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 Saviour for the sake of profit. So sing not like shy schoolboys, men. Sing like warriors. One, and two, and three, and-’

XXXV The Sea Room in the Chief’s Residence on Dejima

Morning on the 19th October, 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 on to 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.

‘Since, Lord, thou dost defend us with thy Spirit,’

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

‘We know we at the end shall life inherit.’

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

‘Then fancies, flee away! I’ll fear not what men say,’

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

‘I’ll labour 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 of the Sea Room.

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

‘Did I? Well, one grows less judgemental in one’s dotage.’

‘This was less than a month ago, Marinus.’

‘Oh. Well, as my friend the Dean observes,’ Marinus leans 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 warehouse-men, 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 at the door. ‘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 hymn is 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 humour 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-coloured jacket is climbing down the rope-ladder…’

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

One of the Japanese guard-boats circling the vessel 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 recognises 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 gaol 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.’