The Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet (59 page)

The lancet probes the rupture: a violet agony explodes behind Penhaligon’s eyeballs.

“… hurt just a little, sir … but it’s weeping nicely—a good abundance of pus.”

The captain peers at the frothing discharge. “
That
is good?”

Surgeon Nash unscrews a corked pot. “Pus is how the body purges itself of excessive blue bile, and blue bile is the root of gout. By widening the wound, applying a scraping of murine fecal matter”—he uncorks the pot and extracts a mouse dropping with a pair of tweezers—“we can stimulate the discharge and expect an improvement within seven days. Moreover, I took the liberty of bringing a vial of Dover’s remedy, so—”

“I’ll drink it now, Surgeon. The next two days are crucial to—”

The lancet sinks in: the stifled scream makes his body go rigid.

“Damn
it, Nash,” the captain gasps finally. “Will you not at least
warn
me?”

MAJOR CUTLIP LOOKS
askance at the sauerkraut on Penhaligon’s spoon.

“Might your resistance,” asks the captain, “be weakening, Major?”

“Twice-rotted cabbage shall never conquer
this
soldier, Captain.”

Membranous sunlight lends the breakfast table the air of a painting.

“It was Admiral Jervis who first recommended sauerkraut to me.” The captain crunches his fermented mouthful. “But I told you that story before.”

“Never,” says Wren, “in
my
hearing, sir.” He looks at the others, who concur. Penhaligon suspects them of dainty manners, but summarizes the anecdote: “Jervis had sauerkraut from William Bligh, and Bligh had it from Captain Cook himself. ‘The difference between La Pérouse’s tragedy and Cook’s glory,’ Bligh was fond of saying, ‘was thirty barrels of sauerkraut.’ But when Cook embarked on the first voyage, neither exhortation nor threat would induce the Endeavours to eat it. Thereupon Cook designated the ‘twice-rotted cabbage’ as officers’ food and forbade common tars from touching the stuff. The result? Sauerkraut began to be filched from its own poorly guarded storeroom, until six months later not a single man was buckling under scurvy and the conversion was complete.”

“Low cunning,” Lieutenant Talbot observes, “in the service of genius.”

“Cook is a great hero of mine,” avows Wren, “and an inspiration.”

Wren’s “of mine” irritates Penhaligon like a tiny seed wedged between molars.

Chigwin fills the captain’s bowl: a drop splashes on the tablecloth’s lovingly embroidered forget-me-nots.
Now is not the time
, thinks the widower,
to remember Meredith
. “And so, gentlemen, to the day’s business, and our Dutch guests.”

“Van Cleef,” says Hovell, “passed an uncommunicative night in his cell.”

“Aside,” sneers Cutlip, “from demanding to know why his supper was boiled rope.”

“News of the VOC’s demise,” the captain asks, “makes him no less obdurate?”

Hovell shakes his head. “Admission of weakness
is
a weakness.”

“As for Fischer,” says Wren, “the wretch spent all night in his cabin, despite our entreaties to join us in the wardroom.”

“How are relations between Fischer and his former chief, Snitker?”

“They act like perfect strangers,” replies Hovell. “Snitker is nursing a head cold this morning. He wants Van Cleef court-martialed for the crime, if you please, of ‘battery against a “friend of the court of Saint James’s.”’”

“I am sick,” says Penhaligon, “heartily sick, of that coxcomb.”

“I’d agree, Captain,” says Wren, “that Snitker’s usefulness has run its course.”

“We need a persuasive leader to win the Dutch,” says the captain, “and an”—abovedeck, three bells are rung—“envoy of gravitas and poise to persuade the Japanese.”

“Deputy Fischer wins my vote,” says Major Cutlip, “as the more pliable man.”

“Chief van Cleef,” argues Hovell, “would be the natural leader.”

“Let us interview,” Penhaligon suggests, brushing crumbs away, “our two candidates.”

“MR. VAN CLEEF.”
Penhaligon stands, disguising his grimace of pain as an insincere smile. “I hope you slept well?”

Van Cleef helps himself to burgoo, Seville preserve, and a hailstorm of sugar before replying to Hovell’s translation. “He says you can threaten him all you please, sir, but Dejima still has not one nail of copper for you to rob.”

Penhaligon ignores this. “I’m pleased his appetite is robust.”

Hovell translates and Van Cleef speaks through a mouthful of food.

“He asks, sir, if we have decided what to do with our hostages yet.”

“Tell him that we don’t consider him a hostage but a guest.”

Van Cleef’s response to the assertion is a burgoo-spattering “Ha!”

“Ask if he has digested the VOC’s bankruptcy.”

Van Cleef pours himself a bowl of coffee as he listens to Hovell. He shrugs.

“Tell him that the English East India Company wishes to trade with Japan.”

Van Cleef sprinkles raisins on his burgoo as he gives his response.

“His reply, sir, is, ‘Why else hire Snitker to bring you here?’”

He is no novice at this
, thinks Penhaligon,
but then, neither am I
.

“We are seeking an old Japan hand to represent our interests.”

Van Cleef listens, nods, stirs sugar into his coffee, and says,
“Nee.”

“Ask whether he ever heard of the Kew Memorandum, signed by his own monarch-in-exile, ordering Dutch overseas officers to hand their nations’ assets to the safekeeping of the British?”

Van Cleef listens, nods, stands, and lifts his shirt to show a deep, wide scar.

He sits down, tears a bread roll in two, and gives Hovell a calm explanation.

“Mr. van Cleef says he earned that wound at the hands of Scotch and Swiss mercenaries hired by that same monarch-in-exile. They poured boiling oil down his father’s throat, he said. On behalf of the Batavian Republic, he begs us to keep both the ‘chinless tyrant’ and ‘British safekeeping’ and says that the Kew Memorandum is useful for the privy but nothing else.”

“Plainly, sir,” declares Wren, “we are dealing with Jacobin.”

“Tell him we’d
prefer
to achieve our goals diplomatically, but—”

Van Cleef sniffs the sauerkraut and recoils as at boiling sulfur.

“—failing that we shall seize the factory by force, and any loss of Japanese and Dutch life shall be on his account.”

Van Cleef drinks his coffee, turns to Penhaligon, and insists on Hovell translating his reply line by line so that nothing is missed.

“He says, Captain, that whatever Daniel Snitker has told us, Dejima is sovereign Japanese territory, leased to the company. It is not a Dutch possession.

“He says that if we try to storm it, the Japanese will defend it.

“He says our marines may fire off one round before being cut down.

“He urges us not to throw our lives away, for our family’s sakes.”

“The man is trying to scare us away,” remarks Cutlip.

“More probably,” suspects Penhaligon, “he is driving up the price of his help.”

But Van Cleef issues a final statement and stands.

“He thanks you for breakfast, Captain, and says that Melchior van Cleef is not for sale to any monarch. Peter Fischer, however, shall be only too delighted to hammer out terms with you.”

“MY ESTEEM FOR PRUSSIANS,”
says Penhaligon, “began in my midshipman days …”

Hovell translates: Peter Fischer nods, not quite able to believe this wonderful twist of fortune.

“HMS
Audacious
had a Brunswick-born officer named Plessner.”

Fischer corrects the pronunciation of “Plessner” and adds a remark.

“Chief Fischer,” translates Hovell, “is also a native son of Brunswick.”

“Is that so now?” Penhaligon feigns astonishment. “From Brunswick?”

Peter Fischer nods, says
“Ja, ja,”
and drains his small beer.

With a glance, Penhaligon orders Chigwin to fill Fischer’s tankard and keep it filled.

“Mr. Plessner was a superb seaman; brave, resourceful …”

Fischer’s expression signifies,
As one would expect, of course
 …

“… and I am overjoyed,” the captain continues, “that the first British consul of Nagasaki shall be a gentleman of Germanic stock and values.”

Fischer raises his tankard in salute and puts a question to Hovell.

“He’s asking, sir, what role Mr. Snitker may have in our plans.”

Penhaligon aspirates a tragic sigh, thinks,
I could have walked the boards at Drury Lane
, and says, “To be truthful with you, Envoy Fischer”—Hovell translates the snatch, and Fischer leans in closer—“Daniel Snitker disappoints us as gravely as does Mr. van Cleef.”

The Prussian nods with co-conspirator’s eyes.

“Dutchmen talk large, yet in action they are all piss and vinegar.”

Hovell struggles with the idioms but elicits a run of
ja ja jas
.

“They are too rooted in their Golden Age to notice the changing world.”

“This is the … 
waarheid.”
Fischer turns to Hovell. “How to say,
waarheid?”

“‘Truth,’” says Hovell, and Penhaligon tries to make his foot more comfortable as he expounds.

“This is why the VOC collapsed and why their much-vaunted Dutch Republic looks set to join Poland in history’s dustbin of extinct nations. The British crown needs Fischers, not Snitkers: men of talent, of vision …”

Fischer’s nostrils widen as he listens to Hovell’s rendition, the better to smell his future of wealth and power.

“… and moral rectitude. In short, we need ambassadors, not whoring merchants.”

Fischer completes his metamorphosis from hostage to plenipotentiary with a laborious tale of Dutch lassitude, which Hovell shortens. “Envoy Fischer says that a fire leveled the sea-gate quarter of Dejima last year. Whilst the two biggest Dutch warehouses were burning to the ground, Van Cleef and Snitker were disporting themselves in a brothel at the company’s expense.”

“Disgraceful dereliction,” declares Wren, a connoisseur of bagnios.

“Gross abandonment,” agrees Cutlip, Wren’s companion of choice.

Seven bells ring. Envoy Fischer shares a new thought with Hovell.

“He says, Captain, that with Van Cleef removed from Dejima, Mr. Fischer is now the acting chief—meaning that the men on Dejima are duty-bound to carry out his instructions. To disobey his orders is a corporal offense.”

May his powers of persuasion
, thinks the captain,
match his confidence
.

“Snitker shall receive a pilot’s fee for guiding us here and a gratis berth to Bengal, but in a hammock, not a cabin.”

Fischer’s nod agrees,
That is sufficient
, and issues a pronouncement.

“He says,” translates Hovell, “‘the Almighty forged this morning’s pact.’”

The Prussian drinks from his tankard and finds it empty.

The captain sends Chigwin a tiny shake of his head. “The Almighty,” Penhaligon says with a smile, “and His Majesty’s Navy, for whom Envoy Fischer agrees to undertake the following …” Penhaligon takes up the
memorandum of understanding. “‘Article one: Envoy Fischer is to gain the acquiescence of Dejima’s men to British patronage.’”

Hovell translates. Major Cutlip rolls a boiled egg on a saucer.

“‘Article two: Envoy Fischer is to broker negotiations with the Nagasaki magistrate to secure a treaty of amity and trade between the British crown and the shogun of Japan. Annual trading seasons are to commence from June of 1801.’”

Hovell translates. Cutlip picks eggshell from the rubbery white.

“‘Article three: Envoy Fischer shall facilitate the transfer of all Dutch-owned copper to His Majesty’s Frigate
Phoebus
and a limited trading season in private goods between crew and officers and Japanese merchants.’”

Hovell translates. Cutlip bites into the truffle-soft yolk.

“‘As remuneration for these services, Envoy Fischer is to receive a one-tenth share of all profits from the British Dejima factory for the first three years of his office, which may be renewed in 1803 subject to the consent of both parties.’”

Hovell translates the final clause. Penhaligon signs the memorandum.

The captain then passes the quill to Peter Fischer. Fischer pauses.

He senses the gaze
, the captain guesses,
of his future self, watching him
.

“You shall return to Brunswick,” Wren assures him, “as rich as its illustrious duke.”

Hovell translates, Fischer smiles and signs, and Cutlip sprinkles a little salt onto the remains of his egg.

TODAY BEING SUNDAY,
church is rigged, and eight bells summon the ship’s company. The officers and marines stand beneath an awning strung between the mizzen and mainmast. All the
Phoebus
’s Christian sailors are expected to toe the line in their best clothes: Hebrews, Mussulmans, Asiatics, and other heathens are excused from prayers and the hymn, but often they watch from the margins. Van Cleef is locked in the sailcloth store for fear of mischief, Daniel Snitker is with the lesser warrant officers, and Peter Fischer stands between Captain Penhaligon—conscious that his walking stick will already be the subject of speculation among the ratings—and Lieutenant Hovell, from whom the newly appointed envoy has borrowed a fresh cotton shirt. Chaplain Wily, a
gnarled oboe of a Kentishman, reads from his battered Bible, standing on a makeshift pulpit set before the wheel. He reads line by slow line, allowing the unschooled men time to chew and digest every verse, and giving the captain’s thoughts some room to wander: “‘We being exceedingly tossed with a tempest …’”

Penhaligon tests his right ankle: Nash’s potion is numbing the pain.

“‘… the next
day
they lightened the ship; And the third
day …’”

The captain spies the Japanese guard boat, keeping its distance.

“‘… we cast out with our own hands the tackling of the ship.’”

The seamen grunt in surprise and pay the chaplain close attention.

“‘And when neither sun nor stars in many days appeared …’”

The average is either too meek for so unruly a flock …