The Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet (63 page)

“Phoebus
is not a Dutch word but a Greek name, Your Honor. Phoebus was the sun god. His son was Phaeton.” De Zoet helps the scribes with the strange word. “Phaeton boasted about his famous father, but his friends said, ‘Your mother just
claims
your father is the sun god, because she has no real husband.’ This made Phaeton unhappy, so his father promised to help his son prove that he was indeed a son of heaven. Phaeton asked, ‘Let me drive the chariot of the sun across the sky.’”

De Zoet pauses for the benefit of the scribes.

“Phoebus tried to change his son’s mind. ‘The horses are wild,’ he said, ‘and the chariot flies too high. Ask for something else.’ But, no, Phaeton insisted, and so Phoebus had to agree: a promise is a promise, even in a myth—especially in a myth. So the following dawn, up, up, up the chariot climbed, from the east, driven by the young man. Too late, he regretted his stubbornness. The horses
were
wild. First, the chariot drove too high, too far, so all the rivers and waterfalls of earth turned to ice. So Phaeton drove closer to earth, but too low, and burned Africa, and burned black the skins of the Ethiopians, and set alight the cities of the ancient world. So in the end the god Zeus, the king of heaven, had to act.”

“Scribes: stop.” Shiroyama asks, “This Zeus is not a Christian?”

“A Greek, Your Honor,” says Iwase, “akin to Ame-no-Minaka-nushi.”

The magistrate indicates that De Zoet may continue.

“Zeus shot lightning at the chariot of the sun. The chariot exploded, and Phaeton fell to earth. He drowned in the River Eridanos. Phaeton’s sisters, the Heliades, wept so much they became trees—in Dutch we call them ‘poplars,’ but I do not know whether they grow in Japan. When the sisters were trees, the Heliades wept”—De Zoet consults with Iwase—“amber. This is the origin of amber and the end of the story. Forgive my poor Japanese.”

“Do you believe there is any truth in this story?”

“There is no truth at all in the story, Your Honor.”

“So the English name their warships after falsehoods?”

“The truth of a myth, Your Honor, is not its words but its patterns.”

Shiroyama stores the remark away and turns to the pressing matter. “This morning, Deputy Fischer delivered letters from the English captain.
They bring greetings, in Dutch, from the English King George. The letter claims that the Dutch Company is bankrupt, that Holland no longer exists, and that a British governor-general now sits in Batavia. The letter ends with a warning that the French, Russian, and Chinese are planning an invasion of our islands. King George refers to Japan as ‘the Great Britain of the Pacific Ocean’ and urges us to sign a treaty of amity and commerce. Please tell me your thoughts.”

Drained by his myth-telling, De Zoet directs his answer to Iwase in Dutch.

“Chief de Zoet,” Iwase translates, “believes the English wanted to intimidate his countrymen.”

“How do his countrymen regard the English proposal?”

This question De Zoet answers directly: “We are at war, Your Honor. The English break promises very easily. None of us wishes to cooperate with them, except one”—his gaze strays to the passageway leading to the Hall of Sixty Mats—“who is now in the pay of the English.”

“Is it not your duty,” Shiroyama asks de Zoet, “to obey Fischer?”

Kawasemi’s kitten skitters after a dragonfly across the veranda.

A servant looks at his master who shakes his head:
Let it play
 …

De Zoet considers his answer. “One man has several duties, and …”

Struggling, he enlists Iwase’s help. “Mr. de Zoet says, Your Honor, that his third duty is to obey his superior officers. His second duty is to protect his flag. But his first duty is to obey his conscience, because God—the god he believes in—gave him his conscience.”

Foreign honor
, thinks Shiroyama, and orders the scribes to omit the remark. “Is Deputy Fischer aware of your opposition?”

A maple leaf, fiery and fingered, is blown to the magistrate’s side.

“Deputy Fischer sees what he wishes to see, Your Honor.”

“And has Chief van Cleef communicated any instructions to you?”

“We have heard nothing. We draw the obvious conclusions.”

Shiroyama compares the veins in the leaf to the veins in his hands. “If we wished to prevent the frigate escaping Nagasaki Bay, what strategies would you propose?”

De Zoet is surprised by the question but gives a considered answer to Iwase. “Chief de Zoet proposes two strategies: deception and force. Deception would involve embarking upon protracted negotiations for a
false treaty. The merit of this plan is lack of bloodshed. Its demerits are that the English will want to work quickly, to avoid the North Pacific winter, and that they have seen the stratagem in India and Sumatra.”

“Force, then,” says Shiroyama. “How may one capture a frigate without a frigate?”

De Zoet asks, “How many soldiers does Your Honor have?”

The magistrate first tells the scribes to stop writing. Then he tells them to leave. “One hundred,” he confides to De Zoet. “Tomorrow, four hundred; soon, a thousand.”

De Zoet nods. “How many boats?”

“Eight guard boats,” says Tomine, “used for harbor and coastal duty.”

De Zoet next asks whether the magistrate could requisition the fishing boats and cargo ships in the harbor and around the bay.

“The shogun’s representative,” says Shiroyama, “can requisition anything.”

De Zoet delivers a verdict to Iwase, who translates: “It is the acting chief’s opinion that while a thousand well-trained samurai would easily subdue the enemy on land or aboard the frigate, the problems of transport are insuperable. The frigate’s cannonry would demolish a flotilla before the swordsmen could come close enough to board. The
Phoebus
’s marines, moreover, are armed with the newest”—Iwase uses the Dutch word “rifles”—“but with three times the power, and much faster to reload.”

Shiroyama’s fingers have dismembered the maple leaf. “So there is no hope of detaining the ship by force?”

“The ship cannot be captured,” says De Zoet, “but the bay may be shut.”

Shiroyama glances at Iwase, assuming the Dutchman has made a mistake with his Japanese, but De Zoet speaks to his interpreter at some length. His hands mime at various points a chain, a wall, and a bow and arrow. Iwase verifies a few terms and turns to the magistrate. “Your Honor, the acting chief proposes the erection of what the Dutch call a ‘pontoon bridge’: a bridge made of boats bound together. Two hundred, he thinks, would suffice. The boats should be requisitioned from villages outside the bay, rowed or sailed to the narrowest point of the bay’s mouth, and fastened, from shore to shore, to make a floating wall.”

Shiroyama pictures the scene. “What stops the warship cutting through?”

The acting chief understands and speaks to Iwase in Dutch. “De Zoet-
sama
says, Your Honor, that to ram through the pontoon bridge, the warship would need to lower her sails. Sailcloth is woven from hemp, and often oiled to make it rainproof. Especially in a season of warm weather, like the present one, oiled hemp is combustible.”

“Fire arrows,
yes,”
Shiroyama realizes. “We can hide archers in the boats …”

De Zoet looks uncertain. “Your Honor, if the
Phoebus
is burned …”

Shiroyama recalls the myth: “Like the chariot of the sun!”

If such a plan succeeds
, he thinks,
the lack of guards shall be forgotten
.

“Many sailors,” de Zoet is saying, “in the
Phoebus
are not English.”

This victory
, Shiroyama foresees,
could win me a seat on the Council of Elders
.

De Zoet is anxious. “The captives must be allowed to surrender with honor.”

“Surrender with honor.”
Shiroyama frowns. “We are in Japan, Acting Chief.”

D
ARK CLOUDS CLOT AND THE DUSK IS SILTED WITH INSECTS
and bats. The captain recognizes the European sitting in the prow of the guard boat and lowers his telescope. “Envoy Fischer is being rowed back to us, Mr. Talbot.”

The third lieutenant searches for the right reply. “Good news, sir.”

The evening breeze, rain-scented, rustles the pages of the pay book.

“‘Good news’ is what I hope Envoy Fischer brings us.”

A mile over calm water, Nagasaki lights its candles and closes its shutters.

Midshipman Malouf knocks and puts his head around the door. “Lieutenant Hovell’s compliments, sir, and Mr. Fischer is being ferried back to us.”

“Yes, I know. Tell Lieutenant Hovell to bring Mr. Fischer to my cabin once he is safe on board. Mr. Talbot, send word to Major Cutlip: I want a clutch of marines ready with guns primed, just in case …”

“Aye, sir.” Talbot and Malouf leave on their agile young feet.

The captain is left with his gout, his telescope, and the fading light.

Torches are lit at the guard posts on shore, a quarter mile astern.

After a minute or two, Surgeon Nash knocks his particular knock.

“Come, Surgeon,” says the captain, “and not before time.”

Nash enters, wheezing tonight like a broken bellows. “Podagra is an ingravescent cross for sufferers to bear, Captain.”

“‘Ingravescent’? Deal in plain English in this cabin, Mr. Nash.”

Nash sits by the window bench and helps Penhaligon’s leg up. “Gout grows worse before it grows better, sir.” His fingers are gentle, but their touch still scalds.

“You think I don’t
know
that? Double the dosage of the remedy.”

“The wisdom of doubling the quantity of opiates so soon after—”

“Until our treaty is won, double my damned Dover’s!”

Surgeon Nash unwraps the bandages and puffs out his cheeks at what he finds. “Yes, Captain, but I shall add henna and aloes before all traffic in your alimentary canal comes to a dead stop ….”

FISCHER GREETS THE
captain in English, shakes his hand, and nods around the table at Hovell, Wren, Talbot, and Cutlip. Penhaligon clears his throat. “Well, be seated, Envoy. We all know why we are here.”

“Sir, one small preliminary matter,” says Hovell. “Mr. Snitker has just accosted us, as drunk as Old Noah, demanding to attend our meeting with Envoy Fischer and vowing he’d never allow an interloper to ‘siphon off what’s rightfully mine.’”

“What’s rightfully his,” interjects Wren, “is a clog up his arse.”

“I told him he’d be called when needed, Captain, and trust I did right.”

“You did. It is Envoy Fischer”—he makes a gracious gesture—“who is the man of this hour. Please ask our friend to distill his day’s work.”

Penhaligon studies the tone of Fischer’s replies as Hovell takes notes. The Dutch sentences sound polished. “Well, as per his orders, sir, Envoy Fischer spent the day in consultation with the Dutchmen on Dejima and Japanese officials at the magistracy. He reminds us that Rome was not built in a day but believes the foundation stones of British Dejima are in place.”

“We are pleased to learn it—‘British Dejima’ is a fine phrase.”

Jones brings in a brass lamp. Chigwin provides beer and tankards.

“Begin with the Dutch: do they, in principle, agree to cooperate?”

Hovell translates Fischer’s reply as, “‘Dejima is as good as ours.’”

This “as good as
,” thinks the captain,
is the first sour note
.

“Do they recognize the legitimacy of the Kew Memorandum?”

The long reply makes Penhaligon wonder about Fischer’s “foundation
stones.” Hovell makes further notes as Fischer speaks. “Envoy Fischer reports that news of the VOC’s collapse caused dismay among Dutch and Japanese alike, and without the edition of the
Courant
, the Dutch would not have believed it. He used this dismay to present the
Phoebus
as the Dutchmen’s only hope of a profitable homecoming, but one dissenter, a clerk by the name of”—Hovell checks the name with Fischer, who repeats it with distaste—“Jacob de Zoet, dubbed the British race to be ‘the cockroaches of Europe’ and swore to cut down any ‘vermin collaborators.’ Objecting to this language, Mr. Fischer challenged him to a duel. De Zoet retreated to his rat hole.”

Fischer wipes his mouth and adds a coda for Hovell to translate.

“De Zoet was a lackey of both Chief Vorstenbosch and ex-Chief van Cleef, whose murder he accuses you of, sir. Envoy Fischer recommends his removal, in chains.”

Some settling of old scores
, Penhaligon thinks, nodding,
is to be expected
. “Very well.”

The Prussian next produces a sealed envelope and a checkered box. These he slides across the table with a lengthy explanation. “Mr. Fischer says, sir,” explains Hovell, “that thoroughness demanded he tell you of De Zoet’s opposition but assures us that the clerk is ‘neutered.’ While on Dejima, Mr. Fischer was visited by Dr. Marinus, the physician. Marinus had been deputized by all ashore, saving the blackguard De Zoet, to tell Mr. Fischer that the merits of the British olive branch were plain as day and to entrust him with this sealed letter addressed to you. It contains ‘the unified will of Dejima’s Europeans.’”

“Please congratulate our envoy, Lieutenant. We are pleased.”

Peter Fischer’s slight smile replies,
Of course you are pleased
.

“Now ask Mr. Fischer about his
tête-à-tête
with the magistrate.”

Fischer and Hovell exchange several sentences.

“The Dutch tongue,” Cutlip tells Wren, “is the noise of mating pigs.”

Insects encrust the cabin’s window, drawn by the bright lamp.

Hovell is ready. “Before his return to the
Phoebus
this evening, Envoy Fischer enjoyed a long audience with Magistrate Shiroyama’s highest adviser, one Chamberlain Tomine.”

“What about his warm relationship with Magistrate Shiroyama?” asks Wren.

Hovell explains, “Envoy Fischer says that Shiroyama is, in fact, a
‘lofty castrato’—a figurehead—and that real power lies with this chamberlain.”