Gai-Jin (114 page)

WEDNESDAY, 3RD DECEMBER
:

Hiraga caught a passing reflection in the butcher’s shop window and did not recognize himself. Passersby on the High Street barely noticed him. He retraced his steps, stared at his shadowed image—and new disguise. Top hat, high collar and cravat, a broad-shouldered, waisted frock coat of dark broadcloth, waistcoat of blue silk, stainless steel chain across it joining the toggle to a fob watch, tight trousers and leather boots. All the gift of H.M. Government, except the watch given him by Tyrer—for services rendered. He took off his hat and looked at himself, this way and that. Now his hair
covered his pate and was growing fast, nowhere near as long as Phillip Tyrer’s but certainly long enough to be considered European. Cleanshaven. The quality and cheapness of British razors had impressed him greatly, another stunning example of manufacturing prowess.

He smiled at himself, pleased with his masquerade, then took out his watch, admiring it, noting the time, 11:16. As if sixteen minutes mattered, he thought scornfully, though pleased he had learned gai-jin timekeeping so quickly. I have learned much. Not enough yet but a beginning.

“Want ’ter buy a nice leg of frozen Aussie mutton, off the mail ship’s ice hold, me Lord, or wot’tabout some nice fat bacon, Hong Kong smoked?” The butcher was big-bellied, bald, with arms like cannons and a bloodstained apron.

“Oh!” Then Hiraga noticed the meats and offal and game hanging on the other side of the windows with their swarms of flies. “No, no thanks. I just ’rooking. Good day, sir,” he said, hiding his revulsion. With a flourish he replaced his hat at a jaunty Tyrer tilt and continued down High Street towards Drunk Town and the village, politely raising his hat to other pedestrians or riders who replied in kind. This pleased him even more for it signified acceptance, by their standards, so different from Japanese customs—from civilized standards.

Fools. Just because I use their dress and begin to wear like them they think I am changed. They are still enemy, even Taira. Stupid of Taira to change his mind over Fujiko, what is the matter with him? That does not fit into my plan at all.

Hiraga caught sight of Struan hobbling out of his building with Jamie McFay, Ori’s woman between them in animated conversation. This reminded him of his meeting with the Noble House Number Two man. His head was still reeling from Western facts and figures, and still limp from all the information McFay had extracted from him about moneylenders and rice merchants like the Gyokoyama. “Jami-san, perhap possib’er you meet one of these men, if secret,” he had told him, in desperation, to escape. “I interpret if keep secret.”

The shoya was waiting for him. Sensing the man’s eagerness to learn what he had learned, Hiraga toyed with him, accepted the offer of a massage. Then, relaxed in a proper yukata, and over a delicate lunch of rice, dried squid, morning fresh sea bass sliced paper thin with soya,
daikon—
horseradish—and saké, he said he had had talks with important gai-jin and they had answered his questions. He sipped his saké and volunteered none of it. Important information needed encouragement. Reciprocity. “What news from Kyōto?”

“It is all strange,” the shoya said, glad that the opening had been given him. “My Masters informed me the Shōgun and the Princess Yazu arrived safely and are inside the Palace. Three more ambushes by Ogama patrols of
shishi … no, so sorry, no details yet of how many killed. Lord Ogama and Lord Yoshi hardly move from behind their walls … But Shōgunate samurai now guard the Gates, as in the past.”

Hiraga’s eyes widened. “They do?”

“Yes, Otami-sama.” The shoya was delighted that the bait was taken. “Strangely, a little distance from all Gates, there are secret pickets of Ogama samurai, and from time to time the opposing captains confer secretly.”

Hiraga grunted. “Curious.”

The shoya nodded and, like the good fisherman he was, struck hard. “And, oh yes, not that it may be of importance to you, but my overlords believe the two shishi I mentioned before, Katsumata, and the Choshu shishi, Takeda, escaped capture in Kyōto and are travelling on the Tokaidō.”

“To Yedo?”

“My Masters did not say. Clearly the news would be of no value.” The shoya sipped some saké, hiding his amusement at Hiraga’s attempt to cover his consuming interest.

“Anything to do with shishi could be of significance.”

“Ah, in that case … although it’s unwise to relate rumors,” the shoya said, pretending embarrassment, judging the time ripe to land this fish, “they report there is a story around the Inns of Kyōto that a third person escaped the first ambush. A woman, a samurai woman skilled in the art of shuriken…what is it, Otami-sama?”

“Nothing, nothing.” Hiraga struggled for composure, a thousand questions ricocheting in his mind. Only one woman samurai in Katsumata’s school had ever gained that skill. “You were saying, shoya? A woman of samurai lineage escaped?”

“It’s only a rumor, Otami-sama. Foolishness. Saké?”

“Thank you. This woman, was there anything else?”

“No. Such a silly rumor is hardly worth reporting.”

“Perhaps you could find out if—if such nonsense has any truth to it. I would like to know. Please.”

“In that case …” the shoya said, noting the big concession of “please,” his voice honeyed with a trace of humility. “Any service to you and your family, valued clients, the Gyokoyama is honored to do.”

“Thank you.” Hiraga finished his saké.
Sumomo had been in Kyōto with Katsumata
…. Where is she now, why didn’t she go on to Shimonoseki as I ordered? What was she doing? If she escaped, where is she?

In repayment, and with an effort, he put those and other questions aside for later, and concentrated. He took out a sheaf of notes and began explaining, partially parroting, what “Taira” and “Mukfey” had told him over the hours. The shoya listened intently, thankful that his wife was secretly overhearing them and writing it all down.

When Hiraga had rambled about loans, financing, and banking—unclear
on most of what he had been told—the shoya, impressed with Hiraga’s memory and grasp of what was so totally alien to him, said seriously, “Remarkable, Otami-sama.”

“Another important matter.” Hiraga took a deep breath. “Mukfey said gai-jin have a kind of market, shoya, a
stoku markit
where the only goods bargained for, bought or sold, are small printed papers called
stoku
or
sheru
that somehow represent money, huge amounts of money, each
stoku
being part of a
kompeni.”

He drank some tea. Seeing the shoya’s lack of comprehension, he took another deep breath. “Say daimyo Ogama gave all Choshu, all land and produce of the land to a
kompeni
, the
Choshu Kompeni
, and decreed that the
kompeni
was to be split, by deed, into ten thousand equal parts, ten thousand
sheru
, understand?”

“I … I think so, please go on.”

“Thus the
stoku
of the
Choshu Kompeni
is ten thousand
sheru
. Next, the daimyo, on behalf of the
kompeni
, offers all or any part or number of
sheru
to anyone with money. For their money the man or woman get this piece of paper saying how many
sharu
of the
Choshu Kompeni
he has bought. This person then owns that part of the
kompeni
and therefore the same proportion of its wealth. The money he and others pay into the
kompeni
then becomes its
kaipit’r
, I think this Mukfey gai-jin said, the money needed to run and improve the wealth of the
kompeni
to pay stipends, or reclaim land or buy arms, or seeds, or improve fishing boats, to pay whatever is necessary to increase and make Choshu prosper, to make the value of the
Choshu Kompeni
higher.

“Mukfey explained that … He said in any market, Shoya, prices change, in famine times often daily, no? It’s the same in this daily
stoku markit
with hundreds of different
kompeni
, buyers and sellers. If the Choshu harvest is huge, the value of each part of the
Choshu Kompeni
will be high, if famine, low. The value of each
sheru
varies also. Understand?”

“I think so,” the shoya said slowly, understanding very well indeed, covertly afire with delight and questions.

“Good.” Hiraga was tired but intrigued by these new ideas though at times lost in their maze. He had never, ever, bargained in a market, or an Inn, just paid what was asked, when asked, never in his life argued about the cost of anything or the amount of a bill—except since he became ronin. Bills were always sent to whoever received his stipend, if you were samurai. If unmarried, normally to your mother. Buying and handling money was the job of women, never of men.

You ate what she—mother, aunt, grandmother, sister or wife—bought from your stipend, you clothed or armed yourself in the same way. With no stipend you starved, you and your family, or you became ronin, or voluntarily had to give up your samurai status and become a farmer, laborer, or far
worse, a merchant. “Shoya,” he said, frowning. “Prices vary in a food or fish market. But who decides the price?”

The guild of fishermen or farmers, the shoya could have said, or more likely the merchants who really own the produce, having lent them the money to buy nets or seeds. But he was much too cautious, most of his energy spent trying to remain calm in the face of so much priceless information, however incomplete. “If there are lots of fish, they are cheaper than when there are few. If depends on the catch, or the harvest.”

Hiraga nodded. Obviously the shoya was being devious, hiding the truth or twisting it. But that is only normal for merchants and moneylenders, he thought, suddenly deciding to keep any meeting between Mukfey and this man in reserve, and also to keep for later the last piece of
kompeni
lore that, for some reason he could not fathom intrigued him more than the rest: that if you were the one who formed the
kompeni
, you decided how many
stoku
you reserved for yourself, without payment, and if the number amounted to fifty-one or more out of every hundred, you retained power over the
kompeni
. But why …

His head almost burst with sudden understanding:
With no outlay you became the kompeni Shōgun, the bigger the kompeni the bigger the shōgun … with no outlay!

When
sonno-joi
is fact, he thought weakly, we—the samurai council—we will recommend to the Emperor that only our council may form
kompeni
, then, at long last, we control all the parasites, the merchants and moneylenders!

“Otami-sama,” the shoya was saying, not having noticed any change in Hiraga, his own mind agog with the marvelous information he had gleaned. “My overlords will be most grateful and so am I. When we have managed to sift all your brilliant thoughts and ideas, perhaps I could have an opportunity to ask a few insignificant questions?”

“Certainly,” Hiraga said, exultant with the rosy future. The more questions the better—they will force me to understand first. “Perhaps when you hear more about Ogama and Yoshi, or the shishi, or that woman. Shuriken, you said?”

“I will do my best,” the shoya answered, knowing a deal had been struck. Then his mind took him back to a missing, essential piece of the puzzle. “Please, may I ask, what is this
kompeni?
What is it, what does it look like?”

“I don’t know,” Hiraga said, equally perplexed.

“Good of you to be punctual, Mr. Struan,” Admiral Ketterer said gruffly, “not normal for, er, traders.” He was going to say “tradesmen” but decided there was plenty of time to deliver the broadside. “Take a seat. Sherry?”

“Some dry sack, thank you, Admiral.”

The orderly poured a glass, replenished the Admiral’s port and left. They lifted their glasses, no love lost between them. The desk was clear of papers, except for an official document, an opened envelope and a letter in his mother’s writing. “What can I do for you?” Malcolm asked.

“You know that some of my sailors were killed by Chinese pirates, firing shore-based British cannon during our Mirs Bay engagement. British cannon.”

“I’ve read the news reports, but I don’t know for certain if they were British manufacture.”

“I do. Made sure myself.” Sourly the Admiral picked up the document. “The Governor’s initial investigation suggests the probable culprits were either Struan’s or Brock’s.”

Malcolm looked back at the older, florid-faced man, unafraid. “He can suggest what he likes, Admiral Ketterer, but any formal accusation had better be backed by proof or we would be very upset, and the Brocks apoplectic. I know of no such deal and in any event sale of armaments are not forbidden by Parliament. Does Norbert Greyforth?” Jamie had warned Greyforth that he had also been summoned by the Admiral, at 10:30, but he had not appeared until 11:00
A.M.
and that meeting had lasted barely three minutes.

Ketterer’s neck reddened, remembering Greyforth’s inflammatory response. “No. That—that impertinent fellow declined to discuss the matter. Do you?”

“I don’t know what you want to discuss, Admiral.”

“The matter of the importation and selling of cannon and armaments to the natives here. And warships. And opium.”

Malcolm said carefully, “Struan’s are China traders and we trade according to British law. None of those articles are forbidden by law.”

“Opium soon will be,” the Admiral snapped.

“When it is, then that trade ceases.”

“It’s against Chinese law now, and native law here!”

“Struan’s are not, I repeat not, trading in opium here, even though it is not, I repeat not, against British law.”

“But you do admit the trade’s pernicious and immoral.”

“Yes, but at the moment approved by Her Majesty’s Government and unfortunately the only commodity we can barter for China’s tea, from which Parliament derives huge taxes.”

“I’m well aware of the China problem. I would like you and your company to anticipate the law now by agreeing voluntarily never to import opium into Japan.”