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By Root 2088 0

ever since they left camp: “This is going to be useless.” He has not said a word that would reveal the feeling of defeatism against which he has been fighting ever since their water was rationed. The meager food is not a hardship for him, since he never feels hungry. Thirst, on the other hand, is difficult for him to endure. Every so often he finds himself counting the time he must wait till he takes the next sip of water, in accordance with the rigid schedule he has set for himself. Perhaps that is why he has chosen to go out with Captain Olímpio de Castro’s patrol. The sensible thing to do would have been to take advantage of the hours in camp and rest. This scouting excursion is certain to tire him, poor horseman that he is, and naturally it is going to make him thirstier. But if he stayed behind there in the camp, he’d be overcome with anxiety, filled with gloomy thoughts. Here at least he is obliged to concentrate on his arduous struggle not to fall off his horse. He knows that among themselves the soldiers poke fun at his eyeglasses, his dress, his appearance, his portable writing desk, his inkwell. But this does not bother him.

The guide who is leading the patrol points to the water well. The expression on the man’s face suffices for the journalist to realize that this well, too, has been filled in by the jagunços. The soldiers hurry over to it with their canteens, pushing and shoving; he hears the sound of the tin hitting the stones at the bottom and sees how disappointed, how bitter the men are. What is he doing here? Why isn’t he back in his untidy little house in Salvador, surrounded by his books, smoking a pipeful of opium, feeling its great peace steal over him?

“Well, this was only to be expected,” Captain Olímpio de Castro murmurs. “How many other wells are there in the vicinity?”

“Only two that we haven’t been to yet.” The guide gestures skeptically. “I don’t think it’s worth the trouble seeing if there’s water in them.”

“Go take a look anyway,” the captain interrupts him. “And the patrol is to be back before dark, Sergeant.”

The officer and the journalist accompany the patrol for a time, and once they have left the thicket far behind and are again out on the bare sun-baked mesa they hear the guide murmur that the Counselor’s prophecy is coming true: the Blessed Jesus will trace a circle round about Canudos, beyond which all animal, vegetable, and, finally, human life will disappear.

“If you believe that, what are you doing here with us?” Olímpio de Castro asks him.

The guide raises his hand to his throat. “I’m more afraid of the Throat-Slitter than I am of the Can.”

Some of the soldiers laugh. The captain and the journalist part company with the patrol. They gallop along for a while, until the officer, taking pity on his companion, slows his horse to a walk. Feeling relieved, the journalist takes a sip of water from his canteen despite his timetable. Three-quarters of an hour later they catch sight of the camp.

They have just passed the first sentinel when the dust raised by another patrol coming from the north overtakes them. The lieutenant in command, a very young man, covered with dust from head to foot, has a happy look on his face.

“Well, then?” Olímpio de Castro greets him. “Did you find him?”

The lieutenant points to him with his chin. The nearsighted journalist spies the prisoner. His hands are bound together, he has a terrified expression on his face, and the long, tattered garment he is dressed in must have been his cassock. He is a short-statured, robust little man with a potbelly and white locks at his temples. His eyes gaze about in all directions. The patrol proceeds on its way, followed by the captain and the journalist. When it reaches the tent of the commanding officer of the Seventh Regiment, two soldiers shake the prisoner down. His arrival causes a great commotion and many soldiers approach to have a better look at him. The little man’s teeth chatter and he looks about in panic, as though fearing that he will be beaten. The lieutenant pushes him inside the tent and the journalist