“Is that so, my fine young feller? Didn’t I hear correct that she wants you back, ordered you back right smartly, that your Captain was under orders to do just that?”
“That’s none of your damned business! I advise you—”
“Everything that goes on in Yokohama’s my bloody business!” Norbert slammed back at him. “And we don’t take advice from anyone in Struan’s, least of all a young puppy not yet dry behind the ears!”
McFay jumped to his feet and Struan jerked up his glass of brandy and threw the contents in Norbert’s face.
“Christ Almighty—”
“Retract that, Norbert,” Struan shouted, Dmitri and Jamie McFay stupefied by the suddenness of the escalation. “Take it back or I demand satisfaction, by God!”
“Pistols at dawn?” Norbert jeered, the action even better than he had hoped. Abruptly he yanked half the tablecloth away to dab his face, sending the glasses clattering. “Pardon for the mess, but you two are witness I said nothing but the truth, by Christ!”
“Do you apologize—yes or no?”
Norbert put both hands on the table, glaring down at Malcolm Struan who glared back, white with rage. “You were ordered back, you are twenty so still a minor before the law and that’s hardly dry behind the ears. It’s the truth and here’s another: I could blow your head off or cut it off with one hand tied, you can’t even stand straight so how you going to fight, eh?” he said, his voice jeering and heavy with scorn. “You’re a cripple, young Malcolm, and that’s the God’s truth! Another truth, your ma runs Struan’s, has for years, and she’s running it into the ground—ask Jamie or anyone honest enough to tell you! You may call yourself tai-pan but you’re not, and you’re not Dirk Struan, you’re not the tai-pan and never will be! Tyler Brock’s the tai-pan and, by God, we’ll be Noble House before Christmas too. Duel? You’re mad, but if that’s what you want, any time.” He stalked out. The door slammed.
“I’d—I’d like you both to be my seconds,” Malcolm said, trembling with rage.
Dmitri got up shakily. “Malc, you’re crazy. Duelling’s against the law, but okay. Thanks for lunch.” He left.
Struan tried to catch his breath, his heart hurting. He looked up at McFay who was staring at him as though he were a stranger. “Yes, it’s mad, Jamie, but then Norbert’s the best of Brock and Sons, he’s swamped you and—”
“I’m sorry th—”
“So am I. But more truth is I told no one about the miners, Vargas knew nothing about them, so it leaked through you. You’re the best we’ve got in the company but Norbert will bury us here. A bullet in the bastard’s head is the best way to deal with him—or any of the God-cursed Brocks.”
After a pause McFay said, “Sorry I failed you—yes, I am, very much, but … but sorry, I want no part of any duel, or your vendetta. It’s insane.”
Struan’s pallor increased. “Let’s talk about you. Either you keep your holy oath to support me, by God, or you’re really finished. You’ve three days.”
* * *
Earlier this morning Settry Pallidar and a troop of mounted dragoons led the procession across the bridge that spanned the first moat of Yedo Castle.
They clattered between ranks of impassive, uniformed samurai, shoulder to shoulder—thousands of others had lined the route—over the drawbridge, under the portcullis and through the massive iron-sheathed gates. Ahead were their guides, massed samurai carrying ten-foot-high banners bearing the insignia of the roju, three entwined cherry blossoms.
Behind the dragoons were half a hundred Highlanders preceded by their twenty-man band and giant bandleader, pipes skirling, then the party of Ministers and their staff, all mounted, Ministers in court dress—cocked hats, ceremonial swords, cloaks or frock coats against the stiff breeze—except the Russian who wore Cossack uniform and cape and rode the best horse in Japan, a brown stallion that had a personal covey of twenty stablemen to cherish and guard him with their lives. Phillip Tyrer and Johann were in attendance on Sir William, André Poncin on Henri Seratard. A company of Redcoats brought up the rear.
Two small horse-drawn cannon with their camions and gun crews remained on the other side of the bridge. This had been the subject of days of wrangling, Sir William insisting that accompanying ceremonial cannon were an accustomed courtesy to royals, the Bakufu that any gai-jin arms were against the law and an insult to their revered Shōgun. The compromise, after a week of impatient dickering—by Sir William—was that the cannon would stay outside the bridge, that royal salutes would not be fired until the unanimous roju gave the promised formal permission. “No ammunition to be landed, so sorry …”
This major hitch was resolved with the help of the French Admiral. During one of the interminable sessions he brought the flagship closer to shore and fired broadside after none too accurate broadside of shells and cannon balls that passed just beyond the Settlement to land harmlessly in the paddy beyond, but petrifying every Japanese within hearing.
“If we can’t land ammunition,” Sir William explained sweetly, “then we will just have to make salutes from the sea like this—we did ask him to use blanks but somehow I suppose he misunderstood, language you know—and so sorry if his range falls short and hits your city, it will be your fault. I will have to explain this in detail to your Emperor Komei as the cannonade, and carrying our rifles for full royal honors, is only a token of respect to honor your Shōgun and, when we see him, your Emperor Komei, which visit to Kyōto I have postponed three times to accommodate you, I will certainly reschedule the very moment my more powerful fleet returns from decimating most of the China coast inhabited by foul pirates who had the effrontery to pirate a small British vessel!”
Bakufu opposition crumbled. So all rifles were armed and all soldiers warned that though there might be a fight, under no circumstances and on pain of extreme punishment were any Japanese to be provoked. “What about H.M.S. Pearl, Sir William?” the General had asked at the last briefing.
“She can deliver me and my party to Yedo, then return here, in case our hosts mount a surprise attack against the Settlement while we’re away—she can cover an evacuation.”
“Good God, sir, if you think there’s a chance of that, why put yourself at risk?” the General had said worriedly. “The other Ministers, well, they’d be no loss but you, sir, if anything happens to you it would be an international incident. After all, sir, you represent the Empire! You should not risk your person.”
“Part of the job, my dear General.”
Sir William smiled to himself, remembering how he kept his voice flat, meaning it as a pleasantry, but the General had nodded wisely, believing it to be the truth. Poor bugger’s a berk but then that goes with his job, no doubt about that, he thought cheerfully then dismissed everything to concentrate on the castle and the coming meeting that was the culmination of months of negotiating, that would, in effect, give legality to the Treaty and the opening of the Treaty ports. It was those few French shells that worked the miracle, he thought grimly. Damn Ketterer, but thank God his operation in China went well, according to dispatches, and that he’ll be back soon. If he can bombard the coast of China why not here—damn him!
And damn this castle.
From afar it had not looked very imposing but the closer they got to it the more immense it became, with eight rings of barrack-like structures as its outer defenses. Then the castle itself, elegant and beautifully proportioned, he thought, its moat almost two hundred yards across, the towering outer walls thirty or forty feet thick and made of huge granite blocks. Even our sixty-pounders wouldn’t dent those, he told himself, awed. And inside, God only knows how many fortifications surrounding the central keep. And the only way in through one of the gates, or over the walls, a frontal attack, and I wouldn’t like to have to order that. Starve it out? God only knows how many storage places it would have—or how many troops could be billeted here. Thousands.
Beyond the gate the roadway angled into a narrow staging area dominated by bo
wmen massed in defensive slots or on the parapets thirty feet above. The gate was open and led to another confined courtyard that let out through another fortified gate into another, clearly to be repeated in a maze of passageways that eventually would lead to the central keep but would always leave a hostile force at the mercy of the defenders above.
“We dismount here, Sir William,” Pallidar said, riding up and saluting. He was Captain of the escort. With him were samurai officers on foot and they were pointing at a vast door that was being heaved open.
“Good. You’re clear on what you have to do?”
“Oh, yes. But I haven’t a hope in hell of covering you or fighting our way out of here, even against bows and arrows.”
“I don’t plan to have to fight anyone, Captain.” Sir William smiled. He turned in his saddle and gave the signal to dismount. “This’s quite a castle, eh?”
“Better than anything I’ve ever read or heard about,” Pallidar said uneasily. “Beats anything the crusaders had. It makes the great castle of the Knights of St. John in Malta seem tiny. Lovely to defend, I’d hate to have to attack it.”
“My thought too. Phillip!” Sir William called out. “Ask someone where you pee around here.”
Tyrer hurried over to one of the samurai officers, bowed politely, and whispered to him. The man grunted and waved at a casual screen. “There are buckets over there, sir, and I think he said there’s a bucket in the corner of most rooms in case one is caught short.”
“Good. Always best to do it before a meeting—even so, a strong bladder is a most important boon to a diplomat.” After Sir William, mightily, and the other Ministers had relieved themselves, he led them through the door: Seratard, Count Zergeyev, von Heimrich, van de Tromp, Adamson and a newcomer by the last mail ship, Burgermeister Fritz Erlicher of the Confederation of Helvetia—Switzerland—a bearded giant from their capital Bern who spoke French, English, German, Dutch and many German dialects. Phillip Tyrer and Johann followed closely, André Poncin alongside Seratard.
The audience room was forty yards square with a massive, high-beamed ceiling, very clean, very drafty, and stone walls with arrow slits for windows. Impassive samurai lined the walls. Two rows of half a dozen chairs facing each other at the far end. Many doors. Only servants present to greet them. An elaborately garbed though low-rank Bakufu official motioned them to chairs without bowing as servants brought small trays, saying in Dutch: “Please be seated for tea.”
Sir William saw that Johann was deep in conversation with his Swiss Minister so he said irritably, “Phillip, ask that fellow where the Council of Elders, the roju, are.”
Hiding his nervousness and conscious that all eyes were on him and wanting to relieve himself again, Phillip Tyrer walked over to the official and waited for him to bow. The man did not, just stared at him, so he said sharply, “Where are your manners? Bow! I am a Lord in my country and I represent these High Lords!”
The man flushed and bowed low and mumbled his apologies and Tyrer was exceedingly pleased that he had had the foresight to ask Nakama for some key phrases. He interrupted the man even more imperiously, “Where are your masters, the roju?”
“Ah, so sorry, please excuse me, Lord,” the man stammered. “They ask that you wait here to, er, to take refreshment.”
Tyrer missed words but he caught the gist. “And after refreshments?”
“It will be my honor to conduct you to the meeting place,” the man said, his eyes cautiously lowered.
Again, to Tyrer’s enormous relief, he understood. As he told Sir William what had been said he could feel the cold sweat on his back and knew he had been lucky so far.
Sir William snorted and leaned towards the others. “Damned if we should wait, eh, gentlemen? They’re overdue—it was agreed we’d go straight to the meeting—damned if I want to wait, nor drink their apology for tea. Good,” he said, and added to general approval, “Phillip, tell the fellow we came to see the roju. That’s what we want to do now. Now!”
“How, er, how strong do you, er, want me to be, sir?”
“For God’s sake, Phillip, if I wanted you to be long-winded and diplomatic I would have been long-winded and diplomatic. An interpreter’s job is to translate what is said exactly, not to give his interpretation of what is said.”
“The Great Lord says: he want see roju now. Now!”
The official was shocked at the impolite bluntness, an unheard-of affront, and was in a complete quandary. His instructions had been clear: The gai-jin will be kept waiting a suitable “face losing” period, about half a candle, when we will send word and you may escort them into our presence. He said rapidly, “Of course I will take you the instant you have had refreshment and everything is ready for your perfect reception, but oh, so sorry, this is just not possible for a little while as their August Persons are not yet in their correct attire so it is not yet possible to comply with your Master’s unseemly request, Interpreter-san.”
“Please to say again, not fast,” Tyrer said nervously, swamped. Another flood of Japanese. “Sir William, I think he’s saying we have to wait.”
“Eh? Why?”
“My Master say, why wait?”
More Japanese which Tyrer lost, so the man turned to Dutch, and Erlicher stepped into the conversation, further irritating Sir William and the others. At length Erlicher said, “It seems, Sir William, that the roju are not, how you say, ah yes, they are not quite ready, but when they are we’ll be taken to the audience room.”
“Please tell this—this fellow bluntly to take us there right smartly, that we are on time, that high-level meetings are always on time because both sides have other important affairs of State to deal with as I’ve explained fifty times! And tell him to hurry up!”
Erlicher beamed and said it plainly and however much the official twisted and turned and eventually begged, he bowed and, as slowly as possible, led them through a door, down a corridor—first sending a messenger ahead to warn the Council of the gai-jin’s astounding impertinence.
Another corridor and then, ahead, samurai opened huge doors, the official went onto his knees and bowed his head to the floor. Four men in elaborate silk robes, swords in their belts, sat on chairs at the far end of the audience room on a slightly raised platform. The central chair was empty. In front of them, on a lower level—which all Ministers noted instantly—were six chairs for each of the Ministers and between the two knelt the official interpreter. A hundred or so samurai officers knelt in a half circle facing the door and as Sir William came in, all samurai in the room bowed. The four roju did not.
Sir William and the others bowed back politely, then approached the dais and took their seats: “Under no circumstances do Ministers of civilized nations get down on their knees and bow their heads to the floor,” Sir William had said, “whatever your customs, whether you do it or no and that’s the end of it!”
Phillip Tyrer, now an expert on bowing because of Nakama, noticed that each time an Elder bowed it was as superior to inferior. Never mind, he thought, awed and excited, we’re in the inner sanctum. When does the Shōgun arrive to take the empty chair? A boy? I wonder what he’ll look like and what—
An Elder began to speak. With a sudden start, Tyrer recognized him as the youngish official from their previous meeting at their Legation, and also the nervous, swarthy man sitting beside him who had said nothing then but had watched everything with his narrow eyes.
Why had two Elders come to meet with us without announcing themselves as such? he asked himself. Wait a minute, didn’t the young Official introduce himself as Tomo Watanabe, yes, certainly he did, “junior official, second class.” Obviously a phony name. But why? And why the disguise?
Unsettled, Tyrer left that to be answered later and gave his attention to what the man was saying, understanding almost none of it, as he had been forewarned by Nakama would happen, who had told him that Court-oriented words would probably be used, most of which, as with most ordinary Japanese words and phrases, had d
ifferent, often conflicting meanings.
His concentration wandered. The third Elder was rotund with a pudgy face and feminine hands, and the last truly elderly, greying and thin-faced with a bad scar on his left cheek. All were barely over five and a half feet, their winglike overmantles and wide-legged trousers and high-domed, lacquered hats tied under their chins and, above all their immobile dignity, making them imposing.
Now the Japanese interpreter spoke in Dutch: “The roju, the Council of Elders of the Shōgunate, welcomes the foreign representatives and wishes them to present their documents as has been agreed.”
Sir William sighed, mesmerized by the empty chair. “All right, Johann, let’s begin. Say to them, Shouldn’t we wait until the Shōgun honors us with his presence?”
This into Dutch into Japanese, much discussion, then again the young Elder, Yoshi, made a pronouncement, slowly and meticulously translated into Dutch, into English. “Basically, without the usual palaver, Sir William, the spokesman says the Shōgun wasn’t expected in this meeting, this is with the roju only. The Shōgun was to be later.”
“That was not as was agreed and I inform them again that Ministerial credentials are only presented to the Head of State, in this case the Shōgun, so we can’t proceed.”
Back and forth and then, to the Ministers’ displeasure: “The Elder says the Shōgun had to leave for Kyōto urgently and regrets he will not have the pleasure of meeting you, etc., but you can give the roju your credentials as they have his authority to accept them.”
Back and forth, Sir William’s annoyance reddening into visible anger, more discussion on both sides and more time consumed, then a scroll, heavy with characters and sealed importantly and handled as though it were the Holy Grail, was presented by a kneeling official to Sir William. “Phillip, can you read this?”
“I … no, sorry sir.”
“No need to worry.” Sir William sighed and turned to the others. “This is most improper.”
“Yes,” von Heimrich said coldly.
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