A band of headstrong Englishmen vowed to have their revenge, but Jourdain chose a wiser course of action, appealing to the local
pangeran
, or governor. The Dutch had no wish to anger the governor and promptly released Hunt, but they saw fit to write an insulting letter to Jourdain. The English chief factor was so incensed that he vowed to inflict reprisals on them, but was thwarted by Keeling’s unexpected arrival.
Keeling soon proved himself to be altogether more accommodating than Jourdain. When he heard about the behavior of the Dutch, he brushed it aside and said he was “willing to wincke at it.” This was probably because he had learned of the imminent arrival of the intrepid Dutch adventurer Joris van Spilbergen, who was midway through his circumnavigation of the globe. Keeling was anxious to chat with Spilbergen about his adventures and had no wish to antagonize the Dutch. Far from criticizing their unruly men, he welcomed Spilbergen to Bantam with a blast of cannon-fire.
Spilbergen was enchanted at being received with such honor and dressed in his finery to meet the English captain. “He came like a generall,” wrote Keeling, “in a Japan[ese] boate, finely built, all her ports full of silke streamers.” How this boat came to be in Bantam is unclear, but it made for an impressive sight. It was rowed by no fewer than forty Japanese oarsmen, “all well clad and duly armed,” and as Spilbergen approached the
Red Dragon
, the
thick tropical air was filled with the “noise of trumpetts and other musique.”
The Dutch captain proved a most agreeable guest. He told Keeling that he had a deep affection for the English, and Keeling responded by showering Spilbergen with flattery. He listened attentively to the Dutch captain’s account of his adventures off the coast of Chile, where he had managed to sink three Spanish galleons, and was so entranced with Spilbergen’s tales that he invited him on board on several other occasions, preparing lavish dinners in his honor.
Jourdain was utterly perplexed by Keeling’s behavior, particularly since the attacks on his men had intensified. Several English sailors were set upon by sword-wielding Dutchmen in a Bantam hostelry, while three other Englishmen were slashed and stabbed “in such a manner as that all men had thought they had beene slaine.” Their wounds were washed and dressed, but they were “so sore wounded that they will never be their owne men againe.” The Dutch had also been doing everything in their power to turn the local chieftains against the English, informing them that Jourdain’s men came from “a poore and base nation, [and were] deflowrers of women [and] great theeves and drunckards.”
Keeling was still prepared to “wincke” at this, but realized that his dinner invitations to the Dutch were drawing considerable criticism. When he was invited to a banquet at the Dutch factory, the English commander had no option but to decline. He expressed his regret that circumstances prevented his acceptance, informing Spilbergen that he was “kept from their howse by the extreame wronges done our nation.”
With his socializing at an end, Keeling now turned his attentions to finding a solution to the crisis in which the English factory found itself. He managed to procure a lading of pepper for the aptly named
Peppercorn
and secured a license from the local governor to fortify the English factory against further Dutch attacks. But he was unsure how to save the place from financial
ruin. In a damning report that he prepared for the London directors, he placed the blame squarely on their own shoulders. “God send some supplies speedie,” he wrote, “or else your business lies a-bleeding in all these parts for want of your foresight.” He added that “all your servants [are] utterlie disheartened for lacke of foundation to endeavour the building your proffitt.”
Keeling’s original instructions had been to explore the extent of the crisis throughout the East. He was to “pass from port to port” in order to meet the factors and hear their grievances. He had already read letters from factors serving elsewhere in the Indies and had listened to tales of woe from men recently returned from some of the remoter outposts. The factory at Hirado was the farthest from Bantam and seemed to be in a similarly parlous state. Indeed, Keeling had already concluded that there was “no likelihood of money from Japan,” at least in the short term. Yet there was a glimmer of hope. Although Cocks and his men minced no words when they wrote about their increasingly desperate situation, they continued to stress the potential riches of their new home. Wickham was most ebullient, claiming that Hirado would one day be able to export “so greate quantities of silver” that it could “stuffe all the factories betweane this and Bantam.” He added that every factory in the East could “wholly depend upon this factory” and that “there never should be any more need to send any more money out of England.”
Keeling fully intended to see for himself. He planned to visit each of the farthest-flung factories and offer advice on how best to proceed. But no sooner had he decided on this course of action than he received a most unexpected, although wholly welcome, piece of news. The captain of the newly arrived
Swan
handed him a letter from the London directors in which he was given “licence for my retourne for England.” For reasons that remain obscure—and which Keeling himself never quite understood—they had decided to call off his mission to the East. Keeling could scarcely
believe his good fortune and sank to his knees in prayer: “Thy mercy therein, O Lord, let me never forgett.”
His little fleet weighed anchor in October 1616, and Keeling set sail for England in the hope of being reunited with his dear wife. It was an atrocious voyage, for the ships were leaking and supplies running low. The
Expedition
was overrun by rats, which multiplied at an alarming rate in the dingy hold of the ship. “It is almost incredible,” wrote one, “the noisomness of that vermin, who have been ready to eate us living.” They nibbled at the mariners in their sleep, and men who died in the night “had their toes eate quite off, and other parts of their bodies gnawen.”
As the ships neared London, Keeling’s thoughts turned to his wife. As he dropped anchor close to the South Downs, he saw the sight that he had dreamed of for so long. There was a small figure waving at his vessel—it was his beloved Anna. Whether or not she was holding a baby is not, alas, recorded.
William Keeling’s hasty departure from Bantam was a bitter blow for England’s trading prospects with the East. It also meant that the condition of the poorest and most desperate trading posts went unreported. Keeling had offered the best chance of replenishing the empty coffers of the Hirado factory. Now Cocks and his men were once again left to fend for themselves.
The autumn and winter of 1615 had proved a particularly testing time, for William Adams had been absent on a voyage to court for many months. He claimed to have received a personal summons from Ieyasu, but Cocks had his doubts. Cocks’s judgment was clouded by the fear of being left alone in Hirado and—once again—he accused Adams of double-dealing and treachery. “I suspect it was a plot laid … by Captain Adams himselfe and the Dutch,” he confessed to his diary, “ … and, truly, I esteem he loveth them much more than us that are his owne nation.” But
Adams’s “plot” was no such thing. He had indeed been called to court by the shogun, who had turned to his English adviser when he learned that a Spanish ship had arrived in Japan. She was carrying three ambassadors—Franciscan monks—whose visit contravened his anti-Christian edict. Ieyasu refused to see them and gave Adams the pleasure of expelling them from his realm. “The emperour would neither receive the presents nor yet speake with them,” wrote a contrite Cocks, “but sent captain Adams to tell them they should avoid out of his dominions.”
Adams returned to Hirado at the end of November 1615, but his visit was extremely brief. Less than ten days after being welcomed back, he set sail on an eight-month voyage to Siam to procure a cargo of sappanwood. Cocks reluctantly let him go. He knew that Adams was the only member of the factory with the skill to pilot a ship across the East China Sea, but his absence meant that the English factory was once again left without its most important member. It also meant that Cocks would have no one to turn to for help in moments of crisis.
The freezing weather only added to the men’s woes. Snow had fallen with wearisome monotony, and the temperature remained far below zero for many weeks. Icicles hung from the eaves of the factory buildings, and deep drifts blocked the paved streets of Hirado. All of the men complained of the chill, for the factory’s wood-fired stove gave out very little heat. They hoped that the new year would bring ships, supplies, and prosperity.
On New Year’s Eve 1615, Cocks’s barber had turned up at the factory with a basketful of oranges. He had brought them so that the men could adorn the entrance to their living quarters, for it was an ancient custom “to decorate the front door with certain kinds of tree, which signify good fortune and longevity … and also with bitter oranges.” As dusk fell over Hirado, the townsfolk thronged the streets and prepared to celebrate long into the night. Cocks and his men were invited to raucous parties and religious feasts and they spent many hours enjoying the good-humored festivities.
“All make merry,” wrote Padre João Rodrigues, “and hold certain ceremonies with lighted lamps in honour of the god or spirit of the hearth, and other spirits and lares.” Hirado’s inhabitants also exchanged gifts—a custom to which Cocks and company found themselves unwilling participants. Their womenfolk expected costly presents, and the men had little option but to oblige. Cocks bought Matinga bundles of satin and taffeta and provided her servants with a few reels of Indian cloth.
The chill came to an end in January and the snow and ice rapidly melted. Cocks hoped that spring would bring the arrival of a vessel from England and, aware of the damage that a long sea voyage could cause, he began to buy timber planking for repairs. When he learned that there was a large supply of wood for sale in Akuno-ura, a small coastal village to the south of Hirado, he dispatched William Eaton with orders to buy up as much as possible.
Eaton set off immediately, but when he arrived at the timber yard he found himself hampered by local merchants. He quickly lost his temper and so infuriated one of the timber workers that he hit Eaton with his staff. Eaton responded vigorously, smashing the man over the head with his wooden stick. “[I] broake a little parte of his head,” he admitted, “which fett[ched] blood.”
The man staggered for a moment as he reeled from the blow, then recovered his balance. Stunned by the attack and intent on revenge, he lifted his club and prepared to strike, at which point Eaton unsheathed his sword and dagger. The two men now began to tussle with their weapons, each intent on incapacitating the other. “With the force of the blowes,” wrote Eaton, “both he and myselfe fell into the water.” This did nothing to dampen their enthusiasm for the fight, and the two men thrashed and flailed in the surf. When Eaton’s interpreter realized that his master was in peril, he rushed to his aid, plunging into the water and joining the attack. He grabbed the Japanese assailant and “strooke him upon the head with a staff he had in his hand.” Eaton now had the advantage, and it was only a matter of time before he delivered the
fatal blow. He seized his chance when his opponent slipped in the soft sand and fell backward into the water. Eaton reached for his dagger and plunged it into the man’s body. It pierced his vital organs and within seconds the man was dead.
Eaton suddenly found himself under arrest. The fight had been witnessed by dozens of villagers, who seized him and held him prisoner while the matter was referred to the local lord. When news of the affray reached Hirado, Nealson rushed to Akuno-ura in order to help his friend, but the villagers refused to listen to his appeals. Eaton’s problems were compounded by the fact that William Adams was not available to help him gain his freedom. He was en route to Siam, and Eaton grew so terrified about his fate that he quite lost his appetite. “I have scarse eaten a bit of meate for very grief,” he wrote. Imprisoned and in danger, he fell into deep despair.
But there was a ray of hope. The villagers had killed Eaton’s interpreter, which had helped to assuage their fury, while Cocks had written to the local lord demanding clemency. He informed his lordship that under the terms of the English privileges granted by Ieyasu, he alone had jurisdiction over the English in Japan. He added that the lord would be breaking the shogun’s command if he put Eaton to death. Cocks’s letter secured Eaton’s release. The lord declared that he was untroubled by the death of one of his subjects and had no wish to contradict Ieyasu’s orders. Eaton was freed after a frightening fortnight in prison.
Cocks soon found himself in receipt of further good news. Two ships had been sighted off the Hirado coastline, and they proved to be the
Thomas
from Bantam and the
Advice
from London. The second vessel had been sent on the advice of Captain Saris—along with the
Attendant
, which had remained in the East Indies—and the men had high hopes that the cargo would be perfect for the Japanese market.
But they were quickly disappointed when they broke open the
crates. There were no silks, the broadcloth was the wrong color, and the rest of the cargo was little more than bric-a-brac. As Cocks rummaged through the rubbish, he was most surprised to discover a “lascivious” print of Venus and Adonis, and another of “Venus sleeping with two satyrs.” The merchants, it seemed, had forgotten their earlier outrage at Saris’s pornographic collection.
Cocks despaired as he unpacked crate after crate of jetsam. Stunned at the choice of cargo, he wrote a letter to London in which he informed the merchants that they needed to send “better commodities than yet we have had out of England.” Wickham was rather less diplomatic. He was disgusted by the cargo and wrote that “[even] if we were learned alchimists, we could not so soone turne mettals into silver.” The men were still wondering how to dispose of yet another supply of unwanted goods when they were interrupted by unexpected and unwelcome news from the court in Shizuoka. Ieyasu was ill, and no one knew if he would recover.