Gai-Jin

by James Clavell

  Yoshi felt a chill. If these barbarians could humble all China, Mother of the World, eventually they would humble us, even us. Complete access? “This ultimatum? What further impertinence is this?”

  “It’s not in the scroll. Sire, but the spy promised details, as well as the Battle Date and any changes.”

  “Whatever the cost, buy them—if true these could make a difference in the outcome.”

  “Possibly, Sire. Part of the information is about gai-jin counter-measures. Against our fire ships.”

  “But Anjo told me they are secret!”

  “It’s not secret to them. The Bakufu is a rice sieve for the interested, as well as corrupt, Sire.”

  “Names, Inejin, and I’ll spike them.”

  “Begin today, Sire. Begin at the top.”

  “That’s treason.”

  “But the truth, Sire. You enjoy truths, not lies, unlike any leader I have ever known.” Inejin moved his knees, the ache intolerable. “The matter of this spy is complicated, Sire. It was Meikin who told me about him …” Yoshi grunted. “Yes, I agree. But Meikin told me, Meikin who diverted the intermediary from the Bakufu to me, Meikin who will substitute the false document, at great danger, for she must attest to its truth, Meikin who desperately wishes to prove her loyalty to you.”

  “Loyalty? When her House is a sanctuary for shishi, a meeting place for Katsumata, a training bed for traitors?”

  “Meikin swears the Lady was never part of a plot against you, never. Nor was she.”

  “What else can she say—the maid was, eh?”

  “Perhaps she speaks the truth, perhaps not, but perhaps, because of her grief, she now sees the error of her past, Sire. A converted spy can be most valuable.”

  “Katsumata’s head would make me more sure. If caught alive, more so.”

  Inejin laughed and bent forward and dropped his voice. “I suggested she should quickly provide you with details about the traitor Hiraga before you request his head.”

  “And hers.”

  “A woman’s head on a spike is not a pretty thing, Sire, old or young. That is an ancient truth. Better to leave it on her shoulders and use the venom, wisdom, cunning or simple rottenness that such a woman possesses to your advantage.”

  “How?”

  “First by giving you Katsumata. Hiraga is a more complex problem. She says he is the intimate of an important Ing’erish official close to the Ing’erish Leader, named Taira.”

  Yoshi frowned. Another omen? Taira was another Japanese name of significance, an ancient regal family related to the Yoshi Serata line. “So?”

  “This Taira is an official, an interpreter-in-training. His Japanese is already very good—the Ing’erish must have a school like the one you proposed and the Bakufu ‘consider.’”

  “Consider, eh? Taira? Is he an ugly young man, tall with blue eyes, huge nose and long hair like rice straw?”

  “Yes, yes, that would be him.”

  “I remember him from the meeting of Elders. Go on.”

  “Meikin has heard his grasp of our language improves rapidly, helped by a whore called Fujiko, but more because of this Hiraga, who has cut his hair in gai-jin style, wears gai-jin clothes.” The old man hesitated, loving the telling of secrets. “It seems this Hiraga is the grandson of an important Choshu shoya who was permitted to purchase goshi status for his sons, one of whom, this Hiraga’s father, is now hirazamurai. Hiraga was chosen to join a secret Choshu school where, as an exceptional student, he learned Ing’erish.” He suppressed a smile, seeing his Lord’s face.

  “Then the spy is not gai-jin, but this Hiraga?”

  “No, Sire, but Hiraga could be a serious secondary source of intelligence. If he could be tapped.”

  “A shishi helping us?” Yoshi scoffed. “Impossible.”

  “Your meeting yesterday, aboard the Furansu ship. It was profitable, Sire?”

  “It was interesting.” Impossible to keep those ventures secret. He was glad Inejin was so well informed so quickly. Abeh and half a dozen of his men had been present at the meeting. Who had spoken in their cups? It didn’t matter. It was to be expected. Nothing compromising was said by him.

  “Abeh!” he called out.

  “Sire?”

  “Send a maid with tea and saké.” He said nothing more until it had been served and accepted gratefully by Inejin, sifting the information, sorting it and coming up with new questions and answers. “What do you propose?”

  “It would not be for me to propose what you have already surely decided, Sire. But it did occur to me, when and if the Ing’erish Leader sends his ultimatum, you alone would be the perfect person to mediate—alone, Sire.”

  “Ah! And then?”

  “Amongst other things you could ask to see this Hiraga. You could weigh him, perhaps persuade him to be on your side. Turn him to your advantage. The timing could be perfect.”

  “That could be possible, Inejin,” he said, already having discarded that for a much better thought, one that fitted the plan he had discussed with Ogama in Kyōto, and his own need to begin the grand design. “Or an example might be made of this Hiraga. Catch Katsumata, he’s the head of the shishi snake—if Meikin is the means to deliver him alive, so much the better for her.”

  A few miles away on the Tokaidō Road, at the Hodogaya way station, Katsumata scrutinized the crowds from a Teahouse window. “Be patient, Takeda,” he said, “Hiraga is not due till midmorning. Be patient.”

  “I hate this place,” Takeda said. The village was in open country with few places to hide and barely three miles from the Yokohama Settlement. They were in the Teahouse of the First Moon, the same that Katsumata and daimyo Sanjiro had stayed at after Ori and Shorin had attacked the gai-jin on the Tokaidō. “And if he does not arrive?” The youth scratched his head irritably, neither his chin nor his pate shaven since their escape from Kyōto and now covered with stubbled hair.

  “He will arrive, if not today, tomorrow. I must see him.”

  The two men had been hiding here for a week. Their journey from Kyōto had been arduous, with many narrow escapes. “Sensei, I do not like this place or the change of plan. We should be in Yedo if we’re to carry on the fight, or perhaps we should turn around and go home.”

  “If you want to go on, go. If you want to walk back to Choshu, go,” Katsumata said. “The next time you complain you are ordered to leave!”

  Takeda apologized at once, adding, “It’s just that we lost so many men in Kyōto, we do not even know how shishi have fared in Yedo. So sorry, yes, but I keep thinking we should have gone home like those who survived, me to Choshu, you to Satsuma, to regroup later.”

  “Hodogaya’s perfect for us and this Inn is safe.” Warned that Yoshi had put a heavy price on his head, Katsumata had decided to be prudent and not continue. “Tomorrow or the next day we’ll go on,” he said, glad for the youth’s value as a shield to his back. “First Hiraga.”

  It had been difficult and dangerous to contact him. Few people here had access through the Yokohama barriers, or to the gai-jin Yoshiwara. New passes were continually being issued, new passwords. Enforcer patrols wandered at large. Covert pockets of samurai swarmed around Yokohama, almost cutting it off from the rest of the land.

  Then three days ago Katsumata had found a maid whose sister was a midwife who went to the Yoshiwara from time to time. For a golden oban the midwife agreed to carry a message to the mama-san at the House of the Three Carp.

  “Takeda, stay here and keep watch. Wait patiently.”

  Katsumata went down into the garden and strode through the front gates onto the Tokaidō, bustling with morning travellers, palanquins, porters, soothsayers, scribes, samurai, and some ponies carrying women or ridden by samurai. Talking, shouting, screeching. The morning was cold and everyone wore padded jackets and warm head scarves or hats. A few samurai eyed Katsumata but not rudely. The way he walked, the filthy thatch of hair and beard, the long sword in a back scabbard, another in his belt, shouted cauti
on to the inquisitive. Clearly he was a ronin of some kind and to be avoided.

  On the outskirts of the village, inside the well-guarded barrier, where he had a good field of view towards the sea and Yokohama, he sat on a bench at a roadside eating stall.

  “Tea, and make it fresh and see that it’s hot.”

  The frightened stall owner rushed to obey.

  At the Settlement, a group of mounted traders clattered over the bridge, raised their hats politely or saluted the North Gate guards with their riding crops in return for perfunctory bows. Other traders, tradesmen, soldiers, sailors, Drunk Town riffraff were on foot, all of them on a holiday morning outing. Today was New Year’s Day. Horseraces were scheduled for this afternoon and then, later, an interservice football match. It was cold though fine, the wind slight but sufficient to take most of the smell of winter and decaying seaweed and human waste further inland.

  One of the riders was Jamie McFay. Close beside him was Hiraga, a scarf covering most of his face, his riding cap down over his eyes, his riding clothes well cut. This outing was not approved or even known to Tyrer or Sir William, the gift in return for interpreting between Jamie and the shoya, and also for providing him with business information.

  Yesterday Hiraga had said, “I answer more question during ride, Jami-sama. Need go, to go Hodogaya, meet cousin. P’rease?”

  “Why not, Nakama, old chap?” McFay had not visited the village for months though it was within the agreed area of the Settlement and was glad for the excuse. Few traders ventured that far now without military escort, Canterbury’s murder and Malcolm Struan’s fate never far from all their thoughts.

  Today McFay was feeling good. In the last mail a statement from his bankers in Edinburgh had led him to discover he was in better shape than he had thought, more than enough to start on his own in a small way. The Noble House was in good hands and that pleased him. Struan’s new manager, Albert MacStruan, had arrived from Shanghai. He had met him in Hong Kong three years ago when MacStruan had first joined the company. Six months training in Hong Kong under Culum Struan, then to Shanghai where he had quickly become their Deputy Director.

  “Welcome to Yokohama,” Jamie had said, meaning it, liking him though knowing little about him except he was good at his job and his branch of the clan was black Highlander—a Scots and Spanish blood line from one of the thousands of Spaniards of the Armada who had been shipwrecked in Scotland and Ireland and survived, but never to return.

  Here he would be taken as Eurasian though no one challenged him. Legend whispered that he was another of Dirk Struan’s clandestine, illegitimate children whom Dirk had secretly sent home to Scotland with a stepbrother, Frederick MacStruan, both heavily endowed by him, shortly before he died.

  “Dreadfully sorry about seeing you under these rotten circumstances, old chap.” MacStruan’s accent was patrician, Eton and Oxford University, with a trace of Scots. He was twenty-six, a chunky, dark-haired man, with golden skin, high cheekbones, dark sloe eyes. Jamie had never asked him about the legend, nor had MacStruan volunteered anything. When Jamie had first arrived in Hong Kong, almost twenty years ago, it had been made clear to him by Culum Struan, then tai-pan, that here you don’t ask questions, especially about the Struans—“We’ve too many secrets, too many black deeds to forget, perhaps.”

  “Everything’s in order, and don’t worry about me, Mr. MacStruan,” Jamie had said. “I’m ready for a change.” And though now no longer formally with the Noble House, he was still helping him, bringing him up-to-date on projects and deals, introducing him, with Vargas, to their Japanese suppliers. The books were in good order, the coaling venture with Johnny Cornishman had begun perfectly and should be highly profitable, the quality of the coal first rate, and further arrangements made to fill a barge a week for the next three months as a trial period.

  Generously, MacStruan had given him a twenty percent share of the profit for the first year, and then approval to deal on his own account with Cornishman: “… should that little bounder still be alive,” he had said with a laugh.

  Thanks to Hiraga, Jamie’s secret dealings with the shoya had blossomed and the first company formed in principle: I.S.K. Trading—Ichi Stoku Kompeni—the shoya’s wife considering it prudent not to use their own name. The stock was split into a hundred parts: the shoya had forty, McFay forty, Ryoshi’s wife fifteen, and Nakama—Hiraga—five.

  Last week he had registered his own trading company, tomorrow he was open for business in temporary offices in the same building that housed Nettlesmith’s Guardian. For a week now, Ryoshi’s eldest son, shy, nervous and nineteen, reported for work at 7:00 A.M. daily and left at 9:00 P.M., there to learn everything. Particularly English. And in the last mail, an unexpected three-month severance pay arrived with a polite note from Tess Struan thanking him for his services. Three months isn’t bad for nineteen years, he thought with grim amusement.

  No word yet from Hong Kong, too early though Prancing Cloud would have arrived ten days or more ago, Hoag about a week. Four or five more days at the earliest to hear anything, perhaps longer, a huge storm rumored to be in the south China seas might delay that even further. No point in trying to forecast times and weather.

  One day we’ll have a telegraph to Hong Kong, and one day, perhaps, the wire will go all the way to London. My God, what a fantastic boon to everyone to be able to get a message to Hong Kong and a reply back in a few days—and to London and back in what, say twelve to sixteen days—instead of four months! Won’t be in my time but I bet the wire reaches Hong Kong in another ten to fifteen years. Hooray for Nakama and my partner Ryoshi, hooray for my new company, McFay Trading. And hooray for Angelique.

  Notwithstanding deep mourning, on Christmas Day she had agreed to join the dinner he gave for Albert MacStruan to which Sir William, Seratard, André and most of the Ministers had come. It had been a quiet success. Though she had none of her previous gaiety, and was little like her former self, she had been gracious and sweet and everyone remarked how even more beautiful she had become in her new maturity. Tonight there was to be a grand soiree at the French Legation to which they were invited. André would be playing. It was doubtful she would dance—betting was ten to one against. On whether or not she was carrying, betting was still evens. Hong Kong no one mentioned. Since their sea adventure and her successful finesse of Sir William, they had become firm friends and dined privately most evenings.

  Hooray for the New Year, which will be marvelous!

  In spite of his good humor a twinge went through him. Actual business was dicey, civil war around Shanghai brewing again, plague in Macao, the American civil war dreadful, famine in Ireland, rumors of famine here, riots in the British Isles over unemployment and factory wages. Then there’s Tess Struan.

  Damn it, I promised myself not to worry about her from January 1st, 1863, onwards! Or about Maureen …

  To escape his anxiety he used his spurs. At once Hiraga did likewise, both men riding well. This was Hiraga’s first ride in a long time, his first opportunity to move semi-freely outside the Settlement. He drew alongside Jamie, then went ahead. Soon they were happily galloping. Soon too they were alone, the others having turned off for the racecourse. They slackened pace, enjoying the day.

  Ahead they could see the twisting Tokaidō, broken here and there with rivers in flood and fords, porters either side waiting to ferry or carry waiting goods and people over the waters. Southwards was Hodogaya. Its barriers were open. In the good old days before the murders, during spring and fall, traders would visit the village for saké and beer, taking their own picnic meals with them, laughing and flirting with the coveys of maids who would seek to drag them into their bars or restaurants. They were not welcome in the many brothels.

  “Hey, Nakama, where are you meeting your cousin?” Jamie asked, reining in on the outskirts, not far from the barrier, more than conscious of the travellers’ hostility. But not worried. He was armed, openly, with a shoulder-holstered revolver—Hiraga was not
, so he thought.

  “I ’rook for him. Best I go ’rone other side barrier, Jami-sama,” Hiraga said. He had been overjoyed to get Katsumata’s message, at the same time filled with misgivings: it was dangerous to leave the protection of Sir William and Tyrer. But he had to have news of Sumomo, and the others, and find out what had really happened in Kyōto, and what was the new shishi plan. Daily the shoya had shaken his head, “So sorry, Otami-sama, I’ve no news yet about Katsumata or Takeda—nor about the girl Sumomo, or Koiko. Lord Yoshi remains in Yedo Castle. The moment I have news …”

  Still well muffled, Hiraga motioned Jamie to lead. “P’rease, then I find good p’race for you to wait.”

  The barrier guards watched them suspiciously, bowing slightly and accepting their salutes. Hiraga winced, seeing a poster of his likeness attached to a wall. Jamie did not notice it and Hiraga doubted if he, or others, would recognize him with his European haircut and mustache.

  Hiraga stopped at the first Inn. Using poor Japanese and imitating the gruffness of other traders, Hiraga found a table in the garden and ordered tea and saké and beer, some Japanese foods and told the maid to make sure they were not disturbed and she would get a good tip. The maid kept her eyes down but Hiraga was sure that she had seen his eyes and knew him to be Japanese.

  “Jami-sama, I back in few minutes,” Hiraga said.

  “Don’t be long, old chap.”

  “Yes, Jami-sama.”

  Hiraga sauntered out onto the roadway, heading toward the far barrier. The general hostility and ill manners infuriated him, a few belligerent samurai and some travellers forcing him to step aside and let them pass. At the same time he enjoyed the fact that everyone took him for gai-jin, and his scrutiny of every eating place and bar as rude gai-jin curiosity. Katsumata’s coded message had said, “Come to Hodogaya, any morning over the next three days. I’ll find you.”

  Feeling conspicuous, as indeed he was, he walked past people loitering, or at benches and tables or hunched over braziers who glared insolently at him. Then he heard the low, signal whistle. He was too well-trained to acknowledge it or turn around. It seemed to come from his left side. With pretended tiredness he chose a bench well away from the street at the nearest eating house and ordered a beer. The maid brought it quickly. Nearby, peasants stooping over and slurping bowls of morning rice gruel and hot saké eased away as though he had plague.