The War Of The End Of The World - Mario Vargas Llosa [216]
“Did we take Canudos?” he articulates in a hoarse voice.
Colonel Tamarindo lowers his eyes and shakes his head. Moreira César’s eyes search the embarrassed faces of the major, the captain, of Dr. Souza Ferreiro, and the nearsighted journalist sees that he is also examining him, as though performing an autopsy on him.
“We tried three times, sir,” Colonel Tamarindo stammers. “The men fought till their last ounce of strength was gone.”
Colonel Moreira César sits up, his face even paler now than before, and angrily waves a clenched fist. “Another attack, Tamarindo. Immediately! That’s an order!”
“There are heavy casualties, sir,” the colonel murmurs shamefacedly, as though everything were his fault. “Our position is untenable. We must retreat to a safe place and send for reinforcements…”
“You will be court-martialed for this,” Moreira César interrupts him, raising his voice. “The Seventh Regiment retreat in the face of good-for-nothing rascals? Surrender your sword to Cunha Matos.”
“How can he move, how can he writhe about like that with his belly slit wide open?” the nearsighted journalist thinks. In the prolonged silence that follows, Colonel Tamarindo looks at the other officers, wordlessly pleading for their help. Cunha Matos steps closer to the camp cot.
“There are many deserters, sir; the regiment has fallen apart. If the jagunços attack, they’ll take the camp. Order a retreat.”
Peering past the doctor and the captain, the nearsighted journalist sees Moreira César’s shoulders fall back onto the cot. “You’re a traitor, too?” he murmurs in desperation. “You all know how important this campaign is to our cause. Do you mean to tell me that I have compromised my honor in vain?”
“We’ve all compromised our honor, sir,” Colonel Tamarindo says.
“You know that I had to resign myself to conspiring with corrupt petty politicians.” Moreira César’s voice rises and falls abruptly, absurdly. “Do you mean to tell me that we’ve lied to the country in vain?”
“Listen to what’s happening outside, sir,” Major Cunha Matos says in a shrill voice, and the nearsighted Journalist tells himself that he has been hearing that cacophony, that clamor, those running feet, that confusion for some time, but has refused to realize what it means, so as not to feel more frightened still. “It’s a rout. They may finish off the entire regiment if we don’t make an orderly retreat.”
The nearsighted journalist makes out the sound of the cane whistles and the little bells amid the running footfalls and the voices. Colonel Moreira César looks at them one by one, his face contorted, his mouth agape. He says something that no one hears. The nearsighted journalist realizes that the flashing eyes in that livid face are fixed on him. “You there, you,” he hears. “Paper and pen, you hear? I want to dictate a statement concerning this infamy. Come, scribe, are you ready?”
At that moment the nearsighted journalist suddenly remembers his portable writing desk, his leather pouch, and as though bitten by a snake frantically searches all about for them. With the sensation that he has lost part of his body, an amulet that protected him, he recalls that he did not have them when he ran up the mountainside, they are still lying on the slope down below, but he can think no further because Olímpio de Castro, his eyes full of tears, thrusts some paper and a pencil into his hand, and Major Souza Ferreiro holds the lantern above him to give him light.
“I’m ready,” he says, thinking that he won’t be able to write, that his hands will tremble.
“I, Colonel Moreira César, commanding officer of the Seventh Regiment, being in possession of all my faculties, hereby state that the retreat from the siege of Canudos is a decision that is being taken against my will, by subordinates who are not capable of assuming their responsibility in the face of history.” Moreira César sits up on the camp cot