The request was justified. Alarming reports were coming in daily about the gravity of the situation. Even discounting inevitable exaggerations, two things were clear: The rebel forces were large in number, and the savage region where the rebels were dug in held serious threats for the outsiders. This news, however, was tangled in a great number of contradictory versions aggravated by corrupt and covert political interests that I will not discuss here. A lot of time was wasted in this churning of useless information. Meanwhile the telegraph lines hummed with news from the backlands frontier, and at Queimadas the commander of the new expedition waited anxiously with 243 enlisted men.
Short on supplies and faced with all manner of difficulties, caught between conflicting reports, the commander wavered between despair and hope at being able to complete his mission. It was not until December that this officer set out for Monte Santo with his troops, with a reinforcement of one hundred men from Bahia.
The assault now had a definite campaign plan. The district commander grasped the situation. He planned to attack the rebels from two points, with two columns bearing down on a single target, under the command of Colonel Pedro Nunes Tamarindo of the Ninth Infantry. The plan was adapted to the conditions of the conflict: first to draw a wide circle around the rebels from a distance, fighting them a few at a time, and then to close in on them with small highly trained detachments. Made more agile by separating from the larger unit, these detachments could better adjust to the rugged terrain and maximize their chances of survival. However effective the guerrilla-style warfare of the insurgents might be, they would be trapped in the circle and the battle would not be spread over a territory that would allow the dispersed groups to reconvene at any given point. To attack them in this manner, by leading them to different locations, was certainly to defeat them.
This was what our countrymen recognized over a hundred years ago. They had been trained in the unique character of backlands rebellions and had adapted their military strategies to the situation. Their vision was one of systematic deployment of “irregular troops,” which, unencumbered by conventional tactics and battle formations, would be able to function effectively as auxiliary scouts in support of the regular troops, maneuvering in the depths of the woodlands and over the rugged terrain.
This tactic of “divide and strengthen,” an adaptation of African and Indian warfare, has been practiced throughout our history, since the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Indian rebellions and runaway slave settlements were put down by small armies led by “woodlands captains.” Many of these fierce battles were never recorded. It was certainly a throwback to primitive warfare. But if the brave and astute
jagunço
did not inspire us to adopt it, then the particular nature of the land that protected him certainly should have encouraged us to do so. Let us see why this was so.
The War of the
Caatingas
The European doctors of the art of killing are scandalously invading the calm domain of science and disturbing it with insolent warmongering. They have been well aware of the tactical role of forests in offensive and defensive action while they have formulated the laws of war and the equations of battles. The seasoned old field marshals, whose ancient Frank battle-ax was replaced by an engineer’s pencil, would laugh to hear that our poor brushlands have a more critical function in a military campaign than the great virgin forests.
These great European woods are in a sense neutralized in the course of a campaign, even though they play an important role in defending a territory. They mark borders and buffer the impact of an invasion while at the same time hindering rapid mobilization and making it difficult to transport heavy artillery. The woods can favor either side of the combat, offering both the same cover for ambush and making strategic deployments and other maneuvers equally difficult for both sides. They are but one variable in the dark formulas of war, capable of completely opposite values.
The brushwood, on the other hand, is a constant ally of the backlands insurgent. The vegetation participates in the battle. It arms itself for combat and becomes an aggressor. It closes ranks, forming an impenetrable barrier for the stranger but it opens multiple trails for the native born and bred there. And this is how the
jagunço
becomes an elusive guerrilla.
The brushland not only hides him, it protects him.
In the summer a column of soldiers will not be alarmed by the vista of the
caatinga
. The men will trudge painfully along the twisting paths. Since they can see over the tops of the leafless undergrowth, they do not even think about the enemy. The heat and the long march relaxes them and they carry on a babble of conversation all down the line, punctuated by bursts of barely repressed laughter and the clanking of weapons. They see nothing to alarm them here. If the enemy should be so foolish as to attack them, they would wipe him out in minutes. The shoots of foliage would be shredded apart by a few sword strokes, and the fine underbrush could not possibly delay the progress of quick maneuvers. They continue their march with heroic calm.
Suddenly a shot rings out from their flanks, at close range.
The bullet zings past them, or perhaps one of their men lies dead on the ground. This is followed in succession by others, in long whistles, over the heads of the troops. A hundred, two hundred, a thousand frightened eyes scan the foliage but see nothing.
This is the first surprise. A tremor of fear runs through the ranks. The shots continue, not many of them, but insistently and at measured intervals, from the left, the right, and now from ahead. The entire column is under steady, deadly fire.
Then a strange anxiety grips even the most tested of them, as they face an antagonist who can see them but whom they cannot see. They quickly form a company of sharpshooters and with difficulty they break off from the main body of troops caught on the narrow path. These men spread out around the edge of the
caatinga
. A voice can be heard giving a command, followed by a volley of bullets roaring through the mass of underbrush.
But the invisible missiles keep coming, always at long intervals, humming up and down the line. The situation rapidly gets worse, requiring decisive action. Other combat units are identified and deployed along the entire stretch of road, poised to act on command. The commander decides to launch an offensive against the hidden enemy but he soon discovers he is attacking a phantom. The men beat down the brush with their bayonets, under assault from a widening swath of bullets. They move ahead quickly, and the enemy seems to fall back. Just at this moment, the
caatinga
shows its formidable strength.
The details rush to the points from where the gunfire has been heard and are stopped short by the flexible but impenetrable barrier of the
jurema
thicket. They become tangled in a liana bed, which trips them, snatches their weapons from their hands, and will not let them pass. They are forced to turn back and go around it. They see what seems to be a long flame, a row of bayonets along dried brushwood. It glows for a few minutes in the sun, filtered through the leafless brush, and then disappears, only to be viewed here and there along the path, beating against the dense layers of
xique-xiques
, clustered in squares of an immovable phalanx, covered with thorns.
The confused soldiers make a wide circle. They spread out, running aimlessly through the labyrinth of branches. They fall, trapped by the slipknot lassos of the creeping
quipá
vines. Or they become trapped, their legs immobilized by the powerful tentacles of the foliage. They writhe desperately, shredding their uniforms in the arced feline claws of the
macambira
thorns.
Rendered impotent, they rail and curse their disappointment and rage as they continue their useless, furious struggle. Finally, the noise recedes as the troops scatter. They fire aimlessly and at random, often felling their own comrades. Reinforcements arrive. The same battle with the underbrush flares up again, on a larger scale, as the confusion and chaos escalate. Meanwhile the rhythmic, accurate, and deadly fire of the enemy falls implacably around them.
All of a sudden it stops. The enemy that no one has seen is gone.
The depleted troops return to the column after their futile incursion into the underbrush. It is as if they had engaged in hand-to-hand combat with savages. Their uniforms are in tatters, their weapons are destroyed or lost; they have deep gashes on their bodies; they are limping, maimed; and they can barely repress cries of pain from the hellish wounds inflicted by the prickly
caatinga
leaves.
The troops are reorganized and the march continues. They walk two abreast down the trail. The blue uniforms with their scarlet stripes and the shining, swaying bayonets lend a streak of color to the gray landscape. They march on; they recede into the distance; they are lost in the horizon.
Minutes go by. At the site of the battle, out of the scattered brush, five, ten, twenty men at the most emerge and quickly, quietly slip away through the parched thickets.
They gather on the highway. They stand there for a while, peering at the now barely visible column of troops. Handling their weapons, still hot from battle, they quickly head down the trails to their hidden dwellings.
The government forces will proceed more carefully from now on.
The demoralized troops walk in silence, worried about the untouchable enemy and the prospect of sudden ambush. The commanding officer surrounds them with every possible protective measure. Detachments guard their flanks. Two hundred yards ahead of the column is a squadron of handpicked men to guide them on their way.
As they descend a rugged slope, however, they come upon a ravine that has to be crossed. Fortunately, its sides have been scoured clean by the floods, leaving only a few clumps of grass, sparse cacti jutting out between stone rubble, and the dead branches of
umbú
trees gleaming like bones in the graveyard of the drought.
The advance guard makes its way down the wall of the ravine. The first battalions follow. The troops slowly make their way down the rough slope. The entire column can be seen descending the narrow valley, through its twists and turns, as their weapons shine in the sun, like a dark stream shooting out rays of light.
They stop dead in their tracks, seized by a common tremor they cannot control.
A bullet whistles by.
This time the shots come slowly from a single position above them, apparently from a lone marksman.
Discipline holds the ranks; it prevents the imminent panic from breaking out. As before, a detachment breaks off and ascends the slope toward the shots. The cacophony of echoes makes it impossible for the men to keep their bearings. In the extremely hot atmosphere and low humidity the sniper’s position is not betrayed by smoke from his weapon. So he continues to fire, slowly but with terrifying accuracy.
The shots finally stop. The soldiers roam the slopes in a useless search.
They return exhausted. The bugles sound. The troops continue their march, their numbers diminished. And when the last are out of sight, beyond the next hill, a figure rises up from the stone mounds—a sinister caryatid from cyclopean ruins—a hard, sunburned face, then the body of an athlete, covered in rude leather. He swiftly traverses the steep sides of the ravine and then disappears. This terrible tracker of soldiers is gone in seconds.
The troops are now completely demoralized. Seasoned warriors have been reduced to frightened children. At each turn of the road, at every cracking twig, they tremble with fear. The army has come to the realization that its strength is its weakness.
Without the capacity to maneuver easily, the column continues in a state of total exhaustion through the desert, under constant threat of ambush. It will slowly be bled by an enemy that launches surprise attacks and flees.
The fight is unequal. When a military force must lower itself to an inferior type of combat, it has to deal not only with man but also with the earth. And when the backlands broil in the dry heat of summer, it is not hard to predict who will be the victor. When the mighty Minotaur is brought to its knees by thirst and hunger, it beats a hasty retreat from the threatening desert. Meanwhile the
sertão
, a warrior maiden, takes the backlander to her nurturing breast.
In these transitions between drought and green abundance, when the last trickles of water are to be found in the mud of the marshes and the last yellowing leaves on the branches of the
baraúna
trees, as the stranger to the region flees the coming drought, the backlander is favored by his detailed knowledge of the long, winding trails. He knows every corner of his immense, roofless home. He cares little that the journey grows longer, that shelter is scarce, that the wells are dry and the oases where he takes his noonday rest are drying up. He is strengthened by his sense of the familiar. The trees are old companions. He knows them all. They were born together, they grew up like brothers, and they lived through the same hardships and the same moments of happiness.
The
umbú
will quench his thirst and offer him shade from its thinning leaves. The
araticú
, the green
uricuri
, the elegant
marí
, the
quixaba
with its tiny fruits will give him plenty to eat.
4
The
palmatórias
, stripped of their thorns through a process of rapid combustion, the
mandacarús
carved up with a knife, or the leaves of the
juás
will keep his horse alive.
5
The
juás
give him a roof for his campsite; the caroa fibers make flexible and resistant ropes. If he must travel at night, and in the darkness he can barely see the phosphorescent glow of the
cumanans
hanging like fantastic garlands from the trees, then all he has to do is light a green
candombá
branch and brandish it as he proceeds down the trail.
6
This bright torch will blind and frighten the pumas.