“They’ll take an appeal.”
“They won’t have to; it will be unanimous!”
Bets were then laid as to the likelihood of an appeal. The state supreme court still represented the overthrown government, and if there was an appeal, Horacio might be found guilty, or at least a new trial would be ordered. The majority of those present, however, were confident that the jury would unanimously acquit the colonel, and in that case there would be no grounds for an appeal. The jurors were now sworn to “decide the case in accordance with the law and the evidence and their own consciences,” and took their places in the box. The lad who had drawn the cards from the urn then left the judge’s dais and took a seat behind the attorneys for the defence. From there he followed the entire proceedings, drinking it all in with eager ears and kindling eyes. Even at dawn the next morning, when some of those in the courtroom were dozing on the benches, this small boy was still nervously watching the show.
The whisperings suddenly ceased and a silence fell on the room, for the judge had just ordered the municipal police officer to bring in the defendant. Braz then went out and returned, accompanied by Colonel Horacio da Silveira with a trooper on either side. The colonel wore a black frock-coat, his hair was brushed back, and his face wore a serious, almost a penitent look. He stopped in front of the judge amid a heavy silence, as the onlookers leaned forward in their seats.
“Your name?”
“Horacio da Silveira, Colonel of the National Guard.”
“Profession?”
“Farmer.”
“Age?”
“Fifty-two years.”
“Residence?”
“Holy Name Plantation in the municipality of Ilhéos.”
“Have you heard the charge?”
The colonel’s voice was clear and strong: “I have.”
“Have you anything to say in your own defence?”
“My attorneys will speak for me.”
“You have attorneys? Who are they?”
“Dr. Virgilio Cabral and Dr. Ruy Fonseca.”
The judge motioned to the criminals’ bench. “You may sit down.”
But Horacio remained standing. Braz took the hint, removed the humiliating bench, and substituted a chair. Even then Horacio would not be seated. This created a sensation in the courtroom. Lawyer Ruy then requested of the judge that the accused might have the right to stand in place of being seated on that symbolic bench. This request was granted, and from all corners of the room the colonel’s gigantic form could be seen, his arms folded over his bosom, his eyes fixed on the court. The young lad rose up to get a better view of him. He found him superb, an unforgettable figure.
The court clerk read the charge. The reading lasted three long hours as the depositions made by the various witnesses followed one after another. From time to time the attorneys would take notes on sheets of paper, and beside Lawyer Genaro was a stack of ponderous law-books. It was one o’clock in the afternoon when the clerk finished reading the charge, and the judge then recessed court for an hour, for lunch. The jurors, who were not permitted to talk to anyone, remained in the room and a lunch was sent in to them from the hotel, paid for by the prefecture. The only exception was in the case of Camilo Goes, who suffered from a stomach ailment and had to follow a special diet; his meal was brought to him from home.
The small lad watching the trial left the room holding his father’s hand, but he was back in the doorway again as the bailiff was ringing his big bell to summon the clerks and attorneys. Once more Horacio came in and stood in front of the judge. The public prosecutor now took the floor, and as had been expected, his plea did not amount to much. He talked for half an hour, leaving innumerable loopholes for the defence. Nevertheless, in accordance with custom he ended by asking for the supreme penalty, which was thirty years in prison. He was followed by Lawyer Genaro, who spoke for two hours, mingling citations taken from law-books, some in French and some in Italian, with a detailed examination of the evidence, which, according to him, went to prove beyond a doubt that the assassin was a cabra in the employ of Horacio. He made much of the deposition of the man with the false ring, who had held a conversation with the slayer on the eve of the crime. He went into the history of the Sequeiro Grande affrays, and concluded by declaring that “if the defendant were not found guilty, justice in the Ilhéos region would be no more than the most tragic of farces.” Then, with a few Latin phrases, he sat down. The courtroom audience had understood little of this babel of tongues and citations, but their admiration for Lawyer Genaro was undiminished. It made no difference which side he was on; they esteemed him as a thing of worth that belonged to Ilhéos.
Dr. Fausto then followed, and curious necks were craned. His fame as a great orator had preceded him, for his defence pleas in Bahia were celebrated ones. If the truth were told, the Ilhéos residents would much rather have heard him on the side of the defence in this instance; but it was known that Sinhô Badaró had paid him fifteen contos de reis for his services. He did not speak long, for he was saving himself for the rebuttal, but the speech he made was a high-sounding one, and his voice was filled with emotion. He spoke of the wife left without a husband, the brother bereft of his brother, and went on to praise Juca Badaró as “the knight-errant of the land of cacao.” His voice rose and fell, and was filled with hate as he came to speak of Horacio, “a jagunço who has become a leader of jagunços.” On the other hand, it was in the gentlest of tones that he referred to Olga, “the poor, inconsolable widow.” With a last appeal to the noble sentiments of justice on the part of the jurors he concluded; and court was then recessed for dinner.
That night there was a larger crowd than ever, and the lad had difficulty in holding his place. The clerks in the business houses had not been able to come in the morning or afternoon, and they now struggled for standing-room all the way to the prefecture stairs.
The first speaker at the evening session was Virgilio, who replied to Lawyer Genaro. He proceeded to demolish the evidence presented by the prosecution, showing the weakness of the entire case against Horacio; and he created a sensation when, in referring to the man with the false ring, whose deposition constituted the cornerstone of the state’s evidence, he revealed that the fellow in question was a thief by the name of Fernando, who had arrived in Ilhéos a few years before and who had there become a vagabond with unknown means of livelihood. And “this witness so dear to the prosecution” was at that moment to be found lodged in a prison cell in Ilhéos, having been arrested on a charge of vagrancy and disorderly conduct. Of what value was the word of a man like that? A thief, a vagabond, a liar. Virgilio then read a deposition he had obtained from the Spanish proprietor of the wine-shop where the man with the false ring was alleged to have had his conversation with the assassin. The Spaniard declared that the witness in question had always had the reputation of being a liar, that he liked to tell stories and make up things, and that he, the Spaniard, suspected that it was the man with the ring who on two occasions had been responsible for the disappearance of money from the cash-drawer of the shop. Of what legal value, then, were any statements which such a witness might make? Was any credence to be given to what a fellow of that type had to say? At this point the speaker glanced first at the judge, then at the jury, and after that let his eyes roam over the courtroom. He went on to give his own version of the Sequeiro Grande affrays. He recalled the other suit, for the possession of the land, which had been lost by the Badarós. He also recalled the setting fire to Venancio’s registry office. And after talking for two hours, he closed with a plea that justice be done his client.
It was Lawyer Ruy who replied to Dr. Fausto. His powerful voice, a little shaky with drink, now resounded through the courtroom. He trembled, he wept, he grew emotional, he hurled accusations, he defended his client, as his auditors alternately wept and laughed; but he was particularly violent toward Dr. Fausto, who “had dared to spew cowardly words upon the
stainless character of the Bayard of Ilhéos, Colonel Horacio da Silveira.” With the exception of the lawyers and the young lad, no one knew who Bayard was, but they all thought it was a very nice comparison.
Still standing erect, his arms folded over his bosom. Horacio all this while showed no trace of weariness. Occasionally he would smile at Lawyer Ruy’s more savage and venomous ironies directed at Dr. Fausto.
Then came the summation speeches, and they all took the floor again, to repeat what they had said before. The only thing new was a deposition that Lawyer Genaro had obtained to offset that of the Spaniard, the wine-shop proprietor whose testimony Virgilio had introduced. This fresh bit of evidence came from an acquaintance of the man with the false ring, another frequenter of the Spaniard’s place—the man in the sky-blue vest. This latter asserted that the man with the ring “was a good fellow, even though he might not appear to be.” His stories might be made up, but many of the things he told had actually happened. And Lawyer Genaro then went on to declaim against “the wretched local police, who had thrown an innocent man into jail simply to keep him from testifying at the trial.”
Dr. Fausto then rose for his big speech. He tried hard to make his voice tremble more than Lawyer Ruy’s, and a few of those in the courtroom wept again. In short, he did his very best. Virgilio spoke again for ten minutes, dealing only with the question of the man with the ring.
The closing address was made by Lawyer Ruy, who compared Justice to the figure of Christ above the judge’s head. He ended with a resounding sentence which he had been preparing for the past couple of days:
“In acquitting Colonel Horacio da Silveira, gentlemen of the jury, you will prove to all the civilized world, whose eyes at this moment are turned upon this courtroom, that there is in Ilhéos not only cacao, money, and fertile land; you will prove that in Ilhéos there is Justice, mother of all the virtues a people may possess.”
In spite of the exaggeration in this statement—the eyes of the world turned upon that Ilhéos courtroom—or possibly for that reason, it drew a burst of applause from the spectators, and the judge had to have his bailiff ring for order.
The jury then retired to consider its verdict of guilt or innocence. Horacio also retired and stood in the corridor talking to his lawyers. Fifteen minutes later the jurors filed back, and Braz returned with the colonel. The latter had just had the word from Virgilio: “Unanimous!”
The judge read the verdict unanimously acquitting Colonel Horacio da Silveira. With this, some began leaving the courtroom, while others came up to embrace Horacio and his attorneys. Braz issued the order freeing the colonel from custody, and the erstwhile defendant departed with his friends, who accompanied him to his home.
The father of the young lad, seeing that his son was very tired, lifted him to his shoulder. The boy’s eyes were still following Horacio as the colonel left the court.
“What did you like best about it?” his father asked.
The lad smiled a little, then confessed: “What I liked best, yes, the very best of all, was that man with the false ring who knew stories.”
Lawyer Ruy in passing overheard this and stroked the lad’s blond head, then dashed down the stairs to overtake Horacio, who was just going out the main entrance of the prefecture into the bright morning that was rising out of the sea, above the city of Ilhéos.
VI
PROGRESS
1
Some months afterwards, early one afternoon, Colonel Horacio da Silveira unexpectedly dismounted from his horse in front of Maneca Dantas’s house. Dona Auricidia appeared, dragging her mountainous flesh, and extremely solicitous, wishing to know if the colonel had had lunch. He informed her that he had eaten. His face had a tightly compressed look, his eyes were small, and his mouth was drawn out of shape in a hard line. One of the workmen was sent to call Maneca, who was out in the groves, and Dona Auricidia meanwhile strove to entertain the guest. She did almost all the talking. Horacio barely replying with a “Yes” or a “No” when she paused for breath. She was relating anecdotes about her children, praising the intelligence of the oldest boy, who was named Ruy. Maneca finally came in, embraced the colonel, and they began conversing. Whereupon Dona Auricidia retired to see about “a little bite of something to eat.”
Horacio then rose and stood gazing out the window at the cacao groves. Maneca waited for him to say something. The minutes went by in silence, with Horacio still staring out at the highway that ran near the Big House. Suddenly he turned.
“I was going through some of the things in the house in Ilhéos,” he said, “some things of Ester’s.”
Maneca Dantas felt his heart beating more quickly. Horacio stood gazing at him with his swarthy, all but expressionless eyes, but there was a hard look about his mouth.
“I came upon some letters.” And he added in a dull voice: “She was Virgilio’s mistress.”
Saying this, he turned once more to stare out the window. Maneca Dantas now rose and laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder.
“I’ve known it for some time,” he said, “but I didn’t like to meddle. And the poor girl paid for it, dying the way she did.”
Horacio left the window and, seating himself on a stool, gazed down at the floor. He appeared to be remembering things that had happened long ago, good times, happy memories.
“It’s a pity. At first I thought she didn’t care for me. All she did was go off in the corner and cry. She said she was afraid of snakes. Even in bed she used to huddle up when I touched her. It made me angry, but I didn’t say anything, for it was my fault, marrying a young and educated girl like her.”
He shook his head and looked at Maneca Dantas. The latter listened in silence, his face resting in his hands; he did not make a gesture.
“Then suddenly she changed, she became affectionate, and I came to believe that she was fond of me. Before that, when I went into the forest or when I got into shooting scrapes, it had been only for money—partly for the little fellow. But after that everything I did was for her, for I was certain that she cared for me.
“You cannot imagine, my friend,” and he pointed a finger at Maneca, “how I felt when she died. I went on giving orders to my men, but all the while I was thinking of killing myself. And if I didn’t put a bullet through my brain, it was on account of the little fellow, her son and mine. It was true, she hadn’t loved me then, when he was born, but all that was past; she was kind and loving now. Otherwise I would have killed myself.”
He laughed, a terrifying laugh.
“And to think that all that was for another, for that little shyster. If she was kind and loving, it was for his sake. I had the left-overs.”
Dona Auricidia now came in and summoned them to the dining-room. The table was laden with sweets, cheeses, and fruits. As they ate, the mistress of the house kept up an incessant chatter; bragging about her oldest boy, she compelled the child to answer historical questions, to read from a book so that his godfather could hear him, and to recite a few stanzas of poetry.
After they went back to the parlour Horacio had no more to say, but seated himself in a chair and listened to the conversation without paying attention. Maneca Dantas tried to fill up the gaps by talking about the crops, the price of cacao, and the saplings that had been set out on the Sequeiro Grande tract. Dona Auricidia was so sorry that their good friend could not stay for dinner, for she had had them kill some young roosters to make a brown sauce that was “something special.”
“I am sorry, my dear lady, but I can’t.”
And so the afternoon went by, with Horacio chewing on the end of an unlighted cigarette blackened with saliva. Maneca did the talking. He realized that what he had to say was of no interest, but he could think of nothing else; his mind was a blank. All he knew was that Horacio did not want to be alone. On another day, now distant, it had been Virgilio who had wanted company. Maneca paused as he thought of this.
r /> Twilight was falling and the workers were coming back from the groves. Horacio rose and once more gazed out on the highway, now veiled with the melancholy of dusk. Then he went into the other part of the house to take leave of Dona Auricidia, and gave his godson a small coin. Maneca accompanied him outside to where his horse was waiting. As he placed his foot in the stirrup, Horacio turned and said:
“I’m going to have him put out of the way.”
2
Maneca Dantas felt like tearing his hair. “That headstrong little lawyer!” He had already exhausted all his arguments in an effort to convince him that he should not go to Ferradas that night, and here Virgilio was, bent upon going in spite of everything. He was more stubborn than a mule, which is the most stubborn animal there is. And yet everybody in Ilhéos was agreed that Lawyer Virgilio was an intelligent man.
Maneca could not have told you why he had taken such a liking to the young attorney. Even after he was certain that Virgilio was engaged in planting horns on Horacio’s brow, even then he had not ceased to hold him in high regard, despite the fact that Maneca all but idolized the colonel, to whom he owed the greater portion of his worldly possessions. It was Horacio who had lent him a hand when he was in a bad way and had helped him come up in the world. Yet even after he had discovered that Virgilio was sleeping with Ester, Maneca Dantas had not found it in his heart to be angry with the lawyer. When Ester had died, his sorrow had been mixed with a certain feeling of relief. It was sad, no doubt of that; but it would have been worse, far worse, if Horacio had discovered everything and she had died a still more tragic death. What kind of death that might have been he could not have told you; but while he was endowed with no great powers of imagination, he could picture horrible things—such, for example, as Ester shut up in a room with snakes, like that story he had read in a newspaper once upon a time.
Accordingly, when the fever had carried her off, Maneca had felt badly about it, but at the same time he had breathed a sigh of relief: the problem was solved. And now why did Horacio, after all these months, have to discover those love letters, which, understandably enough, made him want to kill Virgilio? The thing he could not understand was why those who played the dangerous game of deceiving husbands should permit themselves the luxury of writing letters of that sort. It was an utterly stupid thing to do. He himself, once in a while, had had a mistress—not a married woman, to be sure, but some pretty little prostitute who had caught his fancy and for whom he had set up housekeeping. He would go to her place, sleep there, eat and drink—but write a letter? Never. Now and then he would receive a note from one of them, but these were almost always more or less urgent requests for money. Requests for money, mingled with kisses and terms of endearment. But Colonel Maneca Dantas always tore these letters up before Dona Auricidia’s keen scent should have detected the unpleasant odour of cheap perfume of which they always reeked. Requests for money, that was all.