Lord of Darkness

  “I think not,” he said after some pause.

  “Well, then, Governor d’Almeida is lost.”

  “So do we believe. But there may be deep dispute before that becomes clear to him, and I think there will be fighting, for the governor, when that he came from Portugal, brought troops who may be more loyal to him than to any Jesuits. We shall see. I advise you to keep yourself out of the path of the shot, eh?”

  Which was not advice that I needed to hear twice over. I withdrew to my own place, and passed the time there, and during that day nothing of consequence happened, nor the next, nor the one after that. The Jesuits held to their compound, the governor to his palace, and soldiers were the chief occupants of the plaza. When I grew weary with the game of watching and waiting, I went down to the harbor, and fished and waded, and talked with the port officials, who were expecting the arrival of a ship from Brazil and held little concern for the matters going on in town. I fancied myself boarding that ship and seizing her captain and forcing him to sail me to England, but it was only the idle folly of a hot moist afternoon.

  Then it came to be Sunday, and I wondered if the church would remain sealed, with no Mass offered. But on this day events began to occur. I peered into the plaza and saw troops here and there and there, all in some anxiety and suspense. Don João de Mendoça rode by, passing from the governor’s palace to his own, and though he saw me he did not speak, nor did he gesture. Then the governor himself emerged, in a group of his kinsmen. I had not yet ever spoken with this Don Francisco, though of course I had seen him many times from afar: he struck me just from the look of him as a coward and a weakling, with a soft face and heavy-lidded sleepy eyes, and a long thin beard that did not hide the outlines of his chin. He dressed in the most amazing fantastical way, a costume that might have seemed too pompous for an emperor, too gaudy for even Prester John, with yards of gold braid and a glittering helmet inlaid with rows of precious stones. This morning he strutted about, gesticulating grandly and showing the greatest animation as he inspected his troops, examined their weapons, spoke words of encouragement. Some dispute within his own advisers seemed to be in progress also, and from time to time men did come to him, and there were angry words shouted back and forth.

  Dona Teresa appeared. She greeted me with high formality, and I the same to her, neither of us showing any hint of an intimacy. And she said, “They are going to do the excommunication this day. The Jesuits will come forth at noon.”

  “And will Don Francisco defy them, d’ye think?”

  “Would you? Defy the power of God? Aye, I guess you would, in that you are heretical.”

  “I would not defy God, nay. But what proof have I that these Jesuits hold divine authority, other than they say they do?”

  “Why, they are anointed priests!” she cried.

  “They are but men. When they leave their proper province of sacred matters to meddle in affairs of state, they must set aside such cloak of holiness as they claim to wear. If I were Don Francisco and I meant to govern here, I would not let the Jesuits usurp my authority.”

  “Now they will put the curse of God on him, though, and all will be lost for him.”

  “Do you think King Henry of England feared the curse of God when he cast forth the Roman faith from our land in a similar struggle? Or did his daughter Elizabeth, when she did the same?”

  “They were very rash. Unless they did so for reasons of state.”

  “Indeed!” I said. “They were wise princes, and knew what was needful to defend their people against foreign tyrants. And so they feared not the curse, for God alone knows who He means to curse, and not any priest. And the dispute was not truly a question of forms of worship, that involved things of the spirit, but rather it was of matters temporal.”

  “How so, do you say?”

  “The Pope was making league against us with the Holy Empire, to hurt our trade, when Henry was King. This did Henry thwart by making Protestant alliances, and ridding our land of spies and traitors. And in my own time were we greatly threatened by Spain, and King Philip sought to rule over us, and wreck our England the way he has drained his Spain and now Portugal, too. We were full of conspirators in priestly robes, scheming to kill our Queen and give the land over to him. God’s death, woman, do you believe that these quarrels we have with the Papists are truly over niceties of prayer-saying? That we care so deeply whether we speak our service in English or in Latin? It is politics, Dona Teresa, it is politics, it is national interest that governs the way we church ourselves!”

  She nodded. “So I do begin to understand.”

  “And thus is it here. Don Francisco must fight, if he would remain governor. If he do not prevent the priests from denouncing him, then will his government here be broken.”

  “That is what Don João believes is to befall. The power of God is too great for Don Francisco.”

  “And is the power of a musket-shot not too great for the Jesuit prefect?” I asked.

  “Don Francisco will not attempt to harm the priests,” said Dona Teresa calmly. “They are God’s messengers, and God would destroy him if he lifted his hand against them, and he knows that. Politics is not everything. There are false faiths and true faith, and when the true faith speaks, only a fool would offer defiance. So do I believe, Andres.” She smiled and took her leave of me, and moved on across the plaza to her dwelling-place.

  To which I made no response but a shrug. I had heard before from believers in true faiths, and I knew better than to dispute with them. That disputation is folly. They will have no argument; their minds are set. If the number of our breaths is fixed at birth, it is wanton to waste any precious two of them on such debate as that.

  As I stood alone at the edge of the plaza, though, meseemed me I had spoken some too strong on the political side of our break with the Church of Rome, and had not given enough weight to matters of faith. Not that I would ever hold that our faith is the true faith, and all others be wicked heresies. I merely feel that ours to be the better faith, the more effective one in yielding up the bounty of godly life. For I do believe the Papists long ago became deeply corrupt, and turned away from the way of Jesus, with their incense and their bright brocaded robes and their jeweled thrones and palaces for their Cardinals and Popes, and that we in our Protestant revolution have swept aside all such foulnesses, clearing a straight path between ourselves and God. I never knew Popery at home, born as I was with Queen Mary already in her grave, but my father did, and he spoke often of how under the old religion people were kept ignorant and helpless, not knowing how to read, not permitted even to know the Bible save as the priests would teach it, which was not always as it was written. That was a religion that did not let us speak outright with God, but forced us to go through intermediaries. That is not good: it discourages thinking. Why is it that we English are so bold and venturesome, and the Papist peoples in the main so sheeplike, so willing to obey even the falsest and most evil of leaders? I think it is because we have chosen a better way, that gives us a deeper comfort of the soul. And I know we were right to free ourselves from whatever ties of faith there were that put our England at the mercies of our enemies. Our change in religion does serve our national interests well; it also well serves our souls. It is no accident that all the seagoing men of England are staunch Protestants, and do so fervently hate Papistry: it is because we are patriots, and also because we have spirits that are clear and free, unfettered by superstition, that we have gone out to rove so widely in the world.

  It was nigh upon noon now. The day was dry and windless and the huge sun gave us a killing heat. At the stroke of the midday hour the gates of the Jesuit compound were thrown open and into the plaza did come four priests in the fullest uniform of their profession, not simple monkish robes but the complete vestments and sacerdotal ornament, so that they did shine like beacons on the brilliant sunlight.

  At their head was the prefect of their Jesuit order in Angola, Father Affonso Gomes. He was a tall and wide-shou
ldered man with the look and bearing of a warrior: very dark of complexion, with fierce blazing angry eyes and great mustachios jutting outward and a hard tight face with cheekbones like knifeblades. There was nothing of the sweet mild Jesus about this man. He had the face of a great Inquisitor, one who would not only be joyed in the roasting of heretics but who would turn them gladly on the spit with his own hand. The other three priests were far milder and gentler of demeanor, with that scholarly and inward look that Jesuits often have; but even they were at this moment solemn and bleak-faced, like soldiers on the eve of battle.

  They were accompanied by some dozen or more of their followers and associates, that is, acolytes, altar-boys, incense-bearers, and other such supernumeraries. These bore with them a sort of portable altar, in the form of a broad bench or table of massive design, that they carried to the center of the plaza and proceeded to cover with robings and draperies of samite and red velvet and such, and to place heavy silver candlesticks upon it, and vessels of incense, and all the related trappings and appurtenances of ceremony, as if they were going to perform a coronation before our eyes, or a royal marriage. They brought from within their church also their holy images, of the Savior and Mary, and two great crucifixes of silver inlaid with gold and pearls, each of which was sufficient in value to have paid a whole English county’s duties and imposts for half a year. I watched in wonder as all this holy treasure was arrayed arid configured with marvelous enormous patience and care in the midst of all the town under that great heat. The plaza, which had been nigh empty, now began to fill. Every Portugal in Angola appeared to be there, Don Francisco and his party gathered in this side, and Don João with Dona Teresa there, and soldiery, and merchants and slave-dealers and tavern-keepers, and some thousands of the native population both slave and free, all standing like sheep in the fields, still and silent.

  I understood now why Don Francisco was helpless against these Jesuits. How could he dare order his troops to open fire, as he had threatened, and slay the fathers before all the town? This Father Affonso was so fearsome that he did seem capable of brushing aside the musket-shot with some sweeps of his hands, as we might dismiss a buzzing mosquito. And in all this Romish pomp even I felt a tremor of awe, and could well imagine the terror such show would inspire in one who shared the faith. This was no mere business of politics and a struggle for power, though that was at the root of it: the very armies of God seemed drawn up at Father Affonso’s back, and this say I, to whom Jesuits have always seemed more villains than men of holiness. If a heretic Englishman could be so moved, what then would a Portugal feel, or a credulous black?

  Then Don Affonso began to speak, and as he did so my awe gave way to scorn and angry contempt, for I knew myself to be among foolish barbarians.

  His voice was deep and rolling, and his words were in Latin, slow and somber, so well laced with special words of churchly use that I could scarce understand any of it. But I think it was not meant to be understood, only to terrify. On and on came the grand torrent of sonorous incantations—for incantations is what they were, a solemn magicking most repellent—and as he spoke he sometimes turned and took a silver bell from a silver tray, and lifted it high and tinkled it, and put it down and seized two mighty candlesticks and raised them aloft, and so forth, a whole pompous theater of rite and pageantry. I heard the name of Don Francisco d’Almeida mentioned several times, and when I looked toward the governor I saw him pale and twitching, with sweat glistening on his white forehead, that just now was several degrees whiter than its normal swarthy shade.

  There was furthermore a great show of turning to the other priests and taking from them certain books and chalices and I know not what other items of Papist equipment, and passing these things one to the other in some preordained sequence. I marveled at how intricate this ceremony was, and how well rehearsed. Again the two candlesticks were held high and lowered, again the bell was tinkled, again the Latin words boomed forth, all this accompanied by any number of signings of the cross, and now and then a frightful stretching forth of the arms as though lightnings were about to shoot from the Jesuit’s fingertips.

  Then—and he spoke in the Portugal tongue now, so that everyone could understand, even the blacks—Father Affonso declared:

  “Whereas thou, Don Francisco d’Almeida, hast been by sufficient proof convicted of contumacy and blasphemy, and defiance of Holy Mother Church, and after due admonition and prayer remainest obstinate without any evidence or sign of true repentance, therefore in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and of His Father and of the Holy Spirit, and before all this congregation, do I pronounce and declare thee, Don Francisco d’Almeida, excommunicated, shut out from the communion of the faithful, debar thee from all churchly and temporal privilege, and deliver thee unto Satan for the destruction of thy flesh, that thy spirit may be saved in the day of the Lord Jesus.”

  And with those terrible words he dashed the lighted candles to the ground and extinguished them, and did ring his bell, and brandished the holy Bible and slammed it shut, and seized a chalice and bore it high and marched off toward the Jesuit compound, followed by his three colleagues and all his company of underlings, who carried the altar and its rich gear along with them.

  There was shrieking and uproar among the blacks. There was consternation among the Portugals. I caught sight of Don Francisco, looking apoplectic and his face all a mottled red, whirling around and striding toward his palace, with his brother Don Jeronymo and other close associates all very grave following at his heels. I saw Don João de Mendoça standing placid, his arms folded and an odd little smile on his face. I saw Dona Teresa with her eyes wide and her mouth parted, as though just now she had beheld Satanas Mephistopheles flying across the face of the sun. I saw Captain Fernão da Souza in hot discussion with some other of the soldiery, all of them looking stunned and amazed. And so it went about the plaza: everyone had expected the excommunication, and yet most were as sundered from their senses as if they had been taken entirely by surprise, and did not know what now to think or do.

  And I? I, who had felt that tingle of awe at the setting up of that portentous altar under the sun’s blazing eye?

  I felt sick with grief at the foolishness of mankind. This did seem altogether insane to me, this waving about of bell and book and candle, this chanting of frightsome words, this throwing of spiritual thunderbolts in the name of God’s tender Son. It was as magical to me, and as heathen, as those doings in Loango with albino witches and houses of mokissos and the blowing of trumpets to bring rain. Why, the very coccodrillos that lie roaring and blowing on the river-banks would never be so shallow as give credence to such stuff; only mortal men, hokusing themselves soberly with noisy formulas and sacred gibberish, could swallow it down. Did Father Affonso believe he had truly separated Don Francisco from the mercy of God? Did Don Francisco believe it? Or was it all for outer show, to frighten the foolish and strip away from him the power of the governor by making the ordinary folk feared to approach him, lest they, too, be sent to Hell? I do not know. But this one thing is sure, that the blacks of this country have fallen between two sharp mouths, if they are to be governed either by corrupt and venal authorities civil or by these ferocious priests, and which government is kinder for them, no man can say. And a second thing also, that I was unable to see little differences between this high Christian ceremony I had witnessed and all the various heathen rites done with masks and wild dancing and painted skins. It is all equal madness. It is all folly. Bells, books, and candles have no power. There are true unseen forces, but not nearly so many as we believe, nor would they rule us so sternly if we did not admit them to our souls. We would not be assailed half so often by devils, had we not taken the trouble to invent so many of them.

  FIVE

  AS I made my way homeward from the excommunication, I found my path blocked by a slender and agile-looking man in tight blue velvet breeches and a flaring scarlet jerkin, who looked at me most evilly, while rubbing his hand up and down the
shaft of his sword as though stroking his lustful male member.

  I knew him at once to be Gaspar Caldeira de Rodrigues. He had his brother’s shifty whoreson eyes and weak scornful smile, and the same sort of poxy beard that grew in patches on his face. But he was taller, and more robust, and somewhat less cowardly and slippery of bearing. Behind him stood four more of his sort, ugly and dour, and I moved instantly into a readiness to defend myself, fearing an attack and determining to send at least half of them to Hell before they despatched me.

  He said in a cold way, “Hold your place, murderer. I would speak with you.”

  “I am no murderer,” said I. “But I am able to slay, as you will find out if you test me.”

  “My brother did you no harm.”

  “Let the court be the judge of that, Don Gaspar.”

  “I have spoken with those who witnessed your killing of him. The court will hang you, if you live long enough to be hanged.”

  “Ah, and will you add murder to the crime of suborning witnesses, then?”

  “I would not soil my blade on you,” he said. “But my brother had other friends, of less noble birth than I, who may not be so finicking nice.”

  “Yes, your brother was indeed noble. Nobly did he plunder graves, and nobly did he attempt to enter into a longboat that had no room for him, and nobly did he clutch stolen treasure to his breast even if it drowned him. Are you equally noble, Don Gaspar?”

  His wrath blazed high. He strutted toward me, and stroked his sword all the more flagrantly.

  “Noble enough not to slive you apart in the street, which is what you deserve, Lutheran dog! I will let the court have its rightful turn with you. But I tell you this, Englishman: if you come free away from the inquest, through some chicane of your master Don João, then you shall have me to answer to!”

  “And your friends as well, I suppose? Or will you challenge me man to man?”