Gai-Jin by James Clavell
Shakily Tyrer got to his feet. “What the devil’s up?”
With studied slowness Pallidar said, “I suppose we’d better find out.” He got up leisurely, saw the Captain in charge of the Legation guards at the doorway queasily opening his holster. “’Morning, I’m Captain Pallidar.”
“Captain McGregor. Glad you’re here, yes, very glad.”
“Shall we?”
“Yes.”
“How many troops do you have here?”
“Fifty.”
“Good, more than enough. Phillip, nothing to worry about,” Pallidar said to reassure him, outwardly calm but his adrenaline circulating strongly. “You’re ranking official, perhaps you should ask him what he wants. We’ll escort you.”
“Yes, yes, very good.” Striving to appear calm, Tyrer put on his top hat, straightened his frock coat and walked down the steps, all eyes on him. The dragoons watched only Pallidar, awaiting his orders. Five yards from the gate Tyrer stopped, the two officers just behind him. For the moment all that he could think of was that he wanted to urinate. In the silence he said haltingly, “Ohayo, watashi wa Taira-san. Nan desu ka?” Good morning, I am Mr. Tyrer, what you want please?
The officer, Uraga, the big bearlike man who was at the shishi ambush of Anjo outside the castle, glared at him, then bowed and held the bow. Tyrer bowed back but not quite as low—as André Poncin had advised—and said again, “Good morning, what you want please?”
The officer had noted the less than respectful bow and exploded in a rush of Japanese that totally swamped Tyrer, whose dismay mushroomed. So did Hiraga’s, because the officer was asking for immediate permission to search the Legation and grounds, and to interview all Japanese there at once because it was probable shishi assassins and revolutionaries were amongst them: “Like this one,” he finished angrily, pointing at Joun.
Tyrer searched for the words. “Wakarimasen. Dozo, hanashi wo suru noroku.” I don’t understand, please to speak slowly.
“Wakarimasen ka?” You don’t understand? the officer said with exasperation, then raised his voice, believing like most people when talking to a foreigner that loudness made his words clearer and more understandable, and repeated what he had said, the guttural language sounding even more threatening, and ended with, “It won’t take much time and please understand it is for your own protection!”
“So sorry, not understand. Please you to speak English or Dutch?”
“No, of course not. It should be clear to you. I only want to come in for a little while. Please open the gates! It’s for your protection! Look, your gates! Here, I will show you!” He stepped forward, grasped one of the bars and rattled the gates loudly. Everyone inside shifted nervously, many safety catches came off and Pallidar ordered loudly, “Safety catches on! No firing without my order!”
“I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about,” Tyrer said, a chill sweat running down his back. “Except it’s obvious he wants us to open the gates.”
“Well, we’re not bloody doing that, not to that armed rabble! Tell him to go away, that this is British property.”
“This …” Tyrer thought a moment, then pointed at the flagstaff and Union Jack, “this English place…no to enter. Please to go!”
“Go? Are you mad. I have just explained, this is for your own protection. We have just caught this dog and we are sure another is here or hiding near here. OPEN THE GATES!”
“So sorry, not understand …” Helplessly Tyrer looked around as more Japanese words surrounded him. Then his eyes focused on Hiraga not far away. “Ukiya, come here,” he called out in Japanese. “Ukiya!”
Hiraga’s heart almost stopped. Tyrer shouted at him again. With pretended terror, after a stumbling, grovelling run, Hiraga put his head in the dirt at Tyrer’s feet, his rump towards the gate, his coolie hat covering most of him.
“What man say?” Tyrer asked.
With much feigned shaking, all senses razor-edged, Hiraga replied softly, “He’s a bad man … he wants to come in, to … to steal your guns.”
“Ah, yes, come in. Why?”
“He … he wants to search.”
“No understand. What mean ‘ser’ch’?”
“Search. He wants to look at your house, everywhere.”
“Yes, understand come in. Why?”
“I told you, to search—”
“You, gardener,” the officer shouted, and Hiraga jerked as anger flowed over him. For the first time in his life, out there at the center of attention, on his knees in front of a gai-jin, knowing that under his hat he wore a rough turban, if that was taken off it would reveal the shaven pate and topknot of a samurai, he was suddenly sick with fear.
“You, gardener,” the man shouted again, rattling the gates, “tell the fool I only want to search for assassins—shishi assassins!”
Desperately Hiraga said softly, “Taira-sama, the samurai wants to come in, to look at everyone. Tell him you are leaving, then he can come in.”
“No understand. Ukiya, go there!” Tyrer pointed at the gates. “Say go away, nice go away!”
“I cannot. I cannot,” Hiraga whispered, trying to get his mind working and overcome his nausea.
“Phillip,” Pallidar said, the sweat staining the back of his uniform. “What the devil’s he trying to tell you?”
“I don’t know.”
Tension soared as the officer battered the gates again, once more demanding entrance, his men began to surge forward and grip the bars to assist him. Goaded into action, Pallidar went closer. Coldly he saluted. Equally coldly the man bowed. Then, slowly Pallidar said, “This is British property. You are ordered to leave in peace or accept the consequences.”
The officer stared at him blankly then, again, with words and actions, told him to open the door—and quickly.
“Go away!” Without turning his back Pallidar called out, “Dragoons only! Prepare volley!”
Instantly the ten dragoons rushed forward in unison, formed two ranks just in front of the gates, in unison the front rank knelt, all ten safety catches came off, shells went into the breech and they aimed. In the sudden silence Pallidar slowly unbuckled his holster. “Go away!”
Abruptly the officer laughed and his laugh was taken up in the square. There were hundreds of samurai there and he knew thousands were nearby and tens of thousands within reach. But none of them had seen the carnage that a few stalwart, disciplined British soldiers could cause with their fast and easy-to-fire breech-loaders.
As quickly as the laughter arose, it died. Both sides waited for the inevitable first move. Frantic expectation swept everyone: This’ll be to the death, shikaru-beki, Christ Almighty, Namu Amida Butsu …
Hiraga sneaked a quick look up at Tyrer, saw the blank helplessness and cursed, knowing that any second the officer must order the attack to save face amidst the rumbling animosity outside. Before Hiraga could stop himself, his self-survival mechanism decided to gamble and he heard himself whisper in English—never once before had he made any indication to Tyrer he could speak the language, “P’rease to trust—p’rease say words: Shusho … doz—”
Tyrer gaped. “Eh? Did you say ‘trust’? Eh?”
Committed now, heart thundering and hoping that the two officers nearby were so concentrated on the outside they would not overhear him, Hiraga whispered haltingly, his pronunciation only fair, “I’s” impossible for him. “P’rease quiet. Danger! Pre’tend words yours. Say Shusho, dozo shizuka ni … say words!” Sick with fear he waited then, sensing that samurai tension outside was at the breaking point, hissed in English again, as an order: “Say-words-now! Now! Shusho … dozo shizuka ni … quick!”
Almost out of himself Tyrer obeyed. “Shusho, dozo shizuka ni …” parroting the words exactly and those following, not knowing what he was saying and endeavoring to put into perspective that this gardener could speak English and that this was not a dream. Within seconds he saw that the words were having an effect. The officer shouted for quiet. Tension was les
At once the officer launched into a reply. Hiraga waited until it had ended. “Shake head,” he whispered. “Say Iyé, domo, bow quick-quick, back house. Order me go too.”
More controlled now, Tyrer firmly shook his head. “Iyé, domo!” he said importantly, and in awed silence, the center of the world, he stomped back towards the house, stopped in sudden confusion, turned and called out in English, “Ukiya! come along … oh, Christ,” searched frantically for the Japanese word, found it and beckoned him: “Ukiya, isogi!”
With the same grovelling run Hiraga obeyed. At the top of the steps so that only Tyrer could hear, stooping abjectly, his back to all eyes he said, “P’rease order o’rr men, now safe. Inside house quick p’rease.”
Obediently Tyrer called out, “Captain Pallidar, order the men to stand down, it’s, er, it’s quite safe now!”
Once inside the Legation, out of sight, Tyrer’s ashen relief turned to anger. “Who are you, what the devil did I say, eh?”
“Exp’rain ’rater, Taira-san. Samurai want search, you, o’rr men, want take guns,” Hiraga said, stumbling over the words, not yet recovered from his own fear. He stood erect now, looking him straight in the eyes, not as tall but as sweat-stained, knowing he was not yet out of the trap. “Captain very anger, want guns, taking guns, want searching for … for Bakufu enemy. You say him, ‘No, Captain, kinjiru, forbidden searching. Today I and men ’reave here, then you search. Not now, kinjiru. We keep weapons when ’reave. Kinjiru forbidden stop us. Thank you. I now prepare go Yokohama.’”
“That’s what I said?”
“Yes. P’rease now outside again, order me, gardeners back to work an-gri’ry. Word hatarake,” Hiraga said queasily. “We speak ’rater, in secret, you me, yes?”
“Yes, but not alone, with an officer present.”
“Then no speak, so sorry.” Hiraga assumed his grovelling posture and backed out of the room, the exchange having taken only a few seconds, and once more dropped to his knees before Tyrer, rump towards the forecourt.
Unsettled, Tyrer stepped out into the light. He saw that everyone was still waiting. “Captain Pallidar, and, er, Captain McGregor, stand the men down, then please join me for a conference. Hatarake! Ikimasho! Get to work! Hurry up!” he shouted at the gardeners who obeyed at once. Thankfully Hiraga fled to the safety of the garden, muttering to the gardeners to cover him, officers and sergeants started shouting orders and the world began again.
Oblivious of everything, Tyrer stood on the veranda watching Hiraga, undecided, aghast that obviously he was a spy at the same time blessing him for saving them.
“You wanted us?” Pallidar said, breaking his reverie.
“Oh! Oh, yes … please follow me.” He led them into his office, closed the door, and told them what he had said.
Both congratulated him. “Damned impressive, Phillip,” Pallidar said. “For a moment I was sure we were going to have a showdown and Christ knows what would have happened then. Too many of the buggers really—eventually they would have overrun us. Eventually. Of course the fleet would have revenged us but we would have been pushing up daisies and that’s a pretty bloody boring thought.”
“More than a bit boring,” Captain McGregor muttered then glanced at Tyrer. “What do you want us to do now, sir?”
Tyrer hesitated, astonished that neither had heard Hiraga’s English, but pleased with his newfound stature—it was the first time McGregor had called him “sir.” “We’d best obey Sir William. Order everyone to pack up and … but without making it look like an ignominious retreat, can’t let them have our guns—what cheek!—or let them think we’re running away. We’ll march out with, er, with bands and pomp.”
“Perfect, after we’ve ceremoniously run down the flag.”
“Fine! Well, I’d better … I’d better make sure all dispatches are boxed, etc.”
Captain McGregor said, “May I suggest, sir … I really think you’ve earned a large glass of champagne—I do believe we’ve a few bottles left.”
“Thank you.” Tyrer beamed. “Perhaps we … let’s Splice the Mainbrace.” This was the traditional naval phrase for issuing a ration of rum to all hands. “Also we should all have tiffin first—show them we’re not going to be hurried.”
“I’ll get it organized right away,” McGregor said. “Damn clever to think of getting that gardener to help with the words, some of them sounded quite English. But why did they want to search the Legation?”
“To find … to search for Bakufu enemies.”
Both men stared at him. “But there aren’t any Jappos here, except gardeners, if that’s what they meant.”
Tyrer’s heart surged as this at once pegged Ukiya but Pallidar was saying, “You’re not really going to allow them to search our Legation, are you? Surely that would create a dangerous precedent.”
At once his bonhomie vanished, for of course Pallidar was right. “Damn, didn’t think of that at the time!”
McGregor broke the silence. “Perhaps … perhaps before we leave, sir, you could invite the samurai officer to walk around with us, inspect the Legation, nothing wrong with inviting him. He can inspect the gardeners at the same time or we could just send them off before we all leave and we lock our gates.”
“A perfect compromise,” Pallidar said happily.
Hiraga was weeding near a side door of the Legation, an open window nearby, dirty and sweaty, the late afternoon sun still hot. Baggage being piled in carts in the forecourt, horses groomed, some soldiers already drawn up in marching order. Sentries patrolled the circumference walls. Outside the walls massed samurai squatted under sunshades or lolled around, malevolently.
“Now!” It was Tyrer’s voice from inside the room. Hiraga made sure he was not observed, ducked down into the undergrowth and quickly opened the door. Hastily, Tyrer led the way down the corridor into a room that overlooked the forecourt and bolted the door. Curtains over the closed windows filtered the sunlight. A desk and a few chairs, rolls of documents, files, and a revolver on the desk. Tyrer sat behind it and motioned to a chair. “Please sit down. Now tell me who you are.”
“First, sek’ret I speak Ingerish, yes?” Hiraga remained standing, at his full height and somehow menacing.
“First tell me who you are and then I will decide.”
“No, so sorry, Taira-san. I use to you, a’ready save men. Big use. True, neh?”
“Yes, true. Why should I keep this secret?”
“Safe me…you also.”
“Why me?”
“Perhaps not wise have…. how you say, ah yes, sek’ret other gai-jin not know. I very he’rp you. He’rp ’rearn ’ranguage, he’rp about Nippon. I say you truth, you say me truth too, you he’rp me I he’rp you. What age p’rease?”
“I’m twenty-one.”
Hiraga hid his surprise and smiled from under the brim of his hat, so hard to tell the age of gai-jin who all looked alike. As to the gun his enemy had placed on the table it was laughable. He could kill this fool with his hands before he could touch it. Such a simple kill, so tempting, and this a perfect place, so easy to escape from but, once outside, not so simple to escape the samurai. “Keep se’kret?”
“Who are you? Your name’s not Ukiya, is it?”
“Promise se’kret?”
Tyrer took a deep breath, weighed the consequences and came up with disaster on all counts. “I agree.” His heart skipped several beats as Hiraga slid the blade out of the hat brim, and cursed himself for being so reckless to put himself at so much risk. “In for a penny, in for a pound,” he muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He watched Hiraga prick his finger, then hand him the knife.
“Now you p’rease.” Tyrer hesitated, knowing what was coming, but having decided, he
“I swear by God to keep it secret about you as long as I can,” Tyrer said gravely, wondering where the binding oath would take him. “Where did you learn English? A missionary school?”
“Hai, but I not Christian.” Not safe to tell about our Choshu schools, Hiraga thought, or about Mr. Great Smell, the Dutchman, our Ingerish teacher who said he had been a priest before becoming a pirate. Truth or lie to this Taira matters not at all, he is gai-jin, a minor leader of our most powerful outside enemy and therefore to be used, distrusted, hated and killed at whim. “You he’rp es’kape?”
“Who are you? Where do you come from? Your name’s not Ukiya.”
Hiraga smiled and sat in one of the chairs. “Ukiya mean gardener, Taira-san. Fami’ry name Ikeda.” He said the lie easily. “Nakama Ikeda, I who officer want. I twenty-two year.”
“Why?”
“Because I and fami’ry, of Choshu, we fight Bakufu. Bakufu take power from Emperor an—”
“You mean the Shōgun?”
Hiraga shook his head. “Shōgun is Bakufu, head of Bakufu. He …” He thought a moment, then mimed a puppet on a string. “Unn’erstan’?”
“Puppet?”
“Yes, puppet.”
Tyrer blinked. “The Shōgun’s a puppet?”
Hiraga nodded, more confident now he was communicating, having to work hard to remember the words. “Shōgun Nobusada, boy, sixteen year, Bakufu puppet. He ’rive Yedo. Emperor ’rive Kyōto. Now Emperor no power. More two hundred year, Shōgun Toranaga take power. We fight take power from Shōgun and Bakufu, give back Emperor.”
Tyrer’s mind, aching with so much concentration—hard to understand this man’s speech—instantly realized the far-reaching implications. “This boy Shōgun. How old please?”
“Sixteen year Shōgun Nobusada. Bakufu say what do,” Hiraga said again, curbing his irritation, knowing he must be patient. “Emperor much power but no …” He searched for the word, could not find it so explained another way, “Emperor not ’rike daimyo. Daimyo has samurai, weapon, many. Emperor no samurai, no weapon. Can no make Bakufu obey. Bakufu have armies, Emperor not, wakatta?”