Gai-Jin by James Clavell
“Yessir.” When the man was well away Marlowe exhaled.
Sir William had exhaled too and he mopped his brow and muttered, “Awfully glad I’m not in the Navy.”
“Me too,” Tyrer said, amazed by the Minister’s courage.
Marlowe’s heart was racing, hating to be bellowed at, even by an Admiral, but he did not forget himself. “I, er … excuse me, sir, but the fleet’s very safe in his hands, sir, and the expedition, and we all believe he’s quite right about selling ships, guns, cannon and opium. Japanners are already building ships and making small cannon—this year they sailed their first iron steamship, the 300-ton Kanrin maru to San Francisco, crewed and captained entirely by them. They’ve mastered the deep. That’s remarkable in such a short time.”
“Yes, yes, it is.” Sir William wondered briefly how the Japanese Delegation that went with this ship had fared in Washington, and what mischief President Lincoln would generate against our glorious Empire. Aren’t we dependent on Confederate cotton for our Lancashire mills that are being ruined? At the same time aren’t we increasingly dependent on abundant Union wheat and corn and meat and other trade? He shuddered. God damn that war! And politicians, and Lincoln. Didn’t the man’s inaugural speech in March include: “… this country belongs to the people and whenever they shall grow weary of their government they can exercise their constitutional right to amend it, or revolutionary right to dismember it or overthrow it …”
Inflammatory to say the least! If that idea spread to Europe! My God! Dreadful! We may be at war with them any day, certainly at sea. Must have cotton.
He was trying to collect himself, heartily relieved that the Admiral had backed down and still cursing himself for losing control. You’ve got to be more careful, and mustn’t worry about Yedo and your stupid, arrogant decision to “go there, by God, in three days in a battleship and see the Shōgun, by God!” as though you’re Clive of India. You’re not. This is your first tour of the Far East and you’re a novice. Madness to put all these men at risk over a few murders, madness to risk a fullscale war. But is it?
Sorry, but no.
If the Bakufu get away with this killing, then there will be no end and we will be forced to withdraw—until allied battle fleets return to enforce Imperial wills bloodily. Your decision is correct, the manner of reaching it wrong. Yes, but it’s damned difficult with no one to talk to—who you can trust. Thank God Daphne arrives in a couple of months. I never thought I’d miss her and her counsel so much. I can’t wait to see her and my boys—ten months is a long time and I know the change from London’s stinking pea soup fogs and gloom will make her happy and please her and it will be grand for the boys. We could use some English ladies in the Settlement, of the right sort. We’ll go on trips and she will make the Legation a home.
His eyes focused on the approaching headland. Around it was Yedo and the cannonade. Was that wise? he asked himself queasily. I hope so. Then the landing and going to the Legation. You’ve got to do that—and prepare for the meeting tomorrow. You’re alone in this. Henri Seratard’s waiting for you to mess up, hoping. And the Russian.
But you’re the one in charge and it’s your job, and don’t forget you wanted to be “Minister” somewhere, anywhere. Indeed I did, but I never expected Japan! Damn the Foreign Office. I’ve never been in a situation like this: all my experience has been at the French or Russian desk in London or at the Court of St. Petersburg, odd postings wangled to glorious Paris and Monaco with never a warship or regiment in sight ….
Marlowe was saying stiffly, “I hope you don’t mind, sir, me giving my opinion of the Admiral’s position.”
“Oh, not at all.” Sir William made an effort to put his worry aside: I will try to avoid war, but if it is to be, it will be. “You’re quite right, Mr. Marlowe, and of course I’m honored to have Admiral Ketterer in charge,” he said, and at once felt better. “Our difference of opinion was over protocol. Yes, but at the same time we should be encouraging the Japanese to industrialize and to sail ships, one ship or twenty’s nothing to be concerned about. We should encourage them—we’re not here to colonize, but it is we who should be training them, Mr. Marlowe, not the Dutch or the French. Thank you for reminding me—the more our influence here the better.” He was feeling lighter. It was rare for him to be able to talk freely to one of the up-and-coming captains and he found Marlowe impressive, both here and at Kanagawa. “Do all officers detest civilians and traders?”
“No, sir. But I don’t think many of us understand them. We have different lives, different priorities. It’s difficult for us at times.” Most of Marlowe’s attention was on the Admiral, who was talking to the Captain on the bridge, everyone nearby uneasily aware of him. The sun broke through the overcast and all at once the day seemed better. “To be in the Navy is, well, it’s all I ever wanted to do.”
“Your family is naval?”
At once Marlowe said proudly, “Yes, sir,” wanting to add, my father’s a Captain, presently in the Home Fleet—so was his father, he was Flag Lieutenant to Admiral Lord Collingwood in Royal Sovereign at Trafalgar—and my forebears have been in the Navy since there was one. And before that, so legend goes, they ran privateers out of Dorset where the family comes from—we’ve lived there, in the same house, for more than four centuries. But he said none of it, his training telling him it would sound like boasting. He just added, “My family come from Dorset.”
“Mine come from the north of England, Northumberland, for generations,” Sir William said absently, his eyes on the approaching headland, his mind on the Bakufu. “My father died when I was young—he was a Member of Parliament, with business interests in Sunderland and London, and dealt in the Baltic trade and Russian furs. My mother was Russian so I grew up bilingual and that got me on the first rung of the F.O. She was …” He caught himself just in time, astonished that he had volunteered so much. He had been going to add that she, his mother, was born the Countess Sveva, a cousin to the Romanovs, that she was still alive and once had been a lady-in-waiting to Queen Victoria. I really must concentrate—as if my family and background were any of their business. “Er, what about you, Tyrer?”
“London, sir. Father’s a solicitor, like his father.” Phillip Tyrer laughed. “After I got my degree at London University and told him I wanted to join the Foreign Office he almost had a fit! And when I applied to become an interpreter in Japan he told me I’d gone mad.”
“Perhaps he was right, you’re damned lucky to be alive and you’re hardly here a week. Don’t you agree, Marlowe?”
“Yes, sir. That’s true.” Marlowe thought the time apt. “By the way, Phillip, how is Mr. Struan?”
“Neither good nor bad was how George Babcott put it.”
“I certainly hope he recovers,” Sir William said, a sudden ache in his bowels.
When he had gone to Kanagawa three days ago, Marlowe had met his cutter and told him what he knew about Struan and Tyrer, about losing the soldier, the suicide of the assassin, and chasing the other one.
“Pallidar and I charged after the bugger, Sir William, but the man had just vanished. We combed the surrounding houses but nothing. Tyrer thinks they might be the two Tokaidō attackers, sir, the murderers. But he’s not sure, most of them look alike, don’t they?”
“But if they were the two, why should they risk going to the Legation?”
“The best we could come up with was perhaps to prevent identification and to finish the job, sir.”
They had left the wharf and hurried through the ominously deserted streets. “What about the girl, Mr. Marlowe?”
“Seems to be fine, sir. Just shaken.”
“Good, thank God for that. The French Minister is wound up as tight as a gnat’s bum about the “vile insult to the honor of France and one of his nationals who is also his ward.” The sooner she’s back in Yokohama the better—oh, by the way, the Admiral asked me to tell you to return to Yokohama at once. There’s a lot to do. We, er, we’ve decided to pay Yedo a
Marlowe had felt his excitement explode. Sea or land engagements were the only real way to quick promotion and to the Admiral’s bars he would have at all costs. I’ll make the Old Man proud of me, and get Flag Rank long before Charles and Percy—his two younger brothers, both Lieutenants.
And now on the deck of the flagship, the sun good, the deck throbbing with the power of the engines, his excitement welled up again. “We’ll be off Yedo before you know it, sir. Your entrance will be the biggest that’s ever been, you’ll get the murderers, indemnity and anything else you want.”
Both Tyrer and Sir William had heard the excitement, but Sir William only felt chilled. “Yes, well, I think I’ll go below for a minute. No, thank you, Mr. Marlowe, I know the way.”
With great relief, the two young men watched him go. Marlowe checked that the Admiral was within sight. “What happened at Kanagawa after I left, Phillip?”
“It was, well, extraordinary, she was extraordinary, if that’s what you were asking.”
“How so?”
“About five o’clock she came down and went straight to see Malcolm Struan and stayed with him until dinner—that’s when I saw her. She seemed … seemed older, no, that’s not quite right either, not older but more serious than before, mechanical. George says she’s still in some form of shock. During dinner Sir William said he’d take her back with him to Yokohama but she just thanked him and refused, said she’d first have to make sure Malcolm was all right, and neither he nor George nor any of us could persuade her otherwise. She hardly ate anything and went back to his sickroom, stayed with him and even insisted on having a cot made up there so she could be within call if need be. In fact, for the next two days, until yesterday when I went back to Yokohama, she hardly left his side and we barely spoke a dozen words to her.”
Marlowe covered a sigh. “She must love him.”
“That’s the strange part. Neither Pallidar nor I think that’s the reason. It’s almost as though she’s…well, ‘disembodied’ is too strong a word. It’s more like she’s partially in a dream and that being with him is safe.”
“Christ! What did Sawbones say?”
“He just shrugged and said to be patient, not to worry, and that she was the best tonic Malcolm Struan could have.”
“I can imagine. How is he, really?”
“Drugged most of the time, lot of pain, lot of vomit and loose bowels—don’t know how she stands the smell though the window’s open all the time.” Fear washed over both of them at the thought of being so wounded and so helpless. Tyrer glanced ahead, to hide, still deeply conscious that his own wound had not yet healed, knowing it could still rot, and that his sleep had been nightmared with samurai and bleeding swords and her.
“Every time I popped by to see Malcolm—and, to be honest, to see her,” he continued, “she just answered me with ‘yes, no or I don’t know,’ so after a while I gave up. She’s … she’s still as attractive as ever.”
Marlowe wondered: If Struan weren’t around, would she be truly out of reach? How serious a rival could Tyrer be? Pallidar he dismissed as not in the same league—she couldn’t like that pompous bugger.
“My word, look!” Tyrer said.
They were rounding the headland and they saw the vast Bay of Yedo before them, open sea to starboard, smoke from cooking fires of the sprawling city shrouding it, the landscape and overlording castle. Astonishingly the bay was almost empty of the multitude of ferries and sampans and fishing boats that normally abounded, with the few there scurrying for shore.
Tyrer was very uneasy. “Is it going to be war?”
After a pause, Marlowe said, “They had their warning. Most of us think no, not a full-scale war, not yet, not this time. There’ll be incidents …” Then, because he liked Tyrer and admired his courage, he opened his mind to him. “There’ll be incidents and skirmishes of various sizes, some of our people will get killed, some will discover they are cowards, some will become heroes, most will be petrified from time to time, some will be decorated but of course we will win.”
Tyrer thought about that, remembering how frightened he had already been but how Babcott had convinced him that the first time was the worst time, how brave Marlowe had been rushing after the assassin, how ravishing Angelique was—and how good it was to be alive, young, with one foot on the ladder to “Minister.” He smiled. Its warmth lit up Marlowe as well. “All’s fair in love and war, isn’t it?” he said.
Angelique was sitting in the window of the sickroom at Kanagawa, staring into space, the sun breaking through the powder-puff clouds from time to time, her heavily perfumed handkerchief to her nose. Behind her Struan was half awake, half asleep. In the garden soldiers patrolled constantly. Since the attack security had been redoubled, more troops sent from the Yokohama encampment, with Pallidar temporarily in command.
A tap on the door pulled her from her reverie. “Yes?” she said, hiding the kerchief in her hand.
It was Lim. Beside him was a Chinese orderly with a tray. “Food for Master. Missee wantchee eat, heya?”
“Put there!” she ordered, and pointed at the bedside table. She was about to ask for her tray to be brought as usual, then changed her mind, thinking it safe. “Tonight, tonight Missee food dining room. Unn’erstan, heya?”
“Unn’erstan.” Lim laughed to himself, knowing that when she thought she was alone she used the kerchief. Ayeeyah, is her nose as small and delicate as her other part? Smell? What’s the smell they complain of? There’s no smell of death here yet. Should I tell the taipan’s son that news is bad from Hong Kong? Ayeeyah, better he finds out for himself. “Unn’erstan.” He beamed and left.
“Chéri?” Automatically she offered the chicken soup.
“Later, thank you, darling,” Malcolm Struan said. As expected, his voice was very weak.
“Try to take some,” she said as usual. Again he refused.
Back once more to her seat in the window and her daydreams—about being safe at home in Paris again, in the great house of her uncle Michel and her darling Emma, the highborn English aunt who had mothered her and brought her and her brother up when her father had left so many years ago for Hong Kong, all of them surrounded in luxury, Emma planning luncheons and riding in the Bois on her prize stallion, the envy of everyone, charming the massed aristocracy and being fawned on in return, then bowing so gracefully to Emperor Louis Napoléon—Napoléon Bonaparte’s nephew—and his Empress, Eugénie, and their smiling recognition.
Boxes at theatres, La Comédie Française, choice tables at Trois Frères Provençaux, her coming of age, seventeen, the talk of the season, Uncle Michel recounting his adventures at the gambling tables and the races, whispering naughty stories about his aristocratic friends, his mistress, the Countess Beaufois, so beautiful and seductive and devoted.
All daydreams, of course, for he was only a junior Deputy in the War Ministry, and Emma, English yes but an actress from a travelling group of Shakespearean players, daughter of a clerk, but neither with enough money for the outward display so necessary for Angelique in the capital of the world, for the spectacular horse, or two-in-hand and carriage that she needed so desperately to break into real society, the real upper echelon, to meet those who would marry and not just bed and flaunt and soon pass on to a younger flower.
“Please please please, Uncle Michel, it’s so important!”
“I know, my little cabbage,” he had said sadly on her seventeenth birthday when she had begged for a particular gelding and the riding clothes to match. “There’s nothing more I can do, there are no more favors I can ask, I know no more arms to twist, or other moneylenders to persuade. I possess no State secrets to sell, or princes to promote. There’s your young brother and our daughter to consider.”
“But please, darling Uncle.”
“I have one last idea and enough francs for a modest passage out to join your father. A few clothes, no more.”
Then the making
Sweet winds and new faces, exotic nights and good days, the beginning of the great adventure, at the end of the rainbow a handsome, rich husband like Malcolm now all spoiled because of a filthy native!
Why can’t I just think about the good parts? she asked herself in sudden anguish. Why is it good thoughts dribble into the bad and then into the awful and then I start thinking about what truly happened and begin to cry?
Don’t, she ordered herself, forcing away the tears. Behave. Be strong!
You decided before you left your room: nothing happened, you will act normally until your next period arrives. When it begins—it will begin—then you are safe.
But if … if it doesn’t?
You won’t think about that. Your future will not be torn asunder, that wouldn’t be fair. You will pray and you will stay close to Malcolm, and pray for him too, and act the Florence Nightingale, and then perhaps you will marry him.
She glanced at him over the handkerchief. To her surprise he was watching her.
“Is the smell still so awful?” he asked sadly.