Gai-Jin

by James Clavell

  In repayment, and with an effort, he put those and other questions aside for later, and concentrated. He took out a sheaf of notes and began explaining, partially parroting, what “Taira” and “Mukfey” had told him over the hours. The shoya listened intently, thankful that his wife was secretly overhearing them and writing it all down.

  When Hiraga had rambled about loans, financing, and banking—unclear on most of what he had been told—the shoya, impressed with Hiraga’s memory and grasp of what was so totally alien to him, said seriously, “Remarkable, Otami-sama.”

  “Another important matter.” Hiraga took a deep breath. “Mukfey said gai-jin have a kind of market, shoya, a stoku markit where the only goods bargained for, bought or sold, are small printed papers called stoku or sheru that somehow represent money, huge amounts of money, each stoku being part of a kompeni.”

  He drank some tea. Seeing the shoya’s lack of comprehension, he took another deep breath. “Say daimyo Ogama gave all Choshu, all land and produce of the land to a kompeni, the Choshu Kompeni, and decreed that the kompeni was to be split, by deed, into ten thousand equal parts, ten thousand sheru, understand?”

  “I … I think so, please go on.”

  “Thus the stoku of the Choshu Kompeni is ten thousand sheru. Next, the daimyo, on behalf of the kompeni, offers all or any part or number of sheru to anyone with money. For their money the man or woman get this piece of paper saying how many sharu of the Choshu Kompeni he has bought. This person then owns that part of the kompeni and therefore the same proportion of its wealth. The money he and others pay into the kompeni then becomes its kaipit’r, I think this Mukfey gai-jin said, the money needed to run and improve the wealth of the kompeni to pay stipends, or reclaim land or buy arms, or seeds, or improve fishing boats, to pay whatever is necessary to increase and make Choshu prosper, to make the value of the Choshu Kompeni higher.

  “Mukfey explained that … He said in any market, Shoya, prices change, in famine times often daily, no? It’s the same in this daily stoku markit with hundreds of different kompeni, buyers and sellers. If the Choshu harvest is huge, the value of each part of the Choshu Kompeni will be high, if famine, low. The value of each sheru varies also. Understand?”

  “I think so,” the shoya said slowly, understanding very well indeed, covertly afire with delight and questions.

  “Good.” Hiraga was tired but intrigued by these new ideas though at times lost in their maze. He had never, ever, bargained in a market, or an Inn, just paid what was asked, when asked, never in his life argued about the cost of anything or the amount of a bill—except since he became ronin. Bills were always sent to whoever received his stipend, if you were samurai. If unmarried, normally to your mother. Buying and handling money was the job of women, never of men.

  You ate what she—mother, aunt, grandmother, sister or wife—bought from your stipend, you clothed or armed yourself in the same way. With no stipend you starved, you and your family, or you became ronin, or voluntarily had to give up your samurai status and become a farmer, laborer, or far worse, a merchant. “Shoya,” he said, frowning. “Prices vary in a food or fish market. But who decides the price?”

  The guild of fishermen or farmers, the shoya could have said, or more likely the merchants who really own the produce, having lent them the money to buy nets or seeds. But he was much too cautious, most of his energy spent trying to remain calm in the face of so much priceless information, however incomplete. “If there are lots of fish, they are cheaper than when there are few. If depends on the catch, or the harvest.”

  Hiraga nodded. Obviously the shoya was being devious, hiding the truth or twisting it. But that is only normal for merchants and moneylenders, he thought, suddenly deciding to keep any meeting between Mukfey and this man in reserve, and also to keep for later the last piece of kompeni lore that, for some reason he could not fathom intrigued him more than the rest: that if you were the one who formed the kompeni, you decided how many stoku you reserved for yourself, without payment, and if the number amounted to fifty-one or more out of every hundred, you retained power over the kompeni. But why …

  His head almost burst with sudden understanding: With no outlay you became the kompeni Shōgun, the bigger the kompeni the bigger the shōgun … with no outlay!

  When sonno-joi is fact, he thought weakly, we—the samurai council—we will recommend to the Emperor that only our council may form kompeni, then, at long last, we control all the parasites, the merchants and moneylenders!

  “Otami-sama,” the shoya was saying, not having noticed any change in Hiraga, his own mind agog with the marvelous information he had gleaned. “My overlords will be most grateful and so am I. When we have managed to sift all your brilliant thoughts and ideas, perhaps I could have an opportunity to ask a few insignificant questions?”

  “Certainly,” Hiraga said, exultant with the rosy future. The more questions the better—they will force me to understand first. “Perhaps when you hear more about Ogama and Yoshi, or the shishi, or that woman. Shuriken, you said?”

  “I will do my best,” the shoya answered, knowing a deal had been struck. Then his mind took him back to a missing, essential piece of the puzzle. “Please, may I ask, what is this kompeni? What is it, what does it look like?”

  “I don’t know,” Hiraga said, equally perplexed.

  “Good of you to be punctual, Mr. Struan,” Admiral Ketterer said gruffly, “not normal for, er, traders.” He was going to say “tradesmen” but decided there was plenty of time to deliver the broadside. “Take a seat. Sherry?”

  “Some dry sack, thank you, Admiral.”

  The orderly poured a glass, replenished the Admiral’s port and left. They lifted their glasses, no love lost between them. The desk was clear of papers, except for an official document, an opened envelope and a letter in his mother’s writing. “What can I do for you?” Malcolm asked.

  “You know that some of my sailors were killed by Chinese pirates, firing shore-based British cannon during our Mirs Bay engagement. British cannon.”

  “I’ve read the news reports, but I don’t know for certain if they were British manufacture.”

  “I do. Made sure myself.” Sourly the Admiral picked up the document. “The Governor’s initial investigation suggests the probable culprits were either Struan’s or Brock’s.”

  Malcolm looked back at the older, florid-faced man, unafraid. “He can suggest what he likes, Admiral Ketterer, but any formal accusation had better be backed by proof or we would be very upset, and the Brocks apoplectic. I know of no such deal and in any event sale of armaments are not forbidden by Parliament. Does Norbert Greyforth?” Jamie had warned Greyforth that he had also been summoned by the Admiral, at 10:30, but he had not appeared until 11:00 A.M. and that meeting had lasted barely three minutes.

  Ketterer’s neck reddened, remembering Greyforth’s inflammatory response. “No. That—that impertinent fellow declined to discuss the matter. Do you?”

  “I don’t know what you want to discuss, Admiral.”

  “The matter of the importation and selling of cannon and armaments to the natives here. And warships. And opium.”

  Malcolm said carefully, “Struan’s are China traders and we trade according to British law. None of those articles are forbidden by law.”

  “Opium soon will be,” the Admiral snapped.

  “When it is, then that trade ceases.”

  “It’s against Chinese law now, and native law here!”

  “Struan’s are not, I repeat not, trading in opium here, even though it is not, I repeat not, against British law.”

  “But you do admit the trade’s pernicious and immoral.”

  “Yes, but at the moment approved by Her Majesty’s Government and unfortunately the only commodity we can barter for China’s tea, from which Parliament derives huge taxes.”

  “I’m well aware of the China problem. I would like you and your company to anticipate the law now by agreeing voluntarily never to i
mport opium into Japan.”

  “We’re not trading in it here.”

  “Good. If I find any ships carrying opium I intend to confiscate the cargo and the ship.”

  “I’d say you do so at your legal peril, Admiral. Has Sir William agreed or approved your intention?”

  “Not yet. I would like you and the other trades—other traders to do so willingly. The same with breech-loading rifles, cartridges, cannon and warships.”

  “Did Greyforth agree to such an astonishing proposal?”

  The neck went crimson. “No.”

  Malcolm thought a moment. He and Jamie had reasoned in advance that this was what the Admiral had in mind. Apart from his mother’s letter. “We have a meeting with Sir William in a few days,” he said. “I’d be honored if you’d attend as my personal guest. All traders would hear you out.”

  “My views are already well known. You traders of all people should know which side of your bread is buttered, that without the fleet to protect you and your trade routes, you’re helpless. If you supply natives with cannon you threaten the Royal Navy, you’ll be helping to sink your own ships, murder your own countrymen and yourselves to boot!”

  “If you take the example of India or any of the oth—”

  “My whole point, Mr. Struan!” the Admiral slammed at him. “Without natives having our armaments the Mutiny would never have happened, revolts everywhere would be more quickly contained, savages all over the world could be more easily and properly educated, useful trade would be conducted in peace and world order would flourish in the benevolence of the Pax Britannica. And miserable, fornicating pirates would not have the means to fire on my flagship, by God! And without the Royal Navy ruling the seas, by God, there’s no Pax Britannica, no British Empire, no trade, and we’ll be back in the Dark Ages!”

  “Confidentially you’re quite right, Admiral,” Malcolm said with abject, pretended fervor, following Uncle Chen’s advice: “When a mandarin is furious with you, for whatever reason, quickly agree ‘confidentially’ he is right, you can always assassinate him later when he’s asleep.”

  Over the years he had been involved in the same argument with Army, Navy and government officials. And witnessed his father and mother quarreling, his father for free trade and his mother for morality, his father raging about the insolvable opium triangle, his mother vehemently against opium even so—and sales of arms—truth on both sides, both inflexible, the quarrel always ending with his father drinking himself into a stupor and his mother smiling with that fixed, infuriating smile that nothing would dislodge, his father’s final barb always: “my old man—and your Prince Charming—the Great Green-eyed Devil Dirk himself started the trade and we’ve flourished on it, so help us God!”

  Many’s the time he had wondered—but never dared to ask—if she had really been in love with the father and not the son, had settled for the son because the father would not. He knew he would never ask and if he did she would just smile that fixed smile of hers and say, “Malcolm, don’t be absurd.”

  “Confidentially, you’re right, Admiral,” he repeated.

  Ketterer choked on his port and poured some more. “Well, that’s something, by God!” He looked up. “Then you’ll make sure Struan’s does not engage in arms sales here?”

  “I will certainly take everything you said under advisement and consult with my fellow traders.”

  Ketterer took out a handkerchief and blew his nose, took a pinch of snuff, sneezed and blew his nose again. When his head had cleared his baleful eyes looked at the young man, irritated that he could perceive no weakening. “Then let me put it another way. Confidentially, you agree that helping Jappos to acquire cannon, British cannon, any bloody cannon, or British warships is stupid?”

  “For them to have a comparable navy would be wr—”

  “A disaster, sirrah! Total disaster and stupid!”

  “I agree.”

  “Good. I would like you to persuade all other traders to your opinion: no arms here, particularly cannon, of course no opium. Confidentially, of course.”

  “I’d be glad to put forward those opinions, Admiral.”

  Ketterer snorted. Malcolm began to get up, not wanting to be cornered. “A moment, Mr. Struan—another matter, before you go. A private matter.” The Admiral motioned at the envelope and letter on his desk. “This. From Mrs. Struan. You know what it’s about?”

  “Yes, yes, I do.”

  Ketterer moved the letter to the center of his desk. “Your Noble House is supposed to be first in Asia, though I’m told Brock’s are pulling ahead of you now. Never mind which, you could be a conduit for good. I would like you and your company to assist me in this just cause. Just, Mr. Struan.”

  Exasperated, Malcolm said nothing, considering he had answered at length and was not prepared for another lecture.

  Pointedly Ketterer said, “Confidentially, between you and me, I don’t normally acknowledge such letters from civilians. It goes without saying: Royal Naval rules and regulations belong to the Royal Navy.” A sip of port and a subdued liverish belch. “Young Marlowe has invited you and … and your fiancée aboard Pearl during his trials. Tuesday. For the day.” The eyes bored deeper. “Has he not?”

  “Yessir,” Struan muttered, his mind in spasm as his ears seemed to have betrayed him.

  “Of course, my permission is needed.” The Admiral let this float in the air, then said, “By the way, Mr. Struan, this intended duel is ill-advised, yes indeed.” Malcolm blinked at the non sequitur, and tried to concentrate as the Admiral continued, “As much as that … that Greyforth fellow deserves to pass on as soon as possible, duelling is against the law and ill-advised, and mistakes can happen, bad ones. Clear?”

  “Yessir, thank you for the advice, but you were say—”

  “Thank you, Mr. Struan,” the Admiral said smoothly, getting up. “Thank you for coming to see me. Good day.”

  In turmoil Malcolm groped to his feet, not sure if he understood correctly. “Do I understand you to mean that I ca—”

  “I mean nothing more than what I have said, sir.” The voice was withering, clear and from the quarter-deck. “Just as you have told me, in confidence, you will take what I have said under advisement, in return, I tell you, in confidence, that I will take what you say, and do, under advisement—before Monday, midnight. Good day.”

  Outside on the promenade the air smelt good and clean and uncomplicated, and Malcolm took deep breaths until its purity began to take the pounding out of his head and chest. Exhausted and elated, he slumped onto the first bench and stared at the fleet without seeing it.

  Have I understood Ketterer correctly, Malcolm asked himself over and over, once again blinded with hope, that Ketterer might, just might be prepared to forget Mother’s letter and give Marlowe permission to have us aboard and not forbid Marlowe to marry us?

  “‘In confidence,’ Ketterer had harped on that,” he muttered, “and ‘between ourselves’ and ‘in return.’” Does that mean he’ll keep quiet if I do my part? he wondered. What in God’s name could I do and say before Monday night to persuade the bugger, because that’s what he is, a blackmailing sod with no morals!

  Nonsense! It’s a deal—he’s offered a deal, a quid pro quo—a marvelous deal for me, and not bad for him. I’d have to be careful, the other traders won’t take kindly to any voluntary embargo. I’ll have to be aboveboard because that bugger’s smart and won’t be satisfied with just promises.

  Who can I trust with this new twist in the tangle of my life? Heavenly? Jamie? Marlowe? Of course not him. Angel? No. Not her. If Uncle Chen were here he’d be the one, but as he’s not, who? No one. You’d better tell no one!

  You have to carry this alone—isn’t that what Mother said Dirk always told Father about being tai-pan: “It’s the being alone and carrying responsibility alone, that’s the joy and the hurt of it.” What can I do about cannon and gu—

  “Afternoon, Mr. Struan.”

  “Oh! Oh, hello, Mr. Gorn
t.”

  “You looked so sad I just had to interrupt you.”

  “No, not sad,” Malcolm said tiredly, “just thinking.”

  “Ah, sorry, in that case I’ll leave you, suh.”

  “No, please sit down. You said, yesterday, there’s a price?”

  Edward Gornt nodded. “I apologize for not seeing you before, suh, but Mr. Greyforth wouldn’t see the … the light. Now he agrees to pistols, double-barrelled duelling pistols, and one shot or two, as you choose, from twenty paces.”

  “Good. And?”

  “And I tried to talk him out of the duel but he said, ‘Not unless Malcolm Struan publicly apologizes,’ words to that effect.”

  “Good. But the other matter, we’ve no walls or doors here.” Malcolm motioned along the almost deserted promenade. “The price?”

  “I thought this a perfect place but we can’t spend too much time and have to be careful, Mr. Greyforth could have binoculars on us.”

  “Is he watching?”

  “I don’t know for sure, suh, but I’d bet on it.”

  “Then somewhere else? Later?”

  “No, here’s fine, but he’s very wily and I don’t want him to get suspicious. The price: If my information assists you to block Morgan’s plan to sink you and bankrupts Brock’s—”

  “You know the details?”

  Gornt laughed softly. “Oh yes, and much more, not that Morgan or Old Man Brock know I know, or Mr. Greyforth.” He dropped his voice even more, his lips hardly moving. “This all has to be kept secret between us but the price is you break Morgan Brock, pursue him into bankruptcy, or prison if you can—if it’s necessary to break Tyler it’s all the same to me, but out of the wreckage you guarantee that I get their fifty percent interest in Rothwell’s free and clear; that you assist me with the Victoria Bank to raise what’s necessary to buy out Jeff Cooper’s half; that for ten years you don’t come after me other than a normal competitor, giving me favored nation status on any business dealings—all in a letter contract, written and signed by you. After ten years the gloves are off.”