James Clavell - Gai-Jin

by Gai-Jin(Lit)

  I am complicated but we know what they do, but not yet know how they do it. Perhaps your Taira, this gai-jin fountain of information you so cleverly drain, perhaps he would know, could explain to you how they do it, the tricks, the secrets, then you can tell us and we can make Nippon as strong as five

  Englands. When you achieve sonno-joi, we and other moneylenders can join to finance all the ships and arms Nippon will ever need..."

  Cautiously, he elaborated on his theme, eloquently answering questions, guiding Hiraga, helping him, flattering him, judiciously plying him with sak`e and knowledge, impressed with his intelligence, over the hours snaring his imagination and he continued until the sun was down.

  "Money, eh? I will ad... admit, shoya," Hiraga said unsteadily, heavy with alcohol, his head bursting with so many new and unsettling ideas that conflicted with as many deep beliefs, "admit money never inter... ested me. Never really, really understood money, only the lack." A belch almost choked him. "I, I think I can see, yes, Taira will tell me."

  He tried to get up and failed.

  "First may I offer a bath, and I will send for the masseuse?" The shoya easily persuaded him, called for a servant to help and gave Hiraga over to strong though gentle hands--soon to be snoring and oblivious.

  "Well done, Ichi-chan," his wife whispered when it was safe, beaming at him. "You were perfect, neh?"

  He beamed back, also speaking softly, "He is dangerous, always will be, but we begin, that's the important part."

  She nodded, satisfied that he had taken her advice to send for Hiraga this afternoon, to be armed, and not to be afraid to use the threat. Both knew the risks, but then, she reminded herself, her heart still pounding from listening to the parry and thrust, this is an opportunity sent by the gods and gains are proportionate to risks. Eeee, she chortled to herself, with success we will be granted samurai status, our descendants will be samurai, and my

  Ichi will be a Gyokoyama overlord. "You were so wise to say two and not three escapees and not to reveal what else we know."

  "It is important to keep something in reserve. To further control him."

  She patted her husband maternally and again told him how clever he was and did not remind him that this too had been her suggestion. She let her mind drift a moment, still puzzled by the two shishi making for Yedo, thus surely risking capture or betrayal immeasurably. And even more puzzling was why the girl Sumomo,

  Hiraga's samurai wife-to-be, had joined the household of Koiko, Yedo's most famous courtesan, now the pleasure person of Lord

  Yoshi. Very puzzling indeed.

  A vagrant thought blossomed. "Ichi-chan," she said delicately, "something you said earlier made me want to ask you: if these gai-jin are so clever and such magical bankers, would it not be wise for you to begin a careful venture with one of them, quietly, very quietly." She saw his eyes fix and the dawning of a seraphic smile.

  "Toshi is nineteen, the cleverest of our sons, and could be the figurehead, neh?"

  Monday, 1st December:

  Norbert Greyforth came on deck of the mail ship just rounding the headland. She was from Hong Kong via Shanghai and now ahead was the Yokohama coastline. He was freshly shaven and wore a top hat and frock coat against the early morning chill and he saw the Captain and others on the bridge in front of the funnel with its plume of acrid smoke trailing aft, seamen preparing for port, sails furled on her three masts. On the foredeck, behind locked grills separating them completely from the rest of the ship, were steerage passengers, the flotsam of Asia, remittance men and riffraff, huddled under canvas shelters.

  Grills were standard on passenger ships against piracies attempted from this area.

  The wind was brisk and smelt good to him and tasted clean, not like below where the stench of oil and coal smoke and the throbbing, headache-making engine noise permeated the closeness. Asian Queen had been under power for hours, battling the head wind.

  Much as he loathed steamers, Norbert was pleased, otherwise they would have been many more days late. He bit the end off a cheroot, spat it overboard and cupped his hands, lighting it carefully.

  The Settlement looked the same as ever.

  Samurai guard houses and Customs House, north and south, outside the fence and over small bridges, smoke from various chimneys, men walking the promenade, horsemen exercising their ponies on the racetrack, Drunk Town its usual mess with little of their fire and earthquake damage cleaned up, contrasting with the disciplined tent lines of the encampment on the bluff where soldiers were drilling, the odd bugle call wafting seawards. As if peeping over the fence were the Yoshiwara roofs. He felt a halfhearted stirring, nothing like normal for he was still satiated from carousing in Shanghai, the richest, raunchiest, wildest city in Asia, with the best racing, gambling, whoring, bars and European food anywhere.

  Never mind, he thought, I'll give Sako the bolt of silk and that'll make her toolie flutter and who knows?

  His eyes passed the flagpoles of the various

  Legations, hardened as they saw the Struan

  Building, then centered on his own. During the three weeks he had been away he was pleased to see external repairs to the top floor had been completed, no sign of fire damage. He was too far away to recognize people going in and out of the buildings fronting High Street, then he caught a glimpse of a blue bonnet and hooped dress and parasol crossing to the French Legation.

  Only one like that, he thought. Angel Tits! It was as if he could smell the perfume surrounding her. Wonder if she knows about the duel.

  Morgan Brock had guffawed when he told them. "Thee's my consent to blow his head or balls off. 'Stead of pistols, make it fighting irons and really earn thy bonus."

  Tenders were already scurrying to meet the mail ship. Sourly, he noted that the Struan steam launch was waiting in the chop, first in line,

  Jamie McFay in the stern. His oared launch second. Never mind, won't be long before your launch's mine, your building, with you and all the bloody Struans beached or dead, though maybe

  I'll give you a job, Jamie, maybe, just for amusement. Then he saw McFay put binoculars to his eyes and knew he would see him. He waved perfunctorily, spat over the side and went to his cabin below.

  "'Morning, Mr. Greyforth, suh," Edward

  Gornt said with Southern charm. He stood at the door of the cabin opposite, a tall, though slight, good-looking young man from Virginia, twenty-seven, with deep set, brown eyes and brown hair, "I've been watching from the aft deck. Nothing like Shanghai, is it?"

  "In more ways than you can think. Are you packed?"

  "Yes, suh, and ready to have at it."

  Apart from the slight roll to the "suh" his accent was faint, much more English than Southern.

  "Good. Sir Morgan told me to give you this when we arrived." He took an envelope from his briefcase and handed it him. The more he thought about his whole trip the more flabbergasted he became.

  Tyler Brock had not come to Shanghai. A curt note had greeted Greyforth instead, telling him to obey his son, Morgan, as though he was giving the orders. Sir Morgan Brock was a big-bellied, balding man, not as coarse as his father, but just as mean-tempered and bearded like him.

  Unlike him, he was London-trained in

  Threadneedle Street, center of the world's stock markets, and for all manner of international trade.

  As soon as Greyforth arrived Morgan had laid out his plan to break Struan's.

  It was foolproof.

  For a year he, his father and their associates on the board of the Victoria Bank of Hong Kong had been buying up Struan's debt paper.

  Now, with the whole board backing them, they only had to wait until the 30th of January to foreclose.

  There was no way Struan's could meet this deadline. On that date the bank would own

  Struan's, lock, stock and clipper ship with

  Morgan cornering the Hawaiian sugar markets, cunningly excluding Struans who counted on their yearly profits from those markets to service their debts,
he would make the killing certain. And another, even bigger coup:

  Morgan, with supreme cleverness, had bartered these crops forward to Union and Confederate importers for Union goods and Southern cotton for the huge

  British market that still, by law, could only be serviced by British ships--their ships.

  "It's a genius scheme, Sir Morgan, congratulations," Norbert said, awed, for it would make Brock's the wealthiest trading company in

  Asia, the Noble House, and guarantee his stipend of five thousand guineas a year.

  "We be buying Struan's at ten pennies in the pound from the Bank, that be agreed, Norbert, their fleet, everything," Sir Morgan had said, his huge belly shaking with laughter. "Thee's to retire soon, and we be very grateful for thy service. If all goes well in Yokohama, we be thinking of another five thousand a year as bonus. Look after young Edward and show him everything."

  "To what end?"' he had asked, that vast amount of money every year swamping him.

  "To any end I want," Sir Morgan had said curtly. "But since thee asks, perhaps

  I be wanting him to take over Japan, take over thy job when thee goes, if he's worthy.

  Rothwell's be giving him a month's leave"-- this was Gornt's present employer, one of the oldest Shanghai companies and associates of

  Cooper-Tillman, the biggest American China trader, for whom he had been working for three years, and with whom Brock's, as well as

  Struan's, had extensive business relations--

  "this be enough time for the lad to decide, perhaps he'll take over from thee, when thee retires."

  "You think he's experienced enough, Sir

  Morgan?"'

  "By the time thee leaves, make sure he is-- that's thy job, teach him, toughen him. Don't break him, I don't want him scared off, broken, don't forget now!"

  "How much should I tell him?"'

  After thought, Sir Morgan said, "Everything about our business in the Japans, the gunrunning plan and opium smuggling if them bastards in

  Parliament get their way. Tell him thy ideas on opening up the opium trade and busting any embargo if there be one, but nought about provoking

  Struan, or about our scheme to smash them. The lad knows about the Struans, no love lost on them at Rothwell's, he knows what scum they really be and the devilment old Dirk did, murdering my stepbrother and the like. He's a good lad, so tell him what thee will, but not about sugar!"

  "Just as you say, Sir Morgan. What about all the specie and paper I brought? I'll need replacements to pay for the guns, silks and this year's trade goods."

  "I be sending it from Hong Kong, when I returns, and Norbert, it were right clever to shove

  Struan's out of the way with the Jappo prospecting offer--if that pays dirt, thee will share in't. As to Edward, after the month send him to Hong Kong with a confidential report to the Old Man. I like the lad, he be highly thought of in Shanghai and by Rothwell's--and the son of an old friend."

  Norbert had wondered about "what" old friend, and about the debt Sir Morgan owed the man to take so much trouble, unusual for him to be kind to anyone. But he was too shrewd to ask and kept his own counsel, happy that the problem of staying in the Brock's good favor would not concern him much longer.

  Edward Gornt proved to be pleasant enough, reticent, a good listener, more English than

  American, intelligent, and, rare in Asia, a nondrinker. Greyforth's immediate assessment had been that Gornt was totally unsuited to the rough, adventurous, hard-drinking China trade--a lightweight in everything, except at cards.

  Gornt was an exceptional bridge player and lucky at poker, a major virtue in Asia, but even this was academic for he never played for high stakes.

  He was convinced that Edward Gornt would not suit the Brocks for long, and nothing on the voyage back had made him change his mind. From time to time he had seen a strangeness behind the eyes. The bugger's just wishywashy, out of his depth and knows it, he thought, watching him reading Morgan's letter.

  Never mind, if anyone can make him grow up I can.

  Gornt folded the letter, pocketed it and the sheaf of money the envelope had contained. "Sir

  Morgan's so generous, isn't he?" he said with a smile. "I never thought he'd... I can't wait to begin, to learn, I like work and action and

  I'll do my best to please you, but I'm still not sure if I should leave Rothwell's and... well I never thought he would ever consider I would maybe be good enough to head Brock's in Japan if or when you retire. Never."

  "Sir Morgan's a tough master, difficult to please, like our tai-pan, but straight if you do what you're told. A month will be enough. Can you handle a gun?"

  "Oh yes."

  The sudden directness surprised him. "What kinds?"

  "Handguns, rifles, shotguns." Again the smile. "I've never killed anyone, Indians or the like, but I was second in the Richmond skeet-shoot four years ago." A shadow went over him. "That was the year I went to London to join Brock's."

  "You didn't want to leave? Didn't like

  London?"

  "No, and yes. My mother had died and, and my father, he thought it best I should be out in the world, London being the Center of the World so to speak.

  London was grand. Sir Morgan very kind.

  Kindest man I know."

  Norbert waited but Gornt volunteered nothing more, lost in his own thoughts. Sir Morgan had only told him Gornt had spent a satisfactory year with Brock's in London, with Tyler Brock's last and youngest son, Tom.

  After the year he had arranged the junior post at

  Rothwell's. "Do you know Dmitri Syborodin who runs Cooper-Tillman here?"

  "No, suh. Only by reputation. My parents knew Judith Tillman, the widow of one of the original partners." Gornt's eyes had narrowed and Norbert noticed the strangeness in them. "She didn't like Dirk Struan either, loathed him in fact, blamed him for the death of her husband. The sins of the father do pass onwards, don't they?"

  Norbert laughed. "They do indeed."

  "You were saying suh? Dmitri Syborodin?"

  "You'll like him, he's Southern too." The landing bell sounded. Norbert's eyes glittered with anticipation, "Let's get ashore, there'll be action soon enough."

  "Man wan' see tai-pan, heya?" Ah

  Tok said.

  "Ayeeyah, speak civilized, Mother, and not gibberish," Malcolm told her in

  Cantonese. He stood at his office window, binoculars in his hand, and had been watching the mail ship unloading passengers. He had seen

  Norbert Greyforth and now he was feeling very good.

  "What man?"

  "The foreign devil bonze you sent for, the foul-smelling bonze," she mumbled. "Your Old

  Mother is working too hard and her Son won't listen! We should be going home."

  "Ayeeyah, I've told you not to mention going home," he told her sharply, "do that once more and

  I'll pack you off on the next dirty little lorcha where you'll puke your heart out if you have one, and at the very least the God of the Sea will swallow you up! Send the foreign devil in."

  A smile crossed his face and some of his good feeling returned.

  She went off grumbling. For days she had been harping on a return to Hong Kong, as much as he told her not to. So much so, he was sure she had had orders from Gordon Chen to harass him into obeying.

  "By God, I won't until I'm ready."

  He hobbled back to his desk glad that his score with Norbert would soon be settled and his whole glorious plan put into effect. "Ah,

  'morning, Reverend Tweet, kind of you to be prompt. Sherry?"

  "Thank you, Mr., er, Tai-pan, bless you."

  The sherry went in a nervous gulp though

  Struan had deliberately chosen a big glass. "Admirable, er, Tai-pan. Ah yes, thanks, I'll have another small one, bless you." The untidy sack of a man settled with an uneasy smile in the tall chair. Tobacco stained his beard. "What can I do for you?"

  "It's about myself and Miss Angelique. I want you to marry
us. Next week."

  "Eh?" The Reverend Michaelmas Tweet almost dropped his glass. "Impossible," he stuttered, his false teeth chattering.

  "No it isn't. There's lot of precedent for condensing the bans that have to be read out on three succeeding Sundays in church into one Sunday only."

  "But I can't, you're a minor and so is she and worse she's Catholic and there's no possible way.... I can't."