The Honorable Deputy Dom João Seixas de Pondé declared that only those who lacked a sense of the ridiculous could continue to speak of the supposed English agent Galileo Gall, whose charred corpse had purportedly been found in Ipupiará by the Bahia Rural Guard, a militia that according to vox populi, he would like to add, was recruited, financed, and controlled by the Party of the opposition, words that gave rise to furious protests from the Honorable Deputies of the Progressivist Republican Party. The Honorable Deputy Dom João Seixas de Pondé offered the additional information that the British Consulate in Bahia had attested to the fact that, having come by knowledge that the individual who calls himself Gall had a bad record, it had so notified the authorities of the State two months ago in order that they might act accordingly, and that the Police Commissioner of Bahia had confirmed this, and produced the order of expulsion from the country delivered to the aforementioned individual, who was to ready himself to leave on the French boat La Marseillaise. The Honorable Deputy further added that the fact that the individual known as Galileo Gall had failed to obey the order of expulsion and been found a month later in the interior of the State with rifles in his possession in no way constituted proof of a political conspiracy or of the intervention of a foreign power; on the contrary, it was proof, at most, that the aforementioned scoundrel was attempting to smuggle arms to buyers certain to pay, being well provided with money from their multiple robberies, namely the fanatical Sebastianists led by Antônio Conselheiro. As the remarks by the Honorable Deputy Dom João Seixas de Pondé provoked hilarious laughter on the part of the Honorable Deputies of the opposition, who made gestures suggesting that he had angel’s wings and a saint’s halo, the Honorable President of the Assembly, His Excellency Baron Adalberto de Gumúcio, called for order in the house. The Honorable Deputy Dom João Seixas de Pondé declared that it was hypocritical to cause such an uproar over the discovery of a few rifles in the backlands when everyone knew that smuggling and trafficking in arms was unfortunately more or less the general rule in the interior, and if this were not true, could the Honorable Deputies of the opposition explain how the Progressivist Republican Party had armed the capangas and cangaceiros they had recruited to form the private Army that went by the name of the Bahia Rural Guard, whose intended purpose was to function outside the official institutions of the State? The Honorable Deputy Dom João Seixas de Pondé having been indignantly jeered at for his insulting words by the Honorable Deputies of the Progressivist Republican Party, the Honorable President of the Assembly was obliged to call for order in the house once again.
The Honorable Deputy Epaminondas Gonçalves declared that the Honorable Deputies of the majority were becoming more and more bogged down in their own contradictions and lies, as inevitably happens to those who walk over quicksand. And he thanked heaven that it had been the Rural Guard that had captured the English rifles and the English agent Gall, for it was an independent, sound, patriotic, genuinely Republican corps, which had alerted the authorities of the Federal Government to the seriousness of the events that had taken place and taken all necessary measures to prevent any attempt to hide the proofs of the collaboration of the native monarchists with the British Crown in the plot against Brazilian sovereignty of which Canudos was the spearhead. In fact, had it not been for the Rural Guard, he declared, the Republic would never have learned of the presence of English agents transporting through the backlands shipments of rifles for the restorationists of Canudos. The Honorable Deputy Dom Eduardo Glicério interrupted him to inform him that the only trace of the famous English agent that had been found was a handful of hair that could well have been that of a redheaded woman or a horse’s mane, a sally that brought laughter from both the benches of the majority and those of the opposition. Continuing after this interruption, the Honorable Deputy Dom Epaminondas Gonçalves declared that he applauded the sense of humor of the Honorable Deputy who had interrupted him, but that when the sovereign interests of the Country were threatened, and the blood of the patriots who had fallen in defense of the Republic in Uauá and on the slopes of Monte Cambaio was still warm, the moment was perhaps not an appropriate one for jokes, a remark which brought thunderous applause from the Honorable Deputies of the opposition.
The Honorable Deputy Dom Eliseu de Roque reminded the Assembly that there was incontrovertible proof of the identity of the corpse found in Ipupiará, along with the English rifles, and declared that to refuse to admit the existence of such proof was to refuse to admit the existence of the light of day. He reminded the Assembly of the fact that two persons who had met the English spy Galileo Gall and been on friendly terms with him during his stay in Bahia, the citizen Jan van Rijsted and the distinguished physician Dr. José Batista de Sá Oliveira, had identified as being his the English agent’s clothes, his frock coat, his trousers belt, his boots, and, most importantly, the bright red hair that the members of the Rural Guard who found the corpse had had the good judgment to cut off. He reminded the Honorable Deputies that both citizens had also testified as to the revolutionary ideas of the Englishman and his obviously conspiratorial intentions with regard to Canudos, and that neither of them had been surprised that his dead body had been found in that region. And, finally, he reminded his hearers that many citizens of towns in the interior had given testimony to the Rural Guard that they had seen the stranger with red hair and an odd way of speaking Portuguese trying to secure guides to take him to Canudos. The Honorable Deputy Dom João Seixas de Pondé stated that no one denied that the individual called Galileo Gall had been found dead, with rifles in his possession, in Ipupiará, but that this was not incontrovertible evidence that he was an English spy, since in and of itself his being a foreigner proved nothing. Why might he not have been a Danish, Swedish, French, or German spy, or one from Cochin China?
The Honorable Deputy Dom Epaminondas Gonçalves declared that hearing the words of the Honorable Deputies of the majority, who, instead of shaking with anger when evidence was put before them that a foreign power was attempting to interfere in the domestic affairs of Brazil to undermine the Republic and restore the old feudal and aristocratic order, tried to divert public attention toward questions of secondary importance and look for excuses and extenuating circumstances to justify the behavior of the guilty parties, constituted the most categorical proof that the Government of the State of Bahia would not lift a finger to put an end to the Canudos rebellion, since, on the contrary, it gave them intimate satisfaction. The Machiavellian machinations of the Baron de Canabrava and of the Autonomists would not succeed, however, for the Army of Brazil was there to thwart them, and just as it had thus far put down all the monarchist insurrections against the Republic in the South of the country, it would also crush that of Canudos. He declared that when the sovereignty of the Country was at stake words were superfluous, and that the very next day the Progressivist Republican Party would open a drive for funds to buy arms to be delivered to the Federal Army. And he proposed to the Honorable Deputies of the Progressivist Republican Party that they leave the halls of the Assembly to those nostalgic for the old order and make a pilgrimage to Campo Grande to renew their vow of Republicanism before the marble plaque commemorating Marshal Floriano Peixoto. They proceeded to do so immediately, to the consternation of the Honorable Deputies of the majority.
Minutes later, the Honorable President of the Assembly, His Excellency Sir Adalberto de Gumúcio, adjourned the session.
Tomorrow we shall report on the patriotic ceremony held at Campo Grande, before the marble plaque commemorating the Iron Marshal, by the Honorable Deputies of the Progressivist Republican Party, at daybreak.
[III]
“It doesn’t need so much as a comma added or taken out,” Epaminondas Gonçalves says. The look on his face is one of relief, even more than of satisfaction, as though he had feared the worst from this article that the journalist had just read aloud to him, straight through without being interrupted even once by a sneezing fit. “I congratulate you.”
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“Whether true or false, it’s an extraordinary story,” the journalist, who doesn’t seem to have heard him, mutters. “That a fairgrounds mountebank who went about the streets of Salvador saying that bones are the handwriting of the soul and who preached anarchy and atheism in the taverns should turn out to be an English agent plotting with the Sebastianists to restore the monarchy and end up being burned alive in the backlands—isn’t that extraordinary?”
“It is indeed,” the head of the Progressivist Republican Party agrees. “And what is even more so is that those people who seemed to be a bunch of fanatics could decimate and rout a battalion equipped with cannons and machine guns. Extraordinary, yes. But, above all, terrifying for the future of this country.”
It has become hotter and the nearsighted journalist’s face is bathed in sweat. He mops it with the bedsheet that serves him as a handkerchief and then wipes his fogged eyeglasses on his rumpled shirtfront.
“I’ll take this to the compositors myself and stay while they set the type,” he says, gathering together the sheets of paper scattered about on the desk top. “There won’t be any printer’s errors; don’t worry. You may sleep in peace, sir.”
“Are you happier working with me than on the baron’s paper?” his boss asks him, point-blank. “I know that you earn more here than on the Diário da Bahia. But I’m referring to the work. Do you like it better here?”
“In all truth, yes.” The journalist puts his eyeglasses back on and stands there for a moment petrified, waiting for the sneeze with his eyes half closed, his mouth half open, and his nose twitching. But it is a false alarm. “Political reporting is more entertaining than writing about the damage wreaked by fishing with explosives in the Ribeira de Itapagipe or the fire in the Magalhães Chocolate Factory.”
“And, what’s more, it’s helping build the country, contributing to a worthwhile national cause,” Epaminondas Gonçalves says. “Because you’re one of us, isn’t that so?”
“I don’t know what I am, sir,” the journalist replies, in that voice that, at times piercingly high-pitched and at times deep and sonorous, is as undependable as the rest of his body. “I don’t have any political convictions and politics don’t interest me.”
“I like your frankness.” The owner of the newspaper laughs, rising to his feet and reaching for his briefcase. “I’m happy with you. Your feature articles are impeccable. They say precisely what needs to be said, in just the right words. I’m glad I turned the most ticklish section over to you.”
He picks up the little desk lamp, blows the flame out, and leaves the office, followed by the journalist, who, on going through the door leading to the outer office, stumbles over a spittoon.
“Well then, I’m going to ask you a favor, sir,” he blurts out. “If Colonel Moreira César comes to put down the Canudos insurrection, I’d like to accompany him, as the correspondent of the Jornal de Notícias.”
Epaminondas Gonçalves has turned around to look at him and scrutinizes him as he puts his hat on.
“I suppose it’s possible,” he says. “You see—you really are one of us, even though politics don’t interest you. To admire Colonel Moreira César, a person has to be a republican through and through.”
“To be honest with you, I don’t know if it’s admiration exactly,” the journalist confesses, fanning himself with the sheaf of paper. “Seeing a flesh-and-blood hero, being close to someone very famous is a very tempting prospect. It would be like seeing and touching a character in a novel.”
“You’ll have to watch your step. The colonel doesn’t like journalists,” Epaminondas Gonçalves says. He is already heading toward the door. “He began his public life by shooting down a penpusher in the streets of Rio because he’d insulted the army.”
“Good night,” the journalist murmurs. He trots to the other end of the building, where a dark passageway leads to the print shop. The compositors, who have stayed on the job till this late hour waiting for his article, will surely invite him to have a cup of coffee with them.
III
[I]
The train whistles as it enters the Queimadas station, decorated with streamers welcoming Colonel Moreira César. A huge crowd has congregated on the narrow red-tile platform, beneath a large white canvas banner wafting out over the tracks: “Queimadas Welcomes Heroic Colonel Moreira César and His Glorious Regiment. Long Live Brazil!” A group of barefoot children wave little flags and there are half a dozen men dressed in their best Sunday suits, with the insignia of the Municipal Council on their breasts and hats in hand, surrounded by a horde of miserable people in rags and tatters who are standing looking on with great curiosity as beggars asking for alms and vendors peddling raw brown sugar and fritters move among them.
The appearance of Colonel Moreira César on the steps of the train—there are crowds of soldiers with rifles at all the windows—is greeted with shouts and applause. Dressed in a blue wool uniform with gold buttons and red stripes and piping, a sword at his waist, and boots with gold spurs, the colonel leaps out onto the platform. He is a man of small build, almost rachitic, very agile. Everyone’s face is flushed from the heat, but the colonel is not even sweating. His physical frailty contrasts sharply with the force that he appears to radiate round about him, due to the effervescent energy in his eyes or the sureness of his movements. He has the air of someone who is master of himself, knows what he wants, and is accustomed to being in command.
Applause and cheers fill the air all along the platform and the street, where the people gathered there are shielding themselves from the sun with pieces of cardboard. The children toss handfuls of confetti into the air and those carrying flags wave them. The town dignitaries step forward, but Colonel Moreira César does not stop to shake hands. He has been surrounded by a group of army officers. He nods politely to the dignitaries and then, turning to the crowd, shouts: “Viva the Republic! Viva Marshal Floriano!” To the surprise of the municipal councillors, who were no doubt expecting to hear speeches, to converse with him, to escort him, the colonel enters the station, accompanied by his officers. The councillors try to follow him, but are stopped by the guards at the door, which has just closed behind him. A whinny is heard. A beautiful white horse is stepping off the train, to the delight of the crowd of youngsters. The animal licks itself clean, shakes its mane, and gives a joyous neigh, sensing open countryside nearby. Lines of soldiers now climb down from the train, one by one, through the doors and windows, setting down bundles, valises, unloading boxes of ammunition, machine guns. A great cheer goes up as the cannons appear, gleaming in the sun. The soldiers are now bringing up teams of oxen to pull the heavy artillery pieces. With resigned expressions, the municipal authorities proceed to join the curious who have piled up at the doors and windows to peep inside the station, trying to catch a glimpse of Moreira César amid the group of officers, adjutants, orderlies who are milling about.
The inside of the station is a single large room, divided by a partition, behind which the telegrapher is working. The side of the room opposite the train platform overlooks a three-story building with a sign that reads: Hotel Continental. There are soldiers everywhere along the treeless Avenida Itapicuru, which leads up to the main square. Behind the dozens of faces pressed against the glass, peering inside the station, the troops are eagerly proceeding to detrain. As the regimental flag appears, unfurled and waved with a flourish by a soldier before the eyes of the crowd, another round of applause is heard. On the esplanade between the station and the Hotel Continental, a soldier curries the white horse with the showy mane. In one corner of the station hall is a long table laden with pitchers, bottles, and platters of food, protected by pieces of cheesecloth from the myriad flies that nobody takes any notice of. Little flags and garlands are suspended from the ceiling, amid posters of the Progressivist Republican Party and the Bahia Autonomist Party, hailing Colonel Moreira César, the Republic, and the Seventh Infantry Regiment of the Brazilian Army.
Amid all this bust
ling activity, Colonel Moreira César changes out of woolen dress uniform into a field uniform. Two soldiers have strung up a blanket in front of the partition marking off the telegrapher’s office, and the colonel tosses out from this improvised dressing room the various articles comprising his parade dress, which an adjutant gathers up and stores away in a trunk. As he dons his field dress, Moreira César speaks with three officers standing at attention outside.
“Report on our effective strength, Cunha Matos.”
With a slight click of his heels, the major announces: “Eighty-three men who have come down with smallpox and other illnesses,” he says, consulting a sheet of paper. “One thousand two hundred thirty-five troops ready for combat. The fifteen million rifle rounds and the seventy artillery rounds are intact and ready to fire, sir.”
“Have the order given for the vanguard to leave within two hours at the latest for Monte Santo.” The colonel’s voice is trenchant, toneless, impersonal. “You, Olímpio, present my apologies to the Municipal Council. I will receive them in a while. Explain to them that we are unable to waste time attending ceremonies or banquets.”
“Yes, sir.”
When Captain Olímpio de Castro takes his leave, the third officer steps forward. He is wearing colonel’s stripes and is a man advanced in years, a bit on the tubby side, with a calm look in his eye. “Lieutenant Pires Ferreira and Major Febrônio de Brito are here. They have orders to join the regiment as advisers.”
Moreira César is lost in thought for a moment. “How fortunate for the regiment,” he murmurs, in a voice that is almost inaudible. “Escort them here, Tamarindo.”
An orderly, on his knees, helps the colonel don a pair of riding boots, without spurs. A moment later, preceded by Colonel Tamarindo, Febrônio de Brito and Pires Ferreira arrive and stand at attention in front of the blanket. They click their heels, give their name and rank, and announce: “Reporting for duty, sir.” The blanket falls to the floor. Moreira César is wearing a pistol and sword at his side, his shirtsleeves are rolled up, and his arms are short, skinny, and hairless. He looks the newcomers over from head to foot without a word, with an icy look in his eyes.