Gai-Jin

by James Clavell

  “Here, let me help you …”

  “I can manage, check her, Jamie!”

  Jamie tried the handle to the connecting door. Bolted on the other side. At that moment the carpet ignited, Struan scrambled out of the way, cursing with pain, but before the blaze could spread Jamie had stamped it out. In his haste to help Struan out of the way, he dragged him up roughly.

  “Oh, Jesus, watch it, Jamie!”

  “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t—”

  “Never mind,” Struan panted, a stabbing pain in his side where he had fallen heavily, more throbbing in his stomach where there was none before and the usual under the healed but angry scar. “Where’s the fire?”

  “I don’t know, I was downstairs wh—”

  “Later—Angelique!”

  Jamie ran into the corridor, smoke from the far end of the corridor making him cough. He banged on her door then tried the handle—again bolted on the inside. His shoulder smashed into the wood near the jamb and the door flew open. Her boudoir was empty, one oil lamp was on its side still alight, oil dripping onto the curtained bureau, another shattered on the floor, more oil everywhere. He doused the burning wick and ran into the bedroom. She was propped in the four-poster, as pale as her peignoir, eyes fixed on the swaying oil chandelier that was incongruously, merrily alight.

  “You all right, Angelique?”

  “Oh, Jamie …” she said hesitantly, her voice sounding far away. “Yes, I’m—I was just—just lying down before dressing for dinner then the room started rocking. I—I thought I was dreaming then the lamps shattered and … mon Dieu, it was the noise of the building shifting that frightened me the most … Oh, is Malcolm …”

  “Yes, best get dressed quick as you can. Hurr—”

  The fire alarm bell at the nearly Harbor Master’s office began tolling, startling them. With sudden apprehension she smelt the smoke and heard the muffled shouts from outside and saw the glow through the window curtains and gasped, “We’re on fire?”

  “Not to worry for the moment but best get dressed quick as you can and come next door, I’ll unbolt the connecting door.” He hurried out. She slid out of bed. Under her peignoir she wore pantaloons and a boned chemise. Hastily she stepped into her crinoline that was already laid out for her and picked up a shawl.

  “She’s all right, Tai-pan,” she heard Jamie say as he unbolted the connecting door. “She’s getting dressed, let me help you downstair—”

  “When she’s ready.”

  Jamie started to say something, changed his mind, both of them still conscious of their lunchtime clash and neither prepared to compromise. He opened the window. In the front garden and street below, clerks and servants were milling around, Vargas amongst them, onlookers and others from the various Legations gathering, but no flames that he could see. “Vargas!” he shouted. “Where’s our fire?”

  “We’re not sure, senhor, we think it’s just part of the roof. Men with the fire captain are already there but Brock’s upper story is alight.”

  Jamie could not see next door so he hurried back into Angelique’s boudoir and pulled the curtains aside. Fire had taken a good hold of the front of Brock’s—a two-story structure similar to Struan’s—where the main bedrooms would be. Smoke billowed from the open windows. He could see teams of men passing along pails of water, trying to douse the fire, Norbert Greyforth supervising—the Brock fire teams drilled as often and as ruthlessly as he himself had drilled Struan’s. Whipped by the breeze, flames were being dragged with the smoke to reach across the gap.

  Just my luck to be burned out by their godrotting fire, he thought sourly then leaned out of the window. “Vargas,” he shouted, “get men and water up here—douse this side! When we’re clear, help Norbert.” I hope the bugger burns and all of Brock’s with him, that’d solve the stupid duel for all time.

  There were no other fires that he could see from here, other than one far down the promenade in Drunk Town and two in the Yoshiwara. The smell of burning wood and oil and clothing and the tar that they used on the roofs overpowered everything, though there was a taste of sea salt on the breeze. Inexorably his attention went back to the flames from Brock’s that sought them. The wind pushed the flames closer. He willed them to die, afraid of fire—the croft that he had been born in had burned one foul winter night when he was a child, his father dead drunk as usual and his younger brother consumed, he and his mother and sister barely escaping with their lives and little else, soon to go to the work house and vile years until they were rescued by Campbell Struan, kinsman of Dirk Struan, on whose land his father had toiled.

  “Vargas! Hurry up, for Christ’s sake!”

  “Coming, senhor!”

  Now the promenade was packed, everyone in the streets ready to help and give advice, others with much shouting forming a water bucket line from the huge fire tank of sea water that was within easy reach, army units from the tented barracks joining the throng. Samurai were running towards them from the North Gate to help—any fire a threat to them also. Southwards, and on the other side of the canal, one of the Yoshiwara Houses was burning brightly, more cries and alarm drifting on the wind, but that blaze seemed contained and not a major danger and, thankfully, nowhere near where Nemi would be.

  The sweat was pouring down his back. He felt sick with relief that Malcolm was safe. Since lunch he had been brooding in his office, furious his search for prospectors had leaked, beside himself with worry over the duel, and his future. Never once had he conceived he would ever be involved in such a quarrel, or be forced to leave the Noble House, or Japan, except for ill health or an accident, before retiring in five years at the ripe age of forty-four after twenty-five good years of service, rung by rung. Now, with Malcolm alienated, and Tess Struan furious with him, his promotion, retirement—his whole future was in jeopardy.

  What to do, he had been worrying, then the shocks turned the world upside down, his precarious mortality had been rammed home to him again and then, when the jolts had ceased and he could reel to his feet, his glands and the memory of the debts he and his family owed the Struans had sent him scurrying upstairs, petrified for Malcolm’s safety—after all he was in charge and this youth little more than an invalid. Tai-pan? Sorry, Malcolm, Norbert’s right, your ma’s in command. If you hadn’t been wounded you’d have rushed back to Hong Kong when she said, none of this would have happened, you’d be taking over the reins and in a year or so you’d—

  “Jamie … could you do me up?”

  Blankly he turned. Angelique was standing at the doorway, back towards him, the front of the off-the-shoulder crinoline held up and the back open. For a second he almost shouted at her, That bloody dress’s crazy, for Christ’s sake, we’re on fire! But he did not, just hastily did up the top button and shoved a shawl around her and hurried her into the next room where she at once went into Struan’s open arms. A team of men rushed past the open door with full buckets. “Best get out, sir …” someone shouted.

  “Time to go, Tai-pan, all right?”

  “Yes.” Malcolm went for the door as quickly as he could. With his two sticks he was slow—disastrously slow had there been a real emergency, which all three of them knew, Struan most of all. Now there was tramping above them in the attics, men pounding, the smell of smoke worse, adding to their anxiety.

  “Jamie, take Angelique out, I’ll make my own time.”

  “Lean on me an—”

  “For Christ’s sake, do it, then come back if you must!”

  Jamie flushed. He took her arm and the two of them hurried out, men overtaking them with empty buckets, others staggering in with a full load.

  The moment he was alone, Struan groped back to his chest of drawers, rummaged under some clothes and found the small bottle that Ah Tok had refilled this afternoon. He swigged half of the brownish liquid, recorked it and put it in the pocket of his frock coat, sighing with relief.

  Angelique swept down the staircase and out through the front doors. The clean air was welcome
. “Vargas!” Jamie called out. “Look after Miss Angelique for a moment.”

  “Certainly, senhor.”

  “Please allow me, Monsieur,” Pierre Vervene, the French official said grandly. “I will escort Mademoiselle Angelique to our Legation—she can wait there in safety.”

  “Thanks.” Jamie rushed back inside.

  Now she could see that their roof was burning, not too badly at the moment, but not far away from their suites, the flames from Brock’s still licking the side of their building. Well-trained samurai, kimonos tucked out of their way and masked against smoke inhalation, had ladders against one of the walls. Some scaled it as others with signs and shouts motioned men to bring buckets that were quickly handed to the topmost man who hurled them where they would do most good. An angry shaft of flame sought him but he ducked, covered his face and held on, then once more went back to fire fighting. She caught her breath, thinking how strong and brave the man was and how helpless Struan had become, how little he could do to protect her in an emergency, how he was more and more of a weight, more and more of an invalid, every day more querulous and less and less fun. What of my future? A tremor went through her.

  “Nothing to worry about, Mademoiselle,” Vervene said in French, a tassled cap covering his bald pate. “Come along, you’re quite safe. Earth quakes are really quite normal here.” He took her arm to lead her up the promenade through the men swarming the front, watching or fighting the fire.

  Ori had seen her the moment she came into the street.

  He was on the edge of the crowd in the neck of the alley beside the French Legation near the North Gate. His laborer’s clothes and cap were not much different from those of many men around him, camouflaging him well. From this position he could see most of the promenade, the front of Struan’s and the street beside it that came up from the village main street.

  He stopped staring at her and scanned all around, seeking Hiraga or Akimoto, sure that they were lurking somewhere near or soon would be, his heart still pounding from his frantic run through Drunk Town and into the village. The moment he had seen the Struan fire and the open length of the promenade he knew that he was doomed to be caught if he tried that way or the beach—and no time to fetch Timee to act as guard or rear guard.

  Not that I could ever trust those dogs, he thought, his heart grinding even more heavily at the nearness of her.

  She was only twenty yards away.

  Those who saw her doffed their hats and murmured greetings that she absently returned. Ori could easily have gone deeper into safety but he did not, just took off his hat like the others and looked. Short beard, strong face, curious eyes, his hair short but groomed. Her eyes flowed over him but she did not really see him, nor did Vervene who was chattering pleasantly in French.

  They passed within a few yards. Ori waited until they had gone into the French Legation—no sentries there now, all had gone to join the fire fight-then he trudged away, down the alley. The moment he was sure no one was watching he scaled the Legation fence as he had done before and went into the previous ambush under her window. Tonight the shutters were unbarred and open. So was the inner door. He could see across the room into the corridor and caught sight of them going into a room opposite. The door was ajar.

  Now that he was safe and unobserved Ori checked his derringer and made sure his knife was loose in its holster. Then he squatted on his heels, took a deep breath and began to think. From the moment he had seen Hiraga and, almost at once, the Struan fire, he had blindly allowed his instincts to guide him. That’s no longer any good, he told himself.

  Now I must plan. And quickly.

  The open shutters were the magnet. He slid over the lintel into the room.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “Why not sleep here tonight, Mademoiselle, Monsieur Struan? We’ve plenty of room,” Vervene said.

  It was near dinnertime and they were in the main reception room of the French Legation having champagne and Jamie had just arrived to report that their fire was out, nothing serious except some water damage in her suite, a little in Struan’s. “If you want you can have my rooms, Tai-pan,” Jamie said. “I’ll bunk elsewhere, and Miss Angelique can have Vargas’s room.”

  “There’s no need for that, Jamie,” Angelique said. “We can stay here, no need to disrupt everyone. I was moving here tomorrow anyway. Yes, chéri?”

  “I think I’d be more comfortable in my own suite. It’s all right, Jamie?”

  “Oh yes, hardly touched. Miss Angelique, would you like my rooms then?”

  “No, Jamie, I’ll be fine here tonight.”

  “Good, then that’s settled,” Struan said, eyes strange and feeling very tired, most of his pain still drowned by the opium, but not his deep-set rage over Norbert Greyforth.

  “Monsieur Struan, you are certainly welcome to stay too,” Vervene said. “We have rooms enough, as the Minister and his staff are at Yedo for a few days.”

  “Oh!” Angelique was openly shocked. Tomorrow André had to collect the medicine. They all stared at her. “But André told me, he told me they were all returning by the latest early tomorrow, after today’s meeting with the Shōgun.”

  “It depends on the Shōgun’s punctuality and how the meeting goes—and our hosts are international models for punctuality, eh?” Vervene chuckled at his own joke, adding grandly, “You never know how State Occasions will turn out. It may take a day, even a week. More champagne, Monsieur Struan?”

  “Thanks, yes, tha—”

  “But André said the meeting was this morning and they’d be back at the latest tomorrow.” She fought the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks.

  “What the devil’s the matter, Angel?” Struan said testily. “Does it matter when they come back?”

  “It … n-no … but I—I just hate it when someone says something and it’s not true.”

  “You were probably mistaken, ridiculous to be upset about such an unimportant matter.” Struan took a large swallow of his refilled glass. “For goodness’ sake, Angel!”

  “Perhaps they’ll be back tomorrow, Mademoiselle,” Vervene said, ever the diplomat. Stupid cow, however delectable her breasts and kissable her lips, as if it matters. “Never mind,” he said with his most oily smile, “dinner will be served within the hour. Monsieur McFay, you will join us, bien sûr?”

  “Thank you no, I’d best be going.” McFay hesitated at the door. “Tai-pan, shall I, er, shall I come back for you?”

  “I’m capable of walking two hundred yards by myself,” Struan snapped. “Perfectly capable!” And of pulling a bloody trigger tonight or any night, he wanted to shout after him.

  Just before coming over here Norbert Greyforth had taken a respite, the Brock fire almost under control, and, unnoticed by him, had walked out into the street. Jamie, beside him, was directing Vargas and the fire fighters, Dr. Hoag and Dr. Babcott nearby, tending burns and a few broken bones.

  Ah Tok’s elixir had worked its usual magic and Malcolm was feeling fine and confident, though strange and wanting to sleep as always—he had been fantasizing, to sleep perchance to dream, to dream about loving, about connecting with the Japanese girl or Angelique with ever greater passion, their need as great as mine and ever more erotic. Then, abruptly, he had been jerked into the vicious present.

  “Evening, Jamie. Proper bugger, eh?”

  “Ah, Norbert,” Struan said, politeness helped by the euphoria. “Sorry about your bad joss. I think th—”

  Norbert pointedly ignored him. “Fortunately, Jamie, no damage to our offices or warehouse, or trade goods or strong rooms, you’ll be happy to hear—just in my sleeping quarters.” Then he feigned to see Struan for the first time and his voice became louder and taunting for others to hear. “Well, well, if it isn’t the young tai-pan of the Oh So Noble House himself. Top of the evening to you, laddie, you don’t look so good—is your milk off?”

  Struan’s bonhomie had vanished. Through his opiate screen he realized he was confronting
evil and his enemy was there in front of him. “No, but your manners are.”

  “Manners are not your strong suit, laddie.” Norbert laughed. “Yes, we’re not harmed, laddie. In fact our new mining ventures make us Noble House in Japan and we’ll have Hong Kong by Christmas. Best toddle home, Malcolm.”

  “The name’s Struan,” he said, seeing himself tall, strong and omnipotent, not quite aware of others around him or that Jamie and Babcott were trying to intervene. “Struan!”

  “I like ‘young Malcolm,’ young Malcolm.”

  “Next time you call me that I’ll call you a motherless bastard and blow your head off without waiting for your seconds, by God.”

  Now there was a pit of silence around them. The crackle of flames and the soft, baiting hiss of the wind only enhanced it. The news of the lunchtime challenge had spread within minutes and all waited for the next move in the game that had been brewing since Malcolm’s grand father, Dirk Struan, died before he could kill Tyler Brock as he had sworn to do.

  Norbert Greyforth’s mind was working hard. Once again he measured his future and his position in Brock’s, considering carefully what he should do—the stakes immense. He was well compensated—so long as he obeyed orders. Tyler Brock’s last letter had opened a door to paradise, telling him bluntly to “ride Malcolm Struan to the limit while he be sick, wounded, and unprotected by my hellcat daughter, God curse her to Hell! There be five thousand guinea a year for ten year if that stripling be crushed while he be in the Japans—thee be taking any measure thee be wanting.”

  Norbert would be thirty-one in six more days. By forty, the normal retirement age, the average China trader was old. Five thousand for ten years was truly a princely sum, enough for him and all his generations, enough to buy a seat in Parliament, to become gentry, a squire with a manor house, married to a young bride with a fine dowry of good Surrey land.