Gai-Jin by James Clavell
Afterwards, barely awake, he wanted to tell her how vast the Clouds and the Rain had been, how much he admired her and thanked her—beset with a great sadness that he had to end her life, this life. But not sad that his own death was near. Now, because of her, he would die fulfilled, her death sanctifying the just cause of sonno-joi.
Ah, he thought with sudden warmth, in return for such a gift perhaps an equal gift, a samurai gift, a samurai death: no screams or terror, one moment alive the next dead. Why not?
Completely at peace, hand on unsheathed knife, he allowed himself to stray into dreamlessness.
Her fingers touched him. Instantly he was awake, on guard, fingers tight on his knife. He saw her gesture at the curtained and shuttered window, a finger to her lips. Outside whistling was approaching. The sound passed, then went away.
She sighed, then leaned over and snuggled close, kissed his chest, then, so happily, pointed at the clock on her dresser that read 4:16 A.M., again at the window. She slid out of bed and with signs, made him understand that he was to dress and to leave now and to return with the night, that the shutters would be unbarred. He shook his head, pretending to tease her, and she ran back, shadows and the sight of her delighting him, to kneel beside the bed and whisper, pleading with him, “Please … please …”
His spirit twisted. Never in his life had he seen that expression on a woman’s face before, such an open depth of passion beyond his ken—no word for love, not in Japanese. It swamped him but did not deflect his decision.
Easy to pretend to assent, to agree to go, to return with nightfall. As he dressed she stayed very close, helping him, reluctant to let him go, wanting him to stay, completely protective. Finger to her lips, almost childlike, she moved the curtains aside, opened the windows soundlessly, unbarred the shutters and peered out.
The air was clean. A hint of dawn. Sky speckled with clouds. Sea calm and no sound or sight of danger, only the sigh of the waves on the sandy beach. Along High Street only threads of smoke remained of the fires. No one about, the Settlement was at peace, asleep.
He stood close behind her and realized this was the perfect moment. His hand angled the blade, knuckles white. But he did not strike for as she turned her tenderness and concern obliterated his resolve, that and the lust that still obsessed him. Quickly she kissed him, then she leaned out again and peered both ways to make sure it was safe. “No, not yet,” she murmured anxiously, making him wait, her arm around his waist.
And when she was sure, she turned again and kissed him again, then she motioned him to hurry. He stepped silently over the lintel and the moment he was safe in the garden, she slammed the shutters closed and the bolt home and her screams tore through the night, “Helppppp meeee …”
Ori was paralyzed. But only for a moment. Blinded by rage he clawed at the shutters, her continuing screams and the knowledge he had been duped sending him berserk. Fingers now talons ripped a shutter open, almost tore it off its hinges. At that second the first of the French sentries hurtled around the corner, rifle armed and ready. Ori saw him and was faster and jerked out the derringer and pulled the trigger but missed with both barrels, never having fired a gun before, the bullets whining off the brickwork into the night.
The sentry did not miss the first time or the second time or the third and in the room Angelique cowered with her hands over her ears, exulted, forlorn, not knowing what to think, what to do, whether she was laughing or crying, only that she had won and now she was safe and revenged, all the time the inner voices rejoicing, You’ve won, well done, you were marvelous, wonderful, you followed the plan perfectly, you’re safe, you’re safe now from him forever!
“Am I?” she whimpered.
Oh yes, you’re safe, he’s dead. Of course, there’s always a price, but don’t worry, don’t be afraid …
What price? What … Oh God, I forgot the cross, he still has my cross!
Amid the growing uproar outside and the hammering on her door, she began to tremble. Violently.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
FRIDAY, 7TH NOVEMBER:
In the afternoon H.M.S. Pearl returned from Yedo with all sails set and hurtled for her usual mooring in Yokohama’s busy harbor. Sir William’s flag was at the masthead, other flags demanded his cutter immediately but these were unnecessary as his longboat was already waiting in the roads, the Struan steam cutter beside her—Jamie impatient in the stern. All those ashore who saw Pearl watched to see if her Captain was up to his arrogant dash, the wind frisky and his speed under sail making the maneuver dicey. Her bow wave was high, the sea good. At the last second she spun into wind and stayed there quivering, her bowsprit perfectly over her buoy just alee. At once smartly dressed sailors dropped rope hawsers over the bollard and made her secure while others went aloft to furl all sails.
Not bad at all, Jamie thought proudly, then called out, “Full ahead, get alongside,” needing to be first at the gangplank to intercept Sir William as Malcolm had ordered. “Hurry it up, Tinker, for Christ’s sake!”
“Aye, aye, sorr!” Tinker, the Struan coxswain, beamed toothlessly, anticipating him with throttles full forward. He was an old hand, a pigtailed, tattooed, greying bosun’s mate off one of their clippers and he zipped passed Sir William’s eight-oared cutter to their chagrin, spat tobacco juice good-naturedly, gave them the finger and took possession of the slot. Jamie jumped onto the gangway. At the main deck he raised his top hat to the officer of the deck, a fresh-faced midshipman. “Permission to come aboard, message for Sir William.”
The midshipman saluted him back. “Certainly, sir.”
“What is it, Jamie, what the devil’s wrong now?” Sir William called down from the bridge, Phillip Tyrer and Captain Marlowe beside him.
“Sorry, sir, the Settlement’s in a bit of an uproar and Mr. Struan thought I should give you the details.”
Marlowe said, “You can use my cabin, Sir William.”
“Thank you. Best you come along too, after all you’re ‘Admiral in charge of our Naval Defense,’ however temporary.”
Marlowe laughed. “I could certainly use the salary, sir, if not the rank, however temporary.”
“Wouldn’t we all! Come along, you too, Phillip.” They followed him, Marlowe last. Before Marlowe left the bridge, he beckoned his Number One. “Engine room to get steam up, all cannon cleaned, oiled and made ready, ship’s company prepared for battle stations.”
In the small, austere stern cabin, with a bunk, private head and chart table, they sat down. “Well, Jamie?”
“First, Sir William, the tai-pan and all traders want to congratulate you on a successful meeting.”
“Thank you. What uproar?”
“There’s been trouble: early this morning a Jappo tried to break into Angelique’s bedroom in the French Legation, the sentries shot him, killed him. Dr. Hoag and Dr. Babcott w—”
“Christ Almighty, was she hurt? Touched?”
To their relief Jamie shook his head. “No, sir, she said she heard him fumbling with the shutters and began screaming bloody murder an—”
“Then it was someone, like last time!” Tyrer burst out. “Not the wind rattling the shutters!”
“We’re inclined to think so.” Jamie ran on quickly, “Babcott and Hoag were summoned—she was in shock, not hurt as I said but shaking. They took a look at the dead man and at once Hoag said he was the same bugger he operated on in Kanagawa …” Phillip Tyrer gasped and Marlowe looked at him quickly. “The same we suspect was one of Canterbury’s murderers, same man who might have been at our Kanagawa Legation and Captain Marlowe and Pallidar tried to catch.”
“I’ll be damned!” Sir William glanced at Tyrer who had blanched. “Do you think you could identify him, Phillip?”
“I don’t know, I don’t think so. Malcolm might be able to, I don’t know.”
Sir William’s mind had hurled him onwards: If this is the same man then both probable murderers are dead so how does this affect our demand for indemnity? “Fre
“We’ve no idea, sir. It also turns out he was Catholic—at least he was wearing a cross. Wh—”
“That’s curious! But … but wait a minute, Angelique there? I thought she had moved back to Struan’s.”
“She had but her quarters were fire damaged. I forgot to mention, after the earthquake, sir, we had a small fire, us and also Norbert. The—”
“Anyone hurt?”
“No, sir, thank God, nor anywhere in the Settlement far as we know. The French offered her accommodation but th—”
“Was Malcolm Struan staying there too?”
Jamie sighed at the continual interruptions. “No, sir, he was at our place.”
“Then you can’t have had much damage.”
“No, sir, fortunately, and not much in the whole Settlement though Norbert lost most of his upper floor.”
“Well, that should please you. So the girl wasn’t touched, the assailant’s dead, so what’s the fuss about?”
“I’ve been trying to tell you, sir,” Jamie said, then rushed on, refusing this time to be interrupted by Sir William’s shocked questions. “Some of the morons in Drunk Town, aided I’m sorry to say by some of our more stupid traders, decided that every Jappo in the village was responsible so a couple of hours ago a mob of them started beating up anyone they could find, that brought samurai steaming in, troops and Navy fellows confronted them and now there’s a standoff, both sides armed, reinforced and getting grimmer by the minute, some of our cavalry there, the General’s in command and bristling to order a charge like the Light Brigade at Balaclava.”
Bloody fool, Sir William thought. “I’ll go ashore at once.”
Marlowe said, “I’ll send a detachment of marines with you, sir. Orderly!”
The cabin door opened instantly. “Yessir?”
“Marine Captain and ten marines with a signalman to the main deck gangway on the double!” Then to Jamie, “Where’s the riot, exactly?”
“The south end of the village, near No Man’s Land.”
“Sir William, I’ll be standing off, close in. Any trouble, use my signalman and you can order up a barrage.”
“Thank you, but I doubt if I’ll need naval support.”
Jamie said, “Another problem is—”
“When we’re in the cutter.” Sir William was already halfway to the main deck. “We’ll take yours, it’s faster. Head for the Drunk Town wharf.”
In moments the Struan cutter was at full speed, marines crowded into the stern, Sir William, Jamie and Tyrer in relative comfort in the midship cabin. “Now, Jamie, another problem?”
“It’s Mr. Tyrer’s not-so-tame samurai, Nakama.” Jamie glanced at Phillip briefly. “Part of the mob attacked him but he broke away, somehow got some swords and fought back, cut one drunk, an Aussie, but not badly, and would have killed the rest if they hadn’t fled. Some of them got guns, rushed back and nearly blew him away so he retreated into a village store, we think there may be some samurai with him—and there’s a dozen or so maniacs surrounding the place, ready to lynch him.”
Sir William gasped, “A lynch mob? In my jurisdiction?”
“Yes, sir. I tried to get them to leave him alone but they told me to piss off. Nakama wasn’t at fault initially, Sir William, I saw him on High Street, that much I’m sure of.”
“Good,” Sir William said tightly. “Fortunately we’ve one law for the rich and the same for the poor, and the same for anyone under our protection. If he’s lynched we will lynch the lynchers. I’m tired of Drunk Town and their rabble nonsense. Until we get our allotment of Peelers from London we’ll form our own police force. I’m Chief. Jamie, you’re temporary Deputy Police Chief with Norbert an equal Deputy—equally temporary.”
“Not on your nelly, Sir Wil—”
“Then it’s Norbert alone,” Sir William said sweetly.
“God dammit, all right,” Jamie said, not pleased at all, knowing that that job had to be a thankless task. “Norbert, eh? Did you hear about Norbert and the tai-pan?”
“What about them?”
Jamie told them about the quarrel and challenge. “The betting’s five to one they sneak off one dawn and one of them will end up very dead.”
Sir William’s eyes looked to Heaven and he said wearily, “I’m away three days and everything’s up the creek.” He thought a moment. “Phillip, you’ll order both of them into my office first thing tomorrow.” His voice changed and the other two men winced at the venom therein: “Advise them both, in advance, that they had both better be wise, docile and better listen to, and be guided by, my gentle homily. Coxswain! Get a bloody move on, for God’s sake!”
“Aye, aye, sorr …”
“Did you bring my briefcase, Phillip?”
“Yessir.” Tyrer thanked Heaven he had remembered.
Hiraga was peering through the slats of the barricaded door of the shoya’s shop-house at the shouting, angry men armed with pistols and muskets. Sweat ran down his face. He was choked with rage and not a little afraid though he hid it from the others. Blood from a slight wound in his back stained his shirt—he had discarded his frock coat the moment he had rushed in here to fetch some swords. The shoya stood nervously beside him, unarmed except for a fishing harpoon—only samurai could bear arms, on pain of death.
Trapped with them was a greying ashigaru, a foot soldier, who watched Hiraga with awe and confusion: awe for his fighting ability and because he was clearly shishi, confusion because he wore gai-jin clothes and grew his hair like them and seemingly lived in the Settlement with them, yet was also the subject of these unwarranted attacks.
Stinking gai-jin, he thought, as if a futile attempted burglary by a baka ronin mattered—of course the man was just a simple ronin thief and not after the girl, what civilized man would want one of them? The fool was correctly killed for his impertinence, no one was hurt, so why all the violence? Baka gai-jin! “Is there a way out the back?” he asked.
The shoya shook his head, his face ashen. This was the first time there had been a major disturbance with so many gai-jin on the rampage. And he was directly involved: had he not harbored this shishi? Even the maniac ronin had been in his house and he had not reported them as he was obliged to do—not only them but any strangers.
“There’s bound to be a Bakufu investigation,” his wife had moaned an hour ago. “We are bound to be called before them to testify. Enforcers are still at the guard houses. We will lose everything, including our heads, Namu Amida Butsu!” She and their eldest daughter had been shopping at the vegetable market when the first of the mob had rushed through the village shouting threats, upsetting crates, barging and jostling shoppers and causing them to run home in panic.
“So sorry, Sire,” the shoya managed to say, “we are surrounded—there are more gai-jin in the back alley.”
Apart from the dozen-odd men outside confronting them, most of the population of the Settlement was collected on both sides of No Man’s Land. The majority had begun as onlookers out for a lark, but now many were well whipped up by a hard core of rioters wanting revenge. Behind those in the village street were twenty samurai from the North Gate guarding the village. In front were those from the South Gate. None of the samurai had their swords out but all had their hands on their hilts, officers to the fore. The same was true with the troops confronting them, rifles ready, the dozen cavalry sitting on their horses waiting for orders, the General nearby—everyone confidently and noisily spoiling for a fight.
Once again the senior Japanese officer shouted above the clamor for the gai-jin to disperse and once again the General shouted imperiously—to a following roar of approval—the samurai were ordered to disperse, neither side understanding the other, or wanting to understand.
Hiraga could just hear the General among the shouts and counter-shouts. Fool, he thought, seeth
When her warning screams had broken the night’s quiet, immediately followed by rifle fire, he and Akimoto had been hunched down in the alley near Struan’s, wearily lying in wait for Ori, hoping to intercept him—they had not seen Angelique go to the Legation so presumed him to be somewhere nearby, perhaps even inside the Struan Building.
In the confusion that followed, they had joined the growing mass of half-dressed men converging on the Legation, their laborer’s clothes and caps camouflaging them.
In shock Hiraga and Akimoto saw the two doctors arrive and then, in a little while, Ori’s body dragged out into the light. At once Hiraga motioned to Akimoto and they slid nervously into the night, and the moment they were in their village hideaway, Hiraga burst out, “May Ori be reborn gai-jin filth, not samurai! This will stir up a hornet’s nest. Sneak back to the Yoshiwara at once, use the tunnel and hide until I send word or come to find you.”
“And you?”
“I am one of them,” he had said with a twisted smile. “Taira is my protector, so is the gai-jin leader, everyone knows, so I am safe.” But I was wrong, he thought bitterly, the mood of the men outside becoming even rougher.
A couple of hours ago, the moment Pearl was spotted on the horizon, he had left the village and walked along High Street, heading for the British Legation with a whole list of phrase translations Tyrer had asked to be done while he was away. He was lost in thought, more than a little anxious to hear firsthand about the Yedo meeting, when furious gai-jin faces jerked him out of his reverie.
“It’s Tyrer’s Jappo …”