Gai-Jin

by James Clavell

  “Mr. Skye believes we can persuade the Reverend Tweet to do that,” she said as though he were a child in a tantrum.

  He threw up his hands. “You’re both crazy and Hoag is stupid, off his head to have suggested it. We’ll leave on the mail ship, you, me, and him.” He stalked for the door.

  “Jamie, can you handle the cutter by yourself or will we need a crew?” He turned back and stared at her. She smiled, determined, but nicely so. “Would we need a crew?”

  “Two men at least. Bosun and engineer, at least.”

  “Thank you. If you don’t wish to help, may I ask the Bosun, yes?”

  “I can’t seem to get through to you. This idea is foolhardy, extremely foolhardy.”

  She nodded ruefully. “You’re probably right and we won’t be able to do it, but I’m going to try, and then try again. I can’t seem to get through to you either, dearest Jamie. I promised to love, honor and obey my husband and your friend—he was your friend—and I don’t feel parted from him, not yet, nor do you. Tess Struan won’t give him his wish, will she?”

  All the time he had been looking down at her, not seeing her and at the same time seeing every detail of her, remembering all the years of Tess Struan and what she and Culum Struan had meant to him, and Malcolm Struan had meant and Dirk Struan had meant and the Noble House had meant. All gone and all wasted and all at an end, our Noble House no longer noble, no longer first in Asia. Well, not quite wasted and not quite over but its glory’s gone and my friend’s dead and that’s a fact. I was his friend, but was he mine? God above, what we do in the name of friendship.

  He said, “Tess wouldn’t bury him as he wanted. I suppose that’s the least a friend could do. I’ll arrange the cutter.”

  He walked out. In the gathering quiet of the room she sighed, picked up the paper and, once more, began to read.

  * * *

  That night, when Dr. Hoag arrived at the Kanagawa Legation, part of the Buddhist temple, Towery, the Sergeant-in-charge, smart in his Guards uniform, tall hat, scarlet tunic, white trousers and black boots, met him. “Didn’t expect you till morning, Doc.”

  “I just have to make sure everything’s ready. We want an early start.”

  Escorting him to the part of the temple used as a morgue, Towery laughed. “If you left him ready, Doc, he’s ready, ’cause he ain’t about to’ve gone walkies.” He opened the door. The room was large, with a dirt floor and access to the grounds through shutter doors. Towery sniffed the air. “They don’t ’niff yet. Never did like corpses. You want a hand?”

  “No, thank you.” Two empty coffins were on trestles, lids beside them, others standing upright against the wall. The bodies were on marble slabs covered with sheets. At the far end were big barrels containing ice. Water seeped from them, discoloring the beaten earth floor. “What about the native? How long we’ve to keep him?”

  “Tomorrow.” Hoag felt faint, suddenly realizing, by custom, the body would be claimed for cremation according to Shinto ritual but now there would be no body …

  “Wot’s up, Doc?”

  “Nothing, just a … thank you, Sergeant.” His heart started again as he remembered the man was Korean, one of some shipwrecked fishermen who eked out a pathetic existence, no way to sail home, unwanted and despised by locals. Babcott had agreed to have the body cremated in the Buddhist crematorium. “Actually, you could help, Sergeant.”

  Malcolm’s corpse had been cleaned and dressed after the autopsy by their Japanese trainee assistants. With the help of the Sergeant, who took the feet, they placed him in the coffin. “He looks right pretty for a corpse.” Malcolm’s face was serene in death. “Let’s do t’other one, Doc. No need t’give yourself a hernia, eh, not that this little bugger weighs but a stone or two.”

  “We’d better wrap him in his sheet.”

  The Korean was skin and bones. Dysentery had killed him. Together they put him into the coffin.

  “Thanks, I’ll just tidy things up, then turn in.”

  “All right, Doc. I’ll make sure your room’s ready.”

  Once alone Hoag bolted the door. With Angelique’s agreement, they had decided that there would be no traditional laying-out, with the coffin open for people to pay last respects to the dead man. With care he slid the lid into place. It took no time to nail it tight.

  Now the other one. There would be a great difference in weight. What to use? Earth. There was a shovel belonging to the gravediggers to one side—not every body was cremated. Outside the earth was soft, the night cold with a slight wind that rustled the vegetation. He dug swiftly and brought shovelfuls back, scattering the earth on and around the corpse, packing it tightly. A few branches filled up the gaps. Satisfied, he levered on the lid and hammered the nails in. He leaned against the coffin, his breathing heavy, sweaty and dirty and even more concerned than when he started. Heavenly’s right, he thought, washing his hands in a bucket. We’ll never get away with it.

  “You’re off your rocker, Doc,” Skye had said with his wheezing cough, “and so is she and so am I to say all right, I’m in. Wee Willie will have kittens but never mind, tomorrow night it is.” This was in the Club a few hours ago, noisy and argumentative as always. “Have another whisky.”

  “I’ll have a coffee, thanks, then I’d better be off.”

  “Her story reminded me of my Nellie, Doc. Married I was when I was an articled clerk, sixteen, she was fifteen, at least we pretended we were married and lived in a garret off Fleet Street, near the Old Cheshire Cheese Pub, Sam Johnson’s place. She died in childbirth and the nipper, he would have been a boy, he died too.” He offered a cigar and lit one for himself. “Pauper’s grave, a couple of pence to the nightly barrow, bring out your dead, and that was the last of them. Cholera was bad that year, dysentery too, cemeteries full to overflowing.” Heavenly spat in the spittoon. “Haven’t thought of little Nellie for years. You been married, Doc?”

  “Yes, once, she died in London too.”

  “Another coincidence, eh? Never felt like getting married after Nellie—swore I’d not be that poor again no matter what—always on the go, travelling too much. Had lots of girls but never did get the pox. Did you, Doc?”

  “No.” Hoag had crossed his fingers. “Not yet.”

  “Hey, you’re superstitious too, like me?”

  “Yes. You’re sure of our legal position in this?”

  “As sure as can be, sure as shit—but if Wee Willie wants he can trump up a dozen charges, never fear. Listen, whatever happens, Tess Struan will bust her knickers and that’s your stipend gone and you into the creek without a paddle.”

  “No. I’m going back to India …”

  Strange how bad leads to good or good to bad. All this has really decided me. I really am going back this time, going back to Cooch Behar in Bengal where I was stationed and where she came from. I’m going to find her family and … and then we’ll see. I’ve enough cash for that and a few years left, our son and daughter are grown up now, part of the tapestry of London, educated as best I could, paid for as best I could, my sister and her husband their real parents—both sterling and the stuff of England.

  I’m a good doctor and God knows they need doctors in India, even bad ones, so who knows, maybe I can find some happiness…. I don’t even expect that, just some peace from the full-blooded horror of the killing of her.

  Tired now, he studied the two coffins. A last look to check that everything was as it should be. Taking the oil lamp, he went out, bolting the door after him.

  A baleful moon cast a shadow through the open windows. Silently another shadow moved. Sergeant Towery peered into the morgue. He was puzzled. Why should Doc Hoag arrive in the dead of night, and then why dig in the garden like a foul grave robber to pack the dead native’s coffin with earth?

  Curiosity killed the cat, me lad, but not Yours Truly, not when I’m in charge. Tomorrow you’ll take a closer look afore the good Doctor’s awake, and afore Lord God Almighty Pallidar arrives for inspection. He ca
n find the answer.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  KANAGAWA

  FRIDAY, 12TH DECEMBER:

  Pallidar said icily, “Well, Doctor?”

  Hoag had just been summoned. He sat on the edge of a chair, uncomfortable and pale. Stiff-backed and uniformed, Pallidar was imposing even though he had a bad cold. On the desk was his plumed hat, his sword beside it, the early morning light glinting off the braid. Behind him stood Sergeant Towery. Bells from the temple toned ominously.

  Hoag shrugged meekly. “Ballast.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Doctor, this isn’t a court-martial and personally I don’t care if you pack coffins with cow shit, kindly tell me why you did what you did last night.”

  “I—I … thought … thought it was a good idea.”

  “I want to know, now …” A cough stopped him. Exasperated, Pallidar blew his nose and coughed, cleared his throat, and coughed again.

  Hoag said brightly, “I’ve—we’ve some special, new cough mixture in the clinic, it’ll get rid of that cold in a jiffy, it’s got quinine in it, opium.” He began to get up. “I’ll get some an—”

  “Sit down! The coffin, for Christ’s sake, not my cold! The Sergeant saw you. Rightly he told me. Now you tell me why!”

  Hoag had twisted and turned but knew he was trapped. Cursing the Sergeant silently, he said, “Can … can I … can I talk to you alone, Settry, old boy, please?”

  Pallidar glared at him. “All right. Sergeant!” Towery saluted and marched out. “Well?”

  “Well, you see … you see …” Although Hoag had decided to tell him sharply to please mind his own business, that he wasn’t subject to military discipline anymore, thank God, you bloody officers trampled on me before but you’re not going to do it again … he suddenly found himself pouring out the story in detail, ending, “So you see, Settry, it was the weight, the difference in weight, earth was perfect…. Listen, George Babcott is due any moment but he’s not to know, no one is—you know nothing—we just send the wrong, the right coffin aboard the clipper and tonight when the cutter arrives, God willing, we bury him as he wanted and Angel wants.” Hoag fanned himself, feeling better, at the same time weak with guilt. “You know nothing. Now—now I’ll get that cough mixture.”

  “Will you sit down.” Pallidar glowered at him. “You’re a bloody fool. First: have you looked out of the window?”

  “Eh?” Hoag did as he was bidden. These windows faced seawards. The sea was grey, swell heavy and nimbus clouds had closed out the sun, dominating the sky. “Oh!”

  “Yes, oh! There’ll be a bloody storm before dusk so no cutter burial even if it was possible, and you know Sir William ordered a Hong Kong burial so, by God, that’s where it will be.”

  “But Settry, don’t—”

  “Not for you, Angelique, anyone—” Pallidar broke off with a new fit of coughing, then added hoarsely, “Sir William’s in charge, he made a decision and that’s it. Clear?”

  “Yes, but …”

  “No bloody but, for Christ’s sake. Kindly fetch some cough medicine and stay to hell out of the morgue. Sergeant!”

  Towery stuck his head in. “Yessir?”

  “Put a sentry on the morgue, no one to go in without my approval. I don’t want the coffins touched.”

  Hoag went off cursing himself for leaking Sir William’s decision, cursing Pallidar, the busybody Sergeant, but mostly himself. Fuck it, he thought. I’ve botched it. In the clinic he found the cough mixture, was tempted to add some castor oil but decided not to. “Here, Settry, this will do the trick.”

  Pallidar took some, choked. “Filthy stuff, you sure you didn’t pee in it just for badness?”

  “I was tempted.” Hoag smiled. “Sorry for being a perfect bloody idiot. You can still close your eyes—you could, you know, Nelson did.”

  “Yes, but he was Navy, we keep our eyes on teeth marks.”

  “Settry. Please?”

  Thoughtfully Pallidar sipped the medicine. “You should comply with Sir William’s order, best in the long run.”

  Hoag’s attention focused on the care lines on the good-looking face. “What’s up?”

  “With me, nothing, except this lousy cold and cough. Plenty’s up in the Settlement.”

  “What now?”

  “Last few days lots of enemy movement all around us, samurai patrols, most of them covert—just for safety we’ve been patrolling to the Tokaidō and Settlement limits, so we spotted them. Coming here samurai were stacked ten-deep in places. They didn’t interfere with us except for the usual gibbering. I counted almost four hundred armed bastards.”

  “Tairō Anjo trying to harass us, scare us?”

  “Probably.” Pallidar coughed, took another gulp of the medicine. “This is dreadful, I feel worse already. Ugh! I’m recommending we withdraw all personnel from here for a while.”

  Hoag whistled. “We wouldn’t want to close the clinic.”

  “I wouldn’t want to have you dead without a coffin. These bastards love surprise attacks. Like poor bloody Malcolm. Someone’s going to pay for him.”

  Hoag nodded. “I agree.” Idly he was looking out towards Yokohama, the countryside flat and uninteresting in winter—hate the cold, always have, always will. His eyes took him to Prancing Cloud, the steamer mail ship, the merchantmen, warships and tenders all busy, preparing for the coming storm or preparing to leave. Warships had smoke trickling from their funnels—fleet orders, well publicized, so that the Bakufu and their spies would be aware that the whole fleet could sail on a war footing within an hour.

  Stupid, all the killing, but then what can we do? Those responsible must pay. Then he saw the smoke from the Struan steam cutter chugging this way, bobbing through the troughs, spray from the bow wave drenching the glass of the bridge and main cabin. His anxiety crested.

  “Settry, don’t you think—” He aborted another fervent plea, suddenly realizing that even if tonight was out for the actual burial, with luck he could still keep the first part of the plan and have the wrong coffin put aboard Prancing Cloud.

  I’m the only one who knows which coffin is which, except perhaps the Sergeant and I’ve a hunch he won’t notice the difference. No one can, unless a coffin is opened. “Don’t you think life in Yokohama is weirder than other places, living on a powder keg as we do?”

  “It’s the same everywhere. Just the same,” Pallidar said thoughtfully, watching him.

  YOKOHAMA

  Jamie, Angelique and Skye were grouped around the bay window in the tai-pan’s office. Rain splattered the glass. It was near midday. “Tonight will be too dangerous.”

  “Then it will storm, Jamie?”

  “Yes, Angelique. Enough to stop us.”

  “Will Cloud sail tonight as planned?”

  “Yes, no storm will stop her. The cutter’s gone to Kanagawa to collect the other coffin. You still want it put aboard her and not the mail ship?”

  “That’s Sir William’s order, not mine,” she said firmly. “He wants to send my husband against his wishes and mine, he says it should go as quickly as possible and that’s by clipper. A coffin will go as he wishes. Jamie, our ruse, I think our ruse is fair. As to the storm, it will be a little storm. If we can’t bury my husband tonight, then we’ll try tomorrow. Or the next day.”

  “The mail ship will sail tomorrow around noon.”

  “Could you delay her, in case?”

  “I think so. I’ll try.” Jamie thought a moment. “I’ll talk to the captain. What else?”

  Angelique smiled sadly. “First we have to see if Dr. Hoag was successful. If not … perhaps I must go with the clipper after all.”

  “More than likely Hoag will come back with the cutter, then we can decide.” Jamie added, not believing it, “Somehow it’ll all work out. Don’t worry.”

  “What about asking Edward Gornt to join us?” she asked.

  “No,” Jamie said. “The three of us are enough with Hoag. I’ve arranged berths on the mail ship, for Hoag,
you and me.”

  Skye said, “Angelique, it’s much wiser for you to stay here. Everyone here knows Wee Willie made the decision against your wishes, and that takes some of the heat from you.”

  “If we cannot bury Malcolm, then I will go. I must be at his funeral, have to.” She sighed. “We should have a captain for our venture. Jamie, it should be you.”

  “I agree,” Skye said. “Meanwhile, we wait for Hoag.”

  Jamie began to speak, stopped, then nodded and went to his own office. A big pile of mail waited for action. He began to deal with it, working diligently but his concentration was disturbed by his drawer. In it was Maureen’s letter. At length he threw down his pen and took the letter out and reread it. There was no need, for he had read it twenty times before.

  The key sentence was: As there has been no reply to my fervent requests and prayers that you return and take up a normal life at home, I have decided to put my trust in our Maker and venture to Hong Kong, or the Japans, wherever you are. My beloved father has advanced us the money which he borrowed against a mortgage on our home in Glasgow—please leave word for me with Cook’s in Hong Kong for I sail tomorrow, a second-class berth, on the Cunard Eastern Mail …

  The letter was dated over two and a half months ago.

  He groaned. She’ll be in Hong Kong any day. My letter arrived too late. Now what do I do? Grin? Hide? Flee to Macao like old Aristotle Quance? Not on your life. It’s my life and there’s no way I can support a wife, want a wife…I can’t just write the same letter again and have it meet her there. I’ll have to—

  A knock interrupted his thoughts. “Yes?” he bellowed.

  Tentatively Vargas poked his head around the door. “Can I see you a moment, senhor?”

  “Yes, what is it?” Jamie asked.

  Vargas said distastefully, “There’s a man here to see you, a Mr. Corniman—some name like that, I think he said.”

  The name meant nothing to Jamie. Vargas opened the door a crack. The short, ferretlike man was strangely dressed, part in European clothes, part Japanese. Shirt, trousers and thick padded overcoat, clean-shaven, hair clean and tied in a queue, a knife at his belt and well-worn boots. Jamie did not recognize him but here strangers were often not what they seemed. On an impulse he said, “Come in, please sit down.” Then he remembered the mail ship. “Vargas, ask Captain Biddy to stop by a moment, will you? He should be in the Club. Sit down, Mr. Corniman, is it?”