. . . but to Penhaligon's dismay, the interpreter now grips the longboat's lip.

The nearest marine calls to Major Cutlip. Cutlip grapples his way over . . .

'Not yet,' mumbles the Captain, impotently, 'don't let him aboard.'

Lieutenant Hovell, meanwhile, is beckoning the Deputy over.

Cutlip grips the hand of the unwanted interpreter . . .

Wait wait wait, the Captain wants to yell, wait for our second Dutchman! wait for our second Dutchman!

. . . and Cutlip lets the interpreter go, waving his hand as if it is brutally mangled.

Now, at long last, Hovell has hold of the unsteady Deputy's hand.

Penhaligon mumbles, 'Land the man, Hovell, for Christ's sake!' the man, Hovell, for Christ's sake!'

The interpreter decides not to wait for further assistance, and plants one foot on the longboat's port bulwark just as Hovell swings the Prussian Deputy over the starboard . . .

. . . and half of the marines take up their cutlasses, some flashing in sunlight.

The other marines take up their oars and push the sampans away.

The black-coated interpreter flops, like a Pierrot, into the water.

The Phoebus Phoebus's longboat lunges back towards the ship.

Chief van Cleef, realising that he is being abducted, attacks Lieutenant Hovell.

Major Cutlip intercepts and falls on top of him. The boat rocks dangerously.

Let it not capsize, dear God, prays Penhaligon, let it not capsize now . . . let it not capsize now . . .

Van Cleef is subdued and the longboat settles. The Prussian is sitting meekly.

Back at the sampans, already three lengths away, the first Japanese to act is an oarsman, who leaps into the water to save the interpreter. The grey-coated inspectors sit and stare in shock at the foreigners' longboat, as it retreats to the Phoebus Phoebus.

Penhaligon lowers his telescope. 'The first engagement is won. Strike that Dutch rag, Mr Wren, and fly the Union Jack, topmast and prow.'

'Yes, sir, with the greatest of pleasure.'

'Mr Talbot, have your landsmen rinse the filth from my decks.'

The Dutchman van Cleef seizes the rope-ladder and clambers up it with an agility belying his bulk. Penhaligon glances up at the quarterdeck, where Snitker remains out of sight, for now, under his floppy-brimmed hat. Batting away proffered hands, van Cleef leaps on to the Phoebus Phoebus like a Moorish boarder, glares along the line of officers, singles out Penhaligon, points a finger so wrathfully that a pair of marines take a step closer in case of attack, and declares, through his curly, close-cropped beard and tea-brown teeth, ' like a Moorish boarder, glares along the line of officers, singles out Penhaligon, points a finger so wrathfully that a pair of marines take a step closer in case of attack, and declares, through his curly, close-cropped beard and tea-brown teeth, 'Kapitein!'

'Welcome aboard His Majesty's Frigate Phoebus Phoebus, Mr van Cleef. I am--'

The irate Chief's molten invective needs no translation.

'I am Captain John Penhaligon,' he says, when van Cleef next draws breath, 'and this is my second officer, Lieutenant Wren. First Lieutenant Hovell and Major Cutlip' - they arrive on deck now - 'you have already met.'

Chief van Cleef takes a step towards the Captain and spits at his feet.

An oyster of phlegm shines on his second-best Jermyn Street shoe.

'That's Dutch officers for you,' declares Wren. 'Bereft of breeding.'

Penhaligon hands his handkerchief to Malouf. 'For the ship's honour . . .'

'Aye, sir.' The Midshipman kneels by the Captain and wipes the shoe.

The firm pressure makes his gouty foot glow with pain. 'Lieutenant Hovell. Inform Chief van Cleef that whilst he behaves like a gentleman, our hospitality shall be accordingly civil, but should he comport himself like an Irish navvy, then that is how he shall be treated.'

'Taming Irish navvies,' boasts Cutlip, as Hovell translates the warning, 'is a labour I am fond of, sir.'

'Let us appeal to reason in the first instance, Major.'

A high bell is being rung: Penhaligon assumes it is an alarm.

Without looking at van Cleef, he now extends his greeting to the lesser second hostage. 'Welcome aboard His Majesty's Frigate Phoebus Phoebus, Deputy Fischer.'

Chief van Cleef forbids his deputy to speak.

Penhaligon orders Hovell to ask Fischer about this season's Indiaman.

Chief van Cleef claps twice to earn the Captain's attention, and issues a statement that Hovell translates as, 'I'm afraid he said, "I hid it up my arse, you English Nancy", sir.'

'A man once spoke to me so in Sydney Cove,' recalls Cutlip, 'so I searched said hidey-hole with a bayonet and he never came cocky with an officer again.'

'Tell our guests this, Mr Hovell,' Penhaligon says. 'Tell them we know know a vessel sailed from Batavia, because I heard from the harbourmaster of Macao that she weighed anchor in that port on the twenty-eighth of May.' a vessel sailed from Batavia, because I heard from the harbourmaster of Macao that she weighed anchor in that port on the twenty-eighth of May.'

Hearing this, van Cleef's anger cools and Fischer looks grave. They consult with one another, and Hovell eavesdrops. 'The Chief is saying, "Unless this is English sneakery, another ship is lost . . ." '

A bird in the woods along the shore sounds very like a cuckoo.

'Warn them, Lieutenant, that we shall be searching the bay, and that if we discover their Indiaman in any of the coves they shall both be hanged.'

Hovell translates the threat. Fischer rubs his head. Van Cleef spits. The saliva misses the Captain's foot, but Penhaligon cannot have his authority eroded in front of the onlooking crew. 'Major Cutlip, accommodate Chief van Cleef in the aft rope store: no lamp, no refreshments. Deputy Fischer meanwhile' - the Prussian blinks like a frightened hen - 'may rest awhile in my cabin. Have two of my best men watch him, and tell Chigwin to bring him a half-bottle of claret.'

Before Cutlip can carry out the order, van Cleef asks Hovell a question.

Penhaligon is curious about the Dutchman's altered tone. 'What was that?'

'He wanted to know how we know his and his deputy's names, sir.'

It shall profit us, thinks Penhaligon, to establish that they cannot bluff us to establish that they cannot bluff us.

'Mr Talbot, pray ask our informant to come and greet his old friends.'

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 is best served cold, as Milton says.' 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 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 Phoebus may herald the restoration of Anglo-Dutch accord.' 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 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.'

XXXII.

The Watchtower on Dejima

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 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 We must steal this march, Jacob realises, on the Magistracy 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.