Gai-Jin (166 page)

“What?”

“I totally agree with you. Such a major decision is entirely up to the Admiralty, assisted by the Foreign Office. Paris likewise. Not a thing we can do but report to our superiors. You should do likewise. Thank God Japanese authorities at long last approve our right to proceed against guilty parties ourselves. Don’t you agree, Admiral?”

“If you’re talking about your proposed, ill-advised punitive strike, here, there or anywhere, it’s not yet approved by the Admiralty so it’s not approved by me. I suggest we go back aboard
Pearl
before the rain starts …”

Sir William sighed and looked out of a wardroom porthole. The rain had stopped temporarily, the sea was still leaden but his spirit wasn’t. He had the indemnity money, there was no immediate need now to flatten Yedo, and through this Yoshi we’ll help modernize Japan, he thought. We’ll
make a happy place for it in the family of nations, happy for them as well as us. Far better we do it and instill British virtues than the French implant French ones, though their wines and attitudes to food and fornication are far superior to ours.

Yes. Except in fornication the Japanese will benefit. In that their attitude is without doubt superior. Pity we can’t import that into our society but the Queen would never stand for it. Dreadful shame, but that’s life. We’ll just have to bless our luck to be living here—once we’ve civilized them. “Henri, let’s get some air.”

He was glad to be back on deck. The wind was sea-salt heavy, sharp and wholesome, the frigate under sail now, making way nicely. Marlowe was on the bridge—officers and men on deck or in the shrouds, achingly aware of the Admiral who sat in the bridge sea chair, sourly hunched into his greatcoat. “For God’s sake, Marlowe, take her closer to the wind.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Sir William was not an expert but that seemed to be a pedantic and unnecessary order. Bloody man! Still, can’t blame him for wanting confirming orders, it’s his neck if anything goes wrong.

When the frigate swung onto a new tack his grip tightened on the gunnel. He loved the sea and being on it, particularly on the deck of a British warship, proud that the ships of the Empire possessed the sea as much as any ships could rule the waves. Ketterer’s right about not wanting to create another navy, he thought, not with these men—the French, American and Prussian navies are enough trouble as it is.

He looked aft.

Aft, over the horizon, was Yedo. Yedo and Yoshi spell trouble whichever way you look at it, whatever the rosy future he promised. Ahead was Yokohama. More trouble there but never mind, tonight Angelique’s my dinner partner—I’m glad she didn’t leave but still don’t understand why. Doesn’t that play even more into Tess Struan’s hands?

Strange to think of Angelique without Malcolm Struan. Sorry he had such bad luck but he’s gone and we’re alive and he isn’t. Joss. Who’ll be tai-pan now? Young Duncan’s only ten, last of the Struan boys. Terrible for Tess, more tragedy to bear. Wouldn’t be surprised if this didn’t finish her. Always admired her for her courage, carrying the load of Culum and the Brocks, not to mention Dirk Struan.

Well, I did my best for Tess, and for Malcolm—alive and dead. And for Angelique. When she leaves there’ll be an emptiness that won’t be filled easily. Hope she regains the youth she’s lost, that’s another sadness but she’s got a whole life in front of her—if she has his child or if she doesn’t. Betting’s still evens.

Commands on the bridge attracted his attention for a moment but it was nothing urgent, just adding more sail. The wind was humming the
shrouds. The frigate picked up speed. Their moorings were under an hour away. Sunset a good two hours. Plenty of time to bring Nakama to heel before dinner.

Sunset was just a lowering of light, the sun dying behind a blanket of clouds, regretting the loss of the day.

Hiraga said to the group of fishermen, “That boat will do—no fishing tackle, but oars and sail are included.” He was on the beach near Drunk Town and he paid the owner what had been asked without bargaining, still unwilling to lose face by negotiating though he knew now—too well hammered into him by Mukfey—that he was being cheated and overcharged and that this man and his compatriots would laugh at him as soon as they were out of sight. He knew he was to blame because he was dressed like a gai-jin and not properly with swords.

Half of him wanted to scream and lash out at their bad manners and have them crawling on the beach, begging for the privilege of giving him the boat. The other half counselled patience: You have done what you must do, the boat is yours, tomorrow you die with honor in the cause of
sonno-joi
, these lice have no more value than the barnacles on the filthy little vessel they sell.

“Leave everything in the boat,” he said. Unctuously the owner bowed and grovelled his way out of range, then, with his comrades, walked away, blessing their luck for a double profit.

The boat was an ordinary little fishing boat for one to three men with a small sail and single stern oar. Part of samurai training was the use of boats on short distances to traverse rivers or to reach offshore coastal ships or galleys, so they could all handle it. The news that he had bought one would fly around the village but that did not matter. By the time the shoya and others had worked out its probable use, the revelation would be too late.

Satisfied the boat was safe, he began to walk through Drunk Town, through the crowded alleys, stepping over drunks and garbage, disgusted with the filth. Taira says his London is the cleanest, biggest, wealthiest city in the world but I do not believe him—not if so many of his kind live like this, with the rest of the Settlement not much better. Taking a shortcut he crossed into a smaller alley. Men passed by, beggars held their hands out, eyes peered suspiciously from doorways but no one bothered him.

No Man’s Land was as always, weed-covered and stinking, the main ref use dump of the Settlement. A few ragged scavengers raked through the latest pile of trash. They glanced at him briefly. His eyes went to the rickety well head. The broken wooden cover that hid the secret passage to the Yoshiwara seemed untouched. Ori’s face fleetingly came from his memory
and the time they were below, when he was ready to kill him and Ori had thrown, pretended to throw, the golden cross into the depths. Ori was
baka
to waste his life over that woman. We could use him tomorrow. He shoved Ori out of his mind.

Now his whole being was committed to the attack. All reasoning against it had vanished. There was a consensus, Akimoto gleefully in favor, Takeda, and the Sensei. Therefore he was also. The boat was ready. Now he would collect Akimoto and they would go back and finalize the plan. In reality he was glad. He would die in a blaze of glory doing the Emperor’s wishes. What more could a samurai desire from life?

With the suddenness of an ice bath he was shocked from euphoria and disappeared into a doorway. Three Redcoats stood outside the shoya’s house, two more were emerging from the nearby hovel he and Akimoto rented. Akimoto was between them, calling out at the top of his voice one of the few English phrases he had learned: “So sorry, no unn’erstan’ Nakama!”

“N-a-k-a-m-a,” the Sergeant said slowly and loudly. “Where is he?” Then louder, “Where Nakama?”

“Nakama?” Akimoto’s voice itself was loud, clearly trying to warn him if he happened to be within hearing. “Nakama no unn’erstan’, so sorry,” then in Japanese, “Someone’s betrayed someone,” then in guttural English again, “Nakama no unn’er—”

“Shut up!” the Sergeant said angrily, “Corporal, this fool knows nothing. Butcher, you and Swallow stay here until Mister bloody Nakama comes back and ask him—ask him nice-like to come along wiv you to see Sir Will’m but make sure you bring the bugger. You,” he stabbed a rough, iron-hard finger in Akimoto’s chest, “you come along wiv me in case the Guv wants you.” Loudly protesting in Japanese, he went with them, then in English, “Nakama, no unn’erstan’,” over and over.

When Hiraga had recovered, and it was safe, he slipped out of the doorway, jumped a fence and hurried back to No Man’s Land. There he ducked down into the doorway, not safe yet to run for the well, too much light, the three scavengers too near, too malevolent. Must keep it secret.

Who has betrayed us?

No time to think about that now. He went deeper into the shadows as one of the scavengers moved nearer, muttering and cursing at the smallness of the pickings, a grubby sack in one hand. All three were skeletal and filthy. One came close to the opening but passed without noticing him. In half an hour light would be gone, nothing to do but to wait. Suddenly the doorway was blocked.

“Thort I didn’t see you, eh? Wot’cher doin?” the scavenger rasped, heavy with menace.

Slowly Hiraga straightened. His hand was on the small pistol in his
pocket. Then he saw the knife appear in the clawlike fist and the man thrust forward viciously. But Hiraga was faster and caught the hand and chopped at the scavenger’s throat. He squealed like a gutted pig and went down. At once the other two looked up and hurried to investigate.

They skidded to a stop. Now Hiraga was in the doorway, the gun in one hand, knife in the other and he stood over the man who writhed, choking in the dirt. Knives came out and the two men attacked. Hiraga did not hesitate and lunged at one man who darted away, leaving him the opening he needed. He was through the slot quickly, running for Drunk Town, not wanting to waste time fighting. In moments he had reached a side street but in his haste his hat had fallen off. He looked back and saw one of the scavengers had grabbed it up with a shout. In seconds the other had a hand on it too and they began a cursing fight for possession.

Chest heaving, Hiraga left them to it. Another look at the sky.
Be patient
. When they’ve gone you can go to the well. You must not reveal it, it’s essential for the attack. Be patient. Buy a hat or a cap. What’s gone wrong?

“Well, where the devil has he gone?”

“Can’t be far, Sir William,” Pallidar said. “I’ve men at both gates and on the bridge into the Yoshiwara. He’s probably in one of the Inns. A matter of time before he appears. You want him in irons?”

“No, just here, unarmed, under guard.”

“What about this fellow?”

Akimoto was sitting, his back to the wall, a soldier nearby. He had already been searched.

“I’ll decide that when I’ve talked to him. Ah, André, come in. Settry, no need for you to wait. I’m dining with the Russian Minister, when you’ve got Nakama come and fetch me.” Pallidar saluted and went out. “André, sorry to bother you but we can’t find Nakama. As Phillip’s not here could you interpret for me, ask this fellow where he is?”

He watched while André began questioning Akimoto, trying to contain his irritation and wishing Phillip Tyrer were here and not with Babcott. Hope that goes well. Damn it, if Nakama’s not caught Yoshi will be irritable indeed, rightly so.

“He says he doesn’t know,” André said. He had not taken off his topcoat. Sir William’s office was always freezing; even on the coldest day, his coal fire was mean. “He seems dim-witted, mumbles Nakama who, Nakama could be anywhere, the Yoshiwara, perhaps Kanagawa.”

“Eh?” Sir William was shocked. “He’s not supposed to leave the Settlement without my express approval. Ask him … ask him when did Nakama leave?”

“He says he doesn’t know, doesn’t know Nakama, if he’s left or where he is, doesn’t know anything.”

“Perhaps a night in the brig will refresh his memory. Corporal!” The door opened at once. “Put this man in the brig overnight, or until I give orders to the contrary. He is to be well treated, understand?”

“Yessir.”

“He is to be well treated.”

“Yessir.” The Corporal jerked a thumb at Akimoto, who backed out of the room bowing. The brig, used for rowdies, and servicemen subject to military discipline, was down the street, a low brick building with a dozen cells, flogging triangle. After the Club, it had been the second structure built, a normal British custom for most Settlements.

“Merci
, André.”

“De rien.”

“Have you any idea where he could be?”

“No, Monsieur, other than what the man said. See you at dinner.” André smiled and left and began walking down the High Street, the wind whipping the leaves and papers and debris. Not much light was left in the sky.

Glad we’re not responsible for finding him, he thought. Where would he have gone? If he has any sense to Kyōto or Nagasaki, or stowed away on yesterday’s merchantman to Shanghai if he knows Yoshi wants him. Surely he must have known—no secrets in the Bakufu, or here. Great meeting, good for us too for we have the edge with Yoshi but damn Phillip, he’s getting too good. Surely the patient will be Anjo. He spat irritably. I should have had the chance—after all it was my idea, Raiko and Meikin must have planted the thought somehow.
Mon Dieu
, they’ve more power than I imagined.

An icy current went through him. Raiko had asked him to see her urgently tonight. What now? Had to be trouble.

“’Evening, sir,” the Struan guard at the front door said.

“I’ve an appointment with Madame Struan.”

“Yes, sir. She’s expecting you, in the tai-pan’s office along the corridor. Excuse the mess in the hall, sir, but Mr. McFay’s packing. Terrible he’s going, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but let’s hope th—” The signal gun at the Harbor Master’s cut him off. Astonished, both men glanced seawards, for no ship was expected or overdue. Movement on the crowded High Street stopped and then a murmur of excitement went through Yokohama. Rounding the distant headland was a clipper, all sails set and the bit between her teeth. They saw puffs of smoke from her cannonade salute to the flagship, then heard the following boom and the flagship’s answer.

Too far distant to see her flag. “She’s one of ours,” the guard said proudly. “Has to be, like in the old days … oh, ’evening, sir.”

Jamie McFay came out of the door fast and focused his binoculars. “Hello, André, just want to make sure …
Prancing Cloud!
Hallelujah!” The implications would be clear to everyone. She had been scheduled to sail on to London. Returning here, and so quickly, meant she carried urgent news—or passengers. Good or bad.