Shogun_ A Novel of Japan - James Clavell [434]
“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 dogs 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?