The hands start laughing. ‘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-’

‘Nah, 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 a man of my word?’

‘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’s voice stiffens. ‘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 realises 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 “Stadholder”?’ 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 Stadholder was an elected post, but one in the pocket of the House of Orange. Then, after Stadholder 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 Stadholder 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, Stadholder?’

‘Orangists, do, yes, but Patriots – men of the new government – do 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 Dutchmen recognise William’s authority?’

‘English Captain 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, and 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 and crushed my Da like a beetle. I did my best to fill his boots, like, but this world’s not a merciful place, and when the harvest failed and men came to Cork from all over Munster, our landlord trebled our rent. We pawn Da’s tools, but soon enough me, Ma, five sisters, and one little brother, Pádraig, were living in a crumbling barn where Pádraig caught a chill and 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 and asked for Da’s tools back. Yer man says, “They’re sold, Handsome, but it’s winter and 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 theatre. 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 Gaol, I appeared in the courthouse where the one friendly face was the pawnbroker’s. He told the English judge, “Yes, Your Honour, 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 Harbour 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 ’ninety-one, 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 tastes 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 further…’

Constable Kosugi’s guards pass beneath the Sea Room, down Sea Wall 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 and 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 ’ninety-five, 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?’