Gai-Jin

by James Clavell

  “Tai-pan!”

  “Oh, hello, Jamie.” Malcolm stopped halfway up the staircase. “Did you hear Ocean Witch is leaving early? Perhaps on this evening’s tide?”

  “Ah! I was just going to tell you. Heard the rumor, tried to get it confirmed by Norbert but he’s busy at the moment—how’s Angelique?”

  “Fine,” Malcolm said absently. “We’d better be ready with our mails in case the Witch sails early.”

  “I’ll be all set. I’ll collect yours as soon as I hear if it’s true.” Jamie frowned, seeing how distracted Malcolm was.

  “Send someone to Angelique, she has mail too.” Her letter to his mother, written and rewritten until both were satisfied. It’s a good letter, he thought.

  “She was really all right, Tai-pan?”

  “Gorgeous.” Malcolm smiled, aches momentarily forgotten, the Witch forgotten. She had looked spectacular in bed, fresh though wan, happy and attentive and so pleased to see him. “She said by tomorrow evening she’ll be fine, Jamie. Why don’t we arrange a grand dinner, here, eh? Us, and say Dmitri, Babcott, Marlowe if he’s free, and Pallidar, they’re both good sorts though they fawn on her like puppies.”

  “What about Phillip and Sir William?”

  “Phillip, yes, but not Sir William … no, best leave them both out. How about Count Zergeyev? He’s always good for a laugh or two.”

  “If you invite him you should really include all the Ministers—can’t very well leave Sir William out then.”

  “You’re right. Make it simple, them another night.”

  “I’ll make the arrangements,” Jamie said, glad that they were on friendly terms again. Together they walked into his suite. All damage from the fire had been repaired though there was still the slight smell of smoke. “What about Ketterer?”

  “He has to guard our interests or he’s out.” Malcolm sat at his desk, began to stack the mail he wanted to send. “Mother will have already seen the Governor and sorted him out.”

  “Yes.”

  Malcolm looked up sharply, hearing a strangeness under the voice. After a moment he said, “Curious how confident we are she’ll do that, and not at all confident I can persuade her to approve my marriage.”

  “Don’t quite know how to answer that, Tai-pan,” McFay said sadly, “if it’s a question.”

  Malcolm nodded slowly, seeing the strong, well-used face and strong, tough body and wondering if he would be as strong when he was thirty-nine—in nineteen years. “You got another letter from her?”

  “Yes. ’Fraid no good news at all from Ocean Witch.”

  “Oh? Sit down, Jamie. What did she say?”

  “Sorry, but, well, she reiterated her order I assist Dr. Hoag to see you back to Hong Kong at once, confirming I’m sacked at the end of the month.”

  “You can forget that. You wrote her, as I told you, that you’re under the tai-pan’s orders, my orders, not hers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, so did I and that’s the end of it. Your letter and mine must have crossed hers.” Malcolm lit a cheroot and noticed his fingers were shaking. “You’ve never smoked?”

  “No, tried once and didn’t like it.”

  “Forget the sacking nonsense. What other bad news?”

  “I’ve got all the correspondence and cuttings for you when you’re ready. Business is rotten all over. We’ve lost Racing Cloud—she’s too long overdue in San Francisco.”

  “Bloody hell!” Racing Cloud was one of their clipper fleet, twenty-two ships. Clippers, three-masted queens of the sea, were much faster on long ocean runs than cumbersome steamers that had to carry and conserve coal. Her cargo was tea, silk and spices, all highly prized goods and now, because of the American war, astronomically valuable—particularly if diverted to the South. “Insurance won’t cover us, will it?”

  “’Fraid not. Never does, even Lloyd’s. They may even claim an Act of War. It is a war zone.”

  “Ayeeyah! That’ll cost a pretty penny. Damned shame about the crew. Her Captain was Caradoc, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes. They must have run into a hurricane—several were reported off Hawaii though they’re late this year. Her Second Mate was my cousin, Duncan McGregor.”

  “Oh, sorry about that.” Even more depressed, Struan glanced at his bureau where the elixir waited. I wonder if the same storms swallowed Savannah Lady, along with young Pedrito Vargas and our order for five thousand rifles, he thought absently. That reminded him. “Those cannon at Mirs Bay—they weren’t sold through us, were they?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” Jamie said, the normal response to such a question. Both were aware of major arms sales to Chinese traders, who always represented the Manchu government. What happened on delivery at Canton or Shanghai was another matter.

  Malcolm was thinking, I’ll bet fifty Mex to a dollar they were from us, one way or another. He was party to one of Struan’s inner secrets: a tenuous friend-enemy relationship existed between the Noble House and the seaborne White Lotus Wu Sung Choi’s, begun by his grandfather and continued by his father. What about me? What do I do about them, he asked himself, suddenly sick to death of Yokohama and violently anxious to assume all the mantle and secrets of his grandfather—and to confront his mother. “In a week or so,” he muttered.

  “Tai-pan?”

  “Nothing. What else, Jamie?”

  Jamie went through a litany about the falling price of goods they sold and escalating price of goods they had to buy, of demands for increased danger wages for their seamen, many of whom were of English-American heritage and were being forcibly pressed aboard roving, marauding warships of both North and South. “I could go on forever, Tai-pan. Russia and France are spoiling for a fight, so Europe’s a tinderbox. All over India, Moslems and Hindus are killing, murdering each other, burning crops. Whole world’s crazy.” He hesitated. “More urgent, the Victoria Bank wrote again about the paper they carry on us here. The notes are due …”

  “I know all about that and they can rot. The Bank’s Brock-controlled, they’ve dropped us in the sewer financing Brock’s takeover of Hawaiian sugar and they’re out to bankrupt us. They can all rot, by God.” Malcolm’s voice had thickened. Pain was shafting from his belly. “Think I’ll finish all this paperwork in case the Witch sails on the tide. Why should she turn around so fast?”

  After a moment Jamie shrugged. “Don’t know, but I agree: any news to do with Brock’s is bad news.”

  The Club meeting had quickly gravitated into the usual shouting, cursing, angry mass of men, increasingly heated, with plenty of drinking, talking and no one listening, with a single theme locking them all together: “God curse all governments, all bleeding tax collectors, all fat-arsed Admirals and Generals wot don’t know their poxy place, wot don’t do wot they’re supposed to do which is listen to the business community, do wot we bloody say and Bob’s your bloody uncle!”

  “Good on yer, Lunkchurch. I proposes …”

  Whatever the man proposed was drowned in the uproar as several shouted, “Let’s impeach Wee Willie…. ”

  Exasperated, Norbert Greyforth pushed his way through the crowd from the corner of the bar where he had begun the meeting and headed for Malcolm Struan who sat beside the door, Jamie nearby. Dmitri called out, “No conclusion, Norbert?”

  “What do you expect, Dmitri? It’s up to tai-pans as ever was. Come along. Jamie, would you and …” Norbert was going to needle Malcolm by calling him young Struan but he remembered Sir William’s very blunt and sour threat not to provoke him in public or else. Even more he could feel Tyler Brock’s letter burning in his pocket. He looked down at Malcolm and said politely, “Would you two please join me—a private chat, eh? Dmitri, you too?”

  Malcolm had expected Norbert just to pass by with a curt nod. “Certainly. Where? Outside?”

  “In my office, if it pleases you.”

  The three men followed him. All on guard. “Is Ocean Witch leaving on the tide?” Malcolm asked.

  “Yes.”


  Dmitri said, “Why the fast turnaround, Norbert?”

  “Tyler’s orders.” Norbert noticed the sudden shadow cross Struan’s face and he smiled to himself.

  His temporary office was on the ground floor while repairs were being done to the fire-ravaged upstairs. The central staircase was blackened, the roof off in places but covered temporarily with sail canvas. “Proper bugger, the fire, but there you are, happens to everyone sometime. Fortunately, as I said, the safes weren’t touched, nor the books and warehouse.” He motioned to leather easy chairs. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  On the sideboard were glasses and drinks, whisky, brandy, gin, vintage wine, with champagne already on ice. His Chinese Number One Boy stood waiting to serve them. Their caution increased. “What’s your pleasure?”

  “Champagne,” Malcolm said, the others echoing him. He was feeling fine now, the elixir as always encouraging him to seem inviolate as well as deadening the pain. When all glasses were filled, Norbert jerked his thumb at the servant who bowed and left them. “Health!” They returned the toast mildly. He sat on the edge of the desk, tall, lean and confident.

  “We’re safe from ears here,” he said. “First, we, us’n, we represent the three biggest companies, we should jointly write a complaint to Wee Willie, not that it’ll do much good, and to the Admiral—we all agree he’s an impediment. No reason, Dmitri, why you shouldn’t have at him too: Cooper-Tillman’s got a lot to lose here as well as us. At the same time we should mount a campaign, Struan’s and us, in Parliament to settle Japan once and for all—either we smash the Jappos and put them in their place or we quit.”

  “We’re not quitting Japan,” Malcolm said, and McFay relaxed a little.

  “Nor are we,” Norbert said thinly, “that’s only our ploy for those miserable bastards in Parliament.” He picked up a file from the immaculate desk and selected a single sheet of paper. “This’s a secret dispatch from London via Ocean Witch from one of our watchdogs there, dated September 16th.”

  “That’s damn fast,” Jamie said for all of them.

  “We keep abreast, Jamie. Tyler says to share part of it with you three. I’ll read it: Yesterday the Prime Minister and Chancellor of the Exchequer privately agreed in the next Budget to up the tax on tea by 4 pence the pound, a penny a pint on beer, shilling on all brandy and imported wines, doubling the tax on tobacco”—they all gasped—“doubling the import tax on cotton—”

  “Goddam!” Dmitri exploded. “That’s crazy! That and tobacco are the only cash crops we’ve got in the South! They do that, what happens to our war and what happens to your goddam Lancashire mills?”

  “We don’t have cotton mills, though Struan’s have. There’s more: To muzzle certain powerful factions on both sides of the House they’re going to order all our opium plantations in Bengal torched and tea pl—”

  “Jesus Christ!” Struan was aghast, Jamie purple and Dmitri in shock. “Then how do we trade in China, for God’s sake? Opium to silver to …”

  “Parliament don’t give a tinker’s fart for our Heavenly Triangle,” Norbert said grimly, “or Asia, or China, or trade, only staying in office. They want to replant with tea.” He replaced the paper in the folder and sat back on the desk, knowing full well the others would dearly love to know the veracity of the document, and what else was in it. “The Old Man said to tell you we’ve an informant close to the P.M.’s office, his whispers have always been true in the past, and that’s the God’s truth. He says, rightly, we’ve got to get this bloody pair out, fast. Dmitri, you’ve got to pressure them from your side. Tyler says whatever’s necessary we’ll do and asks you to do the same. Agreed?”

  Dmitri said, “Agreed. Jesu, I can’t believe it.”

  “I do.” Struan raised his glass, wondering where Tyler Brock’s trap was. “May they burn in Hell.”

  Solemnly they drank with him. Norbert refilled their glasses. His face had hardened to focus on Struan. “Next: we’re all party to our duel. I don’t need seconds and we agreed Wednesday dawn. Sorry, I’m on Ocean Witch tonight, sorry, Tyler’s orders—so Wednesday’s off. I sugg—”

  “Why put it off, there’s light enough now.” The words were out before Malcolm could stop them and he was pleased that he had reacted so quickly and firmly though suddenly his brain seemed stretched. The silence intensified. Jamie had blanched.

  “Not now.” Eyes glinting and hiding his amusement, Norbert turned to Jamie and Dmitri, the formal seconds. “I suggest we postpone, gentleman’s agreement, till I get back, about three weeks, eh? Then it’ll be next day, whenever.”

  Jamie said, “That’s a better idea, Tai-pan. Yes?”

  After a moment the tightness in Struan’s head seeped away. “Fine,” he said, neither pleased nor disappointed but content that he had thrown down the gauntlet again. He did not notice Jamie and Dmitri cover their relief. They finished their drinks and left.

  When he was quite alone, Norbert took out Tyler Brock’s letter and reread it, his palms sweaty. The first part dealt with their spy’s information. The letter ended: “Get thy arse aboard Ocean Witch and leave on first tide–just thee, no other passengers, mind. Bring thy inner books, the Jappo gold-mining contract, and all bullion in thy control. We’s to meet in Shanghai, secret—that’s Witch’s first port of call though manifest says direct to Hong Kong—Morgan, me and thee, fast as possible and secret, no one to be wiser. When thee returns to Yokohama, mayhaps thy bed’ll be in godrotting Malcolm Struan’s room, ay, with his doxie’s tongue fawning all over thee if that’s thy pleasure—soon she be for sale too. We’s just heard her dad’s fled Bangkok, like Hong Kong, more fraud and swindles, Frog officials this time. They be catching him, trying him and then the guillotine—Frogs bain’t like our lily piss-arsed Peelers. Missus sends best wishes.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  KYŌTO

  SUNDAY, 16TH NOVEMBER:

  Well after dark, Yoshi and his guard, muffled and disguised in nondescript clothes as ordinary soldiers, wearily picked their way through the deserted streets of the sleeping, ancient capital where Emperors and the Imperial court had lived for centuries.

  The city had been constructed in Chinese fashion with straight streets, the cross streets at right angles, with the sprawling Forbidden Palace and grounds central to it. Only the roofs could be seen behind its tall walls—six Gates in the walls. Yoshi avoided it carefully, wanting to elude Ogama’s patrols and samurai guarding the Gates, and when he arrived, unheralded, at the Shōgunate barrack complex, he went to his own quarters and soon sank gratefully into a steaming bath that could easily hold eight.

  “How many fighters do I have in Kyōto, Akeda?” he asked, the aches of his days of forced march beginning to seep away.

  Grim-faced, the old general lowered himself into the water beside him, the bath a metre deep. The bathhouse was within the inner redoubt, all maids had been dismissed and sentries posted outside. “Eight hundred and two, of which eighty are sick or recovering from wounds, all sworn to you, all trustworthy, all mounted. Plus the eighteen you brought with you,” he said in his gravelly voice. The moment Yoshi had arrived, Akeda had doubled all guards. He was a tough, hatomoto retainer whose family had served the Toranaga clan for generations and now he commanded their Kyōto garrison. “Not enough to protect you.”

  “I’m safe here.” By Legacy law, this was the only defensible complex in Kyōto, capable of billeting five thousand men if need be, all other daimyos restricted to a maximum of five hundred men—with no more than ten daimyos in Kyōto at any one time, their comings and goings strictly controlled. Time and weak Councils of Elders had whittled Shōgunate numbers to under a thousand. “Do you doubt that?”

  “Inside our walls, no. So sorry, I meant outside.”

  “Allies? How many daimyos can I count on?”

  Akeda shrugged irritably. “It was totally wrong to put yourself at such risk travelling with so few guards, even more dangerous to come to Kyōto. If I had been warned I c
ould have met you and escorted you in. If your father were alive he would have forbidden such dan—”

  “But my father’s not alive.” Yoshi’s lips set into a hard line. “Allies?”

  “If you raised your own standard in Kyōto, Sire, your very own, most daimyos and most samurai would rush to your side, here and throughout the land, more than enough to enforce whatever you wanted to enforce.”

  “That could be construed as treason.”

  “Ah, so sorry, but truth is usually treasonous at your level, Lord—and very difficult to obtain.” The weathered old face broke into a smile. “The truth: If you raise the Shōgunate banner, the daimyos here will not combine against Ogama of Choshu, not while he holds the Gates.”

  “How many samurai does Ogama have here?”

  “They say over two thousand, handpicked men, all well placed in fortified guard houses around the palace, close to nominal guards on our Gates.” Akeda smiled mirthlessly, seeing Yoshi’s eyes narrow. “Oh, everyone knows it’s against the law, but no one reminded him and no one has stood up to him. He’s been sneaking them in in tens and twenties since he threw out that old fox Sanjiro, Katsumata and his Satsumas. You know they escaped by boat to Kagoshima?” He slid deeper into the water. “Rumor has it Ogama has another two to three thousand Choshu samurai within ten ri.”

  “Eh?”

  “His grip tightens on Kyōto, every day a little more, his patrols control the streets, except for an occasional shishi band who pick a fight with anyone they fancy does not honor sonno-joi, particularly us and anyone allied to the Shōgunate. They are fools because we are equally opposed to gai-jin, their foul Treaties and want them out.”

  “Are shishi here in strength?”

  “Yes. Rumor is they are getting ready for some mischief. A week ago some of them picked on an Ogama patrol, openly calling Ogama a traitor. He was furious and has been trying to hunt them down ever since. There is—”