Shogun (The Asian Saga Chronology) (130 page)

"Hey, Baccus, don't you know better than to foul your own nest?"

"What?"  Van Nekk jerked around and stared blindly toward the flares, desperately trying to see clearly.  "Pilot?" he choked out.  "Is that you, Pilot?  God damn my eyes, I can't see.  Pilot, for the love of God, is that you?"

Blackthorne laughed.  His old friend looked so naked there, so foolish, his penis hanging out.  "Yes, it's me!"  Then to the samurai who watched with thinly covered contempt, "
Matte kurasai.
"  Wait for me, please.

"
Hai,
Anjin-san."

Blackthorne came forward and now in the shaft of light he could see the litter of garbage everywhere in the garden.  Distastefully he stepped out of the clogs and ran up the steps.  "Hello, Baccus, you're fatter than when we left Rotterdam,
neh?
"  He clapped him warmly on the shoulders.

"Lord Jesus Christ, is that truly you?"

"Yes, of course it's me."

"We'd given you up for dead, long ago."  Van Nekk reached out and touched Blackthorne to make sure he was not dreaming.  "Lord Jesus, my prayers are answered.  Pilot, what happened to you, where've you come from?  It's a miracle!  Is it truly you?"

"Yes.  Now please put your cod in place and let's go inside," Blackthorne told him, conscious of his samurai.

"What?  Oh!  Oh sorry, I . . ."  Van Nekk hastily complied and tears began to run down his cheeks.  "Oh Jesus, Pilot . . . I thought the gin devils were playing me tricks again.  Come on, but let me announce you, hey?"

He led the way back, weaving a little, much of his drunkenness evaporated with his joy.  Blackthorne followed.  Van Nekk held the door open for him, then shouted over the raucous singing, "Lads!  Look what Father Christmas's brought us!"  He slammed the door shut after Blackthorne for added effect.

Silence was instantaneous.

It took a moment for Blackthorne's eyes to adjust to the light.  The fetid air was almost choking him.  He saw them all gaping at him as though he were a devil-wraith.  Then the spell broke and there were shouts of welcome and joy and everyone was squeezing and punching him on the back, all talking at the same time.  "Pilot, where've you come from—Have a drink—Christ, is it possible—Piss in my hat, it's great to see you—We'd given you up for dead—No, we're all right at least mostly all right—Get out of the chair, you whore, the Pilot-sama's to sit in the best sodding chair—Hey, grog,
neh,
quick—Godcursed quick!  Goddamn my eyes get out of the way I want to shake his hand. . . ."

Finally Vinck hollered, "One at a time, lads!  Give him a chance!  Give the Pilot the chair and a drink, for God's sake!  Yes, I thought he was samurai too. . . .

Someone shoved a wooden goblet into Blackthorne's hand.  He sat in the rickety chair and they all raised their cups and the flood of questions began again.

Blackthorne looked around.  The room was furnished with benches and a few crude chairs and tables and illuminated by candles and oil lamps.  A huge saké keg stood on the filthy floor.  One of the tables was covered with dirty plates and a haunch of half-roasted meat, crusted with flies.

Six bedraggled women cowered on their knees, bowing to him, backed against a wall.

His men, all beaming, waited for him to start:  Sonk the cook, Johann Vinck bosun's mate and chief gunner, Salamon the mute, Croocq the boy, Ginsel sailmaker, Baccus van Nekk chief merchant and treasurer, and last Jan Roper, the other merchant, who sat apart as always, with the same sour smile on his thin, taut face.

"Where's the Captain-General?" Blackthorne asked.

"Dead, Pilot, he's dead. . . ."  Six voices answered and overrode each other, jumbling the tale until Blackthorne held up his hand.  "Baccus?"

"He's dead, Pilot.  He never came out of the pit.  Remember he was sick, eh?  After they took you away, well, that night we heard him choking in the darkness.  Isn't that right, lads?"

A chorus of yesses, and van Nekk added, "I was sitting beside him, Pilot.  He was trying to get the water but there wasn't any and he was choking and moaning.  I'm not too clear about the time—we were all frightened to death—but eventually he choked and then, well, the death rattle.  It was bad, Pilot."

Jan Roper added, "It was terrible, yes.  But it was God's punishment."

Blackthorne looked from face to face.  "Anybody hit him?  To quieten him?"

"No—no, oh no," van Nekk answered.  "He just croaked.  He was left in the pit with the other one—the Japper, you remember him, the one who tried to drown himself in the bucket of piss?  Then the Lord Omi had them bring Spillbergen's body out and they burned it.  But that other poor bugger got left below.  Lord Omi just gave him a knife and he slit his own God-cursed belly and they filled in the pit.  You remember him, Pilot?"

"Yes.  What about Maetsukker?"

"Best you tell that, Vinck."

"Little Rat Face rotted, Pilot," Vinck began, and the others started shouting details and telling the tale until Vinck bellowed, "Baccus asked me, for Chrissake!  You'll all get your turn!"

The voices died down and Sonk said helpfully, "You tell it, Johann."

"Pilot, it was his arm started rotting.  He got nicked in the fight—you remember the fight when you got knocked out?  Christ Jesus, that seems so long ago!  Anyway, his arm festered.  I bled him the next day and the next, then it started going black.  I told him I'd better lance it or the whole arm'd have to come off—told him a dozen times, we all did, but he wouldn't.  On the fifth day the wound was stinking.  We held him down and I sliced off most of the rot but it weren't no good.  I knew it wasn't no good but some of us thought it worth a try.  The yellow bastard doctor came a few times but he couldn't do nothing either.  Rat Face lasted a day or two, but the rot was too deep and he raved a lot.  We had to tie him up toward the end."

"That's right, Pilot," Sonk said, scratching comfortably.  "We had to tie him up."

"What happened to his body?" Blackthorne asked.

"They took it up the hill and burned it, too.  We wanted to give him and the Captain-General a proper Christian burial but they wouldn't let us.  They just burned them."

A silence gathered.  "You haven't touched your drink, Pilot!"

Blackthorne raised it to his lips and tasted.  The cup was filthy and he almost retched.  The raw spirit seared his throat.  The stench of unbathed bodies and rancid, unwashed clothing almost overpowered him.

"How's the grog, Pilot?" van Nekk asked.

"Fine, fine."

"Tell him about it, Baccus, go on!"

"Hey!  I made a still, Pilot."  Van Nekk was very proud and the others were beaming too.  "We make it by the barrel now.  Rice and fruit and water and let it ferment, wait a week or so and then, with the help of a little magic. . . ."  The rotund man laughed and scratched happily.  "'Course it'd be better to keep it a year or so to mellow, but we drink it faster than . . ."  His words trailed off.  "You don't like it?"

"Oh, sorry, it's fine—fine."  Blackthorne saw lice in van Nekk's sparse hair.

Jan Roper said challengingly, "And you, Pilot?  You're fine, aren't you?  What about you?"

Another flood of questions which died as Vinck shouted, "Give him a chance!"  Then the leathery-faced man burst out happily, "Christ, when I saw you standing at the door I thought you was one of the monkeys, honest—honest!"

Another chorus of agreement and van Nekk broke in, "That's right.  Damned silly kimonos—you look like a woman, Pilot—or one of those half-men!  God-cursed fags, eh!  Lot of Jappers are fags, by God!  One was after Croocq. . . ."  There was much shouting and obscene banter, then van Nekk continued, "You'll want your proper clothes, Pilot.  Listen, we've got yours here.  We came to Yedo with
Erasmus.
  They towed her here and we were allowed to bring our clothes ashore with us, nothing else.  We brought yours—they allowed us to do that, to keep for you.  We brought a kit bag—all your sea clothes.  Sonk, fetch 'em, hey?"

"Sure I'll fetch them, but later, eh, Baccus?  I don't want to miss nothing."

"All right."

Jan Roper's thin smile was taunting.  "Swords and kimonos—like a real heathen!  Perhaps you prefer heathen ways now, Pilot?"

"The clothes are cool, better than ours," Blackthorne replied uneasily.  "I'd forgotten I was dressed differently.  So much has happened.  These were all I had so I got used to wearing them.  I never thought much about it.  They're certainly more comfortable."

"Are those real swords?"

"Yes, of course, why?"

"We're not allowed weapons.  Any weapons!" Jan Roper scowled.  "Why do they allow you to have 'em?  Just like any heathen samurai?"

Blackthorne laughed shortly.  "You haven't changed, Jan Roper, have you?  Still holier than thou?  Well, all in good time about my swords, but first the best news of all.  Listen, in a month or so we'll be on the high seas again."

"Jesus God, you mean it, Pilot?" Vinck said.

"Yes."

There was a great roaring cheer and another welter of questions and answers.  "I told you we'd get away—I told you God was on our side!  Let him talk—let the Pilot talk . . ."  Finally Blackthorne held up his hand.

He motioned at the women, who still knelt motionless, more abject now under his attention.  "Who're they?"

Sonk laughed.  "Them's our doxies, Pilot.  Our whores, and cheap, Christ Jesus, they hardly cost a button a week.  We got a whole house of 'em next door—and there's plenty more in the village—"

"They rattle like stoats," Croocq butted in, and Sonk said, "That's right, Pilot.  'Course they're squat and bandy but they've lots of vigor and no pox.  You want one, Pilot?  We've our own bunks, we're not like the monkeys, we've all our own bunks and rooms—"

"You try Big-Arse Mary, Pilot, she's the one for you," Croocq said.

Jan Roper's voice overrode them.  "The Pilot doesn't want one of our harlots.  He's got his own.  Eh, Pilot?"

Their faces glowed.  "Is that true, Pilot?  You got women?  Hey, tell us, eh?  These monkeys're the best that's ever been, eh?"

"Tell us about your doxies, Pilot!"  Sonk scratched at his lice again.

"There's a lot to tell," Blackthorne said.  "But it should be private.  Less ears the better,
neh?
  Send the women away, then we can talk privately."

Vinck jerked a thumb at them.  "Piss off,
hai?
"

The women bowed and mumbled thanks and apologies and fled, closing the door quietly.

"First about the ship.  It's unbelievable.  I want to thank you and congratulate you—all the work.  When we get home I'm going to insist you get triple shares of all the prize money for all that work and there's going to be a prize beyond . . ."  He saw the men look at each other, embarrassed.  "What's the matter?"

Van Nekk said uncomfortably, "It wasn't us, Pilot.  It was King Toranaga's men.  They did it.  Vinck showed 'em how, but we didn't do anything."

"What?"

"We weren't allowed back aboard after the first time.  None of us has been aboard except Vinck, and he goes once every ten days or so.  We did nothing."

"He's the only one," Sonk said.  "Johann showed 'em."

"But how'd you talk to them, Johann?"

"There's one of the samurai who talks Portuguese and we talk in that—enough to understand each other.  This samurai, his name's Sato-sama, he was put in charge when we came here.  He asked who were officers or seamen among us.  We said that'd be Ginsel, but he's a gunner mostly, me and Sonk who—"

"Who's the worst pissing cook that—"

"Shut your God-cursed mouth, Croocq!"

"Shit, you can't cook ashore let alone afloat, by God!"

"Please be quiet, you two!" Blackthorne said.  "Go on, Johann."

Vinck continued.  "Sato-sama asked me what was wrong with the ship and I told him she had to be careened and scraped and repaired all over.  Well, I told him all I knew and they got on with it.  They careened her good and cleaned the bilges, scrubbed them like a prince's shit house—at least, samurai were bosses and other monkeys worked like demons, hundreds of the buggers.  Shit, Pilot, you've never seen workers like 'em!"

"That's true," Sonk said.  "Like demons!"

"I did everything the best I could against the day. . . . Jesus, Pilot, you really think we can get away?"

"Yes, if we're patient and if we—"

"If God wills it, Pilot.  Only then."

"Yes.  Perhaps you're right," Blackthorne replied, thinking, what's it matter that Roper's a fanatic?  I need him—all of them.  And the help of God.  "Yes.  We need the help of God," he said and turned back to Vinck.  "How's her keel?"

"Clean and sound, Pilot.  They've done her better'n I'd've thought possible.  Those bastards are as clever as any carpenters, shipwrights, and ropemakers in all Holland.  Rigging's perfect—everything."

"Sails?"

"They made a set out of silk—tough as canvas.  With a spare set.  They took ours down and copied 'em exact, Pilot.  Cannon are perfect as possible—all back aboard and there's powder and shot a-plenty.  She's ready to sail on the tide, tonight if need be.  'Course she hasn't been to sea so we won't know about the sails till we're in a gale, but I'll bet my life her seams're as tight as when she was first slipped into the Zuider Zee—better 'cause the timbers're seasoned now, thanks be to God!"  Vinck paused for breath.  "When are we off?"

"A month.  About."

They nudged each other, brimming with elation, and loudly toasted the Pilot and the ship.

"How about enemy shipping?  There any hereabouts?  What about prizes, Pilot?" Ginsel asked.

"Plenty—beyond your dreams.  We're all rich."

Another shout of glee.  "It's about time."

"Rich, eh?  I'll buy me a castle."

"Lord God Almighty, when I get home . . ."

"Rich!  Hurrah for the Pilot!"

"Plenty of Papists to kill?  Good," Jan Roper said softly.  "Very good."

"What's the plan, Pilot?" van Nekk asked, and they all stopped talking.

"I'll come to that in a minute.  Do you have guards?  Can you move around freely, when you want?  How often—"

Vinck said quickly, "We can move anywheres in the village area, perhaps as much as half a league around here.  But we're not allowed in Yedo and not—"