Gai-Jin (186 page)

Half blinded by the smoke, Hiraga dragged Tyrer out onto the path. At that second the blazing roof collapsed, sending them reeling away to fall in a heap, the resulting gusher of sparks and embers turned into a flame thrower by the wind, blowtorching other houses, fences, and the next Teahouse. Shouts and screams and fire warnings, already lines of people were dashing this way and that with water buckets or fetching buckets, most now wearing dampened face masks against smoke inhalation that were always ready in abundance.

Astonished to be still alive, coughing and gagging, Hiraga beat out a smoldering patch on the chest of his kimono, his short sword still in his belt, the long sword vanished. As far as he could tell Tyrer was unhurt but it was impossible to be sure for he was not truly conscious, chest heaving, gasping and vomiting from inhaling the smoke. Painfully Hiraga stood over him to collect his breath and his reason, looking around against new dangers. The nearby dwelling burst into flames, then the next, cutting their escape route.

Katsumata was right, he thought. With this wind the Yoshiwara’s doomed. And with it the Settlement.

On the edge of No Man’s Land the patrol of soldiers stood stock-still—with everyone else in Drunk Town who was sober—and stared over the fence toward the Yoshiwara. Two columns of flames and billowing smoke reached skywards amid distant shouts and bells brought closer by the wind. Faintly a third explosion sounded. A third fountain of flames. Smoke began to surround them. A few embers swirled past.

“Christalmighty,” the Sergeant said, moving out of the lee of the godown to see better, “was that a bomb?”

“Doan’ know, Sarge, could be a barrel of oil exploding, but we’d better get back, that bleeder’s heading our way an—”

The fire bomb that Takeda had planted against the far side of the godown detonated. Instinctively they all ducked. More smoke, fire crackling, bellowing from nearby Drunk Towners and cries for water buckets and “Fire! Fire! Hurry, for Christ’s sake—
that’s the lamp-oil depot!”

Half-naked men dashed in and out of adjoining houses to save their valuables. Down the street Mrs. Fortheringill’s was emptying, inmates and customers raving and swearing, climbing into their clothes. More warning bells. Looting began.

And down at the South Gate, disciplined samurai streamed in, racing for the Yoshiwara with ladders and fire buckets, wet smoke masks over their faces. A few diverted to fight the godown fire, the remainder rushed onwards. Flames from the blazing godown roof, fanned by the wind, jumped the alley to attack the next line of hovels. They caught instantly.

From his hiding place in No Man’s Land, Takeda saw the soldiers in confusion and gloated with the success of the bombs, a large section of the Yoshiwara already ablaze. Time to make a run for it. Quickly he adjusted his face mask, the mask and the dirt and his soot-blackened, filthy kimono making him even more ominous.

In flickering alternations of night and light, he hurried for the well head, found the knapsack, stuck his arms through the straps and, as quickly as he dared, picked a precarious way through the dump. Warning cries behind him. He thought he had been spotted, but it was only about the building, as one wall caved in with a roar, showering more sparks and fire on scattering people and on neighboring property. Now the abundance of flames allowed him to see better. Elated, he began to run. Ahead was the village and safety.

“Hey, you!”

He did not understand the words but the shout jerked him to a stop. In front was another group of British soldiers with an officer who had come running from the village area to probe the danger and had stopped, startled. They blocked his escape.

“Must be a looter! Or arsonist! Hey, you!”

“My God, watch out, sir, it’s a samurai an’ he’s armed!”

“Cover me, Sergeant! You! You there, samurai, what’re you doing? What’s that you’re carrying?”

In panic Takeda saw the officer unbuttoning his holster, start towards him, soldiers unslinging their rifles and all the time the sound of the holocaust, flames chasing weird shadows. He whirled and ran. At once they gave chase.

On the other side of No Man’s Land the godown blaze was totally out of control, soldiers impotently striving to organize a fire-fighting party to protect
abutting dwellings and streets. The fire gave enough light to help Takeda dart through the dump, avoiding most obstacles, the knapsack banging against his back. His breath was coming in gulps. With a sudden gush of hope he saw safety in the empty alley beside the burning building ahead. He raced for it, easily outstripping the soldiers behind him.

“Stop or I shoot!” The words were meaningless to him but not the hostility. Onwards in his headlong dash, no need for evading action now, any moment safe. He had forgotten the light that helped him, aided them, etching him clearly against the flames.

“Stop him, Sergeant! Wound him, don’t kill him!”

“Right, sir … Wait, God Almighty, it’s … isn’t he the bugger Sir William’s after, Nakama, that bloody assassin!”

“Damn my eyes, you’re right, that’s him. Quick, Sergeant, cut him down, wound him!”

The Sergeant aimed. His target was escaping down the alley. He squeezed the trigger. “Got him,” he shouted gleefully, and charged. “Come on, lads!”

The bullet sent Takeda sprawling. It had smashed through the knapsack into his upper back, piercing a lung, to come out from his chest cleanly, not a fatal wound if a man was lucky. But Takeda knew none of that, only that he felt destroyed and he lay in the dirt, howling with shock but without pain, one arm useless and dangling, the roar of the nearby fire drowning his cries. Terror dragged him to his knees, the heat from approaching fire ghastly, safety only a few paces ahead down the alley. He crawled forward. Then through his tears he heard the shouts of soldiers close behind him. No escape!

His reflexes took command. Using his good hand as a prop, he was driven to his feet and with a mighty shriek, he hurled himself into the flames. The leading young soldier skidded to a stop, scrambled back to safety, hands held up against the inferno, the structure due to fall any moment.

“Sod it!” the soldier said, and glared at the flames that sizzled, consuming his prey, the stench of burning flesh making him gag. “Another second an’ I’da had the bugger, sir, it were him all right, the bugger wot Sir William …”

That was the last thing the youth ever said. Katsumata’s bombs in the knapsack detonated violently, a piece of metal tore out the soldier’s throat, strewing the officer and other men like ninepins, breaking a few limbs. As if in echo, an oil drum exploded as violently, then another and another with cataclysmic effect. Plumes of flames and embers shot into the air to be seized and used ruthlessly by the gathering force of the wind, now self-generating in ferocity because of its heat.

The first of the village houses began to burn.

The shoya, his family and all villagers, already masked against smoke and prepared within moments of the first alarm, continued to work with well rehearsed but stoic speed to pack away valuables into the small, fire-proofed brick shelters that were in every garden.

Roofs all along the main street began to burn.

Less than an hour since the first bomb exploded, the Three Carp was no more, and most of the Yoshiwara burnt out. Only brick chimney stacks, stone house-supports, and brick, stone and earth fireproof shelters stood in heaps of ash and glowing embers. The odd cup or saké flask, most refired now, the glaze spoiled. Metal kitchen utensils. Gardens ruined, shrubs scorched, groups of dazed inhabitants huddled around. Miraculously the fires had missed two or three Inns but around them was stark emptiness, ash and embers, up to the charred encircling fence and the moat beyond.

On the other side of the moat was the village. It was blazing. Beyond the village, in the Settlement proper the roofs of three houses near Drunk Town were already alight. One of these was the
Guardian
, where Jamie McFay had his new office.

Nettlesmith and their clerks were hauling buckets for Jamie atop the ladder who used them to douse the roof flames, the next house well afire. Other men, Chinese servants, and Maureen bravely darted in and out of the front door, carrying armfuls of papers, printing dies, and whatever was most important. Burning wooden roof tiles cascaded around them. Billowing smoke from Drunk Town, causing them to cough and heave, hampered them. Above, Jamie was losing the battle. A gust shoved flames at him. He almost fell off the ladder, then shinnied down, defeated. “It’s hopeless,” he panted, his face black-smudged, hair singed.

“Jamie, help me with the press, for God’s sake!” Nettlesmith called out, and ran back inside. Maureen began to follow but Jamie stopped her. “No, stay here! Watch your dress,” he shouted above the noise, a shower of embers from the roof surrounding her, then he dashed inside.

Wisely she backed off to the sea side of the street, helping others stack what had been salvaged more safely. The whole roof was ablaze now and more embers showered Jamie and Nettlesmith as they stumbled out with the small, portable press. Then, seeing the roof was beyond saving and the building doomed, Jamie hurried back to help him rescue type, dyes, ink and some paper. Quickly the wooden building became too dangerous to enter. The two men stood outside and cursed, then stepped farther to safety as some rafters collapsed.

“Bloody sodding fire,” Jamie said, angrily kicking a box of typeface, then turned, feeling Maureen take his hand.

“I’m so sorry, love,” she said, awash with tears.

His arms went around her and he said fervently, meaning it, “Never mind, you’re safe, that’s all that counts.”

“Jamie, dinna’ worry, wait till morning, then we can think better and properly. Perhaps it’s no’ so bad.”

At that moment samurai fire fighters trotted past. With signs Jamie asked one of them where he could get a fire mask. The man grunted, pulled a handful from his sleeve and rushed off again. Jamie doused them in a bucket of water. “Here, Maureen,” he said, giving her the first one, another to Nettlesmith who sat on a keg, on the sea side of the promenade, cursing mutely. The roof collapsed, turning the building into a blazing mess.

“Terrible,” Jamie said to Nettlesmith.

“Yes. But not yet a disaster.” The lean, older man motioned along the promenade. The north end of the Settlement was still clean of fire, Struan’s, Brock’s and the Legations untouched. “With any luck it won’t burn that far.”

“This wind is killing us.”

“Yes. We’re safe enough on the shore side …”

More fire fighters with axes hurried up, Dmitri amongst them. He saw their wreckage. “Jesus, sorry about that,” he said on the run, “we’re going to try to cut a fire break.”

Maureen said, “Jamie, go and help. I’m safe here.”

“Nothing more you can do here,” Nettlesmith said. “I’ll watch her. We’re safe here, and we’ll retreat on Struan’s if necessary.” He took out a pencil and paper, licked the pencil thoughtfully, and began to write.

Their axes bit into the wooden shack, the buildings southwards ablaze, the wind hotter every minute and stronger than ever. They redoubled their efforts, then an ember-filled gust forced them back, then another, and they fled to safety. Dmitri said, helplessly, “Christ, you ever seen anything go up so fast? They’re all tinderboxes, death traps. What now?”

“What about up there?” Jamie shouted. He pointed nearer to the fence. They all joined his rush. But the closer they got to the fence and the Yoshiwara, the worse the smoke and heat and fires became.

There was so little he or anyone could do. Nothing, in fact. The fires were spreading too fast, people running this way and that with buckets, but the moment one blaze was extinguished, ten others began nearby. Behind groups of dazed women and servants seeking safety, some with bundles, most empty-handed, the few remaining Teahouses flared in momentary blazes, so many moths around a candle, one moment alive, the next dead.

With almost everything of the Yoshiwara vanished under the blood-smoked sky, men mingled with the survivors, anxiously seeking their
particular girl or mama-san and Jamie joined them, his eyes going from face to face seeking Nemi. He had not forgotten her. If anyone could escape, she would, he had thought. Suddenly he was not so sure. There were so few survivors here. Worriedly, Jamie sought a face he knew. None.
“Gomen nasai, Nemi-san, wakarimasu ka?”
he said, asking if they had seen her, but everyone said dully, or with degrees of bows and forced smiles,
“Iyé, gomen nasai”—
No, so sorry.

Dmitri reeled out of the smoke, coughing and gasping. “Samurai are damn good fire fighters, we could learn a thing or two, not that they can stop this shit. Have you seen Nemi?”

“No, I was just going to ask you.”

“Maybe she’s the other side, or over there,” Dmitri croaked, his chest heaving for air, pointing towards the meadow that led to the racecourse, a few oil lamps there lighting the darkness. “Some of them are collecting there—some the other side. Listen, I’m going to work my way around, through the north gate and across the canal. You try the meadow. If I see her, what do you want me to say?”

“Just that I hope she’s safe and I’ll find her tomorrow.”

They both ducked as fire jumped over them to fall on a village hut behind. In the confusion Jamie lost Dmitri and continued his search, helping where he could. Once Heavenly Skye rushed past, calling out, “Jamie, just heard Phillip’s lost with the rest of the Three Carp.”

“God Almighty, are you sure? What about …”

But Skye had vanished into the darkness.

The Legations that lay northwards were not yet directly menaced. Nor Struan’s, Brock’s, or nearby houses and godowns though the wind was strong and hotter by the minute. The promenade and streets were crowded, everyone preparing for a last stand, more soldiers and sailors coming ashore from the fleet that had first sounded the general alarm. Samurai poured into the High Street from their barracks outside the gates with ladders and buckets, fire-masked, and efficient. In groups they trotted along, heading for danger points.

Sir William, a greatcoat over his pajamas, had taken charge of the Legation defense. Down by the surf Pallidar was supervising dragoons connecting pumps to the sea through long canvas hoses. He looked back to see the General hurry out of the night, an engineer officer alongside, a detachment of soldiers with him, to stop in front of Sir William.