She stared at the shadow behind the screen sure that he was lying, appalled that she could even consider it, let alone believe it. "I will help all I can," she said and got up and groped through the curtains for air.
But he stood in her path. She noticed sweat on his forehead and that he towered over her, in height and bulk. "It's for his own, his own salvation.
His, my child. It would be better, better before."
"Are you saying, Father, his conversion is a must before you will marry us?" she asked, in dread.
"It is not to me the conditions, what His Eminence decides govern us, we are faithful servants!"
"In my fiancee's church, he has not said I must become Protestant, of course I cannot force him either."
"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."