‘Do you believe there is any truth in this story?’

‘There is no truth at all in the story, Your Honour.’

‘So the English name their warships after falsehoods?’

‘The truth of a myth, Your Honour, is not its words but its patterns.’

Shiroyama stores the remark away. ‘This morning,’ he turns to the pressing matter, ‘Deputy Fischer delivered letters from the English Captain. They bring greetings, in Dutch, from the English King George. The letter claims that the Dutch Company is bankrupt, that Holland no longer exists and that a British governor-general now sits in Batavia. The letter ends with a warning that the French, Russian and Chinese are planning an invasion of our islands. King George refers to Japan as “The Great Britain of the Pacific Ocean” and urges us to sign a treaty of amity and commerce. Please tell me your thoughts.’

Drained by his myth-telling, de Zoet directs his answer to Iwase in Dutch.

‘Chief de Zoet,’ Iwase translates, ‘believes the English wanted to intimidate his countrymen.’

‘How do his countrymen regard the English proposal?’

This question de Zoet answers directly: ‘We are at war, Your Honour. The English break promises very easily. None of us wishes to co-operate with them, except one…’ His gaze strays to the passageway leading to the Hall of Sixty Mats ‘… who is now in the pay of the English.’

‘Is it not your duty,’ Shiroyama asks de Zoet, ‘to obey Fischer?’

Kawasemi’s kitten skitters after a dragonfly across the polished veranda.

A servant looks at his master who shakes his head: Let it play…

De Zoet considers his answer. ‘One man has several duties, and…’

Struggling, he enlists Iwase’s help. ‘Mr de Zoet says, Your Honour, that his third duty is to obey his superior officers. His second duty is to protect his flag. But his first duty is to obey his conscience, because god – the god he believes in – gave him his conscience.’

Foreign honour, thinks Shiroyama, and orders the scribes to omit the remark. ‘Is Deputy Fischer aware of your opposition?’

A maple leaf, fiery and fingered, is blown to the Magistrate’s side.

‘Deputy Fischer sees what he wishes to see, Your Honour.’

‘And has Chief van Cleef communicated any instructions to you?’

‘We have heard nothing. We draw the obvious conclusions.’

Shiroyama compares the veins in the leaf to the veins in his hands. ‘If we wished to prevent the frigate escaping Nagasaki Bay, what strategies would you propose?’

De Zoet is surprised by the question, but gives a considered answer to Iwase. ‘Chief de Zoet proposes two strategies: Deception and Force. Deception would involve embarking upon protracted negotiations for a false treaty. The merit of this plan is lack of bloodshed. Its demerits are that the English will want to work quickly, to avoid the North Pacific winter, and that they have seen the stratagem in India and Sumatra.’

‘Force, then,’ says Shiroyama. ‘How may one capture a frigate without a frigate?’

De Zoet asks, ‘How many soldiers does Your Honour have?’

The Magistrate first tells the scribes to stop writing. Then he tells them to leave. ‘One hundred,’ he confides to de Zoet. ‘Tomorrow, four hundred; soon, a thousand.’

De Zoet nods. ‘How many boats?’

‘Eight guard-boats,’ says Tomine, ‘used for harbour and coastal duty.’

De Zoet next asks whether the Magistrate could requisition the fishing-boats and cargo ships in the harbour and around the bay.

‘The Shogun’s representative,’ says Shiroyama, ‘can requisition anything.’

De Zoet delivers a verdict to Iwase, who translates: ‘It is the Acting-Chief’s opinion that whilst a thousand well-trained samurai would easily subdue the enemy on land or aboard the frigate, the problems of transport are insuperable. The frigate’s cannonry would demolish a flotilla before the swordsmen could come close enough to board. The Phoebus’s marines, moreover, are armed with the newest’ – Iwase uses the Dutch word “rifles” – ‘a musket, but with three times the power, and much faster to reload.’

‘So there is no hope,’ Shiroyama’s fingers have dismembered the maple leaf, ‘of detaining the ship by force?’

‘The ship cannot be captured,’ says de Zoet, ‘but the bay may be shut.’

Shiroyama glances at Iwase, assuming the Dutchman has made a mistake with his Japanese, but de Zoet speaks to his interpreter at some length. His hands mime at various points a chain, a wall and a bow and arrow. Iwase verifies a few terms, and turns to the Magistrate. ‘Your Honour, the Acting-Chief proposes the erection of what the Dutch call a “pontoon bridge”: a bridge made of boats bound together. Two hundred, he thinks, would suffice. The boats should be requisitioned from villages outside the bay, rowed or sailed to the narrowest point of the bay’s mouth, and fastened, from shore to shore, to make a floating wall.’

Shiroyama pictures the scene. ‘What stops the warship cutting through?’

The Acting-Chief understands and speaks to Iwase in Dutch. ‘De Zoet-sama says, Your Honour, that to ram through the pontoon bridge, the warship would need to lower her sails. Sailcloth is woven from hemp, and often oiled to make it rainproof. Especially in a season of warm weather, like the present one, oiled hemp is combustible.’

‘Fire arrows, yes,’ Shiroyama realises. ‘We can hide archers in the boats…’

De Zoet looks uncertain. ‘Your Honour, if the Phoebus is burnt…’

Shiroyama recalls the myth: ‘Like the Chariot of the Sun!’

If such a daring plan succeeds, he thinks, the lack of guards shall be forgotten.

‘Many sailors,’ de Zoet is saying, ‘aboard the Phoebus are not Englishmen.’

This victory, Shiroyama foresees, could win me a seat on the Council of Elders.

‘The captives,’ de Zoet is anxious, ‘must be allowed to surrender with honour.’

‘Surrender with honour.’ Shiroyama frowns. ‘We are in Japan, Acting-Chief.’

XXXVII From Captain Penhaligon’s Cabin

Around six o’clock in the evening of the 19th October, 1800

Dark clouds clot and the dusk is silted with insects and bats. The Captain recognises the European sitting in the prow of the guard-boat and lowers his telescope. ‘Envoy Fischer is being rowed back to us, Mr Talbot.’

The Third Lieutenant searches for the right reply. ‘Good news, sir.’

The evening breeze, rain-scented, rustles the pages of the Pay Book.

‘ “Good news” is what I hope Envoy Fischer brings us.’

A mile over calm water, Nagasaki lights its candles and closes its shutters.

Midshipman Malouf knocks and puts his head around the door. ‘Lieutenant Hovell’s compliments, sir, and Mr Fischer is being ferried back to us.’

‘Yes, I know. Tell Lieutenant Hovell to bring Mr Fischer to my cabin once he is safe on board. Mr Talbot, send word to Major Cutlip: I want a clutch of marines ready with guns primed, just in case…’

‘Aye, sir.’ Talbot and Malouf leave on their agile young feet.

The Captain is left alone with his gout, his telescope and the fading light.

Torches are lit at the guard-posts on shore, a quarter-mile astern.

After a minute or two, Surgeon Nash knocks his particular knock.

‘Come, Surgeon,’ says the Captain, ‘and not before time.’

Nash enters, wheezing tonight like broken bellows. ‘Podagra is an ingravescent cross for sufferers to bear, Captain.’

‘ “Ingravescent”? Deal in plain English in this cabin, Mr Nash.’

Nash sits by the window-bench and helps Penhaligon’s leg up. ‘Gout grows worse before it grows better, sir.’ His fingers are gentle but their touch still scalds.

‘You think I don’t know that? Double the dosage of the remedy.’

‘The wisdom of doubling the quantity of opiates so soon after-’

‘Until our treaty is won, double my damned Dover’s!’