The Violent Land (35 page)

But just as the men in the forest were hearing the sound of their adversaries' axes on the other side of the river, Ilhéos was awakened one morning by a sensational piece of news brought by the telegraph. The federal government had decreed intervention in the state of Bahia, army troops had occupied the city, the Governor had resigned, and the opposition leader, who had come back from Rio on a warship, had taken over as interventor. This meant that Horacio was now the government party and Sinhô Badaró was in the opposition. There was also a telegram from the new interventor, dismissing the prefect of Ilhéos and appointing Dr. Jessé to take his place. On the first boat coming down from Bahia a new judge and a new prosecutor arrived, bringing with them the appointment of Braz as municipal police officer. The former judge was appointed to a small town in the backlands, but he refused to accept, preferring to retire. It was said that he was already a rich man and had no need of a magistracy in order to live. In honour of the occasion,
A Folha de Ilhéos
came out with a front page printed in two colours.

It was only then that Horacio appeared in Ilhéos, in response to a telegram from the interventor summoning him to Bahia for a conference. He was showered with congratulations from friends and political followers, and a large crowd followed him and Virgilio down to the wharf; for the attorney went with him.

“Doctor,” said Horacio, when they were aboard ship, “you may consider yourself a federal deputy.”

Sinhô Badaró also came into Ilhéos. That night he had a conference with Lawyer Genaro, the former judge, and Captain João Magalhães. Meanwhile he ordered his men to continue felling the forest. The next day, when he went back to the Sant' Ana Plantation, he found Teodoro das Baraúnas waiting for him there.

Braz's telegram snatched Horacio away from his political talks with the interventor, from the arms of the women in the cafés of Bahia, and from aperitifs with politicians in the more fashionable bars; he caught the first boat back. The Badarós' men, it appeared, had fallen on his workmen while the latter were engaged in cutting timber and had wreaked a veritable carnage. What was more important, they had set fire to a large number of cacao groves. Throughout the whole of the struggle thus far the groves had been respected, as if by tacit agreement. Fire might devour registry offices, millet and manihot plantations, and warehouses full of dried cacao; men might be killed; but the cacao trees themselves were spared.

But Sinhô now knew that he had played his last card. The change in the political situation had robbed him of his best trumps. A proof of this was the disagreeable surprise that he met with when he went to sell his next season's crop in advance to Zude Brothers and Company. That firm was quite uninterested. They spoke of how tight money was, and finally proposed buying his cacao, but only with a guaranteed lien upon it. Sinhô was furious. What! Ask a mortgage on his, Sinhô Badarós', groves? He became so violently angry that Maximiliano feared a personal assault, but he nevertheless persisted in his refusal to buy the crop unless the guarantees he had asked for were given. “Those are orders,” was all he would say. The result was that Sinhô had to dispose of his cacao to a Swiss export house at a wretched figure. And so it was, in view of all this, that he had been led to give Teodoro carte blanche to do what he liked so far as the forest was concerned. The firing of Firmo's and Jarde's groves had then followed, and even a few of Horacio's were burned. Carried by the wind, the conflagration lasted for days, as the snakes hissed and fled.

On the pier at Ilhéos the colonel's friends were waiting to grasp his hand and sympathize with him over the Badarós' barbarous conduct. Horacio, however, said nothing, but sought out Braz from among those present and went off with him for a long talk at police headquarters. He had promised the interventor that everything would be done legally; and if the
jagunços
were now given orders to assault the Badaró plantation and lay siege to the Big House, they found themselves in the newspaper columns transformed into “police troopers seeking to capture the incendiary, Teodoro das Baraúnas, who, as was well known, had taken refuge at the Sant' Ana Plantation.”

This siege of the Badaró Big House marked the end of the struggle for the possession of the Sequeiro Grande tract. Teodoro had wanted to give himself up and thus deprive Horacio of his legal pretext. Sinhô, however, would not hear of this, but had him smuggled out and taken to Ilhéos, where friends put him aboard a ship bound for Rio de Janeiro. Later, word came back that he had taken up residence in Victoria do Espirito Santo, where he was attached to a commercial house. Horacio, it may be, had learned of Teodoro's flight; but if he knew of it, he said nothing, but continued to surround the Sant' Ana Big House just as though Teodoro was really in hiding there. The forest of Sequeiro Grande had been felled, and the burnt-over tracts in the wood were now indistinguishable from the burned groves, there being no longer any boundary lines between them. The jaguars and the monkeys had long since fled, and the ghosts as well; and the workers had come upon old Jeremias's bones, which they had buried, with a cross to mark the site.

Sinhô Badaró and his
cabras
held out for four days and four nights; and when at last he fell wounded and, on Don' Ana's orders, was taken to Ilhéos, Horacio was then able for the first time to come near the house. Sinhô had been taken away one morning in a hammock borne by his men, and that night Captain João Magalhães had Olga and Don' Ana mount and follow him. Raimunda went with them, the women being accompanied by five
jagunços
. They were to sleep that night at Teodoro's plantation and catch the train for Ilhéos the next morning.

João Magalhães, with the men that he had left him, now entrenched himself on the river bank. At his side was Antonio Victor, who now and then would raise his rifle and fire. The captain, with eyes accustomed to the lights of the city, was unable to distinguish anything on this night without a moon. At whom could the mulatto be firing, anyway? But the answering shot proved that Antonio Victor was right; his eyes, used to the darkness of the groves, could make out perfectly the figures of the men who were drawing near. They were being surrounded and there was nothing to do but retreat to the highway, the majority of them falling into the hands of Horacio's ruffians. Their number was being constantly diminished, until at last there were but four of them left. Antonio Victor then disappeared for a moment and came back with a burro already saddled.

“You must mount and go, captain. There's nothing more to be done here.”

It was the truth. Horacio's men, with Braz at the head of them, were now on the lawn of the Big House.

“And what about the rest of you?” said João Magalhães.

“We'll go along to guard you.”

At the very moment they were leaving, Braz stepped onto the veranda of the seemingly deserted house. There was a dead silence that seemed to go with that moonless night. Horacio's men were gathered on the lawn, ready to go in. In obedience to an order, one of them struck a match to light a lantern. From inside the house came a shot, putting out the light but, by a miracle, not killing the man. The others now threw themselves down and began crawling along over the ground in an effort to enter the house in that manner. Again someone fired from within, aiming at Horacio in the midst of his
capangas
.

“There's still one left,” said Braz to the colonel.

They entered the house, weapons in hand, eyes on the alert. They were filled with hatred now; they wanted to do to these last defenders even more than they had done to those who had fallen on the river bank and on the highway, whose eyes they had gouged out and whose lips, ears, and testicles they had cut off. They overran the house without finding anyone. The shots had ceased.

“They've run out of ammunition,” Braz remarked.

He now took the lead, with a man on either side, and Horacio followed. The only place left was the attic. They clambered up the narrow stairs and Braz kicked the door in with his foot. Don' Ana Badaró fired and a
cabra
fell. And then, seeing that this was her last bullet, she tossed the revolver down beside Horacio.

“Now, then, have them kill me, assassin!” And she took a step forward.

Braz opened his mouth wide in astonishment. Had he not just seen her fleeing down the road with Olga and Raimunda, guarded by a handful of men? He had let them pass within bullet-range without firing on them. How the devil had she managed to get back? Don' Ana took another step forward, filling the attic doorway.

Horacio stepped aside. “You may go, my girl, I don't kill women.”

Don' Ana went down the stairs and crossed the parlour, glancing up at the chromo as she passed. A bullet had shattered the glass and had torn open the breast of the young shepherd lass who was dancing in the picture. Don' Ana went on out onto the lawn. The men were silent.

“Hell of a brave woman!” one of them muttered.

Don' Ana took one of the horses that were standing there saddled, and with a last look at the Big House she mounted, spurred the animal, and rode away into the night without a moon and without stars. Only then, after her figure had been lost to sight along the highway, did Horacio raise his arm and his voice at the same time, as he gave an order to his men to set fire to the Badaró homestead.

Lawyer Genaro, who was fond of aphorisms, was accustomed to remark years afterwards, when he had moved to Bahia in order to be able to give his children a better education: “All that tragedy was to end in a comedy.” He was alluding to the Sequeiro Grande affrays and to Horacio's subsequent trial in Ilhéos.

Shortly before the trial started, the court had handed down an opinion in the suit brought by Horacio in defence of his rights to the Sequeiro Grande tract. This opinion recognized Colonel Horacio da Silveira and his associates as the rightful owners and directed the public prosecutor to proceed against Teodoro das Baraúnas for the burning of Venancio's registry office in Tabocas. Action was also to be taken against Sinhô Badaró and Captain João Magalhães for having registered an illegal title to the property. This latter case, however, was dropped, for the reason that Horacio, on Virgilio's advice, did not press the matter. Economically the Badaró family was in a very bad way; they owed money to the exporters, two of their crops had been sacrificed, and their holdings had by no means increased during this year of strife. On the contrary, not only had the Big House, the troughs, and the ovens been destroyed, but the young cacao shrubs in the warehouses had been burned and a large amount of damage had been done to a number of their groves. It would take many years for them to rebuild even a part of what had once been a great fortune. There were no adversaries for Horacio now.

As for the trial, it was no more than a justification of the colonel. He had surrendered the night before, and the best room in the municipal prefecture, which served also as court and prison, was transformed into a dormitory. Braz had stationed a number of police troopers as a guard, and he himself kept Horacio company. The room was filled with the colonel's friends, and the “prisoner” kept up a lively conversation, sent out for whisky, and in general held open house until morning.

The trial began at nine a.m. the next day and lasted until three a.m. the following morning. The Badarós had brought down from Bahia a lawyer with a great reputation, one Dr. Fausto Aguiar, who with Dr. Genaro was to serve as an assistant prosecutor. For everybody was aware that the new public prosecutor would make a very weak plea, seeing that he belonged to the same political party as Horacio.

Clad in his black robe, the judge came into the room accompanied by his clerks and bailiffs and took his seat in the high-backed chair above which there hung a crucified Christ shedding blood of a deep-red hue. Beside the judge sat the prosecutor, and chairs were placed for Dr. Genaro and Dr. Fausto, the assistant prosecutors. On the defence side were Virgilio and Lawyer Ruy. The judge uttered the regulation words and the trial was opened. The courtroom was packed and the crowd overflowed into the corridors outside. And a small lad, who years afterwards was to write the stories of this land, was then summoned by a bailiff to draw from an urn the names of the citizens who were to constitute the jury. He drew out a card, the judge read the name, a man rose, crossed the room, and took his seat on one of the chairs reserved for the seven jurors. Another card was drawn, and the judge read: “Manuel Dantas.” Colonel Maneca Dantas had risen when Lawyer Genaro's voice rang out: “I refuse to accept him.”

“Refused by the prosecution,” announced the judge.

Maneca sat down, and the lad continued to draw the cards. From time to time a name would be objected to by the prosecution or the defence, until the jury was finally selected.

Meanwhile, the courtroom was buzzing:

“Unanimous for acquittal.”

“I don't know—there are a couple of doubtful ones.” And names were whispered.

“Maybe three,” said someone else. “José Faria is no great friend of Horacio's, he isn't. He may vote against it.”

“Lawyer Ruy was down at his house today. He'll vote for acquittal.”

“They'll take an appeal.”

“They won't have to; it will be unanimous!”

Bets were then laid as to the likelihood of an appeal. The state supreme court still represented the overthrown government, and if there was an appeal, Horacio might be found guilty, or at least a new trial would be ordered. The majority of those present, however, were confident that the jury would unanimously acquit the colonel, and in that case there would be no grounds for an appeal. The jurors were now sworn to “decide the case in accordance with the law and the evidence and their own consciences,” and took their places in the box. The lad who had drawn the cards from the urn then left the judge's dais and took a seat behind the attorneys for the defence. From there he followed the entire proceedings, drinking it all in with eager ears and kindling eyes. Even at dawn the next morning, when some of those in the courtroom were dozing on the benches, this small boy was still nervously watching the show.

The whisperings suddenly ceased and a silence fell on the room, for the judge had just ordered the municipal police officer to bring in the defendant. Braz then went out and returned, accompanied by Colonel Horacio da Silveira with a trooper on either side. The colonel wore a black frock-coat, his hair was brushed back, and his face wore a serious, almost a penitent look. He stopped in front of the judge amid a heavy silence, as the onlookers leaned forward in their seats.

“Your name?”

“Horacio da Silveira, Colonel of the National Guard.”

“Profession?”

“Farmer.”

“Age?”

“Fifty-two years.”

“Residence?”

“Holy Name Plantation in the municipality of Ilhéos.”

“Have you heard the charge?”

The colonel's voice was clear and strong: “I have.”

“Have you anything to say in your own defence?”

“My attorneys will speak for me.”

“You have attorneys? Who are they?”

“Dr. Virgilio Cabral and Dr. Ruy Fonseca.”

The judge motioned to the criminals' bench. “You may sit down.”

But Horacio remained standing. Braz took the hint, removed the humiliating bench, and substituted a chair. Even then Horacio would not be seated. This created a sensation in the courtroom. Lawyer Ruy then requested of the judge that the accused might have the right to stand in place of being seated on that symbolic bench. This request was granted, and from all corners of the room the colonel's gigantic form could be seen, his arms folded over his bosom, his eyes fixed on the court. The young lad rose up to get a better view of him. He found him superb, an unforgettable figure.

The court clerk read the charge. The reading lasted three long hours as the depositions made by the various witnesses followed one after another. From time to time the attorneys would take notes on sheets of paper, and beside Lawyer Genaro was a stack of ponderous law-books. It was one o'clock in the afternoon when the clerk finished reading the charge, and the judge then recessed court for an hour, for lunch. The jurors, who were not permitted to talk to anyone, remained in the room and a lunch was sent in to them from the hotel, paid for by the prefecture. The only exception was in the case of Camilo Goes, who suffered from a stomach ailment and had to follow a special diet; his meal was brought to him from home.

The small lad watching the trial left the room holding his father's hand, but he was back in the doorway again as the bailiff was ringing his big bell to summon the clerks and attorneys. Once more Horacio came in and stood in front of the judge. The public prosecutor now took the floor, and as had been expected, his plea did not amount to much. He talked for half an hour, leaving innumerable loopholes for the defence. Nevertheless, in accordance with custom he ended by asking for the supreme penalty, which was thirty years in prison. He was followed by Lawyer Genaro, who spoke for two hours, mingling citations taken from law-books, some in French and some in Italian, with a detailed examination of the evidence, which, according to him, went to prove beyond a doubt that the assassin was a
cabra
in the employ of Horacio. He made much of the deposition of the man with the false ring, who had held a conversation with the slayer on the eve of the crime. He went into the history of the Sequeiro Grande affrays, and concluded by declaring that “if the defendant were not found guilty, justice in the Ilhéos region would be no more than the most tragic of farces.” Then, with a few Latin phrases, he sat down. The courtroom audience had understood little of this babel of tongues and citations, but their admiration for Lawyer Genaro was undiminished. It made no difference which side he was on; they esteemed him as a thing of worth that belonged to Ilhéos.

Dr. Fausto then followed, and curious necks were craned. His fame as a great orator had preceded him, for his defence pleas in Bahia were celebrated ones. If the truth were told, the Ilhéos residents would much rather have heard him on the side of the defence in this instance; but it was known that Sinhô Badaró had paid him fifteen
contos de reis
for his services. He did not speak long, for he was saving himself for the rebuttal, but the speech he made was a high-sounding one, and his voice was filled with emotion. He spoke of the wife left without a husband, the brother bereft of his brother, and went on to praise Juca Badaró as “the knight-errant of the land of cacao.” His voice rose and fell, and was filled with hate as he came to speak of Horacio, “a
jagunço
who has become a leader of
jagunços
.” On the other hand, it was in the gentlest of tones that he referred to Olga, “the poor, inconsolable widow.” With a last appeal to the noble sentiments of justice on the part of the jurors he concluded; and court was then recessed for dinner.

That night there was a larger crowd than ever, and the lad had difficulty in holding his place. The clerks in the business houses had not been able to come in the morning or afternoon, and they now struggled for standing-room all the way to the prefecture stairs.

The first speaker at the evening session was Virgilio, who replied to Lawyer Genaro. He proceeded to demolish the evidence presented by the prosecution, showing the weakness of the entire case against Horacio; and he created a sensation when, in referring to the man with the false ring, whose deposition constituted the cornerstone of the state's evidence, he revealed that the fellow in question was a thief by the name of Fernando, who had arrived in Ilhéos a few years before and who had there become a vagabond with unknown means of livelihood. And “this witness so dear to the prosecution” was at that moment to be found lodged in a prison cell in Ilhéos, having been arrested on a charge of vagrancy and disorderly conduct. Of what value was the word of a man like that? A thief, a vagabond, a liar. Virgilio then read a deposition he had obtained from the Spanish proprietor of the wine-shop where the man with the false ring was alleged to have had his conversation with the assassin. The Spaniard declared that the witness in question had always had the reputation of being a liar, that he liked to tell stories and make up things, and that he, the Spaniard, suspected that it was the man with the ring who on two occasions had been responsible for the disappearance of money from the cash-drawer of the shop. Of what legal value, then, were any statements which such a witness might make? Was any credence to be given to what a fellow of that type had to say? At this point the speaker glanced first at the judge, then at the jury, and after that let his eyes roam over the courtroom. He went on to give his own version of the Sequeiro Grande affrays. He recalled the other suit, for the possession of the land, which had been lost by the Badarós. He also recalled the setting fire to Venancio's registry office. And after talking for two hours, he closed with a plea that justice be done his client.

It was Lawyer Ruy who replied to Dr. Fausto. His powerful voice, a little shaky with drink, now resounded through the courtroom. He trembled, he wept, he grew emotional, he hurled accusations, he defended his client, as his auditors alternately wept and laughed; but he was particularly violent toward Dr. Fausto, who “had dared to spew cowardly words upon the stainless character of the Bayard of Ilhéos, Colonel Horacio da Silveira.” With the exception of the lawyers and the young lad, no one knew who Bayard was, but they all thought it was a very nice comparison.

Still standing erect, his arms folded over his bosom. Horacio all this while showed no trace of weariness. Occasionally he would smile at Lawyer Ruy's more savage and venomous ironies directed at Dr. Fausto.

Then came the summation speeches, and they all took the floor again, to repeat what they had said before. The only thing new was a deposition that Lawyer Genaro had obtained to offset that of the Spaniard, the wine-shop proprietor whose testimony Virgilio had introduced. This fresh bit of evidence came from an acquaintance of the man with the false ring, another frequenter of the Spaniard's place—the man in the sky-blue vest. This latter asserted that the man with the ring “was a good fellow, even though he might not appear to be.” His stories might be made up, but many of the things he told had actually happened. And Lawyer Genaro then went on to declaim against “the wretched local police, who had thrown an innocent man into jail simply to keep him from testifying at the trial.”

Dr. Fausto then rose for his big speech. He tried hard to make his voice tremble more than Lawyer Ruy's, and a few of those in the courtroom wept again. In short, he did his very best. Virgilio spoke again for ten minutes, dealing only with the question of the man with the ring.

The closing address was made by Lawyer Ruy, who compared Justice to the figure of Christ above the judge's head. He ended with a resounding sentence which he had been preparing for the past couple of days:

“In acquitting Colonel Horacio da Silveira, gentlemen of the jury, you will prove to all the civilized world, whose eyes at this moment are turned upon this courtroom, that there is in Ilhéos not only cacao, money, and fertile land; you will prove that in Ilhéos there is Justice, mother of all the virtues a people may possess.”