Backlands (64 page)

Escorted by just two staff members from headquarters, his own and an aide to General Carlos Eugenio de Andrade Guimarães, Marshal Bittencourt had to go through a region teeming with wounded soldiers before he could get to the base of operations. Although he was well provisioned and had sturdy horses, they met as many hardships along these beaten paths as those traveling on foot on the difficult backlands trails. The journey took three days. At every turn of the road they encountered a depressing reminder of the war. The terrain was becoming more rugged with each step, as the earth became more calcified and barren. Their first stop was at the farm known as Tanquinho, or Little Cistern, and it was typical of what they would find along the way. It was an unnatural scene. The farmhouse was falling apart. It had two abandoned structures hidden behind the branches of the plains evergreens, and scrawny cactus plants ran down to the roadway. The cistern that gave the farm its name was made of a surface layer of granite, which created an impermeable strip of soil where water might collect, safe from the suction effect of the surrounding sandstone. Dozens of wounded men were resting next to the pond in the company of wagoners of the supply train. Absent was the usual noise and activity of a camp. It was quiet, just a morose cluster of emaciated forms, lying as if paralyzed in complete exhaustion.

This was a deeply disturbing sight. As night fell and bonfires were reflected in the dark water, some of the men could be seen crouched around the flames, shivering with fever, while others limped slowly about, their huge, distorted shadows projecting on the flat surface of the pond. Thirsty officers who had gone to the marsh for a drink would run into ghosts hardly able to stand as they tried to give a military salute. These officers would come back saddened by the encounter. From now on the same scene would often be repeated: The same defeated refugees were traveling the roads and the same groups of broken human beings would be found at the side of the greenish black, algae-infested swamps.

In contrast, a cowboy would run into a caravan of wounded men. He was the picture of health and affability. A friend and ally, he had been hired out to the transport service. Mounted on his leather-trapped steed, his broad-brimmed hat turned up at a jaunty angle, with his tanned and honest face, he was a welcome sign of health and strength. He wore his long alligator knife at his belt and carried his harpoonlike cattle prong in his right hand. The backwoodsman would wait motionless for the cavalcade to pass, with the respectful stance of a trained soldier. He was a solid figure in his leather vest that made him look like a sturdy warrior still dusty from battle.

The marshal’s party continued on and soon forgot the sight of the robust
sertanejo
. Their attention was continuously diverted by the growing bands of refugees. Some of the wounded soldiers walked haltingly, leaning on their rifles. Officers were carried in hammocks. Their hats were pulled over their eyes and they were unaware of their surroundings, stiff as corpses. Occasionally there were large dark stains in the
caatinga
, which were the remains of burned homes, their beams and ridgepoles exposed, weaving a skein of ruins over the desert wasteland as a stupid reminder of this backlands war.

They found some respite from these ugly scenes in Cansanção. For a few hours they experienced a comforting sense of calm. The village was a family compound, and its patriarch immediately gathered his sons, grandsons, and great-grandsons for a standing ovation for the marshal. It was done with a refreshing innocence. The old “monarch” even lifted the astounded minister in his arms, tired from eighty years of hard labor.

The rest stop was providential. This place was an oasis in the desolation of the backlands war. The tough old man who ruled the village was an inspiration. He introduced a son and grandsons who were already turning gray. The complete antithesis of the precocious young thug at Queimadas, he was the personification of robust simplicity of soul that is inherent to the character of backwoods people when they are not corrupted by crime and fanaticism. This encouraged the marshal and his party. The tiny village of a dozen homes huddled together on a street a few yards long became the only place in the long history of the campaign that did not bring up horrible memories. It was the one safe zone in the madness. A small hospital had been set up there under the supervision of two Franciscan monks. They cared for wanderers heading toward Queimadas who could not go any farther.

When they left Cansanção, the marshal and his escorts returned to the perils of the dusty trail. It twisted and turned, branching into many side trails. It was bordered by ruined hovels. Once in a while they would come upon another band of refugees.

From Contendas on, everywhere they went, they found graffiti scrawled on every available white wall of any house that was still standing. They were angry protests written with lumps of coal by every wounded man who had passed there. They described their terrible experiences with complete candor through this anonymous medium. Here the army used its iron hand to write the story of this drama in enormous letters. It produced a graphic image of the momentous conflict—this was the real significance of the crude inscriptions, which so bluntly described their authors’ feelings. These furious chroniclers left a concise but accurate account of the worst scandal in our history. They did it brutally, with cartoons, pornography, expletives, and exclamations of despair. They had no concern for form or propriety—to the contrary, this was a black wave of rancor that flowed down the highway, covered the walls of the houses, and then entered them, filling the inner walls to the roof.

When they entered the huts, the marshal and his escorts were shocked by the silent chorus of profanity and insults. Unbelievable obscenities were written in crude rhyme and verse and accompanied by shocking drawings. It was as if accusations were being thrown from all corners of the room and the roughly scrawled letters were doing a grotesque dance punctuated with exclamation points that were like the thrusts of a sword. Viva! Death! These cries came from every corner, directed at famous public figures, with curses and invectives. The lines contained vicious puns, bold and insulting insinuations, and gross barracks humor.

The mission had suddenly lost its heroic dimension. It was no longer a brilliant military exercise. Future historians will attempt to cover the truth with glowing narratives. But on every page those outrageous and indestructible palimpsests will remain.

By the time they arrived at Monte Santo the new recruits did not have the same enthusiasm as their predecessors about pulling out their swords. They were dejected. They revived somewhat as they entered the village that was the base of operations.

In a few days Monte Santo had been transformed from a backwater settlement that had not seen any change for a hundred years or more into a much larger place. Two thousand white tents populated the surrounding plains, forming a new suburb, larger than the town itself, with clearly outlined streets. The tent village, clearly visible on the unobstructed plain, was divided into six groups. Banners waved atop all of them and everywhere could be heard the energetic beat of bugle and drum.

The town was filled with new residents from many different locations. They crowded in the square and overflowed into the narrow lanes. The men came from a heterogeneous mix of social and professional backgrounds: officers of all ranks and branches of the service, wagon drivers covered with dust from their long journeys, soldiers bending under the weight of their equipment, the limping sick and wounded, poorly dressed women, bustling tradespeople, groups of carefree students, journalists looking for news and asking endless questions. This made the scene look like a busy town square on market day. Marshal Bittencourt immediately declared martial law and adopted policies that responded to the complex needs of the situation. The military hospital became a reality. It was well equipped and staffed with skilled surgeons assisted by students from the College of Medicine in Bahia who had volunteered their services. Discipline was instituted everywhere, and the matter of the transportation was resolved. Supply trains were now leaving and returning to Canudos on a daily basis.

The results of these efforts could be seen immediately. They were reflected in the news from the battlefield, where the army troops were now taking more decisive action.

All this was due to the work of one man who was incapable of demonstrating any enthusiasm and who even at the base of operations refused to shed his formal alpaca coat to review the troops. This man had, through his devotion, made himself the true commander of the conflict. At a distance of forty miles from the front, he was in fact managing the conflict. He did it not with fanfare, not with elaborate plans, but by spending his days in the rough company of pack drivers in Monte Santo. He could be seen in their midst, pacing impatiently with his watch in his hand, giving the signal for them to depart.

Each supply train that arrived was worth battalions. It guaranteed success. It gave the fighting men fresh hope for victory, and little by little the stagnation that had paralyzed the operation was lifting. This is what the latest reports indicated.

The month of September began well enough. On the fourth, one of the
jagunços’
top leaders was killed by a gunshot. He collapsed in front of the churches. The speed at which the inhabitants came to his side and carried him away was an indication of his importance. On the sixth, an even more significant event occurred. One after the other, the towers of the new church fell to the ground. This happened after six straight hours of bombardment. It was entirely unexpected.

It was due to an error in supplying munitions to the front. Instead of sending grenades for the Krupp, they had sent plain cannonballs. They were not appropriate for the current situation and so it was decided to use them up by firing on the churches.

The astonishing result was recorded in two ebullient orders of the day. The army was free at last from the watchtowers that had been used by the sharpshooters with such lethal effect. They had a view of the entire field of battle and had crippled the men in the trenches. From July 18 on, the towers had been occupied by expert marksmen who let nothing out of their sight. No one dared to leave the shelter of the huts.

When the supply trains arrived they were always met with a loud barrage of fire from the church towers as they were about to cross the river before entering the canyon that provided a covered passage into the town. It was from this point that the new arrivals, the auxiliary brigade, the São Paulo Battalion, and the Thirty-seventh Infantry were given a backlands salute.

At last the towers were down. The entire army, awestruck at the sight, stopped firing and began to whoop and holler. They had tumbled, one after the other, tearing away large sections of the wall in huge blocks and burying the sharpshooters in the rubble. The stones crashed into the square in a cloud of mortar dust. The commander of the first column wrote about it in his plan of the day: “The men in our front line and the troops in the camp broke out into wild shouts and jeers directed at the backlands bunch.”

That was a good summary of the campaign. From beginning to end it was all “sound and fury, signifying nothing”—enthusiastic catcalls.

Be that as it may, the enemy’s advantage was gone. The spell had been lifted. The huge settlement now suddenly seemed diminished in size. Now missing the two slender white towers that had been a landmark for cattlemen for miles around, it seemed more run-down and sunk even deeper into the depression in which it had been built. When the tall spires reached into the deep blue sky or glowed on starlit nights, they served as a symbol of the
sertanejo
’s naive mysticism and sent his prayers up to heaven.

The
jagunços
viewed the fall of the towers as a bad omen. The next day they suffered a major setback. Several dozen of their fighters had been holed up for a long time at the Old Ranch House, confronting Colonel Olympio da Silveira’s cannons, which were set up on the rim of Mount Favela. For more than two months the rebels had blocked the movement of the army lines in the direction of the village, in spite of the constant fire that the artillery, just two steps away, directed at them at close range. Since they held a dominant position, above the mass of forces stationed at the edge of the village, they could mow down our men, which accounted for the daily losses suffered by the ranks. This position was similar to the towers in terms of effectiveness in destroying the most carefully constructed trenches and shelters. On September 7, at ten o’clock at night, the
sertanejos
were suddenly routed out of this position. Emboldened by the success of the previous day, and following an order from the commander of the first column, Colonel Olympio da Silveira came down the mountain with a contingent formed by the fourth battery of the Second Regiment, one of the Fifth Regiment, and one machine gun. In the front and rear were former military cadets. The colonel positioned sharpshooters on both flanks. Creeping down the slopes, this detachment rolled like a rockslide onto the hill below. Completely taken by surprise, and stunned by the charge of three hundred bayonets from either side, the
jagunços
were unable to put up any resistance and were rapidly taken out of the stone trenches they had built around the ruins of the Old Ranch House. The mission took five minutes. Pushed back and dispersed, the rebels were chased by the vanguard all the way to Bald Hill, where they jumped into the riverbed below and scrambled across it until they disappeared into Canudos. Our troops had only two casualties.

Once they captured this position, which covered a broad terrace on the slope between Mario’s Hill, which had been previously occupied, and the Vaza-Barris, Colonel Olympio da Silveira pitched his tent on the same spot where the commander of the third expedition had died. They spent the rest of the night building a stone wall about three feet high with rocks taken from the
sertanejo
trenches along the rim of the terrace. The next day the Seventh of September Trench stood over the settlement. The siege had advanced fifteen hundred yards to the left, in a southern direction, entirely blocking the two eastern quadrants. On the afternoon of the same day it expanded even farther, circling west, all the way to the start of the Cambaio road, near the confluence of the Mucuim. It now contained the entire western section of the town.