The Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet: A Novel (74 page)

'This Nagasaki,' notes Wren, 'is an anchorage the equal of Port Mahon . . .'

In clear water a shoal of silver fish changes direction.

'. . . and four or five modern placements would make it quite impregnable.'

Long and curving rice paddies stripe the low and laddered mountains.

'Wasted on a backward race,' laments Wren, 'too idle to build a navy.'

Black smoke rises from the hunchbacked headland. Penhaligon tries to ask Daniel Snitker if the smoke could be a signal, but Snitker fails to make his answer comprehensible so the Captain sends for Smeyers, a carpenter's mate who speaks Dutch.

The forests of pines might yield masts and spars.

'The bay presents a beautiful prospect,' ventures Lieutenant Talbot.

The womanly adjective irritates Penhaligon, and he wonders at the wisdom of Talbot's appointment, necessitated by the death of Sam Smythe at Penang. Then he recalls the loneliness of his own Third Lieutenancy, caught between the resentment of a frosty captain's cabin and his former comrades in the midshipmen's cockpit. 'A fair sight, yes, Mr Talbot.'

A man in the heads, a few feet down and a few feet forwards, groans wantonly.

'The Japanese, I read,' says Talbot, 'give florid names to their kingdom . . .'

The unseen sailor issues an almighty orgasmic bellow of relief . . .

'. . . "The Land of a Thousand Autumns" or "The Root of the Sun".'

. . . and a turd hits the water like a cannonball. Wetz rings three bells.

'Upon glimpsing Japan,' says Talbot, 'such poetic names sound precise.'

'What I see,' says Wren, 'is a sheltered harbour for an entire squadron.'

Never mind a squadron
, the Captain thinks,
this bay would shelter a fleet
.

His heart quickens as the vision grows.
A British Pacific fleet
.

The Captain imagines a floating city of British men-of-war and frigates . . .

Penhaligon pictures his chart of North East Asia, with a British base in Japan . . .

China herself
, he dares to think,
could follow India into our sphere . . .

Midshipman Malouf returns with Smeyers.

. . .
and the Philippines, too, would be ours for the taking.

'Mr Smeyers, be so good as to ask Mr Snitker about that smoke -'

The toothless Amsterdammer squints at the smoke from the galley stove.

'- that black smoke, there, above that hunchbacked headland.'

'Aye, sir.' Smeyers points as he translates. Snitker's reply is unworried.

'No bad, he says,' translates Smeyers. 'Farmers burn fields every autumn.'

Penhaligon nods. 'Thank you. Stay nearby, in case I need you.'

He notices that the flag - the Dutch tricolour - is tangled around the jib-boom.

He looks for someone to right it and sees a half-caste boy with a wiry pigtail picking oakum under the steam grating. 'Hartlepool!'

The youth puts down his rope and comes over. 'Yessir.'

Hartlepool's face speaks of fatherlessness, name-calling and resilience.

'Pray disentangle that flag for me, Hartlepool.'

'Sir.' The barefoot boy slips over the mainrail, balances on the bowsprit . . .

How many years
, wonders Penhaligon,
since I was so nimble?

. . . and darts up the round timber angled at nearly forty-five degrees.

The bereaved Captain's thumb finds Tristram's crucifix.

At the spritsail yard, forty yards out and thirty yards up, Hartlepool stops. Gripping the boom between his thighs, he untangles the flag.

'Can he swim, I wonder?' Lieutenant Talbot asks himself aloud.

'I'd not know,' says Midshipman Malouf, 'but one doubts it . . .'

Hartlepool makes the return trip with the same lithe grace.

'If his mother was a Blackamoor,' comments Wren, 'his father was a cat.'

When Hartlepool jumps on to the deck in front of him, the Captain gives him a new farthing. 'Ably done, boy.' Hartlepool's eyes widen at the unexpected generosity. He thanks Penhaligon and returns to his oakum-picking.

A look-out shouts: 'Greeting party nearly at the longboat!'

Through his telescope, Penhaligon sees the two sampans approaching the longboat. The foremost carries three Japanese officials, two in grey and a younger colleague in black. Three servants sit at the back. The rearmost sampan conveys the two Dutchmen. Their features lack much detail at this range, but Penhaligon can make out that one is tanned, bearded and rotund, the other is stick-like and pale as chalk.

Penhaligon hands the telescope to Snitker who reports to Smeyers. 'Grey-coats is officials, he says, Captain. Black-coat is translator. The big Dutchman is Melchior van Cleef, Chief of Dejima. The thin one is a Prussian. His name is Fischer. Fischer is second in command.'

Van Cleef cups his hands to his mouth and hails Hovell, a hundred yards off.

Snitker keeps talking. Smeyers says, 'Van Cleef is human rat, he says, sir, a true . . . a damned coat-turn? And Fischer is a sneak, a liar, a cheat whoreson, he says, sir, with big ambition. I don't think Mr Snitker like them, sir.'

'But both men,' opines Wren, 'sound amenable to our proposal. The last thing we need are incorruptible men-of-principle types.'

Penhaligon takes his telescope from Snitker. 'Not many of them hereabouts.'

Cutlip's marines stop rowing. The longboat glides to a dead stop.

The boat of the three Japanese officials touches the longboat's prow.

'Don't let any of them board,' murmurs Penhaligon, to his first lieutenant.

The prows of the two boats nudge one another. Hovell salutes and bows.

The inspectors bow and salute. Via the interpreter, introductions are made.

One inspector and the interpreter now half stand, as if preparing to transfer.

Delay them
, Penhaligon urges Hovell, silently,
delay them . . .

Hovell is bent over with a coughing fit; he presents one hand in apology.

The second sampan arrives, pulling up to the longboat's port-side.

'A disadvantageous position,' mutters Wren, 'wedged in from both sides.'

Hovell recovers from his cough; he doffs his hat at van Cleef.

Van Cleef stands, and leans over the prow to take Hovell's hand.

The spurned inspector and interpreter, meanwhile, half sit back down.

Deputy Fischer now stands, clumsily, and the boat rocks.

Hovell swings the large van Cleef over on to the longboat.

'One in the bag, Mr Hovell,' mutters the Captain. 'Deftly done.'

Faintly comes the rumble of Chief van Cleef's thunderous laughter.

Deputy Fischer takes a step towards the longboat, wobbly as a foal . . .

. . . but to Penhaligon's dismay, the interpreter now grips the longboat's lip.

The nearest marine calls to Major Cutlip. Cutlip grapples his way over . . .

'Not yet,' mumbles the Captain, impotently, 'don't let him aboard.'

Lieutenant Hovell, meanwhile, is beckoning the Deputy over.

Cutlip grips the hand of the unwanted interpreter . . .

Wait wait wait
, the Captain wants to yell,
wait for our second Dutchman!

. . . and Cutlip lets the interpreter go, waving his hand as if it is brutally mangled.

Now, at long last, Hovell has hold of the unsteady Deputy's hand.

Penhaligon mumbles, '
Land
the man, Hovell, for Christ's sake!'

The interpreter decides not to wait for further assistance, and plants one foot on the longboat's port bulwark just as Hovell swings the Prussian Deputy over the starboard . . .

. . . and half of the marines take up their cutlasses, some flashing in sunlight.

The other marines take up their oars and push the sampans away.

The black-coated interpreter flops, like a Pierrot, into the water.

The
Phoebus
's longboat lunges back towards the ship.

Chief van Cleef, realising that he is being abducted, attacks Lieutenant Hovell.

Major Cutlip intercepts and falls on top of him. The boat rocks dangerously.

Let it not capsize, dear God
, prays Penhaligon,
let it not capsize now . . .

Van Cleef is subdued and the longboat settles. The Prussian is sitting meekly.

Back at the sampans, already three lengths away, the first Japanese to act is an oarsman, who leaps into the water to save the interpreter. The grey-coated inspectors sit and stare in shock at the foreigners' longboat, as it retreats to the
Phoebus
.

Penhaligon lowers his telescope. 'The first engagement is won. Strike that Dutch rag, Mr Wren, and fly the Union Jack, topmast and prow.'

'Yes, sir, with the greatest of pleasure.'

'Mr Talbot, have your landsmen rinse the filth from my decks.'

The Dutchman van Cleef seizes the rope-ladder and clambers up it with an agility belying his bulk. Penhaligon glances up at the quarterdeck, where Snitker remains out of sight, for now, under his floppy-brimmed hat. Batting away proffered hands, van Cleef leaps on to the
Phoebus
like a Moorish boarder, glares along the line of officers, singles out Penhaligon, points a finger so wrathfully that a pair of marines take a step closer in case of attack, and declares, through his curly, close-cropped beard and tea-brown teeth, '
Kapitein!
'

'Welcome aboard His Majesty's Frigate
Phoebus
, Mr van Cleef. I am--'

The irate Chief's molten invective needs no translation.

'I am Captain John Penhaligon,' he says, when van Cleef next draws breath, 'and this is my second officer, Lieutenant Wren. First Lieutenant Hovell and Major Cutlip' - they arrive on deck now - 'you have already met.'

Chief van Cleef takes a step towards the Captain and spits at his feet.

An oyster of phlegm shines on his second-best Jermyn Street shoe.

'That's Dutch officers for you,' declares Wren. 'Bereft of breeding.'

Penhaligon hands his handkerchief to Malouf. 'For the ship's honour . . .'

'Aye, sir.' The Midshipman kneels by the Captain and wipes the shoe.

The firm pressure makes his gouty foot glow with pain. 'Lieutenant Hovell. Inform Chief van Cleef that whilst he behaves like a gentleman, our hospitality shall be accordingly civil, but should he comport himself like an Irish navvy, then that is how he shall be treated.'

'Taming Irish navvies,' boasts Cutlip, as Hovell translates the warning, 'is a labour I am fond of, sir.'

'Let us appeal to reason in the first instance, Major.'

A high bell is being rung: Penhaligon assumes it is an alarm.

Without looking at van Cleef, he now extends his greeting to the lesser second hostage. 'Welcome aboard His Majesty's Frigate
Phoebus
, Deputy Fischer.'