“Jamie, help me with the press, for God’s sake!” Nettlesmith called out, and ran back inside. Maureen began to follow but Jamie stopped her. “No, stay here! Watch your dress,” he shouted above the noise, a shower of embers from the roof surrounding her, then he dashed inside.
Wisely she backed off to the sea side of the street, helping others stack what had been salvaged more safely. The whole roof was ablaze now and more embers showered Jamie and Nettlesmith as they stumbled out with the small, portable press. Then, seeing the roof was beyond saving and the building doomed, Jamie hurried back to help him rescue type, dyes, ink and some paper. Quickly the wooden building became too dangerous to enter. The two men stood outside and cursed, then stepped farther to safety as some rafters collapsed.
“Bloody sodding fire,” Jamie said, angrily kicking a box of typeface, then turned, feeling Maureen take his hand.
“I’m so sorry, love,” she said, awash with tears.
His arms went around her and he said fervently, meaning it, “Never mind, you’re safe, that’s all that counts.”
“Jamie, dinna’ worry, wait till morning, then we can think better and properly. Perhaps it’s no’ so bad.”
At that moment samurai fire fighters trotted past. With signs Jamie asked one of them where he could get a fire mask. The man grunted, pulled a handful from his sleeve and rushed off again. Jamie doused them in a bucket of water. “Here, Maureen,” he said, giving her the first one, another to Nettlesmith who sat on a keg, on the sea side of the promenade, cursing mutely. The roof collapsed, turning the building into a blazing mess.
“Terrible,” Jamie said to Nettlesmith.
“Yes. But not yet a disaster.” The lean, older man motioned along the promenade. The north end of the Settlement was still clean of fire, Struan’s, Brock’s and the Legations untouched. “With any luck it won’t burn that far.”
“This wind is killing us.”
“Yes. We’re safe enough on the shore side …”
More fire fighters with axes hurried up, Dmitri amongst them. He saw their wreckage. “Jesus, sorry about that,” he said on the run, “we’re going to try to cut a fire break.”
Maureen said, “Jamie, go and help. I’m safe here.”
“Nothing more you can do here,” Nettlesmith said. “I’ll watch her. We’re safe here, and we’ll retreat on Struan’s if necessary.” He took out a pencil and paper, licked the pencil thoughtfully, and began to write.
Their axes bit into the wooden shack, the buildings southwards ablaze, the wind hotter every minute and stronger than ever. They redoubled their efforts, then an ember-filled gust forced them back, then another, and they fled to safety. Dmitri said, helplessly, “Christ, you ever seen anything go up so fast? They’re all tinderboxes, death traps. What now?”
“What about up there?” Jamie shouted. He pointed nearer to the fence. They all joined his rush. But the closer they got to the fence and the Yoshiwara, the worse the smoke and heat and fires became.
There was so little he or anyone could do. Nothing, in fact. The fires were spreading too fast, people running this way and that with buckets, but the moment one blaze was extinguished, ten others began nearby. Behind groups of dazed women and servants seeking safety, some with bundles, most empty-handed, the few remaining Teahouses flared in momentary blazes, so many moths around a candle, one moment alive, the next dead.
With almost everything of the Yoshiwara vanished under the blood-smoked sky, men mingled with the survivors, anxiously seeking their particular girl or mama-san and Jamie joined them, his eyes going from face to face seeking Nemi. He had not forgotten her. If anyone could escape, she would, he had thought. Suddenly he was not so sure. There were so few survivors here. Worriedly, Jamie sought a face he knew. None. “Gomen nasai, Nemi-san, wakarimasu ka?” he said, asking if they had seen her, but everyone said dully, or with degrees of bows and forced smiles, “Iyé, gomen nasai”—No, so sorry.
Dmitri reeled out of the smoke, coughing and gasping. “Samurai are damn good fire fighters, we could learn a thing or two, not that they can stop this shit. Have you seen Nemi?”
“No, I was just going to ask you.”
“Maybe she’s the other side, or over there,” Dmitri croaked, his chest heaving for air, pointing towards the meadow that led to the racecourse, a few oil lamps there lighting the darkness. “Some of them are collecting there—some the other side. Listen, I’m going to work my way around, through the north gate and across the canal. You try the meadow. If I see her, what do you want me to say?”
“Just that I hope she’s safe and I’ll find her tomorrow.”
They both ducked as fire jumped over them to fall on a village hut behind. In the confusion Jamie lost Dmitri and continued his search, helping where he could. Once Heavenly Skye rushed past, calling out, “Jamie, just heard Phillip’s lost with the rest of the Three Carp.”
“God Almighty, are you sure? What about …”
But Skye had vanished into the darkness.
The Legations that lay northwards were not yet directly menaced. Nor Struan’s, Brock’s, or nearby houses and godowns though the wind was strong and hotter by the minute. The promenade and streets were crowded, everyone preparing for a last stand, more soldiers and sailors coming ashore from the fleet that had first sounded the general alarm. Samurai poured into the High Street from their barracks outside the gates with ladders and buckets, fire-masked, and efficient. In groups they trotted along, heading for danger points.
Sir William, a greatcoat over his pajamas, had taken charge of the Legation defense. Down by the surf Pallidar was supervising dragoons connecting pumps to the sea through long canvas hoses. He looked back to see the General hurry out of the night, an engineer officer alongside, a detachment of soldiers with him, to stop in front of Sir William.
“I’m heading for Drunk Town and the village,” the General said, out of breath. “Plan to blow up some houses to make a fire break—with your permission. All right?”
“Yes, do what you can, it might work. If the wind doesn’t drop we’re finished, hurry!”
“Happened to be watching from the bluff, looked like three or four fires started in the Yoshiwara, same time, different areas.”
“Good God, you mean arson?”
“Don’t know, but whether it was an Act of God or the Devil or a bloody arsonist, this’ll burn us out!” With the engineers he raced into the night.
Sir William saw the Admiral trudging up the beach from the Legation wharf where more sailors and marines were landing. “Boats are ready to evacuate,” Ketterer said. “We’ve stores enough for the whole population. We can assemble them along the beach, should be safe enough.”
“Good. This could be dicey.”
“Yes. Completely changes our plans, what?”
“’Fraid so. Couldn’t have happened at a worse time.” God-cursed fire, Sir William thought angrily. Complicates everything—the Yoshi meeting tomorrow and bombardment of Kagoshima, and just when Ketterer had finally agreed to obey instructions. What the devil do we do, evacuate or what? Put everyone aboard the fleet and sail back to Hong Kong with our tails between our legs, or move everyone to Kanagawa and to hell with what the Japanese might do? Can’t. Kanagawa’s a worse trap, bay’s too shallow for the fleet to be useful.
He glanced at Ketterer. The Admiral’s face was hard and weather-beaten, the small eyes fixed in the distance. He’ll plump for Hong Kong, he thought, sickened. Damn this wind!
Down the street MacStruan had ladders against the side of his building. Servants and clerks handed up buckets of water to others perched there dousing the shingles. Next door at Brock’s, Gornt and others were doing the same.
“Christ, look!” someone shouted. Now fires blanketed the whole of the village and Drunk Town skyline. The wind was blistering hot and furious in their faces, rushing at them, taunting them.
“Mon Dieu,” Angelique murmured. She wore a heavy coat over her nightdress, a head scarf, an
d had dressed hastily at the first warning and fled outside. It was evident the fires would reach them soon, so she scurried back indoors, up to her room. Rapidly she stuffed her brushes and combs and salves and creams and rouge into a bag, her best lingerie next. A moment of thought, and then, no longer frightened, she opened the window, shouted at Ah Soh below to stay there and began throwing dresses and coats to her.
Ah Soh sniffled and did not move. MacStruan, close by, cursed her into motion and pointed across the road to their jetty where clerks already guarded boxes of papers, stores and rifles, Vargas and others sweating more parcels into place, MacStruan having decided to chance leaving their specie, bullion and certain documents in their iron safe.
“You motherless whore, Ah Soh,” he shouted in perfect Cantonese, “take tai-tai’s things over there, guard them and stay there even if the fires of hell fall on you or I’ll beat the soles of your feet to pulp!” She obeyed instantly. “Angelique,” he called out with a laugh, “we’ll get plenty of warning, stay in the warm until I call for you!”
“Thanks, Albert.” She saw Gornt looking up at her from next door. He waved. She waved back. Now there was no fear in her. Albert would warn her in good time, safety lay across the road or in boats collecting on and near the shore. Her mind was clean of worry. Earlier she had decided how to handle André and Skye and the Woman in Hong Kong. And Gornt tomorrow, and what to do.
Humming Mozart, she took out her brush and sat in front of her mirror to make herself much more presentable for all of them. It was like old times. Now, what shall I wear, what would be best?
Raiko followed the burly servant amidst the remains of her Inn. He carried an oil lamp and led the way carefully, using stepping-stones where he could, skirting bad patches of embers that glowed overbrightly, a warning in the dark, fanned by the hot, acrid air. Her face was blackened, hair heavy with ash and dust, her kimono scorched and in tatters. Both wore smoke masks, yet they coughed and wheezed from time to time. “Go more to the left,” she croaked, throat dry, continuing her inspection, only stubs of stone supports, in neat square patterns above ashes, indicating where dwellings had been.
“Yes, Mistress.” They plodded onwards.
Above the noise of the wind they could vaguely hear others calling, an occasional cry of pain and weeping, distant fire bells from the village and Settlement that were burning furiously. She was over her initial panic. Fires happen. They were the work of the gods. Never mind, I’m alive. Tomorrow I will find out what caused the fire, if it was an explosion, as some were claiming, though in the uproar this foul wind could play tricks with hearing, and the bang could easily have been an ill-placed oil jar falling into the kitchen fires and bursting where the blaze began. The Three Carp is gone. So are all the others, or almost all. I’m not ruined, not yet.
A group of courtesans and maids, many crying, appeared out of the night, a few of them scorched. She recognized women from the Green Dragon. None of her own girls. “Stop crying,” she ordered. “Go to the Sixteen Orchids—everyone is collecting there. It’s not badly damaged, there’ll be beds for all, food and drink. Help those who are hurt. Where’s Chiosan?” This was their mama-san.
“We haven’t seen her,” said one through her tears. “I was with a client, it was all I could do to hurry out with him to the underground shelter.”
“Good, run along, go that way and be careful,” Raiko said, satisfied, pleased with herself, remembering that when the Yoshiwara was being built, just over two years ago, and mama-sans had been selected by their Guild—with prior, expensive approval of that department of Bakufu—she had suggested that each Teahouse have a fireproof cellar built near the central structure, and for further prudence to put their brick fire-safes below ground level. Not all of the mama-sans approved, saying the added expense was not merited. Never mind, it’s their loss. Let’s see how many wail and beat their breasts tomorrow that they didn’t follow my example.
She had just finished inspecting hers. Steps led down to the iron-sheathed door. The interior was unblemished. All valuables were safe, all contracts, indentures, debt papers, loans made to the Gyokoyama and bank statements, IOUs, best linens and dress kimonos—both hers and the Ladies’ as good as new in their wrappers. From the beginning it had been her policy that all expensive linens and clothes that were not to be worn and used that evening, had to be put away underground, almost always to groans at the extra work. There won’t be groans this dawn, she thought.
To her immense relief all her Ladies, staff and clients were accounted for, except Fujiko, Hinodeh, Teko, Furansu-san and Taira, two servants, two maids still missing. But that did not worry her. They were surely safe elsewhere. A servant had seen a gai-jin, perhaps two, running safely towards the Gate.
Namu Amida Butsu, she prayed, let them all be safe, and bless me for my wisdom making sure that my people were well rehearsed with fire drills.
The horror of Yedo’s Yoshiwara conflagration, twelve years before, had taught her the lesson. That fire had almost killed her and her client, a rich rice merchant in the Gyokoyama. She had saved him by waking him from his drunken stupor, staying to drag him out at the risk of her own life. Escaping through the gardens, they had suddenly found themselves surrounded by fire and trapped, but they had rescued themselves from death by furiously digging a trench in the soft earth with her obi dagger, allowing the fire to pass over them. Even so, much of her lower back and legs had been badly burned, ending her career as a courtesan.
But her client had remembered her and when she had recovered enough to walk, he talked to the Gyokoyama who lent her the funds to open her own Teahouse and then he had gone on to another Lady. Their investment had been repaid fivefold. In that fire over a hundred courtesans, sixteen mama-sans, countless clients and maids had perished. More had died in Kyōto’s Shimibara fire. Over the centuries hundreds in other fires. In the Great Fire of the Trailing Sleeves, a few years after the mama-san Gyoko had built the first Yoshiwara, fire erupted and obliterated it, and cost Yedo a hundred thousand lives. Within two years it was rebuilt and thriving, to burn again and be rebuilt again, endlessly. And now as before, Raiko swore, we will rebuild ours better than ever!
“The Sixteen Orchids would be that way, Mistress, neh?” The servant hesitated, unsure in the billowing smoke clouds. Around them nothing but embers and ashes, a few pathetic house supports, no outlines of meandering paths or stones to guide them. Then a gust broomed away ash and cinders to reveal cornerstones and a stone dragon cracked by the heat. She recognized it and knew where they were. Hinodeh’s bungalow.
“We must go back a little,” she said, then something caught her eye. A glint. “Wait. What’s that?”
“Where, Mistress?”
She waited. Again the wind fanned embers and again the glitter, slightly ahead and to the right. “There!”
“Ah, yes.” Taking care, he used a blackened, leafless branch to brush a path, stepped forward and raised the lamp and peered ahead. Another cautious step, to retreat hastily as a gust shoved embers at him.
“Come back, we’ll look tomorrow!”
“A moment, Mistress.” Flinching against the heat, he used the branch swiftly to brush away more ashes. He gasped. The two charred shapes lay side by side, the left hand of one in the right hand of the other. What glinted was a gold signet ring, twisted and partially melted. “Mistress!”
Aghast, like a statue, Raiko stood beside him. Furansu-san and Hinodeh, must be, she thought instantly, he always wore a signet ring—remember, he even offered it to me a few days ago.
And, as instantly, her spirit was uplifted with the sight of the clasped hands, the picture they made on their bed of living coals, seeming to her to be a cradle of precious gems, rubies, glinting and living and dying and being reborn by the air currents—as the two of them would be until the end of time.
Oh, so sad, she thought, tears brimming, so sad and yet so beautiful. How peaceful they are, lying there, how blessed, dying together, hand in hand. Th
ey must have decided on the poison cup and to go as one. How wise. How wise for both of them.
She brushed at her tears, murmured, “Namu Amida Butsu,” as a benediction. “We’ll leave them in peace and I’ll decide what to do tomorrow.” She backed away, her tears bittersweet, but gladdened by the beauty she had seen. Once more they picked their way towards the gathering point.
A random thought took hold of her.
If those two were Furansu-san and Hinodeh, the gai-jin who escaped must be Taira. That’s good, much better than the other way around. I lose a fine source of intelligence but gain more in the long run. Taira and Fujiko are more docile and have a future. Skillfully handled, Taira will easily become as informative, soon I’ll be able to talk directly with him, his Japanese is improving daily and already good for a gai-jin. I must arrange extra lessons and teach him political phrases, not just the language of bedding and the Floating World that is all Fujiko is capable of—and with a peasant accent at that. Certainly my investment with him long term is much more promising and—
Both mistress and servant stopped at the same moment. They stared at each other, then abruptly at the southern sky. The wind had dropped.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
WEDNESDAY, 14TH JANUARY:
“Yokohama’s finished, William,” the General said in the first light of dawn, his voice raw. They were on the bluff, overlooking the Settlement, Pallidar in attendance, all of them mounted. Smoke still wafted up to them. The General’s face was bruised and filthy, uniform torn, cap ripped and the brim burnt. “Thought it best to ask you to come up here, gives you a better picture, sorry. Act of God.”
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