Gai-Jin by James Clavell
“Yes, I’ll do that. I’m sure Sir William will agree.”
“Thank you, Taira-san. Say so’diers also, if attack again I get katana.”
“You will do no such thing! I forbid it, Sir William has forbidden it! No weapons, no swords!”
“P’rease you say so’dier, no attack p’rease.”
“Yes, I’ll do that but if you wear swords here you will be killed, they’ll shoot you!”
Hiraga shrugged. “P’rease, no attack. Wakatta?”
Tyrer did not reply. Wakatta was the imperious form of wakarimasu ka: Do you understand?
“Domo.” With a contained violence that Tyrer could almost smell, Nakama thanked him again and said that he would return at dawn to guide him to the safe house, and would be ready then to answer any questions that he wanted to ask. He bowed stiffly. Tyrer did the same. He walked out. It was only then that Tyrer saw the extent of the bruises over all his back and legs.
That night the wind became changeable, the sea choppy.
Out in the roads the fleet was snug at anchor and ready for sleep, the first night watch that came on duty at 8:00 P.M. already at their stations. Upwards of fifty men were in various cells for various offenses; and with varying degrees of fear six were diligently making their own cat-o’-ninetails for the fifty lashes they were due at dawn for conduct prejudicial to good order and military discipline: one for threatening to break the neck of a sodomite Bosun, three for fighting, one for stealing a rum ration, and another for swearing at an officer.
Nine sea burials were scheduled for sunup.
All ship’s sick bays were overloaded with sufferers of dysentery, diarrhea, the croup, whooping cough, scarlet fever, measles, venereal diseases, broken limbs, hernias and the like, routine—except for a dangerous fourteen with smallpox—aboard the flagship. Bleeding and violent purges were the recommended cures for most illnesses—the majority of doctors also being barbers—except for the lucky few patients who were given Dr. Collis’s Tincture, one he had invented during the Crimea, which had cut dysentery deaths by three quarters. Six drops of the dark, opium-based liquid and your bowels began to quieten.
Throughout the Settlement everyone was preparing for dinner and the most eagerly anticipated part of the day: after-dinner conversation, discussing the day’s rumors or news—thank God the mail ship’s due tomorrow—enjoying the warm camaraderie and laughter over spicy scandals, the ball, tension over business problems and if war would begin, or about the latest book someone had read, a new funny story or poem another had thought up, or telling tales of storms or ice lands or desert, or journeys made to strange places throughout the Empire—New Zealand, Africa and Australia hardly explored but for coastal areas—or the Wild West of America and Canada, stories of the California Gold Rush of ’49, or visits to Spanish or French or Russian America. Dmitri had once sailed the mostly uncharted western seaboard from San Francisco north to Russian Alaska. Each man told of strange sights he had seen, girls sampled or wars witnessed. Good wine and drinks and pipes and tobacco from Virginia, a few nightcaps at the Club, then prayers and bed.
A normal night in the Empire.
Some hosts specialized in chorals or poetry readings or excerpts from a coveted novel, and tonight at Norbert Greyforth’s extremely private party, all guests sworn to secrecy, a special reading of the last chapter from the bootlegged copy he had had produced in his allotted hour by putting all his fifty clerks on it. “If this leaks, the whole lot of you are dismissed,” he had threatened.
In the Club they were still discussing the previous night’s ball and trying to work out how to have another. “Why not make it a bloody weekly bash, eh? Angel Tits can kick up her heels and show her knickers for me every day of the week along with Naughty Nellie Fortheringill—”
“Stop calling her Angel Tits, for chrissake, or else!”
“Angel tits she has, and Angel Tits she is!”
To jeers and catcalls the fight started, bets were taken and the two contenders, Lunkchurch and Grimm, another trader, toed the line and tried to smash each other senseless.
Almost directly across the road, on the sea side, was the large brick bungalow of the British Legation, flagpole in the courtyard, gardens, and surrounded like most important dwellings with a defendable fence. Sir William was already dressed for dinner and so was his main guest, the Admiral. Both were furious.
“The bloody bastards!” the Admiral said, his flushed face more flushed than usual, going to the sideboard to pour another large whisky. “They’re beyond comprehension.”
“Totally.” Sir William tossed the scroll aside and glared at Johann and Tyrer who stood in front of him. An hour ago the scroll had arrived by messenger from the Japanese Governor who had sent it on behalf of the Bakufu. “Very urgent so sorry.” Instead of being in Dutch as was normal, it was in characters. With Seratard’s agreement, Johann had co-opted one of the visiting French Jesuit missionaries and had produced a rough copy that Tyrer at once put into correct English. The message was from the Council of Elders, and signed by Anjo:
I communicate with you by dispatch. By orders of the Shōgun, received from Kyōto, the provisional date of the meeting in nineteen days with the roju, and meeting the same day with the Shōgun, is to be postponed for three months as His Majesty will not return until then. I therefore send you this first, before holding a Conference as to the details. The second installment of the gift is to be delayed for thirty days. Respectful and humble communication.
“Johann,” Sir William said, his voice icy, “would you say this is unusually rude, impolite and altogether vile?”
The Swiss said cautiously, “I think that’s about right, Sir William.”
“For Christ sake, I’ve spent days negotiating, threatening, losing sleep, renegotiating until they swore on the Shōgun’s head to meet in Yedo on November 5th, the Shōgun on November 6th and now this!” Sir William gulped his drink, choked and swore for almost five minutes in English, French and Russian, the others staring with admiration at the gorgeously descriptive vulgarities.
“Quite right,” the Admiral said. “Tyrer, pour Sir William another gin.”
Instantly Tyrer obeyed. Sir William found his handkerchief, blew his nose, took some snuff, sneezed and blew his nose again. “The pox on all of them!”
“What do you propose, Sir William?” the Admiral asked, keeping the delight off his face at this further humbling of his adversary.
“Naturally I’ll reply at once. Please order the fleet to Yedo tomorrow to bombard port facilities of my choosing.”
The Admiral’s blue eyes narrowed. “I think we will discuss this in private. Gentlemen!” Tyrer and Johann at once began to leave.
“No,” Sir William said tightly. “Johann, you can go, please wait outside. Tyrer’s my personal staff, he stays.”
The Admiral’s neck reddened but he said nothing until the door had closed. “You know my views on bombardment very well. Until the order from England arrives, I-will-not-order-it unless I am attacked.”
“Your position makes negotiations impossible. Power comes from the barrels of our cannon, nothing else!”
“I agree, we only disagree on timing.”
“Timing is my decision. Good. Then kindly just order a small cannonade, twenty shells on targets of my choosing.”
“Dammit, no! Am I not clear? When the order arrives I will conflagrate Japan if necessary, not before.”
Sir William flushed. “Your reluctance to assist Her Majesty’s policy in the most minor way is beyond belief.”
“Personal aggrandizement seems to be the real problem. What do a few months matter? Nothing—except prudence!”
“Prudence be damned,” Sir William said angrily. “Of course we will get instructions to proceed as I—I repeat, I—advise! It is imprudent to delay. By tomorrow’s mail I will request you are replaced by an officer who is more tuned to Her Majesty’s interests—and battle trained!”
The Admiral went purple. Only a fe
“Rude bugger,” Sir William muttered, then to his surprise saw Tyrer who had been standing behind him, out of his eye line, paralyzed by the salvos. “You’d best keep your mouth shut. Did they teach you that?”
“Yessir, yes, indeed.”
“Good,” Sir William said, and took his agitated mind off the Gordian knot of the Bakufu, roju and intransigence of the Admiral for later. “Tyrer, get yourself a sherry, you look as though you need one, and you’d better join us for dinner as the Admiral has declined my invitation. You play backgammon?”
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir,” Tyrer said meekly.
“While I think of it, what’s this I hear about a skirmish, your pet samurai versus the British Army?”
Tyrer gave him the details and his solution, but not about his Sensei’s threat to get swords, feeling ever more guilty about hiding facts from the Minister. “I’d like to retain him, of course with your approval, sir, but he is a very good teacher and I think will be most useful to us.”
“I doubt that and it’s more important to have no more trouble here. No telling what the fellow will do, he could become a viper in our nest. He’s ordered out tomorrow.”
“But sir, he’s already given me some very valuable information.” Tyrer held on to his sudden distress and blurted out, “For instance he told me the Shōgun’s only a boy, barely sixteen, he’s only the puppet of the Bakufu, the real power belongs to their Emperor—he used the title Mikado several times—who lives in Kyōto.”
“God Almighty!” Sir William exploded. “Is this true?”
It was on the tip of Tyrer’s tongue to tell about the English speaking, but he managed to stop himself. “I don’t know yet, sir. I haven’t had time to really question him, he’s difficult to bring out, but yes, I think he told me the truth.”
Sir William stared at him, his mind agog with the implications of the information. “What else has he told you?”
“I’ve only just started and it all takes time, as you’ll appreciate.” Tyrer’s excitement picked up. “But he’s told me about ronin. The word means ‘wave,’ sir, they’re called ronin because they’re as free as the waves. They’re all samurai, but outlawed for different reasons. Most of them are adversaries of the Bakufu, like Nakama, who believe they’ve usurped power from the Midako, sorry, Mikado, as I said.”
“Wait a moment, slow down, slow down, Tyrer. There’s plenty of time. Now, what is a ronin, exactly?”
Tyrer told him.
“Good God!” Sir William thought a moment. “So ronin are samurai who are either outlawed because their king has lost favor, or outlawed by their kings for crimes real or imagined, or voluntary outlaws who are banding together to overthrow the central government of the puppet Shōgun?”
“Yes, sir. He says illegal government.”
Sir William sipped the last of his gin, nodding to himself, astonished and elated as he ran this all around in his mind. “Then Nakama’s a ronin, and what you call a dissident, and what I’d call a revolutionary?”
“Yes, sir. Excuse me, sir, can I sit down?” Tyrer asked shakily, desperate to blurt out the real truth about the man and afraid to do so.
“Of course, of course, Tyrer, so sorry, but first get another sherry and bring me a tot of gin.” Sir William watched him, delighted with him yet somehow perturbed. Years of dealing with diplomats, spies, half-truths, lies and blatant disinformation were calling up warning signals that something was being hidden from him. He accepted the drink. “Thanks. Take that chair, it’s the most comfortable. Cheers! You must be speaking very good Japanese to get all this in such a short time,” he said easily.
“No, sir, sorry, I don’t, but I spend all my time at it. With Nakama, it’s, well, mostly patience, gestures, a few English words and Japanese words and phrases André Poncin has given me, he’s been tremendously helpful, sir.”
“Does André know what this man has told you?”
“No, sir.”
“Tell him nothing. Nothing at all. Anyone else?”
“No, sir, except Jamie McFay.” Tyrer gulped his sherry. “He knew a little already and, well, he’s very persuasive and he, well, pried it out about the Shōgun.”
Sir William sighed. “Yes, Jamie’s persuasive, to say the least, and always knows far more than he tells.”
He sat back in the comfortable old leather swivel chair and sipped his drink, his mind roving over all this priceless new knowledge, already redesigning his reply to tonight’s rude missive, wondering how far he dare gamble and how far he could trust Tyrer’s information. As always in these circumstances, queasily he remembered the Permanent Under Secretary’s parting salvos about failure.
“About Nakama,” he said. “I’ll agree to your plan, Phillip … may I call you Phillip?”
Tyrer flushed with pleasure at the sudden and unexpected compliment. “Of course, sir, thank you, sir.”
“Good, thank you. For the moment I’ll agree to your plan, but for God’s sake, be careful of him, don’t forget ronin have committed all the murders, except poor Canterbury.”
“I’ll be careful, Sir William. Don’t worry.”
“Get all you can out of him but tell no one else and give me the information at once. For God’s sake, be careful, always have a revolver on hand and if he shows the slightest indication of violence, scream bloody murder, shoot him or clap him in irons.”
Next door to the British Legation was the American, then the Dutch, Russian, German and last, the French, and there, in her suite that evening, Angelique was dressing for dinner, helped by Ah Soh. In an hour, the dinner Seratard was giving her and Malcolm to celebrate their engagement was due to begin. Then later there would be music. “But don’t play too long, André, say you’re tired,” she had cautioned him earlier. “Leave plenty of time for your mission, no? Men are so lucky.”
She was glad and sad that she had moved. It’s wiser, better, she thought. In three days I can move back. A new life, a new …
“Wat wrong, Miss’ee?”
“Nothing, Ah Soh.” Angelique forced her mind away from what must soon be endured, and buried her fear deeper.
Just down the street in the best location on the waterfront, the Struan Building was well lit, as was Brock and Sons, next door, both with many clerks and shroffs still at their work. Today Malcolm Struan had moved into the tai-pan suite that was much bigger and more comfortable than the one he had been using and now he was fighting his way into his dinner clothes. “What’s your advice, Jamie? Damned if I know what to do about Mother and her letters, but that’s my damned problem not yours—she’s giving you stick too, isn’t she?”
Jamie McFay shrugged. “It’s awfully difficult for her. From her point of view she’s right, she only wants the best for you. I think she’s worried to death over your health, you being so far away, she unable to come here. And nothing about Struan’s can be solved from Yokohama, everything in Hong Kong. China Cloud docks in a few days from Shanghai, then a quick turn around for Hong Kong. You’ll be returning with her?”
“No, and please don’t bring it up again,” Struan said sharply. “I’ll tell you when we, Angelique and I, are leaving. I just hope to God Mother isn’t on China Cloud—that’d be the last straw.” Struan bent to pull on his boots, failed, the pain too much. “Sorry, could you? Thanks.” Then he burst out, “This being like a fucking cripple is driving me over the brink.”
“I can imagine.” McFay covered his surprise. This was the first time he had ever heard Struan use that expletive. “I’d be the same, no, not the same, a bloody sight worse,” he added kindly, liking him, admiring his courage.
“I’ll be fine when we’re married and all the waiting’s over, everything tidy.” Struan with difficulty used the ch
“I’m not, Malcolm, just concerned. With these kinds of vicious internal wounds, any indication during the healing process should be noted …”
Struan finished and hobbled over to the chair by the window and sat gratefully. “Jamie, I need a favor.”
“Of course, anything, what can I do?”
“Can you, well, I must have a woman. Could you arrange it from the Yoshiwara?”
Jamie was startled. “I, yes, I imagine so.” Then he added, “Is that wise?”
A gust rattled the shutters and tugged at trees and gardens, clattering a few loose roof tiles to the ground, sending the rats scurrying from the piles of garbage thrown carelessly into the High Street and from the encircling turgid and fetid canal that also served as a sewer.
“No,” Malcolm said.
Half a mile away from the Struan Building, near Drunk Town, in a nondescript dwelling in the Japanese village, Hiraga was lying on his stomach, naked, being massaged. The house was ordinary, the facade facing the street decrepit, a pattern of the others that lined both sides of the narrow dirt roadway, each serving as home, warehouse, and shop during the day. Inside, like many that belonged to the more substantial merchants, everything was sparkling clean, polished, cherished and expensive. It was the house of the shoya, the village elder.
The masseuse was blind. She was in her early twenties, firmly built with a gentle face and sweet smile. By ancient custom throughout most of Asia, blind people had a monopoly on the art, though there were also practitioners with normal sight. Again, by ancient custom, the blind were always quite safe and never to be touched.
“You are very strong, samurai-sama,” she said, breaking a silence. “Those you fought must be dead or suffering.”
For a moment Hiraga did not reply, enjoying the deep probing and wise fingers that sought out his knotted muscles and relaxed them. “Perhaps.”