Shōgun

“Good. Good. I’m Vaseo Rodrigues, pilot of this galley!” He turned to the old man and spoke a mixture of Japanese and Portuguese, and called him Monkey-sama and sometimes Toda-sama but the way it sounded it came out “Toady-sama.” Twice he pulled out his pistol and pointed it emphatically at Blackthorne and stuck it back in his belt, his Japanese heavily laced with sweet vulgarities in gutter Portuguese that only seafarers would understand.

Hiro-matsu spoke briefly and the samurai released Blackthorne and Mura untied him.

“That’s better. Listen, Pilot, this man’s like a king. I told him I’d be responsible for you, that I’d blow your head off as soon as drink with you!” Rodrigues bowed to Hiro-matsu, then beamed at Blackthorne. “Bow to the Bastard-sama.”

Dreamlike, Blackthorne did as he was told.

“You do that like a Japper,” Rodrigues said with a grin. “You’re really the pilot?”

“Yes.”

“What’s the latitude of The Lizard?”

“Forty-nine degrees fifty-six minutes North—and watch out for the reefs that bear sou’ by sou’west.”

“You’re the pilot, by God!” Rodrigues shook Blackthorne’s hand warmly. “Come aboard. There’s food and brandy and wine and grog and all pilots should love all pilots, who’re the sperm of the earth. Amen! Right?”

“Yes,” Blackthorne said weakly.

“When I heard we were carrying a pilot back with us, good says I. It’s years since I had the pleasure of talking to a real pilot. Come aboard. How did you sneak past Malacca? How did you avoid our Indian Ocean patrols, eh? Whose rutter did you steal?”

“Where are you taking me?”

“Osaka. The Great Lord High Executioner himself wants to see you.”

Blackthorne felt his panic returning. “Who?”

“Toranaga! Lord of the Eight Provinces, wherever the hell they are! The chief daimyo of Japan—a daimyo’s like a king or feudal lord but better. They’re all despots.”

“What’s he want with me?”

“I don’t know but that’s why we’re here, and if Toranaga wants to see you, Pilot, he’ll see you. They say he’s got a million of these slant-eyed fanatics who’ll die for the honor of wiping his arse if that’s his pleasure! ‘Toranaga wants you to bring back the pilot, Vasco,’ his interpreter said. ‘Bring back the pilot and the ship’s cargo. Take old Toda Hiro-matsu there to examine the ship and—’ Oh yes, Pilot, it’s all confiscated, so I hear, your ship, and everything in it!”

“Confiscated?”

“It may be a rumor. Jappers sometimes confiscate things with one hand, give ’em back with the other—or pretend they’ve never given the order. It’s hard to understand the poxy little bastards!”

Blackthorne felt the cold eyes of the Japanese boring into him and he tried to hide his fear. Rodrigues followed his glance. “Yes, they’re getting restless. Time enough to talk. Come aboard.” He turned but Blackthorne stopped him.

“What about my friends, my crew?”

“Eh?”

Blackthorne told him briefly about the pit. Rodrigues questioned Omi in pidgin Japanese. “He says they’ll be all right. Listen, there’s nothing you or me can do now. You’ll have to wait—you can never tell with a Jappo. They’re six-faced and three-hearted.” Rodrigues bowed like a European courtier to Hiro-matsu. “This is the way we do it in Japan. Like we’re at the court of Fornicating Philip II, God take that Spaniard to an early grave.” He led the way on deck. To Blackthorne’s astonishment there were no chains and no slaves.

“What’s the matter? You sick?” Rodrigues asked.

“No. I thought this was a slaver.”

“They don’t have ’em in Japan. Not even in their mines. Lunatic, but there you are. You’ve never seen such lunatics and I’ve traveled the world three times. We’ve samurai rowers. They’re soldiers, the old bugger’s personal soldiers—and you’ve never seen slaves row better, or men fight better.” Rodrigues laughed. “They put their arses into the oars and I push ’em just to watch the buggers bleed. They never quit. We came all the way from Osaka—three-hundred-odd sea miles in forty hours. Come below. We’ll cast off shortly. You sure you’re all right?”

“Yes. Yes, I think so.” Blackthorne was looking at Erasmus. She was moored a hundred yards away. “Pilot, there’s no chance of going aboard, is there? They haven’t let me back aboard, I’ve no clothes and they sealed her up the moment we arrived. Please?”

Rodrigues scrutinized the ship.

“When did you lose the foremast?”

“Just before we made landfall here.”

“There a spare still aboard?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s her home port?”

“Rotterdam.”

“She was built there?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve been there. Bad shoals but a piss-cutter of a harbor. She’s got good lines, your ship. New—haven’t seen one of her class before. Madonna, she’d be fast, very fast. Very rough to deal with.” Rodrigues looked at him. “Can you get your gear quickly?” He turned over the half-hour glass sand timer that was beside the hourglass, both attached to the binnacle.

“Yes.” Blackthorne tried to keep his growing hope off his face.

“There’d be a condition, Pilot. No weapons, up your sleeve or anywhere. Your word as a pilot. I’ve told the monkeys I’d be responsible for you.”