'I intended to come days ago,' says Jacob, 'but work prevented me.'

'Buryin' Mr Snitker's reputation,' remarks Oost, 'must be a taxing job.'

'It is.' Jacob brushes aside the attack. 'To make good falsified ledgers is is taxing work. How homely your quarters are, Mr Grote.' taxing work. How homely your quarters are, Mr Grote.'

' 'F I liked livin' in a tub o' piss,' Grote winks, 'I'd o' stayed in Enkhuizen, eh?'

Jacob takes a seat. 'What is the game, gentlemen?'

'Knave and Devil - our Germanic cousins, eh, play it.'

'Ah, Karnoffel. I played it a little in Copenhagen.'

'S'prised,' says Baert, 'you'd be familiar with cards.'

'The sons - or nephews - of vicarages are less naive than supposed.'

'Each o' these,' Grote picks up a nail from his cache, 'is one stuiver stuiver off of our wages. We off of our wages. We ante ante up one nail in the pot afore each round. Seven tricks per round, an' who bags most tricks scoops the pot. When the nails is gone, the night's done.' up one nail in the pot afore each round. Seven tricks per round, an' who bags most tricks scoops the pot. When the nails is gone, the night's done.'

'But how are winnings redeemed, with wages payable only in Batavia?'

'A touch of, eh, legerdemainery: this -' he waves a sheet of paper '- is a record o' who won what off of who; an' Deputy van Cleef records our 'djusted balances in the actual Pay Book. Mr Snitker approved this practice, knowin' how his men's edge edge is kept sharp by these convivial, eh, pleasures.' is kept sharp by these convivial, eh, pleasures.'

'Mr Snitker was a welcome guest,' says Ivo Oost, 'afore losin' his liberty.'

'Fischer an' Ouwehand an' Marinus stay aloof, but you you, Mr de Z., look cut off of gayer cloth . . .'

Nine jars are left on the plank shelf. 'So I run away from Pa,' says Grote, stroking his cards, 'afore he did did rip out my liver, an' off I tromped to Amsterdam, seekin' fortune an' true love, eh?' He pours himself another glass of urine-coloured rum. 'But the only love rip out my liver, an' off I tromped to Amsterdam, seekin' fortune an' true love, eh?' He pours himself another glass of urine-coloured rum. 'But the only love I I saw was what's paid in cash afore an' clap in arrears, an' not a saw was what's paid in cash afore an' clap in arrears, an' not a sniff sniff of a fortune. Nah, hunger was all of a fortune. Nah, hunger was all I I found, snow an' ice an' cutpurses what fed off the weak like dogs . . . found, snow an' ice an' cutpurses what fed off the weak like dogs . . . Speculate to 'ccumulate Speculate to 'ccumulate, thinks I, so I spends my "inheritance", eh, on a barrow o' coal, but a pack o' coalmen tipped my cart in the canal - an' me in after it, yellin', "This is our our patch yer West Frieslander mongrel! Come back when it's bath-time again! patch yer West Frieslander mongrel! Come back when it's bath-time again!" Aside from this schoolin' in monopolies, eh, that icy dunkin' give me such a fever I couldn't stir from my lodgin's for a week; an' then my cuddly landlord planted his iron toe in my arse. Holes in my shoes, naught to eat but the stinkin' fog, I sat me down on the steps of Nieuwe Kerk wonderin' if I should thief a bite while I'd still strength enough to scarper, or jus' freeze to death an' get it over with . . .'

'Thief an' scarper,' says Ivo Oost, 'ev'ry time . . .'

'Who should gander along but this gent in a top hat, ivory-knobbed cane an' a friendly manner. "Know who I am, boy?" I says, "I don't, sir." He says, "I, boy, am your Future Prosperity." Figured he meant he'd feed me f'joinin' his Church, an' so starvin' was I I'd've turned Jew for a bowl o' pottage, but no. "You have heard of the noble an' munificent Dutch East Indies Company, boy, have you not?" Says I, "Who ain't, sir?" Says he, "So you are cognisant of the diamond prospects the Company offers stout an' willin' lads in its possessions throughout our Creator's blue an' silver globe, yes?" Says I, catchin' on at last, "That I do, sir, aye." Says he, "Well, I am a Master Recruiter for the Amsterdam Head Quarters an' my name is Duke van Eys. What d' you say to half a guilder advance on your wages, an' board an' lodgin' till the next Company flotilla sets forth on the finny way to the Mysterious East?" An' I say, "Duke van Eys, you are my Saviour." Mr de Z., does our rum disagree with you?'

'My stomach is dissolving, Mr Grote, but it is otherwise delicious.'

Grote places the five of diamonds: Gerritszoon slaps down the queen.

'Cry havoc!' Baert slams down a five of trumps and scoops up the nails.

Jacob next discards a low heart. 'Your Saviour, Mr Grote?'

Grote inspects his cards. 'The gentleman led me to a tottery house behind Rasphuys, a slanty street an' his office was poky but dry 'n' warm an' the smell o' bacon wafted up from below stairs an', oh oh, it smelt good! I even asked, might I have me a rasher or two there 'n' then an' van Eys laughs an' says, "Write your name here, boy, and after five years in the Orient you can build a Palace Palace of smoked hog!" Couldn't read nor write my name back in them days: I just inked my thumb at the foot o' the papers. "Splendid," says van Eys, "and here is an advance on your bounty, to prove I am a man of my word." He paid me my own new an' shiny half-guilder, an' I was never happier. "The remainder is payable aboard the of smoked hog!" Couldn't read nor write my name back in them days: I just inked my thumb at the foot o' the papers. "Splendid," says van Eys, "and here is an advance on your bounty, to prove I am a man of my word." He paid me my own new an' shiny half-guilder, an' I was never happier. "The remainder is payable aboard the Admiral de Ruyter Admiral de Ruyter, who sails on the thirtieth or thirty-first. One trusts you have no objection to being quartered with a few other stout an' willing lads, future shipmates and partners in prosperity?" Any roof beat no roof, so I pocketed my booty an' said I'd no objection at all.'

Twomey discards a worthless diamond. Ivo Oost, the four of spades.

'So two servants,' Grote studies his hand, 'lead me downstairs but I din't rumble what was afoot, eh, till the key was turned in the lock behind me. In a cellar no bigger'n this room was twenty-four twenty-four lads, my age or older. Some'd been there weeks; some was half-skel'tons, coughin' up blood . . . Oh, I banged on the door to be freed, but this great scabby grunt strolls over sayin', "Better give me your half-guilder now for safe-keepin'." Says I, "What half-guilder?" an' he says I can give it him volunt'ry or else he'll lads, my age or older. Some'd been there weeks; some was half-skel'tons, coughin' up blood . . . Oh, I banged on the door to be freed, but this great scabby grunt strolls over sayin', "Better give me your half-guilder now for safe-keepin'." Says I, "What half-guilder?" an' he says I can give it him volunt'ry or else he'll tenderise tenderise me an' have it anyways. I asks when we're allowed out for exercise an' air. "We ain't let out," says he, "till the ship sails or unless we cark it. Now, the me an' have it anyways. I asks when we're allowed out for exercise an' air. "We ain't let out," says he, "till the ship sails or unless we cark it. Now, the money money." Wish I could say I stood my ground, but Arie Grote ain't no liar. He weren't jokin' 'bout carkin' it neither: eight eight o' them "stout an' willing lads" left horizontally, two crammed into one coffin. Just an iron grid at street level for air 'n' light, see, an' slops so bad you'd not know which bucket was to eat from an' which to shit in.' o' them "stout an' willing lads" left horizontally, two crammed into one coffin. Just an iron grid at street level for air 'n' light, see, an' slops so bad you'd not know which bucket was to eat from an' which to shit in.'

'Why didn't you knock down the doors?' asks Twomey.

'Iron doors an' guards with nailed truncheons is why.' Grote sweeps headlice from his hair. 'Oh, I found ways to live to tell the tale. It's my chief hobby-hawk is the noble art of survivin'. But on the day we was marched to the tender what'd take us out to the Admiral de Ruyter Admiral de Ruyter, roped to the others like prisoners, eh, I swore three oaths to myself. First: never never credit a Company gent who says, "We've yer interests at heart." ' He winks at Jacob. 'Second: never be so poor again, come what may, that human pustules like van Eys could buy 'n' sell me like a slave. Third? To get my half-guilder back off of Scabby Grunt before we reached Curacao. My first oath I honour to this day; my second oath, well, I have grounds to hope it'll be no pauper's grave for Arie Grote when his time is done; and my third oath - oh, yes, I got my half-guilder back that very same night.' credit a Company gent who says, "We've yer interests at heart." ' He winks at Jacob. 'Second: never be so poor again, come what may, that human pustules like van Eys could buy 'n' sell me like a slave. Third? To get my half-guilder back off of Scabby Grunt before we reached Curacao. My first oath I honour to this day; my second oath, well, I have grounds to hope it'll be no pauper's grave for Arie Grote when his time is done; and my third oath - oh, yes, I got my half-guilder back that very same night.'

Wybo Gerritszoon picks his nose and asks, 'How?'

Grote shuffles the cards. 'My deal, shipmates.'

Five jars of rum wait on the shelf. The hands are drinking more than the clerk, but Jacob feels a drunken glow in his legs. Karnoffel Karnoffel, he knows, shall not make me a rich man tonight shall not make me a rich man tonight. 'Letters,' Ivo Oost is saying, 'they taught us at the orphanage, an' arithmetic, an' Scripture: a powerful dose o' Scripture, what with Chapel twice daily. We was made to learn the gospels verse by verse an' one slip'd earn you a stroke o' the cane. What a pastor I I might o' made! But then, who'd take lessons from "Somebody's Natural Son" on the Ten Commandments?' He deals seven cards to each player. Oost turns over the top card of the remnant pack. 'Diamonds is trumps.' might o' made! But then, who'd take lessons from "Somebody's Natural Son" on the Ten Commandments?' He deals seven cards to each player. Oost turns over the top card of the remnant pack. 'Diamonds is trumps.'

'I heard tell,' says Grote, playing the eight of clubs, 'the Company shipped some Head-Shrinker, black as a sweep, to pastor's school in Leiden. The idea bein' he'll go home to his jungle an' show the cannibals the Light o' the Lord an' so render 'em more pacific pacific, eh? Bibles bein' cheaper'n rifles an' all.'

'Oh, but rifles make f'better sport,' remarks Gerritszoon. 'Bang bang bang.'

'What good's a slave,' asks Grote, 'what's full o' bullet holes?'

Baert kisses his card and plays the Queen of clubs.

'She's the only bitch on Earth,' says Gerritszoon, 'who'll let yer do that that.'

'With tonight's winnin's,' says Baert, 'I may order a gold-skinned miss.'

'Did the orphanage in Batavia give you your name, also, Mr Oost?' I would never ask that question sober I would never ask that question sober, Jacob berates himself.

But Oost, on whom Grote's rum is having a benign effect, takes no offence. 'Aye, it did. "Oost" is from "Oost-Indische Compagnie" who founded the orphanage, and who'd deny there's "East" in my blood? "Ivo" is 'cause I was left on the steps o' the orphanage on the twentieth o' May what's the old feast day of St Ivo. Master Drijver at the orphanage'd be kind enough to point out, ev'ry now an' then, how "Ivo" is the male "Eve" an' a fittin' reminder o' the original sin o' my birth.'

'Its a man's conduct that God is interested in,' avows Jacob, 'not the circumstances of his birth.'

'More's the pity it was wolfs like Drijver an' not God who reared me.'

'Mr de Zoet,' Twomey prompts, 'your turn.'

Jacob plays the five of hearts; Twomey lays down the four.

Oost runs the corners of his cards over his Javanese lips. 'I'd clamber out o' the attic window, 'bove the jacarandas, an' there, northwards, out past the Old Fort, was a strip o' blue . . . or green . . . or grey . . . an' smell the brine, 'bove the stink o' the canals; there was the ships layin' hard by Onrust, like livin' things, an' sails billowin' . . . an', "This ain't my home," I told that buildin', "an' you ain't my masters," I told the wolfs, " 'cause you're my home," I told the sea. An' on some days I'd make-believe it heard me an' was answering, "Yeah, I am, an' one o' these days I'll send for you." Now I know it didn't didn't speak, but . . . you carry your cross as best you can, don't you? So that's how I grew up through them years an' when the wolfs was beatin' me in the name of rectifyin' my wrongs . . . it was the sea I'd dream of even though I'd never yet seen its swells an' its rollers . . . even tho', aye, I'd never set my big toe on a boat all my life . . .' He places the five of clubs. speak, but . . . you carry your cross as best you can, don't you? So that's how I grew up through them years an' when the wolfs was beatin' me in the name of rectifyin' my wrongs . . . it was the sea I'd dream of even though I'd never yet seen its swells an' its rollers . . . even tho', aye, I'd never set my big toe on a boat all my life . . .' He places the five of clubs.

Baert wins the trick. 'I may take twin twin gold-skinned misses for the night . . .' gold-skinned misses for the night . . .'

Gerritszoon plays the seven of diamonds, announcing, 'The Devil.'

'Judas damn damn you,' says Baert, losing the ten of clubs, 'you damn you,' says Baert, losing the ten of clubs, 'you damn Ju Judas.'

'So how was it,' asks Twomey, 'the sea did did call you, Ivo?' call you, Ivo?'

'From our twelfth year - that is, whenever the Director decided decided we was twelve - we'd be set to "Fruitful Industry". For girls, this was sewin', weavin', stirrin' the vats in the Laundry. Us boys, we was hired out to crate-makers an' coopers, to officers at the barracks to go-for, or to the docks, as stevedores. Me, I was given to a rope-maker who set me pickin' oakum out o' tarry old ropes. Cheaper than servants, us; cheaper than slaves. Drijver'd pocket his "acknowledgement", he'd call it, an' with above an hundred of us at it "Fruitful Industry" it we was twelve - we'd be set to "Fruitful Industry". For girls, this was sewin', weavin', stirrin' the vats in the Laundry. Us boys, we was hired out to crate-makers an' coopers, to officers at the barracks to go-for, or to the docks, as stevedores. Me, I was given to a rope-maker who set me pickin' oakum out o' tarry old ropes. Cheaper than servants, us; cheaper than slaves. Drijver'd pocket his "acknowledgement", he'd call it, an' with above an hundred of us at it "Fruitful Industry" it was was, right enough, for him him. But what it did do was let us out o' the orphanage walls. We weren't guarded: where'd we run to? The jungle? I'd not known Batavia's streets much at all, save for the walk from the orphanage to church, so now I could wander a little, takin' roundabout ways to work an' back, an' run errands for the rope-maker, through the Chinamen's bazaar an' most of all along the wharfs, happy as a granary rat, lookin' at the sailors from far-off lands . . .' Ivo Oost plays the Jack of diamonds, winning the trick. 'Devil beats the Pope but the Knave beats the Devil.'

'My rotted tooth's hurtin',' says Baert, 'hurtin' me frightful.'

'Artful play,' compliments Grote, losing a card of no consequence.

'One day,' Oost continues, 'I was fourteen, most like - I was deliverin' a coil o' rope to a chandler's an' a snug brig was in, small an' sweet an' with a figurehead of a . . . a good woman. Sara Maria Sara Maria was the brig's name, an' I . . . I heard a voice, was the brig's name, an' I . . . I heard a voice, like like a voice, a voice, without without the voice, sayin', "She's the one an' it's today." ' the voice, sayin', "She's the one an' it's today." '

'Well, that that's clear,' mutters Gerritszoon, 'as a Frenchman's shit-pot.'

'You heard,' suggests Jacob, 'a sort of inner prompting?'

'Whatever it was, up that gangplank I hopped, an' waited for this big man who was doin' the directin' an' yellin' to notice me. He never did so I summoned my courage an' said, "Excuse me, sir." He peered close an' barked, "Who let this this ragamuffin on deck?" I begged his pardon an' said that I wanted to run away to sea an' might he speak with the Captain? Laughter was the last thing I expected but laugh he did so I begged his pardon but said I weren't jokin'. He says, "What'd your ma 'n' pa think of me for spiritin' you away without even a by-their-leave? And why d'you suppose you'd make a sailor with its aches an' its pains an' its colds an' its hots an' the cargo-master's moods, 'cause anyone aboard'll agree the man's a very devil?" I just says that my ma 'n' pa'd not say nothin' 'cause I was raised in the House of Bastardy an' if I could survive ragamuffin on deck?" I begged his pardon an' said that I wanted to run away to sea an' might he speak with the Captain? Laughter was the last thing I expected but laugh he did so I begged his pardon but said I weren't jokin'. He says, "What'd your ma 'n' pa think of me for spiritin' you away without even a by-their-leave? And why d'you suppose you'd make a sailor with its aches an' its pains an' its colds an' its hots an' the cargo-master's moods, 'cause anyone aboard'll agree the man's a very devil?" I just says that my ma 'n' pa'd not say nothin' 'cause I was raised in the House of Bastardy an' if I could survive that that then no disrespect but I weren't afeard o' the sea nor any cargo-master's mood . . . an' he din't mock or talk snidey-like but asked, "So do your custodians know you're arranging a life at sea?" I confessed Drijver'd flay me alive. So he makes his decision, an' says, "My name is Daniel Snitker an' I am cargo-master of the then no disrespect but I weren't afeard o' the sea nor any cargo-master's mood . . . an' he din't mock or talk snidey-like but asked, "So do your custodians know you're arranging a life at sea?" I confessed Drijver'd flay me alive. So he makes his decision, an' says, "My name is Daniel Snitker an' I am cargo-master of the Sara Maria Sara Maria an' my cabin-boy died o' ship-fever." They was embarkin' Banda for nutmeg the next day, an' he promised he'd have the Captain put me on the Ship's Book, but till the an' my cabin-boy died o' ship-fever." They was embarkin' Banda for nutmeg the next day, an' he promised he'd have the Captain put me on the Ship's Book, but till the Sara Maria Sara Maria set sail he bade me hide in the cockpit with the other lads. I obeyed sharpish, but I'd been seen boardin' the brig an' right 'nuff the Director sent three big bad wolfs to fetch back his "stolen property". Mr Snitker an' his mates pitched 'em in the harbour.' set sail he bade me hide in the cockpit with the other lads. I obeyed sharpish, but I'd been seen boardin' the brig an' right 'nuff the Director sent three big bad wolfs to fetch back his "stolen property". Mr Snitker an' his mates pitched 'em in the harbour.'

Jacob strokes his broken nose. I am convicting the lad's father I am convicting the lad's father.

Gerritszoon discards an impotent five of clubs.

'I b'lieve,' Baert puts nails in his purse, 'the necessessessary house is callin'.'

'What yer takin' yer winnin's for?' asks Gerritszoon. 'Don't yer trust us?'

'I'd fry my own liver first,' says Baert, 'with cream an' onions.'

Two jars of rum sit on the plank-shelf, unlikely to survive the night. 'With the weddin' ring in my pocket,' sniffs Piet Baert, 'I . . . I . . .'

Gerritszoon spits. 'Oh, quit yer blubbin', yer pox-livered pussy!'

'You say that,' Baert's face hardens, ' 'cause say that,' Baert's face hardens, ' 'cause you you're a cess-pool hog what no'un's ever loved, but my one true love was yearnin' to marry me an' I'm thinkin', My evil luck is gone away at long last My evil luck is gone away at long last. All we needed was Neeltje's father's blessin' an' we'd be sailin' down the aisle. A beer-porter, her father was, in St-Pol-sur-Mer an' it was there I was headed that night, but Dunkirk was a strange town an' rain was pissin' down an' night was fallin' an' the streets led back where they'd come an' when I stopped at a tavern to ask my way the barmaid's knockers was two juggly piglets an' she lights up all witchy an' says, "My oh my, ain't you you just strayed to the wrong side o' town, my poor just strayed to the wrong side o' town, my poor lickle lickle lambkin?" lambkin?" I I says, "Please, miss, I just want to get to St-Pol-sur-Mer," so says, "Please, miss, I just want to get to St-Pol-sur-Mer," so she she says, "Why so hasty? Ain't our 'stablishment to your likin'?" an' thrusted them piglets at me, an' says, "Why so hasty? Ain't our 'stablishment to your likin'?" an' thrusted them piglets at me, an' I I says, "Your 'stablishment is fine, miss, but my one true love Neeltje is waitin' with her father so's I can ask for her hand in marriage an' turn my back on the sea," an' the barmaid says, "So you says, "Your 'stablishment is fine, miss, but my one true love Neeltje is waitin' with her father so's I can ask for her hand in marriage an' turn my back on the sea," an' the barmaid says, "So you are are a sailor?" an' I says, "I a sailor?" an' I says, "I was was, aye, but no more," an' she she cries out to the whole house, "Who'll not drink to Neeltje the luckiest lass in Flanders?" an' she puts a tumbler o' gin in my hand an' says, "A little somethin' to warm your bone," an' promises her brother'll walk me to St-Pol-sur-Mer bein' as all sorts o' villains stalk Dunkirk after dark. So I thinks, cries out to the whole house, "Who'll not drink to Neeltje the luckiest lass in Flanders?" an' she puts a tumbler o' gin in my hand an' says, "A little somethin' to warm your bone," an' promises her brother'll walk me to St-Pol-sur-Mer bein' as all sorts o' villains stalk Dunkirk after dark. So I thinks, Yes, for sure, my evil luck is gone away at long, long last Yes, for sure, my evil luck is gone away at long, long last, an' I raised that glass to my lips.'

'Game girl,' notes Arie Grote. 'What's that tavern named, by the by?'

'It'll be named Smokin' Cinders afore I I leave Dunkirk again: that gin goes down an' my head swims an' the lamps are snuffed out. Bad dreams follow, then I'm wakin', swayin' this way an' that way, like I'm out at sea, but I'm squashed under bodies like a grape in a wine-press, and I think, leave Dunkirk again: that gin goes down an' my head swims an' the lamps are snuffed out. Bad dreams follow, then I'm wakin', swayin' this way an' that way, like I'm out at sea, but I'm squashed under bodies like a grape in a wine-press, and I think, I'm dreamin' still I'm dreamin' still, but that cold puke bungin' up my ear-hole weren't no dream, an' I cries, "Dear Jesus am I dead?" an' some cackly demon laughs, "No Fishy wriggles free o' this this hook hook that that simple!" an' a grimmer voice says, "You been crimped, friend. We're on the simple!" an' a grimmer voice says, "You been crimped, friend. We're on the Venguer du Peuple Venguer du Peuple an' we're in the Channel sailin' west," an' I says, "The an' we're in the Channel sailin' west," an' I says, "The Venguer du Venguer du What?" an' then I remember Neeltje an' shout, "But tonight I'm to be engaged to my one true love!" an' the demon says, "There's just one engagement What?" an' then I remember Neeltje an' shout, "But tonight I'm to be engaged to my one true love!" an' the demon says, "There's just one engagement you you'll see here, matey, an' that's a naval one," an' I thinks, Sweet Jesus in Heaven, Neeltje's ring Sweet Jesus in Heaven, Neeltje's ring, an' I wriggles my arm to see if it's in my jacket but it ain't. I despair. I weep. I gnash my teeth. But nothin' helps. Mornin' comes an' we're brought up on deck an' lined along the gunwale. 'Bout a score of us southern Netherlanders there was, an' the Captain appears. Captain's an evil Paris weasel; his first officer's a shaggy hulkin' bruiser, a Basque. "I am Captain Renaudin an' am Captain Renaudin an' you you are my privileged volunteers. Our orders are to rendezvous," says he, "with a convoy bringin' grain from North America an' escort her to Republican soil. The British shall try to stop us. We shall blast them to matchwood. Any questions?" One chancer - a Swissman - pipes up, "Captain Renaudin: I belong to the Mennonite Church an' my religion forbids me to kill." Renaudin tells his first officer, "We must inconvenience this Man o' Brotherly Love no longer," an' up the bruiser steps an' shoves the Swissman overboard. We hear him shoutin' for help. We hear him beggin' for help. We hear the beggin' stop. The Captain asks, "Any are my privileged volunteers. Our orders are to rendezvous," says he, "with a convoy bringin' grain from North America an' escort her to Republican soil. The British shall try to stop us. We shall blast them to matchwood. Any questions?" One chancer - a Swissman - pipes up, "Captain Renaudin: I belong to the Mennonite Church an' my religion forbids me to kill." Renaudin tells his first officer, "We must inconvenience this Man o' Brotherly Love no longer," an' up the bruiser steps an' shoves the Swissman overboard. We hear him shoutin' for help. We hear him beggin' for help. We hear the beggin' stop. The Captain asks, "Any more more questions?" Well, my sea-legs come back fast 'nough so when the English fleet is sighted on the first o' June two weeks later I was loadin' powder into a twenty-four-pounder. The Third Battle of Ushant, the French call what happened next, an' The Glorious First o' June, the English call it. Well, blastin' lagrange shot through each other's gun-ports at ten feet off may be "glorious" to Sir Johnny Roast Beef but it ain't glorious to me. Sliced-open men writhin' in the smoke; aye, men bigger an' tougher'n questions?" Well, my sea-legs come back fast 'nough so when the English fleet is sighted on the first o' June two weeks later I was loadin' powder into a twenty-four-pounder. The Third Battle of Ushant, the French call what happened next, an' The Glorious First o' June, the English call it. Well, blastin' lagrange shot through each other's gun-ports at ten feet off may be "glorious" to Sir Johnny Roast Beef but it ain't glorious to me. Sliced-open men writhin' in the smoke; aye, men bigger an' tougher'n you you, Gerritszoon, beggin' for their mammies through raggy holes in their throats . . . an' a tub carried up from the surgeon's full o' . . .' Baert fills his glass. 'Nah, when the Brunswick Brunswick holed us at the waterline an' we knew we was goin' down, the holed us at the waterline an' we knew we was goin' down, the Venguer Venguer weren't no ship-o'-the-line no more: we was an abattoir . . . an abattoir . . .' Baert looks into his rum, then at Jacob. 'What saved me that terrible day? An empty cheese barrel what floated my way is what. All night I clung to it, too cold, too dead to fear the sharks. Dawn come, an' brought a sloop flyin' the Union Jack. Its launch hauls me aboard an' squawks at me in that jackdaw jabber they speak - no offence, Twomey . . .' weren't no ship-o'-the-line no more: we was an abattoir . . . an abattoir . . .' Baert looks into his rum, then at Jacob. 'What saved me that terrible day? An empty cheese barrel what floated my way is what. All night I clung to it, too cold, too dead to fear the sharks. Dawn come, an' brought a sloop flyin' the Union Jack. Its launch hauls me aboard an' squawks at me in that jackdaw jabber they speak - no offence, Twomey . . .'

The carpenter shrugs. 'Irish would be my my mother tongue now, Mr Baert.' mother tongue now, Mr Baert.'

'This ancient Salt translates for me. "The mate's askin' where you're from?" an' says I, "Antwerp, sir: I got pressed by the French an' I damn their eyes." The Salt translates that, an' the mate jabbers some more what the Salt translates. Gist was, 'cause I weren't a Frenchie, I weren't a prisoner. Nearly kissed his boots in gratefulness! But then he told me if I volunteered for His Majesty's Navy as an ordinary seaman I'd get proper pay an' a new set o' slops, well almost new. But if I din't volunteer, I'd be pressed anyhow and paid salty sod-all as a landsman. To keep from despairin' I ask where we're bound, thinkin' I'd find a way to slip ashore in Gravesend or Portsmouth an' get back to Dunkirk an' darlin' Neeltje in a week or two . . . and the Salt says, "Our next port o' call'll be Ascension Island, for victuallin' - not that you you'll be settin' foot ashore - and from there it's on to the Bay o' Bengal . . ." an', grown man that I am, I couldn't keep from weepin' . . .'

Not one drop of rum is left. 'Lady Luck was passin' indifferent to yer tonight, Mr de Z.,' Grote snuffs out all but two candles, 'but there's always another day, eh?'

'Indifferent?' Jacob hears the others close the door. 'I was shorn.'

'Oh, yer mercury profits'll keep Famine an' Pestilence at bay for a fair while yet, eh? 'Twas a risky stance yer took with the sale, Mr de Z., but so long as the Abbot's willin' to indulge yer, yer last two crates may yet earn a better price. Think what riches eighty eighty crates'd fetch, 'stead o' just eight . . .' crates'd fetch, 'stead o' just eight . . .'

'Such a quantity,' Jacob's head steams with drink, 'would violate--'

' 'Twould bend bend Company rules on Private Trade, aye, but the trees what survive cruel winds are those what Company rules on Private Trade, aye, but the trees what survive cruel winds are those what do do bend, eh, are they not?' bend, eh, are they not?'

'A tidy metaphor does not make a wrong thing right.'

Grote puts the precious glass bottles back on the shelf. 'Five hundred per cent profit, you made: word travels, an' yer've two seasons at most 'fore the Chinese flood this market. Deputy v. C. an' Captain Lacy both have the capital back in Batavia an' they ain't men to say, "Oh dearie, but I mayn't mayn't for my quota is jus' eight boxes." Or the Chief himself'll do it.' for my quota is jus' eight boxes." Or the Chief himself'll do it.'

'Chief Vorstenbosch is here to eradicate corruption, not aid it.'

'Chief Vorstenbosch's interests are as starved by the war as anyone's.'

'Chief Vorstenbosch is too honest a man to profit at the Company's expense.'

'What man ain't ain't the honestest cove,' Grote's round face is a bronze moon in the dark, 'in his own eyes? 'Tain't good intentions what paves the road to hell: it's self-justifyin's. Now, speakin' of honest coves, what's yer true reason for the pleasure of yer comp'ny tonight?' the honestest cove,' Grote's round face is a bronze moon in the dark, 'in his own eyes? 'Tain't good intentions what paves the road to hell: it's self-justifyin's. Now, speakin' of honest coves, what's yer true reason for the pleasure of yer comp'ny tonight?'

Along Sea Wall Lane the guards clap the hour with their wooden clappers.

I am too drunk, thinks Jacob, to practise cunning to practise cunning. 'I am here about two delicate matters.'

'My lips'll be waxed and and sealed, on my beloved pa's distant grave.' sealed, on my beloved pa's distant grave.'

'The truth is, then, the Chief suspects a . . . misappropriation is taking place . . .'

'Saints! Not a misappropriation, Mr de Zoet? Not on Dejima?'

'. . . involving a provedore who visits your kitchen every morning -'

'Several provedores visit my kitchen every morning, Mr de Z.'

'- whose small bag is as full when he leaves as when he arrives.'

'Glad I am to dispel the misunderstandin', eh? Yer can tell Mr Vorstenbosch as how the answer's "onions". Aye, onions. Rotten, stinkin' onions. That provedore's the rascalliest dog of all. Each mornin' he tries it on but some blackguards won't listen to "Begone you shameless Knave!" an' that one is one I fear.'

Fishermen's voices travel through the warm and salty night.

I'm not too drunk, thinks Jacob, to miss a calculated insolence to miss a calculated insolence.

'Well,' the clerk stands, 'there's no need to trouble you any further.'

'There isn't?' Arie Grote is suspicious. 'There isn't.'

'No. Another long day in the yard tomorrow, so I'll bid you good-night.'

Grote frowns. 'You did say two two delicate matters, Mr de Z.?' delicate matters, Mr de Z.?'

'Your tale about onions -' Jacob ducks below the beam '- requires the second item to be raised with Mr Gerritszoon. I'll speak with him tomorrow, in the sober light of day - the news will be an unwelcome revelation, I fear.'

Grote half blocks the door. 'To what might this second matter pertain?'

'Your playing cards, Mr Grote. Thirty-six rounds of Karnoffel, and of those thirty-six, you dealt twelve, and of those twelve, you won ten. An improbable outcome! Baert and Oost may not detect a deck of cards conceived in sin, but Twomey and Gerritszoon would. That ancient trick, then, I discounted. No mirrors behind us; no servants to tip you the wink . . . I was at a loss.'

'A suspicious mind,' Grote's tone turns wintry, 'for a God-fearin' cove.'

'Bookkeepers acquire suspicious minds, Mr Grote. I was at a loss to explain your success until I noticed you stroking the top edge of the cards you dealt. So I did the same, and felt the notches - those tiny tiny nicks: the Knaves, sevens, Kings and Queens are all notched closer or further from the corners, according to their value. A sailor's hands, or a warehouseman's, or a carpenter's, are too calloused. But a cook's forefinger or a clerk's is another matter.' nicks: the Knaves, sevens, Kings and Queens are all notched closer or further from the corners, according to their value. A sailor's hands, or a warehouseman's, or a carpenter's, are too calloused. But a cook's forefinger or a clerk's is another matter.'

'It's custom'ry,' Grote swallows, 'that the house is paid for its trouble.'

'In the morning we'll find out if Gerritszoon agrees. Now, I really must--'

'Such a pleasant evenin': what say I reimburse your evening's losses?'

'All that matters is truth, Mr Grote: one version of the truth.'