Dispensing water to other troops, he moved down the promenade, but didn’t see how he could sneak past the Deshima guards. His buckets were quickly emptying; soon he would have to go back to the well. Farther along the coast, past the buildings and docks, the shoreline was rocky and wooded. From there, he might sneak into the water. But he could never swim all the way to Deshima with his wounded shoulder, burns, and cumbersome gear. The watchboat sentries would spot him before he even got close. He had to find another way.

Then Sano saw a watchboat leave its post. The two-man crew rowed to the harbor patrol station and disembarked at the pier. A new crew took its place in the boat, rowed back to Deshima, and resumed the watch. Sano hurried onto the pier, as if to serve water to troops there. They were watching another boat approach and didn’t notice him. The station shielded him from view of the soldiers on the promenade. Abandoning his buckets and pole, he shimmied down a piling and into the water. Its salty chill stung his burns. Quickly he removed his hat and cloak and stuffed them between the piling and a diagonal support beam. Then he gulped a deep breath, dived beneath the water under the pier, and swam toward another piling near where the boat would arrive.

The water was so murky he could barely see. Debris floated past him. His gear and clothing hampered his movements. Kicking and stroking strained his burned limbs and sore shoulder. His lungs demanded air. Just when he thought his chest would explode, his fingers touched slimy, algae-covered wood. He grabbed the piling and cautiously raised his head above water, trying to quiet his gasps.

The watchboat drew up parallel to the pier, almost within touching distance, the oarsman standing in the stern, his partner sitting behind the pointed prow that arched up from the water. Both wore arquebuses. Shivering, Sano watched the crew secure the boat, heard them greet the shore troops who helped them onto the pier. The replacement crew stepped aboard. Quickly Sano plunged underwater and swam under the boat. The dipping oar nearly hit him. The bow turned toward Deshima, and the boat’s curved bottom began moving away. Still underwater, Sano rolled onto his back; kicking hard, he caught up with the boat and aligned himself along its length. He desperately craved air; he was drowning. The boat was moving too fast. Determination spurred him on. He grasped the prow and pulled himself up until his face just cleared the surface. The sea sucked at him as the boat picked up speed. Spitting water, he hung on, his nails digging into the rough wood.

“Something just hit the boat,” Sano heard the man nearest him say.

The oar continued splashing. “Probably just trash,” the other man said. “Harbor’s filthy. Yesterday I saw four broken barrels, a dead dog, an old fishing net …”