Gai-Jin by James Clavell
“And if I do not return?”
“Then I will do it—in a time of my choosing.”
The voice grated even more. “But she could leave, escape, neh? What if she leaves before I return?”
“I will make sure I hear about any move and will send you word. If you cannot be here in time, I will decide. She—and her husband if by then they’re married—they will only go to Hong Kong. You—or we—can follow her there.” He heard Ori’s heavy breathing and waited, on guard against a sudden rush, knowing he could not trust Ori while she was alive and near but this seemed to be the best plan for the moment. Killing him would be a waste. I need his wisdom. “You agree?”
He waited. And waited. Then, “Yes. What else?”
“Last: the cross, you will throw it down the well.” Hiraga heard a sudden, angry intake of breath. The silence grew.
“I agree, Hiraga-san. Please accept my apologies.”
Then his sharp ears heard the slight sound of cloth being moved, something went past him and then the tiny sound of metal hitting the well wall behind him, almost immediately to vanish below. Sound of swords being grounded.
Hiraga lit a match. Indeed now Ori was standing defenseless. At once Hiraga darted forward, Ori rushed back in panic but Hiraga only collected the swords. Before the match died he had had time to throw the swords also into the well. “Please obey me, Ori. Then you have nothing to fear. I will go first, wait till I call down to you.”
The rungs were jagged with rust, some loose. The ascent was precarious. Then, far above, thankfully he saw the mouth of the well open to the sky, speckles of stars between clouds. Night sounds, wind and sea. Climbing again but more cautiously. It took all of his strength to ease himself up to the stone balustrade and peer around.
The abandoned well was near the canal fence, in a wasteland of weeds and derelict junk. Seashore not far off. Broken-down houses, deep potholes in the dirt roadways. Snarl of a foraging dog nearby. Raucous voices singing on the wind. Now Hiraga had his bearings. They were in Drunk Town.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
FRIDAY, 17TH OCTOBER:
In the morning light in Yedo Castle, Misamoto—the fisherman, fake samurai, and Yoshi’s spy—was trembling on his knees in front of the alarmed Council of Elders, the English version of Sir William’s reply shaking in his hand. Beside him cowered a Bakufu official.
“Speak up, fisherman!” Anjo, the chief Elder repeated, the audience room hushed and tense and chill. “Never mind if you don’t understand all the Ing’erish words, we want to know if the Bakufu official translated the message accurately? Is that what the gai-jin message says? Exactly?”
“It’s, well, yes, more or less, yes, Sire,” Misamoto mumbled, so frightened he could hardly speak. “It’s as the lord Official … more or less, Sire … more … or …”
“Have you seaweed for a tongue, fish offal for brains? Hurry up! Lord Toranaga says you can read Ing’erish—read!” An hour ago Anjo had been awakened by the unnerved Bakufu official who had brought Sir William’s reply in Dutch and English. Hastily Anjo had convened a meeting of the Council where the official had just repeated his translation of the Dutch. “What does the paper say in Ing’erish?”
“Well, Sire, yes, it’s, er …” Again Misamoto’s voice died away, once more choked with panic.
Exasperated Anjo looked at Yoshi. “This fish head is your spy,” he said with just the right amount of ice. “It was your idea to fetch him, please make him speak up.”
“Tell us what the letter says, Misamoto,” Yoshi said kindly, inwardly almost blind with frustration and anger. “No one is going to hurt you. In your own words. The truth.”
“Well, Sire, it’s more or less as … more or less as the lord Official said, Sire,” Misamoto stuttered, “but this’s, this letter’s, I don’t know all the words, Sire, but some of them…well, well …” His face was twisted with fear.
Yoshi waited a moment. “Go on, Misamoto, don’t be afraid, speak the truth, whatever it is. No one will touch you. We need the truth.”
“Well, Sire, the gai-jin leader.” Misamoto tried not to stammer. “He says he’s going to Osaka in eleven days as the Official said, but not—not to make a—a ‘Ceremonial visit’ …” He quailed under the strength of their eyes, so terrified that now his nose was running and saliva dribbled down his chin, then he blurted out, “He’s not at all happy in fact he’s strongly angry and he’s going … going to Osaka with his fleet, going in force to Kyōto with cannon, sixty-pounders, and cavalry and soldiers to see the Son of Heaven and the Lord Shogun—he’s even named them, Sire, Emperor Komei and the boy Shōgun, Nobusada.”
Everyone gasped, even the guards—normally impassive and not supposed to be listening. Misamoto shoved his head to the tatami and kept it there.
Yoshi pointed at the Bakufu official who blanched as all attention focused on him. “Is that correct?”
“Ceremonial visit, Sire? For your august ears that should be the correct translation … the barbarian wording is rude and uncouth and should, I sincerely believe, be correctly construed as a Ceremonial, State visit, an—”
“Does it say with ‘cannon and cavalry’ and such?”
“In principle, Sire, the lett—”
To everyone’s shock, Yoshi almost shouted, “Yes or no?”
The Official swallowed, aghast that he was ordered to answer so directly, the first time in his life, and appalled that he was being challenged and ordinary rules and manners and the niceties of diplomacy were being disregarded. “I regret to inform you that, in principle, it does mention those but such an impertinence is clearly a mistake and—”
“Why did you not translate accurately?”
“For august ears, Sire, it is necessary to interpret—”
“Are those august persons named? Yes or no?”
“Their names are contained but y—”
“Are the characters of their names the correct ones?”
“It would seem, Sire, the characters appear to be c—”
“Write an exact translation of what it says at once.” The raw words were said softly but the violence ricocheted off the unadorned stone walls. “Exact! Make all future communications from them, or to them, equally exact. exact! One mistake and your head will be on a rubbish dump. Get out! Misamoto, you did very well, please wait outside.”
The two men fled, Misamoto cursing his ill luck and the day he had agreed to accompany Perry to Japan, believing the Bakufu would welcome him for his unique knowledge, would grant him a fortune—the Official swearing to be revenged on Yoshi and this lying fisherman before the Council made good the sentence that he, a wise and correct official, could not avoid.
Yoshi broke the silence, his mind working frantically to formulate the next move in the never-ending conflict. “We cannot possibly allow an armed visit to Kyōto! This proves what I have been saying all along: we must have English speakers, translators we can trust—who will tell us what their foul messages really say!”
“That is not necessary,” Toyama grated, his heavy dewlaps shaking with fury. “This gai-jin impertinence is insulting beyond belief, tantamount to a declaration of war. Such impertinence must be answered in blood.” A rustle went through the guards. “It is a declaration of war. Good. In three or four days I will lead the surprise attack on the Settlement and finish this nonsense once and for all.”
“That would be baka. We dare not. Baka!” Anjo repeated, more for the guards than anyone, easy for one to be a secret shishi admirer or sonno-joi adherent. “How many times must I say no attack yet, not even a surprise attack.”
Toyama had flushed even more. “Yoshi-san,” he said, “we could smash them and burn Yokohama, neh? We could, neh? I cannot bear the shame, it’s too much!”
“You are right, of course we could destroy Yokohama, easily, but Anjo-dono is correct—we cannot get at their fleet. I suggest we continue as before,” Yoshi said calmly, not feeling calm at all. “We supply them with watered soup and
“I will only meet those dogs on a battlefield.”
Yoshi curbed his temper. “I’m sure you will do what the roju decides, but I propose you are represented by an imposter at this meeting: Misamoto.”
“Eh?” They all stared at him.
“He’ll be a perfect substitute.”
Anjo said, “That stupid fisherman will never b—”
“Dressed in ceremonial clothes, taught to wear them, eight days is enough time. He looks like a samurai now though he does not act like one. Fortunately he is not stupid and he’s so frightened that he will do whatever we order, and most important, he will tell the truth, which is in short supply.” Yoshi saw Anjo redden. The others pretended not to notice.
“What then, Yoshi-san?”
“Next, we’ll hold the meeting here in the castle.”
“Out of the question!” Anjo said.
“Of course we first offer Kanagawa,” Yoshi told him irritably, “then allow ourselves to agree to meet them here.”
“Out of the question,” Anjo said again to the agreement of the others.
“With the castle as bait we can delay again, perhaps even another month—their curiosity will consume them—and we only allow them into the outer area. Why not the castle? All the gai-jin leaders of their own free will within our grasp? We could take them hostage, their presence gives us a dozen chances to entwine them further.”
They gaped at him, off balance. “Take them hostage?”
“A possibility, one of many,” Yoshi said patiently, knowing he needed allies in the coming struggle. “We must use guile and silken threads and their own weakness against them, not war—until we can match their fleets.”
“Until then?” Adachi spluttered. The rotund little man was the richest of them all and his Toranaga bloodline equal to Yoshi’s. “You really believe we have to deal with these dogs until we have fleets to match theirs?”
“Or enough big cannon to keep them off our shores. We only need a sack or two of gold and they will trample over themselves to sell us the means to blow them out of our water.” Yoshi’s brow darkened. “I heard a rumor that some Choshu emissaries are already trying to buy rifles from them.”
“Those dogs!” Toyama spat with rage. “Always Choshu. The sooner we put them down the better.”
“And Satsuma,” Anjo muttered to general agreement, and looked at Yoshi. “And others!”
Yoshi pretended not to understand what his adversary implied. Never mind, he thought, the day is coming. “We can deal with all enemies, one at a time—not together.”
Toyama said gruffly, “I vote we order all friendly daimyos to increase taxes at once and arm. I begin tomorrow.”
“‘Advise’ is a better word,” Adachi said carefully, and drained his teacup. Delicate flowers decorated the lacquered trays that had been set in front of all of them. He stifled a yawn, bored and anxious to go back to bed. “Please go on with your plan, Yoshi-dono. Until we know all the details, how can we vote on it?”
“The morning of the meeting Anjo-sama will unfortunately be taken ill, oh, so sorry. As the whole roju is not present, we will be unable to make any binding decisions, but we will listen and try to reach a compromise. If we cannot compromise then we will, with suitable deference, agree to ‘submit their desires to the full Council as soon as possible’—and delay and delay to drive them mad so they make a mistake, not us.”
“Why should they agree to another delay?” Anjo asked, glad that he would not have to be nose to nose with gai-jin, distrusting Yoshi, and wondering where the trick was.
“The dogs have proved they would rather talk than fight, they are cowards,” Yoshi was saying. “Though they could easily dominate us, it is clear they don’t have the stomach for it.”
“What if they do not agree and this insolent Inger’ish ape makes good his threat and leaves for Kyōto? What then? We cannot allow that, under any circumstances!”
“I agree,” Yoshi said with great finality, and everyone tensed. “That means war—a war we must eventually lose.”
Toyama said instantly, “Better to war as men than become slaves like the Chinese, Indians and all other barbarian tribes.” The old man peered at Yoshi. “If they land you’ll vote for war?”
“Instantly! Any attempt to land in force—anywhere—will be prevented.”
“Good. Then I hope they land,” Toyama said, satisfied.
“War would be very bad. I think they will talk and we can maneuver them out of this madness.” Yoshi’s voice became harsher. “We can if we are clever enough. Meanwhile we must concentrate on more important matters: like Kyōto and taking back control of our Gates, like the hostile daimyos, like getting enough gold to buy weapons and modernize and equip our forces—and those of our trusted allies—and not allow Choshu, Tosa and Satsuma to arm under the guise of supporting us, merely to more quickly attack us.”
“The traitor Ogama should be outlawed,” Toyama said. “Why don’t we outlaw him and take back our Gates?”
“To attack him now would be baka!” Anjo told him sourly. “It would only push Satsuma and Tosa into his arms, along with other fence sitters.” He shifted uncomfortably, his stomach hurting him, head hurting, and no relief from the new Chinese doctor he had consulted in secret about his constant pains. “We settle it this way: Yoshi-dono, please draft a reply to the gai-jin for approval at tomorrow’s meeting.”
“Certainly. But what I want to know is who is feeding our secrets to them. Who is the gai-jin spy? This is the first time they’ve mentioned the ‘young’ Shōgun and named him, and named the Emperor. Someone is betraying us.”
“We will put all our spies onto it! Good. And we will meet tomorrow morning as usual, consider the draft of our reply and decide on your plan.” Anjo’s eyes slitted. “And to make final preparations for Shōgun Nobusada’s departure to Kyōto.”
The blood went out of Yoshi’s face. “We have discussed this a dozen times. At our last meet—”
“His visit will go forward! He will travel by the north road, not the Tokaidō, along the coast. Safer.”
“As Guardian I oppose the visit for the reasons already stated over and over—by any road!”
Toyama said, “Better for my son to be in Kyōto. Soon we will be at war. Our warriors won’t be checked much longer.”
“No war and no visit. Either will destroy us,” Yoshi said angrily. “The moment a Shōgun kowtows, as Nobusada will, our position is ruined for all time. The Legacy states th—”
Anjo said, “The Legacy will not dominate in this.”
“The Toranaga Legacy is our only anchor and cannot b—”
“I do not agree!”
Choking back his rage, Yoshi began to get up but stopped as Anjo said, “There is a last matter to decide today: the immediate appointment of the new Elder, Utani’s replacement.”
There was a sudden tension amongst them. Since Utani’s assassination and the manner of his death—the room in which he and the youth had been impaled had not been completely destroyed in the fire—together with the failure of legions of spies and soldiers to apprehend the assassins, all the Elders had slept less comfortably. Particularly Anjo, who was still smarting from his own near assassination. Except for Yoshi, who was occasionally supported by Utani, none of the others regretted his death, or the manner of it, least of all Anjo who had been shocked to discover the identity of the paramour and loathed Utani even more for secretly stealing his occasional pleasure. “Let us vote now.”
“Such an important matter should wait until tomorrow.”
“So sorry, Yoshi-sama. Now is a perfect time.”
Adachi nodded. “Unless the Council is at full strength we cannot make important decisions. Who do you propose?”
“I formally propose Zukumura of Gai.”
In spite of his control Yoshi g
“I did not agree.” Anjo smiled with his mouth only. “I merely said I would consider him carefully. I have. Zukumura is a better choice. Now we will vote.”
“I do not think a vote now is wise or adv—”
“Vote! As chief Councillor it is my right to put it to a vote! Vote!”
“I vote No!” Yoshi said, and glared at the other two.
Adachi did not meet his eye, just said, “Gai have been Mito’s allies since Sekigahara. Yes.”
Toyama shrugged. “Whatever you want.”
* * *
Yoshi slashed violently at his two opponents with the wooden sword, sweat pouring off his face, then darted back, spun and attacked again. Both men, experts, sidestepped and pressed their own attack, on orders to be victors, with failure costing them a month confined to barracks and three months’ pay.
Cleverly, one man feinted to give the other an opening but Yoshi was ready and ducked under the blow and caught the man across the chest and his sword shattered with the strength of his blow—if the blade had been real it would have almost cut the man in two—eliminating him from the contest.
At once the other rushed in confidently for the kill but Yoshi was no longer where he had expected but almost floor level and hacking forward with a karate foot chop. This man groaned in agony as the iron-hard edge of Yoshi’s foot crashed into his scrotum and he fell, writhing. Still enwrapped in his rage and adrenaline, Yoshi leaped at the prone man, the splintered haft of his sword ready on high, a stake to drive into the man’s throat for the death blow. But he stayed the blow a hair above the man’s neck, heart pumping, ecstatic with his skill and control and that he had not failed this time, victory meaning nothing. His pent-up fury was no more.
Content now, he tossed the broken haft aside and began to unwind, the exercise room bare and Spartan like the rest of the castle. All were panting from their exertions, the prone man still twisting and turning with pain. Then Yoshi was astonished to hear gentle clapping. Angrily he turned—by his custom, no one was ever invited to witness these practice sessions where the extent of his prowess could be gauged, his weaknesses could be judged, and his brutality measured—but this anger vanished also.