The War Of The End Of The World (55 page)

“They must have set traps in the water,” one officer says.

“They’re being fired on from that dead angle,” another one murmurs.

“My mount!” Moreira César cries, and the nearsighted journalist sees him hand his field glasses to an orderly. As he mounts the horse, he adds in irritation: “The boys need to have an example set them. I’m leaving you in command, Olímpio.”

His heart beats faster as he sees the colonel unsheathe his saber, put the spurs to his mount, and begin to descend the slope at a fast gallop. But he has not gone fifty yards when he sees him slouch over in the saddle, leaning on the neck of his horse, which stops dead in its tracks. He sees the colonel turn it around—to come back up to the command post?—but as though it were receiving contradictory orders from its rider, the animal wheels round twice, three times. And now he sees why officers and escorts are uttering exclamations, shouting, running downhill with their revolvers unholstered. Moreira César rolls to the ground and almost at the same moment he is hidden from sight by the captain and the others, who have lifted him up and are carrying him up the hill toward him, as quickly as they can. There is a deafening uproar, voices shouting, shots, all sorts of noises.

He stands there stunned, unable to move, as he watches the group of men trotting up the mountainside, followed by the white horse, its reins dragging. He has been left all by himself. The terror that overcomes him drives him up the slope, slipping and falling, struggling to his feet, crawling on all fours. When he reaches the summit and bounds toward the tent, he vaguely notes that there are almost no soldiers in the area. Except for a group crowded around the entrance to the tent, the only ones in sight are a sentinel or two, looking in his direction with fear-stricken expressions. He hears the words “Can you help Dr. Souza Ferreiro?” and although the person speaking to him is Captain Olímpio de Castro, he does not recognize his voice and barely recognizes his face. He nods, and the captain pushes him forward with such force that he collides with a soldier. Inside the tent, he sees Dr. Souza Ferreiro’s back, bending over the camp cot and the colonel’s feet.

“A medical corpsman?” Souza Ferreiro wheels around, and on catching sight of him a sour look comes over his face.

“I’ve told you already—there aren’t any medical corpsmen,” Captain de Castro shouts at him, pushing the nearsighted journalist forward. “They’re all with the battalions down below. Let this fellow help you.”

The nervousness of the two of them is contagious, and he feels like screaming, like stamping his feet.

“The projectiles must be removed or infection will be the end of him in no time,” Dr. Souza Ferreiro whines, looking all about as though awaiting a miracle.

“Do the impossible,” the captain says as he leaves. “I can’t abandon my post, I’m in command, I must send word to Colonel Tamarindo to take…” He goes out of the tent without finishing the sentence.

“Roll up your sleeves and rub yourself with this disinfectant,” the doctor roars.

He obeys as fast as he can in the daze that has come over him, and a moment later he finds himself kneeling on the ground soaking bandages with spurts of ether—a smell that brings back memories of carnival balls at Politeama—which he then places over Colonel Moreira César’s nose and mouth to keep him asleep while the doctor operates. “Don’t tremble, don’t be an idiot, keep the ether over his nose,” the doctor barks at him twice. He concentrates on his task—opening the flacon, wetting the cloth, placing it over that fine-drawn nose, those lips that are contorted in a grimace of interminable agony—and he thinks of the pain that this little man must be feeling as Dr. Souza Ferreiro bends over his belly as though he were about to sniff it or lick it. Every so often he takes a quick glance, despite himself, at the spatters of blood on the doctor’s hands and smock and uniform, the blanket on the bed, and his own pants. How much blood inside such a small body! The smell of ether dizzies him and makes him retch. He thinks: “I’ve nothing to throw up.” He thinks: “Why is it I’m not hungry or thirsty?” The wounded man’s eyes remain closed, but from time to time he stirs and then the doctor grumbles: “More ether, more ether.” But the last of the little flacons is almost empty now and he says so, feeling guilty.

Orderlies enter, bringing steaming basins in which the doctor washes lancets, needles, sutures, scissors, with just one hand. Several times, as he applies the ether-soaked bandages, he hears Dr. Souza Ferreiro talking to himself, dirty words, insults, imprecations, curses on his own mother for ever having borne him. He becomes more and more drowsy and the doctor reprimands him severely: “Don’t be an idiot, this is no time to be napping.” He stammers an apology and the next time they bring the basin he begs them to get him a drink of water.

He notes that they are no longer alone in the tent: the shadow that brings a canteen to his lips is Captain Olímpio de Castro. Colonel Tamarindo and Major Cunha Matos are there too, their backs leaning against the canvas, their faces grief-stricken, their uniforms in tatters. “More ether?” he says, and feels stupid, for the flacon has been empty for some time now. Dr. Souza Ferreiro bandages Moreira César and is now covering him with the blanket. He thinks in astonishment: “It’s nighttime already.” There are shadows round about them and someone hangs a lantern on one of the tent poles.

“How is he?” Colonel Tamarindo says in a low voice.

“His belly is ripped to shreds.” The doctor sighs. “I’m very much afraid that…”

As he rolls down his shirtsleeves, the nearsighted journalist thinks: “If it was dawn, noon, just a moment ago, how is it possible for time to go by that fast?”

“I doubt that he’ll even come to,” Souza Ferreiro adds.

As though in answer to him, Colonel Moreira César begins to stir. All of them move to his bedside. Are his bandages comfortable? He blinks. The nearsighted journalist imagines him seeing silhouettes, hearing sounds, trying to understand, to remember, and he himself remembers, like something from another life, certain awakenings after a night’s peace induced by opium. The colonel’s return to reality must be just as slow, as difficult, as hazy. Moreira César’s eyes are open and he is gazing anxiously at Tamarindo, taking in his torn uniform, the deep scratches on his neck, his dejection.

“Did we take Canudos?” he articulates in a hoarse voice.

Colonel Tamarindo lowers his eyes and shakes his head. Moreira César’s eyes search the embarrassed faces of the major, the captain, of Dr. Souza Ferreiro, and the nearsighted journalist sees that he is also examining him, as though performing an autopsy on him.

“We tried three times, sir,” Colonel Tamarindo stammers. “The men fought till their last ounce of strength was gone.”

Colonel Moreira César sits up, his face even paler now than before, and angrily waves a clenched fist. “Another attack, Tamarindo. Immediately! That’s an order!”

“There are heavy casualties, sir,” the colonel murmurs shamefacedly, as though everything were his fault. “Our position is untenable. We must retreat to a safe place and send for reinforcements…”

“You will be court-martialed for this,” Moreira César interrupts him, raising his voice. “The Seventh Regiment retreat in the face of good-for-nothing rascals? Surrender your sword to Cunha Matos.”

“How can he move, how can he writhe about like that with his belly slit wide open?” the nearsighted journalist thinks. In the prolonged silence that follows, Colonel Tamarindo looks at the other officers, wordlessly pleading for their help. Cunha Matos steps closer to the camp cot.

“There are many deserters, sir; the regiment has fallen apart. If the
jagunços
attack, they’ll take the camp. Order a retreat.”

Peering past the doctor and the captain, the nearsighted journalist sees Moreira César’s shoulders fall back onto the cot. “You’re a traitor, too?” he murmurs in desperation. “You all know how important this campaign is to our cause. Do you mean to tell me that I have compromised my honor in vain?”

“We’ve all compromised our honor, sir,” Colonel Tamarindo says.

“You know that I had to resign myself to conspiring with corrupt petty politicians.” Moreira César’s voice rises and falls abruptly, absurdly. “Do you mean to tell me that we’ve lied to the country in vain?”

“Listen to what’s happening outside, sir,” Major Cunha Matos says in a shrill voice, and the nearsighted Journalist tells himself that he has been hearing that cacophony, that clamor, those running feet, that confusion for some time, but has refused to realize what it means, so as not to feel more frightened still. “It’s a rout. They may finish off the entire regiment if we don’t make an orderly retreat.”

The nearsighted journalist makes out the sound of the cane whistles and the little bells amid the running footfalls and the voices. Colonel Moreira César looks at them one by one, his face contorted, his mouth agape. He says something that no one hears. The nearsighted journalist realizes that the flashing eyes in that livid face are fixed on him. “You there, you,” he hears. “Paper and pen, you hear? I want to dictate a statement concerning this infamy. Come, scribe, are you ready?”

At that moment the nearsighted journalist suddenly remembers his portable writing desk, his leather pouch, and as though bitten by a snake frantically searches all about for them. With the sensation that he has lost part of his body, an amulet that protected him, he recalls that he did not have them when he ran up the mountainside, they are still lying on the slope down below, but he can think no further because Olímpio de Castro, his eyes full of tears, thrusts some paper and a pencil into his hand, and Major Souza Ferreiro holds the lantern above him to give him light.

“I’m ready,” he says, thinking that he won’t be able to write, that his hands will tremble.

“I, Colonel Moreira César, commanding officer of the Seventh Regiment, being in possession of all my faculties, hereby state that the retreat from the siege of Canudos is a decision that is being taken against my will, by subordinates who are not capable of assuming their responsibility in the face of history.” Moreira César sits up on the camp cot for a moment and then falls back once more. “Future generations will judge. I am confident that there will be republicans to defend me. My entire conduct has been aimed at the defense of the Republic, which must make its authority felt in every corner of the country if it wishes it to progress.”

When the voice, so low that he can scarcely hear it, stops speaking, it takes him a moment to realize this, for he has fallen behind as he takes down the dictation. Writing, that manual labor, like that of placing cloths soaked in ether over the wounded man’s nose, is a boon to him, for it has kept him from torturing himself with questions as to how it can have happened that the Seventh Regiment failed to take Canudos and must now beat a retreat. When he raises his eyes, the doctor has put his ear to the colonel’s chest and is taking his pulse. He straightens up and makes a gesture fraught with meaning. Chaos immediately ensues, and Cunha Matos and Tamarindo begin to argue in loud voices as Olímpio de Castro tells Souza Ferreiro that the colonel’s remains must not be desecrated.

“A retreat now, in darkness, is insane,” Tamarindo shouts. “Where to? Which way? How can I ask any more of exhausted men who have fought for an entire day? Tomorrow…”

“Tomorrow not even the dead will still be around down there,” Cunha Matos says with a wave of his hand. “Don’t you see that the regiment is disintegrating, that there’s no one in command, that if the men aren’t regrouped now they’ll be hunted down like rabbits?”

“Regroup them, do whatever you like. I’m staying here till dawn, to carry out a retreat in good and proper order.” Colonel Tamarindo turns to Olímpio de Castro. “Try to reach the artillery. Those four cannons must not fall into the enemy’s hands. Have Salomão da Rocha destroy them.”

“Yes, sir.”

The captain and Cunha Matos leave the tent together and the nearsighted journalist follows them like an automaton. He hears what they are saying and cannot believe his ears.

“Waiting is madness, Olímpio. We must retreat now or by morning there won’t be anybody left alive.”

“I’m going to try to get to the artillery,” Olímpio de Castro cuts him short. “It’s madness perhaps, but it is my duty to obey the new commanding officer.”

The nearsighted journalist tugs at the captain’s arm, muttering: “Your canteen, I’m dying of thirst.”

He drinks avidly, choking, as the captain advises him: “Don’t stay with us. The major is right. Things are going to end badly. Clear out.”

Clear out? Take off by himself, through the
caatinga
, in the dark? Olímpio de Castro and Cunha Matos disappear, leaving him confused, afraid, petrified. Around him are men running or walking very fast. He takes a few steps in one direction, then another, starts toward the tent, but someone gives him a shove that sends him off in another direction. “Let me come with you, don’t go away,” he cries, and without turning around, one soldier urges him on: “Run, run, they’re coming up the mountainside right now. Can’t you hear the whistles?” Yes, he hears them. He starts running behind them, but he trips and falls several times and is left behind. He leans against a shadow that appears to be a tree, but the moment he touches it he feels it moving. “Untie me, for the love of God,” he hears a voice say. And he recognizes it as that of the parish priest of Cumbe, the same voice in which he answered when he was interrogated by Moreira César, yelping now with the same panic: “Untie me, untie me, the ants are eating me alive.”

“Yes, yes,” the nearsighted journalist stammers, joyous at having found company. “I’ll untie you, I’ll untie you.”