by Gai-Jin(Lit)
Angrily the youth kicked Canterbury's top hat aside and decapitated him with a single blow.
Then, with great care, he cleansed his blade on the frock coat, and replaced it in its scabbard.
And all the while the cortege continued to pass as though nothing was happening, that nothing had happened, eyes seeing everything but nothing. Nor did any of the foot travellers move their heads from the earth.
The other younger samurai was sitting cross-legged on the ground, nursing his shoulder, using his bunched kimono to stop the flow of blood, his sword, still stained, in his lap. His compatriot went over to him and helped him up, cleansed the sword on the kimono of the nearest traveller, an old woman, who shivered in terror but kept her head pressed to the earth.
Both men were young and strongly built. They smiled at each other, then, together, examined the wound. The bullet had gone right through the muscle of his upper arm. No bone touched. Shorin, the older said, "The wound's clean, Ori."
"We should have killed them all."
"Karma."
At this moment the massed samurai and the eight terrified porters carrying the palanquin began passing, all pretending the two men and the corpse did not exist. With great deference, the two youths bowed.
The tiny side window of the palanquin slid open, then closed again.
"Here, Mr. Struan, drink this," the doctor said kindly, towering over the camp bed. They were in the surgery of the British Legation at
Kanagawa and he had managed to stanch most of the blood flow. Tyrer sat on a chair near the window. The two of them had arrived half an hour ago. "It will make you feel better."
"What is it?"
"Magic--mostly laudanum, that's a tincture of opium and morphine of my own devising. It will stop the pain. I have to patch you up a little but not to worry, I will use ether to put you quite to sleep."
Struan felt a sick fear rush through him.
Ether for surgery was a recent innovation, much heralded, but still experimental. "I've, I've never had one or an, an operation and, and I don't... think..."
"Don't worry yourself. Anesthetics are really quite safe in the right hands." Dr. George
Babcott was twenty-eight, well over six feet five and equally proportioned. "I've used ether and chloroform many times over the last five or six years, with excellent results.
Believe me, you won't feel anything, and it's a godsend to the patient."
"That's right, Mr. Struan," Tyrer said, trying to be helpful, knowing he was not. His arm already had been swabbed with iodine, sewn up and bandaged and in a sling and he was thanking his luck that his wound was relatively superficial. "I met a fellow at university who told me he had had his appendix out with chloroform, and it didn't hurt a bit." He wanted to sound reassuring, but the idea of any operation--and the gangrene that all too often followed--frightened him too.
"Don't forget, Mr. Struan," Babcott was saying, masking his concern, "it's almost fifteen years since Dr. Simpson first used chloroform in surgery and we've learned a lot since then. I studied under him at the Royal
Infirmary for a year before I went out to the
Crimea." His face saddened. "Learned a lot there too. Well, that war's over so not to worry, lovely laudanum will give you some erotic dreams too, if you're lucky."
"And if I'm not?"
"You're lucky. You're both very lucky."
Struan forced a smile through his pain. "We're lucky we found you here and so quickly, that's certain." Instinctively trusting Babcott he drank the colorless liquid, and lay back again, almost fainting from the pain.
"We'll let Mr. Struan rest a moment,"
Babcott said. "You'd better come with me, Mr.
Tyrer, we've things to do."
"Of course, Doctor. Struan, can I get you anything, do anything?"
"No... no, thanks. No, no need for you to wait."
"Don't be silly, of course I'll wait." Nervously Tyrer followed the doctor out and closed the door. "Is he going to be all right?"
"I don't know. Fortunately samurai blades are always clean and they cut as beautifully as any scalpel. Excuse me a minute, I'm the only official here this afternoon so now that I've done everything medically possible,
I'd better act like Her Britannic
Majesty's representative." Babcott was
Deputy to Sir William. He ordered the
Legation cutter across the bay to Yokohama to sound the alarm, sent a Chinese servant to fetch the local Governor, another to find out what daimyo, or prince, had passed through
Kanagawa a couple of hours ago, put the six-man detachment of soldiers on alert, and poured Tyrer a large whisky. "Drink it, it's medicinal. You say the assassins shouted something at you?"
"Yes, it, it sounded like "sonoh... sonnoh-ee.""
"Means nothing to me. Make yourself at home,
I'll be back in a moment, I've got to get ready." He went out.
Tyrer's arm was aching, with seven stitches in it.
Though Babcott had been expert,
Tyrer had been hard put not to cry out. But he had not and that pleased him. What appalled him were the currents of fear that continued to shake him, making him want to run away and keep on running.
"You're a coward," he muttered, aghast at the discovery.
Like the surgery, the anteroom stank of chemicals making his stomach heave. He went to the window and breathed deeply, trying unsuccessfully to clear his head, then sipped some of the whisky. As always the taste was raw and unpleasant. He stared into the glass. Bad pictures there, very bad. A shudder went through him. He forced himself to look just at the liquor. It was golden brown and the smell reminded him of his home in London, his father after dinner sitting in front of the fire with his dram, mother complacently knitting, their two servants clearing the table, everything warm and cozy and safe, and that reminded him of Garroway's, his favorite
Coffee House on Cornhill, warm and bustling and safe, and of university exciting and friendly but safe. Safe. His whole life safe but now?
Again panic began to overwhelm him. Jesus
Christ, what am I doing here?
After their escape but still not far enough away from the
Tokaido, Struan's bolting pony had shied as her half-severed shoulder muscle gave out and
Struan tumbled to the ground. The fall hurt him badly.
With great difficulty, still weak with fear, Tyrer had helped Struan onto his own pony but he had been barely able to hold the taller heavier man in the saddle. All the time his attention was on the disappearing cortege, expecting any moment to see mounted samurai. "Can you hold on?"'
"Yes, yes I think so." Struan's voice was very weak, his pain great.
"Angelique, she got away all right?"'
"Yes, yes she did. The devils killed
Canterbury."
"I saw that. Are... are you hurt?"'
"No, not really. I don't think so. Just a gash in my arm." Tyrer tore off his coat, cursed at the sudden pain. The wound was a neat slice in the fleshy part of his forearm. He cleaned some of the blood away with a handkerchief, then used it as a bandage. "No veins or arteries cut--but why did they attack us? Why? We weren't doing any harm."
"I... I can't turn around. The bastard got me in the side... how... how does it look?"'
With great care Tyrer eased the split in the broadcloth coat apart. The length and depth of the cut, made worse by the fall, shocked him.
Blood pulsated from the wound, frightening him further. "It's not good. We should get a doctor quickly."
"We'd, we'd better, better circle for
Yokohama."
"Yes, yes I suppose so." The young man held on to Struan and tried to think clearly. People on the Tokaido were pointing at them. His anxiety increased. Kanagawa was nearby and he could see several temples. "One of them must be ours," he muttered, a foul taste in his mouth. Then he saw that his hands were covered with blood and his heart again surged with fright, then surged again with relie
f when he discovered that most of it was Struan's. "We'll go on."
"What... did you say?"'
"We'll go on to Kanagawa--it's close by and the way clear. I can see several temples, one of them must be ours. There's bound to be a flag flying." By Japanese custom, Legations were housed in sections of Buddhist temples. Only temples or monasteries had extra rooms or outbuildings of sufficient size and quantity, so the Bakufu had had some set aside until individual residences could be constructed.
"Can you hold on, Mr. Struan? I'll lead the pony."
"Yes." Struan looked across at his own mount as she whinnied miserably, tried to run again but failed, her leg useless. Blood ran down her side from the savage wound. She stood there shivering. "Put her out of her pain and let's go on."
Tyrer had never shot a horse before. He wiped the sweat off his hands. The derringer had twin barrels and was breech-loaded with two of the new bronze cartridges that held bullet and charge and detonator. The pony skittered but could not go far. He stroked her head for a second, gentling her, put the derringer to her ear and pulled the trigger. The immediacy of her death surprised him. And the noise that the gun made. He put it back in his pocket.
Again he wiped his hands, everything still as in a trance. "We'd best stay away from the road,
Mr. Struan, best stay out here, safer."
It took them much longer than he had expected with ditches and streams to cross. Twice Struan almost lost consciousness, and Tyrer only just managed to keep him from falling again. Peasants in the rice paddies pretended not to see them, or stared at them rudely, then went back to their work, so Tyrer just cursed them and pressed onwards.
The first temple was empty but for a few frightened, shaven-headed Buddhist monks in orange robes who scurried away into inner rooms the moment they saw them. There was a small fountain in the forecourt. Thankfully Tyrer drank some of the cool water, then refilled the cup and brought it to Struan who drank but could hardly see for pain.
"Thanks. How... how much farther?"'
"Not far," Tyrer said, not knowing which way to go, trying to be brave. "We'll be there any moment."
Here the path forked, one way going towards the coast and to another temple soaring above village houses, the other deeper into the town and another temple. For no reason he chose the way towards the coast.
The path meandered, ran back on itself then went east again, no people in the maze of alleys but eyes everywhere. Then he saw the main gate of the temple and the Union Jack and the scarlet-uniformed soldier and almost wept with relief and pride for at once they were seen and the soldier rushed to help, another went for the Sergeant of the Guard and in no time there was Dr. Babcott towering over him.
"Christ Almighty, what the hell's happened?"'
It had been easy to tell--there was so little to tell.
"Have you ever assisted at an operation before?"
"No, Doctor."
Babcott smiled, his face and manner genial, his hands moving swiftly, undressing the half-conscious Malcolm Struan as easily as if he were a child. "Well, soon you will have, good experience for you. I need help and I'm the only one here today. You'll be back in Yokohama by suppertime."
"I'll... I'll try."
"You'll probably be sick--it's the smell mostly, but not to worry. If you are, do it in the basin and not over the patient." Again
Babcott glanced at him, gauging him, asking himself how reliable this young man might be, reading his bottled terror, then went back to work. "We'll give him ether next and then, off we go. You said you were in Peking?"
"Yes, sir, for four months--I came here by way of Shanghai and arrived a few days ago." Tyrer was glad to be able to talk to help keep his mind off the horrors. "The Foreign
Office thought a short stay in Peking learning
Chinese characters would help us with Japanish."
"Waste of time. If you want to speak it--by the way, most of us out here call it Japanese, like
Chinese--if you want to read and write it properly, Chinese characters won't help, hardly at all." He shifted the inert man to a more comfortable position. "How much Japanese do you know?"
Tyrer's unhappiness increased.
"Practically none, sir. Just a few words.
We were told there would be Japanish, I mean
Japanese grammars and books in Peking but there weren't any."
In spite of his enormous concern over this whole incident, Babcott stopped for a moment and laughed. "Grammars are as rare as a dragon's dingle and there're no Japanese dictionaries that
I know of, except Father Alvito's of 1601 and that's in Portuguese--which I've never even seen and only heard about--and the one Reverend
Priny's been working on for years." He eased off Struan's white silk shirt, wet with blood. "Do you speak Dutch?"
"Again just a few words. All student interpreters for Japan are supposed to have a six months course but the F.o. sent us off on the first available steamer. Why is Dutch the official foreign language used by the
Japanese bureaucracy?"
"It isn't. The F.o. are wrong, and wrong about a lot of things. But it is the only
European language presently spoken by a few Bakufu--I'm going to lift him slightly, you pull off his boots then his trousers, but do it gently."
Awkwardly Tyrer obeyed, using his good left hand.
Now Struan was quite naked on the surgical table. Beyond were the surgical instruments and salves and bottles. Babcott turned away and put on a heavy, waterproofed apron.
Instantly Tyrer saw only a butcher. His stomach heaved and he just made the basin in time.
Babcott sighed. How many hundred times have
I vomited my heart out and then some more? But I need help so this child has to grow up. "Come here, we have to work quickly."
"I can't, I just can't..."
At once the doctor roughened his voice. "You come over here right smartly and help or Struan will die and before that I'll thump the hell out of you!"
Tyrer stumbled over to his side.
"Not here, for God's sake, opposite me!
Hold his hands!"
Struan opened his eyes briefly at
Tyrer's touch and went back again into his nightmare, mouthing incoherently.
"It's me," Tyrer muttered, not knowing what else to say.
On the other side of the table Babcott had uncorked the small, unlabeled bottle and now he poured some of the yellowish oily liquid onto a thick linen pad. "Hold him firmly," he said, and pressed the pad over Struan's nose and mouth.
At once Struan felt himself being suffocated and grabbed at the pad, almost tearing it away with surprising strength. "For Christ sake, get hold of him," Babcott snarled. Again Tyrer grabbed Struan's wrists, forgetting his bad arm, and cried out but managed to hold on, the ether fumes revolting him. Still Struan struggled, twisting his head to escape, feeling himself dragged down into this never-ending cesspool. Gradually his strength waned, and vanished.
"Excellent," Babcott said. "Astonishing how strong patients are sometimes." He turned
Struan onto his stomach, making his head comfortable, revealing the true extent of the wound that began in his back and came around just under the rib cage to end near his navel. "Keep a close watch on him and tell me if he stirs--when I tell you give him more ether..." But Tyrer was again at the basin. "Hurry up!"
Babcott did not wait, letting his hands flow, used to operating in far worse circumstances. Crimea with tens of thousands of soldiers dying--cholera, dysentery, smallpox mostly--and then all the wounded, the howls in the night and in the day, and then in the night the Lady of the Lamp who brought order out of chaos in military hospitals. Nurse Nightingale who ordered, cajoled, threatened, demanded, begged but somehow instituted her new ideas and cleansed that which was filthy, cast out hopelessness and useless death, yet still had time to visit the sick and the needy all hours of the night, her oil or candle lamp held high, lighting her passage from bed to bed.
&n
bsp; "Don't know how she did it," he muttered.
"Sir?"
Momentarily he looked up and saw Tyrer, white-faced, staring at him. He had quite forgotten him. "I was just thinking about the Lady of the Lamp," he said, allowing his mouth to talk, to calm himself-- without letting this disturb his concentration on the sliced muscles and damaged veins. "Florence
Nightingale. She went out to the Crimea with just thirty-eight nurses and in four months cut the death rate from forty in every hundred to about two--in every hundred."