Ground into him by his teachers and heritage, until it was a way of life, was the certainty that enemies and traitors were everywhere. 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.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
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 Tokaidō 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 damaged, 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 are 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 rumored 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 w
ill 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 arrive. 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 Tokaidō 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 recollect. “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.
“That’s wonderful, chéri,” she said, delighted, catching his hands. “Ah, Monsieur Struan, I think I’d better take care to be chaperoned all the time now, and never be alone with you in your bedroom.”
Smiling, she stepped closer, carefully put her hands on his shoulders, allowed his arms to go around her and kissed him. Her kiss was light, promising and avoided his need for more. Without guile she kissed his ear, then straightened, allowing his head to rest against her breast, the intimacy pleasing her—and him very much. Soft silk there, with that uncanny, irreplaceable, special warmth.
“Malcolm, did you really really mean what you said about wanting to marry me?” She felt his arms tighten and the wince of pain.
“Of course, I’ve told you so many times.”
“Do you think, do you think your parents, pardon, your mother, she will approve, yes? Oh, I do hope so.”
“Yes, oh yes, she will, of course she will.”
“May I write to Papa? I would like to tell him.”
“Of course, write when you wish, I will write too,” he said throatily, then, swamped by her affection, his need overcoming his discretion, he kissed the silk, then again, harder, and almost cursed aloud as he sensed her retreat before it happened. “Sorry,” he muttered.
“No need for ‘sorry’ or any Anglo-Saxon guilt, my love, not between us,” she said gently. “I want you too.” Then, following her plan, switched her mood, entirely in control, her happiness infectious. “Now I will be the nurse Nightingale.”
She plumped the pillows and began to make the bed neater. “Tonight is a French dinner hosted by Monsieur Seratard, tomorrow night he has arranged a soiree. André Poncin is giving a piano recital of Beethoven—I prefer him so much to Mozart—also Chopin and a piece by a young man called Brahms.” A church bell began, sounding the call to early service, almost immediately to be joined by others, sweeter and more melodious, from the Catholic church. “There,” she said, helping him lie back comfortably. “Now I will go for my toilette and return after Mass when you are toiletted.”
He held her hand. “‘Bathed.’ You’re wonderful. I love y—” Abruptly their eyes went to the door as someone tried the handle. But the bolt was on.
“I did it when you were asleep.” She chuckled like a little girl playing a game. Again the handle moved. “Servants always come in without knocking, they need to be taught lessons!”
“Mass’er!” the servant called out. “Tea-ah!”
“Tell him to go away and come back in five minutes.”
Struan, caught up in her pleasure, shouted the order in Cantonese, and they heard the man go off grumbling.
She laughed. “You must teach me Chinese-speaking.”
“I’ll try.”
“What’s ‘I love you’?”
“They don’t have a word for love, not like us.”
A frown went across her face. “How sad!”
She slipped over to the door, unbolted it, blew him a kiss, and vanished into her own suite. Her bolt slid home.
He watched the door, aching. Then he heard the bells change, becoming more insistent, reminding him: Mass!
His heart twisted. Didn’t think about that, that she was Catholic. Mother’s diehard Church of England, twice on Sundays, Father as well, us too, in procession, along with every other decent family in Hong Kong.
Catholic?
Doesn’t matter, I … I don’t mind. I’ve got to have her, he told himself, his healthy, hungry throbbing ache pushing the pain away. “I must.”
That afternoon the four perspiring Japanese porters put down the iron-banded chest, watched by three Bakufu officials of no import, Sir William, interpreters, an officer from the army accounting department, the Legation shroff, a Chinese, and Vargas, to check him.
They were in the main Legation reception room, the windows open and Sir William was hard put not to beam. Laboriously one of the officials produced an ornate key and unlocked the chest. Within were silver Mexican dollars, a few tael bars of gold—about an ounce and a third in weight—and some of silver.
“Ask why the indemnity isn’t all in gold as agreed?”
“The Official says they could not obtain the gold in time but these are clean Mex and legal currency, and will you please give him a receipt.” “Clean” coins meant those that were unshaved, or unclipped, a common practice, and sloughed off onto the unwary.
“Begin counting.”
Happily his shroff tipped the contents onto the carpet. At once he spotted a clipped coin, Vargas another and another. These were put to one side. Every eye stayed on the carpet, on the neatly stacked, growing piles of coins. Five thousand pounds sterling was an immense sum when the salary of a full-time interpreter was four hundred a year and pay your own lodgings, a shroff a hundred (though a good percentage of everything that passed through his hands would somehow stick there), a servant in London twenty pounds a year and all found, a soldier five pennies a day, a sailor six, an Admiral six hundred pounds a year.
The counting was quickly done. Both shroffs checked the weight of each small bar of gold twice, then the weight of each of the stacks of chipped coins, then used an abacus to calculate the total against the current rate of exchange.<
br />
Vargas said, “It comes to four thousand and eighty-four pounds, six shillings and seven pence farthing, Sir William, in clean coin, five hundred and twenty pounds in gold, ninety-two pounds sixteen in clipped coins for a grand total of four thousand, six hundred and ninety-seven pounds, two shillings, and seven pence farthing.”
“Sorry, eight pence, Mass’er.” The Chinese bowed and nodded his head, his pigtail long and thick, making the slight, face-saving adjustment as agreed in advance with Vargas, deciding that the amount that his Portuguese counterpart had deducted for their fee, two and a half percent, or one hundred and seventeen pounds, eight shillings and sixpence between them, was less than what he would have maneuvered, but passable for half an hour’s work.
Sir William said, “Vargas, put it back in the chest, give them a receipt with a note that the underpayment will be added to the last installment. Johann, thank them, and say we will expect the full amount, in gold, in nineteen days.”
Johann obeyed. At once the other interpreter began a long statement. “They now ask for an extension, sir, and—”
“No extension.” Sir William sighed, dismissed the others and prepared for another hour, closing his ears until he was astonished to hear Johann say, “They’ve suddenly come to the point, sir: it’s the Yedo meeting, sir. They ask that this be delayed another thirty days to make it fifty days from now … the exact words are: the Shōgun will return from Kyōto then and he has informed the Council of Elders to advise the Foreign Ministers that he would grant them an audience on that day.”
To give himself time to think, Sir William called out, “Lun!” Lun appeared instantly. “Tea!”
Within seconds the trays arrived. And cigars, snuff and pipe tobacco. Soon the room was filled with smoke and everyone coughing and all the time Sir William was considering options.
First and foremost, I’m probably dealing with low-level officials, so anything agreed will be subject to further negotiation. Next, in any event the fifty days will surely extend into two months, even three, but if we have an audience with the Ultimate Power, of course under British leadership, we will have taken a lasting step forward. Actually, I don’t mind if the delay goes to three, even four months. By then I’ll have Lord Russell’s approval for war, reinforcements will be en route from India and Hong Kong, the Admiral will have his damned authority, and we’ll have the forces to invest, hold and fortify Yedo if we have to.
Gai-Jin Page 26