Backlands (28 page)

Then there were their archaic weapons, which also looked like relics from another era. They included the alligator knife, named after the big reptile and called the
jacaré
, with its broad, sharp blade; the long knife used by the backland bandits, called the
parnaíba
; the nine-foot-long prong, an ungraceful lance that was like an ancient pike; the hollow, heavy cudgels, half-filled with lead; the crossbows and muskets. The firearms were of all types, ranging from the slim barrel for fine shot to the “legitimate Braga,” with the big bore; the brutal
trabuco
modeled after a lightweight culverin and designed to shoot flint stones and horn tips; the light rifle; and the blunderbuss with the bell-shaped mouth.

That was all they had. These people did not need anything else. Canudos began to take on the appearance of something between a battle camp and an African kraal. The settlement had no streets; its squares, aside from where the churches stood, were nothing more than a common backyard for the crowded hovels. It looked like one huge dwelling extending along the hills that for a brief time sheltered Antônio Conselheiro’s rough clan.

Without the brilliance of whitewashed walls or calcite roofs, the city was invisible from a distance and could not be distinguished from the earth. It was impossible to see until rounding the bend of the Vaza-Barris, which flowed around it on the southeast. It was framed by a dead landscape: sad vistas of uniform, barren hills rolling into distant mountain ranges without a patch of forest; ragged strips of talc schist formations, which supported a few bromeliad clusters or a slender, lonely cactus. Mount Favela’s hulking form stood at the south, and at its base, across from the square, a few
quixabeira
trees grew wild in an unkempt garden, while halfway up the side of the mountain were the ruins of the lonely Old Ranch House.

Dominating another side was Bald Hill, ending abruptly in a steep cliff over the river, which from this point made a sharp bend around the hillside and circled the town like a moat with its deep bed. Here are ravines with perpendicular sides and openings formed by intense erosion of foaming waters that rise in the winter and are incorrectly called rivers, with names such as the Mucuim, the Umburanas, and another that later would be called Providencia as a result of events to come.

So it was along these paths connecting to a network of trails and linking the early settlement with the depths of the backlands of the neighboring states of Piauí, Ceará, Pernambuco, and Sergipe that one caravan after another of the faithful traveled. They came from all directions, carrying all their earthly possessions. As they reached the last leg of their journey and rounded the bend that afforded a view of the humble bell tower of the ancient chapel, they dropped to their knees in prayer on the hard ground. They had reached their final destination and were now safe from the terrible holocaust that the evangelist had predicted. They were standing at last on the soil of the promised land, a sacred Canaan, which the Good Lord Jesus had isolated from the rest of the world with a protective belt of mountains.

They arrived exhausted but exhilarated by their long journey. They set up camp at random on the hilltops. At night the camp-fires lit up the campsites of the mist-soaked pilgrims and a glowing band of light circled the town. The voices of the multitude rose in unison, resonating in choruses and responses between the camps and the hovels, the thousand voices of the penitent intoning their plaintive hymns.

At daybreak they would throw themselves into the construction of the huts. At first these were concentrated in the valley where the original church stood; then they began to build them diagonally along the short slopes bordering the river. After that they spread out randomly over the rough terrain beyond the town. These flimsy structures, located at a distance from the dense nucleus of huts, appeared to have been built according to some plan of defense for the city. They rose in successive tiers along the roads, along the Jeremoabo road on either side of the Vaza-Barris, upstream, all the way to Trabubú and the Macambira River. They edged the Rosário highway, crossed the river, and skirted Favela. And they spread out over the many hills in the direction of Uauá. Hidden by dense silk-grass thickets and bordered by moats, each one was both a home and a fort. They were placed in such a way that they formed uneven rows of bunkers.

The savage city was surrounded from the beginning by a formidable circle of trenches carved into all the slopes, offering a line of fire level with the ground and a commanding view of approaches from all directions. Hidden by a growth of
macambira
trees or by stone mounds, these were not visible from a distance. Anyone approaching from the east would think that the tiny huts scattered like sentry boxes were the approach to a ranch house and its outbuildings, the home of peaceful cowboys. He would be taken aback when he suddenly came on the compactly built village, as if walking into an ambush. Someone approaching from the south, on the Rosário or Calumbi roads, would have a clear view of the settlement from the top of Favela or the steep slopes descending to the Sargento River. At a distance of about three-quarters of a mile to the north, he would be able to instantly appraise the city’s defenses.

At first sight these were deplorable. The settlement seemed to be vulnerable to the full impact of an attack from above. Cannonballs could roll with the full force of gravity down the steep slopes. The enemy, spared a difficult assault, had only to bombard the place with artillery. He could lay siege to it with a single battery, sealing off all approaches. The tactical conditions were, however, excellent; even a primitive Vauban was able to understand them.

Closed off from the south by a hill that, scarred by ravines, ran down to the river’s edge, it was shielded to the west by a wall and a trench. Indeed, the Vaza-Barris, which makes a dog-leg to the north here, forms a deep canyon bordered by the outlying village huts on the one side and towering perpendicular cliffs on the other. Its sharp bend circles the depression in which the settlement lies, shut off by hills to the east and highland slopes on the northwest. These roll down to the far-lying forts of Cambaio and Caipã and the mountains on the south.

Canudos was a lair built into a hole in the ground. The church square, on the same level as the river, marked the lowest point. From here, following a northern axis, the village gradually crept upward along a slight incline that formed the slope of a long trench. Behind this were the huts, jamming the depression and scattering out over the eastern hills. A few, as we have seen, were scattered over the hilltops, which were mined with trenches. The outlaw town, it is clear, was not taking cover in the line of fire of an aggressive enemy. Instead, it was digging itself in. In this beautiful region where the mountain peaks merge with the highlands, they had picked the one place that is like an enormous moat.

The form of government set up here was modeled after the extreme religious teachings of the apostle. Under his yoke, all the conditions that accompany an inferior social status were aggravated. Lacking blood kinship, the inhabitants formed a moral bond that gave them the appearance of a clan in which their leader’s will was law, and he was the arbiter of an irrevocable justice. Canudos became the stereotype of the earliest barbaric settlements. The simple
sertanejo
, when he set foot in the place, was transformed into a fearless fanatic. He was taken over by the collective psychosis. He adopted the name, which until then had been reserved for thugs at village fairs, bullies on election day, and the plunderers of cities—the title of
jagunço.

After a time the population was made up of the most diverse elements, from the fundamentalist believer who abdicated all the comforts of life in other places to the loose bandit who arrived with his rifle on his shoulder, looking for a new field of action. The place became a homogenous community, an unconscious, brute mass growing without evolving, without organs and specialized functions, a mechanical conjunction of successive layers, like a human polyp. The community naturally absorbed all the tendencies of its extraordinary leader whose protean appearance of a saint exiled to earth, a fetish of flesh and bone, was calculated to revive the regressive traits of the three races. They accepted all that he taught them in blind faith and became immersed in their dreams. Living with a sick preoccupation with the life to come, their world was reduced to that protective circle of mountains, and they gave no thought to a better type of life here on earth, which was meaningless to them. Canudos was their world.

And this indeed was a transitory and brief passage, a stop on the way, which they would leave behind quickly. It was the last sojourn on their desert crossing through life on earth. The wandering
jagunços
were setting up camp for the last time on their miraculous pilgrimage to heaven. . . .

They wanted nothing from this life, which is why private property was a type of exaggerated tribal collectivism common to bedouins. Personal property was limited to moveable objects and their individual dwellings. There was absolute common ownership of land, pastures, and herds. The scarce cultivated products, after the quota owed to the landowners, went to the “society.” New arrivals gave the Counselor 90 percent of what they brought with them, including the household saints, which were destined for the Counselor’s lair. They felt blessed with the scraps of what was left to them. It was more than enough. The prophet had taught them to fear the mortal sin of even the most fleeting well-being. Volunteers in poverty and pain, their fortune was in proportion to their suffering. They were proud of their rags. This self-imposed destitution led to the degradation of the high moral standards that had been instilled in them by the patriarchal way of life of the backlands. For Antônio Conselheiro, who again was emulating the models of a former historical period, strength of character was a superior form of vanity. It was a form of sacrilege. The attempt to improve conditions of life on earth implied an indifference to the imminent happiness of the much-longed-for afterlife. His suppressed moral sense could only understand the beyond in contrast to present suffering. Of all the pages of the catechism, what he repeated was the refrain: “Blessed are they that suffer.” Extreme pain was extreme unction. Harsh suffering meant full absolution; it was the unfailing antidote to the poison of vice.

It was unimportant whether men acted virtuously. He overlooked the errors of their ways on the condition that they cleanse, drop by drop, the dirt of their impure life with their tears. When he heard of a scandalous case of rape of an unsuspecting virgin, he uttered a horribly cynical remark that was often repeated by his followers, who did not understand its depravity: “She is only fulfilling the destiny of all women: He lay under the tree of good and evil!” It is no surprise that promiscuity went unchecked in Canudos. The bastard children were legion, and they did not carry the brand of their origin, even though their situation was not comparable to the unhappy German bantlings.

Their leader did not promote free love but he did tolerate it. In his daily “counsels” he did not discuss married life or offer guidance for these naive couples. And that made sense. Since their days on earth were numbered, it was useless to preach about trivial matters. The end was going to come at any moment and would destroy intimate relationships, break up households, and comingle virtues and vices into the same vortex. He did urge his followers to prepare for this cataclysm by self-deprivation and acts of martyrdom. He advocated prolonged fasts and the agonies of hunger, which would slowly deplete life. He set an example for his closest followers by letting them know that he limited his ration to a saucer of cornmeal. It was said that one day he was visited by a prosperous believer from the area, with whom he shared his meager meal. The guest left the tiny repast feeling well fed and gorged, as if coming from a fabulous feast. This was greeted as a miracle by the astounded settlement.

This stern regimen had a dual effect: It stirred the vulnerable believers to feverish excitement and it also prepared them for the privations of a siege, which he may have foreseen. That was possibly his secret intention because it was difficult to understand why he would permit the presence of individuals in the settlement whose character contrasted with his own humble and peaceful nature.

Canudos was a destination for hardened criminals. These sinister heroes of the knife and gun came here to live with the credulous cowboys and brainwashed backlanders. However, they were the ones most loyal to this singular man, his chosen guard, who guaranteed his absolute authority. They were also his best disciples. This perverse sect was a case of moral symbiosis in which Christian ideals became grotesquely deformed by pagan aberrations. These bandit John the Baptists were capable of loading their deadly weapons with their rosary beads.

Thanks to his guards, Antônio Conselheiro ruled the settlement with a firm hand, disciplining those who strayed. In the jail that was paradoxically set up there—the settlers called it the dustbin—hardened murderers were in daily contact with those who had committed the unforgiveable crime of missing prayer services. Justice was backward in this clan run by bandits—the law came down hard on small offenses and overlooked the big ones. This society had a unique view of delinquency, a complete inversion of the concept of crime. Harsh punishments were given for the slightest infractions.

The use of cane liquor, for example, was a serious offense. Woe to the alcoholic who broke the ban. The story goes that a band of uninformed pack drivers from Juazeiro arrived in Canudos with a few barrels of the forbidden beverage. They were attracted by the promise of profit, for weren’t they carrying the eternal companion of the backwoodsman’s leisure moments? When they arrived and deposited their valuable cargo in the town square, they had an unpleasant surprise. Their barrels were hacked open with machetes and the sacrilegious contents flowed away unconsumed. They made off in haste, with empty hands and bruised from dozens of blows administered by the ungrateful crowd.