“Nothing, yet,” Norbert said, his face grim. They were amongst a group on the promenade but still well away from the samurai who paid no attention whatsoever to the silent crowd watching them, slouching along out of step as was their custom.
Lunkchurch sidled up to them. “You armed, Norbert?”
“No. Are you?”
“No.”
“I am, suh.” Gornt took out his tiny pistol. “But it won’t make much of a dent in them if they’re hostile.”
“When in doubt, young feller,” Lunkchurch said hoarsely, “take a powder, I always say.” He stuck out his hand to Gornt before he hurried off. “Barnaby Lunkchurch, Mr. Gornt, pleased to meet you. Welcome to Yokopoko. I’ve seen you in the Club, hear you play bridge—anytime.”
Everyone was quietly easing out of range. Drunks had suddenly become sober. All were very much on guard, the speed of a sudden samurai rush with flailing swords too well known. Norbert had already chosen a line of retreat should it prove necessary. Then he saw the Marine night watch come out of the side street on the double, rifles ready, a sergeant at their head, to take up a commanding, though not provocative, position and he relaxed. “Nothing to worry about now. Do you always carry that, Edward?”
“Oh yes, suh, always. I thought I’d told you.”
“No, you didn’t,” he said curtly. “Can I see it?”
“Certainly. It’s loaded, of course.”
The pistol was tiny but deadly. Double-barrelled. Two bronze cartridges. Silver-sheathed hilt. He gave it back, hard eyed. “Neat. It’s American?”
“French. My pa gave it to me when I went to England. Said he’d won it from a riverboat gambler, the only thing he gave me in his life.” Gornt laughed softly, both of them watching the approaching samurai. “I even sleep with it, suh, but I’ve only fired it once. That was at a lady who was sneaking off with my wallet in the dead of night.”
“You hit her?”
“No, suh, wasn’t trying to, just parted her hair, to frighten her. A lady shouldn’t steal, should she, suh?”
Norbert grunted and put his eyes back on the samurai, seeing Gornt in a new light, a dangerous one.
The patrol walked down the center of the road, sentries in front of the British, French and Russian legations—the only ones with permanent guards—quietly cocked their rifles, already warned. “Safety catches on! No firing, lads, till I says,” the Sergeant growled. “Grimes, go warn his Nibs, he’s with the Russkies, third house down the street, quietly now.”
The soldier slid away. Streetlamps of the promenade flickered. Everyone waited anxiously. The strutting officer approached impassively. “Mean-looking bastard, ain’ he, Sar’nt?” a sentry whispered, his hands slick on his rifle.
“They’re all mean-looking bastards. Easy now.”
The officer came abreast of the British Legation and barked a command. His men stopped and formed up facing the gate as he stomped forward and spoke guttural Japanese at the Sergeant. A sharp silence. More impatient, imperious words, clearly orders.
“Wot you want, cookie?” the Sergeant asked thinly, half a metre taller.
Again the ugly sentences, more angrily.
“Anyone knows wot he’s saying?” the Sergeant called out. No answer, then Johann, the interpreter, carefully came out of the fringe of the crowd, bowed to the officer who bowed back perfunctorily, and spoke to him in Dutch. The officer replied in Dutch, searching for the words.
Johann said, “He’s got a message, a letter, for Sir William, has to deliver it personally.”
“Don’t know about that, Mister, not with them bloody swords at his side.”
The officer started towards the Legation gate and all safety catches came off. He stopped. A furious tirade at the Sergeant and sentries. All samurai eased their swords a quarter length out of their scabbards and took a defensive stance. Down the road the Marine patrol moved into riot order. Everyone waited for the first mistake.
At that moment Pallidar and two other dragoon officers hurried out from the Russian Legation just down the street, in evening dress uniform, dress swords. “I’ll take charge, Sergeant,” Pallidar said. “What’s the problem?”
Johann told him. Pallidar, well rehearsed in Japanese customs now, went over to the officer, bowed, made sure the officer bowed equally. “Tell him I’ll accept the letter. I’m aide-de-camp to Sir William,” he said, exaggerating.
“He says, Sorry, his orders are to do it personally.”
“Tell him I’m authorized t—”
Sir William’s voice stopped him. “Captain Pallidar—just a moment! Johann, who’s this letter from?” He stood on the threshold of the Russian bungalow, Zergeyev and others crowding the entrance beside him.
The officer pointed at the banner and snapped more words and Johann called out, “He says it’s from the tairō but I guess he means the roju, the Elders. He’s been ordered to deliver it at once, personally.”
“All right, I’ll take it. Tell him to come over here.”
Johann translated. Imperiously the officer beckoned Sir William to come to him but Sir William called out, even more sharply, with even less courtesy, “Tell him I’m at dinner. If he doesn’t step up right now, he can deliver it tomorrow.”
Johann was too practiced to translate exactly and only gave just enough emphasis to transfer the meaning. The samurai officer sucked in his breath with fury, then stomped over to the Russian gate, brushed past the two huge bearded sentries and stood before Sir William, clearly waiting for him to bow.
“Keirei!” Sir William barked. Salute!—one of the few words he allowed himself to know. “Keirei!”
The officer flushed but automatically bowed. He bowed as to an equal, seethed even more when he saw Sir William just nod as to an inferior, but then, he thought, this foul little man is the leader gai-jin with a reputation for anger as vile as his smell. When we attack I will personally kill him.
He took out the scroll, went forward and handed it over, stepped back, bowed perfectly, waited until his bow was returned, however rudely, completely satisfied that he had bested the enemy. To rid himself of his anger, he cursed his men and strode off as though they did not exist. They followed, seething at the gai-jin rudeness.
“Where the devil’s Tyrer?” Sir William asked.
Pallidar said, “I’ll send someone to find him.”
“No, ask Johann to join me, will you please?”
“No need for that, Sir William,” Erlicher, the Swiss Minister said, “if it’s in Dutch I can read it for you.”
“Thank you, but it best be Johann as he knows some Japanese too,” Sir William said, not wanting to share anything in advance with any foreigner, particularly one who openly represented a small but growing, highly specialized armament industry anxious for exports, with a reputation based on the extraordinary and unique quality of their watchmakers, one of the few areas where British manufacturers could not compete.
The dining room, largest room in the bungalow, contained a table for twenty ladened with fine silver and serving plates. All Ministers were guests, except von Heimrich who was still sick, Struan, Angelique at the head of the table, some French and British officers, with two liveried servants behind each seat and more to serve. “Can I use the anteroom, Count Zergeyev?” Sir William said in Russian.
“Of course.” Count Zergeyev opened the door. They waited a moment until Johann hurried in and he closed it.
“’Evening, Sir William,” Johann said, pleased that he had been called. He would be the first to know what this was all about, and could continue to be useful, profitably, to his own country’s Minister. He broke the seal of the scroll and sat down also. “Dutch and Japanese. It’s short.” Rapidly he scanned it, frowned, reread it and then again and laughed nervously. “It’s addressed to you, the British Minister and says: ‘I communicate with you by dispatch. By order of Shōgun Nobusada received from Kyōto, all ports are to be closed at once and all foreigners expelled and driven out, not nee—’”
“Driven out? Driven out, did you say?” The bellow went through the door. An uneasy pall fell on the dinner guests.
Johann winced. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir, that’s what it says: ‘and driven out, not needing or wanting any dealings between foreigners and our people. I send you this before commanding an immediate meeting to make final particulars of your urgent withdrawal from Yokohama. Respectful communication.’”
“Respectful? God-cursed bloody impertinence, by God …”
The tirade continued. When Sir William paused for breath, Johann said, “It’s signed ‘Nori Anjo—Tairō.’ As I understand it, Sir William, that’s almost like Dictator—he’s gone up in the world.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
KYŌTO
THURSDAY, 4TH DECEMBER:
Toranaga Yoshi was livid. “When was the tairō appointment confirmed?”
“The day before yesterday, Sire, by carrier pigeon to Lord Anjo at Yedo,” Wakura, the Lord Chamberlain, head of the palace officials, said smoothly, untouched by his guest’s open anger, and hiding his joy—he had been looking forward to this meeting that he had arranged in his quarters within the palace. “The formal scroll, signed by the Shōgun at the request of the Son of Heaven, was sent, I believe, for urgent delivery to Lord Nori Anjo the same day.”
This made Yoshi even angrier. His ancestor, Shōgun Toranaga, had made carrier pigeons the exclusive property of the Shōgunate. Over two and a half centuries this method of communication had gone into decline as unnecessary, and now was only used to announce such vital occurrences as the death of a Shōgun or an Emperor. The Bakufu chose not to notice that for years certain Osaka zaïbatsu moneylenders were surreptitiously using pigeons—leaving them open to punitive measures, extra taxes, or favors, if the Bakufu cared to enforce the law.
“And the fatuous ultimatum to the gai-jin? When is that to be delivered?” Yoshi asked.
“At once, Sire. The Imperial request was included in the same carrier pigeon message, Sire, confirmed by Shōgun Nobusada, and marked Deliver at once.”
“The order is baka, the haste even more baka!” Yoshi pulled his padded over-mantle closer around his shoulders. The light rain that patted the gardens outside added a dampness to the chill. “Send another pigeon cancelling the order.”
“If it were up to me, Sire, I would do so at once, since you suggest it. As soon as you leave, Sire, I will seek permission but I imagine your wishes will be too late, the gai-jin leader will have already received the command, it may even have been given to him yesterday.”
Wakura happily kept his face and manner penitent. This was a culmination of years of intriguing in support of the Emperor’s wishes—which matched the opinions of most daimyos, most court nobles, of Ogama who presently held power in Kyōto, though the Gates were ostensibly once again guarded by the loathed Shōgunate—but only with the permission of Ogama—also of the Princess Yazu—and, most important of all, in support of his own views.
His deft and sagacious timing a few days ago had delighted him. He had waylaid the Princess during her morning walk in the palace gardens and in one move had neutralized the Shōgunate, Bakufu, and Yoshi, most dangerous of his enemies. “Imperial Princess, I hear some courtiers close to the Divine, with your interests in mind, whisper that the Lord, your husband, should appoint Lord Nori Anjo tairō, as soon as possible.”
“Anjo?” she had said in disbelief.
“People of wisdom believe, Princess, it should be done quietly and quickly. Plots in Yedo abound and this would avoid interference by … ambitious enemies,” he had said delicately, “enemies who constantly try to undermine your revered husband, who must also have cursed shishi connections. Remember Otsu!”
“As if I will ever forget! But Anjo—not that I have any influence to arrange such a matter—is a dullard and a fool. As tairō he will become even more arrogant.”
“True, but raising him above the other Elders might be a small price to pay to make your Lord Shōgun more secure during his minority, and gag his … his only rival, Lord Yoshi.”
“Could a tairō remove his position of Guardian?”
“Probably, Princess. Another point in Anjo’s favor, the wise whisper, is that he is the perfect instrument to use against gai-jin: simpleheaded but obedient to Imperial requests. The Divine would notice such loyalty and no doubt reward such service. If it was done quietly and quickly, I’ve heard the wise say, the better it would be.”
So easy to implant the seed that had blossomed like one of my hothouse orchids overfertilized—how wise I was to maneuver her marriage. Her words in that dull-witted youth’s ears, some dependent nobles co-opted, my own advice quickly sought and quickly given, and it was done.
And now for you, Toranaga Yoshi, he thought happily, Yoshi the handsome, the cunning, the strong, the highborn usurper waiting and snuffling in the wings of power, ready to start the civil war that I and all but a few radical nobles dread, the war that will crush the resurgence of Imperial power and once more put the Imperial court under the foot of whatever current brigand warlord bestrides the Gates, who thus can strangle our stipends and makes us beggars again.
He suppressed a shudder. Not so many generations ago, the then Emperor had to sell his signature on the Kyōto streets to raise money for food. Not so many generations ago court marriages were arranged to ambitious, upstart daimyos, hardly samurai class, their only qualification for higher rank being success in war, and money. Not so many years ago …
No, he thought, none of that is going to happen. Once sonno-joi is a fact, our loyal shishi friends will disband and return to their fiefs, all daimyos will bow down to Him, we at Court will rule and our golden age will come again.
He coughed and settled the immense sleeves of his elaborate court dress more to his liking, watching Yoshi, his eyes narrowed in his heavy face that was made up according to court custom. “Surely the order to expel the gai-jin is good, Sire. The Emperor’s wise and long-known aversion to gai-jin and the Treaties will come to pass, and our Land of the Gods rid of them forever. This should please you too, Lord Yoshi.”
“If the order was meaningful, yes. If it would be obeyed, yes. If we had the means to enforce it, yes. But none of that will happen. Why was I not consulted?”
“You, Sire?” Wakura’s painted eyebrows soared.
“I’m Guardian of the Heir by Imperial appointment! The boy is under age and not responsible for his signature.”
“Oh, so sorry, Sire … had it been left to me of course your approval would have been sought first. Please, do not blame me, Sire, I can decide nothing, only make suggestions. I am just a servant of the Court, of the Emperor.”
“I should have been consulted!”
“I agree, so sorry, these are strange times.”
Yoshi’s face was taut. The damage was done. He would have to extract the Shōgunate from their own dung. Fools! How?
First Anjo—one way or another … My wife was correct.
Ah, Hosaki, I miss your counsel. Thinking of his family, his eyes drifted outside and at once his fury seemed to dissolve. Beyond the shoji window he saw his guards waiting in the lee of the exquisite roof, the gardens behind them, the rain indulgent, sparkling the carefully orchestrated reds and golds and browns, making it all such a pleasing picture to eye and soul—so different from Yedo, he thought beguiled. Hosaki would enjoy it here, a huge change from our Spartan life. She appreciates beauty, she would like it here.
So easy to be swallowed up, by the weather and gardens, kind skies and tender rain, best music, poetry, exotic foods, abundant silks and clothes makers, exquisite carp and singing birds, the alabaster-skinned beauties of the Court, and of Kyōto’s Floating World, the Shimibara, the most sought-after in all Nippon, without a care in the world except to seek the next pleasure.
Since coming to Kyōto, apart from his temporary peace with Ogama, he had achieved little except pleasure times—so rare for him. Pleasure with Koiko, daily sword practice and the mart
ial arts, marvelous massage—Kyōto famous for it—banquets at every meal, playing Go and chess, writing poetry.
How wise of my ancestor to confine the Emperor and these overdressed sycophants to Kyōto, and to build his own capital at Yedo, far from their seductions and twisted manipulations—and how wise to forbid a Shōgun coming into this honeyed trap.
I should leave. How can I without Nobusada?
The Court had all but excluded him. So had Nobusada. Twice the youth had cancelled a meeting at the last moment because of a chill. The doctor had officially confirmed the chill but his eyes agreed it was an excuse. “But the Lord Shōgun’s health does worry me, Lord Yoshi. His constitution is not strong and his manliness leaves much to be desired.”
“Is it the fault of the Princess?”
“No, no, Sire. She is vigorous and her yin ample and succulent enough to satisfy the most particular yang.”
Yoshi had questioned the doctor carefully. Nobusada had never been a swordsman or hunter or outdoor person like his father and brothers, preferring the easier sports of falconry and archery, or more often poetry competitions and calligraphy. But there was nothing wrong with that. “His father is still as tough as an old saddle and his family known for longevity. You have no cause for alarm, Doctor. Give him one of your potions, get him to eat more fish, less polished rice, and less of the exotics the Princess enjoys.”
She had been present at the only interview he had had with his ward a few days ago. It had gone badly. Nobusada had refused to consider returning to Yedo, refused even to discuss a possible date, refused his advice in every other matter, taunting him with Ogama: “The Choshu control the streets, Ogama’s men are stamping out the vile shishi, Cousin. I’m not even safe surrounded by our warriors, I am only safe here under the Emperor’s protection!”
“That is a myth. You are only safe in Yedo Castle.”
“So sorry, Lord Yoshi,” the Princess said sweetly and silkily, “but it is so damp in Yedo, the weather is not to compare with Kyōto and my husband’s cough needs protection.”
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