Gai-Jin (34 page)

His heart twisted. Didn’t think about that, that she was Catholic. Mother’s diehard Church of England, twice on Sundays, Father as well, us too, in procession, along with every other decent family in Hong Kong.

Catholic?

Doesn’t matter, I … I don’t mind. I’ve got to have her, he told himself, his healthy, hungry throbbing ache pushing the pain away. “I must.”

That afternoon the four perspiring Japanese porters put down the iron-banded chest, watched by three Bakufu officials of no import, Sir William, interpreters, an officer from the army accounting department, the Legation shroff, a Chinese, and Vargas, to check him.

They were in the main Legation reception room, the windows open and Sir William was hard put not to beam. Laboriously one of the officials produced an ornate key and unlocked the chest. Within were silver Mexican dollars, a few tael bars of gold—about an ounce and a third in weight—and some of silver.

“Ask why the indemnity isn’t all in gold as agreed?”

“The Official says they could not obtain the gold in time but these are clean Mex and legal currency, and will you please give him a receipt.” “Clean” coins meant those that were unshaved, or unclipped, a common practice, and sloughed off onto the unwary.

“Begin counting.”

Happily his shroff tipped the contents onto the carpet. At once he spotted a clipped coin, Vargas another and another. These were put to one side. Every eye stayed on the carpet, on the neatly stacked, growing piles of coins. Five thousand pounds sterling was an immense sum when the salary of a full-time interpreter was four hundred a year and pay your own lodgings, a shroff a hundred (though a good percentage of everything that passed through his hands would somehow stick there), a servant in London twenty pounds a year and all found, a soldier five pennies a day, a sailor six, an Admiral six hundred pounds a year.

The counting was quickly done. Both shroffs checked the weight of each small bar of gold twice, then the weight of each of the stacks of chipped coins, then used an abacus to calculate the total against the current rate of exchange.

Vargas said, “It comes to four thousand and eighty-four pounds, six shillings and seven pence farthing, Sir William, in clean coin, five hundred and twenty pounds in gold, ninety-two pounds sixteen in clipped coins for a grand total of four thousand, six hundred and ninety-seven pounds, two shillings, and seven pence farthing.”

“Sorry, eight pence, Mass’er.” The Chinese bowed and nodded his head, his pigtail long and thick, making the slight, face-saving adjustment as agreed in advance with Vargas, deciding that the amount that his Portuguese counterpart had deducted for their fee, two and a half percent, or one hundred and seventeen pounds, eight shillings and sixpence between
them, was less than what he would have maneuvered, but passable for half an hour’s work.

Sir William said, “Vargas, put it back in the chest, give them a receipt with a note that the underpayment will be added to the last installment. Johann, thank them, and say we will expect the full amount, in gold, in nineteen days.”

Johann obeyed. At once the other interpreter began a long statement. “They now ask for an extension, sir, and—”

“No extension.” Sir William sighed, dismissed the others and prepared for another hour, closing his ears until he was astonished to hear Johann say, “They’ve suddenly come to the point, sir: it’s the Yedo meeting, sir. They ask that this be delayed another thirty days to make it fifty days from now … the exact words are: the Shōgun will return from Kyōto then and he has informed the Council of Elders to advise the Foreign Ministers that he would grant them an audience on that day.”

To give himself time to think, Sir William called out, “Lun!” Lun appeared instantly. “Tea!”

Within seconds the trays arrived. And cigars, snuff and pipe tobacco. Soon the room was filled with smoke and everyone coughing and all the time Sir William was considering options.

First and foremost, I’m probably dealing with low-level officials, so anything agreed will be subject to further negotiation. Next, in any event the fifty days will surely extend into two months, even three, but if we have an audience with the Ultimate Power, of course under British leadership, we will have taken a lasting step forward. Actually, I don’t mind if the delay goes to three, even four months. By then I’ll have Lord Russell’s approval for war, reinforcements will be en route from India and Hong Kong, the Admiral will have his damned authority, and we’ll have the forces to invest, hold and fortify Yedo if we have to.

I could say, let us have the meeting as planned and then the Shōgun meeting. That would be best, but I feel they won’t go against the mystical Shōgun’s wishes and somehow they’ll wheedle and twist and mesh us again.

Johann said, “The spokesman says, as that’s agreed, we will bid you farewell.”

“Nothing is agreed. A thirty-day extension is not possible for many reasons. We have already arranged a date for the Council of Elders that will take place as planned and then, ten days later, we will be pleased to meet the Shōgun.”

After an hour of sucked-in breaths, aghast silences, blunt Anglo-Saxonese, Sir William allowed himself to be whittled down and got his compromise position: The meeting with the Council of Elders to take place as planned, and the meeting with the Shōgun twenty days after that.

Once alone again with Sir William, Johann said, “They won’t abide by it.”

“Yes, I know. Never mind.”

“Sir William, my contract’s up in a couple of months. I won’t renew.”

Sir William said sharply, “I can’t do without your services for at least six months.”

“It’s time to go home. This place is going to be a bloodbath soon and I’ve no want to have my head on a spike.”

“I’ll increase your salary by fifty pounds a year.”

“It’s not the money, Sir William. I’m tired. Ninety-eight percent of all the talk is
Sheisse
. I’ve no patience now to sift the kernel of wheat from the barrel of dung!”

“I need you for these two meetings.”

“They’ll never take place. Two months odd, then I’m off, the exact day is on the paper. Sorry, Sir William, but that’s the end, and now I am going to get drunk.” He left.

Sir William went across the hall to his office window and searched the horizon. It was nearing sunset now. No sign of any of the fleet. My God, I hope they’re safe. Must keep Johann somehow. Tyrer won’t be ready for a year at least. Who can I get that I can trust? God damn it!

Light from the dying sun illuminated the sparsely furnished room, not enough to see by so he lit an oil lamp, adjusting the wick carefully. On his desk were neat piles of dispatches, his edition of
All the Year Round—
long since read from cover to cover, with all the newspapers from the last mail ship, several editions of
Illustrated London News
and
Punch
. He picked up the advance copy of Turgenev’s
Fathers and Sons
in Russian sent to him by a friend at the Court of St. Petersburg, amongst other English and French books, started to read it, then, distracted, put it aside and began the second letter of the day to the Governor of Hong Kong, giving details of today’s meeting, and asking for a replacement for Johann. Lun came in silently, closing the door.

“Yes, Lun?”

Lun came up to his desk, hesitated, then dropped his voice. “Mass’er,” he said cautiously, “hear trou’bel, trou’bel soon Yedo Big House, big trou’bel.”

Sir William stared up at him. Big House was what the Chinese servants called their Yedo Legation. “What trouble?”

Lun shrugged. “Trou’bel.”

“When trouble?”

Again Lun shrugged. “Whisk’y water, heya?”

Sir William nodded thoughtfully. From time to time Lun whispered rumors to him with an uncanny knack of being right. He watched him pad over to the sideboard and make the drink, just as he liked it.

* * *

Phillip Tyrer and the kilted Captain were watching the same sunset from an upstairs window of the Legation at Yedo, the usual groups of samurai stationed outside the walls and in all approaches up the hill. Dark reds and orange and browns on the empty horizon mixed with a strip of blue above the sea. “Will the weather be good tomorrow?”

“Don’t know much about the weather here, Mr. Tyrer. If we were in Scotland I could give you a wee forecast,” the Captain, a sandy-haired, thirty-year-old ramrod, laughed. “Rain with scattered showers … but, och ay, it’s no’ so bad.”

“I’ve never been to Scotland, but I will on my next leave. When do you go home?”

“Maybe next year, or the year after. This is only my second year.” Their attention went back to the square. Four Highlanders and a sergeant plodded up the hill through the samurai and entered the iron gates, returning from a routine patrol to the wharf where a detachment of marines and a cutter were stationed. Samurai were always in attendance, standing around, sometimes chatting, or in clusters near fires that they lit if it was cold, movement constant. No one, soldier or Legation employee, had been prevented from leaving or entering, though all had passed through intense, always silent scrutiny.

“Excuse me, I’ll see the Sergeant, make sure our cutter’s there, in case, and close down for the night. Dinner at seven as usual?”

“Yes.” When he was alone Tyrer stifled a nervous yawn, stretched and moved his arm to ease the slight ache there. His wound had healed perfectly, no longer any need to use a sling. I’m bloody lucky, he thought, except for Wee Willie. Damn the man for sending me here, I’m supposed to be training to be an interpreter, not a dogsbody. Damn damn damn. And now I’ll miss André’s recital that I was so looking forward to. Angelique is certain to be there.

Rumors of her secret betrothal had rushed around the Settlement like a foehn wind—unsettling. Hints dropped to her or to Struan had brought forth neither denial nor confirmation, nor even a clue. In the Club the betting was two to one that it was a fact, twenty to one that the marriage would never take place: “Struan’s as sick as a dog, she’s Catholic and you know his mum, for God’s sake, Jamie!”

“Taken! He’s better every day and you don’t know him like I do. Ten guineas against two hundred.”

“Charlie, what odds you give me that one’s up the spout?”

“Oh, for God’s sake!”

“Angel Tits ain’t a doxy, for Chris’ sake!”

“A thousand to one?”

“Done, by God … a golden guinea!”

To Tyrer and Pallidar’s disgust, the odds and bets, ever more personal and detailed, changed daily. “The buggers here are a lot of guttersnipes!”

“You’re right, of course, Pallidar. A scummy lot!”

With intense speculation going on about Struan and Angelique, there was more about the extent of the storm and the fleet, worse that it might be in dire trouble, and doom generally. Japanese merchants were more nervous than usual too, whispering rumors of insurrections all over Japan against or for the Bakufu, that the mystical Mikado, supposed high priest of all Japanese, who held sway in Kyōto, had ordered all samurai to attack Yokohama.

“Poppycock, if you ask me,” the Westerners told one another, but more and more guns were purchased and even the two trader wives slept with a loaded weapon beside their beds. Drunk Town was rumored to be an armed camp.

Then, a few days ago, an act of war: an American merchantman, storm battered, had limped into Yokohama. In the Shimonoseki Straits, inbound from Shanghai for Yokohama with a cargo of silver, ammunition and arms, then onwards to the Philippines with opium, tea and general trade goods, she had been fired upon by shore batteries.

“The devil you were!” someone called out over the explosion of anger in the Club.

“You’re goddam right we were! And us as peaceful as a buttercup! Those Choshu bastards were mighty accurate—what crazy bastard sold them goddam cannon? Blew off our top t’gallants before we knew what was happening and could take evading action. Sure, we returned their fire but we’ve only a couple of stinky goddam five-pounders that’d not give a body much cause to hiccup. We counted as many as twenty cannon.”

“My God, twenty cannon and expert gunners could easily close Shimonoseki, and if that happens we’re in dead trouble. That’s the quickest and only safe way here.”

“Ay! The Inland Waters are a must, by God!”

“Where the hell’s the fleet? They could go and knock out those batteries! What about our trade?”

“Ay, where’s the fleet, hope to God she’s safe!”

“And if she’s not?”

“Charlie, we’ll just have to send for another …”

Stupid people, Tyrer thought, all they can think of is send for the fleet, boozing and money.

Thank God the French Admiral brought back André with him. Thank God for André even though he’s volatile and strange but that’s only because he’s French. Thanks to him I’ve already two exercise books crammed with Japanese words and phrases, my daily journal’s chockablock with an
abundance of folklore, I’ve a rendezvous with a Jesuit when we’re again in Yokohama. Such marvelous progress and so important for me to learn quickly—and that’s without even thinking about the Yoshiwara.

Three visits. The first two guided, the third alone.

“André, I just can’t tell you how much I appreciate all the time you’ve given me, and all the help. And as to tonight, I can never repay you, never.”

That was after the first visit.

Nervous, flushed, sweating, almost tongue-tied but pretending to be manly he had followed André out of the Settlement at dusk, joining the jovial crowds of men Yoshiwara bound, passed the samurai guards, politely raising top hats and receiving perfunctory bows in return, across the Bridge to Paradise towards the tall gates in the enclosing wooden fence.

“Yoshiwara means Place of Reeds,” André said expansively, both of them well lubricated with champagne that in Tyrer’s case had only increased his foreboding. “It was the name of a district in Yedo, a reclaimed swamp, where the first ever, fenced bordello area was decreed and built by Shōgun Toranaga two and a half centuries ago. Before that, bordellos were scattered everywhere. Since then, so we’re told, all cities and towns have similar enclosures, all of them licensed and tightly controlled. By custom, many are called Yoshiwara. See those?”