“This very minute,” the baron answered. “I needn’t warn you of the risk you’re taking, I presume. It’s more than likely that you’ll fall into the army’s hands. And in any event, the colonel will kill you.”
“One can’t kill dead men, sir, as you yourself said,” Gall answered. “I’ve already been killed in Ipupiará, remember…”
[V]
The group of men advance across the stretch of sand, their eyes riveted on the brush. There is hope in their faces, though not in that of the nearsighted journalist who has been thinking ever since they left camp: “This is going to be useless.” He has not said a word that would reveal the feeling of defeatism against which he has been fighting ever since their water was rationed. The meager food is not a hardship for him, since he never feels hungry. Thirst, on the other hand, is difficult for him to endure. Every so often he finds himself counting the time he must wait till he takes the next sip of water, in accordance with the rigid schedule he has set for himself. Perhaps that is why he has chosen to go out with Captain Olímpio de Castro’s patrol. The sensible thing to do would have been to take advantage of the hours in camp and rest. This scouting excursion is certain to tire him, poor horseman that he is, and naturally it is going to make him thirstier. But if he stayed behind there in the camp, he’d be overcome with anxiety, filled with gloomy thoughts. Here at least he is obliged to concentrate on his arduous struggle not to fall off his horse. He knows that among themselves the soldiers poke fun at his eyeglasses, his dress, his appearance, his portable writing desk, his inkwell. But this does not bother him.
The guide who is leading the patrol points to the water well. The expression on the man’s face suffices for the journalist to realize that this well, too, has been filled in by the jagunços. The soldiers hurry over to it with their canteens, pushing and shoving; he hears the sound of the tin hitting the stones at the bottom and sees how disappointed, how bitter the men are. What is he doing here? Why isn’t he back in his untidy little house in Salvador, surrounded by his books, smoking a pipeful of opium, feeling its great peace steal over him?
“Well, this was only to be expected,” Captain Olímpio de Castro murmurs. “How many other wells are there in the vicinity?”
“Only two that we haven’t been to yet.” The guide gestures skeptically. “I don’t think it’s worth the trouble seeing if there’s water in them.”
“Go take a look anyway,” the captain interrupts him. “And the patrol is to be back before dark, Sergeant.”
The officer and the journalist accompany the patrol for a time, and once they have left the thicket far behind and are again out on the bare sun-baked mesa they hear the guide murmur that the Counselor’s prophecy is coming true: the Blessed Jesus will trace a circle round about Canudos, beyond which all animal, vegetable, and, finally, human life will disappear.
“If you believe that, what are you doing here with us?” Olímpio de Castro asks him.
The guide raises his hand to his throat. “I’m more afraid of the Throat-Slitter than I am of the Can.”
Some of the soldiers laugh. The captain and the journalist part company with the patrol. They gallop along for a while, until the officer, taking pity on his companion, slows his horse to a walk. Feeling relieved, the journalist takes a sip of water from his canteen despite his timetable. Three-quarters of an hour later they catch sight of the camp.
They have just passed the first sentinel when the dust raised by another patrol coming from the north overtakes them. The lieutenant in command, a very young man, covered with dust from head to foot, has a happy look on his face.
“Well, then?” Olímpio de Castro greets him. “Did you find him?”
The lieutenant points to him with his chin. The nearsighted journalist spies the prisoner. His hands are bound together, he has a terrified expression on his face, and the long, tattered garment he is dressed in must have been his cassock. He is a short-statured, robust little man with a potbelly and white locks at his temples. His eyes gaze about in all directions. The patrol proceeds on its way, followed by the captain and the journalist. When it reaches the tent of the commanding officer of the Seventh Regiment, two soldiers shake the prisoner down. His arrival causes a great commotion and many soldiers approach to have a better look at him. The little man’s teeth chatter and he looks about in panic, as though fearing that he will be beaten. The lieutenant pushes him inside the tent and the journalist slips in behind the others.
“Mission accomplished, sir,” the young officer says, clicking his heels.
Moreira César rises to his feet from behind a folding table, where he is sitting between Colonel Tamarindo and Major Cunha Matos. He walks over to the prisoner and his cold little eyes look him over from head to foot. His face betrays no emotion, but the nearsighted journalist notices that he is biting his lower lip, as is his habit whenever he is taken by surprise.
“Good show, Lieutenant,” he says, extending his hand. “Go take a rest now.”
The nearsighted journalist sees the colonel’s eyes meet his for the space of an instant and fears that he will order him to leave. But he does not do so.
Moreira César slowly studies the prisoner. They are very nearly the same height, though the colonel is much thinner. “You’re half dead with fear.”
“Yes, sir, I am,” the prisoner stammers. He is trembling so badly he can scarcely speak. “I’ve been badly mistreated. My office as a priest…”
“Has not prevented you from placing yourself in the service of the enemies of your country,” the colonel silences him, pacing back and forth in front of the curé of Cumbe, who has lowered his head.
“I am a peace-loving man, sir,” he moans.
“No, you’re an enemy of the Republic, in the service of a monarchist insurrection and a foreign power.”
“A foreign power?” Father Joaquim stammers, so stupefied that he forgets how terrified he is.
“In your case, I shall not allow you to use superstition as an excuse,” Moreira César adds in a soft voice, his hands behind his back. “All that foolishness about the end of the world, about God and the Devil.”
Those present watch, without a word, as the colonel paces back and forth. The nearsighted journalist feels the itch at the end of his nose that precedes a sneeze, and for some reason this alarms him.
“Your fear tells me that you know what’s going on, my good man,” Moreira César says in a harsh tone of voice. “And it so happens that we have ways of making the bravest jagunços talk. So don’t make us waste time.”
“I have nothing to hide,” the parish priest stammers, beginning to tremble once more. “I don’t know if I’ve done the right thing or the wrong thing, I’m all confused…”
“In particular, the relations with conspirators outside,” the colonel interrupts him, and the nearsighted journalist notes that the officer is nervously twining and untwining his fingers behind his back. “Landowners, politicians, military advisers, either native or English.”
“English?” the priest exclaims, completely taken aback. “I never saw a foreigner in Canudos, only the poorest and humblest people. What landowner or politician would ever set foot amid all that wretchedness? I assure you, sir. There are people who have come from a long way away, I grant you. From Pernambuco, from O Piauí. That’s one of the things that amazes me. How so many people have been able…”
“How many?” the colonel interrupts him, and the little parish priest gives a start.
“Thousands,” he murmurs. “Five thousand, eight thousand, I couldn’t say. The poorest of the poor, the most helpless. And I know whereof I speak, for I’ve seen endless misery hereabouts, what with the drought, the epidemics. But it’s as though those worst off had agreed to congregate up there, as though God had gathered them together. The sick, the infirm, all the people with no hope left, living up there, one on top of the other. Wasn’t it my obligation as a priest to be there with them?”
“It has always been the policy
of the Catholic Church to be where it believes it to be to its advantage to be,” Moreira César answers. “Was it your bishop who ordered you to aid the rebels?”
“And yet, despite their misery, those people are happy,” Father Joaquim stammers, as though he hadn’t heard the question. His eyes fly back and forth between Moreira César, Tamarindo, and Cunha Matos. “The happiest people I’ve ever seen, sir. It’s difficult to grant that, even for me. But it’s true, absolutely true. He’s given them a peace of mind, a resigned acceptance of privations, of suffering, that is simply miraculous.”
“Let’s discuss the explosive bullets,” Moreira César says. “They penetrate the body and then burst like a grenade, making wounds like craters. The army doctors had never seen wounds like that in Brazil. Where do those bullets come from? Are they some sort of miracle, too?”
“I don’t know anything about arms,” Father Joaquim stammers. “You don’t believe it, but it’s true, sir. I swear it, by the habit I wear. Something extraordinary is happening up there. Those people are living in the grace of God.”
The colonel gives him a sarcastic look. But there in his corner, the nearsighted journalist has forgotten how thirsty he is and is hanging on the parish priest’s every word, as though what he is saying is a matter of life and death to him.
“Saints, the just, people straight out of the Bible, the elect of God? Is that what you’re expecting me to swallow?” the colonel says. “Those people who burn down haciendas, murder people, and call the Republic the Antichrist?”
“I haven’t made myself clear, sir,” the prisoner says in a shrill voice. “They’ve committed terrible deeds, certainly. But…”
“But you’re their accomplice,” the colonel mutters. “What other priests are helping them?”
“It’s difficult to explain.” The curé of Cumbe hangs his head. “In the beginning, I went up there to say Mass for them, and I had never seen such fervor, such participation. The faith of those people is incredible, sir. Wouldn’t it have been a sin for me to turn my back on them? That’s why I continued to go up there, even though the archbishop had forbidden it. Wouldn’t it have been a sin to deprive the most wholehearted believers I’ve ever seen of the sacraments? Religion is everything in life to them. I’m baring my conscience to you. I know that I am not worthy of being a priest, sir.”
The nearsighted journalist suddenly wishes he had his portable writing desk, his pen, his inkwell, his paper with him.
“I had a woman who cohabited with me,” the parish priest of Cumbe stammers. “I lived like a married man for many years. I have children, sir.”
He stands there with his head hanging down, trembling, and undoubtedly, the nearsighted journalist thinks to himself, he does not notice Major Cunha Matos’s little snicker. And undoubtedly, he also thinks to himself, his face is beet-red with shame beneath the crust of dirt on it.
“The fact that a priest has children isn’t going to keep me awake nights,” Moreira César says. “On the other hand, the fact that the Catholic Church is with the insurgents may cause me a good many sleepless nights. What other priests are helping Canudos?”
“And he taught me a lesson,” Father Joaquim says. “When I saw how he was able to give up everything, to devote his entire life to the spirit, to what is most important. Shouldn’t God, the soul, be what comes first?”
“The Counselor?” Moreira César asks sarcastically. “A saint, no doubt?”
“I don’t know, sir,” the prisoner says. “I’ve been asking myself that every day of my life, since the very first moment I saw him come into Cumbe, many years ago now. A madman, I thought at the beginning—just as the Church hierarchy did. The archbishop sent some Capuchin friars to look into the matter. They didn’t understand at all, they were frightened, they, too, said he was crazy. But then how do you explain what’s happened, sir? All those conversions, that peace of mind, the happiness of so many wretched people?”
“And how do you explain the crimes, the destruction of property, the attacks on the army?” the colonel interrupts him.
“I agree, I agree, there’s no excuse for them,” Father Joaquim concedes. “But they don’t realize what they’re doing. That is to say, they’re crimes that they commit in good faith. For the love of God, sir. It’s admittedly all very confused in their minds.”
He looks all around in terror, as though he has just said something that may lead to tragedy.
“Who put the idea into those wretches’ heads that the Republic is the Antichrist? Who turned all that wild religious nonsense into a military movement against the regime? that’s what I’d like to know, padre.” Moreira César’s voice is sharp and shrill now. “Who enlisted those people in the service of the politicians whose aim is to restore the monarchy in Brazil?”
“They aren’t politicians. They don’t know anything at all about politics,” Father Joaquim squeaks. “They’re against civil marriage; that’s what the talk about the Antichrist is about. They’re pure Christians, sir. They can’t understand why there should be such a thing as civil marriage when a sacrament created by God already exists…”
But at that point he gives a little groan and suddenly falls silent, for Moreira César has taken his pistol out of its holster. He calmly releases the safety catch and points the gun at the prisoner’s temple. The nearsighted journalist’s heart is pounding like a bass drum and he is trying so hard not to sneeze that his temples ache.
“Don’t kill me! Don’t kill me, in the name of what you hold dearest, sir, Colonel, Your Excellency!” He has dropped to his knees.
“Despite my warning, you’re wasting our time, padre,” the colonel says.
“It’s true: I brought them medicines, supplies, things they’d asked me to bring up to them,” Father Joaquim whimpers. “And explosives, gunpowder, sticks of dynamite, too. I bought them for them at the mines in Caçabu. It was doubtless a mistake. I don’t know, sir, I wasn’t thinking. They cause me such uneasiness, such envy, on account of that faith, that peace of mind that I’ve never known. Don’t kill me.”
“Who are the people who are helping them?” the colonel asks. “Who’s giving them arms, supplies, money?”
“I don’t know who they are, I don’t know,” the priest moans. “I do know, that is to say, that it’s lots of landowners. It’s the custom, sir—like with the bandits. To give them something so they won’t attack, so they move on to other people’s land.”
“Do they also receive help from the Baron de Canabrava’s hacienda?” Moreira César interrupts him.
“Yes, I suppose they get things from Calumbi, too, sir. It’s always been the custom. But that’s changed now that so many people have left. I’ve never seen a landowner or a politician or a foreigner in Canudos. Just poor people. I’m telling you everything I know. I’m not like them. I don’t want to be a martyr; don’t kill me.”
His voice breaks and he bursts into sobs, his shoulders sagging.
“There’s paper over there on that table,” Moreira César says. “I want a detailed map of Canudos. Streets, entrances into the town, how and where it’s defended.”
“Yes, yes.” Father Joaquim crawls over to the little camp table. “Everything I know. I have no reason to lie to you.”
He climbs up onto the chair and begins to draw. Moreira César, Tamarindo, and Cunha Matos stand around him. Over in his corner, the correspondent from the Jornal de Notícias feels relieved. He is not going to see the little priest’s head blown off. He gazes at the curé’s anxious profile as he draws the map they’ve asked him for. He hears him hasten to answer questions about trenches, traps, blocked streets. The nearsighted journalist sits down on the floor and sneezes, two, three, ten times. His head is spinning and he is beginning to feel unbearably thirsty again. The colonel and the other officers are talking with the prisoner about “nests of sharpshooters” and “outposts”—the latter does not appear to have a very good idea of what they are—and he unscrews his canteen and takes a long swal
low, thinking to himself that he has failed once again to stick to his schedule. Distracted, dazed, uninterested, he hears the officers discussing the vague information that the priest is giving them, and the colonel explaining where the machine guns and the cannons will be placed, and how the regimental companies must be deployed in order to close in on the jagunços in a pincers movement. He hears him say, “We must leave them no avenue of escape.”
The interrogation is over. Two soldiers enter to take the prisoner away. Before he leaves, Moreira César says to him, “Since you know this region, you will help the guides. And you will help us identify the ringleaders when the time comes.”
“I thought you were going to kill him,” the nearsighted journalist pipes up from where he is sitting on the floor, once the priest has been led away.
The colonel looks at him as though he had not noticed his presence in the room until that very moment. “That priest will be useful to us in Canudos,” he answers. “Moreover, it will be worthwhile to let the word get around that the Church’s adherence to the Republic is not as sincere as some people believe.”
The nearsighted journalist leaves the tent. Night has fallen, and the camp is bathed in the light of the big yellow moon. As he walks toward the hut that he shares with the old journalist who is always chilly, the mess call is heard. The sound of the bugle echoes in the distance. Fires have been lighted here and there, and he passes among groups of soldiers heading over to them to get their meager evening rations. He finds his colleague in the hut. As usual, he has his muffler wound round his neck. As they stand in line for their food, the correspondent from the Jornal de Notícias tells him everything he has seen and heard in the colonel’s tent. Their rations that night are a thick substance with a vague taste of manioc, a little flour, and two lumps of sugar. They are also given coffee that tastes wonderful to them.
The War of the End of the World Page 37