Gai-Jin (190 page)

“Wot about the bloody Yanks?” someone shouted to jeers and cheers for and against.

“Them too,” he called back, his humor returned. “A few of them are, and many more could be.” More laughter. “So act like gentlemen and rebuild as fast as possible. That’s important. We must confirm our position here because, last, most seriously, there are rumors the fire was arson.”

“That’s right, my
musume
said it were.”

“One likely report is that the arsonist was the samurai, Nakama, the fellow wanted by the Bakufu as a revolutionary, though Mr. Tyrer and I—and Mr. McFay, I believe—found him pleasant, no threat and a vast source of information.”

“That’s right,” Jamie said, refreshed by Maureen’s tenderness. “I don’t believe he could be an arsonist, least that’s what I think.”

“Be that as it may, we know for a fact he’s dead and he was caught in suspicious circumstances. Everyone must be on their toes in case it was arson—personally I’m not convinced—but if the fire was an act of violence against us there will be others, if an Act of God, well, that’s His privilege …”

“Amen,” many said, so thankful to be alive.

“So be aware of possible danger but let us act as normal and get back to work. Thank you, good day.”

“What about the Yoshiwara, an’ Mrs. Fortheringill’s?”

Sir William blinked. Good God, I must be getting old, he thought, the problem of the Yoshiwara had not occurred to him, when it was what made Japan bearable, even desirable to most men. “Mrs. Fortheringill’s will
certainly be well covered by insurance. As to the first…We’ll start a fund right now. For one week. I’ll open it with twenty guineas and, well, because it’s part of our disaster area, Her Majesty’s Government will match, pound for pound, all contributions.”

To more cheers and backslapping he chatted briefly with the other Ministers, telling them, to their surprise, the Yoshi meeting was on, that he and Seratard would deal with Yoshi, but asked would they dine with him tonight for a private meeting. On the promenade he mopped his brow. Satisfied, he started for home.

“Hey, look!” someone called out behind him. He turned, and watched in wonder, and envy, with others leaving the Club.

In the desolate area where the village had been, now the whole location swarmed with industrious men, women and children, working and cleaning up with an antlike zeal towards the same goal; to re-create that which had disappeared. Two houses, roofed and shoji-walled, were already erected, others half up. Many were carrying new lumber and shoji walls from a pile already established outside the South Gate.

Pity our fellows aren’t as quick off the mark, he thought, awed, and saw, on the other side of the moat, across the repaired bridge, the Bridge to Paradise, more activity, and a temporary gateway already up, swaying in the breeze.

From here he could read the cherished, well-remembered Chinese characters on it—the English translation already scrawled there too, looking somehow quaint in calligraphy: Lust cannot wait, it must be satisfied.

That afternoon, the sea fair, sky uneasy, the Struan cutter turned for her Yokohama berth, returning from the Kanagawa-Yoshi meeting. Sir William’s pennant fluttered from the masthead. Those in the cabin, Sir William, Seratard, and Tyrer, dozed—Tyrer like a dead man. The Bosun tooted his whistle to ask cutters crowding their dock to move out of the way, but there were loud shouts of “Wait your bloody turn,” with a variety of profanity as punctuation.

Sir William opened his eyes, called up to the Bosun, “Drop us at the Brock wharf,” and when the Bosun suggested that Mr. MacStruan wouldn’t like that at all, Sir William bellowed, “Do what you’re told!” The others jerked out of sleep. Except Tyrer who mumbled and drifted off again.

Seratard stretched and stifled a yawn. “Grand lunch, William, good fish,” adding in French without noticing it, “I would have preferred a garlic, butter and parsley sauce. Never mind, your chef is English, so what can he do?”

“He’s Chinese,” Sir William said good-naturedly.

The meeting had gone exactly as he had planned. There had been none.
They had arrived on time, waited half an hour, then sent for the local Governor, Tyrer saying they could not understand where Lord Yoshi had got to: “Is he sick?”

“Ah, so sorry I don’t know Lord …”

“My Master says, Ask after the health of Lord Yoshi, say we here as asked. As soon as well, please make new day.” Deliberately Tyrer had dropped all real pleasantries. The Governor had flushed, bowed as to superiors, apologized again and hurried off disgusted that the gai-jin were still in place—naturally every civilized person from here to Yedo had seen the fires and presumed the gai-jin, those left, would be licking their burns, boarding their ships to join the exodus and sail away.

After the Governor and his entourage had left, Sir William had suggested a leisurely lunch, guiding Seratard to their substantial cellar. “We deserve a celebration, Henri. What would you like to drink? We were truly lucky last night—apart from André, poor chap.”

“Yes. Pity. The will of God.” Seratard frowned, still looking at labels. “Ah! Montrachet, ’51. Two bottles?”

“At least two. George is joining us. Might as well taste a Margaux—I recommend the ’48, Château Pichon-Longueville—and a Château d’Yquem with the pudding.”

“Perfect, shame we have no cheese. No chance Yoshi will appear now?”

“If he does we won’t see him.”

“At the Club meeting you said dinner tonight. You want to discuss something special with the others?”

“Yes.” The cellar was cool and pleasant. A few glasses stood on a sideboard beside the racks. Sir William selected a half bottle of champagne and began to open it. “I think we must pretend the fire is not the disaster it really is and press ahead against Sanjiro, and his capital Kagoshima.”

“Now?” Seratard was very surprised. “But surely sending the fleet when we’re so exposed is highly dangerous, isn’t it? Tempting them?”

“Very, but that’s my point. My proposal is that we send British warships only, keeping your flagship and the Russian here, with the armed merchantmen. We cancel sending army units for the proposed landing and send only marines. Simply make it a sea bombardment.” He popped the cork and poured. “That’ll make Ketterer’s mission much easier, he never liked the idea of commanding a seaborne landing. Now he can stand off in the bay and pound the devil out of them. Health.”

The two men touched glasses, Seratard churning the proposal around to find the pitfalls, any places where his adversary had planted mines to disrupt French interests. There were none. On the contrary, this helped his long-term plan to ingratiate himself into Yoshi’s confidence, making him realize the British were the barbarians, not the French, and that France, which he equated with himself, could be trusted to be more patient and far
seeing. “Marvelous vintage, William.
En principe
, yes, but I’d like to consult my Admiral.”

“Why not? Then that’s what we’ll do …”

Lunch had been pleasant. In good time they were aboard and now Sir William swung nimbly on deck as the cutter tied up alongside the Brock wharf, an unheard-of happening. He saw Gornt with a clerk beside some trunks near the jetty steps. “Hope you didn’t mind, Mr. Gornt,” he said. “I commandeered the cutter, it’s under my flag, not Struan’s.”

“My pleasure, Sir William. How was the meeting?”

“Damn fellow didn’t turn up. Didn’t expect us, I suppose.”

“He’s lost face from here to Timbuktu.”

“Quite.” Which was the whole idea, Sir William thought with a secret smile, and pointed to the trunks. “You’re not leaving, surely?”

“No, suh, but I am going to Hong Kong by tonight’s packet to arrange building supplies for ourselves and others.”

“Good idea. Have a safe journey and safe return.” He raised his hat and walked off with Seratard. Tyrer, sick with tiredness, reeled after them, hardly acknowledging Gornt.

“Put these aboard, Periera,” Gornt said. “Tell the Captain I’ll be aboard in good time. Oh, hello, Doc.” Hoag hurried up with some coolies bowed under a sea trunk and bags.

“I say, Edward, heard you’re on the
Atlanta Belle
too.” Hoag was out of breath and harassed, his clothes and hands bloodstained and filthy, eyes red-rimmed. “Could I prevail on your people to put these aboard for me, I’ve still a dozen or so arms and legs to set and burns … thanks awfully.” He rushed off, not waiting for an answer.

“Put ’em aboard, Periera.” Gornt frowned. Why is Hoag in such a hurry to leave? he asked himself.

Everything packed that should be, everything done to ensure Brock’s would operate correctly while he was away: which traders to give credit to, which to deny; tomorrow or the next day Choshu representatives were due to discuss arms shipments—a nice business to acquire for himself when the Brocks went under and, as also planned, he acquired the premises and staff here at…well, fire-sale prices. He laughed to himself at the joke. Next, the Yoshi coal concession that he had heard might be transferred from Struan’s to Seratard through the late André Poncin’s trading company, might still be available to offers. He had instructed his shroff to make such an offer secretly.

Periera was left in charge. Last night, hearing from Maureen that Jamie’s new offices were gone, he had planned to appoint Jamie, but to his surprise this afternoon Jamie had thanked him and refused, saying he thought he would be able to restart his own business.

Jamie would be more icing on the icing, he thought. Doesn’t matter,
Jamie’ll take over for me when this is all Rothwell-Gornt’s. He felt in his pocket.

Norbert’s chop was there and the two backdated letters for Tess. His money belt was heavy with more than enough Brock silver Mex and gold for expenses. Good. All done.

Now for Angelique.

“Hello, Edward,” she said, her smile warm. This was the first time she had received him in her upstairs boudoir. Ah Soh stood by a wine cooler and he noticed the door to the bedroom was closed, curtains were drawn though the light had not yet completely gone, oil lamps lit, the room feminine, inviting, her manner demure, odd. His tension increased.

“White wine for a change,” she said pleasantly. “La Doucette. Bourbon if you wish.”

“Wine, please, Ma’am. I’ve never seen you look better.”

“Nor you, my friend. Please sit here, by the fire.” Her afternoon, blue-black mourning dress was new, the cut enhancing, the neckline square-cut and modest. But for his pleasure, and hers, she had draped a multicolored silk shawl around her shoulders, the effect startling, a breath of spring on this January day. “Ah Soh, wine,” she said, and when they had the glasses, “Wait outside! I want, I call!” The maid shuffled out and carelessly banged the door closed.

Gornt said softly, “She’ll have her ear hard against it.”

Angelique laughed. “To hear secrets? What secrets could there be between us? To a safe journey, Edward!” She sipped and put her glass down. “You’re all packed?”

“Yes, yes, I am. You look wonderful and I love you and would like an answer to my question.”

Her fan slid open and she began using it as it should be used by a young lady of quality with an eligible man of quality—and ones of dubious reputation—to tantalize, flirt, to promise but not promise, to give answers, or avoid them, to questions that were dangerous to acknowledge openly.

The fan fluttered. “I admire you greatly, Edward.”

“No more than I admire you. But a yes or a no?”

The fan snapped shut. Then she smiled and opened a box on the bureau, handed him an envelope. It was addressed: Mrs. Tess Struan. “Please read the letter. I am sending it by Hoag to Hong Kong in answer to hers.”

Her handwriting was neat:

The space for her signature was blank and then below it:
Verified as a true signature by Sir William Aylesbury, Minister Japan
, and another space for his signature and date.

Gornt looked up. “You can’t mean this. This gives her everything.”

“Didn’t you advise me to accept her conditions?”

“Yes, but to compromise—to renegotiate.”

“Ah, yes, I remembered that. If you agree I’ll ask Sir William to witness it now, before you leave. Dr. Hoag has promised to take it tonight on your ship, so it will be there when you arrive.”

“But surely you know this yields everything—how can I, or anyone, negotiate for you?”

“There’s a second page.” She took it out of the box, her fan slid open and began to move. Gently.

Again he concentrated. The writing was not so clear and here and there smudged—could those be tear stains, he asked himself?

Again he looked up at her, startled. “Is this my answer?”

The fan fluttered. “Finish it,” she said.

Now his eyes flashed down the page: