The Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet

by David Mitchell

  “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 toward the captain and spits at his feet.

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

  “Dutch officers for you,” declares Wren. “Bereft of breeding.”

  Penhaligon hands his handkerchief to Malouf. “For the ship’s honor …”

  “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 labor 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.”

  Chief van Cleef forbids his deputy to speak.

  Penhaligon orders Hovell to ask Fischer about this season’s Indiaman, but Chief van Cleef claps twice to earn the captain’s attention and issues a statement that Hovell translates. “I’m afraid he said, ‘I hid it up my arse, you English nancy,’ sir.”

  “A man once spoke to me so in Sydney Cove,” recalls Cutlip, “so I searched said hidey-hole with a bayonet and he never came cocky with an officer again.”

  “Tell our guests this, Mr. Hovell,” Penhaligon says. “Tell them we know a vessel sailed from Batavia, because I heard from the harbormaster of Macao that she weighed anchor in that port on the twenty-eighth of May.”

  Hearing this, Van Cleef’s anger cools and Fischer looks grave. They consult with each other, and Hovell eavesdrops. “The chief is saying, ‘Unless this is English sneakery, another ship is lost …’”

  A bird in the woods along the shore sounds very like a cuckoo.

  “Warn them, Lieutenant, that we shall be searching the bay and that if we discover their Indiaman in any of the coves, they shall both be hanged.”

  Hovell translates the threat. Fischer rubs his head. Van Cleef spits. The saliva misses the captain’s foot, but Penhaligon cannot have his authority eroded in front of the onlooking crew. “Major Cutlip, accommodate Chief van Cleef in the aft rope store: no lamp, no refreshments. Deputy Fischer, meanwhile”—the Prussian blinks like a frightened hen—“may rest awhile in my cabin. Have two of my best men watch him, and tell Chigwin to bring him a half bottle of claret.”

  Before Cutlip can act on the order, Van Cleef asks Hovell a question.

  Penhaligon is curious about the Dutchman’s altered tone. “What was that?”

  “He wanted to know how we know his and his deputy’s names, sir.”

  It shall profit us, thinks Penhaligon, to establish that they cannot bluff us.

  “Mr. Talbot, bid our informant to come greet his old friends.”

  His revenge complete, Daniel Snitker strides up removes his hat.

  Drop-jawed and wide-eyed, Van Cleef and Fischer stare.

  Snitker regales the pair with a long-planned speech.

  “Some blood-chilling language he’s issuing, sir,” mutters Hovell.

  “Well, this dish is best served cold, as they say.”

  Hovell opens his mouth, closes it again, listens, and translates: “The gist is, ‘You thought I’d be rotting in a Batavia jail, didn’t you?’”

  Daniel Snitker parades up to Fischer and pokes his throat.

  “He’s saying he’s ‘captain-in-chief’ of Dejima’s ‘restoration.’”

  When Snitker leers into the bearded face of Melchior van Cleef, Penhaligon expects the chief to spit, or hit out, or curse. He certainly does not anticipate the smile of pleasure that overspills into genuine, generous laughter. Snitker is as surprised as the English spectators. Jubilantly, Van Cleef clasps the shoulders of his onetime superior. Cutlip and the marines step forward to intervene, expecting mischief, but Van Cleef speaks, incredulous, delighted, and shaking his head. Hovell reports, “Sir, he’s saying that Chief Snitker’s appearance is proof that God is just and God is good; that the men ashore want nothing more than to have their old chief back where he belongs … that ‘Vorstenbosch the viper and his toad Jacob de Zoet’ perpetrated a gross travesty.”

  Van Cleef turns to Deputy Fischer and appears to demand, “Isn’t that so?”

  Dazed, Deputy Fischer nods and blinks. Van Cleef continues. Hovell follows the next part with difficulty: “There’s a lad ashore, it seems, named Oost, who misses Snitker like a son misses a father …”

  Snitker, at first caught between disbelief and wonder, now begins to soften.

  With his giant’s hands, Van Cleef indicates Penhaligon.

  “He’s saying encouraging things for our mission, sir. He’s saying … that if a man of Mr. Snitker’s integrity finds common cause with this gentleman—he means you, sir—then he’ll gladly clean your shoes himself to apologize for his rudeness.”

  “Can this about-face be genuine, Lieutenant?”

  “I …” Hovell looks on as Van Cleef enfolds Snitker in a laughing embrace and says something to Penhaligon. “He’s thanking you, sir, from the bottom of his heart … for restoring a beloved comrade … and hopes that the Phoebus may herald the restoration of Anglo-Dutch accord.”

  “Minor miracles,” Penhaligon looks on, “do occur. Ask whether—”

  Van Cleef drives a fist into Snitker’s belly.

  Snitker bends over like a folded jackknife.

  Van Cleef seizes his choking victim and flings him over the side.

  There is no yell, just an almighty boom of falling body on water.

  “Man overboard!” Wren shouts. “Move, then, you lazy dogs! Fish him out!”

  “Get him out my sight, Major,” Penhaligon snarls at Cutlip.

  As Van Cleef is led to the companionway, he fires back a statement.

  “He expressed surprise, Captain,” Hovell translates, “that a British captain allows dog shit on his quarterdeck.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  THE WATCHTOWER ON DEJIMA

  A quarter past ten o’clock on the morning of October 18, 1800

  WHEN THE UNION JACK APPEARS ON THE FRIGATE’S JACK STAFF, Jacob de Zoet knows, The war is here. The transactions between the longboat and the greeting party puzzled him, but now the strange behavior is explained. Chief van Cleef and Peter Fischer have been kidnapped. Below the watchtower, Dejima is still in sweet ignorance of the turbulent events being played out across the placid water. A gang of merchants enters Arie Grote’s house, and cheerful guards are opening up the long-shuttered customs house at the sea gate. Jacob looks through his telescope one last time. The greeting party is rowing back to Nagasaki as if their lives depend on it. We must steal this march, Jacob realizes, on the magistracy. He clatters down the zigzag wooden steps, dashes down the alley to Long Street, unties the rope of the fire bell, and rings it with all his strength.

  AROUND THE OVAL TABLE in the stateroom sit Dejima’s remaining eight Europeans: the officers Jacob de Zoet, Ponke Ouwehand, Dr. Marinus, and Con Twomey; and the hands Arie Grote, Piet Baert, Wybo Gerritszoon, and young Ivo Oost. Eelattu is seated beneath the engraving of the brothers De Witt. In the last quarter hour, the men have passed from celebration through disbelief to bafflement and gloom. “Until we can secure the release of Chief van Cleef and Deputy Fischer,” Jacob says, “I mean to assume command of Dejima. This self-appointment is most
irregular, and I shall record objections in the factory’s day journal without resentment. But our hosts will want to deal with one officer, not all eight of us, and my rank is now the highest.”

  “Ibant qui poterant,” pronounces Marinus, “qui non potuere cadebant.”

  “Acting Chief de Zoet,” Grote clears his throat and says, “has a pleasin’ ’nough ring.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Grote. What of ‘Acting Deputy Ouwehand’?”

  Glances and nods from around the table confirm the appointment.

  “It’s the oddest promotion,” says Ouwehand, “but I accept.”

  “We must pray that these posts are temporary, but for now, before the magistrate’s inspectors come pounding up those stairs, I wish to establish one guiding principle: namely, that we resist the occupation of Dejima.”

  The Europeans nod, some defiantly, others less so.

  “Is it to seize the factory,” Ivo Oost asks, “they’ve come here?”

  “We can only speculate, Mr. Oost. Perhaps they expected a merchantman full of copper. Perhaps they aim to ransack our warehouses. Perhaps they want a fat ransom for their hostages. We suffer from a shortage of hard facts.”

  “It’s our shortage of arms,” says Arie Grote, “what worries me. To say ‘resist the occupation o’ Dejima’ is well an’ good, but how? My kitchen knives? The doctor’s lancets? What’s our weapons?”

  Jacob looks at the cook. “Dutch guile.”

  Con Twomey raises his hand in objection.

  “I beg your pardon. Dutch and Irish guile—and preparedness. And so, Mr. Twomey, please ensure the fire engines are working properly. Mr. Ouwehand, please draw up an hourly roster for the watchtower during the—”

  Urgent footsteps can be heard on the main stairs.

  Interpreter Kobayashi enters and glares at the assembly.

  A corpulent inspector stands behind him in the doorway.

  “Magistrate Shiroyama sends inspector,” says Kobayashi, unsure whom to address, “on business of serious thing … happen in bay: magistrate must discuss this thing, no delay. Magistrate sends to higher-ranking foreigner now.” The interpreter swallows. “So inspector need know, who is higher-ranking foreigner?”

  Six Dutchmen and one Irishman look in Jacob’s direction.

  TEA IS COOL LUSH green in a smooth pale bowl. Interpreters Kobayashi and Yonekizu, Acting Chief Resident Jacob de Zoet’s escorts to the magistracy this morning, left him in the vestibule to be watched by a pair of officials. Not realizing that the Dutchman can understand, the officials speculate that the foreigner’s eyes are green because his pregnant mother ate too many vegetables. The dignified atmosphere Jacob remembers from last year’s visit to the magistracy with Vorstenbosch is overturned by the morning’s events: soldiers shout from the barracks wing; blades are being sharpened on flywheels; and servants hurry by, whispering about what might happen. Interpreter Yonekizu appears. “Magistrate is ready, Mr. de Zoet.”

  “As am I, Mr. Yonekizu, but has any fresh news arrived?”

  The interpreter shakes his head ambiguously and leads De Zoet into the Hall of Sixty Mats. A council of around thirty advisers sits in a horseshoe shape, two or three rows deep, around Magistrate Shiroyama, who occupies a one-mat-high dais. Jacob is ushered into the center. Chamberlain Kôda, Inspector Suruga, and Iwase Banri—the three sent to accompany Van Cleef and Fischer to the Dutch ship—kneel in a row to one side. All three look pale and worried.

  A sergeant at arms announces, “Dejima no Dazûto-sama.” Jacob bows.

  Shiroyama says, in Japanese, “Thank you for attending us so quickly.”

  Jacob meets the clear eyes of the grim man and bows once more.

  “I am told,” says the magistrate, “that you now understand some Japanese.”

  To acknowledge the remark would advertise his clandestine studies and may forfeit a tactical advantage. But to pretend not to understand, Jacob thinks, would be deceitful. “Somehow I understand a little of the magistrate’s mother tongue, yes.”

  The horseshoe of advisers murmurs in surprise at hearing a foreigner speak.

  “Moreover,” the magistrate says, “I hear you are an honest man.”

  Jacob receives the compliment with a noncommittal bow.

  “I enjoyed dealings,” says a voice that chills Jacob’s neck, “with the acting chief resident during last year’s trading season …”

  Jacob does not want to look at Enomoto, but his eyes are drawn.

  “… and believe that no better leader could be found on Dejima.”

  Jailer. Jacob swallows as he bows. Murderer, liar, madman …

  Enomoto tilts his head in apparent amusement.

  “The opinion of the lord of Kyôga carries much weight,” says Magistrate Shiroyama. “And we make a solemn oath to Acting Chief de Zoet: your countrymen shall be saved from your enemies …”

  This unconditional support surpasses Jacob’s hopes. “Thank you, Your—”

  “… or the chamberlain, inspector, and interpreter shall die in the attempt.” Shiroyama looks at the three disgraced men. “Men of honor,” the magistrate states, “do not permit their charges to be stolen. To make amends, they shall be rowed to the intruders’ ship. Iwase will win permission for the three men to board and pay a”—Shiroyama’s next word must mean “ransom”—“to release the two”—the word must be “hostages.” “Once aboard, they will cut the English captain down with concealed knives. This is not the Way of the Bushidô, but these pirates deserve to die like dogs.”

  “But Kôda-sama, Suruga-sama, and Iwase-sama shall be killed, and—”

  “Death shall cleanse them of”—the next word may be “cowardice.”

  How shall the de facto suicides of these three men, Jacob groans inwardly, resolve anything? He turns to Yonekizu and asks, “Please tell His Honor that the English are a vicious race. Inform him that they would kill not only Your Honor’s three servants but also Chief van Cleef and Deputy Fischer.”

  The Hall of Sixty Mats hears this in gravid silence, suggesting that the magistrate’s advisers raised this objection or else were too afraid to.

  Shiroyama looks displeased. “What action would the acting chief propose?”

  Jacob feels like a distrusted defendant. “The best action, for now, is no action.”

  There is some surprise; an adviser leans toward Shiroyama’s ear …

  Jacob needs Yonekizu again: “Tell the magistrate that the English captain is testing us. He is waiting to see whether the Japanese or the Dutch respond and whether we use force or diplomacy.” Yonekizu frowns at the last word. “Words, parleying, negotiation. But by not acting, we will make the English impatient. Their impatience will cause them to reveal their intentions.”

  The magistrate listens, nods slowly, and orders Jacob: “Guess their intentions.”

  Jacob obeys his instinct to answer truthfully. “First,” he begins in Japanese, “they came to take the Batavia ship and its cargo of copper. Because they found no ship, they took hostages. They”—he hopes this makes sense—“they want to harvest knowledge.”

  Shiroyama’s fingers entwine. “Knowledge about Dutch forces on Dejima?”

  “No, Your Honor: knowledge about Japan and its empire.”

  The ranks of advisers mutter. Enomoto stares. Jacob sees a skull wrapped in skin.

  The magistrate raises his fan. “All men of honor prefer death by torture over giving information to an enemy.” All present—Chamberlain Kôda, Inspector Suruga, and Interpreter Iwase excepted—nod with indignant agreement.

  None of you, Jacob thinks, has been within fifteen decades of a real war.

  “But why,” Shiroyama asks, “are the English hungry to learn about Japan?”

  I am taking a thing apart, Jacob fears, that I cannot put back together.

  “The English may wish to trade in Nagasaki again, Your Honor.”

  My move is made, the acting chief thinks, and I cannot take it back.

  “Why you use the word
,” asks the magistrate, “‘again’?”

  Lord Abbot Enomoto clears his throat. “Acting Chief de Zoet’s statement is accurate, Your Honor. Englishmen traded in Nagasaki long ago, during the time of the first shogun, when silver was exported. One doesn’t doubt that the memory of those profits lingers in their land, to this day … though naturally, the acting chief would know more about this than I do.”

  Against his will, Jacob imagines Enomoto pinning Orito down.

  Willfully, Jacob imagines bludgeoning Enomoto to death.

  “How does kidnapping our allies,” Shiroyama asks, “win our trust?”

  Jacob turns to Yonekizu. “Tell His Honor the English don’t want your trust. The English want fear and obedience. They build their empire by sailing into foreign harbors, firing cannons, and buying local magistrates. They expect His Honor to behave like a corrupt Chinaman or a Negro king, happy to trade the well-being of your own people for an English-style house and a bagful of glass beads.”

  As Yonekizu translates, the Hall of Sixty Mats crackles with anger.

  Belatedly, Jacob notices a pair of scribes in the corner recording every word.

  The shogun himself, he thinks, will soon be reading your words.

  A chamberlain approaches the magistrate with a message.

  The announcement, in Japanese too formal for Jacob to understand, seems to heighten the tension. To save Shiroyama the trouble of dismissing him, Jacob turns again to Yonekizu: “Give my government’s thanks to the magistrate for his support, and beg his permission for me to return to Dejima and oversee preparations.”

  Yonekizu provides a suitably formal translation.

  The shogun’s representative dismisses Jacob with a curt nod.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE