Gai-Jin (11 page)

Norbert Greyforth dropped his voice. “What about Hodogaya? You’ve two ships here, we’ve three, and between us lots of bully boys, most lads in the merchant fleet’d join us, we’ve arms enough and we could bring a cannon or two. John Canterbury was a good friend, the Old Man liked him, and I want him revenged. What about it?”

“If Hodogaya was a port I wouldn’t hesitate, but we can’t raid inland. This isn’t China.”

“You afraid of that pipsqueak in there?”

“I’m not afraid of anyone,” McFay said carefully. “We can’t mount a successful raid without regular troops, Norbert, that’s not possible. I want revenge more than any.”

Greyforth made sure no one was listening. “Since you brought it up tonight and we don’t talk too often, we’ve heard there’s going to be bad trouble here soon.”

“The revolt?”

“Yes. Very bad trouble for us. There’s been all sorts of signs. Our silk
dealers have been acting right smelly the last month or two, upping the price of bulk raw, delaying deliveries, slow on payments and wanting extra credits. I’ll bet it’s the same with you.”

“Yes.” It was rare for the two men to talk business.

“Don’t know much more than that, except many of the signs are the same as in America that led to civil war. If that happens here it’s going to bugger us proper. Without the fleet and troops we’re bitched and we can be wiped out.”

After a pause, McFay said, “What do you propose?”

“We’ll have to wait and see what happens. With Wee Willie’s plan I don’t hope for much, like you. The Russian was right about what should be done. Meanwhile …” Greyforth nodded out to sea where two of their clippers and merchantmen lay in the roads—clippers still much faster back to England than steamers, paddle-driven or screw-driven…“We’re keeping all our inner ledgers and specie aboard, we’ve increased our levels of gunpowder, shot, shrapnel and put in an order for two of the brand-new Yankee 10-barrel Gatling machine guns as soon as they are available.”

McFay laughed. “The hell you have—so did we!”

“We heard that too, which is why I made the order, and twice as many of the new rifles than your shipment.”

“Who told you, eh? Who’s your spy?”

“Old Mother Hubbard,” Greyforth said dryly. “Listen, we all know these inventions, along with metal cartridges, have changed the course of war—that’s proved already by the casualties at the battles of Bull Run and Fredericksburg.”

“Shocking, yes. Dmitri told me, said the South lost four thousand in one afternoon. Terrible. So?”

“We could both sell these weapons to the Japanners by the ton. My thought is we agree to not, and together we make bloody sure no other bugger imports them or smuggles them in. Selling Jappers steamers and the odd cannon’s one thing, but not repeaters or machine guns. Agreed?”

McFay was surprised by the offer. And suspicious. But he kept it off his face, sure that Norbert would never keep the bargain, and shook the offered hand. “Agreed.”

“Good. What’s the latest on young Struan?”

“When I saw him an hour or so ago he was poorly.”

“Is he going to die?”

“No, the doctor assured me of that.”

A cold smile. “What the hell do they know? But if he did that could wreck the Noble House.”

“Nothing will ever wreck the Noble House. Dirk Struan saw to that.”

“Don’t be too sure. Dirk’s been dead more than twenty years, his son Culum’s not far from his deathbed and if Malcolm dies who’s to take over?
Not his young brother who’s only ten.” His eyes glinted strangely. “Old Man Brock may be seventy-three but he’s as tough and clever as he ever was.”

“But we’re still the Noble House; Culum is still the tai-pan.” McFay added, glad for the barb, “Old Man Brock’s still not a Steward of the Jockey Club at Happy Valley and never will be.”

“That’ll come soon enough, Jamie, that and all the rest. Culum Struan won’t control the Jockey Club vote much longer, and if his son and heir kicks the bucket too, well then, counting us and our friends we’ve the necessary votes.”

“It won’t happen.”

Greyforth hardened. “Mayhaps Old Man Brock will honor us with a visit here soon—along with Sir Morgan.”

“Morgan’s in Hong Kong?” McFay tried to stop his astonishment from showing. Sir Morgan Brock was Old Man Brock’s eldest son, who very successfully ran their London office. As far as Jamie knew Morgan had never been to Asia before. If Morgan’s suddenly in Hong Kong … what new devilment are those two up to now? he asked himself uneasily. Morgan specialized in merchant banking and had skillfully spread the tentacles of Brock’s into Europe, Russia, and North America, always harrying the Struan trade routes and customers. Since the American war began last year, McFay, along with other Directors of Struan’s, had been getting worrisome reports about failures amongst their extensive American interests, both North and South, where Culum Struan had invested heavily. “If Old Man Brock and son grace us with their presence, I’ve no doubt we would be honored to give them supper.”

Greyforth laughed without humor. “I doubt they’ll have time, except to inspect your books, when we take you over.”

“You never will. If I have any news on the revolt I’ll send word, please do likewise. Good night now.” Overpolitely McFay raised his hat and walked away.

Greyforth laughed to himself, delighted with the seeds he had planted. The Old Man will be happy to harvest them, he thought, tearing them out by the roots.

Dr. Babcott trudged wearily along a corridor in the semi-darkness of the Kanagawa Legation. He carried a small oil lamp and wore a dressing gown over woolen pajamas. From somewhere downstairs a clock chimed two o’clock. Absently he reached into his pocket and checked his fob watch, yawned, then knocked on a door. “Miss Angelique?”

After a moment she called out sleepily, “Yes?”

“You wanted to know when Mr. Struan woke up.”

“Ah, thank you.” A moment, then the door was unbarred and
Angelique came out. Hair a little dishevelled and still drowsy, wearing a robe over her nightdress. “How is he?”

“A little sick, and woozy,” Babcott said, leading her back along the corridor and downstairs to the surgery where the sickrooms were. “His temperature and pulse rate are up a little, of course that’s to be expected. I’ve given him a drug for the pain, but he’s a fine, strong young man and everything should be all right.”

The first time she had seen Malcolm she had been shocked by his lack of color, and appalled by the stench. She had never been in a hospital or surgery before, or in a real sickroom. Apart from reading in the Paris newspapers and journals about death and dying and illness and the waves of plague and killing diseases—measles, smallpox, typhus, cholera, pneumonia, meningitis, whooping cough, scarlet fever, childbed fever and the like—that swept Paris and Lyon and other cities and towns from time to time, she had had no close acquaintance with sickness. Her health had always been good, her aunt and uncle and brother equally blessed.

Shakily she had touched his forehead, moving the sweat-stained hair out of his face, but repelled by the smell that surrounded the bed, hurried out.

In a room nearby Tyrer was sleeping comfortably. To her great relief there was no smell here. She thought he had a pleasant sleeping face where Malcolm Struan had been tormented.

“Phillip saved my life, Doctor,” she had said. “After Mr.—Mr. Canterbury, I was—I was paralyzed and Phillip he flung his horse in the assassin’s path and gave me time to escape. I was—I can’t describe how awful …”

“What was the man like? Could you recognize him?”

“I don’t know. He was just a native, young I think, but I don’t know, it’s difficult to tell their ages and he was the—the first I’d seen close. He wore a kimono with a short sword in his belt, and the big one, all bloody and ready again to …” Her eyes had filled with tears.

Babcott had gentled her and showed her a room, gave her some tea with a touch of laudanum, and promised he would call her the moment Struan awoke.

And now he’s awake, she thought, her feet leaden, nausea welling up inside her, head aching and filled with vile pictures. I wish I hadn’t come here. Henri Seratard told me to wait until tomorrow, Captain Marlowe was against it, everyone, so why did I plead so ardently with the Admiral? I don’t know, we’re jus’ good friends, not lovers or engaged or …

Or do I begin to love him, or was I only consumed with bravado, playacting, because this whole horrid day has been like a melodrama by Dumas, the nightmare at the road not real, the Settlement inflamed not real, Malcolm’s message arriving at sunset not real:
“Please come and see me
as soon as you can,”
written by the doctor on his behalf—me not real, just playacting the part of the heroine….

Babcott stopped. “Here we are. You’ll find him rather tired, Mademoiselle. I’ll just make sure he’s all right, then I’ll leave you alone for a minute or two. He may drop off because of the drug, but don’t worry, and if you want me I’ll be in the surgery next door. Don’t tax him, or yourself, or worry about anything—don’t forget you’ve had a rotten time too.”

She steeled herself, fixed a smile on her face and followed him in. “Hello, Malcolm,
mon cher.”

“Hello.” Struan was very pale, and had aged, but his eyes were clear.

The doctor chattered pleasantly, peered at him, quickly took his pulse, felt his forehead, half nodded to himself, said that the patient was doing fine and left.

“You’re so beautiful,” Struan said, his robust voice now just a thread, feeling strange, floating yet nailed to the cot and the sweat-sodden straw mattress.

She went closer. The smell was still there as much as she tried to pretend it was not. “How do you feel? I’m so sorry you’re hurt.”

“Joss,” he said, using a Chinese word that meant fate, luck, the will of the gods. “You’re so beautiful.”

“Ah,
chéri
, oh how I wish all this had never happened, that I’d never asked to go for a ride, never wanted to visit to the Japans.”

“Joss. It’s … it’s the next day, isn’t it?”

“Yes, the attack was yesterday afternoon.”

It seemed to be difficult for his brain to translate her words into usable form, and equally difficult to compose words and say them, as she was finding it equally difficult to stay. “Yesterday? That’s a lifetime ago. Have you seen Phillip?”

“Yes, yes, I saw him earlier but he was asleep. I’ll see him as soon as I leave you,
chéri
. In fact I’d better go now, the doctor said not to tire you.”

“No, don’t go yet, please. Listen, Angelique, I don’t know when I’ll be—be fit to travel, so …” Momentarily his eyes closed against a barb of pain but it left him. When he focused on her again, he saw her fear and misread it. “Don’t worry, McFay will see that you’re esc—escorted safely back to Hong Kong, so please don’t worry.”

“Thank you, Malcolm, yes, I think I should. I’ll return tomorrow or the next day.” She saw the sudden disappointment and added at once, “Of course you’ll be better then, and we can go together and, oh yes, Henri Seratard sent his condolences …”

She stopped, aghast, as a great pain took him and his face twisted and he tried to double up but could not, his insides tried to cast out the foul poison of the ether that seemed to permeate every pore and brain cell he
possessed but could not—his stomach and bowels already empty of everything possible—each spasm tearing at his wounds, every cough ripping more than the last with only a little putrid liquid coming out for all the torment.

In panic she whirled for the doctor and fumbled for the door handle.

“It’s all right, Ange—Angelique,” said the voice that she hardly recognized now. “Stay a … moment more.”

He saw the horror on her face and again misread it, seeing it as anxiety, a vast depth of compassion, and love. His fear left him and he lay back to gather his strength. “My darling, I’d hoped, I’d hoped so very much … of course you know I’ve loved you from the first moment.” The spasm had sapped his strength but his complete belief that he had seen in her what he had prayed for, gave him great peace. “I can’t seem to think straight but I wanted … to see you to tell you … Christ, Angelique, I was petrified of the operation, petrified of the drugs, petrified of dying and not waking up before I saw you again. I’ve never been so petrified, never.”

“I’d be petrified too—oh, Malcolm, this is all so awful.” Her skin felt clammy and her head ached even more and she was afraid she would be sick any moment. “The doctor assured me and everyone that you’ll be well soon!”

“I don’t care now that I know you love me, if I die that’s joss and in my family we know we—we can’t escape joss. You’re my lucky star, my lodestone, I … knew it from the first moment. We’ll marry …” The words trailed off. His ears were ringing and his eyes misted a little, eyelids flickering as the opiate took hold, sliding him into the netherworld where pain existed but was transformed into painlessness. “Marry in springtime…. ”

“Malcolm, listen,” she said quickly, “you’re not going to die and I …
alors
, I must be honest with you …” Then the words began pouring out, “I don’t want to marry yet, I’m not sure if I love you, I’m just not sure, you’ll have to be patient, and if I do or do not, I don’t think I can ever live in this awful place, or Hong Kong, in fact I know I can’t, I won’t, I can’t, I know I’d die, the thought of living in Asia horrifies me, the stench and the awful people. I’m going back to Paris where I belong, as soon as I can and I’m never coming back, never, never, never.”

But he had heard none of it. He was in dreams now, not seeing her, and he murmured, “Many sons, you and I … so happy you love me … prayed for … so now … live forever in the Great House on the Peak. Your love has banished fear, fear of death, always afraid of death, always so near, the twins, little sister Mary, dead so young, my brother, father almost dead … grandfather another violent death, but now … now … all changed … marry in springtime. Yes?”

His eyes opened. For an instant he saw her clearly, saw the stretched
face and wringing hands and revulsion and he wanted to shriek, What’s the matter, for God’s sake, this is only a sickroom and I know the blanket’s sodden with sweat and I’m lying in a little urine and dung and everything stinks but that’s because I’m cut, for Christ’s sake, I’ve only been cut and now I’m sewn up and well again, well again, well again ….