahia to intervene in local political struggles,” he is saying, as without looking at them he points to the posters of the Republican Party and the Autonomist Party hanging from the ceiling. “The army is above factional quarrels, on the sidelines of political maneuvering. The Seventh Regiment is here to put down a monarchist conspiracy. For behind the brigands and fanatical madmen of Canudos is a plot against the Republic. Those poor devils are a mere tool of aristocrats who are unable to resign themselves to the loss of their privileges, who do not want Brazil to be a modern country. And of certain fanatical priests unable to resign themselves to the separation of Church and State because they do not want to render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s. And even of England, apparently, which wants to restore the corrupt Empire that allowed it to buy up the entire output of Brazilian sugar at ridiculously low prices. But they are mistaken. Neither aristocrats nor priests nor England will ever again lay down the law in Brazil. The army will not permit it.”

He has raised his voice little by little and uttered the last sentences in an impassioned tone, with his right hand resting on the pistol suspended from his cartridge belt. As he falls silent there is a reverent hush of expectation in the station hall and the buzzing of insects can be heard as they circle round in mad frustration above the plates of food covered with cheesecloth. The most grizzled journalist, a man who, despite the stifling heat in the room, is still bundled up in a plaid jacket, timidly raises one hand to indicate that he wishes to make a comment or ask a question. But the colonel does not allow him to speak; he has just motioned with his hand to two of his orderlies. Coached beforehand, they lift a box off the floor, place it on the table, and open it: it is full of rifles.