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-shouldered 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.