Gai-Jin (33 page)

Karma. I am doing my duty. Gai-jin are scum we do not need. Only their weapons to kill them with.

The rain increased. And the tempest. This pleased him, for it made interception less likely. The beckoning bath and saké and clean clothes kept him warm and strong. That the attack had failed did not concern him. That was karma.

Ground into him by his teachers and heritage, until it was a way of life, was the certainty that enemies and traitors were everywhere. His steps were measured, he made sure he was not being followed, changed direction without logic and, whenever possible, explored ahead before moving.

When he reached the alley his strength drained out of him. The Inn of the Forty-seven Ronin and its surrounding fence had vanished.

All that remained was emptiness and the reeking smell and smoking ashes. A few bodies, men and women. Some decapitated, some hacked to pieces. He recognized his comrade shishi, Gota, by his kimono. The mama-san’s head was on a spear thrust into the ground. Attached was a sign:
It is against the law to harbor criminals and traitors
. The official seal below was of the Bakufu, signed by Nori Anjo, chief of the
roju
.

Hiraga was filled with surging fury but it was icy and merely added more layers to that already within. Those cursed gai-jin, he thought. It is their fault. Because of them this happened. We will be revenged.

SUNDAY, 28TH SEPTEMBER
:

Malcolm Struan came out of sleep slowly. His senses probed, testing. He had always known much about mental pain, losing two brothers and a sister; the anguish caused by his father’s drunkenness and ever increasing rages; from impatient teachers; from his obsessive need to excel because one day he would be
the
tai-pan; and from his nagging fear he would be inadequate however much he prepared and trained and hoped and prayed
and worked by day and by night, every day and every night of his life—no real childhood or boyhood like others.

But now as never before he had to test the level of his awakening, to plumb the depth of what physical pain he had to endure today as today’s norm, disregarding the sudden, blinding spasms that arrived without warning or logic.

Just a throbbing ache today but better than yesterday. How many days from the Tokaidō Road? Sixteen. Sixteenth day.

He allowed himself to become more awake. Truly better than yesterday. Eyes and ears open now. Room steady in the early light. Clear sky, light wind, no storm.

Two days ago the storm had ceased. It had blown for eight days at typhoon strength, then vanished as quickly as it had arrived. The fleet standing off Yedo had scattered the first day, seeking safety at sea. Alone of all the warships, the French flagship had disengaged early, just making it back safely to Yokohama. No other ships had returned. No need to worry yet, but everyone watched the horizon uneasily, hoping and praying.

During the gales here at Yokohama a merchantman had been blown ashore, some buildings damaged, many cutters and fishing boats lost, havoc wrought in the village and Yoshiwara, many tents in the military encampment on the bluff blown away but no casualties there, or in the Settlement.

We were more than lucky, Struan thought, concentrating on the central problem of his universe. Can I sit up?

A tentative, awkward attempt. Ayeeyah! Pain, but not too bad. With both arms he pushed further and now he was erect, his hands braced behind him.

Bearable. Better than yesterday. Waiting a moment, then leaning forward, carefully taking his weight off one arm. Still bearable. Weight off both arms. Still bearable. Taking care he pulled the bedclothes off and cautiously tried to swing his legs to the floor. But he could not, the stabbing pain too great. A second try, again failure.

Never mind, I’ll try later. He lowered himself as gently as he could. When his weight was off his waist and on his back he sighed with relief. “Ayeeyah!”

“Patience, Malcolm,” Babcott had said every day at every visit—three or four times daily.

“Sod patience!”

“Quite right too—but you really are doing fine.”

“And when can I get up?”

“Now, if you wish—but I wouldn’t advise it.”

“How long?”

“Give it a couple of weeks.”

He had cursed openly but in many ways he was glad for the reprieve. It gave him more time to consider how he was going to deal with being tai-pan, with his mother, with Angelique, with McFay and pressing business problems.

“What about the guns for Choshu?” McFay had asked a few days ago. “It’ll be a huge, continuing business.”

“I’ve an idea. Leave it with me.”

“Norbert will have sniffed these Choshus out long since and he’s bound to make them an undercutting offer.”

“The hell with Norbert and Brock! Their contacts are not as good as ours, and Dmitri, Cooper-Tillman and most of the other American China traders are on our side.”

“Except in Hawaii,” McFay said sourly.

In the last mail, ten days ago—no further news since then and the bimonthly steamer not expected for another five days—Tess Struan had written: …

“What’s your suggestion, Jamie?”

“I don’t have one, Mal…Tai-pan.”

“If the deal’s done the deal’s done and that’s the end of it. Say it is, could we intercept the cotton somehow?”

McFay had blinked. “Pirate it?”

Struan had said levelly, “If need be. Old Man Brock would, he has in the past. That’s one possibility, the cotton will all go in his ships. Second: our Navy breaks the Union blockade and then we can all get all the cotton we want.”

“It could, if we declare war on the Union. Unthinkable!”

“I don’t agree. For God’s sake, we should come in on Davis’s side, Southern cotton’s our lifeblood. Then they’ll win, otherwise they won’t.”

“Agreed. But we’re equally dependent on the North.”

“How do we take away his ships? There must be a way to break the chain. If he can’t move the cargo he’s bankrupt.”

“What would Dirk do?”

“Go for the jugular,” Malcolm had replied at once.

“Then that’s what we have to find …”

Where and what is it? he asked himself again, lying quietly on the bed, willing his brain to work clearly on this problem and all the others. Angelique? No, I’ll think about her later—but I know I love her more every day.

Thank God I can write letters now. Must write to Mother again, if anyone should know the jugular it’s her; isn’t Tyler Brock her father and Morgan her brother, but how dare she sneer at Angelique’s family? Should I write to Angelique’s father? Yes, but not yet, there’s time enough.

So much other mail to catch up on, books to order from England, Christmas not so far away, the Jockey Club Charity Ball in Hong Kong, Struan’s annual Ball to think about, meetings today: Jamie at least twice, Seratard this afternoon—what does he want? What else is planned for today? Phillip’s coming to chat again after breakfast … wait a minute, no, not today. Yesterday Sir William ordered him back to Yedo, to prepare the Legation for the meeting with the Council of Elders in twenty days.

“Will the meeting really take place, Sir William?” he had asked when the Minister had visited him. With the fleet no longer protecting the Legation, and extensive though not overtly hostile samurai activity all around them, after a few face-saving days Sir William had considered it prudent to return to Yokohama, ostensibly to prepare for the delivery of the indemnity money.

“I think so, Mr. Struan. Perhaps not punctually, but yes, the ceremonial will happen approximately then and we will have taken a real leap forward. If they produce the first payment of 5,000 pounds as promised … well, that will be a very good indication. By the way, I understand you’ve a steamer due to leave today for Hong Kong, could I prevail upon you to allow one of my staff and some urgent mail to go with her—my wife and two sons are expected soon and I have to make plans.”

“Of course, I’ll mention it to McFay. If you want a berth on any of our ships to meet them, just say the word.”

“Thank you—I was planning two weeks’ vacation when they arrive. One gets hidebound, cooped up here, don’t you think? Miss the bustle of Hong Kong, that’s quite a city though damned if the people at Whitehall appreciate it! Plenty of good roast beef, some cricket or tennis, the theatre or opera, and several days at the races would be most welcome. When will you return?”

When?

News of our Tokaidō disaster would have arrived almost a week ago, presuming the mail ship weathered the storm. Mother will have had a fit though showing nothing to outsiders. Will she come here on the first
available ship? Possibly, but there’s HQ to look after—and Emma, Rose and Duncan. With Father dead, me not there, eighteen days is too long for her to be away. Even if she’s already aboard there’s at least another three or four days to prepare my defenses. Strange to consider her a possible enemy; if not enemy no longer friend. Perhaps she’s friend after all; she always has been, however distant, always attending Father with little time for us.

“Hello, my son, how could I ever be your enemy?”

He was astonished to see her standing by the bed, his father also, and this was strange because he remembered his father was dead but it did not seem to matter—quickly out of bed without hurt and chatting with them happily in the cutter crossing Hong Kong harbor, storm clouds everywhere, both of them listening deferentially and approving his clever plans, Angelique sitting in the stern, her dress diaphanous, breasts beckoning, uncovered now, his hands there and lower, all uncovered now, her body writhing against his, hands caressing his face …

“Malcolm?”

He awoke with a start. Angelique was beside the bed, smiling at him, peignoir blue silk rich and discreet. The dream vanished, except the threat and promise of her body, ever pulsating in his subconscious. “I … oh, I was dreaming, my darling, but it was about you.”

“Oh, yes? What?”

He frowned, trying to recollect. “I don’t remember,” he said, smiling up at her, “except that you were beautiful. I love your gown.”

She pirouetted gaily to show it off. “The tailor you asked Jamie to arrange made it!
Mon Dieu
, Malcolm—me, I think he is marvelous—I ordered four dresses, I hope that’s all right … oh, thank you!” She bent down to kiss him.

“Wait, Angelique, wait, just a second. Look!” Carefully he raised himself, dominating the pain, took both supporting hands away and held them out to her.

“That’s
wonderful, chéri,”
she said, delighted, catching his hands. “Ah, Monsieur Struan, I think I’d better take care to be chaperoned all the time now, and never be alone with you in your bedroom.”

Smiling, she stepped closer, carefully put her hands on his shoulders, allowed his arms to go around her and kissed him. Her kiss was light, promising and avoided his need for more. Without guile she kissed his ear, then straightened, allowing his head to rest against her breast, the intimacy pleasing her—and him very much. Soft silk there, with that uncanny, irreplaceable, special warmth.

“Malcolm, did you really really mean what you said about wanting to marry me?” She felt his arms tighten and the wince of pain.

“Of course, I’ve told you so many times.”

“Do you think, do you think your parents, pardon, your mother, she will approve, yes? Oh, I do hope so.”

“Yes, oh yes, she will, of course she will.”

“May I write to Papa? I would like to tell him.”

“Of course, write when you wish, I will write too,” he said throatily, then, swamped by her affection, his need overcoming his discretion, he kissed the silk, then again, harder, and almost cursed aloud as he sensed her retreat before it happened. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“No need for ‘sorry’ or any Anglo-Saxon guilt, my love, not between us,” she said gently. “I want you too.” Then, following her plan, switched her mood, entirely in control, her happiness infectious. “Now I will be the nurse Nightingale.”

She plumped the pillows and began to make the bed neater. “Tonight is a French dinner hosted by Monsieur Seratard, tomorrow night he has arranged a soiree. André Poncin is giving a piano recital of Beethoven—I prefer him so much to Mozart—also Chopin and a piece by a young man called Brahms.” A church bell began, sounding the call to early service, almost immediately to be joined by others, sweeter and more melodious, from the Catholic church. “There,” she said, helping him lie back comfortably. “Now I will go for my toilette and return after Mass when you are toiletted.”

He held her hand. “‘Bathed.’ You’re wonderful. I love y—” Abruptly their eyes went to the door as someone tried the handle. But the bolt was on.

“I did it when you were asleep.” She chuckled like a little girl playing a game. Again the handle moved. “Servants always come in without knocking, they need to be taught lessons!”

“Mass’er!” the servant called out. “Tea-ah!”

“Tell him to go away and come back in five minutes.”

Struan, caught up in her pleasure, shouted the order in Cantonese, and they heard the man go off grumbling.

She laughed. “You must teach me Chinese-speaking.”

“I’ll try.”

“What’s ‘I love you’?”

“They don’t have a word for love, not like us.”

A frown went across her face. “How sad!”

She slipped over to the door, unbolted it, blew him a kiss, and vanished into her own suite. Her bolt slid home.

He watched the door, aching. Then he heard the bells change, becoming more insistent, reminding him: Mass!