Each man is immersed in his own thoughts. From what they heard while they were waiting to leave the barracks, Sigismundo Canastro, João Mau-Tempo and Manuel Espada know that they have been named as the main leaders of the strike. Of the three, Sigismundo Canastro is the calmest. Sitting on the floor along with all the other men, he began by resting his head on his folded arms, which were, in turn, resting on his knees, you get the picture. He wants to be able to think more clearly, but suddenly it occurred to him that his companions might think, from his posture, that he was discouraged, and he didn’t want that, so he unfolded his arms and sat up straight, as if to say, here I am. Manuel Espada is remembering and comparing. He recalls how, eight years ago, he made the same journey in a smaller truck with his youthful companions, only Augusto Patracão is with him this time, Palminha had come to his senses and made other plans, and Felisberto Lampas became an itinerant worker and hasn’t been seen since. Manuel Espada says to himself that there’s really no comparison, this time things are serious, then they were just a bunch of boys, this time they’re grown men, the level of responsibility, as no one would deny, is quite different. These three, for we cannot speak for every man there, are caught up in a never-ending stream of thoughts, a mixture of determination, fear and bravery, a trembling in hands and legs, no one’s immune from that, João Mau-Tempo is lost in a kind of dream, it’s almost dark now, and if his eyes fill with tears, so be it, no man is made of stone, his comrades mustn’t see this though, he doesn’t want them to lose courage too. Once past Foros, there is only open countryside, soon the moon will rise, well, it’s June and the moon rises early, and ahead lie some large rocks, what giants could have rolled them there, a good place for an ambush, imagine if José Gato was there along with his fellow gang members, Venta Rachada, Parrilhas, Ludgero and Castelo, suddenly leaping out from behind the log they’ve rolled across the road, after all, they’ve had plenty of practice, and shouting, Stop, and the truck braking sharply and skidding on the tarmac, bloody hell, I hope the tires don’t burst, and then, One move and you’re dead, each bandit with his rifle at the ready, and they’re not joking either, you can tell from their faces, there’s the five-shot rifle that José Gato stole from Marcelino, Sergeant Armamento does make a move, well, it’s what his superiors would expect of him, but he falls from on high with a hole right through his heart, and José Gato puts a second cartridge in the chamber and says, The prisoners can get out, meanwhile, the guards are standing with their hands in the air like in a Wild West film, and Venta Rachada and Castelo start collecting the rifles and the cartridge belts, behind the rocks they’ve tethered two of the mules they use to carry sides of pork, a little more dead weight won’t bother them. João Mau-Tempo ponders whether to go straight back to Monte Lavre or to stay there in hiding until things quiet down a little, but he would have to send a message to his family to reassure them that everything has turned out for the best.
Everyone jumps out, Quick, quick, says a resuscitated Sergeant Armamento, with no hole through his heart. They’re at the gate of the barracks in Montemor, and there’s no sign of José Gato. The guards line up, they’re not so tense now they’re back on home ground, and there’s no danger of riots or armed attacks, and as you’ll have guessed, well, it wasn’t that hard, José Gato’s bold intervention was all in João Mau-Tempo’s imagination. The rocks are still there at the side of the road, where they’ve been for centuries and centuries, but no one leapt out from behind them, the truck passed by with its usual mechanical calm, dropped the men off at the barracks and left, having done its duty. The twenty-two men are bundled down a corridor and across a courtyard, where two guards are standing by a door, one of them opens the door to reveal a room packed with people, some standing, some sitting on the floor, on the straw from two bales that have been pulled apart and strewn about to serve as bedding. The floor is made of concrete, and the room is strangely cold, considering how many people are crammed inside and that this is the hottest time of the year, perhaps it’s because the back wall is built onto the side of the castle. Including those who were there already, there are nearly sixty men, who would make a good gang of workers. The door clangs shut, deliberately loud, and the sound of the key turning in the lock grates on the nerves like one of those bits of broken glass that the latifundio places on top of the walls surrounding its gardens, when the sun catches them, they look quite pretty, glinting away, and beyond lie trees heavy with oranges, and not just oranges, but pears, another fine fruit, and roses twine about the arches that line the orchard paths, any worker passing through would smell the perfume, but frankly, Father Agamedes, I doubt they have soul enough to appreciate such beauty. The ceiling is very low and is lit by one lightbulb, twenty-five watts at most, we haven’t yet lost our frugal habits, and in the end, there’s no denying it, the heat becomes unbearable. The men recognize each other or introduce themselves, there are people from Escoural and Torre da
