The War of the End of the World

by Mario Vargas Llosa

  In the course of the march, imperceptibly, obeying a call of the blood, the column gradually regrouped, so that those who had belonged to the same band of brigands, people from the same hamlet, the same slave quarters, the same district of a town, members of the same family were now grouped together, as if, as the crucial hour drew near, each person felt the need to be as close as possible to what had been the tried and true in other decisive hours. Those who had killed gradually worked their way to the front of the line and now, as they approached the town of Uauá, named that because of the many fireflies that set it aglow at night, Abbot João, Pajeú, Taramela, José Venâncio, the Macambiras, and other rebels and outlaws surrounded the cross and the banner at the head of the procession or army, knowing without having to be told that because of their experience and their sins they were called to set the example when the hour came to attack.

  Past midnight, a sharecropper came to meet them to warn them that a hundred and four soldiers were camped in Uauá, having arrived from Juazeiro the evening before. A strange war cry—“Long live the Counselor! Long live the Blessed Jesus!”—stirred the hearts of the elect; excited and jubilant, they picked up the pace. As dawn broke, they sighted Uauá, a handful of little huts that was the obligatory stopping-off place for the night for cattle drivers going from Monte Santo to Curaçá. The marchers began to recite litanies to St. John the Baptist, the patron saint of the town. The column was soon spotted by the drowsy soldiers posted as sentinels on the banks of a lagoon on the outskirts. After staring for a few seconds, not believing their eyes, they headed for the town on the run. Praying, singing, blowing on their canudos, the elect entered Uauá, arousing from their sleep and plunging into a nightmarish reality the hundred-odd soldiers whom it had taken twelve days to get there and who hadn’t the least idea where the prayers that had suddenly awakened them were coming from. They were the only living souls in Uauá, since all the inhabitants had fled during the night. But there they all were now, along with the crusaders, circling round the tamarinds in the public square, watching the soldiers’ faces as they peered out the doors and windows, registering their surprise, their hesitation as to whether to shoot or run or tumble back into their hammocks and rickety beds to sleep.

  A bellowed command, which caused a rooster to break off his cock-a-doodle-doo right in the middle, set off the shooting. The soldiers fired, supporting their muskets on the low partition walls of the huts, and the elect began to fall to the ground, drenched in blood. The column gradually broke up; intrepid groups following after Abbot João, José Venâncio, Pajeú launched an attack on the dwellings, and others ran to shield themselves in dead angles or curl up in a ball among the tamarinds as the rest advanced. The elect also did some shooting: those, that is to say, who had carbines and blunderbusses and those who managed to load their long-barreled muskets and make out a target amid the clouds of black powder. Throughout the hours of struggle and confusion, the cross never tottered, the banner never ceased to wave, in the middle of an island of crusaders which, though riddled with bullets, continued to exist, compact, faithful, rallied round those emblems in which everyone would later see the secret of their victory. For neither Pedrão, nor Big Joáo, nor the Mother of Men, who was carrying the glass case with the face of the Son, died in the fray.

  The victory was not soon won. There were many martyrs in these hours of deafening noise. The sound of running feet and shots would be followed by intervals of immobility and silence which, a moment later, would again be shattered. But before mid-morning the Counselor’s men knew that they had won when they saw some half-dressed figures, who, by order of their leaders or because fear had overcome them before the jagunços did, were running off pell-mell across country, abandoning firearms, tunics, leggings, boots, knapsacks. The men from Canudos shot at them knowing that they were out of range, but it did not occur to anyone to pursue them. Shortly thereafter the other soldiers fled, and as they ran for their lives some of them fell amid the nests of jagunços that had formed in this corner or that, where they were beaten to death with spades and shovels and done in with knives in less time than it takes to tell. They died heating themselves called dogs and devils, amid prognostications that their souls would be condemned as their corpses rotted.

  The crusaders remained in Uauá for several hours after their victory. Most of them spent these hours sleeping, propped up one against the other, recovering from the exhaustion of the march and the tension of the battle. Some of them, however, urged on by Abbot Joáo, searched the huts for rifles, ammunition, bayonets, and cartridge belts left behind by the soldiers as they fled. Maria Quadrado, Alexandrinha Correa, and Gertrudes, a street vendor from Teresina who had a bullet wound in her arm but continued to bustle about nonetheless, went around placing the dead bodies of jagunços in hammock litters so that they could be carried back to Canudos to be buried. The women who were healers, the herb doctors, the midwives, the bonesetters, any number of helpful souls gathered round the wounded, wiping away the blood, bandaging them, or simply offering prayers and incantations to ward off their pain.

  Carrying their dead and wounded and following the riverbed of the Vaza-Barris, at a slower pace this time, the elect walked the ten leagues back. They entered Canudos a day and a half later, acclaiming the Counselor, applauded, embraced, and greeted with smiles by those who had stayed behind to work on the Temple. The Counselor, who had neither eaten nor drunk a single thing since they had left, gave his counsel that evening from a scaffolding of the towers of the Temple. He prayed for the dead, offered thanks to the Blessed Jesus and to John the Baptist for the victory that had been won, and spoke of how evil had put down roots here on this earth. Before time began, God filled everything and space did not exist. In order to create the world, the Father had had to withdraw within Himself so as to create a vacuum, and this absence of God gave rise to space, in which there sprang up, in seven days, the stars, light, the waters, plants, animals, and man. But once the earth had been created through the withdrawal of the divine substance, there had also been created the conditions favorable for what was most opposed to the Father, namely sin, to establish its kingdom. Hence the world was born beneath the sway of a divine curse, as the Devil’s realm. But the Father took pity on men and sent His Son to reconquer for God this earthly space ruled by the Demon.

  The Counselor said that one of the streets of Canudos would be named São Joáo Batista after the patron saint of Uauá.

  “Governor Viana is sending another expedition to Canudos,” Epaminondas Gonçalves says. “Under the command of an officer I know personally, Major Febrônio de Brito. This time It’s not just a handful of soldiers, such as the little band that was attacked in Uauá, who are being sent out, but an entire battalion. They will be leaving Bahia at any moment now, and perhaps they have already done so. There isn’t much time left.”

  “I can leave tomorrow morning,” Galileo Gall answers. “The guide is waiting. Have you brought the arms?”

  Epaminondas offers Gall a cigar, which he refuses, shaking his head. They are sitting in wicker chairs on the ramshackle terrace of the manor of a hacienda somewhere between Queimadas and Jacobina, to which a horseman dressed all in leather, with a biblical name—Caifás—has guided him, taking him round and round the scrubland, as though trying to disorient him. It is dusk; beyond the wooden balustrade are a row of royal palms, a dovecote, several animal pens. The sun, a reddish ball, is setting the horizon on fire.

  Epaminondas Gonçalves slowly puffs on his cigar. “Two dozen French rifles, good ones,” he murmurs, looking at Gall through the cigar smoke. “And ten thousand cartridges. Caifás will take you to the outskirts of Queimadas in the wagon. If you’re not too tired, it would be best to come back here with the arms tonight and then go straight on to Canudos tomorrow.”

  Galileo Gall nods in agreement. He is tired, but all he needs is a few hours’ sleep to recuperate. There are so many flies on the terrace that he keeps one hand in front of his face to chase them awa
y. Despite his fatigue, he is overjoyed; the wait was beginning to get on his nerves and he was afraid that Gonçalves might have changed his plans. This morning, when the horseman dressed all in leather came without warning to get him at the Our Lady of Grace boarding house and gave the proper password, he was so excited he even forgot to eat breakfast. He has made the journey here without having had a thing to eat or drink, with a scorching sun beating down all day.

  “I’m sorry to have made you wait for so many days, but collecting the arms and getting them this far turned out to be a fairly complicated business,” Epaminondas Gonçalves says. “Did you see the campaigning going on for the municipal elections in any of the towns you passed through?”

  “I saw that the Bahia Autonomist Party is spending more money on propaganda than you people are,” Gall says with a yawn.

  “It has all it needs. Not only Viana’s money, but the government’s and the Bahia parliament’s as well. And above all, the baron’s.”

  “The baron’s as rich as Croesus, isn’t that so?” Gall says, suddenly pricking up his ears. “An antediluvian character, an archaeological curiosity, there’s no doubt about it. I learned a number of things about him in Queimadas. From Rufino, the guide you recommended to me. His wife belonged to the baron. Yes, that’s the right word, she belonged to him, like a goat or a calf. He gave her to Rufino as a wife. Rufino himself speaks of the baron as though he, too, had always been property of his. Without resentment, with the gratitude of a faithful dog. Interesting, Senhor Gonçalves. It’s still the Middle Ages here.”

  “That’s what we’re fighting against; that’s why we want to modernize this country,” Epaminondas says, blowing on the ash of his cigar. “That’s why the Empire fell, and that’s what the Republic is for.”

  “It’s the jagunços, rather, who are fighting against the situation,” Galileo Gall mentally corrects him, feeling as though he is about to fall asleep from one moment to the next. Epaminondas Gonçalves rises to his feet. “What did you tell the guide?” he asks as he paces up and down the terrace. The crickets have started chirping and it is no longer stifling hot.

  “The truth,” Gall says, and the owner and editor-in-chief of the Jornal de Notícias halts dead in his tracks. “I was careful not even to mention your name. I spoke only of myself. I told him I want to go to Canudos as a matter of principle. Out of ideological and moral solidarity.”

  Epaminondas Gonçalves looks at him in silence and Galileo knows that the man is wondering whether he’s saying these things in all seriousness, whether he is really crazy enough or stupid enough to believe them. He thinks: “I am that crazy or that stupid,” as he waves his arms about to chase the flies away.

  “Did you also tell him that you’ll be bringing them arms?”

  “Of course not. He’ll find that out once we’re on the way there.”

  Epaminondas goes back to pacing up and down the terrace again, with his hands behind his back, leaving a wake of smoke behind him. He is wearing a peasant shirt open at the neck, a vest without buttons, riding pants and boots, and looks as though he hasn’t shaved. His appearance is not at all the same as in the newspaper office or in the inn at Barra, but Gall nonetheless recognizes the stored-up energy in his movements, the determination and ambition in his expression, and thinks to himself that he doesn’t even need to palpate his bones to know what they are like: “A man hungry for power.” Does this hacienda belong to him? Is this manor house one lent to him for hatching his conspiracies?

  “Once you’ve handed over the arms, don’t come by this way to get back to Salvador,” Epaminondas says, leaning on the balustrade with his back turned to him. “Have the guide take you to Juazeiro. It’s the prudent thing to do. There’s a train that comes through Juazeiro every other day, and it will get you back in Bahia in twelve hours. I’ll see to it that you leave for Europe inconspicuously and with a generous fee for your services.”

  “A generous fee…” Gall repeats after him, with a huge yawn that comically distorts his face and his words. “You’ve always believed that I’m doing this for money.”

  Epaminondas exhales a mouthful of smoke that drifts in arabesques across the terrace. In the distance, the sun is beginning to hide itself beneath the horizon and there are patches of shade in the surrounding countryside.

  “No, I know quite well that you’re doing it as a matter of principle. In any event, I realize that you’re not doing it out of love for the Progressivist Republican Party. But we consider that you’re doing us a service, and we’re in the habit of paying for services rendered, as I’ve already told you.”

  “I can’t promise you that I’ll go back to Bahia,” Gall interrupts him, stretching. “Our deal doesn’t include that clause.”

  The owner and editor-in-chief of the Jornal de Notícias looks at him once more. “We won’t discuss it again.” He smiles. “You may do as you like. In a word, you now know what the best way is to get back to Bahia, and you also know that I can make it easy for you to get out of the country without the authorities stepping in and putting you on a boat. So if you prefer to stay with the insurgents, go ahead. Though I’m certain you’ll change your mind when you meet them.”

  “I’ve already met one of them,” Gall murmurs in a slightly mocking tone of voice. “And by the way, would you mind sending this letter to France off for me from Bahia? It’s unsealed, and if you read French, you’ll see that there is nothing in it that might compromise you.”

  He was born, like his parents, his grandparents, and his brother Honório, in the town of Assaré, in the state of Ceará, where the herds of cattle that were being driven to Jaguaribe and those headed for the Vale do Cariri parted company. The townspeople were all either fanners or cowhands, but from a very early age Antônio gave proof of a calling as a merchant. He began to make business deals in the catechism classes held by Father Matias (who also taught him his letters and numbers). Antônio and Honório Vilanova were very close, and addressed each other, very seriously, as compadre, like adults who have been lifelong cronies.

  One morning Adelinha Alencar, the daughter of the carpenter of Assaré, woke up with a high fever. The herbs burned by Dona Camuncha to exorcise the evil had no effect, and a few days later Adeinha’s body broke out in pustules so ugly they turned the prettiest girl in town into its most repugnant creature. A week later half a dozen townspeople were delirious with fever and covered with pustules. Father Tobias managed to say a Mass asking God to put an end to the dread disease, before he, too, came down with it. Those who were ill began to die almost at once, as the epidemic spread uncontrollably. As the terrified inhabitants prepared to flee the town, they came up against Colonel Miguel Fernandes Vieira, the political boss of the town and the owner of the lands they cultivated and the cattle they took out to graze, who forbade them to leave, so that they would not spread the smallpox throughout the countryside. Colonel Vieira posted capangas at the exits of the town with orders to shoot anyone who disobeyed his edict.

  Among the few who managed to flee the town were the two Vilanova brothers. Their parents, their sister Luz Maria, a brother-in-law, and three nephews in the family were carried off by the epidemic.

  After burying all these kinfolk, Antônio and Honório, strong youngsters, both of them fifteen, with curly hair and blue eyes, made up their minds to escape from the town. But instead of confronting the capangas with knives and bullets, as others had, Antônio, faithful to his vocation, persuaded them to look the other way—in exchange for a young bull, a twenty-five-pound sack of refined sugar, and another of raw brown sugar. They left by night, taking with them two girl cousins of theirs—Antônio and Assunção Sardelinha—and the family’s worldly goods: two cows, a pack mule, a valise full of clothes, and a little purse containing ten milreis. Antônio and Assunção were double first cousins of the Vilanova boys, and Antônio and Honório took them along out of pity for their helplessness, for the smallpox epidemic had left them orphans. The girls were scarcely more than chi
ldren and their presence made their escape across country difficult; they did not know how to make their way through scrub forest and found thirst hard to bear. The little expeditionary force nonetheless managed to cross the Serra do Araripe, left Santo Antônio, Ouricuri, Petrolina behind them, and crossed the Rio São Francisco. When they entered Juazeiro and Antônio decided that they would try their luck in that town in the state of Bahia, the two sisters were pregnant: Antônio by Antônio, and Assunção by Honório.

  The very next day Antônio began working for money, while Honório, with the help of the Sardelinha girls, built a hut. They had sold on the way the cows they had taken with them from Assaré, but they still had the pack mule left, and Antônio loaded a containerful of brandy on its back and went about the city selling it by the drink. He was to load on the back of that mule, and then on another, and later on others still, the goods that, in the months and years that followed, he peddled, at first from house to house and after that in the outlying settlements, and finally throughout the length and breadth of the backhands, which he came to know like the palm of his hand. He dealt in salted codfish, rice, beans, sugar, pepper, brown sugar, lengths of doth, alcohol, and whatever else people asked him to supply them with. He became the purveyor to vast haciendas and to poor sharecroppers, and his mule trains became as familiar a sight as the Gypsy’s Circus in the villages, the missions, and the camps of the backhands. The general store in Juazeiro, in the Praça da Misericôrdia, was run by Honôrio and the Sardelinha sisters. Before ten years had gone by, people were saying that the Vilanovas were well on their way to becoming rich.