David Mitchell - The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet

His revenge complete, Daniel Snitker strides up and removes his hat.

Drop-jawed and wide-eyed, van Cleef and Fischer stare.

Snitker regales the pair with a long-planned speech.

‘Some blood-chilling language he’s issuing, sir,’ mutters Hovell.

‘Well, this dish is best served cold, as Milton says.’

Hovell opens his mouth, closes it again, listens, and translates: ‘The gist is, “You thought I’d be rotting in a Batavia gaol, didn’t you?” ’

Daniel Snitker parades up to Fischer and pokes his throat.

‘He’s telling them he’s “Captain-in-Chief” of Dejima’s “Restoration”.’

When Snitker leers into the bearded face of Melchior van Cleef, Penhaligon expects the Chief to spit, or hit out, or curse. He certainly does not expect the smile of pleasure that overspills into genuine, generous laughter. Snitker is as surprised as the English spectators. Jubilantly, van Cleef clasps the shoulders of his one-time superior. Cutlip and the marines step forward to intervene, expecting mischief, but van Cleef speaks, incredulous, delighted and shaking his head. Hovell reports, ‘Sir, he’s saying that Chief Snitker’s appearance is proof that God is just and God is good; that the men ashore want nothing more than to have their old chief back where he belongs… that “Vorstenbosch the viper and his toad Jacob de Zoet” perpetrated a gross travesty…’

Van Cleef turns to Deputy Fischer and appears to demand, ‘Isn’t that so?’

Dazed, Deputy Fischer nods and blinks. Van Cleef continues. Hovell follows the next part with difficulty: ‘There’s a lad ashore, it seems, named Oost, who misses Snitker like a son misses a father…’

Snitker, at first caught between disbelief and wonder, now begins to soften.

With his giant’s hands, van Cleef indicates Penhaligon.

‘He’s saying encouraging things for our mission, sir. He’s saying… that if a man of Mr Snitker’s integrity finds common cause with this gentleman – he means you, sir – then he’ll gladly clean your shoes himself to apologise for his rudeness.’

‘Can this about-face be genuine, Lieutenant?’

‘I…’ Hovell looks on as van Cleef enfolds Snitker in a laughing bear-hug and says something to Penhaligon. ‘He’s thanking you, sir, from the bottom of his heart… for restoring a beloved comrade… and hopes that the Phoebus may herald the restoration of Anglo-Dutch accord.’

‘Minor miracles,’ Penhaligon looks on, ‘do occur. Ask whether-’

Van Cleef drives a fist into Snitker’s belly.

Snitker bends over like a folded jack-knife.

Van Cleef seizes his choking victim and flings him over the side.

There is no yell, just an almighty boom of falling body on water.

‘Man overboard!’ Wren shouts. ‘Move, then, you lazy dogs! Fish him out!’

‘Get him out my sight, Major,’ Penhaligon snarls at Cutlip.

As van Cleef is led to the companionway he fires back a statement.

‘He expressed surprise, Captain,’ Hovell translates, ‘that a British captain allows dog-shit on his quarterdeck.’

A quarter past ten o’clock on the morning of 18th October, 1800

When the Union Jack appears on the frigate’s jack-staff, Jacob de Zoet knows, The war is here. The transactions between the longboat and the greeting party puzzled him, but now the strange behaviour is explained. Chief van Cleef and Peter Fischer have been kidnapped. Below the Watchtower, Dejima is still in sweet ignorance of the turbulent events being played out across the placid water. A gang of merchants enters Arie Grote’s house and cheerful guards are opening up the long-shuttered Customs House at the Sea-Gate. Jacob looks through his telescope one last time. The greeting party is rowing back to Nagasaki as if their lives depend on it. We must steal this march, Jacob realises, on the Magistracy. He clatters down the zigzag wooden steps, dashes down the alley to Long Street, unties the rope of the fire bell and rings it with all his strength.

Around the oval table in the State Room sit Dejima’s remaining eight Europeans: the officers, Jacob de Zoet, Ponke Ouwehand, Dr Marinus and Con Twomey; and the hands, Arie Grote, Piet Baert, Wybo Gerritszoon and young Ivo Oost. Eelattu is seated beneath the engraving of the Brothers de Witt. In the last quarter-hour the men have passed from celebration through disbelief to bafflement and gloom. ‘Until we can secure the release of Chief van Cleef and Deputy Fischer,’ Jacob says, ‘I mean to assume command of Dejima. This self-appointment is most irregular, and I shall record objections in the factory’s Day Journal without resentment. But our hosts will want to deal with one officer, not all eight of us, and my rank is now the highest.’

‘Ibant qui poterant,’ pronounces Marinus, ‘qui non potuere cadebant.’

‘Acting-Chief de Zoet,’ Grote clears his throat, ‘has a pleasin’ ’nough ring.’

‘Thank you, Mr Grote. And the ring of “Acting-Deputy Ouwehand”?’

Glances and nods from around the table confirm the appointment.

‘It’s the oddest promotion of my life,’ says Ouwehand, ‘but I accept.’

‘We must pray that these posts are temporary, but for now, before the Magistrate’s inspectors come pounding up those stairs, I wish to establish one guiding principle: namely, that we resist the occupation of Dejima.’

The Europeans nod, some defiantly, others more conditionally.

‘Is it for to seize the factory,’ Ivo Oost asks, ‘they’ve come here?’

‘We can only speculate, Mr Oost. Perhaps they expected a merchantman full of copper. Perhaps they aim to ransack our warehouses. Perhaps they want a fat ransom for their hostages. We suffer from a shortage of hard facts.’

‘It’s our shortage of arms,’ says Arie Grote, ‘what worries me. To say “resist the occupation o’ Dejima” is well an’ good, but how? My kitchen knives? The doctor’s lancets? What’s our weapons?’

Jacob looks at the cook. ‘Dutch guile.’

Con Twomey raises his hand in objection.

‘I beg your pardon. Dutch and Irish guile – and preparedness. And so, Mr Twomey, please ensure the fire-engines are working properly. Mr Ouwehand, please draw up an hourly roster for the Watchtower during the-’

Urgent footsteps can be heard on the main stairs.

Interpreter Kobayashi enters the State Room and glares at the assembly.

A corpulent inspector stands behind him in the doorway.

‘Magistrate Shiroyama sends inspector,’ says Kobayashi, unsure who to address, ‘on business of serious thing… happen in bay: Magistrate must discuss this thing, no delay. Magistrate sends to higher-ranking foreigner, now.’ The interpreter swallows. ‘So inspector need know, who is higher-ranking foreigner?’

Six Dutchmen and one Irishman look in Jacob’s direction.

Tea is cool lush green in a smooth pale bowl. Interpreters Kobayashi and Yonekizu, Acting-Chief Resident Jacob de Zoet’s escorts to the Magistracy this morning, left him in the vestibule to be watched by a pair of officials. Not realising that the Dutchman can understand, the officials speculate that the foreigner’s eyes are green because his pregnant mother ate too many vegetables. The dignified atmosphere Jacob remembers from last year’s visit to the Magistracy with Vorstenbosch is overturned by the morning’s events: soldiers shout from the barracks wing; blades are being sharpened on fly-wheels; and servants hurry by, whispering about what might happen. Interpreter Yonekizu appears. ‘Magistrate is ready, Mr de Zoet.’