Gai-Jin by James Clavell
“I’ve not decided—finally—even if I’ll go.”
“But…you won’t be at the funeral?” he asked, confused.
“I’ll decide tomorrow,” she said, wanting to keep him off balance, him and everyone, even Jamie. “Mr. Skye strongly advises me to stay here, and I don’t feel well.” She shrugged. “I’ll decide tomorrow, I’ve a berth reserved. I desperately wish to be with him, I need to be there, and yet, if he’s not buried as he wishes and I wish, then … then I’ve failed.”
“You haven’t failed him, Ma’am. Everyone knows that.”
“You won’t fail me, will you, Edward? You’ll deliver my letter to her, everything, as we discussed?”
“At once. A promise is a promise. A matter of honor, Ma’am.” He looked at her directly.
“And I promised too. Didn’t I? A matter of honor. Eternal friendship.”
The way she said the two words was a promise and not a promise. For the life of him he could not read her as he had before. Earlier he would have known how far that promise would take him. Now there was a barrier. I’m glad, he thought, for if there’s a barrier for me it will exist for every man. Six months is still not much to wait and a perfect time.
So she may not be in Hong Kong. How does that affect me? “My plans, Ma’am? They depend on Tess Struan.” He wanted to tell Angelique his real plan, but was far too shrewd to indicate that, even obliquely. “I’m hoping she’ll act on the information I’ll give her. That will take a month, at least. If she wishes I’ll wait the month and help—she’ll need help, Ma’am. It all depends on her. If you arrive by mail ship we can talk more there. If not, may I write?”
“Of course, yes, please. I would like that. By every mail. I promise I will keep you advised of my plans.” She opened the drawer and took out an envelope. It was addressed to Mrs. Tess Struan. And unsealed. “You may read it.”
“Thank you, Ma’am, but that’s not necessary.”
Angelique took it back, did not seal it but just tucked the flap into the back. “This will save you the trouble of steaming the flap open, Edward.”
He laughed. “What makes you so sure I’d do that?”
“I would. It would be too much of a temptation. But please seal it before you give it to her.”
He nodded. “You once said, now you knew why your husband liked me, why I would be a dangerous enemy, an even more dangerous friend. Perhaps that applies to you, Angelique.”
“Perhaps it does,” she said simply. “I’m feeling my way in this new world, Edward. It’s fraught with difficulties, and with quicksands. But you will find me very dependable once I’ve given my word, as I have. Do not forget I am French.” A little smile. “Read it.”
The letter read:
Dear Mrs. Struan, by now you will have heard the terrible news about Malcolm—sorry that I cannot tell you in person but I have been advised by Dr. Hoag not to travel by Prancing Cloud or the mail ship.
I cannot tell you how distraught I am and have been. Let me just say simply I loved him with all my heart and tried to do the best I could while he was alive, and, too, after his death have been desperately trying to bury him as he wished, at sea, like his adored grandfather. But that was forbidden me. Please, I beg you, please do for him what I failed to do.
But I have not failed him in a further duty. The bearer of this letter was your son’s friend. He brings information of great importance—that he had promised to give Malcolm the day he died, that he, Malcolm, was rushing to give you by Prancing Cloud: the means to destroy your everlasting enemies, Tyler and Morgan Brock. Mr. Gornt has sworn to me he will give every last detail to you. I beg you to implement it if it is what he purports it to be. The successful conclusion to that feud, and the elimination of that agony from your head is, I know only too well, all the epitaph Malcolm would wish.
She had dated it, and signed it Angelique Struan, Yokohama. There was a P.S.: Strange, isn’t it, we who have so much in common—I hate my father too, he tried to destroy me too—have been so far apart, so unnecessarily
Edward Gornt sealed the envelope thoughtfully. He put it in his pocket and raised his glass. “A long life—you’re a remarkable woman, remarkable.”
“How so?”
“You ask for nothing, give everything,” he said with genuine admiration, and did not add, And you do not mention thirty days when, as women, that will be uppermost in both your minds—for if you are carrying his child, the Struan empire is mostly yours whether daughter or son, though a son would be perfect! And even if you’re not, an immodest claim on Struan’s is just as perfect and unassailable. In either case you will still marry me! “You are a great woman,” he said calmly. “I hope I may be allowed to share an everlasting friendship.”
He got up, gallantly kissed her hand and did not linger.
Alone again she nodded to herself, content, then poured wine into his glass—there were other glasses within easy reach but she chose his deliberately and sipped with added enjoyment. Then grimly raised the glass seawards: “Godspeed, Prancing Cloud.” Another sip. And she smiled.
“Phillip!”
“Yes, Sir William?”
“Here, take these. Are the rest of our dispatches ready?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve done extra copies of both the Inquests, the death certificates, etc. I’ll get your ‘private and confidential’ to the Governor from the safe and that’s the lot. Best if I take them aboard Cloud personally.”
“Yes, that’s wise. I’ve one more. Give me a couple of minutes.” Weary from all the writing and the stress of the last few days, and grinding awareness of how exposed Yokohama was, Sir William shook off his headache, thought a moment, made sure the nib was clean, chose his most official letterhead and wrote firmly:
Dear Mrs. Struan. I’m sending this by special dispatch via Prancing Cloud for special reasons, both formal and personal.
First, I would like to offer my deepest condolences on the unhappy demise of your son whom I numbered amongst my friends as well as colleagues. Second, the circumstances and facts of his marriage and death were established under oath in an official Inquest, a copy of whose findings are enclosed.
To the best of my belief the shipboard marriage is legal—I have asked the Solicitor General for a formal ruling.
To the best of my belief Mrs. Angelique Struan had nothing whatsoever to do with the death of her husband, and was in no way responsible—a fact supported by medical evidence of Doctors Hoag and Babcott (and part of the Inquest documents) that you will no doubt receive in person.
To the best of my belief your son died as a result of wounds suffered during the unwarranted attack on the Tokaidō and was, in effect, murdered then. The King, or daimyo, who ordered these attacks has not yet been brought to justice. I assure you he will be.
To the best of my belief, and personal observation, your son was in love with Mademoiselle Richaud to the point of obsession, and pursued her for marriage in every way he could conceive. She reciprocated his affections in exemplary, ladylike fashion. She is a brave young woman and anything to the contrary are lies spread by scoundrels.
Lastly, to the best of my belief, your son wanted to be buried at sea like his grandfather. His …
Sir William hesitated a moment, continuing to be careful in his choice of words. He formulated his thought, then continued with his firm strong hand: His widow pleaded strongly that this should be done, here, wanting to grant him his wish (we have found no will yet, nor a formal letter to that effect) but it is my belief that this was what he wanted. I overruled his widow’s request and decided his remains should be sent to Hong Kong to you. Again he hesitated as variations presented themselves, then wrote, I strongly recommend this request be granted. I am, Madam, yr obedient servant.
For a moment he reflected, then went to his sideboard and poured a brandy, drank, and sat down again. Now he read the letter carefully. Twice.
He made a couple of edits and changes and rewrote the letter, signing it Her Britannic
“Much better,” he said aloud. “Takes the sting out of it.” Rather like that, I commend her to your benevolence, he thought, though what those two will finally do to each other only God knows. A week ago I would have wagered it was no contest but now I’m not so sure.
Thankfully he opened his desk diary and added the name Tess Struan to today’s long list of letters sent by Prancing Cloud. An entry on Tuesday, 9th, leapt at him: “Malcolm Struan married Angelique Richaud aboard Pearl with Ketterer’s connivance.” It was written in Russian as was the whole diary—a lifetime habit insisted on by his Russian mother—both to keep it private from most eyes, and also to maintain his fluency. That reminded him. His fingers opened his new, 1863 diary and he put a question mark on January 11th, adding a note: We should know about now if A is carrying or not. Malcolm’s child would simplify her life considerably, he thought gravely.
He had decided to do what he could for Angelique because of her dignity yesterday, and at the wharf today, because of the pleasure she had given him with all the dancing and laughter and the lightness she had brought to Yokohama, and because she was French, with all the latent panache that Frenchwomen had above all others.
He smiled. Indeed, Angelique, you’re French. And we’re British, and no fools—and that is why we rule the earth and the French don’t. “Phillip!”
Seratard and André were at the window. Prancing Cloud let go fores’les, tops’les and topgallants and royals and now, with full sail and the wind aft, she raced into the deep. Many others were watching too, envying her, jealous of her, wanting to sail or to own or to captain such a craft. Many wondered about her cargo, about the Angel who would leave tomorrow and what life here would be like without her, and about the fate of the letters aboard.
André said, “Will Ambassador de Geroire agree, Henri?”
“Yes. He owes me many favors, our mission here becomes more effective every day, and the private visit you’ve promised with Yoshi, that I’ve promised him, is arranged. Isn’t it?”
“I am assured so,” André said, his throat abruptly dry. Raiko had sworn that he could count on it, that the secret battle plans he had passed over to her were already in the heads of trusted go-betweens in Yedo for negotiation and rewards. “First Yoshi has to arrive back, Henri, then we can make a date. I’m promised he’ll come aboard the flagship. I’ve a meeting tonight, and the down payment will fix it.”
“I’ve changed my mind about advancing the money. It’s best to …” Seratard raised his voice as André started to protest. “It’s best to wait. I’ve decided it’s best to wait!” He went and sat at his desk and motioned André to sit opposite, not angrily but with a smoothness that invited no opposition. “As soon as I know for certain he’s back you can pay these … these go-betweens.”
“But I promised them the money tonight, you agreed.”
“So explain I don’t trust them,” Seratard said with a deprecating smile. “Let them prove themselves. I was saying, de Geroire will make her a ward of the State, André, and so becomes part of State policy, eh?”
Tonight André hated Seratard, hated him because he was dangerous and devious and knew too much, remembered too much, and was without feeling. At breakfast this morning Seratard had peered at him. “What is it, Henri?”
“Nothing, there’s a spot on your neck that wasn’t there before and I wondered if … How are you, André?”
This had sent him into a panic to his bedroom mirror, petrified that the first sign of his disease had manifested itself. Ever since he had begun with Hinodeh he had become achingly sensitive to the slightest mark or twinge or fever. Most evenings she would undress him in the light, telling him how much she enjoyed looking at him, touching him, massaging or caressing, her fingers and hands always sensuous, but, even so, certain she was seeking telltale signs. “None yet, not yet, thank God,” he had muttered to his reflection, wet with relief that the slight abrasion was only an insect bite.
“André,” Seratard was saying, “tonight at dinner, we must make plans with her. I recommended that once she’s a ward of the State she should stay in the Embassy and …” A knock interrupted him. “Yes?”
Vervene opened the door. “A message from Vargas, Monsieur. Madame Struan regrets she is not well enough for dinner.”
Seratard snapped, “If she’s well enough to see a coffin off she could certainly spare us time. Thank you, Vervene.” Then to André, “We must see her before she leaves.”
“I’ll see her first thing in the morning, don’t worry. But there’s a rumor she might delay. Hoag’s supposed to have advised against a sea voyage, for medical reasons, and certainly Heavenly Skye is openly opposed.”
Seratard’s lip curled. “I detest that man, he’s so uncouth, boorish, and quite revoltingly British.”
Angelique was watching the departure of the clipper from the tai-pan’s suite, upstairs. A few passersby saw her at the window, then hurried on, wet and chilled, wondering what would happen to her. One of these was Tyrer, ashore after delivering the dispatches. She looked so lonely there, so funereal in her black, never black before, only the colors of springtime. For a moment he stopped, tempted to see her, to ask if he could help in any way but decided not to, there was still so much to do before his rendezvous with Fujiko, a monthly payment to Raiko for “past services pending the conclusion of the contract,” and then there was his lesson with Nakama that had had to be postponed because of all the work for Sir William.
He groaned at the thought of all those phrases and words that he still wanted translated, and the new note to Anjo that Sir William had deliberately wanted Nakama to translate, not exactly not trusting him, but to gauge a Japanese reaction to a short, undiplomatic Anglo-Saxon harangue. Even worse he was behind in his journal and had had no time to write his weekly letter home. It had to catch the mail ship, whatever happened.
In the last mail his mother had written that his father was ill:
… nothing serious, dear Phillip, just a chest flux that Doctor Feld treats with the usual bleeding and purging. Sorry to say, as always, it just seems to weaken him even more. Your Father has always hated Camomile and Leeches. Ugh!
Doctors! Illness and agony seem to follow in their wake. Your cousin Charlotte took to her birthing bed four days ago, as healthy as ever could be. We had arranged the midwife but her husband insisted on having the doctor deliver her and now she has Childbed Fever and isn’t expected to live. The baby boy is ailing too. So sad, such a nice young lady, not yet eighteen.
News from London: The new Underground Railway, another first in the world, will open in four or five months! Horse-drawn Trams are all the rage and the Christmas Season promises to be the best ever though there are riots in some of the Factory Towns. Parliament is debating and will pass a law prohibiting horseless carriages from going more than 2 miles per hour and they must have a warning Flagman walking in front of them!
Measles is Everywhere, many deaths, Typhoid’s not too bad this year. The Times reports that Cholera is raging again in Wapping and the dock areas, brought by an India merchantman.
Phillip, I do so hope you are keeping your chest wrapped and wear woolens, and woolen underwear, and keep windows closed against the terrible Fluxes that abound in the night air. Your Father and I wish you would come back to Sensible England, though from your letters you seem to be pleased with your progress in Japan’s language. Does the Penny Post (what a joy!) work for you from the Japans as well as for us to go there?
Your father says this Government is Ruining our country, our morals, and our Glorious Empire. Did I tell you, now there are more than eleven t
The letter went on for pages, enclosing all kinds of cuttings she felt interesting, and they were. Wonderful for Phillip, keeping him in touch with home. But between the lines he read his father’s illness was not an easy one. His anxiety intensified. For all I know he’s already dead, he thought, gravely concerned.
Standing there on the promenade in the rain, a tweak of pain came up from his stomach. Sweat abruptly wet his forehead, perhaps it was the rain, he didn’t know for certain, only that he was sure he was feverish. Maybe I’ve really caught something—the pox or something! Oh, my God, perhaps Babcott’s wrong and it’s not just the White Man’s Burden—Gippy Tummy or normal squitters or some such rheum. Oh, my God, even though André swore by all that’s holy, Raiko too, that Fujiko was as clean as clean, perhaps she isn’t!
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Phillip,” Babcott had said this morning, “you don’t have the pox, you’ve just eaten or drunk something bad. Here, here’s some of Dr. Collis’s tincture. That’ll cure you by tomorrow and if it doesn’t, we’ll give you a good burial, not to worry! For Christ’s sake, how many times do I have to tell you: drink only boiled water, or tea.”
He mopped his brow, the light fading but no letup in the wind. Certainly he felt better than in the night when he had the runs. Wasn’t for Babcott, or Collis’s magic, I would have to have missed the funeral—not the funeral, Malcolm’s sending-off. How bloody awful! Poor fellow! Poor Angelique! What will happen now, he asked himself, perturbed, took his eyes off her and hurried for the Legation.
Angelique had seen him. When the clipper was swallowed by the dark she drew the curtains and sat at the desk. Her journal was open. Three letters were sealed and ready for the mail ship: to her aunt, enclosing a sight draft on the Bank of England for fifty guineas, the second to Colette with a ten-guinea money order, both of which Jamie had arranged for her, using part of the money Sir William had allowed her to keep. She had considered using one of Malcolm’s chits that were in the desk, backdating it, using the chop from the safe, but thought that unwise for the moment. The money for her aunt was just to help, to Colette to buy the best medicines against her lying-in time.