Gai-Jin by James Clavell
“Thank you, sir.” Struan shook hands, finding the Admiral’s grip firm but his palm soft. “And on the other?”
“On the other it seems you are going to have your work cut out to keep your promises.”
“Sir?”
“You seem to have stirred up a snake pit of venom amongst your fellows. Sir William is besieged with complaints.”
“As I said, I’ll do my best.”
“You must do more than that, Mr. Struan.”
“Sorry, but what does that mean, Admiral?”
“It means nothing more or less than what you’ve already promised to do.”
In the small silence, Struan decided not to be overpowered, or crushed, or to lose sight of the fact that this man had made his marriage possible-no, not possible, he corrected himself, had “allowed” it to be possible. John Marlowe had had the balls to take the initiative. “Captain Marlowe’s not in any trouble, is he?”
“Captain Marlowe is subject to Naval Regulations.”
“Yes, naturally, but I believe he married us within Naval Regulations, sir. I read the paragraph meticulously beforehand, and there was no age limit or mention of ages.”
“Regulations also state that any such marriage is subject to immediate review if feasible. In this case it is.”
“So I’m married but not, is that what you are saying?”
“I merely point out, Mr. Struan, as in all matters in the Navy, unusual happenings are subject to review.”
Struan forced a smile. “Correctly so. My …” He almost used “reading,” but judiciously changed the word. “My understanding of the order, sir, gave him permission.”
Ketterer raised an eyebrow. “Captain Marlowe showed you a sealed order from me to him?”
“As I understood it, sir, the order gave him a qualified permission, sir—I confess I went out of my way to ask for the exact wording, and to persuade him that was the case.”
“I rather thought you would,” the Admiral said dryly.
“Then it was a qualified permission?”
“My order was stated clearly: If you should ask a peculiar favor, he might grant it if he wished. Last night, didn’t you mention something about wanting to go out of sight of land? Your peculiar request might have been only that—his orders were to do his trials within sight of the flagship.”
Struan was trying hard to keep his balance, feeling the coals of disaster beneath him. “Yes, sir. Yes, you might have thought that. If there was any misunderstanding it was mine, not Captain Marlowe’s.”
“I’ll note that, Mr. Struan.”
Malcolm had been watching the older man carefully and listening even more carefully, wanting to discern where the Admiral was heading, now afraid that this was a continuation of the cat-and-mouse game. Am I again in his claws—and will never be out of them?
“May I ask, Admiral, why you gave Captain Marlowe even a perhaps qualified permission that certainly I may have misconstrued?” Struan kept his face clear, not forgetting he was married until the ceremony was declared illegal. “I never thought you would, last night.”
In the night Ketterer had been beset with Consuela. “Give the young senhor a chance, Charles,” she had said with that lovely, liquid accent, as sensual in memory as the depth of her brown eyes in life. “We were never given one, why not give him one—remember you were not much older than him. You have from him a giant step forward, surely he will keep his promise. Why not be generous—as our parents and your foul Admiralty were not? He is so much in love, Charles, like you were, but unlike you, the young senhor has already been dealt a cruel hand at the whim of God …”
He had awakened, her words sounding in his ears, the way she pronounced his name still tugging at his heart after all the years. But this isn’t the same, he had thought, hardening his heart. The Struans are opium smugglers and gunrunners—I will not forget my dead sailors. Sorry, my long lost love, the marriage will be declared illegal immediately—Struan will not be allowed off the hook. Duty is duty.
Now, looking at Struan, remembering the way he had hobbled in, determined to appear strong when Hoag and Babcott had both confirmed privately the youth was almost constantly in pain, doubting if he would ever run, or ride comfortably again, remembering, Unlike you … at the whim of God.
He sighed. “A sudden whim, Mr. Struan,” he said, deciding to be lenient, “coupled with a belief that you will perform as promised.” He got up, her smile etched on the back of his eyes, and went to the sideboard feeling curiously young. “Sherry?”
“Thank you.” Struan started to stand, and wavered, weak with relief at Ketterer’s admission.
“I’ll bring it. Tio Pepe? Good. Health!” They touched glasses. Ketterer took a large swallow.
“Listen, young man,” he said, his voice unusually quiet and kind, “I shall, of course, consult Sir William and will prevail on him to read Naval Regs. More than likely Captain Marlowe’s report will be accepted, after due consideration—we must make sure our officers are always aware of the consequences of independent action, but he will not be ‘in trouble’ as you put it. This is to be another secret between us. Understood?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you. I will do what I promised.” Struan took a deep breath. “Then my marriage is legal?”
“That depends on your point of view. As far as I am concerned, the Navy is concerned, that is my belief, therefore it should be in common law. As far as your two Churches are concerned, and the inevitable legal broadsides you will have to endure, I suggest you both batten down your hatches and prepare for the worst. Again congratulations, on the one hand. My compliments to Mrs. Struan—privately, of course.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
By sunset, the news had spread throughout the Settlement, Drunk Town and the Yoshiwara.
Speculation had been immediate, noisy, and argumentative as theories were put forth for and against such a marriage, some predicting the ceremony was totally illegal, others angrily denying it, many of the more quarrel some traders—and all Drunk Towners—using foul language, obscene gestures, and bunched fists to support their positions, while a few of the wiser said: “Ah, the canny young bugger, so that’s why he sucked up to the Admiral! It was a deal! Clever—I’d do the same if I were Struan. Now that he’s got her will he still be anti-opium, anti-armaments? No way …”
With the new topics, several fights began in Drunk Town and a bar burned down. Father Leo was rumored to have had apoplexy and was now prostrate in front of his altar. Reverend Tweet, at this very moment, was supposed to be raving at Sir William, and in the Club, Lunkchurch and Grimm, inevitably on opposing sides, had begun to battle and, as usual, were tossed into the street.
Malcolm and Angelique were in the cabin of their launch. Ahead was their jetty and, holding hands, they saw a boisterous group of well-wishers that had gathered there, headed by Jamie McFay. The promised bad weather had not materialized, with only a sprinkle late afternoon. The wind was still up, sky overcast, but this did not dampen the welcoming uproar.
“Here we go, Mrs. Struan,” Malcolm said, and hugged her. She kissed him, whispering, “Yes, my darling husband. Oh, Malcolm, that sounds so funny, strange, so marvelous. This isn’t a dream, is it?”
“No, though it feels the same to me.”
The cutter twisted in the chop, throwing them together to more laughter, and swung alongside to cheers and shouts, the neatest docking the Bosun had ever made. “Lively on the ropes, lads,” he ordered, but there was no need as eager hands twisted the towlines to bollards and sailors swarmed to help them.
“Congratulations, Tai-pan, Mrs. Struan,” Jamie shouted amidst cheers that reached the interior of the Club across High Street. At once the room emptied and everyone began to gather, doffing their hats, even Mrs. Lunkchurch and Mrs. Grimm amongst them, equally festive.
Gornt and Norbert Greyforth watched from the upper windows of their building. Outside all houses Chinese servants stood around popeyed, and samurai were collecting at the N
“André, bring her in as soon as possible. Jésus, the stupid gamine should have let us into the secret—it’s your job to control her!” Seratard said with the side of his mouth, enthusiastically waving back as Angelique caught his eye and waved. “Struan must execute a will conforming to the Code Napoléon at once, see to it! Only God knows what dirty tricks William will try, for or against—whatever he says, our position is the marriage is legal, but we must insist it conform to French law! Get Father Leo, he will conduct their proper wedding next week… Mon Dieu, look at those cretins!”
Angelique and Struan were being mobbed. With increasing difficulty they tried to push a way through the crowd, all of whom wanted to kiss the bride, as their right, to be prevented by others, to more uproar.
She began to panic. This heightened the tension of those nearby. The crowd swirled and swamped her, Struan using his sticks to fight to her side as Jamie began shoving through roughly. Someone threw a punch, and an ugly skirmish began. Sir William called out to the marine sentries, “Go and clear a way for them, hurry up, for God’s sake, or they’ll be crushed!” The four men began running. “Phillip, supervise them, and get Struan into my office on the double.”
The Sergeant roared, “Hey, you lot!” and the mob devil that sometimes appeared in a crowd for no apparent reason was gone. Quietly and firmly he began forcing a passage. “Behave yourselves, give the lady room!” He was obeyed as Struan reached her. “Are you all right, Angel?”
“Oh, yes, love.” Now that she had room her panic had gone. She adjusted her hat. The feather had been broken. “Look at that!”
“Here let me help you,” Tyrer said importantly, waving others away. “You, go on, move, you’ve frightened her to death. Are you all right, Angelique? Malcolm?”
“Of course,” Malcolm said. Now that she was safe and he had his sticks, his happiness returned and he shouted, “Thanks for welcoming us! Drinks on the Noble House, the Club bar’s open and stays open until further orders!”
There was a general rush in that direction. Soon only Malcolm, Angelique, McFay and Phillip Tyrer remained. And the sour presence of Michaelmas Tweet: “Mr. Struan, the ceremony is completely not legal and I must warn y—”
“You may be right, Reverend, but I’m advised to the contrary, sir,” Struan said firmly, having already devised a plan for Tweet, another for Father Leo and another for Sir William. “Nonetheless I believe there is a happy solution. Perhaps you would come to my office at noon tomorrow? The House of the Lord will be satisfied, sir, you may rest assured!” Then he whispered to Jamie, “Divert him,” and to the others, “Head for the office, fast as you can.”
They had to run the gauntlet of a few stragglers and then Angelique whispered, “Phillip, hurry!” She ran on ahead with him to avoid Father Leo who was approaching from down the street as fast as his bulk and his cassock would allow. Once in the foyer, with most of the staff lined up there, Vargas in front, Chen smiling glassily, she laughed nervously. “I didn’t want to have to talk to him!”
“Why not?” Phillip was beaming. “You’re married and that’s that—at least Sir William’s been spitting blood since he heard, cursing the Navy, Ketterer, Marlowe—so I imagine you are married, but all I want to say is congrats and may I kiss the bride?” He did not wait and kissed her like a brother. She hugged him and breathed another sigh of relief.
Struan came through the door with McFay. “Lock it,” he ordered. Helped by Vargas, McFay obeyed, politely but firmly shoving the few more persistent traders out and slamming the bolt home as Father Leo strode up, tried the handle, then hammered on the door as though it were a cathedral portal.
But no one paid any attention, all fleeing into the office like a group of mischievous children, where they collapsed into the chairs. All except Malcolm.
“Champagne, Chen. Thank you, Vargas, see you later,” he said over congratulations, and added to Chen, in Cantonese, “Open the wine, little mealymouth.”
Jamie McFay shut the door and sank into the last chair.
“Ayeeyah,” Malcolm said, bubbling like the wine. “I didn’t think it would be like this. Phillip, thanks again for the good wishes, you too, Jamie. Are you all right, Angel?”
“Yes, Mr. Struan, wonderful, thank you.”
Tyrer said, “It’s all marvelous news, Malcolm, and by the way could you see Sir William as soon as possible.”
The way he said it, so tentatively, so matter-of-fact, when they all knew he had been bellowed at, made a sudden silence which broke apart as they all laughed hysterically.
“Tomorrow afternoon, happily,” Malcolm said.
Their glasses were soon full and even more quickly empty and again filled, conversation loud and not listened to. The door eased open. Vargas signalled McFay, then whispered to him.
Jamie nodded. “I’ll be there in a moment. Tai-pan, can you excuse me? And there’s a message for Ang—for Mrs. Struan: Mr. Seratard wants to add his congratulations personally at the Legation, soon as possible and the … the priest would like to see you both a moment.”
“Jamie, first finish your drink. Vargas, send word to Seratard we’ll put him on top of the list, but first tell Father Leo to be here tomorrow at 5:00 P.M., here, in my office.” Vargas vanished. Malcolm saw the shadow on Angelique’s face. “I’ll see him, Angel, you don’t have to, and by Sunday everything will be calm, I promise. Everything’s in control. Soon as it’s dark, we’ll slip back aboard the cutter.”
“Cutter? Why, Malcolm, what on earth for?”
“Another surprise, we’re dining aboard Prancing Cloud and staying the night, then tomorrow there are more surprises, lots and lots, there’s a honeymoon to plan. We’ll leave in an hour and there’s no need for you to change, I had Ah Soh pack some clothes for you and they’re already aboard.” To Jamie, “You have to leave? What’s up?”
“I’d made a date with Gornt and forgot all about it in the excitement. He’s waiting in my anteroom. He asked Vargas to give you both his congratulations, and Norbert’s.”
“Thank him for me, but don’t go for a second.”
“Thank him for me too, Jamie,” Angelique said.
“Of course, Mrs. Struan.” McFay was trying to get used to the sound of the words, finding it difficult and artificial, the two words conjuring up Tess Struan, and nowadays every time he thought of her he became bilious. The moment he had heard about the marriage, the reason for Malcolm’s letter to the Guardian and last night’s announcement had become clear—even the timing of the duel dovetailed neatly.
Married! Oh my God!
The implications for Malcolm were immense. For himself it did not matter now that he had made his peace with Malcolm and with himself. He doubted if he would ever have a peace with Tess Struan. Though she was a fanatic Struan, at the same time she had inherited her father’s vindictiveness, his ruthless need for revenge. He had witnessed it falling on the Bosun in charge of the boat that had capsized, drowning the twins. She had had him charged with murder, demanding hanging. The coroner had found him guilty of negligence, causing manslaughter, and gave him the maximum ten years, hard labor, in the Hong Kong prison, which the man would never survive. Negligent? Not really, McFay and most had thought at the time, the storm sudden, as happens that season of the year, an unhappy accident. But she was Tess Struan of the Noble House. The Bosun’s real mistake, he thought sadly, was that he lived and the children died.
“Angelique,” Struan was saying. “Why don’t you freshen up, I’m going to do the same and we’ll leave within the hour—I’ve just a few things to settle with Jamie.” They kissed and she left. I
“Yes, Master.”
“Good, and you three better be quiet as bats, and contented as pigs in shit like never before!” To Tyrer, he added pleasantly in English, “Phillip, you’ll excuse us, won’t you? Starting tomorrow, there’ll be major celebrations all over, wedding feast and so on with formal invitations. Please give Sir William my compliments, and please don’t mention we’ll be aboard Prancing Cloud tonight to anyone—even to Sir William. I don’t want any drunken rowdies circling us all night, we want to be private, all right?”
“Quite understand, again congratulations.” Tyrer was happy to leave. He still had to see Hiraga to finish another, curt dispatch for Tairō Anjo before he could cross the bridge to Fujiko. After this morning’s council of war between Sir William and Seratard, aided by himself and André, where final details of the forthcoming bombardment and punitive Yedo campaign were agreed, André had whispered: “Fujiko’s panting to see you, it’s all arranged. She’s even insisting on serving you a Japanese feast, so arrive hungry and thirsty, but don’t forget to act tough.”
Now alone, some of Malcolm’s fatigue showed. “Jamie, pour me a glass, would you? Thanks. Everything’s organized?”
“For tonight, yes, and tomorrow, yes. Ah Tok and Ah Soh are aboard with the trunks, Chen will go with you and Mrs. Struan. As far as I know no one except them, Strongbow, me, and now Phillip know you’ll sleep aboard Prancing Cloud.”
“Good. Phillip was a mistake, but never mind,” Malcolm said. “I got too exuberant but it should be all right. He shouldn’t blab. What does Gornt want?”
“Just to arrange final details.” McFay looked at him. “Shouldn’t your marriage make a difference now?”
“It could. But unless Norbert apologizes, it won’t.”
“Gornt wanted a private word, if you had a moment.”
“All right. Tell him that’s all it can be—and let me see him first, eh?”