A throbbing vein in Penhaligon’s foot hurts almost exquisitely.

‘… this is as unambiguous,’ says the Lieutenant, ‘as the first letter, sir.’

Where, thinks the Captain, with anger and sorrow, is my grateful young protégé? ‘Translate the Magistrate’s letter into Dutch, in all haste, then have Peter Fischer rowed to one of the guard-boats so he may deliver them.’

‘ “Soon afterward,” ’ Lieutenant Talbot, sitting on the window-seat of the Captain’s cabin, reads aloud from Kaempfer’s book whilst Rafferty, the Surgeon’s Mate, scrapes a razor over the Captain’s jowls, ‘ “in 1638, this heathen court had no qualms in inflicting upon the Dutch a cursed test to find out whether the orders of the Shogun or the love of their fellow Christians had greater power over them. It was a matter of us serving the Empire by helping to destroy the native Christians, of whom those remaining, some forty thousand people, in desperation over their martyrdom had moved into an old fortress in the province of…” ’ Talbot hesitates over the word ‘ “… of Shimabara and made preparations to defend themselves. The head of the Dutch…” ’ Talbot falters again ‘ “… Koekebacker, himself went to the location and in fourteen days treated the beleaguered Christians to four hundred and twenty-six rough cannon salvoes both from land and sea.” ’

‘I knew as how the Dutch’re niggardly bastards,’ Rafferty tweaks Penhaligon’s nasal hair with his surgeon’s scissors, ‘but that they’d slaughter Christians for trading rights nigh on beggars belief, Captain. Why not sell your old mum to a vivisectionist at the same time?’

‘They are Europe’s most unprincipled race. Mr Talbot?’

‘Aye, sir: “This assistance resulted neither in surrender nor complete defeat, but broke the strength of the besieged. And because the Japanese had the pleasure to order it, the Dutch factor stripped the vessel of a further six cannons – regardless of the fact that she still had to navigate dangerous seas – so the Japanese might carry out their cruel designs…” One wonders whether these cannons could be those same toys adorning the bay’s gun placements, sir?’

‘Possibly so, Mr Talbot. Possibly so.’

Rafferty rubs Pears soap around the Captain’s cheekbone.

Major Cutlip enters. ‘The new guard-boat is approaching no closer than the old, Captain, and there’s no sign of de Zoet. Their flag on Dejima is still flying, cocky as a thumbed nose.’

‘We shall chop off that thumb,’ promises Penhaligon, ‘and slice that nose.’

‘They’re evacuating Dejima, too, carting away what can be carted.’

Then they have made their decision, he thinks. ‘The hour, Mr Talbot?’

‘The hour, sir… a sliver after half past ten, Captain.’

‘Lieutenant Wren, tell Mr Waldron that unless we hear from shore-’

A loud commotion in Dutch breaks out in the passageway.

‘Not without,’ Banes or Panes is shouting, ‘the Captain’s say-so!’

Fischer’s voice shouts a line of angry Dutch ending in ‘Envoy!’

‘The Hanoverian lads may have told him,’ muses Cutlip, ‘what’s afoot.’

‘Shall I fetch Lieutenant Hovell, sir?’ asks Talbot. ‘Or find Smeyers?’

‘If the Japanese refuse our overtures, what need have we of Dutch?’

Fischer’s voice reaches them: ‘Captain Penhaligon! We talk! Captain!’

‘Sauerkraut may stave off scurvy,’ says the Captain, ‘but a sour Kraut-’

Rafferty chuckles noxious fumes through his nose.

‘- is more a hindrance than help. Tell him I’m busy, Major. If he doesn’t understand “busy”, then make him understand.’

At five minutes to noon, bedecked in his dress coat with gold braiding and tricorn hat, Penhaligon addresses the company on the spar deck. ‘As in War, men, events move quickly in foreign parts. This morning shall see an engagement. There’s no call for a grand Eve of Battle speech, men. I foresee a short, noisy, one-sided affair. Yesterday we extended to the Japanese the hand of friendship. They spat at it. Ungallant? Yes. Unwise? I think so. Punishable under the laws of civilised nations? Alas, no. No, this morning’s business is to punish the Dutch -’ a ragged cheer comes from some of the older men ‘- that band of castaways, to whom we offered work and free passage. They responded with an insolence no Englishman can overlook.’

Sheets of drizzle tumble through the air down the mountains.

‘Were we anchored off Hispaniola or the Malabar coast, we would reward the Dutch by seizing compensation and naming this deep-water bay King George Harbour. The Dutch reckon that I shan’t hazard the best crew of my career by raiding Dejima at one o’clock just to yield it by five o’clock, and to this extent they are right: Japan has more warriors, ultimately, than the Phoebus has balls of shot.’

One of the two guard-boats is sculling back towards Nagasaki.

Row as fast as you might, the Captain tells it, you’ll not outrun my Phoebus.

‘But by reducing Dejima to rubble, we reduce the myth of Dutch potency to rubble. Once the dust is settled, and lessons drawn, a future British mission to Nagasaki, perhaps as soon as next year, shall not be rebuffed so brusquely again.’

‘If, Captain,’ asks Major Cutlip, ‘the natives attempt to board us?’

‘Fire warning shots, but should these be ignored, you may demonstrate the power and precision of British rifles. Kill as few as possible.’

‘Sir,’ Gunner Waldron raises his hand, ‘it’s likely some shots’ll overshoot.’

‘Our target is Dejima, but should any shots, by accident, fall on Nagasaki-’

Penhaligon senses Hovell at his side, bristling with disapproval.

‘- then the Japanese will choose allies more prudently. So let’s give this despotic backwater a taste of the coming century.’ Amongst the faces in the rigging Penhaligon sees Hartlepool’s, looking down on him like a brown-skinned angel. ‘Show this pox-blasted pagan port what ruin a British dog of War can inflict upon an enemy when its righteous ire is roused!’

Nearly three hundred men gaze at their captain with fierce respect.

He glances at Hovell, but Hovell is looking towards Nagasaki.

‘Gun-crews to your posts! Take us in, Mr Wetz, if you please.’

Twenty men turn the windlass; the cable groans; the anchor rises.

Wetz shouts orders at the ratings as they swarm up the shrouds.

‘A well-run ship’, Captain Golding used to say, ‘is a floating opera…’

The spritsails and jibsails drop open: the jib-boom enjoys the stretch.

‘… whose Director is the Captain yet whose Conductor is the Sailing Master.’

Down come the foremast and main courses; now the topsails…

The Phoebus’s bones tauten and her joints creak as the strain is taken.

Wetz works the wheel until the Phoebus is set to port tack.

Ledbetter, the well-named leadsman, plumbs the depth, clinging to the clewline.

Halfway to the dripping sky, men straddle the topgallant yards…

The prow describes an arc of one hundred and forty degrees…

… and with a tight lurch, the frigate veers towards Nagasaki.

A smoke-dried Dane makes a Finn’s Cock of a tangled Vang.

‘Might you excuse me for a moment, sir?’ Hovell indicates the Dane.

‘Go,’ says Penhaligon. His curtness signifies, And don’t hurry back.

‘In fact,’ he tells Wren, ‘let us take in the view from the prow.’

‘An excellent idea, sir,’ agrees the Second Lieutenant.

Penhaligon proceeds at a gouty hobble as far as the foremast shrouds. Cutlip and a dozen marines watch the remaining guard-boat, just a hundred yards dead ahead: a meagre twenty-footer with a small deck-house, clumsier-looking than a dhow. Its half-dozen swordsmen and two inspectors appear to be arguing about the correct response.

‘Stand your ground, pretties,’ murmurs Wren. ‘We’ll slice you in two.’