Because it was still night and he did not want to wake anyone, as quietly as he could he fished a flint and firestone from his trunk, and lighted a candle, taking care to place it near but not in the window so that the tallow smell would carry into the open air without the light waking anyone. The paper was blank. He held it closer to the candle to make sure he was not missing print too tiny to view in the darkness, and like magic, the tiny, elaborate script, definitely Portuguese, umbered before his eyes as if being written right there on the paper: “They are coming lest you fear watch and listen trust the seer.” The message startled him so he dropped the page into the flame, leaving only ashes on the sill. He returned to his pallet and tried, using the tools of reason, to understand what was going on, from the message, to the nightmare, to the tales Gaspar had told him, all the way back to the unusual circumstances by which he had ended up in this very room the very first night he arrived here. When he made no headway he knelt on the stone floor, his Bible before him, and prayed, remaining there, until exhaustion conquered his efforts, and he did not wake until the final ring of the next morning’s bell.
D’Azevedo rose from the floor, where he had passed out after his mental exertions, washed himself, and threw on his cassock and doublet, then rushed to Matins. Padres Pero, Barbosa Pires, and Dom Gaspar were all aleady there; in their faces and gestures he did not detect even the slightest disquiet. They proceeded through the Breviary without halt; D’Azevedo found himself struggling to concentrate on the words, as his mind was again cycling. It was only when Dom Gaspar extended his hand to help him up from his knees that he grasped the prayers had ended. They exchanged greetings, though the other two priests left the chapel straightaway. D’Azevedo went directly to his office, where the materials for the day’s lessons sat in neat piles on his desk. As he perfunctorily penned a plan to explain several refined points in Biblical interpretation, he would periodically feel a tingle in his cheeks or thighs when the images of the night before flashed in his head.
Not long before he was to head to the scriptorium, where he held the classes, D’Azevedo could hear voices rising like a choir tuning itself, and suddenly, hammering on his door. He went to open it and Dom Gaspar, as red-faced as he had been during his possessed reverie, ran in, crying out:
“They’ve sent a messager, along with coaches from the town, calling all of your boys back. There’s news that the Dutch have laid successful siege to Olinda, and the boys may be needed to participate in a local defense until the Crown’s forces arrive from Bahia and elsewhere.”
“Have they reached our port,” D’Azevedo asked, pulling the stool out for Gaspar, who did not sit, “at Alagoas?”
“Not yet, my Lord, but they say it is only a matter of time before the heathens begin their drive to seize everything and raise the Orange standard above us all.”
D’Azevedo, with Dom Gaspar behind him, went straight to the room where the boys lodged. All were collecting their personal items to prepare home.
“Lusitania has successfully defended her territories from worse threats than this,” D’Azevedo said to the boys, who paused momentarily to turn to him, “and the Netherlanders, like the French, will not triumph. You can be certain we shall reconvene in a fortnight or less, no matter what the threat. In the interim, continue with your lessons on your own, when you can, and if it is possible, send me word of your progress and of what is happening in the town.” When they had finished, he, Gaspar, Zé Pequeninho, who was assigned to serve them and carried as many sacks as he could, and João Baptista, always present, who carried the rest, accompanied them to the stables, where their horses and the coaches to fetch the rest of them awaited. D’Azevedo watched each depart, then returned with Dom Gaspar to his office to formulate a plan in the event that the Dutch did make headway inland.
D’Azevedo asked his charge to notify the other monks that he would like to meet that evening, just before Vespers, to discuss the crisis. Before then, he would examine the house’s inventories to find out what weapons and munition they, lacking a cannon, possessed. From what he could tell there were but a few: several very old swords, a hatchet, perhaps a pike and mace (at least that was what someone had noted down before), and all the agricultural tools, like flails, hoes, and scythes, that could be put to use if necessary. Also listed was a firearm he had never seen, some shot, and a small amount of gunpowder. Nearly all save the pike and farm implements were kept under lock and chain in a vault that he had never entered but knew was accessible via the chapel’s nave.
He followed this with inventories of all other aspects of the house: its finances, the food stocks, the state of the crops, the animals, the slaves. He had heard throughout his time in school on that the Dutch, unlike Lisbon’s ancient allies the English, were especially brutal to adherents of the Roman faith, even though he had also heard the Dutch Church had survived the pox spreading outward from Saxony and that seductive false prophet of Eisleben. If the local forces retreated here in their march toward the interior, the monastery would be able to provide sustenance and shelter; if the Dutch managed to vanquish them, D’Azevedo reasoned it would be beneficial to have at hand every means to ensure their magnimity. In the event of a siege he tried to figure how long he and the monks could hold out. On the back of a letter from the municipal authorities, concerning rules that had been implemented as of the turn of the year, he designated which bottles of cane liquor and wine, casks of English beer, horses, sacred implements, including the gold-plated chalice and the patin, gifts of the Albuquerque family, that were the pride of the Sacristy, as well as slaves, could be used to curry favor. He wrote two versions of this, one which he would entrust with Dom Gaspar, and one which he would keep on his person, to be presented personally to the Dutch commander if necessary.
Throughout the day messengers to the monastery brought notice of the approach of the Dutch fleet, the preparations in town, the lack of response from Olinda and Bahia, or Heaven forfend, distant Rio de Janeiro, the unlikelihood of reaching either Lisbon or Madrid, or, as some fancied, London. D’Azevedo wrote out an appeal to the mother house, but having heard nothing from them in over a month tore it up, and tried to busy himself with other preparations. He checked the food rations again, and requested that all the ovens be fired for extra loaves in preparation for the first waves of refugees and soldiers; explored the feasibility of fortifications, and ordered cordons of rope tied around the perimeter of the various fields to prevent them from being trampled; conducted a tally of candles, lamps and palm oil, and had new candles fashioned out of the latter so that the house would have sufficient light; and, just before the day plunged into the unquiet evening, climbed onto the roof himself to roll a white sheet to be unfurled, if needed, along the house’s façade as a sign of neutrality. The visits from the outside world ceased completely. D’Azevedo returned to his office to await the brethren. Only Dom Gaspar appeared at his door.
“Where are Padres Pero and Barbosa Pires?” D’Azevedo asked. He peered around Dom Gaspar into the dark, open hallway.
“There has been an incident, my Lord—”
“Dom Gaspar, we are facing an imminent attack—”
“—at the slave quarters. Indeed I came to fetch you….” D’Azevedo noted how the light from the lantern Dom Gaspar brandished before him contorted the deputy’s features into a mask of fright. The provost set down his quill and followed his charge outside.