Gai-Jin (103 page)

A roar distracted her. A mob of Navy players had forced the ball between the Army posts but the Army fought the ball away and now a general riot began, the Navy claiming a goal, the Army disputing it. Dozens of seamen swarmed onto the pitch to join the melee, then soldiers and soon there was a free-for-all, traders and others cheering and laughing and enjoying the spectacle, the referee, Lunkchurch, desperately trying to stay out of the fight and, meanwhile, get some order back on the field.

“Oh, look … that poor fellow’s being kicked to death!”

“Nothing to worry about, Angelique, just horseplay, clearly it wasn’t a goal,” the General said confidently. The man was Navy, so of little concern. Sir William, on the other side of her, was as excited as any, nothing like a good brawl to lighten the spirits. Nonetheless, conscious of Angelique, he leaned over to the General. “Think we should get on with the game, Thomas, eh?”

“Quite right.” The General motioned to Pallidar. “Break it up, if you please—reason with them.”

Pallidar of the Dragoons went onto the pitch, took out his revolver and fired a salvo into the air. Everyone froze. “Listen, you lot,” he called out, all eyes on him now. “Everyone off the pitch except the players. The General’s order: another riot and the match is cancelled and those involved will be disciplined. Move!” The field began to clear, many hobbling, the injured dragged off by supporters. “Now, Mr. Referee, was it a goal or not?”

“Well, Captain, yes and no, you see …”

“Was it or not?”

The silence was strong. Lunkchurch knew whatever he said was going to be wrong. He decided the truth was best: “A goal for the Navy!”

Amid cheers and countercheers, threats and counterthreats, Pallidar walked back, tall and very pleased with himself. “Oh, Settry, what bravery!” Angelique spoke with such appreciation that Marlowe and others were riven with jealousy. “Good work, old boy,” Marlowe said reluctantly as the game—the fight—began in earnest to cheers drowned by the boos and curses.

“Jolly good game, Thomas, what?” Sir William said.

“Clearly that wasn’t a goal, the Referee’s a—”

“Poppycock! Five guineas says the Navy will win.”

The General’s neck had gone a darker shade of red and this pleased Sir William and helped to get him out of his ill humor. Nothing but quarrels in the Settlement and Drunk Town, irritating letters and complaints from the Bakufu and Customs House, and he had not forgotten the General’s stupidity at the riot.

Added to these woes, the last mails had brought more foul news and forecasts from the Foreign Office that lack of financial support in Parliament would herald major cutbacks of Diplomatic personnel: “even though the coffers of the Empire are overflowing, there will be no salary increases this year. The American war promises to be the most savage in history because of the newly invented shell, bronze cartridge, breech-loading rifle, machine gun and breech-loading cannon; with the defeat of Union forces at Shiloh and the Second Battle of Bull Run the war is presently expected to be won by the Confederates, most pundits in the City having written off President Lincoln as weak and ineffectual, but, dear Willie, H.M.’s policy remains the same: to back both sides, keep our heads down and stay to hell out of this one …”

European news was also bad: Russian Cossack troops had again massacred thousands of Poles in Warsaw demonstrating against Russian rule; Prince von Bismarck had been made Minister President of Prussia and was rumored to be preparing for war against expansionist France; Austria-Hungary and Russia appeared to be on the verge of war again; inevitably more fighting in the Balkans …

And so on, ad nauseam, Sir William thought with a scowl. Nothing changes! And I’m damned if I believe the Bakufu will do what they’ve promised, which means I will have to show the Flag here. I’ll have to teach the Japanners that a promise is a promise if it’s made to the British Raj, by God, and to remind Zergeyev, Seratard and others the same thing.

Bombard Yedo would be the simplest and easiest solution, that’d bring them to heel quick enough. But then there’s Ketterer—perhaps his foray into history books will have changed him. Ugh! What a hope …

“A ruble for your thoughts, Sir William,” Count Zergeyev said with a smile, offering a silver flask embossed with his family crest in gold. “Vodka is good for thoughts.”

“Thanks.” Sir William took a swallow and felt the fire slide down his gullet, reminding him of all the wonderful times at the Embassy in St. Petersburg when he was in his twenties, a center of power, not an outpost like Yokohama, drinking and carousing, balls and ballet and dachas, night life and luxury—for the few—excitement and intrigues and marvelous dinners and Vertinskya, never far from his thoughts.

For five of his seven years there she had been his mistress, youngest daughter of a favored goldsmith to the Court, an artist like her father, her father benign about their liaison, William’s own Russian mother doting on the girl and wanting him to marry her. “Sorry, Mama dear, no chance of that at all, much as I’d like it, the Service would never approve. It’s Sir Roger’s daughter Daphne. Sorry …”

He drank again, the misery of their parting still with him. “I was thinking about Vertinskya,” he said in Russian.

“Ah! Yes, the girls of Mother Russia are very special,” Zergeyev replied compassionately in the same language. “Their love, if you are so blessed, is forever and then forever again.” The affair had been smiled at in diplomatic circles and well documented by the Cheka, the Tsar’s secret police, therefore part of Sir William’s dossier that of course Zergeyev had read. Stupid of the girl to kill herself, he thought, never quite sure if William was aware of her suicide shortly after he had returned to London. That was never part of the plan, nor his duty to tell him. Why did she do it? Over this boor? Surely that’s not possible, but for whatever reason, a pity, her usefulness, to both of us, would have lasted for many more years. “Perhaps your Foreign Office will post you there again—there are other Vertinskyas.”

“Not much chance of that, I’m afraid.”

“Let’s hope. Another hope,
mon ami
, that your Lord Palmerston will see the logic that we should have the Kuriles. Like the Dardanelles—both should surely be Russian.”

Sir William saw the glitter in his strange sloe eyes. “Not much chance of that, I’m afraid.”

The halftime whistle sounded, the score still two all, to be swallowed by a roar of recriminations and praises and promises of dire punishment for the losers. At once Marlowe moved over to Jamie. “Do you think Mr. Struan and, er, and Miss Angelique would like to join me aboard
Pearl
for tiffin and a day’s sail?” he asked, simulating a sudden thought. “Have to do some trials soon as the fleet’s back and I’d be glad to have them aboard.”

“I think they’d enjoy it, why don’t you ask him?”

“When would be a good time?”

“Any day around eleven—or just before dinner.”

“Thanks, thanks very much.” Marlowe beamed, then noticed Jamie’s pallor. “Oh, are you all right?”

“Yes, thanks.” Jamie forced a smile and moved away.

He had been considering his future. Some weeks ago he had written to Maureen Ross, his fiancée, in Scotland, telling her to wait no longer for him—almost three years since he had last seen her, five years engaged—that he was sorry, he knew he had been abominable to keep her waiting so long but he was absolutely, finally convinced the East was positively no place for a lady, and equally certain Asia was his home, Yokohama, Hong Kong, Shanghai, anywhere but there, and he had no intention of leaving. Yes, he knew he had been unfair to her but their engagement was at an end. This was to be his last letter.

For days he had felt nauseated, before he wrote it, after having written it and after he had seen the mail ship put to sea. But he was sure. That chapter was ended. And now the Struan chapter that was so rosy, promotion next year for certain, will also end. God Almighty! No way Malcolm will go back, so I’ve only a few more weeks to decide what to do—and don’t forget Norbert will be back before then. Then what? Will they really duel? If they do that’s joss, but you’ve still got to protect Malcolm as best you can.

So a new job! Where? I’d like to stay here, there’s Nemi, it’s a good life with a wide-open future to build. Hong Kong and Shanghai are mostly built, the old-boy structure strong in place—great if you’re a Struan or Brock or Cooper and so on but difficult to break through.

First choice would be here. With whom? With Dmitri in Cooper-Tillman? Could they use me? Yes, but not as top man. Brock’s? Oh, yes, I considered that in the depths of her unfairness, but no chance of top man with Norbert—but if Malcolm killed him what a coup that would be, what revenge! Lunkchurch? Yes, definitely, but who’d want to work for that uncouth bugger? What about on your own? That’d be best, but the riskiest and who’d sponsor you? I’d need money—I’ve some put away but not enough. I’d need lots to begin, lots to cover the time agrowing, for letters of credit and insurances, time to arrange agents in London, San Francisco, Hong Kong, Shanghai and all over Asia, Paris—and St. Petersburg. Don’t forget Russians are huge buyers of tea and will trade sables and other furs to great profit and there are all your contacts in Russian Alaska, and their trading posts on the American west coast south. A good idea but risky, such a long time between buying and selling and profit, too many hazards for the ships, too many lost at sea or to piracy …

A little farther away Phillip Tyrer was also staring into the distance. He was thinking about Fujiko and almost groaned aloud. Yesterday evening, with his friend Nakama—Hiraga—to help him, he had tried to begin negotiations for her exclusivity. Mama-san Raiko’s eyes had soared and she shook
her head, saying, Oh, so sorry, I doubt if it is possible, the girl so valuable and wanted by so many important gai-jin,
important gai-jin
, implying that even Sir William was an occasional client though never mentioning him by name, which had unsettled Tyrer and made him even more anxious.

Raiko said that, even before discussing financial and other details, first she would ask Fujiko if she would consider it, adding to his shock that it would be best for him not to see her again until and unless a contract had been agreed. It had taken him another hour to reach a compromise that Nakama had suggested: in the interim period, when seeing Fujiko, he would never mention the matter or discuss it directly with her, that was the mama-san’s responsibility.

Thank God for Nakama, he told himself in another sweat, I nearly messed up everything. But for him …

His eyes focused and he saw Seratard and André Poncin deep in private conversation, and not far away from them, Erlicher, the Swiss Minister, was equally private with Johann, who was concentrating on every word.

What’s so important and urgent to those men, he asked himself, that they would discuss it at a football match, reminding himself not to daydream, to be adult and aware that all was not well in Japan, to do his duty to the Crown and Sir William—Fujiko could wait until tonight when he might get an answer.

Damn Johann! Now that the wily Swiss was leaving his post as interpreter it had put a further burden on him, leaving him little time to sleep or to play. Only this morning Sir William had flared, unfairly, he thought bitterly, “For God’s sake, Phillip, put in more hours. The sooner you’re fluent the better for the Crown, the sooner Nakama is fluent in English the better for the Crown. Earn your daily bread, stop slacking, lean on Nakama, make him earn his daily bread too or out he goes!”

Hiraga was in the Legation reading a letter aloud that Tyrer had written for Sir William which he had helped translate, that was to be delivered tomorrow to the Bakufu. Though he did not understand many of the words his reading was improving rapidly: “You’ve an aptitude for English, Nakama, old boy,” Tyrer had said several times. This had pleased him, even though, normally, praise or criticism from a gai-jin was meaningless. Over the weeks most of his waking hours had been spent cramming words and phrases, repeating them over and over, so much so that the language of his dreams was mixed up.

“Why bash your head, Cousin?” Akimoto asked him.

“I must learn English as quickly as possible. There is so little time, this gai-jin leader is rude and ill-tempered and I have no idea how long I can stay. But Akimoto, if I could read who knows what information I could get.
You cannot believe how stupid they are about their secrets. Hundreds of books and pamphlets and documents lie around everywhere. I have access to everything, can read anything, and this Taira person answers my most obvious questions.”

This was said last night in their safe house in the village and he had had a cold towel around his aching head. He was no longer confined to the Legation. Now he could stay in the village if he wanted to though many nights he was too tired to leave, and he would stay and sleep on a spare bunk in the cottage Tyrer shared with Babcott. Of necessity George Babcott had had to know about him. “Marvelous! Nakama can help me with my Japanese too and my dictionary! Marvelous, I’ll organize lessons and a cram course!”

Babcott’s approach was quite radical. Learning was to be enjoyed and soon it had almost developed into a game, a hilarious game to see who could learn faster, an entirely new style for Hiraga and Tyrer, for whom schooling was serious, and education implanted by rote, repetition and the birch.

“How fast the lessons go, Akimoto. It becomes easier every day—we shall do the same in our schools when
sonno-joi
is supreme.”

Akimoto laughed. “Teachers gentle and kind? No bashing or stick? Never! More important, what about the frigate?”

He had told Akimoto that Tyrer had promised he would ask a captain friend for permission to take the two of them aboard, explaining Akimoto as the son of a wealthy Choshu shipbuilding family, come to visit him for a few days, and a valuable friend in the future.

From the open window Hiraga heard cheering from the football match. He sighed, then reverently picked up Babcott’s handwritten dictionary. It was the first dictionary he had ever seen, and the first English-Japanese, Japanese-English ever. Babcott had built on lists of words and phrases gathered by himself, traders and priests, both Catholic and Protestant, with others translated from Dutch-Japanese equivalents. At the moment the book was short. But daily it grew and it fascinated him.