The War Of The End Of The World - Mario Vargas Llosa [94]
“Report on our effective strength, Cunha Matos.”
With a slight click of his heels, the major announces: “Eighty-three men who have come down with smallpox and other illnesses,” he says, consulting a sheet of paper. “One thousand two hundred thirty-five troops ready for combat. The fifteen million rifle rounds and the seventy artillery rounds are intact and ready to fire, sir.”
“Have the order given for the vanguard to leave within two hours at the latest for Monte Santo.” The colonel’s voice is trenchant, toneless, impersonal. “You, Olímpio, present my apologies to the Municipal Council. I will receive them in a while. Explain to them that we are unable to waste time attending ceremonies or banquets.”
“Yes, sir.”
When Captain Olímpio de Castro takes his leave, the third officer steps forward. He is wearing colonel’s stripes and is a man advanced in years, a bit on the tubby side, with a calm look in his eye. “Lieutenant Pires Ferreira and Major Febrônio de Brito are here. They have orders to join the regiment as advisers.”
Moreira César is lost in thought for a moment. “How fortunate for the regiment,” he murmurs, in a voice that is almost inaudible. “Escort them here, Tamarindo.”
An orderly, on his knees, helps the colonel don a pair of riding boots, without spurs. A moment later, preceded by Colonel Tamarindo, Febrônio de Brito and Pires Ferreira arrive and stand at attention in front of the blanket. They click their heels, give their name and rank, and announce: “Reporting for duty, sir.” The blanket falls to the floor. Moreira César is wearing a pistol and sword at his side, his shirtsleeves are rolled up, and his arms are short, skinny, and hairless. He looks the newcomers over from head to foot without a word, with an icy look in his eyes.
“It is an honor for us to place our experience in this region at the service of the most prestigious military leader of Brazil, sir.”
Colonel Moreira César stares into the eyes of Febrônio de Brito, until the latter looks away in confusion.
“Experience that was of no avail to you when you were confronted with a mere handful of bandits.” The colonel has not raised his voice, yet the hall of the railway station seems to be electrified, paralyzed. Scrutinizing the major as he would an insect, Moreira César points a finger at Pires Ferreira: “This officer was in command of no more than a company. But you had half a thousand men at your command and allowed yourself to be defeated like a tenderfoot. The two of you have cast discredit on the army and hence on the Republic. Your presence in the Seventh Regiment is not welcome. You are forbidden to enter combat. You will remain in the rear guard to take care of the sick and the animals. You are dismissed.”
The two officers are deathly pale. Febrônio de Brito is sweating heavily. His lips part, as though about to say something, but then he decides merely to salute and withdraw with tottering footsteps. The lieutenant stands rooted to the spot, his eyes suddenly red. Moreira César walks by without looking at him, and the swarm of officers and orderlies go on with their duties. On a table maps and a pile of papers are laid out.
“Let the correspondents come in, Cunha Matos,” the colonel orders.
The major shows them in. They have come on the same train as the Seventh Regiment and they are plainly worn out from all the bumping and jolting. There are five of them, of different ages, dressed in leggings, caps, riding pants, and equipped with pencils and notebooks; one of them is carrying a bellows camera and a tripod. The one who most attracts people’s notice is the nearsighted young correspondent from the Jornal de Not