Gai-Jin by James Clavell
“You wanted to know when Mr. Struan woke up.”
“Ah, thank you.” A moment, then the door was unbarred and Angelique came out. Hair a little dishevelled and still drowsy, wearing a robe over her nightdress. “How is he?”
“A little sick, and woozy,” Babcott said, leading her back along the corridor and downstairs to the surgery where the sickrooms were. “His temperature and pulse rate are up a little, of course that’s to be expected. I’ve given him a drug for the pain, but he’s a fine, strong young man and everything should be all right.”
The first time she had seen Malcolm she had been shocked by his lack of color, and appalled by the stench. She had never been in a hospital or surgery before, or in a real sickroom. Apart from reading in the Paris newspapers and journals about death and dying and illness and the waves of plague and killing diseases—measles, smallpox, typhus, cholera, pneumonia, meningitis, whooping cough, scarlet fever, childbed fever and the like—that swept Paris and Lyon and other cities and towns from time to time, she had had no close acquaintance with sickness. Her health had always been good, her aunt and uncle and brother equally blessed.
Shakily she had touched his forehead, moving the sweat-stained hair out of his face, but repelled by the smell that surrounded the bed, hurried out.
In a room nearby Tyrer was sleeping comfortably. To her great relief there was no smell here. She thought he had a pleasant sleeping face where Malcolm Struan had been tormented.
“Phillip saved my life, Doctor,” she had said. “After Mr.—Mr. Canterbury, I was—I was paralyzed and Phillip he flung his horse in the assassin’s path and gave me time to escape. I was—I can’t describe how awful …”
“What was the man like? Could you recognize him?”
“I don’t know. He was just a native, young I think, but I don’t know, it’s difficult to tell their ages and he was the—the first I’d seen close. He wore a kimono with a short sword in his belt, and the big one, all bloody and ready again to …” Her eyes had filled with tears.
Babcott had gentled her and showed her a room, gave her some tea with a touch of laudanum, and promised he would call her the moment Struan awoke.
And now he’s awake, she thought, her feet leaden, nausea welling up inside her, head aching and filled with vile pictures. I wish I hadn’t come here. Henri Seratard told me to wait until tomorrow, Captain Marlowe was against it, everyone, so why did I plead so ardently with the Admiral? I don’t know, we’re jus’ good friends, not lovers or engaged or …
Or do I begin to love him, or was I only consumed with bravado, playacting, because this whole horrid day has been like a melodrama by Dumas, the nightmare at the road not real, the Settlement inflamed not real, Malcolm’s message arriving at sunset not real: “Please come and see me as soon as you can,” written by the doctor on his behalf—me not real, just playacting the part of the heroine….
Babcott stopped. “Here we are. You’ll find him rather tired, Mademoiselle. I’ll just make sure he’s all right, then I’ll leave you alone for a minute or two. He may drop off because of the drug, but don’t worry, and if you want me I’ll be in the surgery next door. Don’t tax him, or yourself, or worry about anything—don’t forget you’ve had a rotten time too.”
She steeled herself, fixed a smile on her face and followed him in. “Hello, Malcolm, mon cher.”
“Hello.” Struan was very pale, and had aged, but his eyes were clear.
The doctor chattered pleasantly, peered at him, quickly took his pulse, felt his forehead, half nodded to himself, said that the patient was doing fine and left.
“You’re so beautiful,” Struan said, his robust voice now just a thread, feeling strange, floating yet nailed to the cot and the sweat-sodden straw mattress.
She went closer. The smell was still there as much as she tried to pretend it was not. “How do you feel? I’m so sorry you’re hurt.”
“Joss,” he said, using a Chinese word that meant fate, luck, the will of the gods. “You’re so beautiful.”
“Ah, chéri, oh how I wish all this had never happened, that I’d never asked to go for a ride, never wanted to visit to the Japans.”
“Joss. It’s … it’s the next day, isn’t it?”
“Yes, the attack was yesterday afternoon.”
It seemed to be difficult for his brain to translate her words into usable form, and equally difficult to compose words and say them, as she was finding it equally difficult to stay. “Yesterday? That’s a lifetime ago. Have you seen Phillip?”
“Yes, yes, I saw him earlier but he was asleep. I’ll see him as soon as I leave you, chéri. In fact I’d better go now, the doctor said not to tire you.”
“No, don’t go yet, please. Listen, Angelique, I don’t know when I’ll be—be fit to travel, so …” Momentarily his eyes closed against a barb of pain but it left him. When he focused on her again, he saw her fear and misread it. “Don’t worry, McFay will see that you’re esc—escorted safely back to Hong Kong, so please don’t worry.”
“Thank you, Malcolm, yes, I think I should. I’ll return tomorrow or the next day.” She saw the sudden disappointment and added at once, “Of course you’ll be better then, and we can go together and, oh yes, Henri Seratard sent his condolences …”
She stopped, aghast, as a great pain took him and his face twisted and he tried to double up but could not, his insides tried to cast out the foul poison of the ether that seemed to permeate every pore and brain cell he possessed but could not—his stomach and bowels already empty of everything possible—each spasm tearing at his wounds, every cough ripping more than the last with only a little putrid liquid coming out for all the torment.
In panic she whirled for the doctor and fumbled for the door handle.
“It’s all right, Ange—Angelique,” said the voice that she hardly recognized now. “Stay a … moment more.”
He saw the horror on her face and again misread it, seeing it as anxiety, a vast depth of compassion, and love. His fear left him and he lay back to gather his strength. “My darling, I’d hoped, I’d hoped so very much … of course you know I’ve loved you from the first moment.” The spasm had sapped his strength but his complete belief that he had seen in her what he had prayed for, gave him great peace. “I can’t seem to think straight but I wanted … to see you to tell you … Christ, Angelique, I was petrified of the operation, petrified of the drugs, petrified of dying and not waking up before I saw you again. I’ve never been so petrified, never.”
“I’d be petrified too—oh, Malcolm, this is all so awful.” Her skin felt clammy and her head ached even more and she was afraid she would be sick any moment. “The doctor assured me and everyone that you’ll be well soon!”
“I don’t care now that I know you love me, if I die that’s joss and in my family we know we—we can’t escape joss. You’re my lucky star, my lodestone, I … knew it from the first moment. We’ll marry …” The words trailed off. His ears were ringing and his eyes misted a little, eyelids flickering as the opiate took hold, sliding him into the netherworld where pain existed but was transformed into painlessness. “Marry in springtime…. ”
“Malcolm, listen,” she said quickly, “you’re not going to die and I … alors, I must be honest with you …” Then the words began pouring out, “I don’t want to marry yet, I’m not sure if I love you, I’m just not sure, you’ll have to be patient, and if I do or do not, I don’t think I can ever live in this awful place, or Hong Kong, in fact I know I can’t, I won’t, I can’t, I know I’d die, the thought of living in Asia horrifies me, the stench and the awful people. I’m going back to Paris where I belong, as soon as I can and I’m never coming back, never, never, never.”
But he had heard none of it. He was in dreams now, not seeing her, and he murmured, “Many sons, you and I … so happy you love me … prayed for … so now … live forever in the Great House on the Peak. Your love has banished fear, fear of death, always afraid of death, always so near, the twins, little sister
Mary, dead so young, my brother, father almost dead … grandfather another violent death, but now … now … all changed … marry in springtime. Yes?”
His eyes opened. For an instant he saw her clearly, saw the stretched face and wringing hands and revulsion and he wanted to shriek, What’s the matter, for God’s sake, this is only a sickroom and I know the blanket’s sodden with sweat and I’m lying in a little urine and dung and everything stinks but that’s because I’m cut, for Christ’s sake, I’ve only been cut and now I’m sewn up and well again, well again, well again ….
But none of the words came out and he saw her say something and jerk the door open and run away but this was just nightmare, the good dreams beckoning. The door swung on its hinges and the noise it made echoed and echoed and echoed: well again well again well again….
She was leaning against the door to the garden, gulping the night air, trying to regain her poise. Mother of God, give me strength and give that man some peace and let me leave this place quickly.
Babcott came up behind her. “He’s all right, not to worry. Here, drink this,” he said compassionately, giving her the opiate. “It’ll settle you and help you sleep.”
She obeyed. The liquid tasted neither good nor bad.
“He’s sleeping peacefully. Come along. It’s bedtime for you too.” He helped her upstairs, back to her room. At the door he hesitated. “Sleep well. You will sleep well.”
“I’m afraid for him, very afraid.”
“Don’t be. In the morning he’ll be better, you’ll see.”
“Thank you, I’m all right now. He … I think Malcolm thinks he’s going to die. Is he?”
“Certainly not, he’s a strong young man and I’m sure soon he’ll be as right as rain.” Babcott repeated the same platitude he had said a thousand times, and did not tell the truth: I don’t know, you never know, now it’s up to God.
And yet, most times he knew it was correct to give the loved one hope and take away the burden of increased worry, though not correct or fair to make God responsible if the patient lived or died. Even so, if you’re helpless, if you’ve done your best and are convinced that your best and the best knowledge are not good enough, what else can you do and stay sane? How many young men have you seen like this one and dead in the morning or the next day—or recovered if that was God’s will? Was it? I think it’s lack of knowledge. And then God’s will. If there is a God.
Involuntarily, he shivered. “Good night, not to worry.”
“Thank you.” She put the bar in place and went to the window, pushed open the heavy shutters. Tiredness welled over her. The night air was warm and kind, the moon high now. She took off her robe and wearily towelled herself dry, aching for sleep. Her nightdress was damp and clung to her and she would have preferred to change but she had not brought another. Below, the garden was large and shadow-struck, trees here and there and a tiny bridge over a tiny stream. A breeze caressed the treetops. Many shadows in the moonlight.
Some moved, now and then.
CHAPTER FIVE
The two youths saw her the moment she appeared in the garden doorway forty yards away. Their ambush was well chosen and gave them a good view of the whole garden as well as the main gate, the guard house and the two sentries they had been watching. At once they crept deeper into the foliage, astonished to see her, even more astonished by the tears coursing down her cheeks.
Shorin whispered, “What’s the matt—”
He stopped. A wandering patrol of a sergeant and two soldiers, the first to enter their trap, rounded the far corner of the grounds, approaching them on the path that skirted the walls. They readied, then became motionless, their black, nearly skintight clothes covered all of their bodies except their eyes and made them almost invisible.
The patrol passed within five feet and the two shishi could have attacked easily and safely from this ambush. Shorin—the hunter, the fighter and leader in battle where Ori was the thinker and planner—had selected the blind, but Ori decided they would only attack a one-or two-man patrol, unless there was an emergency or they were prevented from breaking into the armory: “Whatever we do this time must be silent,” he had said earlier. “And patient.”
“Why?”
“This is their Legation. According to their custom that means it is their land, their territory—it is guarded by real soldiers, so we’re encroaching on them. If we succeed, we will frighten them very much. If they catch us we fail.”
From the ambush they watched the departing patrol, noting the silent, careful way the men moved. Ori whispered uneasily, “We’ve never seen these sort before—soldiers so well trained and disciplined. In a battle, massed, we would have a hard time against them and their guns.”
Shorin said, “We’ll always win—we’ll have guns soon, one way or another, and anyway bushido and our courage will swamp them. We can beat them easily.” He was very confident. “We should have killed that patrol and taken their guns.”
I’m glad we didn’t, Ori thought, deeply unsettled. His arm ached badly and though he feigned indifference he knew that he could not sustain a long sword-fight. “If it wasn’t for our clothes they would have seen us.” His eyes went back to the girl.
“We could have killed all three easily. Easily. And grabbed their carbines and gone over the wall again.”
“These men are very good, Shorin, not ox-headed merchants.” Ori kept the aggravation out of his voice, as always, not wanting to offend his friend or wound his sensitive pride, needing his qualities as much as Shorin needed his—he had not forgotten Shorin had deflected the bullet that would have killed him on the Tokaidō. “We’ve plenty of time. Dawn’s still at least two candles away.” This was approximately four hours. He motioned at the doorway. “Anyway, she would have given the alarm.”
Shorin sucked in his breath, cursing himself. “Eeee, stupid! I’m stupid, you’re right—again. So sorry.”
Ori gave her all of his attention: what is it about that woman that troubles me, fascinates me? he asked himself.
Then they saw the giant appear beside her. From information they had been given at the Inn they knew this was the famous English doctor who achieved miracle healings for any seeking his services, Japanese as well as his own people. Ori would have given much to understand what the doctor said to the girl. She dried her tears, obediently drank what he offered her, then he guided her back into the hallway, closing and barring the door.
Ori muttered, “Astounding—the giant, and the woman.”
Shorin glanced at him, hearing undercurrents that further perturbed him, still angry with himself for forgetting the girl when the patrol was nearby. He could see only his friend’s eyes and read nothing from them. “Let’s go on to the armory,” he whispered impatiently, “or attack the next patrol, Ori.”
“Wait!” Taking great care not to make a sudden movement that might be noticed, Ori lifted his black-gloved hand, more to ease his arm than to wipe the sweat away. “Katsumata taught patience, tonight Hiraga counselled the same.”
Earlier when they had reached the Inn of the Midnight Blossoms, they had found to their joy that Hiraga, their friend and the greatly admired leader of all Choshu shishi, was also staying there. News of their attack had arrived.
“The attack was perfectly timed, though you could not know it,” Hiraga had said warmly. He was a handsome man of twenty-two and tall for a Japanese. “It will be like a stick plunged into the Yokohama hornet’s nest. Now gai-jin will swarm, they’re bound to go against the Bakufu who won’t, cannot, do anything to appease them. If only the gai-jin retaliate against Yedo! If they did that, and smashed it, that would be the signal for us to seize the Palace Gates! Once the Emperor is free all daimyos will rebel against the Shōgunate and destroy it and all Toranagas. Sonno-joi!”
They had toasted sonno-joi and Katsumata who had saved them, taught most of them and served sonno-joi secretly and wisely. Ori had whispered their plan to Hiraga to steal arms.
“Eeee, Ori, it
is a good idea and possible,” Hiraga said thoughtfully, “if you are patient and choose the perfect moment. Such weapons could be valuable on some operations. Personally, guns disgust me—garrote, sword or knife please me better—safer, silent, and much more frightening, whoever the target—daimyo or barbarian. I’ll help. I can give you a plan of the grounds and ninja clothes.”
Ori and Shorin brightened. “You can get them for us?”
“Of course.” Ninja were a highly secret tong of expertly trained assassins who operated almost exclusively at night, their special black clothes helping to fuel the legend of their invisibility. “At one time we were going to burn the Legation building.” Hiraga laughed and emptied another flask of saké, the warmed wine making his tongue looser than normal. “But we decided not to, that it was more valuable to keep it under observation. Often I’ve gone there disguised as a gardener or at night as a ninja—it’s surprising what you can learn, even with simple English.”
“Eeee, Hiraga-san, we never knew you could speak English,” Ori said, astounded by the revelation. “Where did you learn it?”
“Where else can you learn gai-jin qualities if not from gai-jin? He was a Dutchman from Deshima, a linguist who spoke Japanese, Dutch and English. My grandfather wrote a petition to our daimyo suggesting that one such man should be allowed to come to Shimonoseki, at their cost, to teach Dutch and English for an experimental one year, trade would come afterwards. Thank you,” Hiraga said as Ori politely refilled his cup. “Gai-jin are all so gullible—but such foul money worshippers. This is the sixth year of the ‘experiment’ and we still only trade for what we want, when we can afford them—guns, cannon, ammunition, shot and certain books.”
“How is your revered grandfather?”
“In very good health. Thank you for asking.” Hiraga bowed in appreciation. Their bow in return was lower.
How wonderful to have such a grandfather, Ori thought, such a protection for all your generations—not like us who have to struggle to survive daily, are hungry daily, and have desperate trouble to pay our taxes. What will Father and Grandfather think of me now: ronin, and my so-needed one koku forfeit? “I would be honored to meet him,” he said. “Our shoya is not like him.”
“Ah, thank you.” A moment, then the door was unbarred and Angelique came out. Hair a little dishevelled and still drowsy, wearing a robe over her nightdress. “How is he?”
“A little sick, and woozy,” Babcott said, leading her back along the corridor and downstairs to the surgery where the sickrooms were. “His temperature and pulse rate are up a little, of course that’s to be expected. I’ve given him a drug for the pain, but he’s a fine, strong young man and everything should be all right.”
The first time she had seen Malcolm she had been shocked by his lack of color, and appalled by the stench. She had never been in a hospital or surgery before, or in a real sickroom. Apart from reading in the Paris newspapers and journals about death and dying and illness and the waves of plague and killing diseases—measles, smallpox, typhus, cholera, pneumonia, meningitis, whooping cough, scarlet fever, childbed fever and the like—that swept Paris and Lyon and other cities and towns from time to time, she had had no close acquaintance with sickness. Her health had always been good, her aunt and uncle and brother equally blessed.
Shakily she had touched his forehead, moving the sweat-stained hair out of his face, but repelled by the smell that surrounded the bed, hurried out.
In a room nearby Tyrer was sleeping comfortably. To her great relief there was no smell here. She thought he had a pleasant sleeping face where Malcolm Struan had been tormented.
“Phillip saved my life, Doctor,” she had said. “After Mr.—Mr. Canterbury, I was—I was paralyzed and Phillip he flung his horse in the assassin’s path and gave me time to escape. I was—I can’t describe how awful …”
“What was the man like? Could you recognize him?”
“I don’t know. He was just a native, young I think, but I don’t know, it’s difficult to tell their ages and he was the—the first I’d seen close. He wore a kimono with a short sword in his belt, and the big one, all bloody and ready again to …” Her eyes had filled with tears.
Babcott had gentled her and showed her a room, gave her some tea with a touch of laudanum, and promised he would call her the moment Struan awoke.
And now he’s awake, she thought, her feet leaden, nausea welling up inside her, head aching and filled with vile pictures. I wish I hadn’t come here. Henri Seratard told me to wait until tomorrow, Captain Marlowe was against it, everyone, so why did I plead so ardently with the Admiral? I don’t know, we’re jus’ good friends, not lovers or engaged or …
Or do I begin to love him, or was I only consumed with bravado, playacting, because this whole horrid day has been like a melodrama by Dumas, the nightmare at the road not real, the Settlement inflamed not real, Malcolm’s message arriving at sunset not real: “Please come and see me as soon as you can,” written by the doctor on his behalf—me not real, just playacting the part of the heroine….
Babcott stopped. “Here we are. You’ll find him rather tired, Mademoiselle. I’ll just make sure he’s all right, then I’ll leave you alone for a minute or two. He may drop off because of the drug, but don’t worry, and if you want me I’ll be in the surgery next door. Don’t tax him, or yourself, or worry about anything—don’t forget you’ve had a rotten time too.”
She steeled herself, fixed a smile on her face and followed him in. “Hello, Malcolm, mon cher.”
“Hello.” Struan was very pale, and had aged, but his eyes were clear.
The doctor chattered pleasantly, peered at him, quickly took his pulse, felt his forehead, half nodded to himself, said that the patient was doing fine and left.
“You’re so beautiful,” Struan said, his robust voice now just a thread, feeling strange, floating yet nailed to the cot and the sweat-sodden straw mattress.
She went closer. The smell was still there as much as she tried to pretend it was not. “How do you feel? I’m so sorry you’re hurt.”
“Joss,” he said, using a Chinese word that meant fate, luck, the will of the gods. “You’re so beautiful.”
“Ah, chéri, oh how I wish all this had never happened, that I’d never asked to go for a ride, never wanted to visit to the Japans.”
“Joss. It’s … it’s the next day, isn’t it?”
“Yes, the attack was yesterday afternoon.”
It seemed to be difficult for his brain to translate her words into usable form, and equally difficult to compose words and say them, as she was finding it equally difficult to stay. “Yesterday? That’s a lifetime ago. Have you seen Phillip?”
“Yes, yes, I saw him earlier but he was asleep. I’ll see him as soon as I leave you, chéri. In fact I’d better go now, the doctor said not to tire you.”
“No, don’t go yet, please. Listen, Angelique, I don’t know when I’ll be—be fit to travel, so …” Momentarily his eyes closed against a barb of pain but it left him. When he focused on her again, he saw her fear and misread it. “Don’t worry, McFay will see that you’re esc—escorted safely back to Hong Kong, so please don’t worry.”
“Thank you, Malcolm, yes, I think I should. I’ll return tomorrow or the next day.” She saw the sudden disappointment and added at once, “Of course you’ll be better then, and we can go together and, oh yes, Henri Seratard sent his condolences …”
She stopped, aghast, as a great pain took him and his face twisted and he tried to double up but could not, his insides tried to cast out the foul poison of the ether that seemed to permeate every pore and brain cell he possessed but could not—his stomach and bowels already empty of everything possible—each spasm tearing at his wounds, every cough ripping more than the last with only a little putrid liquid coming out for all the torment.
In panic she whirled for the doctor and fumbled for the door handle.
“It’s all right, Ange—Angelique,” said the voice that she hardly recognized now. “Stay a … moment more.”
He saw the horror on her face and again misread it, seeing it as anxiety, a vast depth of compassion, and love. His fear left him and he lay back to gather his strength. “My darling, I’d hoped, I’d hoped so very much … of course you know I’ve loved you from the first moment.” The spasm had sapped his strength but his complete belief that he had seen in her what he had prayed for, gave him great peace. “I can’t seem to think straight but I wanted … to see you to tell you … Christ, Angelique, I was petrified of the operation, petrified of the drugs, petrified of dying and not waking up before I saw you again. I’ve never been so petrified, never.”
“I’d be petrified too—oh, Malcolm, this is all so awful.” Her skin felt clammy and her head ached even more and she was afraid she would be sick any moment. “The doctor assured me and everyone that you’ll be well soon!”
“I don’t care now that I know you love me, if I die that’s joss and in my family we know we—we can’t escape joss. You’re my lucky star, my lodestone, I … knew it from the first moment. We’ll marry …” The words trailed off. His ears were ringing and his eyes misted a little, eyelids flickering as the opiate took hold, sliding him into the netherworld where pain existed but was transformed into painlessness. “Marry in springtime…. ”
“Malcolm, listen,” she said quickly, “you’re not going to die and I … alors, I must be honest with you …” Then the words began pouring out, “I don’t want to marry yet, I’m not sure if I love you, I’m just not sure, you’ll have to be patient, and if I do or do not, I don’t think I can ever live in this awful place, or Hong Kong, in fact I know I can’t, I won’t, I can’t, I know I’d die, the thought of living in Asia horrifies me, the stench and the awful people. I’m going back to Paris where I belong, as soon as I can and I’m never coming back, never, never, never.”
But he had heard none of it. He was in dreams now, not seeing her, and he murmured, “Many sons, you and I … so happy you love me … prayed for … so now … live forever in the Great House on the Peak. Your love has banished fear, fear of death, always afraid of death, always so near, the twins, little sister
His eyes opened. For an instant he saw her clearly, saw the stretched face and wringing hands and revulsion and he wanted to shriek, What’s the matter, for God’s sake, this is only a sickroom and I know the blanket’s sodden with sweat and I’m lying in a little urine and dung and everything stinks but that’s because I’m cut, for Christ’s sake, I’ve only been cut and now I’m sewn up and well again, well again, well again ….
But none of the words came out and he saw her say something and jerk the door open and run away but this was just nightmare, the good dreams beckoning. The door swung on its hinges and the noise it made echoed and echoed and echoed: well again well again well again….
She was leaning against the door to the garden, gulping the night air, trying to regain her poise. Mother of God, give me strength and give that man some peace and let me leave this place quickly.
Babcott came up behind her. “He’s all right, not to worry. Here, drink this,” he said compassionately, giving her the opiate. “It’ll settle you and help you sleep.”
She obeyed. The liquid tasted neither good nor bad.
“He’s sleeping peacefully. Come along. It’s bedtime for you too.” He helped her upstairs, back to her room. At the door he hesitated. “Sleep well. You will sleep well.”
“I’m afraid for him, very afraid.”
“Don’t be. In the morning he’ll be better, you’ll see.”
“Thank you, I’m all right now. He … I think Malcolm thinks he’s going to die. Is he?”
“Certainly not, he’s a strong young man and I’m sure soon he’ll be as right as rain.” Babcott repeated the same platitude he had said a thousand times, and did not tell the truth: I don’t know, you never know, now it’s up to God.
And yet, most times he knew it was correct to give the loved one hope and take away the burden of increased worry, though not correct or fair to make God responsible if the patient lived or died. Even so, if you’re helpless, if you’ve done your best and are convinced that your best and the best knowledge are not good enough, what else can you do and stay sane? How many young men have you seen like this one and dead in the morning or the next day—or recovered if that was God’s will? Was it? I think it’s lack of knowledge. And then God’s will. If there is a God.
Involuntarily, he shivered. “Good night, not to worry.”
“Thank you.” She put the bar in place and went to the window, pushed open the heavy shutters. Tiredness welled over her. The night air was warm and kind, the moon high now. She took off her robe and wearily towelled herself dry, aching for sleep. Her nightdress was damp and clung to her and she would have preferred to change but she had not brought another. Below, the garden was large and shadow-struck, trees here and there and a tiny bridge over a tiny stream. A breeze caressed the treetops. Many shadows in the moonlight.
Some moved, now and then.
CHAPTER FIVE
The two youths saw her the moment she appeared in the garden doorway forty yards away. Their ambush was well chosen and gave them a good view of the whole garden as well as the main gate, the guard house and the two sentries they had been watching. At once they crept deeper into the foliage, astonished to see her, even more astonished by the tears coursing down her cheeks.
Shorin whispered, “What’s the matt—”
He stopped. A wandering patrol of a sergeant and two soldiers, the first to enter their trap, rounded the far corner of the grounds, approaching them on the path that skirted the walls. They readied, then became motionless, their black, nearly skintight clothes covered all of their bodies except their eyes and made them almost invisible.
The patrol passed within five feet and the two shishi could have attacked easily and safely from this ambush. Shorin—the hunter, the fighter and leader in battle where Ori was the thinker and planner—had selected the blind, but Ori decided they would only attack a one-or two-man patrol, unless there was an emergency or they were prevented from breaking into the armory: “Whatever we do this time must be silent,” he had said earlier. “And patient.”
“Why?”
“This is their Legation. According to their custom that means it is their land, their territory—it is guarded by real soldiers, so we’re encroaching on them. If we succeed, we will frighten them very much. If they catch us we fail.”
From the ambush they watched the departing patrol, noting the silent, careful way the men moved. Ori whispered uneasily, “We’ve never seen these sort before—soldiers so well trained and disciplined. In a battle, massed, we would have a hard time against them and their guns.”
Shorin said, “We’ll always win—we’ll have guns soon, one way or another, and anyway bushido and our courage will swamp them. We can beat them easily.” He was very confident. “We should have killed that patrol and taken their guns.”
I’m glad we didn’t, Ori thought, deeply unsettled. His arm ached badly and though he feigned indifference he knew that he could not sustain a long sword-fight. “If it wasn’t for our clothes they would have seen us.” His eyes went back to the girl.
“We could have killed all three easily. Easily. And grabbed their carbines and gone over the wall again.”
“These men are very good, Shorin, not ox-headed merchants.” Ori kept the aggravation out of his voice, as always, not wanting to offend his friend or wound his sensitive pride, needing his qualities as much as Shorin needed his—he had not forgotten Shorin had deflected the bullet that would have killed him on the Tokaidō. “We’ve plenty of time. Dawn’s still at least two candles away.” This was approximately four hours. He motioned at the doorway. “Anyway, she would have given the alarm.”
Shorin sucked in his breath, cursing himself. “Eeee, stupid! I’m stupid, you’re right—again. So sorry.”
Ori gave her all of his attention: what is it about that woman that troubles me, fascinates me? he asked himself.
Then they saw the giant appear beside her. From information they had been given at the Inn they knew this was the famous English doctor who achieved miracle healings for any seeking his services, Japanese as well as his own people. Ori would have given much to understand what the doctor said to the girl. She dried her tears, obediently drank what he offered her, then he guided her back into the hallway, closing and barring the door.
Ori muttered, “Astounding—the giant, and the woman.”
Shorin glanced at him, hearing undercurrents that further perturbed him, still angry with himself for forgetting the girl when the patrol was nearby. He could see only his friend’s eyes and read nothing from them. “Let’s go on to the armory,” he whispered impatiently, “or attack the next patrol, Ori.”
“Wait!” Taking great care not to make a sudden movement that might be noticed, Ori lifted his black-gloved hand, more to ease his arm than to wipe the sweat away. “Katsumata taught patience, tonight Hiraga counselled the same.”
Earlier when they had reached the Inn of the Midnight Blossoms, they had found to their joy that Hiraga, their friend and the greatly admired leader of all Choshu shishi, was also staying there. News of their attack had arrived.
“The attack was perfectly timed, though you could not know it,” Hiraga had said warmly. He was a handsome man of twenty-two and tall for a Japanese. “It will be like a stick plunged into the Yokohama hornet’s nest. Now gai-jin will swarm, they’re bound to go against the Bakufu who won’t, cannot, do anything to appease them. If only the gai-jin retaliate against Yedo! If they did that, and smashed it, that would be the signal for us to seize the Palace Gates! Once the Emperor is free all daimyos will rebel against the Shōgunate and destroy it and all Toranagas. Sonno-joi!”
They had toasted sonno-joi and Katsumata who had saved them, taught most of them and served sonno-joi secretly and wisely. Ori had whispered their plan to Hiraga to steal arms.
“Eeee, Ori, it
Ori and Shorin brightened. “You can get them for us?”
“Of course.” Ninja were a highly secret tong of expertly trained assassins who operated almost exclusively at night, their special black clothes helping to fuel the legend of their invisibility. “At one time we were going to burn the Legation building.” Hiraga laughed and emptied another flask of saké, the warmed wine making his tongue looser than normal. “But we decided not to, that it was more valuable to keep it under observation. Often I’ve gone there disguised as a gardener or at night as a ninja—it’s surprising what you can learn, even with simple English.”
“Eeee, Hiraga-san, we never knew you could speak English,” Ori said, astounded by the revelation. “Where did you learn it?”
“Where else can you learn gai-jin qualities if not from gai-jin? He was a Dutchman from Deshima, a linguist who spoke Japanese, Dutch and English. My grandfather wrote a petition to our daimyo suggesting that one such man should be allowed to come to Shimonoseki, at their cost, to teach Dutch and English for an experimental one year, trade would come afterwards. Thank you,” Hiraga said as Ori politely refilled his cup. “Gai-jin are all so gullible—but such foul money worshippers. This is the sixth year of the ‘experiment’ and we still only trade for what we want, when we can afford them—guns, cannon, ammunition, shot and certain books.”
“How is your revered grandfather?”
“In very good health. Thank you for asking.” Hiraga bowed in appreciation. Their bow in return was lower.
How wonderful to have such a grandfather, Ori thought, such a protection for all your generations—not like us who have to struggle to survive daily, are hungry daily, and have desperate trouble to pay our taxes. What will Father and Grandfather think of me now: ronin, and my so-needed one koku forfeit? “I would be honored to meet him,” he said. “Our shoya is not like him.”