“Stop here, or you’ll run aground,” the harbor patrol officer called when they reached a point some distance from the city.

The crew dropped anchor. From the beach, small ferryboats rowed out to carry passengers and baggage ashore. Sano moved astern, where the sailors raised and turned the rudder so it formed a gangplank. He was not only the shōgun’s sōsakan-sama, but also Chamberlain Yanagisawa’s designated Nagasaki inspector. Despite the ignominious circumstances of his arrival, didn’t he have a tacit charge to locate the missing trader? Sano experienced a not unpleasant thrill of danger. As he climbed over the railing and walked down the wet, slanting rudder, the old fascination tugged. He looked toward the middle of Nagasaki’s crescent, and saw the subject of many of the scrolls he’d eagerly perused as a boy.

“Deshima,” he said to Hirata as they settled into a ferry.

Deshima: the fan-shaped island, some three hundred paces long, whose inner curve faced the Nagasaki shore; where the Dutch East India Company officials lived like prisoners in a heavily guarded compound. From the water surrounding the island’s rocky foundation rose tall poles bearing placards that read, ABSOLUTELY NO BOATS PAST THIS POINT! A high wooden fence, topped with sharp spikes, enclosed the compound. Sano craned his neck, but saw only thatched roofs and pine trees within. He could see nothing of the barbarians who had captured his youthful imagination, but his disillusionment with his own country only intensified his desire to know about the outside world.

The ferry bobbed over the waves, then glided up on the beach. Sano climbed out and saw troops fanning toward the city and hills in search parties. Commanders barked orders. One, arms waving wildly, berated a group of kneeling samurai.

Behind Sano, the captain laughed nastily. “The Deshima guards. They should be executed for letting the barbarian escape.”

One guard, apparently wanting to avoid this fate, drew his sword. With a blood-chilling yell, he plunged it into his belly. Hirata gasped. Sano looked away, shaken.

“Welcome!” Through the crowd, a black-robed official hurried toward them. Porters, guards, and palanquins followed. Bowing deeply, he said, “A thousand pardons for this inconvenience. We’ll take you to the governor now.”

Through the windows of his palanquin, Sano watched the sights of Nagasaki move past. He rode like a visiting dignitary, with Hirata and the captain in palanquins behind him, while their Nagasaki escorts walked ahead to clear the way. Sano might almost believe he wasn’t a prisoner of the captain, who would soon transfer him to the governor’s custody and deliver Chamberlain Yanagisawa’s orders concerning him.