The Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet (22 page)

“Damage to company property must be investigated, Fischer.”

Captain Lacy fans himself with his hat. “In Carolina, it would be Mr. Fischer’s compensation from the slave’s owners we’d be discussing.”

“
After
, one trusts, establishing the facts. Dr. Marinus: why did the slave absent himself from the mustering? He’s been here years. He knows the rules.”

“I’d blame those same ‘years.’” Marinus spoons himself some pudding. “They have worn away at him and induced a nervous collapse.”

“Doctor, you are—” Lacy laughs and chokes. “You are incomparable! A ‘nervous collapse’? What next? A mule too melancholic to pull? A hen too lachrymose to lay?”

“Sjako has a wife and son in Batavia,” says Marinus. “When Gijsbert
Hemmij brought him to Dejima seven years ago, this family was divided. Hemmij promised Sjako his freedom in return for faithful service when he returned to Java.”

“Had I but
one dollar
for every nigger spoiled,” Lacy exclaims, “by a rashly promised manumission, I could buy all of Florida!”

“But when Chief Hemmij died,” Van Cleef objects, “his promise died, too.”

“This spring, Daniel Snitker told Sjako the oath would be honored after the trading season.” Marinus stuffs tobacco into his pipe. “Sjako was led to believe he would be sailing to Batavia as a free man in a few weeks’ time and had fixed his heart on laboring for his family’s liberty upon the
Shenandoah
’s arrival.”

“Snitker’s word,” says Lacy, “isn’t worth the paper it wasn’t written on.”

“Just yesterday,” Marinus continues, pausing to light a taper from the candle and suck his pipe into life, “Sjako learned this promise is reneged and his freedom is dashed to pieces.”

“The slave is to stay here,” says the chief, “for my term of office. Dejima lacks hands.”

“Then why profess surprise”—the doctor breathes out a cloud of smoke—“at his state of mind? Seven plus five equals twelve when last
I
looked: twelve years. Sjako was brought here in his seventeenth year: he shan’t be leaving until his twenty-ninth. His son shall be sold long before then, and his wife mated to another.”

“How can I ‘renege’ on a promise
I
never made?” Vorstenbosch objects.

“That is an acute and logical point, sir,” says Peter Fischer.

“My wife and daughters,” says Van Cleef, “I haven’t seen in
eight
years!”

“You are a deputy.” Marinus picks at a scab of blood on his cuff. “Here to make yourself rich. Sjako is a slave, here to make his masters comfortable.”

“A slave is a slave,” Peter Fischer declaims, “because he does a slave’s work!”

“What about,” Lacy says, cleaning his ear with a fork prong, “a night at the theater, to lift his spirits? We could stage
Othello
, perhaps?”

“Are we not in danger,” asks Van Cleef, “of losing sight of the principal point? That today a slave attempted to murder two of our colleagues?”

“Another excellent point, sir,” says Fischer, “if I may say so.”

Marinus places his thumbs together. “Sjako denies attacking his assailants.”

Fischer leans back on his chair and declares to the chandelier,
“Fa!”

“Sjako says the two white masters set about him quite unprovoked.”

“The would-be cutthroat,” Fischer states, “is a liar of the blackest dye.”

“Blacks
do
lie.” Lacy opens his snuffbox. “Like geese shit slime.”

Marinus places his pipe on its stand. “Why would Sjako attack you?”

“Savages don’t need motives!” Fischer spits in the spittoon. “Your type, Dr. Marinus, sit at your meetings, nod wisely at wind about ‘the true cost of the sugar in our tea’ from an ‘improved Negro’ in wig and waistcoat. I,
I
, am not a man created by Swedish gardens but by Surinam jungles, where one sees the Negro in his natural habitat. Earn yourself one of
these
”—Peter Fischer unbuttons his shirt to display a three-inch scar above his collarbone—“and
then
tell me a savage has a soul just because he can recite the Lord’s Prayer, like any parrot.”

Lacy peers close, impressed. “How did you pick up
that
souvenir?”

“Whilst recuperating at Goed Accoord,” Fischer answers, glowering at the doctor, “a plantation on the Commewina, two days upriver from Paramaribo. My platoon had gone to cleanse the basin of runaway slaves who attack in gangs. The colonists call them ‘rebels’; I call them ‘vermin.’ We had burned many of their nests and yam fields, but the dry season overtook us, when hell has no worse hole. Not one of my men was free from beriberi or ringworm fever. The house blacks of Goed Accoord betrayed our weakness, and on the third dawn, they slithered up to the house and attacked. Hundreds of the vipers crawled out of the dry slime and dropped from the trees. With musket, bayonet, and bare hands, my men and I made a valiant defense, but when a mace struck my skull, I collapsed. Hours must have passed. When I awoke, my arms and feet were bound. My jaw was—how do you say?—mislocated. I lay in a row of wounded men in the drawing room. Some begged for mercy, but no Negro understands the concept. The slave leader arrived and bidded his butchers extract the men’s hearts for their victory feast. This they did”—Fischer swills his mash around his glass—“slowly, without first killing their victims.”

“Such barbarity and wickedness,” Van Cleef declares, “beggars belief!”

Vorstenbosch sends Philander and Weh downstairs for bottles of Rhenish.

“My unluckier comrades, Swiss Fourgeoud, DeJohnette, and my bosom friend, Tom Isberg, they suffered the agonies of Christ. Their screams shall haunt me until I die, and so shall the blacks’ laughter. They stored the hearts in a chamber pot, just inches from where I lay. The room stunk of the slaughterhouse; the air was black with flies. It was darkness when my turn came. I was the last but one. They slung me on the table. Despite my fear, I played dead and prayed God to take my soul quickly. One then uttered,
“Son de go sleeby caba. Mekewe liby den tara dago tay tamara.”
Meaning, the sun was sinking, they’d leave these last two ‘dogs’ for the following day. The drumming, feasting, and fornication had begun, and the butchers were loath to miss the fun. So, a butcher impaled me to the table with a bayonet, like a butterfly collector’s pin, and I was left without a guard.”

Insects dirty the air over the candelabra like a malign halo.

A rust-colored lizard sits on the blade of Jacob’s butter knife.

“Now I prayed to God for strength. By twisting my head, I could seize the bayonet’s blade between my teeth and slowly work it loose. I lost pints of blood but refused to succumb to weakness. My freedom was won. Under the table was Joosse, my platoon’s last survivor. Joosse was a Zeelander, like Clerk de Zoet …”

Well, now
, thinks Jacob,
what an opportune coincidence
.

“… and Joosse was a coward, I am sorry to say. He was too afraid to move until my reason conquered his fear. Under the coat of darkness, we left Goed Accoord behind. For seven days, we beat a path through that green pestilence with our bare hands. We had no food but the maggots breeding in our wounds. Many times, Joosse begged to be allowed to die. But honor obliged me to protect even the frail Zeelander from death. Finally, by God’s grace, we reached Fort Sommelsdyck, where the Commewina meets the Cottica. We were more dead than alive. My superior officer confessed later that he had expected me to die within hours. ‘Never underestimate a Prussian again,’ I told him. The governor of Surinam presented me with a medal, and six weeks later I led two hundred men back to Goed Accoord. A glorious revenge was extracted on the vermin, but I am not a man who brags of his own achievements.”

Weh and Philander return with the bottles of Rhenish.

“A most edifying history,” says Lacy. “I salute your courage, Mr. Fischer.”

“The passage where you ate the maggots,” remarks Marinus, “rather over-egged the
brûlée.”

“The doctor’s disbelief,” Fischer addresses the senior officers, “is caused by his sentimental attitudes to savages, I am very sorry to say.”

“The doctor’s disbelief”—Marinus peers at the label on the Rhenish—“is a natural reaction to vainglorious piffle.”

“Your accusations,” Fischer retorts, “deserve no reply.”

Jacob finds an island chain of mosquito bites across his hand.

“Slavery may be an injustice to some,” says Van Cleef, “but no one can deny that all empires are founded upon the institution.”

“Then may the devil,” Marinus says, twisting in the corkscrew, “take all empires.”

“What an extraordinary utterance,” declares Lacy, “to hear from the mouth of a colonial officer!”

“Extraordinary,” agrees Fischer, “not to say
Jacobinical.”

“I am no ‘colonial officer.’ I am a physician, scholar, and traveler.”

“You hunt for fortune,” says Lacy, “courtesy of the Dutch Empire.”

“My treasure is botanical.” The cork pops. “The fortunes I leave to you.”

“How very ‘Enlightened,’
outré
, and French, which nation, by the by, learned the perils of abolishing slavery. Anarchy set the Caribbean alight; plantations were pillaged; men strung up from trees; and by the time Paris had its Negroes back in chains, Hispaniola was lost.”

“Yet the British Empire,” Jacob says, “is embracing abolition.”

Vorstenbosch looks at his onetime protégé like an evaluator.

“The British,” Lacy warns, “are engaged in some trickery or other, as time shall tell.”

“And those citizens in your own northern states,” says Marinus, “who recognize—”

“Those Yankee leeches grow fat on
our
taxes!” Captain Lacy wags his knife.

“In the animal kingdom,” says Van Cleef, “the vanquished are eaten by those more favored by Nature. Slavery is merciful by comparison: the lesser races keep their lives in exchange for their labor.”

“What use,” the doctor says, pouring himself a glass of wine, “is an eaten slave?”

The grandfather clock in the stateroom strikes ten times.

Vorstenbosch arrives at a decision. “Displeased as I am about the events in the crate store, Fischer, I accept that you and Gerritszoon acted in self-defense.”

“I swear, sir”—Fischer tilts his head—“we had no other choice.”

Marinus grimaces at his glass of Rhenish. “Atrocious aftertaste.”

Lacy brushes his mustache. “What about
your
slave, Doctor?”

“Eelattu, sir, is no more a slave than your first mate. I found him in Jaffna five years ago, beaten and left for dead by a gang of Portuguese whalers. During his recovery, the boy’s quickness of mind persuaded me to offer him employ as my chirurgical assistant, for pay, from my own pocket. He may quit his post when he wishes, with wages and character. Can any man on the
Shenandoah
say as much?”

Lacy walks over to the chamber pot. “Indians, I’ll admit, ape civilized manners well enough; and I’ve entered Pacific Islanders and Chinamen into the
Shenandoah
’s books, so I know of what I speak. But for Africans …” The captain unbuttons his breeches and urinates into the pot. “Slavery’s the best life: were they ever turned loose, they’d starve before the week was out, without they murdered white families for their larders. They know only the present moment; they cannot plan, farm, invent, or imagine.” He shakes free the last drops of urine and tucks his shirt into his breeches. “To condemn slavery”—Captain Lacy scratches beneath his collar—“is, moreover, to condemn Holy Scripture. Blacks are descended from Noah’s bestial son Ham, who bedded his own mother; Ham’s lineage were thereby accursed. It’s there in the ninth book of Genesis, plain as day. ‘Cursed be Canaan; a servant of servants shall he be to his brethren.’ The white race, however, is descended from Japheth: ‘God shall enlarge Japheth, and Canaan shall be his servant.’ Or do I lie, Mr. de Zoet?”

All the assembled eyes turn to the nephew of the parsonage.

“Those particular verses are problematical,” says Jacob.

“So the clerk calls God’s word,” taunts Peter Fischer, “‘problematical’?”

“The world would be happier without slavery,” replies Jacob, “and—”

“The world would be happier,” sniffs Van Cleef, “if golden apples grew on trees.”

“Dear Mr. Vorstenbosch,” Captain Lacy says, raising his glass, “this Rhenish is a superlative vintage. Its aftertaste is the purest nectar.”

T
HE NOISES OF BATTENING, NAILING, AND HERDING ARE GUSTED
in through the warehouse doors. Hanzaburo stands on the threshold, watching the darkening sky. At the table, Ogawa Uzaemon is translating the Japanese version of Shipping Document 99b from the trading season of 1797, relating to a consignment of camphor crystals. Jacob records the gaping discrepancies in prices and quantities between it and its Dutch counterpart. The signature verifying the document as “An Honest and True Record of the Consignment” is Acting Deputy Melchior van Cleef’s: the deputy’s twenty-seventh falsified entry Jacob has so far uncovered. The clerk has told Vorstenbosch of this growing list, but the chief resident’s zeal as a reformer of Dejima is dimming by the day. Vorstenbosch’s metaphors have changed from “excising the cancer of corruption” to “best employing what tools we have to hand,” and, perhaps the clearest indicator of the chief’s attitude, Arie Grote is busier and more cheerful by the day.

“It is soon too dark,” says Ogawa Uzaemon, “to see clear.”

“How long,” Jacob asks, “before we should stop working?”

“One more hour, with oil in lantern. Then I should leave.”

Jacob writes a short note asking Ouwehand to give Hanzaburo a jar of oil from the office store, and Ogawa instructs him in Japanese. The boy leaves, his clothes tugged by the wind.

“Last typhoons of season,” says Ogawa, “can attack Hizen Domain
worst. We think,
Gods save Nagasaki from bad typhoon this year
, and then …” Ogawa mimes a battering ram with his hands.

“Autumn gales in Zeeland, too, are quite notorious.”