Gai-Jin by James Clavell
More depressing news from home. Monumental rains had washed out the harvest and famine was expected in Ireland and other areas—though not like the Great Potato Famine when hundreds of thousands died. Vast unemployment in Scotland. Destitution in Lancashire with most cotton spinning mills silent, including three owned by Struan’s, because of the Union embargo on Southern cotton and blockade of all Southern ports. With Southern cotton England had supplied cloth to the world. A Struan clipper ship crammed with teas, silks and lacquer inbound London had been lost. In the stock market Struan’s was down badly, Brock’s up with the successful arrival of the first of the season’s teas.
Another letter from his fiancée of five years, Maureen Ross, more bad: … when am I to arrive? Have you sent the ticket? You promised this Christmas would be the last to be apart …
“It can’t be this Christmas, lassie,” he murmured with a scowl, much as he liked her. “Can’t afford it yet, and this isn’t the place for a young lady.”
How many times had he written and told her, knowing that really Maureen and her parents wanted him to work for Struan’s in England or Scotland or better still to leave “that infamous company and work at home like a normal man,” knowing that really he wanted her to break off the engagement and to forget him, knowing that most British wives soon hated Asia, loathed Asians, abominated the Pleasure Girls, raged against their ready access, despised the food, moaned for “home” and family, making their husbands’ lives a permanent misery.
Knowing, too, that he enjoyed Asia, loved his work, adored the freedom, treasured their Yoshiwara and would never happily go home. Well, he thought, not until I retire.
The only good in the mail were the books from Hatchard’s in Piccadilly: a new illustrated edition of Darwin’s explosive On the Origin of Species, some Tennyson poems, a newly translated pamphlet by Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels called The Communist Manifesto, five copies of Punch, but most important of all another edition of All the Year Round. This was the weekly started by Charles Dickens, and contained the fourteenth installment of Great Expectations—to be published in twenty parts.
In spite of all that he had to do, McFay, like everyone else who had received a copy, locked the door and consumed the installment rapaciously. When he read the last line, “to be continued next week,” he sighed. “What the devil will Miss Havisham do next, evil old bitch? Reminds me of Maureen’s mother. Hope to God it all works out for Pip. Somehow or other it has to! Hope to God good old Dickens gives us a happy ending ….”
For a moment he was bemused, lost in admiration of the man and his marvelous range of stories, from Oliver Twist more than twenty years ago, through Nicholas Nickleby, David Copperfield and a dozen others to the riveting Tale of Two Cities. Dickens is the greatest writer in the world, no doubt about it.
He got up and stood at the window, watching the sea and sending good thoughts to the fleet at Yedo and to the mail ship that need not now be diverted but would continue on her regular route to Shanghai instead of direct to Hong Kong with Malcolm Struan, worrying about him and the future that somehow quickly became mixed up with Pip and Miss Havisham, wondering how Pip would extract himself from the mess he was in and would the girl fall in love with him. Hope so, poor lass. What about my lassie, Maureen? It’s time I had a family …
A knock. “Mr. McFay. May I see you a moment?” It was Piero Vargas, his assistant.
“Just a moment.” Feeling a little guilty he put the copy under the pile, stretched and opened the door.
Piero Vargas was a handsome, middle-aged Eurasian from Macao, the tiny Portuguese enclave, forty-odd miles west of Hong Kong, set like a pimple on a slip of Mainland China and occupied since 1552. Unlike the British, the Portuguese considered Macao equal to the mother country and not a colony, encouraged their settlers to intermarry with Chinese, and accepted Eurasian offspring as nationals, allowing them permanent access to Portugal. British intermarriage was greatly discouraged, though many had families. Their offspring, however, were not accepted in Society. By custom those born in Shanghai took their father’s name, in Hong Kong their mother’s.
Ever since the British came to China, they had contentedly employed the brightest Macaoans as shroffs—money changers—and compradores, who, of necessity, spoke English as well as dialects of Chinese. Except the Noble House. Their compradore was the enormously wealthy Gordon Chen, the illegitimate son of their founder, Dirk Struan, by one of his many mistresses, though not the last, the fabled May-may.
“Yes, Piero?”
“Sorry to interrupt, senhor,” Piero said, his English liquid and sweet-sounding. “Kinu-san, our silk supplier, asks for a personal interview with you.”
“Oh, why?”
“Well, it’s not really for him but for two buyers who arrived with him. From Choshu.”
“Oh?” McFay’s interest picked up. Almost two years of tentative probes from the daimyo of Choshu, the fief far to the west on the Straits of Shimonoseki, had produced some very important business last year, authorized by the Head Office in Hong Kong and arranged by them: a 200-ton paddle steamer with a very private cargo—cannon, shot and ammunition. Paid for promptly in gold and silver, half in advance, half on delivery. “Bring them in. Wait, better I see them in the main reception room.”
“Sí, senhor.”
“Is one of them the same fellow as last time?”
“Senhor?”
“The young samurai who spoke a little English?”
“I did not take part in the discussion, senhor, I was on leave in Portugal.”
“Ah, yes, now I remember.”
The reception room was big, with seating for forty-two at the oak table. Matching sideboards and tallboys for silver plate and glass fronted display cases, gleaming and well kept, some with arms. He opened one of them, took out a belt and holstered pistol attached. He buckled the belt around his waist, making sure the pistol was loaded and loose in the holster. It was always his custom when meeting samurai to be as armed as they were. “A matter of face,” he told his subordinates, “as well as safety.” As a further prop he leaned the Spencer rifle against a chair, and stood by the window, facing the door.
Vargas came back with three men. One was middle-aged, fat, unctuous and swordless, Kinu, their silk supplier. The other two were samurai, one young the other in his forties though it was difficult to tell. Both short, spare, hard-faced and armed, as usual.
They bowed politely. McFay noted that both men had instantly seen the breech-loader. He returned the bow in kind. “Ohayo,” he said. Good morning. Then, “Dozo”—please—indicating the chairs opposite him, a safe distance away.
“Goo’d morning,” the younger said without a smile.
“Ah, you speak English? Excellent. Please sit down.”
“Speak ’ritt’re,” the youth said—the l’s sounding like r’s because there was no “l” sound in Japanese, v’s being equally awkward. For a moment he spoke to Vargas in Fukenese, their common Chinese dialect, then the two men introduced themselves, adding they had been sent by Lord Ogama of Choshu.
“I am Jamie McFay, chief of Struan and Company in Nippon, and am honored to see you.” Again Vargas translated. Patiently Jamie went through the obligatory fifteen minutes of enquiries after their daimyo’s health, their own health, his health and that of the Queen, the outlook in Choshu, in England, nothing particular, everything bland. Tea was served and admired. At length the young man came to the point.
With great care Vargas kept the excitement out of his own voice. “They want to buy a thousand breech-loaders with a thousand bronze cartridges per gun. We are to name a fair price and deliver within three months. If within two months, they will pay a bonus—twenty percent.”
Outwardly, McFay was equally calm. “Is that all they wish to buy at the moment?”
Vargas asked them. “Yes, senhor, but they require a thousand rounds per rifle. And a steamship of small size.”
McFay was counting the huge potential profit, bu
“Answer … now. No three week.”
“Not have guns here,” McFay said slowly, directly to him. “Must write Hong Kong, Head Office, nine days there, nine days back. Some breechloaders there. All rest in America. Four or five months minimum.”
“No unner’stand.”
Vargas interpreted. Then there was a conversation between the two samurai, the merchant answering their questions with fervent humility. More questions to Vargas, politely responded to. “He says very well, he or a Choshu official will return in twenty-nine days. This transaction is to be secret.”
“Of course.” McFay looked at the youth. “Secret.”
“Hai! Sek’ret.”
“Ask him how the other samurai, Saito, is.” He saw them frown, but could read nothing from their faces.
“They don’t know him personally, Senhor.”
More bows and then Jamie was alone. Lost in thought, he put the gun belt back into the case. If I don’t sell them the guns, Norbert will—whatever the morality.
Vargas returned, very pleased. “An excellent possibility, senhor, but a big responsibility.”
“Yes. I wonder what Head Office will say this time.”
“Easy to find out, senhor, quickly. You don’t have to wait eighteen days, isn’t Head Office upstairs?”
McFay stared at him. “I’ll be damned, I’d forgotten! Difficult to think of young Malcolm as tai-pan, our ultimate decider. You’re right.”
Running feet approached, the door opened. “Sorry to butt in,” Nettlesmith said, puffing from his exertion, his grubby top hat askew. “Thought you’d better know, just got word the blue signal flag went up the Legation mast a few minutes ago … then came down and went up again, then came down to half mast and stayed there.”
Jamie gaped at him. “What the devil does that mean?”
“Don’t know, ’cepting that half mast usually means a death, doesn’t it?”
Greatly perturbed, the Admiral again trained his binoculars on the Legation flagpole, the other men on the quarterdeck, his Captains from the rest of the fleet, Marlowe, the General, French Admiral, and von Heimrich equally concerned, Seratard and André Poncin pretending to be. When the lookout had given the alarm half an hour ago, they had all hurried on deck from the lunch table. Except the Russian Minister: “If you want to wait in the cold, very well, damned if I am. When word comes from the shore, yes, no or war, please wake me. If you start shelling I’ll join you…. ”
Marlowe was watching the roll over the Admiral’s collar, despising him, wishing he were ashore with Tyrer, or aboard his own ship, the Pearl. At noon the Admiral had replaced the temporary captain with a stranger, a Lieutenant Dornfild, disregarding his advice. Bloody old bastard, look at the way he fiddles so bloody pompously with his binoculars—we all know they are highly expensive and issued to Flag Rank only. Bloody old—
“Marlowe!”
“Yessir.”
“We’d better find out what the devil’s going on. You go ashore … no, I need you here! Thomas, would you please be good enough to send an officer to the Legation? Marlowe, detail a signalman to go with the detachment.”
At once the General jerked his thumb at his aide who hurried off, closely followed by Marlowe. Seratard pulled his heavy great coat closer against the chill of the wind. “I’m afraid Sir William has boxed himself in.”
“I remember you giving your opinion this morning,” the Admiral said curtly.
The meeting he had called with the Ministers had been noisy and had brought forth no solution, except Count Zergeyev’s: immediate and massive force. “Which, my dear Count,” he had pointed out sourly at once, “we don’t have now if it’s necessary to follow up a simple bombardment to seize the city and surrounds.”
Ketterer pursed his lips and glared at Seratard, the dislike mutual. “I’m sure Sir William will find an answer, but I tell you frankly, by God, if I see our colors struck, Yedo goes up in smoke!”
“I agree,” Seratard said. “A matter of national honor!”
Von Heimrich’s face hardened. “Japanners are not stupid—like some people. I cannot believe they will disregard the force we have now.”
The wind picked up suddenly, crackling some of the spars aloft, sea greyer, clouds greying. All eyes went to a black squall line on the eastern horizon. The squall was heading shorewards, threatening their exposed anchorage.
“Marlowe, send a… Marlowe!” the Admiral bellowed.
“Yessir?” Marlowe came running.
“For God’s sake, stay within hailing distance! Signal all ships: ‘Prepare to stand out to sea. Should conditions deteriorate rapidly, on my command take individual action and rejoin at Kanagawa as soon as conditions permit.’ You Captains get back to your ships while you’ve the weather.” They rushed off, glad to be away.
“I will get back to my ship too,” the French Admiral said. “Bonjour, messieurs.”
“We’ll come with you, Monsieur Admiral,” Seratard said. “Thank you for your hospitality, Admiral Ketterer.”
“What about Count Alexi? He came with you, didn’t he?”
“Let him sleep. Better for the Russian bear to sleep, n’est-ce pas?” Seratard said coldly to von Heimrich, both of them knowing full well Prussia’s secret overtures to the Tsar to remain neutral in any confrontation, to allow Prussia to expand in Europe to satisfy an open state policy: the creation of a German nation of German-speaking peoples with Prussia its spearhead.
Marlowe, hurrying for the signalman, saw his ship, the Pearl, neatly at anchor and was worried about her, loathing not being aboard and in command. Uneasily he glanced seaward again, gauging the squall line, the weight of blackening clouds, the smell and the taste of the salt on the wind. “That bugger’s going to be a sod.”
In the Legation audience room Sir William, flanked by a Scots officer, Phillip Tyrer and guards sat coldly facing three Japanese officials who were leisurely seating themselves, their guards behind them: the grey-haired Elder, Adachi, daimyo of Mito, the mock samurai, Misamoto the fisherman, and last, a short, big-bellied, Bakufu official, secretly fluent in Dutch, whose covert assignment was to report in private to Yoshi on the meeting and the behavior of the other two. As usual, none had used their correct names.
Five palanquins had arrived yesterday, with the same ceremony though an increased number of guards. Only three were occupied, which Sir William had found curiously disturbing. This, added to heightened samurai activity during the night around the temple and Legation, prompted him to send a partial alarm signal to the fleet by half-masting the pennant that he hoped Ketterer would understand.
Outside in the forecourt, Hiraga, again disguised as a gardener, had been equally perturbed—even more so that Toranaga Yoshi was not amongst the officials. This meant the attack plan so carefully poised to ambush Yoshi near the castle gates on his return had to be called off. At once he had tried to melt away, but samurai irritably ordered him back to work. Seething, he obeyed, waiting his chance to escape.
“You’re two and a half hours late,” Sir William said icily as an opening salvo. “In civilized countries diplomatic meetings are on time, not late!”
Immediate and flowery apologies of no consequence. Then the usual obligatory introductions and sugary compliments and aggravating politenesses, and over an hour of back and forth, of demands calmly deflected, ponderous arguments, delays requested, astonishment where none was merited, questions needing to be repeated, facts dismissed, the truth disregarded—alibis, explanations, rationalizations, excuses, all cou
Sir William was about to explode when, with great formality, the Elder, Adachi, produced a sealed scroll, handed it to their interpreter who handed it to Johann.
Johann’s own weariness dropped away. “Gott im Himmel! It’s under the seal of the roju.”
“Eh?”
“The Council of Elders. I’d recognize the seal anywhere—it’s the same as Ambassador Harris got. You better accept it, formally, Sir William, then I’ll read it aloud if it’s in Dutch, which I doubt.” He stifled a nervous yawn. “Probably just another delaying tactic.”
Sir William did as Johann suggested, hating to be so confined and having to rely on foreign mercenary interpreters.
Johann broke the seal and scanned the document. His astonishment was open: “It’s in Dutch, by God! Skipping all the titles, formal language, etc., it says: The Council of Elders, having received what appears to be a just complaint, apologizes for the dereliction of its subjects and wishes to invite the honored Minister of the British, and other accredited Ministers to meet the Council thirty days from now, in Yedo, when the formal complaint will be presented, the matter discussed, acted upon, and an indemnity for said just complaint agreed. Signed … Nori Anjo, Chief Minister.”
With a supreme effort, Sir William kept his erupting relief bottled. This unbelievable reprieve gave him the face-saver he desperately needed, and now if he could finesse them just a little further … To his sudden fury, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Tyrer smiling broadly. Without looking at him he hissed, “Stop smiling, you bloody idiot,” and in the same breath added harshly, “Johann, tell them they will have my reply in three days. Meanwhile I want an immediate indemnity, in gold, in three days, for ten thousand pounds sterling for the families of the Sergeant and Corporal murdered in this Legation, last year, and already demanded four times!”