Shōgun полностью

Then he heard the faintest snatch of a rollicking sea shanty in Dutch and all discomfort was forgotten. “Is that Vinck?”

Elated, he hurried toward the sound, porters lighting his way carefully, samurai following.

Now, nearer, he saw that the single-story building was part Japanese, part European. It was raised on pilings and surrounded by a high rickety bamboo fence in a plot of its own, and much newer than the hovels that clustered near. There was no gate in the fence, just a hole. The roof was thatch, the front door stout, the walls rough-boarded, and the windows covered with Dutch-style shutters. Here and there were flecks of light from the cracks. The singing and banter increased but he could not recognize any voices yet. Flagstones led straight to the steps of the veranda through an unkempt garden. A short flagpole was roped to the gateway. He stopped and stared up at it. A limp, makeshift Dutch flag hung there listlessly and his pulse quickened at the sight of it.

The front door was thrown open. A shaft of light spilled onto the veranda. Baccus van Nekk stumbled drunkenly to the edge, eyes half shut, pulled his codpiece aside, and urinated in a high, curving jet.

“Ahhhhh,” he murmured with a groaning ecstasy. “Nothing like a piss.”

“Isn’t there?” Blackthorne called out in Dutch from the gateway. “Why don’t you use a bucket?”

“Eh?” Van Nekk blinked myopically into the darkness at Blackthorne, who stood with the samurai under the flares. “JesusGodinheavensamurai!” He gathered himself with a grunt and bowed awkwardly from the waist. “Gomen nasai, samurai-sama. Ichiban gomen nasai to all monkey-samas.” He straightened, forced a painful smile, and muttered half to himself, “I’m drunker’n I thought. Thought the bastard sonofawhore spoke Dutch! Gomen nasai, neh?” he called out again, reeling off toward the back of the house, scratching and groping at the codpiece.

“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 kudasai.” 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, quickGodcursed 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.