Backlands (35 page)

Nature protects the backlander. It makes him as invincible as Antaeus. He is a bronzed Titan who brings armies to their knees.

The next campaign would face similar difficulties. It was the biggest military force ever seen in all of Brazil’s northern territories and it should have been prepared for the local situation. General Frederico Sólon’s plans revealed that he had made contingency plans for this very exceptional battle, for which no Jomini had written a rule book, because conditions here inverted even the most basic precepts of the art of war.

The comparison may not be entirely accurate, but Canudos was our Vendée. The Chouan and his heaths are a good analogy to the
jagunço
and the
caatinga
. They share the same politically inspired mysticism, daring, and shrewdness, and they live in similarly adverse terrain. They recall the legendary corner of Brittany where rebels drove out an army that would march over Europe, and only surrendered in the end to the flying squadrons of an unknown commander, General Turreau. His “columns from hell” were fewer in number but faster, like the Vendeans themselves, who were finally corralled into a circle of sixteen entrenched camps.

CHAPTER IV

TRAPPED AT MOUNT CAMBAIO

On December 29 the expedition arrived at Monte Santo.

The troops entered Monte Santo on December 29. From that day on, the town of Brother Apolônio de Todi would become the base of operations for the battle of Canudos. It was the best strategic location for the campaign. It also allowed for speedy communications with the coast through the Queimadas station.

There were also other considerations. We have already described the impressive way in which this place was founded. We do not imply that its founder, the stoic Friar Todi, who reminds us of the sixteenth-century missionary José de Anchieta, was really aware of the many advantages of the town’s location. Tucked at the base of the only mountain in the region, the town provides a contrast to the otherwise sterile landscape. Walls of bare rock rise to the north and east and form a barrier to the sea breezes. The sudden ascent of the wind up the mountain wall provides a cooling effect and condenses the scant moisture it holds, regularly depositing it as rain. This creates a better climate than that of the neighboring backlands where the wind blows dry after its descent from the highlands.

The result is that while all around are vast stretches of barren plains, the landscape stretching several kilometers from Monte Santo is incomparably more vivid. Small drought-resistant streams flow through it. In the foothills is a rough forest growth where the
caatingas
have become large patches of green thickets. The Cariacá River, with its little tributaries, never completely dries up even in the worst drought. During the driest season it divides into a number of small pools and its tiny streams trickle into the rocks, providing just enough water for the inhabitants to survive the scourge.

It is only natural that Monte Santo has for a long time been a favorite spot for those who venture into that terrible part of the backlands. It is not the first time that it has played a role in history. Long before those who now seek it out, other possibly braver and more interesting adventurers passed through, driven by other motives. Whether for the expeditionary bands of the seventeenth century or the present-day military, this fateful site was a wayside stop for a brief time and had just a small part in more momentous events. The historic function of the place is very similar for the pillagers of the backlands, who through the centuries are very much the same in their hatreds and violent impulses.

It was at this place that Belchior Moréia, father of Robério Dias, made a stop on his intrepid journey from the Rio Real to the Jacobina Mountains in the Maçacará backlands. There were others after him, guided by the confusing logs of previous adventurers, in which the mountain’s ancient name, Piquaraçá, is always found as a landmark of the welcoming region in the middle of these barren wastes. It was the mustering point for the famous silver mines movement. This went from Muribeca’s futile expedition to the determined search of Pedro Barbosa Leal. He followed Moréia’s trails and camped on the mountain for many days, finding signs of his equally daring predecessors. As time went on, the magical mountain was forgotten in the backlands. Many imagined it might be the longed-for El Dorado. Apolônio de Todi transformed it into a rustic but majestic shrine.

Today, those who travel the road to Queimadas, through a landscape bristling with cactus and stones, will, a few miles this side of Quirinquinquá, stop short at the sight of the place. To the east, the vision of this monument through the shimmering hot air, set between a cloudless sky and the vast stretch of plains below, will seem like an astounding mirage. The mountain made of this mass of quartzite, a material so well suited to earth’s monumental structures, rises in the distance, its height accentuated by the surrounding lowlands. It projects a line of jagged peaks. The eastern flank stands perpendicularly, like a rampart, above the town, which huddles humbly against it, dwarfed by the majesty of the mountain. Stretching from the public square to the summit is the most beautiful of Monte Santo’s streets, the
via sacra
of the
sertão
, paved in brilliant white quartz, made smooth by the countless multitudes who have walked there in a century of pilgrimages. The backlanders were inspired by their naive religion to carve thousands of steps, winding like a snail shell around the peak, as if they were building a road to heaven.

The vision is amazing from a distance.

Little white chapels are dots along the road, which starts at a steep incline, turning and twisting around the mountain, but always ascending. These tiny shrines, perched on precipices, gradually diminish in size as they fade into the serene blue of the sky, one by one, to the very top.

Whoever follows the Queimadas road must cross a stretch of desert covered by dying scrub foliage. Tree branches are twisted as if writhing in a spasm; thistles dig into the rocks like tentacles; bromeliads bloom a blood red. The traveler will hasten his pace to flee this disturbing landscape. When he arrives at the town, he is not disappointed. The highway leads him to the rectangular square on a slope eroded by torrential rains. In the middle of the square is the obligatory fair booth. At one side is the small church and on the other a centuries-old tamarind tree, the town’s only ornament. Ancient small houses are situated around the town. Standing out among them is a two-story structure, which later will become the military headquarters.

The square is the heart of Monte Santo. All the small roads radiate outward from this place, some to the marshes, others to the plain, and still others dead-ending at the mountain. The mountain loses some of its charm from this perspective. It appears diminished in height and it no longer has sharp outlines as from a distance. Its slopes are covered with an inexplicably vivid flora, clinging to the rocks, bursting through the cracks of the strata, and clinging to life just from the effects of the marvelous sunlight. The little chapels, so white from a distance, now seem shabby and abandoned. The masonry walls along the winding road are crumbling, the steps are cracked, and the tortuous scene looks like a giant staircase in ruins. The depressing, dilapidated town reflects the same neglect by an unknown race, slowly dying inside the walls of its mud huts. There is nothing here of the traditional charm of country villages. The clusters of small houses are built for the harsh environment. They are brutally ugly and squat—low roofs over four mud walls. Some must be a hundred years old. The newer ones, built in the same ungainly style, are born old.

It is thus ironic that Monte Santo should be such an ugly stain on the beautiful landscape that provides a parenthetical relief to the harshness of the
sertão
. The campaign that was about to begin would aggravate the town’s unpleasant appearance and transform it into a hulking military barracks.

The first regular expeditionary force against Canudos was billeted here: 543 regular army, 14 field officers, and 3 surgeons. It was an eclectic mix of three battalions, the Ninth, the Twenty-sixth, and the Thirty-third. In addition, there were several dozen police troops and a small artillery division with two 7.5 Krupp cannons and two Nordenfelt machine guns.

It was less than a brigade and a little more than a complete battalion.

The authorities gave the troops a triumphal welcome, buoyed by the spirit of official optimism. The drab town was transformed with flags and decorative foliage, and set off by the bright uniforms and gleaming weapons of the soldiers. A holiday was declared. It was livelier than the most popular pilgrimage or fair. As the cowboys returned to the town from their tiring trip in the backlands, they were surprised to find the streets crowded with troops. After hitching their skinny horses under the shady tamarind tree in the square, they stood staring at the artillery they had so often heard about but never seen. It was rumored that these weapons could blow up mountains and shake the earth with a single shot, more powerful than a thousand catapults. These hardened Titans, used to braving the worst climates, shook inside their leather armor as they examined these fearsome weapons of the civilized world. Many saddled up and left town for the backlands. Some headed north for Canudos at top speed. No one paid the least attention to them as the citizens made merry. Antônio Conselheiro’s crafty spies went unnoticed. They watched, asked questions, counted the soldiers, and closely observed the entire expedition. When their work was done, they slipped away and returned to the sacred village.

Others remained under cover, observing the scene with cruel irony, certain that this was just a bizarre prologue to a painful drama. The prophet could not be wrong: His victory was preordained. He had predicted it—the invaders would not even catch a glimpse of the sacrosanct church towers. In the meantime, hidden altars were lit. The laughter, the thud of boots on the pavement, the shrill bugle calls, and loud vivas in the street outside filtered through the walls and chinks of the houses, disturbing the muffled prayers of the kneeling faithful.

A banquet was laid out in the best house in the town. There was a round of speechifying, delivered with a simple, moving eloquence particular to the fighting man, whose expressiveness is in proportion to his crudeness—an oratory made of short, stiff phrases like sharp commands and punctuated with the magic words
“fatherland,
” “
glory,
” and “
liberty,
” uttered in every imaginable tone of voice. The rebels would be destroyed by iron and fire. Like the wheels of Shiva’s chariot, the treads of the Krupp cannons would roll over the vast plains, over the high ridges and down into the broad valleys, leaving behind furrows filled with blood. It was important to teach these barbaric criminals a lesson. These backward heathens had committed the grave sin of stupidly clinging to ancient traditions. Energetic corrective measures were needed to drag them out of the barbaric behavior that was a stain on our country. They should be prodded into civilization at sword point.

Everyone was convinced that an example would be made of these people. It was evident in the mindless celebration of an entire village, the noisy bluster of the officers and the troops, and in the party atmosphere on the eve of battle, two steps away from the minefield of the
sertão.

Late in the afternoon noisy groups moved into the square. They walked down roads, spreading out over the town. Some, thinking they would get a rare view, climbed the mountain on the sinuous path edged by the small white chapels.

On the exhausting ascent they stopped at the stations to catch their breath. They curiously examined the holy images and the crude altars, and then went on.

At the “summit of the holy cross,” buffeted by the strong gusts from the northeast, they stopped and looked around.

There, below them, was the
sertão.

A brief sensation of dread overtook the more timid ones, but it soon evaporated. They returned quietly to the town, where the first lamps were being lit as night fell.

The campaign was certainly off to an auspicious beginning.

Monte Santo had already handed victory to the expedition.

All of this was a big mistake. In the prebattle posturing and the pomp and show of the parade ground, the people of Monte Santo got the impression that victory was guaranteed. The troops were likewise infected with this idea and it inflated their hopes.

The defeat of the fanatics was a foregone conclusion.

In war, the preoccupation with defeat is paradoxical. It is the best motivation for victory. Military history is full of strange contradictions. This aside, war itself is monstrous and illogical. Today much has to do with superior technical skill, but war is still marked by its corrupt origins in banditry. Underlying all the strategy and tactics and the illusion of safety given by the death arsenal, a dark art that produces a burst of shrapnel from a mathematical formula and the violent trajectory of bullets and cannonballs out of its parabolas—underlying all of this is a primitive brutality. This is still the
vis a tergo
of battle.