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 play-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 each 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.’

Jacob asks, ‘There was no higher authority to appeal to?’

Twomey’s answer is a bitter laugh. ‘After midnight, I heard a noise. I said, “Who’s there?” an’ my reply was a cold chisel, slid beneath the gap under the door, and loaves in a square of sailcloth an’ a water-bag. Footsteps ran off. Well, with the chisel I made short work of prising away a couple of planks. Off I ran. The moon was full an’ bright as the sun. The encampment has no walls, you understand, ’cause the emptiness is the walls. Convicts ran off all the time. Many crawled back, beggin’ for water. Some were brought back by Blacks who were paid in grog. The rest died, I doubt not, now… but the convicts were mostly unschooled an’ when word spread that by walking north-by-north-west across the red desert you’d reach China – aye, China – hope made it true, so it was China I was bound that night. I’d not gone six hundred yards when I heard the rifle click. It was him. The Major. He had slipped me the chisel and bread, you see. “You’re a runaway now,” he said, “so I can shoot you dead, no questions asked, you stinking Irish vermin.” He came as close as we are now an’ his eyes were shining an’ I thought, This is it, an’ he pulled the trigger an’ nothing happened. We looked at each other, surprised, like. He lunged the bayonet at my eye socket. I swerved but not fast enough’ – the carpenter shows Jacob his torn earlobe – ‘an’ then it all went slow, an’ stupid, an’ we were pulling at the gun, like two boys arguin’ over a toy… an’ he tripped over an’… the rifle swung around an’ its butt whacked his skull an’ the fecker didn’t get up.’

Jacob notices Twomey’s trembling hands. ‘Self-defence isn’t murder, in either the eyes of God or of the law.’

‘I was a convict with a dead marine at my feet. I scarpered north, along the shore, an’ twelve or thirteen miles later, as day broke, I found a marshy creek to slake my thirst an’ slept till the afternoon, ate one loaf, an’ carried on walkin’, an’ so it went for five more days. Seventy, eighty miles, perhaps, I covered, like. But the sun burnt me black as toast, an’ that land sucks your vigour away, an’ some berries made me sick, an’ soon I was wishin’ the Major’s rifle had gone off ’cause it was a lingering death I was in for. That evening the ocean changed colour as the sun went down, an’ I prayed to St Jude of Thaddeus to end my suffering however he thought fit. You Calvinists may deny saints, but I know you’ll agree that all prayers are heard,’ Jacob nods, ‘an’ when I woke at dawn, on that forsaken coast, uninhabited an’ hundreds of miles long, it was to the sound of a rowing-shanty. Out in the bay was a scaly-looking whaler flying the Stars an’ Stripes. Her boat was coming ashore for water. So I was there to meet the Captain an’ bade him a pleasant morning. Says he, “Escaped convict, ain’t you?” Says I, “That I am, sir.” Says he, “Pray give me a solitary reason why I should kick the balls of the best customer in the Pacific Ocean – the British Governor of New South Wales – by shipping one his runaways?” Says I, “I am a carpenter who’ll work aboard your ship for landsman’s pay for one year.” Says he, “We Americans hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness, and that’ll be three years, not one, and your wages are life and liberty, not dollars.” ’ The carpenter’s pipe has gone out. He rekindles the bowl and takes a deep draught. ‘Now to why I’m telling you this. Earlier, in the State Room, Fischer mentioned a certain major who’s there, on the British frigate.’

‘Major Cutlip? Not the luckiest of names in our language, as you know.’

‘It sticks in this runaway convict’s memory for another reason.’ Twomey looks at the Phoebus and waits.

Jacob lowers his pipe. ‘The marine? Your tormentor? Cutlip?’

‘You’d think these coincidences’d not happen, not off the stage, not in life…’

Repercussions fill the air. Jacob hears them, almost.

‘… yet time and again, the world plays this – this same – feckin’ game. It’s him! George Cutlip of the marines, late of New South Wales, washes up at Bengal, a hunting chum of the Governor’s. Fischer let slip the Christian name at lunch, so there’s no doubt. Not a shadow.’ Twomey utters a dry bark in lieu of a laugh. ‘Your decision about the Captain’s proposal an’ all, it’ll be hard enough as it is, but if you do a deal, Jacob… if you do a deal, Major Cutlip’d see me an’ know me an’, by God, he’d settle my outstanding balance, an’ unless I killed him first, I’d be feedin’ the fish or feedin’ the worms.’

The autumn sun is an incandescent marigold.

‘I would demand guarantees, the protection of the British Crown.’

‘We Irish know about the protection of the British Crown.’

Alone, Jacob watches the troublesome Phoebus. He employs a method of moral bookkeeping: the costs of co-operation with the English would be exposing his friend to Cutlip’s revenge, and possible charges of collaboration, if a Dutch court ever assembles again. The costs of rejecting the English are years of destitution and abandonment until the war ends, and someone thinks to come and relieve them. Might they be forgotten, quite literally, grow sick, grow old and die here, one by one?

‘Knock-knock, eh?’ It is Arie Grote, in his stained chef’s apron.

‘Mr Grote, please come in. I was just… I was just…’

‘Cogitatin’, eh? Lot o’ cogitatin’ afoot on Dejima today, Chief de Z. -’

This born trader, Jacob suspects, is here to urge me to collaborate.

‘- but here’s a word to the wise.’ Grote glances around. ‘Fischer’s lyin’.’

Eyes of sunlight from waves blink and blink on the papered ceiling.

‘You have my very closest attention, Mr Grote.’

‘Specifickly, he lied ’bout van Cleef bein’ keen on the deal. Now, I’d not jeopardise our card-games by revealin’ all, so to speak, but there’s a method called the Art of Lips. Folks reck’n yer know a liar by his eyes but ’tain’t so: ’tis lips what gives a man away. Different liars’ve diff’rent tellers, but for Fischer when, say, he’s bluffin’ at cards, he does this -’ Grote sucks in his lower lip a fraction ‘- and the beauty is, he don’t know he does it. When he spoke o’ van Cleef earlier, he did it: he’s lyin’, plain as it’s writ on his face. Which it is. An’ if Fischer’s lyin’ ’bout specificks, he’s bendin’ the generalities too, eh?’

A stray breeze brushes the bedraggled chandelier.

‘If Chief van Cleef is not working with the English…’

‘He’s locked up in a hold: which s’plains why Fischer, an’ not the Chief, comes ashore.’

Jacob looks at the Phoebus. ‘Suppose I’m the British Captain, hoping to earn the glory of capturing the only European factory in Japan… but the locals are known to be prickly in their dealings with foreigners…’