The War of the End of the World

by Mario Vargas Llosa

  This is what would have happened this time, too, if the messenger hadn’t brought the news he had: that the dogs will be attacking Canudos at any moment. With clenched teeth and furrowed brows, hurrying along as fast as their legs will carry them, Antônio and his fourteen men have but a single thought in their minds which spurs them on: to be back in Belo Monte with the others, surrounding the Counselor, when the atheists attack. How has the Street Commander learned that they plan to attack? The messenger, an old guide marching along at his side, tells Antônio Vilanova that two jagunços dressed in soldiers’ uniforms who have been prowling about A Favela have brought the news. He tells this simply and straightforwardly, as though it were quite natural for the sons of the Blessed Jesus to go about among devils disguised as devils.

  “They’ve gotten used to the idea; they don’t even notice any more,” Antônio Vilanova thinks to himself. But the first time that Abbot João tried to persuade the jagunços to wear soldiers’ uniforms to disguise themselves he had very nearly had a rebellion on his hands. The proposal left Antônio himself with a taste of ashes in his mouth. The thought of putting on the very symbol of everything that was wicked, heartless, and hostile in this world turned his stomach, and he understood very well why the men of Canudos should violently resist dying decked out as dogs. “And yet we were wrong,” he thinks. “And, as usual, Abbot João was right.” For the information that the valiant “youngsters” who stole into the camps to let ants, snakes, scorpions loose, to throw poison in the troops’ leather canteens, could never be as accurate as that of full-grown men, especially those who had been let out of the army or had deserted. It had been Pajeú who had solved the problem, in the trenches of Rancho do Vigário one night when they were having an argument, by turning up dressed in a corporal’s uniform and announcing that he was going to slip through the enemy lines. Everyone knew that Pajeú of all people would not get through unnoticed. Abbot João asked the jagunços then if it seemed right to them that Pajeú should sacrifice his life so as to set them an example and rid them of their fear of a few rags with buttons. Several men from Pajeú’s old cangaço then offered to disguise themselves in uniforms. From that day on, the Street Commander had no difficulty sneaking jagunços into the camps.

  After a few hours, they halt to rest and eat. It is beginning to get dark, and they can just make out O Cambaio and the jagged Serra da Canabrava standing out against the leaden sky. Sitting in a circle with their legs crossed, the jagunços open their sacks of woven rope and take out handfuls of hardtack and jerky. They eat in silence. Antônio Vilanova feels the tiredness in his cramped, swollen legs. Is he getting old? It’s a feeling he’s begun to have in these last months. Or is it the tension, the frantic activity brought on by the war? He has lost so much weight that he has punched new holes in his belt, and Antônia Sardelinha has had to take in his two shirts, which fitted him as loosely as nightshirts. But isn’t the same thing happening to all the men and women in Belo Monte? Haven’t Big João and Pedrão, those two sturdy giants, become as skinny as beanpoles? Isn’t Honório stoop-shouldered and gray-haired now? And don’t Abbot João and Pajeú look older, too?

  He listens to the roar of the cannon, toward the north. A brief pause, and then several cannon reports in a row. Antônio and the jagunços leap to their feet and set off again, loping along in long strides.

  They approach the city by way of O Taboleirinho, as dawn is breaking, after five hours during which the rounds of cannon fire have followed one upon the other almost without a break. At the water source, where the first houses are, they find a messenger waiting to take them to Abbot João. He is in the trenches at Fazenda Velha, now manned by twice as many jagunços as before, all of them with their finger on the trigger of their rifle or their long-barreled musket, keeping a close watch on the foothills of A Favela in the dim dawn light, waiting to see if the Freemasons will come pouring down from there. “Praised be Blessed Jesus the Counselor,” Antônio murmurs, and without answering him Abbot João asks if he has seen soldiers along the way. “No, not even a patrol.”

  “We don’t know where the attack will come from,” Abbot João says, and the former storekeeper sees how deeply worried he is. “We know everything, except the most important thing of all.”

  The Street Commander calculates that they are going to attack in this sector, the shortest way into Belo Monte, and hence he has come with three hundred jagunços to reinforce Pajeú in this line of trenches that stretches in a curve, a quarter of a league long, from the foot of Monte Mário to O Taboleirinho.

  Abbot João explains to him that Pedrão is covering the eastern flank of Belo Monte, the area in which the corrals and the cultivated fields are located, and the wooded slopes up which the trails to Trabubu, Macambira, Cocorobó, and Jeremoabo wind their way. The city, defended by Big João’s Catholic Guard, has been further fortified by new parapets of stone and sandbags erected in the narrow alleyways and at the intersections of the main streets and the square bounded by the churches and the Sanctuary, that center on which the assault troops will converge, as will the shells of their cannons.

  Although he is eager to ply him with questions, Vilanova realizes that there isn’t time. What is it that he must do? Abbot João tells him that he and Honorio will be responsible for defending the area parallel to the ravines of the Vaza-Barris, to the east of the Alto do Mario and the exit leading to Jeremoabo. Without taking time to explain in more detail, he asks him to send word immediately if soldiers appear in that sector, because what is most important is to discover from which direction they are going to try to enter the city. Vilanova and the fourteen men take off at a run.

  His fatigue has disappeared as if by magic. It must be another sign of the divine presence, another manifestation of the supernatural within his person. How otherwise to explain it, if it is not the work of the Father, of the Divine, or of the Blessed Jesus? Ever since he first learned of the attack, he has done nothing but walk or run as fast as he possibly could. A little while ago, as he was crossing the Lagoa do Cipó, his legs started to give way and his heart was pounding so hard he was afraid he’d collapse in a dead faint. And here he is now, running over this rugged stony ground, up hill and down dale, at the end of a long night now filled with the blinding light and deafening thunder of the sudden intense barrages being laid down by the enemy troops. Yet he feels rested, full of energy, capable of any and every effort, and he knows that the fourteen men running at his side feel exactly the same way. Who but the Father could bring about such a change, renew their strength in this way, when circumstances so require? This is not the first time that such a thing has happened to him. Many times in these last weeks, when he has thought that he was about to collapse, he has suddenly felt a great surge of strength that seemed to lift him up, to renew him, to breathe a great gust of life into him.

  In the half hour that it takes them to reach the trenches along the Vaza-Barris—running, walking, running—Antônio Vilanova sees the flames of fires flare up back in Canudos. His first concern is not whether one of the fires may be burning his house to the ground, but rather: is the system that he has thought of so that fires won’t spread working? For that purpose, hundreds of barrels and boxes of sand have been placed along the streets and at the intersections. The people who have remained in the city know that the moment a shell explodes they must run to put out the flames by throwing pailfuls of sand on them. Antônio himself has organized things so that in each block of dwellings there are women, children, and old men responsible for this task.

  In the trenches, he finds his brother Honório and his wife and sister-in-law as well. The Sardelinha sisters are installed with other women in a lean-to, amid things to eat and drink, medicines and bandages. “Welcome, compadre,” Honório says, embracing him. Antônio lingers with him for a moment as he downs with relish the food that the Sardelinha sisters ladle out to the men who have just arrived. Once he finishes this brief repast, the former trader posts his fourteen comrades round
about, advises them to get some sleep, and goes with Honório to have a look around the area.

  Why has Abbot João entrusted this front to them, of all the warriors, the two men least experienced in the ways of war? Doubtless because this is the front farthest away from A Favela: the enemy will not come this way. They would have three or four times farther to go than if they went straight down the slopes and attacked Fazenda Velha; moreover, before reaching the river, they would have to cross rough terrain bristling with thorny brush that would force the battalions to break ranks and scatter. And that is not the way the atheists fight. They do so in compact blocks, forming those squares of theirs that make such a good target for the jagunços holed up in their trenches.

  “We’re the ones who dug these trenches,” Honório says. “Do you remember, compadre?”

  “Of course I remember. Thus far, they haven’t had their baptism of fire.”

  Yes, they were the ones who had directed the crews that had dotted this plot of ground that winds between the river and the cemetery, without a single tree or clump of brush, with little holes big enough for two or three sharpshooters. They had dug the first of these shelters a year ago, after the encounter at Uauá. After each enemy expedition they have made more holes, and lately little passageways between each of them that allow the men to crawl from one to the other without being seen. They are indeed defenses that have never undergone their baptism of fire: never once has there been any fighting in this sector.

  A bluish light, with yellow tinges at the edges, creeps down from the horizon. Cocks can be heard crowing. “The cannon salvos have stopped,” Honório says, guessing the thought in Antônio’s mind. Antônio finishes his brother’s sentence: “That means that they’re on their way, compadre.” The dugouts are some fifteen to twenty feet apart, spread out over an area half a kilometer long and a hundred or so meters wide. The jagunços, crouching down elbow to elbow in the holes by twos and threes, are so well hidden that the Vilanova brothers can see them only when they lean down to exchange a few words with them. Many of them have lengths of pipe, thick cane stalks, and hollowed-out tree trunks that allow them to see outside without poking their heads out. Most of them are sleeping or dozing, curled up in a ball with their Mannlichers, Mausers, and blunderbusses, and their bullet pouch or powder horn within reach of their hand. Honório has posted lookouts along the Vaza-Barris; several of them have gone scouting along the ravines and the riverbed—completely dry there—and on the other side without running into any enemy patrols.

  They return to the lean-to, talking together as they walk back. The silence broken only by the crowing of the cocks seems strange after the many hours of bombardment. Antônio remarks that the attack on Canudos has appeared to him to be inevitable ever since the column of reinforcements—more than five hundred troops, apparently—arrived at A Favela intact, despite desperate efforts on the part of Pajeú, who had harried them all the way from Caldeirão but had managed only to steal a few head of their cattle. Honório asks if it is true that the expeditionary force has left companies posted at Jueté and Rosário, places they merely passed through before. Yes, it is true.

  Antônio unbuckles his belt and, using his arm as a pillow and covering his face with his sombrero, curls up in the dugout that he is sharing with his brother. His body relaxes, grateful for the rest, but his ears remain alert, listening for any sound of soldiers in the day that is dawning. In a little while he forgets about them, and after drifting along on different fuzzy images, his mind suddenly focuses on this man whose body is touching his. Two years younger than he, with light curly hair, calm, self-effacing, Honório is more than his brother twice over, by blood and by marriage: he is also his comrade, his crony, his confidant, his best friend. They have never separated, they have never had a serious disagreement. Is Honório in Belo Monte, as he is, because he believes with all his heart in the Counselor and everything he represents, religion, truth, salvation, justice? Or is he here only out of loyalty to his brother? In all the years that they have been in Canudos, the question has never entered his mind before. When the angel’s wing brushed him and he abandoned his own affairs to take those of Canudos in hand, he naturally presumed that his brother and sister-in-law, like his wife, would willingly accept this change in their lives, as they had each time that misfortune had made them set out in new directions. And that was what had happened: Honório and Assunção acceded to his will without the slightest complaint. It had been when Moreira César attacked Canudos, on that endless day that he spent fighting in the streets, that for the first time he began to have the gnawing suspicion that perhaps Honório was going to die there at his side, not because of something he believed in, but out of respect for his older brother. Whenever he ventures to discuss the subject with Honório, his brother pokes fun at him: “Do you think I’d risk my neck just to be with you? How vain you’ve become, compadre!” But instead of placating his doubts, these jibes only make him all the more troubled. He has told the Counselor: “Out of selfishness, I have done as I pleased with Honório and his family without ever finding out what it was that they wanted, as though they were pieces of furniture or goats.” The Counselor provided balm for this wound: “If that is how it has been, you have helped them accumulate merit to gain heaven.”

  He feels someone shaking him, but it takes him a while to open his eyes. The sun is up, shining brightly, and Honório is standing there with his finger on his lips, motioning him to be still. “They’re here, compadre,” he says in a very soft voice. “It’s fallen to our lot to receive them.”

  “What an honor, compadre,” he answers in a voice thick with sleep.

  He kneels down in the dugout. From the ravines on the other side of the Vaza-Barris a sea of blue, lead-gray, red uniforms, with glints of sunlight glancing off their brass buttons and their swords and bayonets, is sweeping toward them in the bright morning light. So that is what his ears have been hearing for some time now: the roll of drums, the blare of bugles. “It looks as though they’re coming straight toward us,” he thinks. The air is clear, and though they are still a long way away, he can see the troops very distinctly; they are deployed in three corps, one of which, the one in the center, appears to be heading directly toward the trenches. Something in his mouth that feels pasty keeps him from getting a single word out. Honório tells him that he has already sent two “youngsters” to Fazenda Velha and to the Trabubu exit to bring Abbot João and Pedrão the news that the enemy troops are coming this way.

  “We have to hold them off,” he hears himself say. “Hold them off as best we can till Abbot João and Pedrão can fall back to Belo Monte.”

  “Provided they aren’t attacking via A Favela at the same time,” Honório growls.

  Antônio doesn’t believe they are. Opposite him, coming down the ravines of the dry river, are several thousand soldiers, more than three thousand, perhaps four, which must be all the troops the dogs can field. The jagunços know, because of what the “youngsters” and spies have reported, that there are more than a thousand sick and wounded in the field hospital set up in the valley between A Favela and the Alto do Mário. Some of the troops must have stayed behind there, guarding the hospital, the artillery, and the installations. The soldiers in front of them must constitute the entire attack force. He says as much to Honório, without looking at him, eyes fixed on the ravines as he checks with his fingers to make sure the cylinder of his revolver is fully loaded. Though he has a Mannlicher, he prefers this revolver, the weapon that he has fought with ever since he has been in Canudos. Honôrio, on the other hand, has his rifle propped on the edge of the trench, with the sight raised and his finger on the trigger. That is how all the other jagunços must be waiting in their dugouts, remembering their instructions: Don’t shoot till the enemy is practically on top of you, so as to save ammunition and have the advantage of taking them by surprise. That is the only thing that will be in their favor, the only thing that can compensate for the disproportion in numbers of men and
equipment.

  A youngster bringing them a leather canteen full of hot coffee and some maize cakes crawls up to the dugout and jumps in. Antônio recognizes those bright twinkling eyes, that twisted body. The lad’s name is Sebastião, and he is already a battle-hardened veteran, for he has served both Pajeú and Big João as a messenger. As he drinks the coffee, which restores his body, Antônio sees the youngster disappear, slithering along with his canteens and knapsacks, as swiftly and silently as a lizard.

  “If only they all advance at once, in a single compact unit,” Antônio thinks. How easy it would be then, in this terrain without trees, bushes, or rocks, to mow them down at point-blank range. The natural depressions will not be of much use to them since the jagunços’ dugouts are on rises of ground from which they can fire down on them. But they are not advancing in a single unit. The center corps is marching forward more rapidly, like a prow; it is the first to cross the dry riverbed and scale the ravines on the other side. Figures like toy soldiers, in blue, with red stripes down their trouser legs and gleaming bits of metal, appear, less than two hundred paces away from Antônio. It is a company of scouts, some hundred men, all of them on foot, who regroup in two compact formations, five abreast, and advance swiftly, not taking the slightest precautions. He sees them crane their necks, keeping a sharp eye on the towers of Belo Monte, completely unaware of the sharpshooters in the dugouts who have them in their sights.