The Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet (51 page)

When not eating our victuals
, thinks Penhaligon,
they eat my ship
.

“Tell the boatswain to hold a miller-hunt. Ten tails buys an extra quart.”

Wetz’s sneeze sprays a downwind midshipman. “The men’ll enjoy the sport.”

Penhaligon crosses the rolling quarterdeck. It is in a slutty state: Snitker doubts the Japanese lookouts could distinguish an unkempt Yankee trader from a Royal Navy frigate with gunports blackened, but the captain is taking nothing for granted. Lieutenant Hovell stands at the taffrail, next to the deposed former chief of Dejima. Hovell senses the captain’s approach, turns and salutes.

Snitker turns and nods, like an equal. He gestures toward the rocky islet, passing at a fair clip and a safe four or five hundred yards. “Torinoshima.”

Torinoshima, Captain
, thinks Penhaligon, but inspects the islet. Torinoshima is more a large rock than a little Gibraltar, plastered in guano and raucous with seabirds. It is cliff-bound on all sides, except for a stony scree fall to leeward, where a brave boat might attempt an anchorage. Penhaligon tells Hovell, “Ask our guest if he ever heard of a landing.”

Snitker’s answer takes up two or three sentences.

What a gagged, mud-slurping thing
, thinks Penhaligon,
is the Dutch tongue
.

“He thinks not, sir; he never heard of any attempted landing.”

“His reply was more involved than that.”

“‘None but a bloody-minded simpleton would chance his longboat,’ sir.”

“My sensibilities are not so easily wounded, Mr. Hovell. In future, translate in full.”

The first lieutenant looks awkward. “My apologies, Captain.”

“Ask him if Holland or any nation lays claim to Torinoshima.”

Snitker’s response to the question contains a sneer and the word “shogun.”

“Our guest suggests,” explains Hovell, “that we consult with the shogun before planting our Union Jack up in all that bird shit.” More follows, with Hovell paying close attention and verifying a detail or two. “Mr. Snitker adds that Torinoshima is referred to as the ‘signpost to Japan,’ and if this wind keeps up, tomorrow we’ll catch sight of the
‘garden wall,’ the Goto Islands, subject to the lord of Hizen, in whose dominion Nagasaki is located.”

“Ask him if the Dutch Company ever landed on the Goto Islands.”

This question earns a longer answer.

“He says, sir, that the company’s captains never provoked …”

The three men grip the taffrail as the
Phoebus
plunges and bucks.

“… never provoked the authorities so blatantly, sir, because Hidden—”

A cascade of spray falls over the bow; a drenched sailor swears in Welsh.

“—Hidden Christians still live there, so all comings and goings …”

One of the midshipmen tumbles down the companionway with a yell.

“… are watched by government spies, but no bumboats shall approach us lest the crew be executed as smugglers, along with their families.”

Rise by plunge, Torinoshima diminishes in stature off the starboard stern. The captain, lieutenant, and traitor sink into their own thoughts. Shearwaters and terns hover, roll, and plunge. The fourth bell of the first dog watch is struck, bringing out the men of the larboard watch without lagging: word has spread that the captain is about. The off-duty men go belowdecks for two hours of make-and-mend.

A narrow amber eye of sky opens on the southern horizon.

“There, sir!” says Hovell, childlike for a moment. “Two dolphins!”

Penhaligon sees nothing but heaving slate-blue waves. “Where?”

“A third! A beauty!” Hovell points, aborts another syllable, and says, “Gone.”

“Until dinnertime, then,” says Penhaligon to Hovell, moving away.

“Ah,
dinnertime,”
repeats Snitker in English, and mimes drinking.

Grant me patience
—Penhaligon musters a thin smile
—and coffee
.

THE PURSER LEAVES
the cabin, having worked through the day’s subtractions to the pay book. His buzzing voice and charnel-house breath have left Penhaligon with a headache to match the pain in his foot. “The one thing worse than dealing with pursers,” his patron Captain Golding advised him many years ago, “is being one. Every company needs a figurehead of hatred: better it be him than you.”

Penhaligon drains the silty dregs.
Coffee sharpens my mind
, he thinks,
but burns my guts and strengthens my old enemy
. Since leaving Prince of Wales Island, an unwelcome truth has become irrefutable: his gout is launching a second attack. The first occurred in Bengal last summer: the heat was monstrous, and the pain was monstrous. For a fortnight he could not endure even the light touch of a cotton sheet against his foot. A first attack of the ailment can be laughed away as a rite of passage, but after the second, a man risks being dubbed “a gouty captain,” and his prospects with the admiralty can be poleaxed.
Hovell may harbor his suspicions
, thinks Penhaligon,
but daren’t air them; the wardrooms of the service are cluttered with first lieutenants orphaned by the premature loss of their patrons
. Worse yet, Hovell may be tempted by a nimbler patron and jump ship, depriving Penhaligon of his finest officer and a future captain’s indebtedness. His second lieutenant, Abel Wren, well connected via his marriage to Commodore Joy’s ruthless daughter, will smack his lips at the thought of these unexpected vacancies.
I am, then
, Penhaligon concludes,
engaged in a footrace against my gout. If I seize this year’s Dutch copper and, please, God, prize open the treasure box of Nagasaki before gout lays me low, my financial and political futures are assured
. Otherwise, Hovell or Wren shall take the credit for bagging the copper and the trading post—or else the mission fails altogether and John Penhaligon retires to West Country obscurity and a pension of, at best, two hundred pounds a year, paid late and begrudgingly.
In my darker hours, I declare, it appears that Lady Luck won me my captaincy eight years ago just for the private pleasure of squatting over me and voiding her bowels
. First, Charlie mortgaged the remains of the family estate, took out debts in his younger brother’s name, and disappeared; second, his prize agent and banker absconded to Virginia; third, Meredith, his dear Meredith, died of typhus; and fourth, there was Tristram—vigorous, strident, respected, handsome Tristram—killed at Cape St. Vincent, leaving his father nothing but grief and the crucifix salvaged by the ship’s surgeon.
And now comes the gout
, he thinks,
threatening even to wreck my career
 …

“No.” Penhaligon picks up his shaving mirror. “We shall reverse our reverses.”

THE CAPTAIN LEAVES
his cabin just as the sentry—Banes or Panes is the man’s name—is relieved by another marine, Walker the Scot: the
pair salute. On the gundeck, Waldron the gunner’s mate crouches by a cannon with a Penzance boy, Moff Wesley. In the gloom and noise of the heavy sea, they do not notice the eavesdropping captain. “Speak it back, then, Moff,” Waldron is saying. “First?”

“Mop inside the barrel with the wet swab, sir.”

“An’ if some sottish cock does a cack-thumbed job o’ that?”

“He’ll miss embers from the last shot when we puts in the powder, sir.”

“And blow a gunner’s arms off: I seen it once, an’ once ’ll do. Second?”

“Put in the powder cartridge, sir, or else we pours it in loose.”

“An’ is gunpowder brought hither by scamperin’ little piskies?”

“No, sir: I fetches it from the aft magazine, sir, one charge at a time.”

“So you do, Moff. An’ why we don’t keep a fat stash to hand is?”

“One loose spark’d blow us all to piss-’n’-sh—pieces, sir. Third”—Moff counts on his fingers—“ram home the powder with a rammer, sir, an’ fourth is load up the shot, an’ fifth is ram in a wad after the shot, ’cause we may be rollin’ an’ the shot may roll out again into the sea, sir.”

“An’ a right crew o’ Frenchmen we’d look
then
. Sixth?”

“Roll out the gun, so the carriage front is hard against the bulwark. Seventh, quill down the touchhole. Eighth, it’s lit with a flintlock, an’ the flintman shouts ‘Clear!’ an’ the primin’ powder sets off the powder in the barrel an’ fires out the shot, and whatever’s in its way it blows to—kingdom come, sir.”

“Which causes the gun carriage,” interjects Penhaligon, “to do what?”

Waldron is as startled as Moff: he stands to salute too quickly and bangs his head. “Didn’t notice you, Captain; beggin’ your pardon.”

“Which causes the gun carriage,” repeats Penhaligon, “to do what, Mr. Wesley?”

“Recoil shoots it back, sir, till the breech ropes an’ cascabel stops it.”

“What does a recoiling cannon do to a man’s leg, Mr. Wesley?”

“Well … there’d not be much leg left if it caught it, sir.”

“Carry on, Mr. Waldron.” Penhaligon continues along the starboard bulwark, recalling his own days as a powder monkey and steadying himself on an overhead rope. At five-foot-eight, he is much taller than the average sailor and must take care not to scalp himself on the deckheads. He regrets his lack of a private fortune or prize money to buy
gunpowder for firing practice. Captains who use more than a third of their quota in this way are viewed by the sea lords as imprudent.

Six Hanoverians whom Penhaligon plucked off a whaler at St. Helena are doing their best to wash, wring out, and hang up spare hammocks in the rolling weather. They intone, “Capi
tarn
,” in one chorus, and return to industrious silence. Farther along, Lieutenant Abel Wren has men scrubbing the deck with hot vinegar and holystones. Up above is dirtied for camouflage, but belowdecks needs protection from mildew and bad airs. Wren whacks a sailor with his rattan and bellows,
“Scrub it
—don’t
tickle it, you daisy!”
He then pretends to notice the captain for the first time and salutes. “Afternoon, sir.”

“Afternoon, Mr. Wren. All well?”

“Never better, sir,” says the dashing, ugly second lieutenant.

Passing the canvas-screened galley, Penhaligon peers through a loose flap into the sooty, steamy enclosure, where the messmen help the cook and his mate chop food, keep fires alight, and prevent the coppers overturning. The cook puts chunks of salt pork—Thursday being a pork day—into the bubbling mixture. Chinese cabbage, slabs of yam, and rice are added to thicken the stew. Sons of the gentry may turn up their noses at the starch-and-salt-rich victuals, but ratings eat and drink better than they would ashore. Penhaligon’s own cook, Jonas Jones, claps a few times to earn the galley’s attention. “The wagers’re all in now, boys.”

“So let the games,” declares Chigwin, “begin!”

Chigwin and Jones each shake one chicken into a state of terror.

The dozen or so men in the galley chant in unison,
“A-one, a-two, a-three!”

Chigwin and Jones snip off their hens’ heads with a pair of shears and set them on the galley deck. The men cheer the blood-spouting headless corpses as they skid and flap. Half a minute later, when Jones’s fowl is still kicking on its side, the referee pronounces Chigwin’s “One dead fowl, boys.” Coins change hands from scowlers to gloaters, and the birds are taken to the benches for plucking and gutting.

Penhaligon could punish the servants with the feeble charge of disrespect to the officers’ dinner but carries on past the galley to the sick bay. Its wooden partitions reach not quite to the ceiling, allowing a little light in and disease-bearing airs out. “Nay nay
nay
, you headless tit, it goes like this …” The speaker is Michael Tozer, another Cornishman
sent as a volunteer by the captain’s brother Charlie to the
Dragon
, the brig whose second lieutenancy Penhaligon held eleven years ago. Tozer’s band of ten—now all able seamen—have followed their patron ever since. His broken and tuneless voice sings:

“’Tweren’t ‘gay,’ Michael Tozer,” objects a voice, “’twere ‘blithe.’”

“‘Gay,’ ‘blithe’—who humps a hog? What matters is what’s next, so cork it:

“That’s
what the Gosport whores sing, and I’d know, ’cause I had one after the glorious First o’ June an’ sunk my fork up her figgy-dowdy—”

“Though come mornin’,” says the voice, “she’d gone with his prize money.”

“’Tain’t the point: the point is, we’ll be pluckin’ Dutch merchantmen stuffed with the reddest, goldest copper on God’s beautiful globe.”

Captain Penhaligon stoops through the sick bay’s entrance. The half dozen bed-bound inmates stiffen to guilty attention, and the loblolly, a pock-scarred Londoner called Rafferty, stands, putting to one side the tray of tenaculums, ball scoops, and bone rasps he is oiling. “Afternoon, sir. The surgeon’s down on the orlop deck. Shall I send for him?”

“No, Mr. Rafferty. I make my rounds, is all. Are you mending, Mr. Tozer?”

“Can’t say my chest is better knitted than last week, sir, but I’m grateful to be here at all. ’Twas a fair old fall without a pair of wings. An’ Mr. Waldron’s been saying as he’ll find a space for me on one of his guns, so I look on it as a chance to learn a new trade an’ all.”

“That’s the spirit, Tozer, that’s the spirit.” Penhaligon turns to Tozer’s young neighbor. “Jack Fletcher: do I have it?”

“Jack Thatcher, beggin’ your pardon, sir.”

“Your pardon, Jack Thatcher. What brings you to the sick bay?”