Gai-Jin (25 page)

“This American ship took you to this San place? What happened then?”

Misamoto told how he had been put with a brother of the Captain of this ship, a ship’s chandler, to learn the language and do odd jobs until the authorities decided what to do with him. He lived with this family for about three years, working in their shop and in the port. One day, he was taken before an important official called Natow who questioned him closely, then told him he was to be sent with the warship
Missouri
to Shimoda to be an interpreter for Consul Townsend Harris who was already in Japan negotiating a Treaty. By this time he wore Western clothes and had learned some Western ways.

“I accepted happily, Sire, certain I could be helpful here, especially helpful to the Bakufu. On the ninth day of the eighth month of the year 1857 by their counting, five years ago, Sire, we hove to off Shimoda in Izu, my home village not far north, Sire. The moment I was ashore I obtained permission to leave for a day and set off at once, Lord, to report to the nearest guard house to find the nearest Bakufu official, believing I would be welcome because of the knowledge I had got …. But the barrier guards would not …” Misamoto’s face twisted with anguish. “But they wouldn’t listen to me, Sire, or understand…. They bound me and dragged me to Yedo…. That was about five years ago, Lord, and ever since I’ve been treated like a criminal, confined like one though not in prison and I keep explaining and explaining I’m not a spy but a loyal man of Izu and what had happened to me …”

To Yoshi’s disgust, tears began streaming down the man’s face. He cut the whimpering short. “Stop it! Do you or do you not know it is forbidden, by law, to leave Nippon without permission?”

“Yes, Lord, but I th—”

“And do you know under the same law, if broken, whatever the reason, whoever he or she is, the lawbreaker is forbidden to return on pain of death?”

“Oh, yes, Sire, yes—yes I did but—but I did not think it would include me, Sire, I thought I’d be welcomed and valuable and I’d been blown out to sea. It was the storm th—”

“A law is a law. This law is a good law. It prevents contamination. You consider you have been treated unfairly?”

“Oh, no, Lord,” Misamoto said hastily, wiping his tears away, with even greater fear, bowing his head to the tatami. “Please excuse me, I beg your forgiveness, please ex—”

“Just answer the questions. How fluent is your English?”

“I … I understand and speak some American English, Sire.”

“Is that the same as the gai-jin here speak?”

“Yes, Sire, yes, more or less—”

“When you came to see the American Harris were you shaven or unshaven?”

“Unshaven, Sire. I had a trimmed beard like most sailors, Sire, and let my hair grow like theirs and tied into a pigtail and knotted with tar.”

“Who did you meet with this gai-jin Harris?”

“Just him, Sire, just for an hour or so, and one of his staff, I don’t remember his name.”

Once more Yoshi weighed the dangers of his plan: to go to the meeting disguised, without Council approval, and to use this man as a spy, to overhear the enemy secretly. Perhaps Misamoto is a spy already, for gai-jin, he thought grimly, as all his interrogators believe. Certainly he’s a liar, his story far too smooth, his eyes too cunning, and he’s like a fox when off guard.

“Very well. Later I want to know everything you have learned, everything and … do you read and write?”

“Yes, Lord, but only a little in the English.”

“Good. I have a use for you. If you obey exactly and please me, I will review your case. If you fail me, however slightly, you-will-wish-you-had-not.”

He explained what he wanted, assigned him teachers, and when his guards had returned Misamoto yesterday clean-shaven, his hair dressed like a samurai’s, and wearing the clothes of an official with two swords though these were false and without blades, he had not recognized him. “Good. Walk up and down.”

Misamoto obeyed and Yoshi was impressed how quickly the man had learned an erect posture as the teacher had shown him, not the correct, normal servile attitude of a fisherman. Too quickly, he thought, convinced now that Misamoto was more, or less, than he wanted others to see.

“You understand clearly what you are to do?”

“Yes, Sire, I swear I won’t fail you, Sire.”

“I know, my guards have orders to kill you the instant you leave my side, or become clumsy, or … indiscreet.”

“We’ll stop for ten minutes,” Sir William said wearily. “Tell them, Johann.”

“They ask why.” Johann Favrod, the Swiss interpreter yawned. “Pardon. Seems they think they’ve discussed all the points etc. etc. that they’ll carry back your message etc. etc. and meet again at Kanagawa with the reply from on high etc. etc. in about sixty days as suggested earlier etc. etc.”

The Russian muttered, “Let me have the fleet for a day, and I’ll solve these
matyeryebitz
and this whole problem.”

“Quite,” Sir William agreed, adding in fluent Russian, “Sorry, my dear Count, but we’re here for a diplomatic solution, preferably.” Then in English, “Show them where to wait, Johann. Shall we, gentlemen?” He got up, bowed stiffly, and led the way into a waiting room. As he passed Phillip Tyrer he said, “Stay with them, keep your eyes and ears open.”

All the Ministers headed for the tall chamber pot that was in the corner of their anteroom. “My God,” Sir William said thankfully. “Thought my bloody bladder would pop.”

Lun came in leading other servants with trays. “Heya, Mass’er. Tea-ah, sam’wich-ah!” He jerked a disdainful thumb towards the other room. “All same give monkees, heya?”

“You’d better not let them hear you say that, by God. Perhaps some of them speak pidgin.”

Lun stared at him. “Wat say, Mass’er?”

“Oh, never mind.”

Lun went out laughing to himself.

“Well, gentlemen, as expected, progress zero.”

Seratard was lighting his pipe, André Poncin beside him, carelessly pleased with Sir William’s discomfiture. “What do you propose to do, Sir William?”

“What’s your advice?”

“It is a British problem, only partially French. If it was entirely mine I would have already settled it with French élan—on the day it happened.”

“But of course,
mein Herr
, you would need an equally fine fleet,” von Heimrich said curtly.

“Of course. In Europe we have many, as you know. And if it was Imperial French policy to be here in strength as our British allies, we would have had one or two fleets here.”

“Yes, well …” Sir William was tired. “It’s clear that your collective advice is to be tough with them?”

“Rough and tough,” Count Zergeyev said.

“Ja.”

“Of course,” Seratard agreed. “I thought that’s what you had already in mind, Sir William.”

The Minister munched on a sandwich and finished his tea. “All right. I’ll close the meeting now, reconvene for ten tomorrow, with an ultimatum: a meeting with the Shōgun within a week, the murderers, the indemnity or else—with, er, of course your joint approval.”

Seratard said, “I suggest, Sir William, given it might be difficult for them to deliver a meeting with the Shōgun, why not keep that for later until we have reinforcements—and real cause for a meeting with him. After all, this exercise is a show of force to correct an evil, not to implement Imperial policy, yours or ours.”

“Wise,” the Prussian said reluctantly.

Sir William pondered the reasons behind the suggestion but could find no fault or hidden hazard. “Very well. We’ll demand an ‘early meeting’ with the Shōgun. Agreed?”

They nodded. “Excuse me, Sir William,” André Poncin said pleasantly, “may I suggest that I tell them your decision—for you to begin the meeting and then close it at once would be somewhat of a loss of face. Yes?”

“Very wise, André,” Seratard said. As far as the others knew, Poncin was just an occasional trader with some knowledge of Japanese customs, a smattering of Japanese, a personal friend and occasional interpreter. In reality Poncin was a highly regarded spy employed to uncover and neutralize all British, German, and Russian endeavors in the Japans. “Eh, Sir William?”

“Yes,” Sir William said thoughtfully. “Yes, you’re right, André, thank you, I shouldn’t do it myself. Lun!”

The door opened instantly. “Heya, Mass’er?”

“Fetch young Mass’er Tyrer quick quick!” Then to the others, “Tyrer can do it for me. As it’s a British problem.”

When Phillip Tyrer returned to the other reception room overlooking the forecourt, he went up to Johann with as much dignity as he could muster. The Bakufu officials paid no attention and continued chatting, Yoshi slightly apart. Misamoto was beside him—the only one not talking. “Johann, give them Sir William’s compliments and tell them today’s unsatisfactory meeting is adjourned and they are to reconvene tomorrow at ten for what he expects will be a satisfactory conclusion to this unwarranted affair: the murderers, the indemnity and a guaranteed early meeting with the Shōgun or else.”

Johann blanched. “Just like that?”

“Yes, exactly like that.” Tyrer was also tired of the shilly-shallying, constantly reminded of John Canterbury’s violent death, Malcolm Struan’s serious wounds and Angelique’s terror. “Tell them!”

He watched Johann deliver the short ultimatum in guttural Dutch. The Japanese interpreter flushed and began the lengthy translation as Tyrer studied the officials carefully without appearing to do so. Four were attentive, the last was not, the small man with narrow eyes and callused hands that he had noticed earlier—all other hands were well groomed. Again this man began whispering to the youngest and most handsome official, Watanabe, as he had been doing from time to time all day.

Wish to God I could understand what they were saying, Tyrer thought irritably, more determined than ever to do whatever was necessary to learn the language quickly.

As the shocked and embarrassed interpreter finished there was a silence, broken only by the sucking in of breath though all faces remained impassive. During the translation he had noticed two glance surreptitiously at Watanabe.

Why?

Now they seemed to be waiting. Watanabe dropped his eyes, hid behind his fan and muttered something. At once the narrow-eyed man beside him stood awkwardly, and spoke briefly. Relieved, they all got up and, without bowing, silently trooped out, Watanabe last, except for the interpreter.

“Johann, they really got the message this time,” Tyrer said happily.

“Yes. And they were very plenty pissed.”

“Obviously that’s what Sir William wanted.”

Johann mopped his brow. He was brown-haired and medium height, thin, strong with a hard, lined face. “The sooner you’re interpreter the better. It’s time I went home to my mountains and snows while I’ve still got my head intact. There’re too many of these cretins, they’re too unpredictable.”

“As the interpreter, surely you have a privileged position,” Tyrer said uneasily. “The first to know.”

“And the carrier of bad news! They’re all bad news,
mon vieux
. They hate us and can’t wait to throw us out. I made a contract with your Foreign Office for two years, renewable by mutual consent. The contract, she is up in two months and three days and my English is going to hell.” Johann went to the sideboard near the window and took a deep draft of the beer he had ordered instead of tea. “No renewal, whatever the temptation.” He beamed suddenly.
“Merde
, that’s the problem about leaving here.”

Tyrer laughed at his pixy look.
“Musume?
Your girl?”

“You learn fast.”

In the forecourt the officials were getting into their palanquins. All gardening activity had stopped, the half dozen gardeners kneeling motionless with heads to the earth. Misamoto was waiting beside Yoshi, conscious that any mistake and he would not be standing erect, desperately hoping he had passed the first test. Somehow or another I’ll be useful to this bastard, he was thinking in English, until I can get back aboard an American ship and paradise and tell the Captain how I was kidnapped off Harris’s staff by these poxy scum …

He looked up, froze. Yoshi was watching him. “Lord?”

“What were you thinking?”

“I was hoping I’d been of value, Sire. I … Look out behind you, Sire!” he whispered.

André Poncin was coming down the steps, heading for Yoshi. Instantly his guards were a protective screen. Unafraid, Poncin bowed politely and
said in fair though halting Japanese: “Lord, excuse please, can give message from my Master, French High Lord, please?”

“What message?”

“He say please perhaps you like see inside steamship, engine, cannons. Asks humbly invite you and officials.” Poncin waited, saw no reaction, except an imperious wave of the fan in dismissal. “Thank you, Lord, please excuse me.” He walked away, sure he had been right. On the first step he noticed Tyrer watching him from the audience room window, bit back a curse, and waved. Tyrer waved back.

When the last samurai left the forecourt the gardeners carefully resumed their work. One of them shouldered his spade and limped away. Hiraga, his head swathed with a filthy old cloth, his kimono ragged and dirty, was happy with the success of his spying. Now he knew how and when and where the attack tomorrow should take place.

Once more safe in his palanquin en route back to the castle—with Misamoto, at his orders, sitting at the far end—Yoshi let his mind roam. He was still astonished at their ill-mannered dismissal, not furious like the others, just patient: revenge will be taken in a manner of my own choosing.

An invitation to see the engines of a warship and to go over one? Eeee, an opportunity not to be missed. Dangerous to accept but it will be done. His eyes focused on Misamoto who was staring out of a slit window. Certainly prisoner Misamoto has been useful so far. Stupid of interpreters not to translate accurately. Stupid of the Russian to threaten us. Stupid for them to be so rude. Stupid of the Chinese servant to call us monkeys. Very stupid. Well, I shall deal with them all, some sooner than others.

But how to deal with the leaders and their fleet?

“Misamoto, I have decided not to send you back to the guard house. For twenty days you will be housed with my retainers and continue to learn how to behave like a samurai.”