Shogun_ A Novel of Japan - James Clavell [24]
“The daimyo says hurry up and answer his questions.”
“Yes. Of course, I’m sorry. My name’s John Blackthorne. I’m English, Pilot-Major of a Netherlands fleet. Our home port’s Amsterdam.”
“Fleet? What fleet? You’re lying. There’s no fleet. Why is an Englishman pilot of a Dutch ship?”
“All in good time. First please translate what I said.”
“Why are you the pilot of a Dutch privateer? Hurry up!”
Blackthorne decided to gamble. His voice abruptly hardened and it cut through the morning warmth. “Que va! First translate what I said, Spaniard! Now!”
The priest flushed. “I’m Portuguese. I’ve told you before. Answer the question.”
“I’m here to talk to the daimyo, not to you. Translate what I said, you motherless offal!” Blackthorne saw the priest redden even more and felt that this had not gone unnoticed by the daimyo. Be cautions, he warned himself. That yellow bastard will carve you into pieces quicker than a school of sharks if you overreach yourself. “Tell the lord daimyo!” Blackthorne deliberately bowed low to the platform and felt the chill sweat beginning to pearl as he committed himself irrevocably to his course of action.
Father Sebastio knew that his training should make him impervious to the pirate’s insults and the obvious plan to discredit him in front of the daimyo. But, for the first time, it did not and he felt lost. When Mura’s messenger had brought news of the ship to his mission in the neighboring province, he had been rocked by the implications. It can’t be Dutch or English! he had thought. There had never been a heretic ship in the Pacific except those of the archdevil corsair Drake, and never one here in Asia. The routes were secret and guarded. At once he had prepared to leave and had sent an urgent carrier pigeon message to his superior in Osaka, wishing that he could first have consulted with him, knowing that he was young, almost untried and new to Japan, barely two years here, not yet ordained, and not competent to deal with this emergency. He had rushed to Anjiro, hoping and praying that the news was untrue. But the ship was Dutch and the pilot English, and all of his loathing for the satanic heresies of Luther, Calvin, Henry VIII, and the archfiend Elizabeth, his bastard daughter, had overwhelmed him. And still swamped his judgment.
“Priest, translate what the pirate said,” he heard the daimyo say.
O Blessed Mother of God, help me to do thy will. Help me to be strong in front of the daimyo and give me the gift of tongues, and let me convert him to the True Faith.
Father Sebastio gathered his wits and began to speak more confidently.
Blackthorne listened carefully, trying to pick out the words and meanings. The Father used “England” and “Blackthorne” and pointed at the ship, which lay nicely at anchor in the harbor.
“How did you get here?” Father Sebastio said.
“By Magellan’s Pass. This is the one hundred and thirty-sixth day from there. Tell the daimyo—”
“You’re lying. Magellan’s Pass is secret. You came via Africa and India. You’ll have to tell the truth eventually. They use torture here.”
“The Pass was secret. A Portuguese sold us a rutter. One of your own people sold you out for a little Judas gold. You’re all manure! Now all English warships—and Dutch warships—know the way through to the Pacific. There’s a fleet—twenty English ships-of-the-line, sixty-cannon warships—attacking Manila right now. Your empire’s finished.”
“You’re lying!”
Yes, Blackthorne thought, knowing there was no way to prove the lie except to go to Manila. “That fleet will harry your sea-lanes and stamp