Gai-Jin (162 page)

“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.

“Do not turn around yet,” he heard Katsumata say quietly. “I did not recognize you, your disguise is perfect.”

“Yours must be too, Sensei,” he said as softly, hardly moving his lips. “Twice I scrutinized this place carefully.”

The low, well-known and admired laugh. “Drop something and when you pick it up, look around briefly.”

Hiraga obeyed and when, momentarily, he saw the only man within hearing, a wild-looking, bearded, venomous ronin with the filthy thatch of hair glaring at him, he turned his back once more. “Eeee, Sensei!”

“No more ‘Sensei.’ There is little time, Hodogaya crawls with Enforcers and spies. Where can we meet safely?”

“Our Yoshiwara—the House of the Three Carp.”

“I’ll be there in two or three days—it is vital to create an incident with the gai-jin, quickly. Think about it.”

“What sort of incident?”

“A serious one.”

“Very well,” Hiraga said. “I was relieved to hear from you—we had no idea you were coming here. There have been wild rumors about fighting in Kyōto—Akimoto is with me but we are on our own and we lost many shishi in our Yedo attacks. There is much to tell about Yedo and the gai-jin. Quickly, what happened in Kyōto? Sumomo, how is she?”

“Kyōto was bad. Before leaving I assigned Sumomo to Koiko, who was returning here with Yoshi, to spy on him to find out who was betraying us—must be one of our men—too good an opportunity to miss and it got her out of Kyōto safely,” Katsumata said, his eyes constantly raking; the other men in this eating place, even though they were not near, avoided looking at him. “We mounted two attacks on Yoshi, both failed, our safe house was betrayed, Ogama and Yoshi working together ambushed us. We—”

“Eeee,” Hiraga murmured, gravely concerned. “They have become allies?”

“For the moment. We lost many leaders and men, I’ll give you particulars later but we—Sumomo, Takeda, I and some others—fought our way out. I’m glad to see you, Hiraga. Leave now.”

“Wait. Sumomo, I ordered her back to Choshu.”

“She brought me valuable information about the situation here and about Shorin and Ori. I suggested she continue on to Choshu but she wanted to stay, thinking she might help you. How is Ori?”

“Dead.” He heard Katsumata curse—Ori had been his favorite pupil. “The gai-jin shot him trying to break into one of their houses,” he said hastily, his nervousness increasing. “There’s a rumor there was a shishi attack on Yoshi at Hamamatsu, that Koiko was killed in the melee, a shishi also. Who was he?”

“Not he, she. So sorry, it was Sumomo.” Color drained from Hiraga’s face. “Koiko betrayed her, the whore betrayed her to Yoshi and so betrayed
sonno-joi
and us. But she died with Sumomo’s shuriken in her chest.”

“How did Sumomo die?”

“As a shishi, she will be remembered forever. She fought Yoshi, with shuriken and long sword and almost killed him. That was her mission—if she was betrayed.”

So Sumomo had a mission, Hiraga thought with sudden insight, his whole being a volcano—
you expected her to be betrayed
, and even so, sent her into the pit. There was a tightness in his throat. He forced himself to ask the essential question: “How did they bury her? Was it with honor?”

If Toranaga Yoshi had not honored her after fighting and dying bravely then he would hunt him to the exclusion of all else, until one or the other of them was dead. Hiraga was leader of Choshu shishi, the strongest contingent. Sumomo, though from Satsuma, had declared her allegiance to him and to Choshu. “Please, I must know, was it with honor?”

Still no answer. He glanced around. Katsumata had vanished. Hiraga’s shock was open. The other customers stared at him silently. To one side a group of samurai stood watching him. The hackles on his neck rose. He threw a few coins on the table and, his hand on his concealed derringer, went back the way he had come.

That afternoon, throughout Yedo Castle there was an air of premonition. Yoshi was hurrying after the Chinese doctor along a corridor, Abeh and four samurai guards followed. The doctor, tall and very thin, wore a long gown and his grey hair in a queue. Up some stairs and along another corridor and then the doctor stopped. Hostile guards stood in the way, hands on their swords, all their eyes on Yoshi and his men.

“So sorry, Lord Yoshi,” the officer said, “the
tairō
’
s
orders are that no one should pass.”

“And my orders,” the doctor said, his fear giving him false courage, “were to fetch Lord Yoshi.”

“Lord Yoshi, you may pass,” the officer said grimly. “So sorry, your men may not.”

Though heavily outnumbered, Abeh and his men went for their swords. “Stop,” Yoshi said calmly. “Wait here, Abeh.”

Abeh was sick with worry, adrenaline pumping, dreadfully aware of rumors in the castle that his master was about to be arrested, rumors that Yoshi scoffed at. “Please excuse me, Sire, but this may be a trap.” The opposing samurai stiffened at the insult.