James Clavell - Gai-Jin

by Gai-Jin(Lit)

  His heart twisted with fright as the ninja clapped a hand over his mouth to prevent any outcry. "It is me," Hiraga whispered angrily, then released him. "I could have killed you twenty times."

  "Yes." Ori forced a smile and pointed.

  Amongst the bushes, was another samurai, the arrow in his bow poised. "But he's on guard, not me."

  "Good." Hiraga greeted the guard and, mollified, pulled off his face mask. "Are the others inside and ready, Ori?"

  "Yes."

  "And your arm?"

  "Fine." Ori gasped and his face twisted in pain as Hiraga's hand snaked out and grabbed his shoulder. Tears seeped from his eyes but he remained silent.

  "You're a liability. You cannot go with us today--you will go back to Kanagawa." Hiraga stepped on to the veranda and went inside. Greatly dispirited,

  Ori followed.

  Eleven shishi were seated on the fine tatami, armed. Nine were Hiraga's compatriots from

  Choshu. Two newcomers were from the Mori patrol that had let them pass yesterday, later to desert and beg permission to join them.

  Hiraga sat, tiredly. "I could not get within two hundred paces of the temple or the

  Legation, so we cannot fire it and kill Lord

  Yoshi and the others when they arrive. Impossible.

  We must ambush him elsewhere."

  "Excuse me, Hiraga-san, but are you certain it was Lord Yoshi?" one of the Mori men asked.

  "Yes I'm sure."

  "I still cannot believe he would risk coming out of the castle with a few guards just to meet some stinking gai-jin, even disguised. He is too clever, surely he would know he is the supreme target for shishi, except the Sh@ogun, bigger even than the traitor Anjo."

  "He is not clever, I recognized him, I was close to him once in Ky@oto," Hiraga said, secretly not trusting either of the Mori samurai. "Whatever his reason, he could risk the

  Legation once without guards, not twice.

  Surely that is why the area is awash with

  Bakufu samurai. But tomorrow he will be outside the castle again. It is an opportunity we cannot miss. Could we mount an ambush somewhere?

  Anyone?"

  "Depends on the number of samurai with the cortege," a Mori samurai said. "If a meeting is held as the gai-jin want."

  "If? Would Lord Yoshi try a stratagem?"

  "I would, if I were him. They call him the

  Fox."

  "What would you do?"

  The man scratched his chin. "I'd delay, somehow."

  Hiraga frowned. "But if he goes to the

  Legation as yesterday where would he be the most vulnerable?"

  Ori said, "Getting out of his palanquin. The gai-jin forecourt."

  "We can't get there, even with a suicide rush."

  The silence gathered. Then Ori said quietly,

  "The nearer to the castle gates the safer his captains would feel, therefore the fewer their immediate guards and the less their vigilance, coming out

  ... or going back in."

  Hiraga nodded, satisfied, and smiled at him and motioned to one of his compatriots. "When the house wakes, tell the mama-san to fetch Ori a doctor, secretly and quickly."

  Ori said at once, "We agreed it is not safe."

  "An asset must be protected. Your idea is perfect."

  Ori bowed his thanks. "Better I go to the doctor, neh?"

  In first light Phillip Tyrer half ran half walked towards the wharf with two Highlanders, a sergeant and a private in tow. "Good God,

  Phillip, two guards are more than enough,"

  Sir William had said a moment ago. "If the Jappers intend mischief our entire garrison won't be sufficient to protect you.

  The message has to be delivered to Ketterer and you're it. 'Bye!"

  Like Sir William he had had to pass through the hundreds of silent samurai who had returned just before dawn. No one molested him or even seemed to acknowledge his presence other than a quick flick of their eyes. Ahead now was the sea. His pace quickened.

  "Halt, who goes there, or I'll blow yor bloody head off," a voice said from the shadows and he skidded to a stop.

  "For Christ's sake," Tyrer said, palpitating with fright. "Who the hell d'you think it is, it's me with an urgent message for the

  Admiral and General."

  "Sorry, sir."

  Quickly Tyrer was in a cutter being rowed briskly towards the flagship. He was so glad to be out of the Legation trap he could almost weep and urged the oarsmen on faster, then went up the gangway two rungs at a time.

  "Hello, Phillip!" Marlowe was officer of the watch on the main deck. "What the devil's up?"

  "Hello, John, where's the Admiral?

  I've an urgent dispatch for him from Sir

  William. The Legation's surrounded by thousands of the bastards."

  "Christ!" Anxiously Marlowe led the way down a gangway then aft. "How the hell did you get out?"

  "Just walked. They let me through their ranks, didn't say a bloody word, not one of them, just let me through. I don't mind telling you I was scared fartless--they're everywhere, except inside our walls and down by our wharf."

  The Marine sentry outside the cabin door saluted smartly. "Morning, sir."

  "Urgent dispatch for the Admiral."

  At once the voice slashed through the door:

  "Then for God's sake, Marlowe bring it in!

  Dispatch from whom?"

  Marlowe sighed, opened the door. "Sir

  William, sir."

  "What the hell's that idiot done n--"

  Admiral Ketterer stopped, seeing Tyrer.

  "Oh, you're his aide, aren't you?"

  "Apprentice interpreter, sir, Phillip

  Tyrer." He handed him the letter, "Er, Sir

  William's compliments, sir."

  The Admiral tore the letter open. He was wearing a long flannel nightgown and tasselled sleeping hat and thin-rimmed reading glasses and he pursed his lips as he read:

  I consider it best to cancel your appearance at the meeting today, as well as the General and the other

  Ministers. We are totally surrounded by hundreds, if not thousands of heavily armed samurai. Thus far they have done nothing hostile, or prevented anyone from leaving, yet. Certainly they have the right to put their own troops where they wish

  --perhaps it's just a bluff to unhinge us. For safety, however, I will handle the Bakufu alone, if they appear as demanded. (if this occurs I will run up a blue pennant and will endeavour to keep you advised of developments.)

  If the Bakufu do not appear I will wait another day or two, then may have to order an ignominious withdrawal. In the meantime, if you see the flag hauled down it will mean they have overrun us. You may then take whatever action you see fit. I am, Sir, your obedient servant....

  Carefully the Admiral reread the letter, then said decisively, "Mr. Marlowe, ask the

  Captain and General to join me here at once.

  Send the following message to all ships: "You will instantly go to action stations. All

  Captains to report aboard the flagship at noon." Next, send a signal to the Ministers asking them to be kind enough to join me here as soon as possible. Mr. Tyrer, get yourself some breakfast and be ready to carry back a reply within a few minutes."

  "But, sir, don't you think--"

  The Admiral was already bellowing at the closed door. "Johnson!"

  Instantly his orderly opened the door.

  "Barber's on his way, sir, your uniform's freshly ironed, breakfast's ready the moment you're at table, the porridge's hot!"

  Ketterer's look fell on Marlowe and

  Tyrer. "What the devil are you waiting for?"

  At Yokohama the Struan cutter--the only steam engine, propeller-driven, small boat in the Japans--swung against their wharf, wind brisk with a slight swell to the grey sea under the overcast. Jamie McFay climbed nimbly up the steps, then hurried along its length heading for their two-story building dominating the High

  Street. It was
barely eight o'clock but he had already been out to meet the bimonthly mail ship that had arrived with the dawn, to collect mail, dispatches and the latest newspapers that his Chinese assistant began to load into a cart. Clutched in his hand were two envelopes, one opened the other sealed.

  "'Morning, Jamie." Gabriel

  Nettlesmith intercepted him, stepping out from a small group of sleepy traders waiting for their boats. He was a short, roly-poly, untidy, smelly man, reeking of ink and unwashed clothes and the cigars that he smoked perpetually, editor and publisher of the

  Yokohama Guardian, the Settlement's newspaper, one of the many in Asia that Struan's owned, openly or secretly. "What's amiss?"

  "Lots--be kind enough to join me for tiffin.

  Sorry, can't stop."

  Even without the fleet at anchor the harbor was already busy with cutters plying to and from the half a hundred merchantmen, others clustering the mail ship, still others heading for her or coming back.

  Jamie was the first ashore, a matter of principle with him and a business expedient where prices of essential items, always in short supply, could fluctuate wildly depending on the mails. Hong Kong to Yokohama direct by mail steamer took about nine days, via Shanghai, about eleven, weather permitting. Mail from home, England, took eight to twelve weeks, weather and piracy permitting, and mail day always an anxious time, joyous, awful or in between but ever welcome, waited for and prayed for nonetheless.

  Norbert Greyforth of Brock and Sons,

  Struan's main rival, was still a hundred yards offshore, sitting comfortably amidships, his oarsmen pulling hard, watching him through his telescope. McFay knew he was being observed but it did not bother him today. The bugger will know soon enough if he doesn't know already, he thought, feeling uncommonly frightened. Frightened for

  Malcolm Struan, the Company, himself, for the future and for his ai-jin--love person--who waited equally patiently in their tiny Yoshiwara house across the canal, outside the fence.

  He increased his pace. Three or four drunks lay in the gutter of High Street like old sacks of coal, others scattered here and there down along the seafront. He stepped over one man, avoided a raucous group of inebriated merchant seamen staggering for their boats, ran up his steps into the large foyer of Struan's, up the staircase to the landing and down the corridor that led to suites of rooms the whole length of the godown.

  Quietly he opened a door and peered in.

  "Hello, Jamie," Malcolm Struan said from the bed.

  "Oh, hello, Malcolm, 'morning. I wasn't sure if you'd be awake." He closed the door behind him, noticed that the door to the adjoining suite was ajar, and went over to the huge teak four-poster that, like all the furniture, came from Hong Kong or England. Malcolm

  Struan was pasty-faced, and drawn, propped on pillows--the boat trip back from Kanagawa yesterday had drained more of his precious strength even though Dr. Babcott had kept him sedated and they had made the journey as smooth as possible. "How are you today?"

  Struan just peered up at him, his blue eyes seemingly faded and set deeper into their sockets, shadows underneath. "Mail from Hong Kong's not good, eh?" The words were flat, and gave McFay no way to break it easily.

  "Yes, sorry. You heard the signal gun?"

  Whenever the mail ship came within sight, it was custom for the Harbor Master to fire a cannon to alert the Settlement--the same procedure all over the world, wherever there were Settlements.

  "Yes, I did," Struan said. "Before you tell me the bad, close her door and give me the chamber pot."

  McFay obeyed. The other side of the door was a drawing room and beyond that a bedroom, the best apartment in the whole building and normally reserved exclusively for the tai-pan, Malcolm's father.

  Yesterday at Malcolm's insistence and her happy compliance, Angelique had been installed there. At once the news had rushed around the

  Settlement, feeding other reports and rumors that their Angelique had become the new Lady of the

  Lamp, and the betting odds on that she was Struan's in more ways than one, every man wanting to be in his bed.

  "You're mad," McFay had told some of them at the Club last night. "The poor fellow's in terrible shape."

  Dr. Babcott interrupted, "He'll be up and about before you know it."

  "It's got to be wedding bells, by God!" someone said.

  "Drinks on the house," another called out expansively, "Good-oh, we'll have our own wedding, our first wedding."

  "We've had lots, Charlie, what about our musumes?"'

  "They don't count for God's sake, I mean a real church wedding--and a right proper christening an--"'

  "Jumping Jehovah, are you implying one's in the oven?"'

  "The rumor's they was like stoats on the ship coming here, not that I blame him..."

  "Angel Tits weren't even feeanced then, by God! Say that agin', impugg'ning 'er

  'onor, and I'll do you by God!"

  McFay sighed. A few drunken blows and broken bottles, both men had been thrown out to crawl back within the hour to an uproarious welcome. Last night, when he had peeped in here before going to bed himself, Malcolm was asleep and she was nodding in a chair beside the bed. He awoke her gently. "Best get some proper sleep,

  Miss Angelique, he won't wake now."

  "Yes, thank you, Jamie."

  He had watched her stretch luxuriously like a contented young feline, half asleep, hair down around her bared shoulders, her gown high waisted and loose, falling in folds that the Empress

  Josephine had favored fifty years before and some

  Parisian haute couturiers were trying to reintroduce, all of her pulsating with a male-attracting life force. His own suite was along the corridor. For a long time he had not slept.

  Sweat soaked Struan. The effort of using the chamber pot was vast with little to show for all the pain, no feces and just a little blood-flecked urine.

  "Jamie, now what's the bad?"

  "Oh, well you see..."

  "For Christ sake tell me!"

  "Your father passed away nine days ago, same day the mail ship left Hong Kong direct us, not via Shanghai. His funeral was due three days later. Your mother asks me to arrange your return at once. Our mail ship from here with news of your, your bad luck won't arrive

  Hong Kong for another four or five days at the earliest. Sorry," he added lamely.

  Struan only heard the first sentence. The news was not unexpected and yet it came as violent a slash as the wound in his side. He was very glad and very sad, mixed up, excited that at long last he could really run the company that he had trained for all his life, that for years had been hemorrhaging, for years held together by his mother who quietly persuaded, cajoled, guided and helped his father over the bad times. The bad was constant and mostly due to drink that was his father's medicine to cushion blinding headaches and attacks of

  Happy Valley ague, mal-aria, bad air, the mysterious killing fever that had decimated Hong Kong's early population but now, sometimes, was held in abeyance by a bark extract, quinine.

  Can't remember a year when Father wasn't laid up at least twice with the shakes, for a month or more, his mind wandering for days on end. Even infusions of the priceless cinchona bark that Grandfather had had brought from Peru had not cured him, though it had stopped the fever from killing him, and most everyone else. But it hadn't saved poor little

  Mary, four years old then, me seven and forever after aware of death, the meaning of it and its finality.

  He sighed heavily. Thank God nothing touched Mother, neither plague nor ague nor age nor misfortune, still a young woman, not yet thirty-eight, still trim after seven children, a steel support for all of us, able to ride every disaster, every storm, even the bitter, perpetual hatred and enmity between her and her father, godrotting Tyler

  Brock... even the tragedy last year when the darling twins, Rob and Dunross, were drowned off

  Shek-O where our summer house is. And now poor Father. So many deaths.

  Tai-pa
n. Now I'm tai-pan of the Noble

  House.

  "What? What did you say, Jamie?"

  "I just said I was sorry, Tai-pan, and here, here's a letter from your mother."