For many years Hiraga’s grandfather, an important peasant farmer near Shimonoseki and secret supporter of sonno-joi, had been a shoya. A shoya, the appointed, or hereditary, leader of a village or grouping of villages with great influence and magisterial power and responsibility for tax assessments and collection, was at the same time the only buffer and protector of peasants and farmers against any unfair practices of the samurai overlord within whose fief the village or villages lay.
Farmers and some peasants owned and worked the land but by law could not leave it. Samurai owned all the produce and the sole right to carry weapons, but by law could not own land. So each depended on the other in an inevitable, never-ending spiral of suspicion and distrust—the balance of how much rice or produce to be rendered in tax, year by year, and how much retained, always an incredibly delicate compromise.
The shoya had to keep the balance. The advice of the best was sometimes sought on matters outside the village by his immediate overlord, or higher, even by the daimyo himself. Hiraga’s grandfather was one of these.
Some years ago he had been permitted to purchase goshi samurai status for himself and his descendants in one of the daimyo’s offerings—a customary ploy of all daimyos, normally debt ridden, to raise extra revenue from acceptable supplicants. The daimyo of Choshu was no exception.
Hiraga laughed, the wine in his head now. “I was chosen for this Dutchman’s school, and many a time I regretted the honor, English is so foul-sounding and difficult.”
“Were there many of you at the school?” Ori asked.
Through the saké haze a warning sounded and Hiraga realized he was volunteering far too much private information. How many Choshu students were at the school was Choshu business and secret, and while he liked and admired both Shorin and Ori they were still Satsumas, aliens, who were not always allies, but frequently enemy and always potential enemies.
“Just three of us to learn English,” he said softly as though telling a secret, instead of thirty, the real figure. Inwardly alert he added, “Listen, now that you’re ronin, like me and most of my comrades, we must work closer together. I am planning something in three days that you can help us with.”
“Thank you, but we must wait for word from Katsumata.”
“Of course, he is your Satsuma leader.” Hiraga added thoughtfully, “But at the same time, Ori, don’t forget you’re ronin and will be ronin until we win, don’t forget we’re the spearhead of sonno-joi, we’re the doers, Katsumata risks nothing. We must—must—forget that I am Choshu and you two Satsumas. We’ve got to help each other. It’s a good idea to follow your Tokaidō attack tonight and steal guns. Kill one or two guards inside the Legation, if you can, that will be a huge provocation! If you could do it all silently and leave no trace, even better. Anything to provoke them.”
* * *
With Hiraga’s information it had been easy to infiltrate the temple, to count the dragoons and other soldiers and to find the perfect lair. Then the girl had unexpectedly appeared, and the giant, and then they had gone back inside and ever since both shishi had been staring at the garden door, glazed.
“Ori, now what do we do?” Shorin asked, his voice edged.
“We stick to the plan.”
The minutes passed anxiously. When the shutters on the first floor opened and they saw her in the window both knew that a new element had come into their future. Now she was brushing her hair with a silver-handled brush. Listlessly.
Shorin said throatily, “She doesn’t look so ugly in moonlight. But with those breasts, eeee, you’d bounce off.”
Ori did not reply, his eyes riveted.
Suddenly she hesitated and looked down. Directly at them. Though there was no chance she could have seen or heard them, their hearts picked up a beat. They waited, hardly breathing. Another exhausted yawn. She continued brushing a moment, then put down the brush, seemingly so close that Ori felt he could almost reach out and touch her, seeing in the light from the room details of embroidery on the silk, nipples taut beneath, and the haunted expression he had glimpsed yesterday—was it only yesterday?—that had stopped the blow that would have ended her.
A last strange glance at the moon, another stifled yawn, and she pulled the shutters to. But did not close them completely. Or bar them.
Shorin broke the silence and said what was in both their minds. “It would be easy to climb up there.”
“Yes. But we came here for guns and to create havoc. We …” Ori stopped, his mind flowing into the sudden glimmering of a new and wonderful diversion, a second chance, greater than the first.
“Shorin,” he whispered, “if you silenced her, took her but didn’t kill her, just left her unconscious to tell of the taking, leaving a sign linking us to the Tokaidō, then together we kill one or two soldiers and vanish with or without their guns—inside their Legation—wouldn’t that make them mad with rage?”
The breath hissed out of Shorin’s lips at the beauty of the idea. “Yes, yes, it would, but better to slit her throat and write ‘Tokaidō’ in her blood. You go, I’ll guard here, safer,” and when Ori hesitated he said, “Katsumata said we were wrong to hesitate. Last time you hesitated. Why hesitate?”
It was a split-second decision, then Ori was running for the building, a shadow among many shadows. He gained the lee and began to climb.
* * *
Outside the guard house, one of the soldiers said softly, “Don’t look around, Charlie, but I think I saw someone running for the house.”
“Christ, get the Sergeant, careful now.”
The soldier pretended to stretch, then strolled into the guard house. Quickly but cautiously he shook Sergeant Towery awake and repeated what he had seen, or thought he had seen.
“What did the bugger look like?”
“I just caught the movement, Sar’nt, ’least I think I did, I’m not sure like, it might’ve been a bloody shadder.”
“All right, me lad, let’s take a look.” Sergeant Towery awoke the Corporal and another soldier and posted them. Then he led the other two into the garden.
“It were about there, Sar’nt.”
Shorin saw them coming. There was nothing he could do to warn Ori who was almost at the window, still well camouflaged by his clothes and the shadows. He watched him reach the sill, ease one of the shutters wider and vanish inside. The shutter moved slowly back into place. Karma, he thought, and turned to his own plight.
Sergeant Towery had stopped in the center of the path, and was carefully scanning the surroundings and up at the building. Many of the shutters on the upper story were open and unbarred, so he was not concerned, one of them creaking in the small wind. The garden door was locked.
At length he said, “Charlie, you take that side.” He pointed near to where the ambush was hidden. “Nogger, you go opposite, flush ’em out if any’s there. Keep your bloody eyes open. Fix bayonets!” He was obeyed instantly.
Shorin eased his sword in its scabbard, the blade also blackened for the night foray, then settled himself into attack position, his throat tight.
The moment Ori had slid into the room, he checked the only door and saw that it was barred, that she was still asleep, then he unsheathed his short stabbing sword and darted for the bed. It was a four-poster, the first he had ever seen, everything about it strange, its height and heavy permanence, posts, curtains, bedclothes, and for a second he wondered what it would be like to sleep in one, so high off the ground, instead of the way Japanese slept, on futons—light, square mattresses of straw—laid out at night and put away by day.
His heart was racing and he tried to keep his breathing soft, not wanting to awaken her yet, not knowing she was deeply drugged. The room was dark but moonlight came in through the shutters and he saw her long, fair hair flowing over her shoulders and the swell of her breasts and limbs under the sheet. A perfume surrounded her, intoxicating him.
Then the click of the bayonets and muttered voices from the garden … For a split second he was pet
rified. Blindly he poised the knife to end her, but she did not stir. Her breathing remained regular.
He hesitated, then padded noiselessly to the shutters and peered out. He saw the soldiers. Did they see me, or notice Shorin? he asked himself in panic.
If so then I’m trapped, but that doesn’t matter. I can still accomplish what I came to accomplish and perhaps they’ll go away—I have two exits, the door and the window. Patience, Katsumata always advised. Use your head, wait calmly, then strike without hesitation and escape when the moment arrives, as it always will. Surprise is your best weapon!
His stomach twisted. One of the soldiers was heading for their hiding place. Even though Ori knew exactly where Shorin was he could not pick him out. Breathlessly he waited to see what would happen. Perhaps Shorin will draw them off. Whatever happens, she dies, he promised himself.
Shorin watched the soldier approaching, hopelessly trying to fathom a way out of the trap and cursing Ori. They must have spotted him! If I kill this dog there’s no way I can reach the others before they shoot me. I can’t get to the wall without being seen.
Stupid of Ori to change the plan, of course they spotted him. I told him that woman was trouble—he should have killed her at the road …. Perhaps this barbarian will miss me and give me enough time to rush for the wall.
The moonlight caught the long bayonet in flashes as the soldier quietly probed the foliage, lifting it apart here and there to see better.
Closer and closer. Six feet, five, four, three …
Shorin stayed motionless, his face covering now practically masking his eyes, and held his breath. The soldier almost brushed him in passing, then went on again, stopped a moment, on a few more paces, probing again, then on again and Shorin began quietly to breathe once more. He could feel the sweat on his back but he knew he was safe now and in a few moments would be safely over the wall.
From his position Sergeant Towery could watch both soldiers. He held a cocked rifle loose in his hands, but was as unsure as they were, not wanting to give a false alarm. The night was fine, wind slight, moonlight strong. Easy to imagine shadows to be enemy in this stinking place, he thought. Christ, wish we were back in good old London town.
“Evening, Sergeant Towery, what’s up?”
“Evening, sir.” Towery saluted smartly. It was the Dragoon officer, Pallidar. He explained what he had been told. “Might have been a shadow, better safe than sorry.”
“Better get extra men and we’ll make sure that—”
At that moment the young soldier nearest the ambush site whirled on guard, his musket levelled. “Sergeant!” he called out in excitement and terror, “the bastard’s here!”
Already Shorin was rushing to the attack, his killing sword on high but the soldier’s training took over for that instant and the bayonet expertly held Shorin off as the others came running, Pallidar jerking out his revolver. Again Shorin pressed the attack but was inhibited by the length of the rifle and bayonet, then slipped, scrambled out of the way of the bayonet lunge and fled through the foliage for the wall. The young soldier charged after him.
“Watchiiit!” Towery shouted as the young man crashed into the undergrowth, glands now in total control propelling him to the kill. But the soldier did not hear the warning and went into the bushes and died, the short sword deep in his chest. Shorin jerked it out, quite sure there was no escape, the others almost on him.
“Namu Amida Butsu”—In the Name of the Buddha Amida—he gasped through his own fear, commending his spirit to Buddha, and screamed “Sonno-joi!” not to warn Ori but to make his last statement. Then, with desperate strength, he buried the knife in his own throat.
Ori had seen most of this but not the end. The moment the soldier had shouted and charged he had rushed pell-mell for the bed, expecting her to be startled awake, but to his astonishment she had not moved, nor had the calm tempo of her breathing changed, so he stood over her, knees trembling, waiting for her eyes to open, expecting a trick, wanting her to see him and see the knife before he used it. Then there was the wail of “sonnojoi” and he knew Shorin had gone onwards, then more noise. But still she did not stir. His lips came back from his teeth, his breathing strangled. Abruptly he could stand the strain no longer so he shook her angrily with his wounded arm, heedless of the pain, put the knife to her throat, ready to obliterate the scream.
Still she did not stir.
To him it was all dreamlike and he watched himself shake her again and still nothing, then suddenly he remembered that the doctor had given her a drink and he thought, One of those drugs, the new Western drugs Hiraga told us about, and he gasped, trying to assimilate this new knowledge. To make sure, he shook her again, but she only muttered and turned deeper into the pillow.
He went back to the window. Men were carrying the soldier’s body out of the foliage. Then he saw them drag Shorin into the open by one of his feet like the carcass of an animal. Now the bodies were side by side, both strangely alike in death. Other men were arriving and he heard people calling from some windows. An officer stood over Shorin’s body. One of the soldiers tore off the black head-covering and face mask. Shorin’s eyes were still open, features twisted, the knife hilt protruding. More voices and other men arriving.
Movement within the house now and in the corridor. His tension soared. For the tenth time he made sure the door bar was secure and could not be opened from the outside, then moved into ambush behind the curtains of the four-poster, near enough to reach her whatever happened.
Footsteps and knocking on the door. Splash of light under it from oil or candle lamps. Louder knocking and voices raised. His knife readied.
“Mademoiselle, are you all right?” It was Babcott.
“Mademoiselle!” Marlowe called out. “Open the door!” More pounding, much louder.
“It’s my sleeping draft, Captain. She was very upset, poor lady, and needed sleep. I doubt if she’ll wake up.”
“If she doesn’t I’ll break the bloody door down to make sure. Her shutters are open, by God!” More heavy pounding.
Angelique opened her eyes blearily. “Que se passe-t-il? What is it?” she mumbled, more asleep than awake.
“Are you all right? Tout va bien?”
“Bien? Moi? Bien sûr … Pourquoi? Qu’arrive-t-il?”
“Open the door a moment. Ouvrez la porte, s’il vous plaît, c’est moi, Captain Marlowe.”
Grumbling and disoriented, she sat up in the bed. To his shock, Ori watched himself allowing her to reel out of bed and totter to the door. It took her a little time to pull back the bar and half open the door, holding on to it for balance.
Babcott, Marlowe and a marine held candlelights. The flames flickered in the draft. They gaped at her wide-eyed. Her nightdress was very French, very fine, and diaphanous.
“We, er, we just wanted to see you were all right, Mademoiselle. We, er, we caught a man in the shrubbery,” Babcott said hurriedly, “nothing to worry about.” He could see that she hardly understood what he was saying.
Marlowe pulled his gaze off of her body and looked beyond into the room. “Excusez-moi, Mademoiselle, s’il vous plâit,” he said, embarrassed, his accent tolerable, and eased past her to inspect. Nothing under the bed except a chamber pot. Curtains behind the bed this side revealed nothing—Christ, what a woman! Nowhere else to hide, no doors or cupboards. The shutters creaked in the wind. He opened them wide. “Pallidar! Anything more down there?”
“No,” Pallidar called back. “No sign of anyone else. It’s quite possible he was the only one and the soldier saw him moving about. But check all the rooms this side!”
Marlowe nodded and muttered a curse and, “What the hell do you think I’m doing?” Behind him the four-poster curtains moved in the slight breeze, uncovering Ori’s feet in his black tabi, Japanese shoe-socks. Marlowe’s candle guttered and blew out, and when he slid the shutter bar into place and turned back again he did not notice the tabi in the deep shadows beside the bed, or much of anything els
e, only Angelique silhouetted in the doorway candlelight hardly awake. He could see every part of her and the sight drew his breath away.
“Everything’s fine,” he said, even more embarrassed because he had scrutinized her, enjoying her when she was defenseless. Pretending to be brisk, he walked back. “Please bolt the door and, er, sleep well,” he said, wanting to stay.
Even more disoriented, she mumbled and closed the door. They waited until they heard the bar grate home in its slots. Babcott said hesitantly, “I doubt if she’ll even remember opening the door.” The marine wiped the sweat off, saw Marlowe looking at him and could not resist a leering beam.
“What the hell’re you so happy about?” Marlowe said, knowing very well.
“Me, sir? Nuffink, sir,” the marine said instantly, leer gone, innocence in its wake. Sodding officers is all the same, he thought wearily. Mucker Marlowe’s as horny as the rest of us, his eyes popped and he near ate her up, short and curlies, wot’s underneath and the best bloody knockers I ever hoped to see! The lads’ll never believe about her knockers. “Yessir, mum’s the word, yessir,” he said virtuously when Marlowe told him to say nothing about what they had seen. “Yor right, sir, again, sir, notta word from me lips,” he assured him, and trailed along to the next room, thinking of hers.
Angelique was leaning against the door, trying to make sense of what was happening—difficult to put everything in order, a man in the garden, what garden, but Malcolm was in the garden of the Great House, no he’s downstairs wounded, no that’s a dream and he said something about living in the Great House and marriage … Malcolm, was he the man, the one who touched me? No, he told me he would die. Silly, the doctor said he was fine, everyone said fine, why fine? Why not good or excellent or fair? Why?
She gave up, her craving for sleep overwhelming. The moon was shining through the slats of the shutters and she stumbled through the bars of light to the bed, gratefully collapsed into the soft down mattress. With a great sigh of contentment she pulled the sheet half over her and turned on her side. In seconds she was deeply asleep.
Gai-Jin Page 10