Backlands (42 page)

They had left at five o’clock in the morning. They soon entered the terrain characteristic of the Canudos area. It was hilly country, with a sparse vegetation of thistles and bromeliads. There were many serpentine streams winding through it. The land became ever more rugged and forbidding, except for a few patches where recent rains had left a thin veil of green over piles of stones and grottoes. The late afternoon showers had come and gone with no trace, and as usual in the summer season, the dry earth had absorbed the moisture and remained cracked and parched. A monochrome but impressive landscape stretched as far as they could see, over the rolling hills and the highlands, along the trails and the deeply eroded slopes. Nature was completely still, as in the grip of a terrible spasm. There was not a blossom on the naked branches, nor a rush of wings in the serene air.

The moving column, stretched in a line two miles long, cut a long black swath across the landscape.

Ahead, to the north, the final circle of hills around Canudos was in close range. The men were not uneasy as they approached their target.

They marched along at their normal steady pace.

Up and down the line could be heard the soft murmur of thousands of voices, occasionally marked by shouts of laughter. In their energetic way of bearing down on the enemy, our soldiers demonstrated their predominant characteristics. Men of all colors and a mix of many races, they seemed to be bound by a collective psychology in dangerous situations. The instincts of the primitive warrior overtook them. They had a savage rashness, an apparent lack of awareness of peril. They seemed indifferent to life and rash in the face of death.

They went into battle as if they were on their way to a rowdy party. In times of peace they were ragtag creatures—soft, flabby, and lazy. They were nondescript; they lacked any kind of presence or grace and slouched under their sloppily handled weapons. In wartime they turned into different beings. War, in fact, was their best trainer, and the enemy a respected drillmaster. In a few days they became disciplined, tough soldiers. They gained in battle what they never had in the flag-festooned capitals: straight posture, a firm step, precision of aim, rapid reflexes. They don’t give up, and march for days over impossible roads. There is no grumbling. No one can match them in times of lack of food and living “on wind” as they describe it in their picturesque speech. After the worst of experiences, these pale heroes will make fun of suffering and shrug off martyrdom.

In battle he is not able to do as the Prussian soldier, coming in and out with a pedometer on his foot. He is disorderly, rebellious, and loud, a heroic and terrible delinquent, going after the enemy with his gun or sword and a smart remark. This is why he does not do well with the mass maneuvers of classic campaigns. He is hamstrung by correct formations. He is confused by the mechanics of complex maneuvers. It is torture for him to have to fight to the sound of bugles. He will promptly obey orders if it is part of a broad strategic plan, and endure the worst conditions without complaint. But if the enemy charges at him at sword point, he wants to fight in his own way. He fights back, without rancor, loudly, with bravado, reveling in the spray of bullets and the swordplay, taking foolish risks and selling his courage cheap. He keeps his eye on the commanding officer, as if his life depends on it. If the commander wavers, all his bluster is gone. He becomes quickly discouraged and depressed.

On this occasion everything indicated that the expedition would be successful. With their commander, it was impossible to lose. So they made their way confidently to the front, eager to come face-to-face with the stubborn enemy. They would skin the hide off these backwoodsmen. They anticipated the stories of their exploits they would tell back home. They would scare the daylights out of the credulous, timid listeners back there. They would recount the half-tragic, half-funny scenes of what went on in that big rathole after they charged it with their rifles. They spun bizarre scenes, prematurely, and they all began with the naive phrase “when I go back . . .”

One of them came out with a crazy idea, which was greeted with a riff of muffled laughter.

The glorious morning lifted their spirits. The beautiful blue sky of the
sertão
arched over the earth, with its rainbow of colors shading from the deep blue of the zenith to the gorgeous purple in the east. What is more, the enemy had failed to attack them yet, keeping the road clear. Only one thing concerned them: What if they should find this weed patch empty of rebels when they arrived? This was an alarming thought. The entire campaign would have been a long march followed by an undistinguished return, without a bullet being fired.

They were in this happy frame of mind until they reached a farm called Pitombas.

The little stream that runs through there cuts deep into the earth, running parallel to the highway and then across it. It winds around to the farm with the same name as the well-known Brazilian fruit,
⁴
and then curves back almost in a semicircle, with the highway as the line connecting the ends of the curve.

The troops traveled this stretch of highway, and as the advance reached the halfway point, they heard a half-dozen shots. Here at last was the enemy.

It was probably a scout who had been following the column or who had been waiting for them here. He used the favorable terrain to attack from the side. He then ran to safety, using the streambed as cover. His aim was sharp. Lieutenant Poly, one of the rifle company, and six or seven other soldiers fell dead. The Salomão da Rocha division’s cannons were quickly loaded and they fired into the bushes with their machine guns. The vegetation bent as if blown by a strong wind. There was a response of rhythmic fire, and the Seventh broke off from the column and charged the enemy, diving into the weeds and cutting them down with their bayonets.

It was a fast and heady confrontation.

The enemy fled. The detachment returned to the line, after a few minutes, to the cheers of their comrades. The bugles played out their traditional victory tune in clear and vibrant notes. The commander joyfully embraced the officer who had led the charge against the enemy. He considered this to be a fortunate start. It was a shame that all this fine equipment and men, such an impressive campaign, would be over after just a few shots.

The weapons of the
jagunços
were pathetic. The soldiers found a “woodpecker” rifle at the riverbank. It was lightweight and had a very fine barrel. It was loaded. Colonel César took it in his hand, as he sat on his horse, and fired it into the air. It was an insignificant weapon, good for bird hunting.

“These people have no weapons,” he said quietly.

The march was taken up at a quicker pace. The wounded were left behind with the surgeons at Pitombas, under the guard of the police contingent and the cavalry. Most of the men were already receding into the distance at double step. The fascination with the enemy was over. The riflemen in the front lines and those guarding the flanks were beating the brush along the road and making forays deep into the brushwood, looking for spies. They were determined to find them or to catch up with the sharpshooters who were heading back to Canudos.

The encounter shocked them into a lust for battle. They were in a dangerous mood that made them feel twice as strong. They felt entitled to commit the worst atrocities.

A following army is as impulsive as the enemy that is running away. Panic and foolhardy courage, extremes of terror and bravery, overtake the minds of the soldiers. The men push forward, in a daze, through formidable obstacles. They feel an anxiety that excites and deludes both the individual running away from death and the one who is out to kill. This is explained by the fact that an army is a single body of diverse elements. A spark of passion can have the effect of turning thousands of separate individuals into a single monster. It will pursue its prey with dogged determinism. The commander alone can prevent this collective psychosis by exerting clear moral authority. The famous war strategists have understood that the first battle to be won is this emotional contagion in the ranks that will propel them to take enormous risks or to take flight. A good war plan requires smoothly functioning killing machines, clearheaded men who can work from predefined orders.

Moreira César’s men were far from this level of performance. Their commander did not repress their nervous excitement but made it worse by his own neurotic behavior. There had been a chance to bring the situation back to normal. They had arrived at Angico, where they were to halt for the night. They were going to camp there and then the next morning take Canudos after a two-hour march. The troops’ impulse, reinforced by their commander, was to rush to the enemy. The stop at Angico was shortened to a mere quarter of an hour. There was a quick meeting of the staff officers on a small hill with a view of the tired and panting men all around. Forgetting the wisdom that nothing can be done with exhausted soldiers, the expedition commander decided they should attack immediately.

“Comrades! As you can tell, I am a sick man. I have not had food for days. But we are very close to Canudos. Let’s take it!”

The challenge was accepted.

“We will eat lunch in Canudos,” he shouted.

He was given a military-style round of applause.

The march went on. It was eleven o’clock in the morning.

The riflemen up ahead fanned out through the brush. Now and then a shot could be heard in the distance. The enemy led them on. Their strategy was to lure them to the settlement and then to force the tired soldiers to fight an unequal battle.

It was insane to drive their men to exhaustion on the eve of battle. As a result, they had to drop their backpacks, ration kits, and equipment, with the exception of their weapons, for the cavalry to collect in the rear.

Moving fast, they reached the small plain at the top of the Umburanas Hills. Canudos would be very close, within range of their weapons. The troops stopped.

The guide, Jesuíno, confidently pointed in the direction of the settlement. Moreira César summoned Pradel’s division into battle. Setting the aim at one and four-fifths miles, he ordered that two rounds be fired at the target.

“Here are two calling cards for the Counselor,” he said, half-jokingly, with the condescension of a man who thinks he is in control. The remark made its way through the ranks and was relished by the men. They began a frenzied assault, which covered them in a suffocating cloud of dust. The sun beat straight down on them. Suddenly they had a view of Canudos. They were on top of Mount Favela.

Here, finally, was the enormous hole in the ground that previous expeditions had not been able to reach. It came into their sights all at once, a wide depression in the undulating plain. At first glance, before the eye could accustom itself to the maze of huts and labyrinth of alleys leading to the big square where the churches were located, the visitor would have the impression of coming upon a large city. The Vaza-Barris carved out a huge moat to the left, half circling the village and then turning sharply east, as the first floodwaters of the season flowed slowly down. The dense conglomeration of huts around the square gradually thinned out over the hills to the east and the north, looking like sentry boxes. There was not one white wall or tiled rooftop to relieve the eye of this grotesque view of five thousand shacks packed into a trench in the earth. The two churches were prominently visible. The new one on the left was still under construction. Its high, thick walls were covered with wooden scaffolding, and out of the maze the rigid lines of cranes and their swaying pulleys could be made out. This building loomed over the village and commanded a view of the plains. It was large and rectangular. Its walls were made of huge stone blocks laid skillfully to give it the appearance of a fortress. The old church, a humble building that looked like a backwoods chapel, faced it. To the right was a circular cemetery of leveled graves, a mournful pit. It had not a single flower bed or shrub. Across from the cemetery, on the other side of the river, was a small plot of ground that looked like a rustic garden, with a few trees, rows of bright
palmatórias
, and a few
quixabeira
stalks with bright green branches. An outcrop of Mount Favela juts into the river here, ending in a sudden drop. These foothills are appropriately named the Bald Headlands because their slopes are deforested. Around these hills are the ruins of a dwelling. This is the Old Ranch House. A terrace hangs over it, called Mario’s Hill. The troops were at the top of the mountain.

The first detachment to arrive was the advance of the Seventh, accompanied by the artillery. They were busy fending off a violent attack on the right while the rest of the infantry scaled the last hills. They ignored the settlement. They lined up the cannons in battle formation. The first platoons emerged. Their ranks were in disarray and the men were panting. The bombardment began, all guns firing at once. No one took command.

It was impossible to miss a target like this one. The first rounds inflicted serious damage at various locations. Huts were torn apart and buried in the debris by exploding cannonballs. The clay and wood roofs were sent flying through the air. Adobe walls were crushed, and fires started to break out.

The bombed village was now shrouded in a cloud of dust and smoke that blocked the view.

The rest of the troops were no longer visible. The mournful thunder of the artillery made a deafening sound through the desert as prolonged echoes were returned from the mountainside.

After a few minutes, the silvery sound of bells was suddenly clearly heard through the boom of the cannons. The bell of the old church below was calling the faithful to battle.