It quickly became apparent that the arrival of such a richly laden ship was arousing jealousy and greed. The Japanese governor of Nagasaki sent armed guards to inspect the cargo—as was his right—but the captain of the vessel haughtily refused to allow them aboard. The governor was infuriated and announced that he was coming aboard in person. But he, too, was denied permission. His outrage quickly turned to fury when he learned the captain’s identity. André Pessoa, former governor of Macao, had made himself extremely unpopular by his actions in that colony just a few months earlier. A band of Japanese sailors had gone on the rampage, and Pessoa had responded by storming their lodgings and killing a large number of them. Those who were captured alive were forced to sign an affidavit declaring their responsibility for the bloodshed. Once they had been released, they made their way back to Japan with tales of woe and suffering.
News of Captain Pessoa’s behavior in Macao had quickly reached Ieyasu, whose initial reaction had been to fine the Portuguese for their actions. But when he heard that Pessoa had also slighted Nagasaki’s governor, he settled on a more extreme policy, deciding “to kill the captain with all the Portuguese, and to seize the ship with all its cargo.” Captain Pessoa was summoned to attend Ieyasu at his court, with the assurance that he was to receive
a full pardon for his role in the Japanese deaths. Sensing treachery, he wisely refused to go ashore, preferring the safety of his heavily armed vessel. Ieyasu was so infuriated by such disobedience that he ordered the local lord, Arima Harunobu, to seize the captain-major and his vessel.
Arima relished the task, for some of his men had been involved in the Macao debacle and he was thirsting for revenge. He assembled a band of some 1,200 samurai warriors and, in the first week of January 1610, prepared for a nocturnal assault. The samurai rowed across Nagasaki Bay in thirty boats and were so confident of success that they screamed insults at Pessoa and blasted their muskets into the night sky. Pessoa held his fire until they were dangerously close, then shot two successive broadsides that smashed through the flotilla, causing carnage. To add insult to injury, “each shot was accompanied by a concert of flutes [trumpets].”
Arima’s men were forced to retreat and regroup, but although they repeatedly rowed out into the bay, they found it impossible to get near the
Nossa Senhora de Graça
. For three nights in succession they were beaten off by Pessoa’s great guns. On January 6, the Portuguese captain succeeded in edging his carrack out of the harbor and toward the safety of the open sea. Arima now grew desperate and launched one final attempt on the Portuguese vessel. To enable his men to board the craft, he constructed a wooden tower “which was carried by two big boats.” It was the same height as the Portuguese ship’s mastheads and was covered in wet hides as a protection against fire. Arima also hired an extra 1,800 mercenaries—samurai—to swing the odds of success firmly in his favor. The attack began at about nine o’clock at night and met with far greater success than the previous attempts. A few of the boldest Japanese fighters even managed to board the carrack, but before they could wield their great curved swords, they were cut to pieces by the Portuguese defenders. Pessoa himself killed two Japanese samurai with his own hands.
The sailors on board were jubilant and were already proclaiming victory when events took a most unexpected turn. A chance musket shot, fired by one of the samurai, struck a grenade that one of Pessoa’s defenders was about to hurl at the Japanese. The burning shrapnel set fire to gunpowder on deck, and the mizzen sail suddenly burst into flames. Within seconds, the entire upper works of the ship were ablaze. Pessoa immediately realized that all was lost and that the great ship was doomed. High on excitement and half deranged by the heat, he now decided on a spectacular finale. “With an intrepid heart, [he] put down his sword and shield in a cabin without saying another word and, taking a crucifix in one hand and a firebrand in another, he went below and set fire to the powder magazine.” The resulting explosion was immediate and catastrophic. The
Nossa Senhora de Graça
rose slightly in the water, split in two in a wall of flame and sank in thirty-two fathoms of water. Of Pessoa himself, nothing whatsoever remained.
Ieyasu was furious when he learned what had happened. He threatened to kill every Portuguese trader in Nagasaki and exile every Jesuit in the land. In the event, wiser counsel prevailed and Ieyasu retracted his threats. But he refused to recant on one expulsion. Padre João Rodrigues, his onetime court interpreter, was told to pack his belongings and leave. He was simply not needed anymore, for Ieyasu had a new interpreter—William Adams—who was more agreeable company.
The sinking of the
Nossa Senhora de Graça
dealt a severe blow to the prestige of the Jesuits. They lost some 30,000 cruzados, leaving them “in the most miserable condition that can be imagined.” It was a setback, too, for the Portuguese merchants, who lost an entire year’s revenue because of the sinking of the vessel. Their difficulties were compounded when they discovered that two Dutch vessels had recently made landfall at the little island of Hirado, just a few hours’ sailing from Nagasaki. One of these ships was carrying an industrious merchant called Jacques Specx, an employee of the Dutch East India Company who had been given
the unenviable task of establishing a “factory,” or trading base, in Japan.
The merchants and burghers of Rotterdam had long toyed with the idea of sending traders to Japan. News of the
Liefde
’s extraordinary voyage had reached them more than eight years earlier, when it was carried home by the Dutch adventurer Oliver van Noort. He had encountered some Japanese traders in the East Indies who told him that “a great Holland ship, by tempests shaken … [had] put in at Japan.” This had intrigued the Dutch merchants, but they were far too preoccupied in trying to establish themselves elsewhere in the East. The nearest Dutch outpost to Japan was in Pattani, on the Malay Peninsula, where the factors were led by the lethargic Victor Sprinckel. He had shown little interest in attempting to cross the East China Sea and even less enthusiasm in going to the aid of his erstwhile compatriots. When, in 1605, two of the
Liefde
’s crew had made contact with Sprinckel, he had resisted their calls to open trading links with Japan. Instead, he berated the men for allowing William Adams, the
Liefde
’s sole surviving Englishman, to become Ieyasu’s most trusted confidant.
Jacques Specx was a more dynamic individual than Sprinckel, yet he quickly realized the difficulties of his mission. He had just three assistants, none of whom spoke the language and all of whom knew almost nothing about Japan. But when, with Adams’s help, he approached Ieyasu to beg for trade privileges, he was given a warm welcome. Ieyasu immediately expressed his desire for trade and wrote an enthusiastic letter to Prince Maurice, “lord of Holland,” to tell him of his delight at the prospect of Dutchmen visiting his land. “If countries are alike animated,” he mused, “what objection is there to annual visits, although they are separated by a thousand, nay ten thousand, leagues of sea and land?”
Ieyasu’s enthusiasm met with a cool response in the Netherlands. The merchants could not spare any vessels to send to Japan, and Specx spent long hours staring forlornly at the horizon in the
hope of sighting a friendly sail. Fearful that Ieyasu would rescind his trade privileges, he made contact with Adams and asked for help in procuring a second audience with the shogun. “Because this Mr Adams had introduced himself so well to the monarch,” records a contemporary Dutch journal, “there was neither lord nor prince in this country who was in a better position.”
The two men headed for the court in February 1611 and, on arrival, met with Ieyasu’s president of the council, as well as dozens of other courtly officials. Adams offered Specx advice on how the Dutchman should behave and Specx followed it to the letter. “We tried to answer in the Japanese manner,” wrote a bemused Specx, “which meant exchanging lots of compliments.” As noon approached, the hour for the audience with Ieyasu drew near. The door was opened by an elaborately dressed courtier. Specx was called into the presence chamber and ordered to leave his gifts of carpets and tusks on a little display table. He was then ushered before Ieyasu to pay his respects. “Once we had saluted the emperor,” records the Dutch journal, “he asked us how many soldiers we had on the Moluccas; if we were trading in Borneo; if it was true that it was from there that one found the best camphor?” Next, Ieyasu quizzed Specx about products found in northern Europe and asked “which scented wood we had in our country and which ones we valued most.” Adams translated the Dutchman’s answers, to Ieyasu’s evident delight, for Specx was later told that the shogun was not accustomed “to speak in such familiar tones to anybody, not even to the great lords of the country.”
The meeting had only just come to an end when Adams found himself called back into the chamber for a private audience. Ieyasu, with all the Dutch gifts laid out before him, “had looked at all the cloth, the trinkets, the velvets and the guns, one after the other, and said: ‘When the Dutch ships will come, will they bring lots of curiosities and beautiful merchandises?’” Adams assured Ieyasu that this would be the case, “promising his majesty that the
vessels which would come from Holland would bring several beautiful things. The emperor answered, ‘Yes, yes, I can see that the Dutch are masters in the manufacturing trades as well as in the war.’”
Adams’s role as intermediary won the Dutch their renewed trading rights. “The Hollanders be now settled,” he wrote, “and I have got them that [trading] privilledge as the Spaniard and Portuguese could never get in this fifty or sixty yeers in Japan.” He was in the process of relaying this information back to Specx when he was brought the disconcerting news that a large Spanish embassy had arrived at court in order to request the immediate expulsion of the Dutch from Japan—something that neither Adams nor Specx had foreseen. The embassy was headed by Sebastian Vizciano, the ambassador from New Spain, who presented himself with all possible pomp. He was dressed in the finest robes, including “a doublet, a jacket, breeches, a ruff, a cape [and] a plumed cap with fine gold trimmings.” On his feet were white shoes with dainty buttons and to complete the effect he wore a golden sword and dagger. He brought with him a retinue of twenty-four musketeers who blasted their guns with such relish “that they used up a barrel of gunpowder in the hour.”
Vizciano’s mission was not simply to expel the Dutch from Japan; he also came with a series of other demands, the principal of which was to ask permission to map the island coastline. Ieyasu granted this request with his customary good grace, but soon found himself insulted by Vizciano’s overweening hubris. The Spaniard refused to prostrate himself in front of Ieyasu—on the grounds that the Spanish monarch was the greatest ruler on earth—and he demanded that Spanish friars be granted free admission to Japan. Ieyasu had hitherto remained calm, but now his anger began to show. “The doctrine followed in your country differs entirely from ours,” he said, “ … it is best, therefore, to put an end to the preaching of your doctrine on our soil.”
Vizciano was outraged and now made his demand that the
Dutch—together with Adams—be expelled from Japanese shores. This proved too much for Ieyasu, who was shocked by Vizciano’s arrogance. He informed the Spaniard that even the “devils of hell” would be treated like “angels from heaven” so long as they obeyed Japanese law. He further warned Vizciano that “the lands of His Majesty, being open to all foreigners, none ought to be excluded from them.”
Specx and Adams were delighted when they learned of Captain Vizciano’s offensive behavior. He had openly bragged that the king of Spain “did not care about trade with Japan” and told one Japanese lord that the Spanish king’s only desire was to save the pagan Japanese from the eternal fires of hell. “His Christian majesty,” he said, “[had] a pious desire that all nations should be taught the Holy Catholic Faith and thus be saved.” Ieyasu was disgusted by Vizciano’s arrogance and returned his presents, “as he was custom to do with foreigners when he did not want to gratify their demands.” He had never before experienced such a raw display of pride and expressed deep misgivings about allowing the Spaniard to map Japan’s fractured coastline.
When Ieyasu turned to Adams for advice, the Englishman’s reply was carefully calculated to cause maximum damage to the Spanish cause. He said that the king of Spain’s goal was to conquer the whole world and that in pursuit of this policy he had a cunning plan: he sent friars and Jesuits into the lands he hoped to conquer, in order to convert as many people as possible. When his troops later arrived in force, they found it easy to establish a beachhead from which to attack. Adams told Ieyasu that no English ruler would ever have agreed to such a petition, since it was clear that the Spanish were interested only in finding a suitable landfall for their invading troops.
Soon after the visit of Sebastian Vizciano, Adams’s thoughts turned once again to England. He feared that information about his survival had still not reached London and that his family and friends had received “no certen newes, as I thinke … [of]
whether I be dead or livinge.” He was desperate to inform them that he was still alive and “doe pray and entreat, in the name of Jesus Christ, to doe so much as to make my being here in Japan knowen to my poor wife.” But his problem was that he could never be sure that his letters had actually reached England. The few Dutch vessels that called at Japan took several years to reach home, and there was no guarantee that those on board would forward his correspondence.
What Adams did not realize was that the Dutch had been deliberately withholding the letters he had written. Selfish, ruthless, and thoroughly deceitful, these hard-nosed traders would do anything to deny the English information about Japan. They had even managed to keep Adams in ignorance of the fact that English ships had been sailing to the East Indies for almost a decade and that a small band of adventurers had established a permanent base in Java as long ago as 1603. Throughout Adams’s long years in Japan, he had been separated from his compatriots by a journey of less than two months.