David Mitchell - The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet

Penhaligon tests his right ankle: Nash’s potion is numbing the pain.

‘ “… the next day they lightened the ship; And the third day…” ’

The Captain spies the Japanese guard-boat, keeping its distance.

‘ “… we cast out with our own hands the tackling of the ship.” ’

The seamen grunt in surprise and pay the chaplain close attention.

‘ “And when neither sun nor stars in many days appeared…” ’

The common run of chaplains is either too meek for so unruly a flock…

‘ “… and no small tempest lay on us, all hope that we should be saved…” ’

… or else, so zealous that the sailors ignore, scorn or vilify them.

‘ “… was then taken away. But after long abstinence Paul stood forth…” ’

Chaplain Wily, an oysterman’s son from Whitstable, is a welcome exception.

‘ “… in the midst of them and said, Sirs, ye should have hearkened unto me…” ’

Hands who know the Mediterranean in winter mutter and nod.

‘ “… and not have loosed from Crete, and to have gained this harm and loss.” ’

Wily teaches the boys their three Rs and writes illiterate men’s letters.

‘ “And now I exhort you to be of good cheer: for there shall be no loss…” ’

The chaplain has a mercantile streak, too, and fifty bolts of Bengali chintz in the hold.

‘ “… of any man’s life among you but of the ship. For there stood by me this night…” ’

Best of all, Wily keeps his readings briny and his sermons pithy.

‘ “… the angel of God, whose I am,” ’ Wily looks up, ‘ “and whom I serve, Saying…” ’

Penhaligon lets his gaze wander up and down the lines of his Phoebusians.

‘ “Fear not, Paul; lo, God hath given them all them that sail with thee.” ’

There are fellow Cornishmen, Bristolians, Manxmen, Hebrideans…

‘ “About midnight the shipmen deemed that they drew near to some country…” ’

A quartet of Faroe Islanders; some Yankees from Connecticut.

‘ “… And sounded; and found it twenty fathoms: and when they had gone…” ’

Freed slaves from the Caribbean, a courteous Tartar, a Gibraltese Jew.

‘ “… a little further, they sounded again, and found it fifteen fathoms…” ’

Penhaligon considers how land naturally divides itself into nations.

‘ “… Then fearing lest we should have fallen upon rocks, they cast…” ’

He considers how the seas dissolve human boundaries.

‘ “… four anchors out of the stern, and wished for the day.” ’

He looks at the mestizos and doubloons: men fathered by Europeans…

‘ “And as the shipmen were about to flee out of the ship…” ’

… on native women: female slaves; girls sold by fathers for iron nails…

‘ “Paul said, Except these abide in the ship, ye cannot be saved.” ’

Penhaligon locates Hartlepool the half-breed, and remembers his own youthful fornications, and wonders whether any resulted in a coffee-skinned or almond-eyed son who also obeyed the voice of the sea, who thinks the thoughts of the fatherless. The Captain remembers this morning’s dream, and he hopes so.

‘ “Then the soldiers cut off the ropes of the boat, and let her fall off.” ’

The men gasp at the recklessness. One exclaims, ‘Madness!’

‘Stops deserters,’ answers another, and Wren calls out: ‘Hear the Chaplain!’

But Wily closes his Bible. ‘Aye, with the tempest howling, with Death a near-certainty, Paul says, “Abandon ship and you’ll drown: stay aboard with me and you’ll survive.” Would you believe him? Would I?’ The chaplain shrugs and puffs. ‘This wasn’t Paul the Apostle speaking with a halo round his head. This was a prisoner in chains, a heretic from a backward ditch of Rome’s Empire. Yet he persuaded the guards to cut away the boats, and the Book of Acts tells that two hundred and seventy-six were saved by God’s mercy. Why did that raggle-taggle crew of Cypriots, Lebanese and Palestinians heed Paul? Was it his voice, or his face, or… something else? Ah, with that secret, I’d be Archbishop Wily by now! Instead, I’m stuck here, with you.’ Some of the men laugh. ‘I shan’t claim, men, that Faith always saves a man from drowning – enough devout Christians have died at sea to make a liar of me. But this I do swear: Faith shall save your Soul from Death. Without Faith, Death is a drowning, the end of ends, and what sane man wouldn’t fear that? But with Faith, Death is nothing worse than the end of this voyage we call life, and the beginning of an eternal voyage in a company of our Loved Ones, with griefs and woes smoothed out, and under the captaincy of our Creator…’

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-’

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”.’