The Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet

by David Mitchell

  “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 …

  “‘… 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—”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  THE SEA ROOM IN THE CHIEF’S RESIDENCE ON DEJIMA

  Morning of October 19, 1800

  “WHO 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 breakfas
t, 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?”