“Even so, I’d like to see him.” The priest said nothing. Rodrigues let him clean his plate in silence, then offered more, the joy gone out of him. The last of the carcass and the final wing were accepted, and another goblet of wine. Then, to finish, some fine French cognac that Father Alvito got from a cupboard.
“Rodrigues? Would you care for a glass?”
“Thank you.” The seaman watched Alvito pour the nut-brown liquor into the crystal glass. All the wine and cognac had come from the Father-Visitor’s private stock as a parting gift to his Jesuit friend.
“Of course, Rodrigues, you’re welcome to share it with the Father,” dell’Aqua had said. “Go with God, may He watch over you and bring you safely to port and home again.”
“Thank you, Eminence.”
Yes, thank you, Eminence, but no God-cursed thanks, Rodrigues told himself bitterly, no thanks for getting my Captain-General to order me aboard this pigboat under this Jesuit’s command and out of my Gracia’s arms, poor darling. Madonna, life’s so short, too short and too treacherous to waste being chaperone to gut-stinking priests, even Alvito who’s more of a man than any and, because of that, more dangerous. Madonna, give me some help!
“Oh! You reave, Rod-san? Reave so soon? Oh, so sorry. . . .”
“Soon come back, my darling.”
“Oh, so sorry . . . we miss, ritt’e one and I.”
For a moment he had considered taking her aboard the
“We wait, Rod-san. Please excuse my sad, so sorry.”
Always the hesitant, heavily accented Portuguese she tried so hard to speak, insisting that she be called by her baptismal name Gracia and not by the lovely-sounding Nyan-nyan, which meant Kitten and suited her so well and pleased him better.
He had sailed away from Nagasaki, hating to leave, cursing all priests and captain-generals, wanting an end to summer and autumn so he could up-anchor the Black Ship, her holds weighed now with bullion, to head for home at long last, rich and independent. But then what? The perpetual question swamped him. What about her—and the child? Madonna, help me to answer that with peace.
“An excellent meal, Rodrigues,” Alvito said, toying with a crumb on the table. “Thank you.”
“Good.” Rodrigues was serious now. “What’s your plan, Father? We should—” He stopped in mid-sentence and glanced out of the windows. Then, dissatisfied, he got up from the table and limped painfully over to a land side porthole and peered out.
“What is it, Rodrigues?”
“Thought I felt the tide change. Just want to check our sea room.” He opened the cover further and leaned out, but still couldn’t see the bow anchor. “Excuse me a moment, Father.”
He went on deck. Water lapped the anchor chain that angled into the muddy water. No movement. Then a thread of wake appeared and the ship began to ease off safely, to take up her new station with the ebb. He checked her lie, then the lookouts. Everything was perfect. No other boats were near. The afternoon was fine, the mist long since gone. They were a cable or so offshore, far enough out to preclude a sudden boarding, and well away from the sea lanes that fed the wharves.
His ship was a lorcha, a Japanese hull adapted to modern Portuguese sails and rigging: swift, two-masted, and sloop-rigged. It had four cannon amidships, two small bow chasers and two stern chasers. Her name was the
His eyes went to the city, and to the hills beyond. “Pesaro!”
“Yes, senhor?”
“Get the longboat ready. I’m going ashore before dusk.”
“Good. She’ll be ready. When’re you back?”
“Dawn.”
“Even better! I’ll lead the shore party—ten men.”
“No shore leave, Pesaro. It’s
“Not right that all should suffer,” said the bosun, Pesaro, his great calloused hands flexing. “I’ll lead the party and promise there’ll be no trouble. We’ve been cooped up for two weeks now.”
“The port authorities here said
“Yes, by the blood of Christ Jesus, and more’s the pity!” The heavy-set man scowled. “It was only one Jappo that got chopped.”
“One chopped dead, two knifed badly, a lot of wounded, and a girl hurt before the samurai stopped the riot. I warned you all before you went ashore: ‘Numazu’s not Nagasaki—so behave yourselves!’ Madonna! We were lucky to get away with just one of our seamen dead. They’d have been within the law to chop all five of you.”
“Their law, Pilot, not ours. God-cursed monkeys! It was only a whorehouse brawl.”
“Yes, but your men started it, the authorities have quarantined my ship, and you’re all benched. You included!” Rodrigues moved his leg to ease the pain. “Be patient, Pesaro. Now that the Father’s back we’ll be off.”
“On the tide? At dawn? Is that an order?”
