"He must be made to see the Truth! This is a God-sent gift, this marriage. Protestant?
That heresy? Apostasy? Unthinkable, you'd be lost forever, doomed, excommunicated, your eternal soul consigned to everlasting torment in the Fire, to burn, to burn forever!"
She kept her eyes down and was barely coherent. "For me yes, for him... millions believe otherwise."
"They're all mad, lost, doomed, and forever they'll burn!" The voice hardened even more.
"They will! We must convert the heathen. The Malcolm Struan must con--"
"I'll try, good-bye, Father, thank...
I'll try," she mumbled and stepped around him and hurried away. At the door she turned back a moment and genuflected and went out into the light, him standing in the aisle, his back to the altar, all the time his voice ringing in the rafters, "Be an instrument of God, convert the heathen, if you love God save this man, save him from purgatory, if you love God save him, help me save him from Hellfire, save him for the Glory of God, you must... before you marry, save him let us save him save him..."
That evening a samurai patrol came out of the guard house at the North Gate. Ten warriors, fully armed with swords and light battle armor, an officer at their head. He led the way over the bridge and passed the barrier into the Settlement. One man carried a tall narrow banner with characters on it. The leading samurai held flares aloft that cast weird shadows.
The High Street and the seafront walk were still busy in the pleasant evening. Traders, soldiers, sailors, shopkeepers taking a constitutional or standing in groups, chatting and laughing, here and there, with a few singsongs and drunks and one or two wary male prostitutes. Down on the beach some sailors had lit a fire and were dancing a tipsy hornpipe around it, a transvestite amongst them, and from the distance came the noisy undercurrent of Drunk Town.
The ominous presence was noticed. People stopped in their tracks. Conversation hesitated in midsentence. Then ceased. All eyes turned northwards. Those nearest the patrol backed out of the way. Not a few felt for a revolver and cursed that it was not in the pocket or holster.
Others retreated and an off-duty soldier near an alley took to his heels to summon the Marine night watch.
"What's the matter, suh?" Gornt asked.
"Nothing, yet," Norbert said, his face grim. They were amongst a group on the promenade but still well away from the samurai who paid no attention whatsoever to the silent crowd watching them, slouching along out of step as was their custom.
Lunkchurch sidled up to them. "You armed, Norbert?"
"No. Are you?"
"No."
"I am, suh," Gornt took out his tiny pistol, "but it won't make much of a dent in them if they're hostile."
"When in doubt, young feller," Lunkchurch said hoarsely, "take a powder I always say." He stuck out his hand to Gornt before he hurried off.
"Barnaby Lunkchurch, Mr. Gornt, pleased to meet you, welcome to Yokopoko, see you in the Club, hear you play bridge, any time."
Everyone was quietly easing out of range.
Drunks had suddenly become sober. All were very much on guard, the speed of a sudden samurai rush with flailing swords too well known. Norbert had already chosen a line of retreat should it prove necessary. Then he saw the Marine night watch come out of the side street on the double, rifles ready, a sergeant at their head, to take up a commanding, though not provocative position and he relaxed.
"Nothing to worry about now. Do you always carry that, Edward?"
"Oh yes, suh, always. I thought I'd told you."
"No, you didn't," he said, curtly. "Can I see it?"
"Certainly. It's loaded, of course."
The pistol was tiny but deadly.
Double-barrelled. Two bronze cartridges.
Silver sheathed hilt. He gave it back, hard eyed. "Neat. It's American?"
"French. My pa gave it to me when I went to England. Said he'd won it from a riverboat gambler, the only thing he gave me in his life."
Gornt laughed softly, both of them watching the approaching samurai. "I even sleep with it, suh, but I've only fired it once. That was at a lady who was sneaking off with my wallet in the dead of night."
"You hit her?"
"No suh, wasn't trying to, just parted her hair, to frighten her. A lady shouldn't steal, should she, suh?"
Norbert grunted and put his eyes back on samurai, seeing Gornt in a new light, a dangerous one.
The patrol walked down the center of the road, sentries in front of the British, French and Russian legations--the only ones with permanent guards--quietly cocked their rifles, already warned. "Safety catches on! No firing, lads, till I says," the Sergeant growled.
"Grimes, go warn his Nibs, he's with the Russkies, third house down the street, quietly now."
The soldier slid away. Street lamps of the promenade flickered. Everyone waited anxiously. The strutting officer approached impassively. "Mean-looking bastard, ain' he, Sar'nt?" a sentry whispered, his hands slick on his rifle.
"They're all mean-looking bastards. Easy now."
The officer came abreast of the British Legation and barked command. His men stopped and formed up facing the gate as he stomped forward and spoke guttural Japanese at the Sergeant. A sharp silence. More impatient, imperious words, clearly orders.
"Wot you want, cookie?" the Sergeant asked thinly, half a metre taller.
Again the ugly sentences, more angrily.
"Anyone knows wot he's saying?" the Sergeant called out. No answer, then Johann, the interpreter, carefully came out of the fringe of the crowd, bowed to the officer who bowed back perfunctorily and spoke to him in Dutch. The officer replied in Dutch, searching for the words.
Johann said, "He's got a message, a letter, for Sir William, has to deliver it personally."
"Don't know about that, Mister, not with them bloody swords at his side."
The officer started towards the Legation gate and all safety catches came off. He stopped.
A furious tirade at the Sergeant and sentries. All samurai eased their swords a quarter length out of their scabbards and took a defensive stance. Down the road the Marine patrol moved into riot order. Everyone waited for the first mistake.
At that moment Pallidar and two other dragoon officers hurried out from the Russian Legation just down the street, in evening dress uniform, dress swords. "I'll take charge Sergeant," Pallidar said. "What's the problem?"
Johann told him. Pallidar, well rehearsed in Japanese customs now, went over to the officer, bowed, made sure the officer bowed equally. "Tell him I'll accept the letter.
I'm aide-de-camp to Sir William," he said exaggerating.
"He says, Sorry, his orders are to do it personally."
"Tell him I'm authorized t--"
Sir William's voice stopped him.
"Captain Pallidar--just a moment! Johann, who's this letter from?" He stood on the threshold of the Russian bungalow, Zergeyev and others crowding the entrance beside him.
The officer pointed at the banner and snapped more words and Johann called out, "He says it's from the tairo but I guess he means the roju, the Elders. He's been ordered to deliver it at once, personally."
"All right, I'll take it, tell him to come over here."
Johann translated. Imperiously the officer beckoned Sir William to come to him but Sir William called out, even more sharply, with even less courtesy, "Tell him I'm at dinner. If he doesn't step up right now, he can deliver it tomorrow."
Johann was too practiced to translate exactly and only gave just enough emphasis to transfer the meaning. The samurai officer sucked in his breath with fury, then stomped over to the Russian gate, brushed past the two huge bearded sentries and stood before Sir William, clearly waiting for him to bow.
"Keirei!" Sir William barked.
Salute!--one of few words he allowed himself to know. "Keirei!"