Then I was ushered into the same high-vaulted audience-chamber where I had several times met with Don Jeronymo d’Almeida, the former governor, and there, seated at the governor’s great polished desk of brilliant red wood, was Don João himself, not any newly arrived son by that name, nor any ghost neither, I trow. He looked plump and hearty, and scarce a day older than when I had last seen him in the days before the Jesuit troubles, and although he did not rise from his chair of office he favored me with a warm good smile and a broad gesture of greeting, and exclaimed, “Andres! Andres, my friend, my Englishman, my Piloto!”
“Don João, it gives me joy and amaze to see you.”
“And joy do I take in this meeting also. How we are all changed, eh? I am governor at last, and you—you look as if you have fought hard, and suffered no little.”
“It was a difficult campaign. But by God’s grace, and some help from the Jaqqas, I was spared. And you also have been spared! I thought you long dead, Don João.”
He gave a little startle. “You did? Why so?”
“They told me a tale, that Don Jeronymo had plotted to have you hurled into the sea when you sailed to Portugal.”
Leaning forward, he said, “Knew you of that, Andres?”
“Aye. But my knowledge came too late to help you, for I was already halfway to Loango when I learned of it, and you well out toward Portugal. But was it as I heard?”
“It was,” said he in a low dark voice. “There were three men of Don Jeronymo’s pay, who planned to carry it out. But I had warning, and I took care to be well guarded, and we found out the men and questioned them. And they did confess, and their scheme was blocked.”
“God be thanked. I grieved much for you.”
“For that I am much moved, Andres. But you see, I was prepared. I had known Don Jeronymo for what he was, and I placed no trust in his words.”
“And now you are governor!”
“Yea. It was simple enough, arranging the appointments, once I spoke before His Majesty, and showed how we were in danger of losing our hold here if the rule of the d’Almeida brothers continued. It was already known that Don Francisco had fled to Brazil. Don Jeronymo’s appointment had no legitimacy to it. And so I received the royal assent, and returned here with four hundred soldiers and thirty horses, and now I am putting things to right. We will go forth to punish the lawless sobas, and we will do a better job of it, if God wills, then Don Jeronymo did. You were at Masanganu when Kafuche Kambara made his massacre?”
“Nay. I was at the massacre itself.”
“And survived? God’s grace indeed!”
“And luck, and some skill. Alas, among those slain was the good Barbosa, that was like a second father to me.”
“His loss is sad. I knew of that, and that hundreds of others had perished with him. Well, and well, Andres, these are the risks of empire. Were you wounded?”
“I took an arrow. It was not so bad.”
“Why were you in the war at all?”
I shrugged. “Don Jeronymo had me ferrying troops to Masanganu. When he took ill, his generals ordered everyone out to fight against Kafuche, and I could not refuse.”
“I meant for you only to be a pilot for us,” said Don João. He looked close at me and said, “Do you think I have forgotten my promise to let you go home? Eh? I said, Serve me a little while in voyaging along the coast, and I will put you on ship to England. Eh, Andres? How long ago was that?”
“I think it was in June of ‘91, or the July.”
“Three years. A longer service than either of us expected. The promise still stands, Andres. But I have more need of you. Will you renew your pledge a little longer?”
“I do yearn for my homeland, Don João.”
“Yea. I comprehend that. But give me a little more, Andres, only a little more. Will you do that?”
He looked at me, his eyes on mine, and suddenly I saw the truth that lay behind his warm and friendly pleading words, which was that he was not pleading at alclass="underline" he was commanding me. This was his method, to be kind and insinuating, as it had been Don Jeronymo’s method to be fierce and domineering, and either way the result was the same, that I was compelled to remain in this land of Angola. I had mourned Don João most keenly when I had thought him to be dead, and we had taken meals and wines together many times as though we were truly friends, but at the bottom of things the reality was that I was a slave and he my absolute master, the which he softened and concealed with gentle words. But what could I say? Could I refuse service, and demand instant passage to England? I had no claim. If I did any such thing, he would, with the greatest sadness and sweet professions of friendship, commit me to his dungeon, and then I would rot there for ever.
I do not think Don João was insincere. I believe he had true regard for me, and a fondness. But he had need of me to sail his ships for him, and that need was paramount. Perhaps one day he would indeed let me go, but not now, not yet. And I could do nothing but yield.
“Aye, since you ask me, I will serve,” I said. “But once the rebellion is put down, and you are secure in your power here, will you release me, Don João? Five years is a long time to be away from one’s native land.”
“It will be only a little,” said Don João, “and then you will be on your way thither.”
Which he said with such warmth and such clear profession of good will that I could not for the moment doubt him. Yet I knew that when he said, “Only a little,” that little might be two months, or six, or a year and a half, or eternity, according to his changing needs of me, and that as those needs changed he would ask me again and again, with the same warmth, with the same good will, to extend my service to him. I think I would rather be compelled without deceit than cozened with such beguiling, but no matter: in Angola I would have to remain.
We talked for a time of the voyages he required of me, in sailing his pinnace along the coast in various trading missions. And when we had done with that, and as he was making ready to dismiss me, only then did I ask the question I had held back in my mind all this while, the question that I had not thought seemly to introduce in any earlier part of our meeting.
Quite casually I said, “The same who told me of the plot against you did say that Dona Teresa was to have been slain in the same manner. I trust it is not so.”
Don João smiled. “Nay, she is well, and was never at jeopardy. O, she thrived in Lisbon! Her eyes were wide all the day and all the night, as she soaked up the wonders of the place. Yet the winter weather was harsh on her, and she was gladdened to return to São Paulo de Loanda. She is a married woman now, you know.”
“Married?
I did not conceal my shock; I could not, for the surprise was too great. Dona Teresa had told me, before she set sail for Europe, that she and Don João were to be wed in Lisbon, so I was not altogether taken unawares by his statement. But yet the phrasing of it was not right, for if he had married her he would have said, “Dona Teresa and I now are married,” and not, “She is married.” So I looked at him with bewilderment and I think, through showing so strong a response, I might have revealed to him that my interest in Dona Teresa went beyond mere polite curiosity.
But he gave no sign of seeing that. He said only, “Aye, she lost no time taking a husband when she came back here. Father Affonso performed the ceremony himself, and I stood up there beside her almost as a father would.”
“And the husband?”
“Why, it is that man of fantastical costume, Captain Fernão da Souza. You know him, do you not? The commander of the presidio guard? I think they have long been—ah—friends, and now they are man and wife, this fortnight past. You should call on them, once you are reestablished in your life here.”