The War Of The End Of The World - Mario Vargas Llosa [149]
Of the five, two decide to remain in Monte Santo and another to return to Queimadas, since he is not feeling well. The captain suggests to the two who choose to go on with the regiment—the elderly journalist who goes around all bundled up and the nearsighted one—that they go get some sleep, since from now on there will be forced marches.
The following day, when the two correspondents wake up—it is dawn and cocks are crowing—they are told that Moreira César has already left because there has been an incident in the vanguard: three soldiers have raped an adolescent girl. They depart immediately, with a company under the command of Colonel Tamarindo. When they reach the head of the column, they find that the rapists have been tied to tree trunks, one alongside the other, and are being flogged. One of them roars with pain at each lash of the whip; the second one appears to be praying; and the third one keeps his face set in an arrogant expression as his back grows redder and redder and the blood begins to spurt.
They are in a clearing, surrounded by a thicket of mandacarus, velame, and calumbi. The companies of the vanguard are standing amid the bushes and brambles watching the flogging. An absolute silence reigns among the men, whose eyes never leave those receiving the lashing. The screech of parrots and a woman’s sobs break the silence from time to time. The one who is weeping is a young albino girl, slightly deformed, barefoot, with bruises showing through the tears in her garments. No one pays any attention to her, and when the nearsighted journalist asks an official if she is the one who has been raped, he nods. Moreira César is standing next to Major Cunha Matos. His white horse idles about a few yards away, without a saddle, its coat fresh and clean as though it had just been curried.
When the flogging is over, two of the soldiers being punished have fainted, but the third one, the arrogant one, makes a show of coming to attention to listen to the colonel’s words.
“May this serve as a lesson to you men,” he shouts. “The army is and must be the most incorruptible institution of the Republic. All of us, from the highest-ranking officer to the humblest private in the ranks, are obliged to act at all times in such a way that civilians will respect the uniform we wear. You know the tradition of this regiment: misdeeds are punished with the greatest severity. We are here to protect the civilian population, not to rival bandits. The next man guilty of rape will meet with the death penalty.”
There is not a murmur, not a movement in response to his words. The bodies of the two men who have fainted lie in ridiculous, comic postures. The albino girl has stopped weeping. She has a mad look in her eyes and every so often breaks into a smile.
“Give this unfortunate creature something to eat,” Moreira César says, pointing to her. And adds, addressing the journalists who have approached him: “She’s a little touched in the head. Would you say that raping her was setting a good example in the eyes of a populace that is already prejudiced against us? Isn’t a thing like this the best way to prove that those who call us the Antichrist are right?”
An orderly saddles the colonel’s horse and the clearing resounds with orders, the sound of troops on the move. The companies take off, in different directions.
“The important accomplices are beginning to turn up,” Moreira César says, the rape suddenly forgotten. “Yes indeed, gentlemen. Do you know who the supplier of Canudos is? The curé of Cumbe, a certain Father Joaquim. The cassock: an ideal safe-conduct pass, an open sesame, an immunity! A Catholic priest, gentlemen!”
The expression on his face is more one of self-satisfaction than of wrath.
The circus people proceeded, amid macambiras and across stony ground, taking turns pulling the wagon. The landscape round about was parched now and sometimes they made long days’ journeys without a thing to eat. After Sítio das Flores they began to meet pilgrims on their way to Canudos, people more wretched than they, carrying all