by Gai-Jin(Lit)
He pretended to consider the request. When his fury was contained, he nodded, turned and stomped off towards the castle gates in the increasing rain.
His men went with him. The remainder circled
Jozan.
"You can rest a moment, shishi," the officer said kindly, wiping the rain from his own face. "Give him some water."
"Thank you." Jozan had prepared for this moment ever since, with Ori and Shorin and others four years ago, he had sworn to "Honor the
Emperor and expel the foreigners." Summoning his waning strength, he groped to his knees, and was horrified to realize he was petrified of dying.
The officer had seen the terror, had expected it and quickly came forward and squatted beside him:
"Do you have a death poem, shishi? Tell it to me, hold on, do not give way, you are samurai and this is as good a day as any," he said softly, encouraging the youth, willing the tears to stop. "From nothing into nothing, one sword cuts your enemy, one sword cuts you. Shout your battle cry and you will live forever. Say it: Sonno-joi... again
..."
All the time he had been preparing himself. With a sudden fluid movement, he stood erect and whirled his sword from the sheath--and the youth into eternity.
"Eeee," one of his men said with admiration.
"Uraga-san, that was marvelous to see."
"Sensei Katsumata of Satsuma was one of my teachers," he said throatily, his heart pounding like never before, but pleased that he had performed his duty as a samurai correctly.
One of his men picked up the head by its topknot.
The rain became tears, washing away the real ones. "Clean the head and take it to Lord Anjo for viewing." Uraga glanced at the castle gates. "Cowards disgust me," he said and walked away.
That night, when it was safe, Hiraga and the others sneaked out of the cellar that had been located in advance. By different routes they slipped away for their safe house.
It was overcast and black, wind strong with spattering rain. I will not feel cold, I will not show discomfort, I am samurai, Hiraga ordered himself, following the pattern of training in his family ever since he could remember. Just as I will train my sons and daughters--if my karma is to have sons and daughters, he thought.
"It's time you married," his father had said a year ago.
"I agree, Father. I respectfully request you change your mind and allow me to marry my choice."
"First, it is the duty of the son to obey the father, second it is the father's duty to choose the wives of his sons and husbands of his daughters, third, Sumomo's father does not approve, she is Satsuma and not Choshu and last, however desirable she is not suitable. What about the Ito girl?"'
"Please excuse me, father, I agree my choice is not perfect but her family is samurai, she is samurai trained and I am possessed by her. I beg you. You have four other sons--I have only one life and we, you and I, we both agree it is to be devoted to sonno-joi and will therefore be short. Grant this to me as a lifetime wish." By custom such a wish was a most serious request and meant that, if granted, it precluded asking for any other, ever.
"Very well," his father had said gruffly. "But not as a lifetime wish. You may be affianced when she is seventeen. I will welcome her into our family."
That was last year. A few days later he had left Shimonoseki, supposedly to join the
Choshu regiment in Ky@oto, actually to declare for sonno-joi and become ronin--and put his secret four-year adherence and training to use.
Now it was Ninth Month. In three weeks
Sumomo became seventeen but now he was so far outside the law there was no chance of safe return. Until yesterday. His father had written: Astonishingly, our Lord Ogama has offered a pardon to all warriors who openly embraced sonno-joi and will restore all stipends if they return at once, renounce the heresy and again swear allegiance to him publicly.
You will take advantage of this offer. Many are returning.
The letter had saddened him, almost destroying his resolve. "Sonno-joi is more important than family or even Lord Ogama, even
Sumomo," he had told himself over and over.
"Lord Ogama cannot be trusted. As to my stipend
..."
Fortunately his father was relatively well off compared with most, and, because of his shoya grandfather, had been promoted to hirazamurai, the third rank of samurai. Above were senior samurai, hatomoto and daimyo. Below hirazamurai were all others--goshi, ashigaru, rural samurai, and foot soldiers, who were of the feudal class but below samurai. As such his father had had access to lower officials and the education of his sons was the best available.
I owe him everything, Hiraga thought.
Yes, and obediently I worked to become the best pupil in the Samurai School, the best swordsman, the best at English. And I have his permission and approval and that of the Sensei, our chief teacher, to embrace sonno-joi, to become ronin, to lead and organize Choshu warriors as a spearhead for change. Yes, but their approval is secret, for if known, surely it would cost my father and the Sensei their heads.
Karma. I am doing my duty. Gai-jin are scum we do not need. Only their weapons to kill them with.
The rain increased. And the tempest. This pleased him for it made interception less likely. The beckoning bath and sak`e and clean clothes kept him warm and strong. That the attack had failed did not concern him. That was karma.
Ground into him by his teachers and heritage was the certainty that enemies and traitors were everywhere until it was a way of life. His steps were measured, he made sure he was not being followed, changed direction without logic and, whenever possible, explored ahead before moving.
When he reached the alley his strength drained out of him. The Inn of the Forty-seven Ronin and its surrounding fence had vanished.
All that remained was emptiness and the reeking smell and smoking ashes. A few bodies, men and women. Some decapitated, some hacked to pieces. He recognized his comrade shishi,
Gota, by his kimono. The mama-san's head was on a spear thrust into the ground. Attached was a sign: It is against the law to harbor criminals and traitors. The official seal below was of the Bakufu, signed by Nori Anjo, chief of the roju.
Hiraga was filled with surging fury but it was icy and merely added more layers to that already within. Those cursed gai-jin, he thought. It is their fault.
Because of them this happened. We will be revenged.
Sunday, 28th September:
Malcolm Struan came out of sleep slowly. His senses probed, testing. He had always known much about mental pain, losing two brothers and a sister; the anguish caused by his father's drunkenness and ever increasing rages; from impatient teachers; from his obsessive need to excel because one day he would be the tai-pan; and from his nagging fear he would be inadequate however much he prepared and trained and hoped and prayed and worked by day and by night, every day and every night of his life-- no real childhood or boyhood like others.
But now as never before he had to test the level of his awakening, to plumb the depth of what physical pain he had to endure today as today's norm, disregarding the sudden, blinding spasms that arrived without warning or logic.
Just a throbbing ache today but better than yesterday. How many days from the Tokaid@o
Road? Sixteen. Sixteenth day.
He allowed himself to become more awake. Truly better than yesterday. Eyes and ears open now.
Room steady in the early light. Clear sky, light wind, no storm.
Two days ago the storm had ceased. It had blown for eight days at typhoon strength, then vanished as quickly as it had arrived. The fleet standing off Yedo had scattered the first day seeking safety at sea. Alone of all the warships, the French flagship had disengaged early, just making it back safely to Yokohama.
No other ships had returned. No need to worry yet, but everyone watched the horizon uneasily, hoping and praying.
During the gales here at Yokohama a merchantman had been blown ashore, some buildings damag
ed, many cutters and fishing boats lost, havoc wrought in the village and
Yoshiwara, many tents in the military encampment on the bluff blown away but no casualties there, or in the Settlement.
We were more than lucky, Struan thought, concentrating on the central problem of his universe. Can I sit up?
A tentative, awkward attempt.
Ayeeyah! Pain, but not too bad. With both arms he pushed further and now he was erect, his hands braced behind him.
Bearable. Better than yesterday. Waiting a moment, then leaning forward, carefully taking his weight off one arm. Still bearable. Weight off both arms. Still bearable. Taking care he pulled the bedclothes off and cautiously tried to swing his legs to the floor. But he could not, the stabbing pain too great. A second try, again failure.
Never mind, I'll try later. He lowered himself as gently as he could. When his weight was off his waist and on his back he sighed with relief.
"Ayeeyah!"
"Patience, Malcolm," Babcott had said every day at every visit--three or four times daily.
"Sod patience!"
"Quite right too--but you really are doing fine."
"And when can I get up?"'
"Now if you wish--but I wouldn't advise it."
"How long?"'
"Give it a couple of weeks."
He had cursed openly but in many ways he was glad for the reprieve. It gave him more time to consider how he was going to deal with being tai-pan, with his mother, with Angelique, with McFay and pressing business problems.
"What about the guns for Choshu?"' McFay had asked a few days ago. "It'll be a huge continuing business."
"I've an idea. Leave it with me."
"Norbert will have sniffed these Choshus out long since and he's bound to make them an undercutting offer."
"The hell with Norbert and Brock! Their contacts are not as good as ours, and Dmitri,
Cooper-Tillman and most of the other American
China traders's on our side."
"Except in Hawaii," McFay said sourly.
In the last mail, ten days ago--no further news since then and the bimonthly steamer not expected for another five days--Tess Struan had written:...
The Victoria Bank has betrayed us. I believe they have been secretly supporting
Morgan Brock in London with lavish letters of credit. With these, he has secretly bought out or bribed all our Hawaiian agents cornering the whole sugar market, excluding us totally.
Worse, though I've no proof, it's rumoured he has close contacts with the Rebel
President Jefferson Davis and his cotton plantation owners, proposing to barter the whole crop against cotton futures for English mills
--a deal that would make Tyler and Morgan the richest men in Asia. THIS MUST NOT
HAPPEN! I am at my wit's end. Jamie, what do you suggest? Give this dispatch to my son with the same urgent request for help.
"What's your suggestion, Jamie?"'
"I don't have one, Mal...
Tai-pan."
"If the deal's done the deal's done and that's the end of it. Say it is, could we intercept the cotton somehow?"'
McFay had blinked. "Pirate it?"'
Struan had said levelly, "If need be.
Old Man Brock would, he has in the past.
That's one possibility, the cotton will all go in his ships. Second: our Navy breaks the
Union blockade and then we can all get all the cotton we want."
"It could, if we declare war on the Union.
Unthinkable!"
"I don't agree. For God's sake, we should come in on Davis's side, Southern cotton's our lifeblood. Then they'll win, otherwise they won't."
"Agreed. But we're equally dependent on the North."
"How do we take away his ships? There must be a way to break the chain. If he can't move the cargo he's bankrupt."
"What would Dirk do?"'
"Go for the jugular," Malcolm had replied at once.
"Then that's what we have to find..."
Where and what is it? he asked himself again, lying quietly on the bed, willing his brain to work clearly on this problem and all the others.
Angelique? No, I'll think about her later
--but I know I love her more every day.
Thank God I can write letters now. Must write to Mother again, if anyone should know the jugular it's her, isn't Tyler Brock her father and
Morgan her brother but how dare she sneer at
Angelique's family? Should I write to Angelique's father? Yes, but not yet, there's time enough.
So much other mail to catch up on, books to order from England, Christmas not so far away, the
Jockey Club Charity Ball in Hong Kong,
Struan's annual Ball to think about, meetings today: Jamie at least twice, Seratard this afternoon
--what does he want? What else is planned for today? Phillip's coming to chat again after breakfast... wait a minute, no, not today.
Yesterday Sir William ordered him back to Yedo, to prepare the Legation for the meeting with the
Council of Elders in twenty days.
"Will the meeting really take place, Sir
William?"' he had asked when the Minister had visited him. With the fleet no longer protecting the Legation, and extensive though not overtly hostile samurai activity all around them, after a few face-saving days Sir William had considered it prudent to return to Yokohama, ostensibly to prepare for the delivery of the indemnity money.
"I think so, Mr. Struan. Perhaps not punctually, but yes the ceremonial will happen approximately then and we will have taken a real leap forward. If they produce the first payment of
5,000 pounds as promised... well, that will be a very good indication. By the way, I understand you've a steamer due to leave today for Hong Kong, could I prevail upon you to allow one of my staff and some urgent mail to go with her--my wife and two sons are expected soon and I have to make plans."
"Of course, I'll mention it to McFay.
If you want a berth on any of our ships to meet them just say the word."
"Thank you--I was planning two weeks vacation when they do. One gets hidebound, cooped up here, don't you think? Miss the bustle of
Hong Kong, that's quite a city though damned if the people at Whitehall appreciate it! Plenty of good roast beef, some cricket or tennis, the theatre or opera, and several days at the races would be most welcome. When will you return?"'
When?
News of our Tokaid@o disaster would have arrived almost a week ago, presuming the mail ship weathered the storm. Mother will have had a fit though showing nothing to outsiders. Will she come here on the first available ship? Possibly, but there's HQ to look after--and Emma, Rose and Duncan. With father dead, me not there, eighteen days is too long for her to be away. Even if she's already aboard there's at least another three or four days to prepare my defenses. Strange to consider her a possible enemy, if not enemy no longer friend.
Perhaps she's friend after all, she always has been, however distant, always attending father with little time for us.
"Hello, my son, how could I ever be your enemy?"'
He was astonished to see her standing by the bed, his father also, and this was strange because he remembered his father was dead but it did not seem to matter, quickly out of bed without hurt and chatting with them happily in the cutter crossing Hong Kong harbor, storm clouds everywhere, both of them listening deferentially and approving his clever plans, Angelique sitting in the stern, her dress diaphanous, breasts beckoning, uncovered now, his hands there and lower, all uncovered now, her body writhing against his, hands caressing his face...
"Malcolm?"
He awoke with a start. Angelique was beside the bed, smiling at him, peignoir blue silk rich and discreet. The dream vanished, except the threat and promise of her body, ever pulsating in his subconscious. "I... oh I was dreaming, my darling, but it was about you."
"Oh yes? What?"
He frowned, trying to reco
llect.
"I don't remember," he said, smiling up at her, "except that you were beautiful. I love your gown."
She pirouetted gaily to show it off. "The tailor you asked Jamie to arrange made it!
Mon Dieu, Malcolm, me, I think he is marvelous--I ordered four dresses, I hope that's all right... oh thank you!" She bent down to kiss him.
"Wait, Angelique, wait, just a second. Look!" Carefully he raised himself, dominating the pain, took both supporting hands away and held them out to her.