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The major explains that Captain Ferreira Rocha’s patrols have reconnoitered the route to Tanquinho and that there is no trace of jagunços, but that the road is full of sudden drops and rough stretches that are going to make it difficult to get the artillery through. Ferreira Rocha’s scouts are looking to see if there is some way around these obstacles, and in any case a team of sappers has also gone on ahead to level the road.

“Did you make sure the prisoners were separated?” Moreira César asks him.

“I assigned them to different companies and expressly forbade them to see each other or talk to each other,” the major assures him.

“The animal convoy detail has also left,” Colonel Tamarindo says. And after a moment’s hesitation: “Febrônio de Brito was very upset. He had a crying fit.”

“Any other officer would have committed suicide” is Moreira César’s only comment. He rises to his feet and an orderly hastens to gather up the papers on the table that the colonel has been using as a desk. Followed by his staff officers, Moreira César heads toward the exit. People rush forward to see him, but before he reaches the door he remembers something, shifts course, and walks over to the bench where the municipal councillors of Queimadas are waiting. They rise to their feet. They are simple folk, farmers or humble tradesmen, who are dressed in their best clothes and have shined their big clumsy shoes as a mark of their respect. They are carrying their sombreros in their hands, and are plainly ill at ease.

“Thanks for your hospitality and collaboration, gentlemen.” The colonel includes all of them in a single conventionally polite, almost blank sweep of his eyes. “The Seventh Regiment will not forget the warm welcome it received in Queimadas. I trust you will look after the troops that remain here.”

They haven’t time to answer, for instead of bidding each of them farewell individually, he salutes the group as a whole, raising his right hand to his kepi, turns round, and heads for the door.

The appearance of Moreira César and his escort outside in the street, where the regiment is lined up in formation—the ranks of men disappear from sight in the distance, one company behind another as far as the railroad tracks—is greeted by applause and cheers. The sentinels stop the curious from coming any closer. The handsome white horse whinnies, impatient to be off. Tamarindo, Cunha Matos, Olímpio de Castro, and the escort mount their horses, and the press correspondents, already in the saddle, surround the colonel. He is rereading the telegram to the Supreme Government that he has dictated: “The Seventh Regiment beginning this day, 8 February, its campaign in defense of Brazilian sovereignty. Not one case of indiscipline among the troops. Our one fear that Antônio Conselheiro and the Restorationist rebels will not be awaiting us in Canudos. Long live the Republic.” He initials it so that the telegraph operator can send it off immediately. He then signals to Captain Olímpio de Castro, who gives an order to the buglers. They sound a piercing, mournful call that rends the early-morning air.

“It’s the regimental call,” Cunha Matos says to the gray-haired correspondent next to him.

“Does it have a name?” the shrill, irksome little voice of the man from the Jornal de Notícias asks. He has equipped his mule with a large leather pouch for his portable writing desk, thus giving the animal the air of a marsupial.

“Call to charge and slit throats,” Moreira César answers. “The regiment has sounded it ever since the war with Paraguay, when for lack of ammunition it was obliged to attack with sabers, bayonets, and knives.”

With a wave of his right hand he gives the order to march. Mules, men, horses, carts, artillery pieces begin moving off, amid clouds of dust that a strong wind sends their way. As they leave Queimadas, the various corps of the column are grouped close together, and only the colors of the pennons carried by their standard-bearers differentiate them. Soon the uniforms of officers and men become indistinguishable, for the strong wind