Gai-Jin (12 page)

But none of the words came out and he saw her say something and jerk the door open and run away but this was just nightmare, the good dreams beckoning. The door swung on its hinges and the noise it made echoed and echoed and echoed: well again well again well again….

She was leaning against the door to the garden, gulping the night air, trying to regain her poise. Mother of God, give me strength and give that man some peace and let me leave this place quickly.

Babcott came up behind her. “He’s all right, not to worry. Here, drink this,” he said compassionately, giving her the opiate. “It’ll settle you and help you sleep.”

She obeyed. The liquid tasted neither good nor bad.

“He’s sleeping peacefully. Come along. It’s bedtime for you too.” He helped her upstairs, back to her room. At the door he hesitated. “Sleep well. You will sleep well.”

“I’m afraid for him, very afraid.”

“Don’t be. In the morning he’ll be better, you’ll see.”

“Thank you, I’m all right now. He … I think Malcolm thinks he’s going to die. Is he?”

“Certainly not, he’s a strong young man and I’m sure soon he’ll be as right as rain.” Babcott repeated the same platitude he had said a thousand times, and did not tell the truth: I don’t know, you never know, now it’s up to God.

And yet, most times he knew it was correct to give the loved one hope and take away the burden of increased worry, though not correct or fair to make God responsible if the patient lived or died. Even so, if you’re helpless, if you’ve done your best and are convinced that your best and the best knowledge are not good enough, what else can you do and stay sane? How many young men have you seen like this one and dead in the morning or the next day—or recovered if that was God’s will? Was it? I think it’s lack of knowledge. And then God’s will. If there is a God.

Involuntarily, he shivered. “Good night, not to worry.”

“Thank you.” She put the bar in place and went to the window, pushed open the heavy shutters. Tiredness welled over her. The night air was warm and kind, the moon high now. She took off her robe and wearily towelled herself dry, aching for sleep. Her nightdress was damp and clung to her
and she would have preferred to change but she had not brought another. Below, the garden was large and shadow-struck, trees here and there and a tiny bridge over a tiny stream. A breeze caressed the treetops. Many shadows in the moonlight.

Some moved, now and then.

The two youths saw her the moment she appeared in the garden doorway forty yards away. Their ambush was well chosen and gave them a good view of the whole garden as well as the main gate, the guard house and the two sentries they had been watching. At once they crept deeper into the foliage, astonished to see her, even more astonished by the tears coursing down her cheeks.

Shorin whispered, “What’s the matt—”

He stopped. A wandering patrol of a sergeant and two soldiers, the first to enter their trap, rounded the far corner of the grounds, approaching them on the path that skirted the walls. They readied, then became motionless, their black, nearly skintight clothes covered all of their bodies except their eyes and made them almost invisible.

The patrol passed within five feet and the two shishi could have attacked easily and safely from this ambush. Shorin—the hunter, the fighter and leader in battle where Ori was the thinker and planner—had selected the blind, but Ori decided they would only attack a one-or two-man patrol, unless there was an emergency or they were prevented from breaking into the armory: “Whatever we do this time must be silent,” he had said earlier. “And patient.”

“Why?”

“This is their Legation. According to their custom that means it is their land, their territory—it is guarded by real soldiers, so we’re encroaching on them. If we succeed, we will frighten them very much. If they catch us we fail.”

From the ambush they watched the departing patrol, noting the silent, careful way the men moved. Ori whispered uneasily, “We’ve never seen these sort before—soldiers so well trained and disciplined. In a battle, massed, we would have a hard time against them and their guns.”

Shorin said, “We’ll always win—we’ll have guns soon, one way or another, and anyway bushido and our courage will swamp them. We can beat them easily.” He was very confident. “We should have killed that patrol and taken their guns.”

I’m glad we didn’t, Ori thought, deeply unsettled. His arm ached badly
and though he feigned indifference he knew that he could not sustain a long sword-fight. “If it wasn’t for our clothes they would have seen us.” His eyes went back to the girl.

“We could have killed all three easily. Easily. And grabbed their carbines and gone over the wall again.”

“These men are very good, Shorin, not ox-headed merchants.” Ori kept the aggravation out of his voice, as always, not wanting to offend his friend or wound his sensitive pride, needing his qualities as much as Shorin needed his—he had not forgotten Shorin had deflected the bullet that would have killed him on the Tokaidō. “We’ve plenty of time. Dawn’s still at least two candles away.” This was approximately four hours. He motioned at the doorway. “Anyway, she would have given the alarm.”

Shorin sucked in his breath, cursing himself. “Eeee, stupid! I’m stupid, you’re right—again. So sorry.”

Ori gave her all of his attention: what is it about that woman that troubles me, fascinates me? he asked himself.

Then they saw the giant appear beside her. From information they had been given at the Inn they knew this was the famous English doctor who achieved miracle healings for any seeking his services, Japanese as well as his own people. Ori would have given much to understand what the doctor said to the girl. She dried her tears, obediently drank what he offered her, then he guided her back into the hallway, closing and barring the door.

Ori muttered, “Astounding—the giant, and the woman.”

Shorin glanced at him, hearing undercurrents that further perturbed him, still angry with himself for forgetting the girl when the patrol was nearby. He could see only his friend’s eyes and read nothing from them. “Let’s go on to the armory,” he whispered impatiently, “or attack the next patrol, Ori.”

“Wait!” Taking great care not to make a sudden movement that might be noticed, Ori lifted his black-gloved hand, more to ease his arm than to wipe the sweat away. “Katsumata taught patience, tonight Hiraga counselled the same.”

Earlier when they had reached the Inn of the Midnight Blossoms, they had found to their joy that Hiraga, their friend and the greatly admired leader of all Choshu shishi, was also staying there. News of their attack had arrived.

“The attack was perfectly timed, though you could not know it,” Hiraga had said warmly. He was a handsome man of twenty-two and tall for a Japanese. “It will be like a stick plunged into the Yokohama hornet’s nest. Now gai-jin will swarm, they’re bound to go against the Bakufu who won’t, cannot, do anything to appease them. If only the gai-jin retaliate against
Yedo! If they did that, and smashed it, that would be the signal for us to seize the Palace Gates! Once the Emperor is free all daimyos will rebel against the Shōgunate and destroy it and all Toranagas.
Sonno-joi!”

They had toasted
sonno-joi
and Katsumata who had saved them, taught most of them and served
sonno-joi
secretly and wisely. Ori had whispered their plan to Hiraga to steal arms.

“Eeee, Ori, it is a good idea and possible,” Hiraga said thoughtfully, “if you are patient and choose the perfect moment. Such weapons could be valuable on some operations. Personally, guns disgust me—garrote, sword or knife please me better—safer, silent, and much more frightening, whoever the target—daimyo or barbarian. I’ll help. I can give you a plan of the grounds and ninja clothes.”

Ori and Shorin brightened. “You can get them for us?”

“Of course.” Ninja were a highly secret tong of expertly trained assassins who operated almost exclusively at night, their special black clothes helping to fuel the legend of their invisibility. “At one time we were going to burn the Legation building.” Hiraga laughed and emptied another flask of saké, the warmed wine making his tongue looser than normal. “But we decided not to, that it was more valuable to keep it under observation. Often I’ve gone there disguised as a gardener or at night as a ninja—it’s surprising what you can learn, even with simple English.”

“Eeee, Hiraga-san, we never knew you could speak English,” Ori said, astounded by the revelation. “Where did you learn it?”

“Where else can you learn gai-jin qualities if not from gai-jin? He was a Dutchman from Deshima, a linguist who spoke Japanese, Dutch and English. My grandfather wrote a petition to our daimyo suggesting that one such man should be allowed to come to Shimonoseki, at their cost, to teach Dutch and English for an experimental one year, trade would come afterwards. Thank you,” Hiraga said as Ori politely refilled his cup. “Gai-jin are all so gullible—but such foul money worshippers. This is the sixth year of the ‘experiment’ and we still only trade for what we want, when we can afford them—guns, cannon, ammunition, shot and certain books.”

“How is your revered grandfather?”

“In very good health. Thank you for asking.” Hiraga bowed in appreciation. Their bow in return was lower.

How wonderful to have such a grandfather, Ori thought, such a protection for all your generations—not like us who have to struggle to survive daily, are hungry daily, and have desperate trouble to pay our taxes. What will Father and Grandfather think of me now: ronin, and my so-needed one koku forfeit? “I would be honored to meet him,” he said. “Our
shoya
is not like him.”

For many years Hiraga’s grandfather, an important peasant farmer near Shimonoseki and secret supporter of
sonno-joi
, had been a shoya. A
shoya, the appointed, or hereditary, leader of a village or grouping of villages with great influence and magisterial power and responsibility for tax assessments and collection, was at the same time the only buffer and protector of peasants and farmers against any unfair practices of the samurai overlord within whose fief the village or villages lay.

Farmers and some peasants owned and worked the land but by law could not leave it. Samurai owned all the produce and the sole right to carry weapons, but by law could not own land. So each depended on the other in an inevitable, never-ending spiral of suspicion and distrust—the balance of how much rice or produce to be rendered in tax, year by year, and how much retained, always an incredibly delicate compromise.

The shoya had to keep the balance. The advice of the best was sometimes sought on matters outside the village by his immediate overlord, or higher, even by the daimyo himself. Hiraga’s grandfather was one of these.

Some years ago he had been permitted to purchase goshi samurai status for himself and his descendants in one of the daimyo’s offerings—a customary ploy of all daimyos, normally debt ridden, to raise extra revenue from acceptable supplicants. The daimyo of Choshu was no exception.

Hiraga laughed, the wine in his head now. “I was chosen for this Dutchman’s school, and many a time I regretted the honor, English is so foul-sounding and difficult.”

“Were there many of you at the school?” Ori asked.

Through the saké haze a warning sounded and Hiraga realized he was volunteering far too much private information. How many Choshu students were at the school was Choshu business and secret, and while he liked and admired both Shorin and Ori they were still Satsumas, aliens, who were not always allies, but frequently enemy and always potential enemies.

“Just three of us to learn English,” he said softly as though telling a secret, instead of thirty, the real figure. Inwardly alert he added, “Listen, now that you’re ronin, like me and most of my comrades, we must work closer together. I am planning something in three days that you can help us with.”

“Thank you, but we must wait for word from Katsumata.”

“Of course, he is your Satsuma leader.” Hiraga added thoughtfully, “But at the same time, Ori, don’t forget you’re ronin and will be ronin until we win, don’t forget we’re the spearhead of
sonno-joi
, we’re the doers, Katsumata risks nothing. We must—must—forget that I am Choshu and you two Satsumas. We’ve got to help each other. It’s a good idea to follow your Tokaidō attack tonight and steal guns. Kill one or two guards inside the Legation, if you can, that will be a huge provocation! If you could do it all silently and leave no trace, even better. Anything to provoke them.”

* * *

With Hiraga’s information it had been easy to infiltrate the temple, to count the dragoons and other soldiers and to find the perfect lair. Then the girl had unexpectedly appeared, and the giant, and then they had gone back inside and ever since both shishi had been staring at the garden door, glazed.

“Ori, now what do we do?” Shorin asked, his voice edged.

“We stick to the plan.”

The minutes passed anxiously. When the shutters on the first floor opened and they saw her in the window both knew that a new element had come into their future. Now she was brushing her hair with a silver-handled brush. Listlessly.

Shorin said throatily, “She doesn’t look so ugly in moonlight. But with those breasts, eeee, you’d bounce off.”

Ori did not reply, his eyes riveted.

Suddenly she hesitated and looked down. Directly at them. Though there was no chance she could have seen or heard them, their hearts picked up a beat. They waited, hardly breathing. Another exhausted yawn. She continued brushing a moment, then put down the brush, seemingly so close that Ori felt he could almost reach out and touch her, seeing in the light from the room details of embroidery on the silk, nipples taut beneath, and the haunted expression he had glimpsed yesterday—was it only yesterday?—that had stopped the blow that would have ended her.

A last strange glance at the moon, another stifled yawn, and she pulled the shutters to. But did not close them completely. Or bar them.

Shorin broke the silence and said what was in both their minds. “It would be easy to climb up there.”