The Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet, Page 46

  “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.”

  The men are dumbstruck. “Similar rumors,” says Jacob, “have—”

  “I read it in the Amsterdamsche Courant in Captain Penhaligon’s cabin. There: in black and white and plain Dutch. Since January the first we’ve been working for a phantom.”

  “Our back wages?” Baert, horrified, bites his hand. “My seven years’ wages?”

  Fischer nods. “It was clever of you to piss, whore, and gamble most of it away, with hindsight. At least you enjoyed it.”

  “But our pay’s our pay,” insists Oost. “Our pay’s safe, isn’t it, Mr. De Zoet?”

  “Legally, yes. But ‘legally’ implies courts, compensation, lawyers, and time. Mr. Fischer—”

  “I believe the chief resident’s books record my promotion to ‘Deputy’?”

  “Deputy Fischer, did the Courant article mention compensation and debt?”

  “For the dear Dutch motherland’s shareholders, yes, but about the pawns out in the Asian factories, there was not one peep. On the subject of the dear Dutch motherland, I have more news. A Corsican general, Bonaparte, has made himself first consul of the French Republic. This Bonaparte doesn’t lack ambition! He conquered Italy, mastered Austria, looted Venice, subdued Egypt, and intends to turn the Low Countries into a département of France. I am sorry to report, gentlemen, that your motherland is to be married off and shall lose her name.”

  “The English are lying!” exclaims Ouwehand. “That’s impossible!”

  “The Poles said much the same before their country vanished.”

  Jacob imagines a garrison of French troops in Domburg.

  “My brother Joris,” says Baert, “served under that Frenchman, that Bonaparte. They said he’d done a deal with the devil at the Bridge of Arcole, an’ that’s how he crushes whole armies. The deal di’n’t cover Boney’s men, mind. Joris was last seen on a spike at the Battle o’ the Pirrymids, minus his body.”

  “My sincere condolences, Baert,” says Peter Fischer, “but Bonaparte is now your head of state and cares not a tinker’s fart about your back wages. So. We have two surprises so far. No more company and no more independent Netherlands. Here is a third surprise, especially interesting for Head Clerk de Zoet, I think. The pilot and adviser who guided the Phoebus to Nagasaki Bay is Daniel Snitker.”

  A stunned silence precedes a volley of surprise—and disbelief.

  “But he’s in Java,” Ouwehand finds his tongue first, “on trial.”

  Fischer inspects a thumbnail. “Such twists make life much richer.”

  Aghast, Jacob clears his throat. “You spoke with Snitker? Face-to-face?” He glances at Ivo Oost, who looks pale and perplexed.

  “I ate supper with the man. The Shenandoah never reached Java, you see. Vorstenbosch—that famous surgeon of the cancer of corruption—and trusty Captain Lacy sold the company’s copper—that same copper you, Mr. de Zoet, won with such dedication!—to the English East India Company in Bengal for their own personal profit. The irony. The irony!”

  This can’t be true, thinks Jacob. Jacob thinks, But, yes, it can.

  “Wait wait wait”—Arie Grote is turning pink—“waity waity waity. What about our private cargoes? What about my lacquerware? What about the Arita figurines?”

  “Daniel Snitker does not know their next destination. He escaped at Macao …”

  “If those swine,” Arie Grote growls, turning purple, “those thieving mongrels—”

  “… and didn’t ask, but your goods would fetch a handsome price in Carolina.”

  “Never mind the damed cargoes,” protests Twomey. “How are we to get home?”

  Even Arie Grote falls silent as the truth sinks in.

  “Mr. Fischer,” notes Marinus, “looks immune to the general dismay.”

  “What ain’t y’ tellin’ us”—Gerritszoon looks dangerous—“Mister Fischer?”

  “I can speak only as fast as your noble democracy allows! The doctor is right: all is not lost. Captain Penhaligon is authorized to propose an Anglo-Dutch entente in these waters. He promises to pay every last penning the company owes us and give us passage, gratis, in a comfy side berth, to Penang, Bengal, Ceylon, or the Cape.”

  “All this,” asks Con Twomey, “from the sweetness of an Englishman’s heart?”

  “In return, we work here for two more trading seasons. For wages.”

  “Meaning,” Jacob intuits, “the English want Dejima and its profits.”

  “What use is Dejima to you, Mr. de Zoet? Where are your ships, your capital?”

  “But”—Ivo Oost frowns—“if the English want to trade out of Dejima …”

  “The interpreters,” Arie Grote says, nodding, “speak only Dutch.”

  Fischer claps h
is hands. “Captain Penhaligon needs you. You need him. A blissful marriage.”

  “So it’s the same work,” Baert asks, “with a new employer?”

  “One who won’t vanish to Carolina with your private cargoes, yes.”

  “The day I catch up with Vorstenbosch,” vows Gerritszoon, “is the day his brains’ll get yanked out of his aristocratic arse.”

  “Which flag would fly here?” asks Jacob. “Dutch or English?”

  “Who cares,” demands Fischer, “so long as our wages are paid?”

  “What does Chief van Cleef,” Marinus asks, “make of the captain’s offer?”

  “He is negotiating the finer details as we speak.”

  “He didn’t think,” asks Jacob, “to send any written orders to us?”

  “I am his written orders, Head Clerk! But, look, don’t accept my word. Captain Penhaligon has invited you—and the doctor, and Mr. Ouwehand—to the Phoebus for supper this evening. His lieutenants are a splendid circle. One, named Hovell, speaks fluent Dutch. The leader of his marines, Major Cutlip, has traveled far and wide, and has even lived in New South Wales.”

  The hands laugh. “Cutlip?” asks Grote. “That’s never a real name!”

  “If we reject their proposal,” asks Jacob, “will the English sail peacefully away?”

  Fischer tuts. “The proposal is not yours to accept or reject, is it, Head Clerk? Now Chief van Cleef and I are back, the Republic of Dejima can return to its box of toys and—”

  “Ain’t so simple,” says Grote. “We voted Mr. de Zoet as president.”

  “President?” Fischer lifts his eyebrows in mock amazement. “My!”

  “We need a man of his word,” declares Arie Grote, “lookin’ out for us.”

  “You imply”—Peter Fischer’s lips smile—“I am not such a man?”

  “Surely you ain’t f’gotten a certain bill of lading,” says Grote, “what Mr. de Z. would not sign but what you was all too happy?”

  “Vorstenbosch pokered him,” says Piet Baert, “but he’d not poker us.”

  Jacob is as surprised as Fischer at the strength of the hands’ support.

  Fischer bristles. “The company oath is clear about obedience.”

  “The company oath became legally void,” notes Marinus, “on January the first.”

  “But we are all on the same side, men, are we not?” Fischer realizes his miscalculation. “Concerns about flags can be met. What is a flag but a rectangle of cloth? I’ll be speaking to the magistrate later—and your ‘president’ can join me, to show my good faith. In the meantime, your ‘Republic of Dejima’ …”

  Naming, thinks Jacob, even in ridicule, gives what is named substance.

  “… can debate to its heart’s desire. When Jacob and I return to the Phoebus, he can tell Captain Penhaligon how things stand ashore. But don’t forget, home is twelve thousand miles away. Don’t forget, Dejima is a trading post with no trade. Don’t forget, the Japanese want us to persuade them to work with the English. By making the right choice, we earn money and protect our families against poverty. Who, in God’s name, could object to that?”

  “SO HOW TRANSLATE ‘stadtholder’?” Tired-eyed Interpreter Goto tests the unshaven shadow around his jaw. “Dutch William Five is king or not king?”

  The Almelo clock in the chief’s bureau chimes once. Titles, titles, thinks Jacob. So stupid, so important. “He is not the king.”

  “So why William Five use title ‘Prince of Orange-Nassau’?”

  “Orange-Nassau is—or was—the name of his ancestors’ fiefdom, like a Japanese domain. But he was also the head of the Netherlands Army.”

  “So he is same as Japanese shogun?” ventures Iwase.

  The Venetian doge is a better comparison, but that would not help. “The stadtholder was an elected post, but one in the pocket of the House of Orange. Then, after Stadtholder William”—he gestures at the signature on the document—“married the Prussian king’s niece, he took on the airs of a monarch, appointed by God. Five years ago, however, we”—the French invasion is still a secret—“the Dutch people changed our government …”

  The three interpreters look at one another with apprehension.

  “… and Stadtholder William was … oh, how to say ‘exiled’ in Japanese?”

  Goto can supply the missing word, and the sentence makes sense to Iwase.

  “So with William in London,” concludes Jacob, “his old post was abolished.”

  “So William Five”—Namura must be clear—“has no power in Holland?”

  “No, none. All his properties were confiscated.”

  “Do Dutch people still … obey, or respect, stadtholder?”

  “Orangists, yes, but Patriots—men of the new government—not.”

  “Many Dutch people are either ‘Orangists’ or ‘Patriots’?”

  “Yes, but most care more about food in their bellies and peace in the land.”

  “So this document we translate, this ‘Kew Memorandum’”—Goto frowns—“is order from William Five to Dutchmen to give Dutch possessions to English for safe protection?”

  “Yes, but the question is, do we recognize William’s authority?”

  “English write, ‘All Dutch colonies obey Kew Memorandum.’”

  “That’s what he writes, yes, but he is probably lying.”

  There is a hesitant knock. Jacob calls out: “Yes?”

  Con Twomey opens the door, removes his hat, and looks at Jacob in an urgent manner. Twomey wouldn’t disturb us now, Jacob reasons, with any trifling matter. “Gentlemen, continue without me. Mr. Twomey and I must speak in the sea room.”

  “THIS IS ABOUT”—the Irishman balances his hat on his thigh—“what we’d call, at home, a ‘skeleton in the cupboard.’”

  “On Walcheren we say, ‘a body in the vegetable patch.’”

  “Monster turnips, then, on Walcheren. May I speak in English?”

  “Do so. If I need your help, I’ll ask.”

  The carpenter takes a deep breath. “My name is not Con Twomey.”

  Jacob digests this. “You’re not the first pressed man to give a false name.”

  “My true name is Fiacre Muntervary, an’ I wasn’t pressed. How I left Ireland’s a stranger story altogether. One icy St. Martin’s Day, a block of stone slipped from its harness an’ crushed my da like a beetle. I did my best to fill his boots, like, but this world’s not a merciful place, an’ when the harvest failed an’ men came to Cork from all over Munster, our landlord trebled our rent. We pawned Da’s tools, but soon enough me, Ma, five sisters, an’ one little brother, Pádraig, were living in a crumbling barn, where Pádraig caught a chill, an’ that’s one less mouth to feed. Back in the city I tried the docks, the breweries, I tried feckin’ everything, but no luck. So back I went to the pawnbroker an’ asked for Da’s tools back. Yer man says, ‘They’re sold, handsome, but it’s winter an’ folks need coats. I pay shiny shillings for good coats. You understand me?’” Twomey pauses to gauge Jacob’s reaction.

  Jacob knows not to hesitate. “You had a family to feed.”

  “One lady’s gown, I stole from the theater. Pawnbroker says, ‘Gentlemen’s coats, my handsome,’ an’ gives me a clipped threep’nny. Next time I stole a man’s coat from a lawyer’s office. ‘A scarecrow’d not be seen in that,’ says yer man. ‘Try harder!’ Third time, I’m bagged like a partridge. After a fortnight in Cork jail, I appeared in the courthouse, where the one friendly face was the pawnbroker’s. He told the English judge, ‘Yes, Your Honor, that’s the urchin who kept offering me coats.’ So I says the pawnbroker’s a feckin’ liar who deals in stolen coats. The judge told me how God forgives everyone who truly repents an’ handed down seven years in New South Wales. Five minutes from entry to gavel, like. Now a convict hulk, the Queen, was moored in Cork harbor an’ it needed filling, an’ I helped. Neither Ma nor my sisters can bribe their way aboard to say farewell, so come April—the year ’91, this is—the Queen joined the third
fleet out …”

  Jacob follows Twomey’s gaze over the blue water to the Phoebus.

  “Hundreds of us, there were, in that dark an’ stifling hold; cockroaches, puke, fleas, piss; rats gnawing the quick an’ the dead alike, rats as big as feckin’ badgers. In cold waters we shuddered. In the tropics, pitch’d drip through the seams an’ burn us, an’ every waking and sleeping minute our one thought was Water, water, Mother of God, water … Our ration was a half pint a day an’ it tasted like sailor’s piss, which no doubt much of it was. One in eight died on that passage, by my reck’ning. ‘New South Wales’—three dreaded little words back home—changed their meaning to ‘deliverance,’ an’ one old Galway man told us about Virginia, with its wide beaches an’ green fields an’ Indian girls who’d swap a screw for a nail, an’ we’re all thinking, Botany Bay is Virginia, just a little farther …”

  Some guards pass beneath the sea room, down Seawall Lane.

  “Sydney Cove wasn’t Virginia. Sydney Cove was a few dozen patches of hack-an’-peck hoe rows, where the seedlings’d wither if they sprouted at all. Sydney Cove was a dry an’ buzzing pit of sting flies an’ fire ants an’ a thousand starving convicts in torn tents. The marines had the rifles, so the marines had the power, the food, the ’roo meat, an’ the women. As a carpenter, I was put to work building the marines’ huts, furniture, doors, an’ suchlike. Four years went by, Yankee traders began to call, an’ if life never got soft, convicts were no longer dying like flies. Half my sentence was up an’ I began to dream of seeing Ireland again one day. Then, in ’95, a new squadron of marines arrived. My new major wanted a grand new barracks an’ house up in Parramatta, so he claimed me an’ six or seven others. He’d been garrisoned in Kinsale for a year, so he fancied himself an expert on the Irish race. ‘The lassitude of the Gael,’ he’d boast, ‘is best cured by Dr. Lash,’ an’ he was liberal with his medicine. You saw the welts on my back?”

  Jacob nods. “Even Gerritszoon was impressed.”

  “For meeting his eye, he’d lash us for insolence. For avoiding his eye, he’d lash us for shiftiness. For crying out, he’d lash us for acting. For not crying out, he’d lash us for stubbornness. Yer man was in paradise. Now, there were six of us Corkmen who looked out for one another an’ one was Brophy, the wheelwright. One day the major goaded Brophy into hitting him back. Brophy was slapped in irons, an’ the major sentenced him to hang. The major told me, ‘High time Parramatta had its own gallows, Muntervary, an’ you’ll build it.’ Well, I refused. Brophy was strung up from a tree an’ I was sentenced to a week in the sty an’ a hundred lashes. The sty was a cell, four by four by four, so its inmate couldn’t stand nor stretch, an’ you’ll imagine the stink an’ flies an’ maggots. On my last night, the major visited an’ told me he’d be wielding the lash himself and promised I’d be in hell with Brophy by the fiftieth stroke.”