The Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet (60 page)

“‘… and no small tempest lay on us, all hope that we should be saved …’”

… or else so zealous that the sailors ignore, scorn, or vilify him.

“‘… was then taken away. But after long abstinence Paul stood forth …’”

Chaplain Wily, an oysterman’s son from Whitstable, is a welcome exception.

“‘… in the midst of them and said, Sirs, ye should have hearkened unto me …’”

Hands who know the Mediterranean in winter mutter and nod.

“‘… and not have loosed from Crete, and to have gained this harm and loss.’”

Wily teaches the boys their three Rs and writes illiterate men’s letters.

“‘And now I exhort you to be of good cheer: for there shall be no loss …’”

The chaplain has a mercantile streak, too, and fifty bolts of Bengali chintz in the hold.

“‘… of
any man’s
life among you but of the ship. For there stood by me this night …’”

Best of all, Wily keeps his readings briny and his sermons pithy.

“‘… the angel of God, whose I am’”—Wily looks up—“‘and whom I serve, saying …’”

Penhaligon lets his gaze wander the lines of his Phoebusians.

“‘Fear not, Paul; … lo, God hath given thee all them that sail with thee.’”

There are fellow Cornishmen, Bristolians, Manxmen, Hebrideans …

“‘… About midnight the shipmen deemed that they drew near to some country …’”

A quartet of Faroe Islanders; some Yankees from Connecticut.

“‘… And sounded; and found it twenty fathoms: and when they had gone …’”

Freed slaves from the Caribbean, a Tartar, a Gibraltese Jew.

“‘… further, they sounded again, and found fifteen fathoms …’”

Penhaligon considers how land naturally divides itself into nations.

“‘… Then fearing lest we should have fallen upon rocks, they cast …’”

He considers how the seas dissolve human boundaries.

“‘… four anchors out of the stern, and wished for the day.’”

He looks at the doubloons: men fathered by Europeans …

“‘And as the shipmen were about to flee out of the ship …’”

… on native women: on girls sold by fathers for iron nails …

“‘Paul said … Except these abide
in
the ship, ye cannot be saved.’”

Penhaligon locates Hartlepool the half-breed, and remembers his own youthful fornications, and wonders whether any resulted in a coffee-skinned or almond-eyed son who also obeyed the voice of the sea, who thinks the thoughts of the fatherless. The captain remembers this morning’s dream, and he hopes so.

“‘Then the soldiers cut the ropes of the boat, and let her fall off.’”

The men gasp at the recklessness. One exclaims, “Madness!”

“Stops deserters,” answers another, and Wren calls out: “Hear the chaplain!”

But Wily closes his Bible. “Aye, with the tempest howling, with death a near certainty, Paul says, ‘Abandon ship and you’ll drown; stay aboard with me and you’ll survive.’ Would you believe him? Would I?” The chaplain shrugs and puffs. “This wasn’t Paul the Apostle speaking with a halo round his head. This was a prisoner in chains, a heretic from a backward ditch of Rome’s empire. Yet he persuaded the guards to cut away the boats, and the Book of Acts tells that two hundred and seventy-six were saved by God’s mercy. Why did that raggle-taggle crew of Cypriots, Lebanese, and Palestinians heed Paul? Was it his voice, or his face, or … something else? Ah, with that secret, I’d be Archbishop Wily by now! Instead, I’m stuck here, with you.” Some of the men laugh. “I shan’t claim, men, that faith always saves a man from
drowning—enough devout Christians have died at sea to make a liar of me. But this I do swear: faith
shall
save your
soul
from death. Without faith, death
is
a drowning, the end of ends, and what sane man wouldn’t fear that? But with faith, death is nothing worse than the end of this voyage we call life, and the beginning of an eternal voyage in a company of our loved ones, with griefs and woes smoothed out, and under the captaincy of our Creator …”

The cordage creaks as the climbing sun warms the morning dew.

“That’s all I have to say this Sunday, men. Our own captain has a few words.”

Penhaligon steps up, relying on his stick more than he would like. “So, men, there’s no fat Dutch goose waiting to be plucked in Nagasaki. You are disappointed, your officers are disappointed, and I am disappointed.” The captain speaks slowly, to allow his words to trickle into other languages. “Console yourselves with the thought of all the unsuspecting French prizes to be netted on our long, long voyage back to Plymouth.” Gannets call. The oars of the guard boats drag and splash. “Our mission here, men, is to bring the nineteenth century to these benighted shores. By the ‘nineteenth century’ I mean the British nineteenth century: not the French, nor Russian nor Dutch. Shall doing so make rich men of us all? In and of itself, no. Shall it make our
Phoebus
the most famous ship in Japan and the toast of the service at home? The answer shall be a resounding
yes
. This is not a legacy you can spend in port. It is a legacy that can never, ever be squandered, stolen, or lost.”
The men prefer cash to posterity
, Penhaligon thinks,
but they listen, at least
. “A last word, before—and about—the hymn. The last time a song of praise was heard in Nagasaki was as native Christians were slung off the cliff we passed yesterday for their belief in the true faith. I desire you send a message to the magistrate of Nagasaki, on this historic day, that Britons, unlike the Dutch, shall never trample on Our Savior for the sake of profit. So sing not like shy schoolboys, men. Sing like warriors. One, and two, and three, and—”

“W
HO SO BESET HIM ROUND, WITH DISMAL STORIES …”

Jacob de Zoet, studying the stock inventory by the viewing window, at first doubts his ears …

“Do but themselves confound, His strength the more is.”

… but, however improbable, a hymn is being sung in Nagasaki Bay.

“No foes shall stay His might; tho’ He with giants fight …”

Jacob steps out onto the veranda and stares at the frigate.

“He will make good His right to be a pilgrim.”

The hymn’s odd-numbered lines breathe in: its even-numbered, out.

“Hobgoblin, nor foul fiend, can daunt his spirit,”

Jacob closes his eyes, the better to catch the floating English phrases …

“He knows, he at the end shall life inherit.”

… and lift away each new line from its predecessor’s echo.

“Then fancies fly away! He’ll fear not what men say.”

The hymn is water and sunlight, and Jacob wishes he had married Anna.

“He’ll labor night and day to be a pilgrim.”

The pastor’s nephew waits for the next verse, but it never comes.

“A pleasing ditty,” remarks Marinus, from the doorway.

Jacob turns. “You called hymns ‘songs for children afraid of the dark.’”

“Did I? Well, one grows less judgmental in one’s dotage.”

“This was less than a month ago, Marinus.”

“Oh. Well, as my friend the dean observes,” Marinus says, leaning on the rail, “we have just enough religion to make us hate, but not enough to make us love. Your new habitus suits you very well, if I may say so.”

“It’s Chief van Cleef’s habitus, and I pray he’ll be back in it by tonight. I mean it. In my less charitable minutes, I might consider paying the English a ransom to keep Fischer, but Melchior van Cleef is a fair-minded man, by the company’s standards—and a Dejima of only four officers is less undermanned than unmanned.”

Marinus squints at the sky. “Come and eat. Eelattu and I brought you some poached fish from the kitchen.”

They walk through to the dining room, where Jacob makes a point of occupying his usual chair. He asks whether Marinus has had dealings with British naval officers in the past.

“Fewer than you may imagine. I’ve corresponded with Joseph Banks and some of the English and Scottish philosophers, but I’ve yet to master their language. Their nation is rather young. You must have met some officers during your London sojourn. Two or three years, was it not?”

“Four years, in total. My employer’s principal warehouse was a short walk downriver from the East India docks, so I watched hundreds of ships of the line come and go: the finest ships in the Royal Navy—that is, in the world. But my circle of English acquaintances was confined to warehousemen, scriveners, and bookkeepers. To the grand and the uniformed, a junior clerk from Zeeland with a thick Dutch accent would have been invisible.”

The servant d’Orsaiy appears. “Interpreter Goto here, Chief.”

Jacob looks around for Van Cleef and remembers. “Show him in, d’Orsaiy.”

Goto enters, looking as grave as the situation warrants. “Good morning, Acting Chief”—the interpreter bows—“and Dr. Marinus. I disturb breakfast, sorry. But inspector at guild send me urgently to discover about war song from English ship. Do English sing such song previous to attack?”

“An attack?” Jacob hurries back to the sea room. He looks at the frigate through his telescope, but its position is the same, and belatedly
he sees the misunderstanding. “No, it wasn’t a war song that the English were singing, Mr. Goto, it was a hymn.”

Goto is puzzled: “What is ‘hymn’ or who is ‘hymn’?”

“A song, sung by Christians to our God. It is an act of worship.”

The acting chief continues to watch the frigate: there is activity at the bow.

“Within hailing distance of the Papenburg Rock,” observes Marinus. “Whoever claimed that history has no sense of humor died too soon.”

Goto does not catch everything, but he understands the shogun’s sacrosanct edict against Christianity has been violated. “Very serious and bad,” he mutters. “Very”—he searches for another word—
“very
serious and bad.”

“Unless I’m mistaken …” Jacob is still watching. “Something
is
afoot.”

The congregation has disbanded and the church awning lowered.

“Someone in an oat-colored jacket is climbing down …”

He is helped into the frigate’s boat, moored at her starboard bow.

One of the Japanese guard boats is being called over.

“It appears that Deputy Fischer is being given back his freedom.”

JACOB HAS NOT SET
foot on the sea ramp in the fifteen months since his arrival. Soon the sampan shall be in hailing distance. Jacob recognizes Interpreter Sagara next to Peter Fischer in the prow of the boat. Ponke Ouwehand breaks off the tune he is humming. “Being out here whets your appetite for the day when we ’ll put this jail behind us, doesn’t it?”

Jacob thinks about Orito, flinches, and says, “Yes.”

Marinus is filling a sack with slimy handfuls of seaweed.
“Porphyra umbilicalis
. The pumpkins shall be delighted.”

Twenty yards away, Peter Fischer cups his hands and calls out to his welcoming party: “So I turn my back for twenty-four hours, and ‘Acting Chief de Zoet’ stages a
coup d’état!”
His levity is stiff and prickly. “Will you be as quick into my coffin, I wonder?”

“We had no notion,” Ouwehand calls back, “how long we might be left headless.”

“The head is back, ‘Acting Deputy Ouwehand’! What a flurry of promotions! Is the monkey now the cook?”

“Good to see you back, Peter,” Jacob says, “whatever our titles.”

“Fine to be back, Head Clerk!” The boat scrapes the ramp, and Fischer leaps ashore like a conquering hero. He lands awkwardly and slips on the stones.

Jacob tries to help him up. “How is Chief van Cleef?”

Fischer stands. “Van Cleef is well, yes. Very well indeed. He sends his warm regards.”

“Mr. de Zoet.” Interpreter Sagara is helped out by his servant and a guard. “We have letter from English captain to magistrate. I take now, so no delay. Magistrate summon you later, I think, and he want speak to Mr. Fischer also.”

“Oh, yes, indeed,” declares Fischer. “Tell Shiroyama I shall be available after luncheon.”

Sagara bows vaguely to Fischer, firmly to De Zoet, and turns away.

“Interpreter,” calls Fischer after him. “Interpreter Sagara!”

Sagara turns around at the sea gate, a mild
yes?
on his face.

“Remember who is the highest-ranking officer on Dejima.”

Sagara’s humble bow is not quite sincere. He goes.

“I don’t trust that one,” says Fischer. “He lacks manners.”

“We hope the English treated you and the chief well,” says Jacob.

“‘Well’? Better than well, Head Clerk. I have extraordinary news.”

“
I AM TOUCHED BY
your concern,” Fischer tells the company assembled in the stateroom, “and you will be eager to learn about my sojourn aboard the
Phoebus
. However, protocol must be respected. Therefore: Grote, Gerritszoon, Baert, and Oost—and you, too, Twomey—you are excused and may return to work for this morning. I have matters of state to discuss with Dr. Marinus, Mr. Ouwehand, and Mr. de Zoet and decisions to make with careful thought and clear heads. When these matters are settled, you shall be informed.”

“Yer wrong,” states Gerritszoon. “We’re stayin’, see.”

The grandfather clock tocks. Piet Baert scratches his crotch.

“So while the cat’s away,” Fischer says, pretending to be charmed, “the mice will set up a national convention of the people. Very well,
then, I shall keep things as easy to understand as possible. Mr. van Cleef and I spent the night aboard the HMS
Phoebus
as guests of the English captain. His name is John Penhaligon. He is here on the orders of the British governor-general at Fort William in Bengal. Fort William is the principal base of the English East India Company, which—”

“We all know what Fort William is,” interjects Marinus.

Fischer smiles for a long second. “Captain Penhaligon’s orders are to negotiate a trade treaty with the Japanese.”

“Jan Compagnie
trades in Japan,” says Ouwehand. “Not John Company.”

Fischer picks his teeth. “Ah, yes, some more news.
Jan Compagnie
is dead as a doornail. Yes. At midnight on the last day of the eighteenth century, while some of
you
”—he happens to glance at Gerritszoon and Baert—“were singing rude songs about your Germanic ancestors on Long Street, the ancient honorable company ceased to exist. Our employer and paymaster is bankrupt.”