Gai-Jin by James Clavell
A muttering resentment, but no open hostility.
“Good. Mr. McFay, you were saying?”
Jamie McFay was near the front, Dmitri beside him. Because he was head of Struan’s, the largest house in Asia, McFay was the usual spokesman for the merchant-traders, the most important of whom had their own fleets of armed clippers and merchantmen. “Well, sir, we know the Satsumas are bedding down at Hodogaya in easy reach north and that their king’s with them,” he said, greatly concerned over Malcolm Struan. “His name’s Sajirro, some name like that, and I think we sh—”
Someone shouted, “I vote we surround the bastards tonight and string the bugger up!” A roar of applause that soon trickled away amidst a few muffled curses and, “For God’s sake, get on with it …”
“Please carry on, Mr. McFay,” Sir William said wearily.
“The attack was unprovoked, as usual, John Canterbury was foully brutalized, and God only knows how long it will take Mr. Struan to recover. But this is the first time we can identify the murderers—or at least the king can and as sure as God made little apples he has the power to catch the buggers and hand them over and pay damages…. ” More applause. “They’re within reach, and with the troops we have we can peg them.”
Strong cheers and cries for vengeance.
Henri Bonaparte Seratard, the French Minister in Japan, said loudly, “I would like to ask Monsieur the General and Monsieur the Admiral what is their opinion?”
The Admiral said at once: “I have five hundred marines in the fleet—”
General Thomas Ogilvy interrupted, firmly but politely, “The question applies to a land operation, my dear Admiral. Mr. Ceraturd …” The greying, red-faced man of fifty carefully mispronounced the Frenchman’s name and used “Mr.” to compound the insult, “we have a thousand British troops in tent encampments, two cavalry units, three batteries of the most modern cannon and artillery, and can call up another eight or nine thousand British and Indian infantrymen with support troops within two months from our Hong Kong bastion.” He toyed with his gold braid. “There is no conceivable problem that Her Majesty’s forces under my command cannot conclude expeditiously.”
“I agree,” the Admiral said under the roars of approval. When they had died down, Seratard said smoothly, “Then you advocate a declaration of war?”
“No such thing, sir,” the General said, their dislike mutual. “I merely said we can do what is necessary, when necessary and when we are obliged to do it. I would have thought this ‘incident’ is a matter for Her Majesty’s Minister to decide in conjunction with the Admiral and myself without an unseemly debate.”
Some shouted approval, most disapproved and someone called out, “It’s our silver and taxes wot pays for all you buggers, we’ve the right to say wot’s wot. Ever heard of Parliament, by God?”
“A French national was involved,” Seratard said heatedly above the noise, “therefore the honor of France is involved.” Catcalls and sly remarks about the girl.
Again Sir William used the gavel and that allowed the acting American Minister, Isaiah Adamson, to say coldly, “The idea of going to war over this incident is nonsense, and the notion of grabbing or attacking a king in their sovereign country total lunacy—and typical high-handed Imperialist jingoism! First thing to do is inform the Bakufu, then ask them to—”
Irritably, Sir William said, “Dr. Babcott has already informed them in Kanagawa, they’ve already denied any knowledge of the incident and in all probability will follow their pattern and continue to do so. A British subject has been brutally murdered, another seriously wounded, unforgivably our delightful young foreign guest was almost frightened to death—these acts, I must stress, as Mr. McFay so rightly points out, for the first time have been committed by identifiable criminals. Her Majesty’s Government will not let this go unpunished…. ” For a moment he was drowned by tumultuous cheers, then he added, “The only thing to decide is the measure of punishment, how we should proceed and when. Mr. Adamson?” he asked the American.
“As we’re not involved I’ve no formal recommendation.”
“Count Zergeyev?”
“My formal advice,” the Russian said carefully, “is that we fall on Hodogaya and tear it and all the Satsumas to pieces.” He was in his early thirties, strong, patrician and bearded, leader of Tsar Alexander II’s mission. “Force, massive, ferocious and immediate is the only diplomacy Japanners will ever understand. My warship would be honored to lead the attack.”
There was a curious silence. I guessed that would be your answer, Sir William thought. I’m not so sure you’re wrong. Ah, Russia, beautiful extraordinary Russia, what a shame we’re enemies. Best time I ever had was in St. Petersburg. Even so, you’re not going to expand into these waters, we stopped your invasion of the Japanese Tsushima islands last year, and this year we’ll prevent you from stealing their Sakhalin too. “Thank you, my dear Count. Herr von Heimrich?”
The Prussian was elderly and curt. “I have no advice in this, Herr Consul General, other than to say formally my government would consider it is a matter for your government alone, and not the affair of minor parties.”
Seratard flushed. “I do not consider—”
“Thank you for your advice, gentlemen,” Sir William said firmly, cutting off the row that would have flared between them. Yesterday’s Foreign Office dispatches from London said that Britain could soon become embroiled in another of the never-ending European wars, this time belligerent, pride-filled France against belligerent, pride-filled expansionist Prussia, but did not forecast on which side. Why the devil damned foreigners can’t behave as civilized fellows I’m damned if I know.
“Before making a judgment,” he said crisply, “since everyone of note is here and not having had such an opportunity before, I think we should articulate our problem: we have legal treaties with Japan. We’re here to trade, not to conquer territory. We have to deal with this bureaucracy, the Bakufu, who’re like a sponge—one moment it pretends to be all-powerful, the next helpless against their individual kings. We’ve never been able to get to the real power, the Tycoon or Shōgun—we don’t even know if he really exists.”
“He must exist,” von Heimrich said coolly, “because our famous German traveller and physician, Dr. Engelbert Kaempfer, who lived in Deshima from 1690 to 1693, pretending to be a Dutchman, reported visiting him in Yedo on their annual pilgrimage.”
“That doesn’t prove one exists now,” Seratard said caustically. “How ever, I do agree there is a Shōgun, and France approves of a direct approach.”
“An admirable idea, Monsieur.” Sir William reddened. “And how do we do that?”
“Send the fleet against Yedo,” the Russian said at once. “Demand an immediate audience or else you’ll destroy the place. If I had such a beautiful fleet as yours, I’d first flatten half the city and then demand the audience … better, I would order this Tycoon-Shōgun native to report aboard my flagship at dawn the next day, and hang him.” Many shouts of approval.
Sir William said, “That is certainly one way, but Her Majesty’s Government would prefer a slightly more diplomatic solution. Next: we’ve almost no real intelligence about what’s going on in the country. I’d appreciate it if all traders would help to get us information that could prove useful. Mr. McFay, of all the traders, you should be the best informed. Can you help?”
McFay said cautiously, “Well, a few days ago one of our Jappo silk suppliers told our Chinese compradore that some of the kingdoms—he used the word ‘fiefs’ and called the kings ‘daimyos’—were in revolt against the Bakufu, particularly Satsuma, and some parts called Tosa, and Choshu …”
Sir William noticed the immediate interest of the other diplomats and wondered if he was wise to have asked the question in public. “Where are they?”
“Satsuma’s near Nagasaki in the South Island, Kyūshū,” Adamson said, “but what about Choshu and Tosa?”
“Well, now, yor Honor,” an American seaman call
Sir William said, “Your name, if you please?”
“Paddy O’Flaherty, Bosun of the American whaler Albatross out of Seattle, yor Honor.”
“Thank you,” Sir William said, and made a mental note to send for O’Flaherty, to find out more and if there were charts of the area, and if not to instantly order the Navy to make them. “Go on, Mr. McFay,” he said. “In revolt, you say.”
“Yes, sir. This silk trader—how reliable he is I don’t know—but he said there was some kind of power struggle going on against the Tycoon that he always called ‘Shōgun,’ the Bakufu and some king or daimyo called Toranaga.”
Sir William saw the Russian’s eyes slit even more in his almost Asian features. “Yes, my dear Count?”
“Nothing, Sir William. But isn’t that the name of the ruler mentioned by Kaempfer?”
“Indeed it is, indeed it is.” I wonder why you never mentioned to me before that you also had read those very rare but illuminating journals that were written in German, which you do not know, therefore they must have been translated into Russian? “Perhaps ‘Toranaga’ means ‘ruler’ in their language. Please continue, Mr. McFay.”
“That’s all the fellow told my compradore, but I’ll make it my business to find out more. Now,” McFay said politely but firmly, “do we settle King Satsuma at Hodogaya tonight or not?”
The smoke stirred the silence.
“Has anyone anything to add—about this revolt?”
Norbert Greyforth, chief of Brock and Sons, Struan’s main rival, said, “We’ve heard rumors of this revolt too. But I thought it was something to do with their chief priest, this ‘Mikado,’ who supposedly lives in Kyōto, a city near Osaka. I’ll make enquiries as well. In the meantime, about tonight, my vote goes with McFay: the sooner we belt these buggers the sooner we’ll have peace.” He was taller than McFay and clearly hated him.
When the cheers died down, like a judge delivering a sentence, Sir William said: “This is what will happen. First, there will be no attack tonight and—”
Cries of “Resign!” “We’ll do it ourselves, by God!” “Come on, let’s go after the bastards …”
“We can’t, not without troops …”
“Quiet and listen, by God!” Sir William shouted. “If anyone is stupid enough to go against Hodogaya tonight he’ll have to answer to our laws as well as Japanners. IT IS FORBIDDEN! Tomorrow I will formally demand—demand—that at once the Bakufu, and Shōgun, tender a formal apology, at once hand over the two murderers for trial and hanging, and at once pay an indemnity of one hundred thousand pounds or accept the consequences.”
A few cheered, most did not, and the meeting broke up with a surge to the bar, many of the men already near blows as arguments became more drunken and more heated. McFay and Dmitri shoved their way out into the open air. “My God, that’s better.” McFay eased off his hat and mopped his brow.
“A word, Mr. McFay?”
He turned and saw Greyforth. “Of course.”
“In private, if you please.”
McFay frowned, then moved over the semideserted promenade along the wharfs and seafront, away from Dmitri, who was not in Struan’s but traded through Cooper-Tillman, one of the American companies. “Yes?”
Norbert Greyforth dropped his voice. “What about Hodogaya? You’ve two ships here, we’ve three, and between us lots of bully boys, most lads in the merchant fleet’d join us, we’ve arms enough and we could bring a cannon or two. John Canterbury was a good friend, the Old Man liked him, and I want him revenged. What about it?”
“If Hodogaya was a port I wouldn’t hesitate, but we can’t raid inland. This isn’t China.”
“You afraid of that pipsqueak in there?”
“I’m not afraid of anyone,” McFay said carefully. “We can’t mount a successful raid without regular troops, Norbert, that’s not possible. I want revenge more than any.”
Greyforth made sure no one was listening. “Since you brought it up tonight and we don’t talk too often, we’ve heard there’s going to be bad trouble here soon.”
“The revolt?”
“Yes. Very bad trouble for us. There’s been all sorts of signs. Our silk dealers have been acting right smelly the last month or two, upping the price of bulk raw, delaying deliveries, slow on payments and wanting extra credits. I’ll bet it’s the same with you.”
“Yes.” It was rare for the two men to talk business.
“Don’t know much more than that, except many of the signs are the same as in America that led to civil war. If that happens here it’s going to bugger us proper. Without the fleet and troops we’re bitched and we can be wiped out.”
After a pause, McFay said, “What do you propose?”
“We’ll have to wait and see what happens. With Wee Willie’s plan I don’t hope for much, like you. The Russian was right about what should be done. Meanwhile …” Greyforth nodded out to sea where two of their clippers and merchantmen lay in the roads—clippers still much faster back to England than steamers, paddle-driven or screw-driven…“We’re keeping all our inner ledgers and specie aboard, we’ve increased our levels of gunpowder, shot, shrapnel and put in an order for two of the brand-new Yankee 10-barrel Gatling machine guns as soon as they are available.”
McFay laughed. “The hell you have—so did we!”
“We heard that too, which is why I made the order, and twice as many of the new rifles than your shipment.”
“Who told you, eh? Who’s your spy?”
“Old Mother Hubbard,” Greyforth said dryly. “Listen, we all know these inventions, along with metal cartridges, have changed the course of war—that’s proved already by the casualties at the battles of Bull Run and Fredericksburg.”
“Shocking, yes. Dmitri told me, said the South lost four thousand in one afternoon. Terrible. So?”
“We could both sell these weapons to the Japanners by the ton. My thought is we agree to not, and together we make bloody sure no other bugger imports them or smuggles them in. Selling Jappers steamers and the odd cannon’s one thing, but not repeaters or machine guns. Agreed?”
McFay was surprised by the offer. And suspicious. But he kept it off his face, sure that Norbert would never keep the bargain, and shook the offered hand. “Agreed.”
“Good. What’s the latest on young Struan?”
“When I saw him an hour or so ago he was poorly.”
“Is he going to die?”
“No, the doctor assured me of that.”
A cold smile. “What the hell do they know? But if he did that could wreck the Noble House.”
“Nothing will ever wreck the Noble House. Dirk Struan saw to that.”
“Don’t be too sure. Dirk’s been dead more than twenty years, his son Culum’s not far from his deathbed and if Malcolm dies who’s to take over? Not his young brother who’s only ten.” His eyes glinted strangely. “Old Man Brock may be seventy-three but he’s as tough and clever as he ever was.”
“But we’re still the Noble House; Culum is still the tai-pan.” McFay added, glad for the barb, “Old Man Brock’s still not a Steward of the Jockey Club at Happy Valley and never will be.”
“That’ll come soon enough, Jamie, that and all the rest. Culum Struan won’t control the Jockey Club vote much longer, and if his son and heir kicks the bucket too, well then, counting u
“It won’t happen.”
Greyforth hardened. “Mayhaps Old Man Brock will honor us with a visit here soon—along with Sir Morgan.”
“Morgan’s in Hong Kong?” McFay tried to stop his astonishment from showing. Sir Morgan Brock was Old Man Brock’s eldest son, who very successfully ran their London office. As far as Jamie knew Morgan had never been to Asia before. If Morgan’s suddenly in Hong Kong … what new devilment are those two up to now? he asked himself uneasily. Morgan specialized in merchant banking and had skillfully spread the tentacles of Brock’s into Europe, Russia, and North America, always harrying the Struan trade routes and customers. Since the American war began last year, McFay, along with other Directors of Struan’s, had been getting worrisome reports about failures amongst their extensive American interests, both North and South, where Culum Struan had invested heavily. “If Old Man Brock and son grace us with their presence, I’ve no doubt we would be honored to give them supper.”
Greyforth laughed without humor. “I doubt they’ll have time, except to inspect your books, when we take you over.”
“You never will. If I have any news on the revolt I’ll send word, please do likewise. Good night now.” Overpolitely McFay raised his hat and walked away.
Greyforth laughed to himself, delighted with the seeds he had planted. The Old Man will be happy to harvest them, he thought, tearing them out by the roots.
Dr. Babcott trudged wearily along a corridor in the semi-darkness of the Kanagawa Legation. He carried a small oil lamp and wore a dressing gown over woolen pajamas. From somewhere downstairs a clock chimed two o’clock. Absently he reached into his pocket and checked his fob watch, yawned, then knocked on a door. “Miss Angelique?”
After a moment she called out sleepily, “Yes?”