Gai-Jin (22 page)

“Yes. Then we’re secretly agreed? When the English leave, we take Japan’s North Island, plus Sakhalin, the Kuriles and all islands linking it to Russian Alaska—France the rest.”

“Agreed. As soon as Paris gets my memorandum it will surely be ratified at the highest level, secretly.” He smiled. “When a vacuum exists, it is our diplomatic duty to fill it…. ”

* * *

With the cannonade a great fear exploded over Yedo. All remaining skeptics joined the masses clogging every road and bridge and lane, fleeing with the few possessions they could carry—of course no wheels anywhere—everyone expecting that bursting shells and rockets they had heard of but had never witnessed would any moment rain fire and their city would burn, burn, burn and them with it.

“Death to gai-jin,” was on every lip.

“Hurry … Out of the way … Hurry!” People were shouting, here and there in panic, a few crushed or shoved off bridges or into houses, most stoically plodding onwards—but always away from the sea. “Death to gai-jin!” they said as they fled.

The exodus had begun this morning, the moment the fleet had weighed anchor in Yokohama harbor, though three days earlier the more prudent merchants had quietly hired the best porters and removed themselves, their families and valuables when rumors of the
unfortunate incident—
and the resulting foreign uproar and demands—had flashed through the city.

Only the samurai in the castle and those manning the outer defenses and strong points were still in place. And, as always and everywhere, the carrion of the streets, animal and human, who slunk and sniffed around the lockless houses, seeking what could be stolen and later sold. Very little was stolen. Looting was considered a particularly hideous crime and, from time immemorial, perpetrators would be pursued relentlessly until caught and then crucified. Any form of stealing was punished in the same fashion.

Within the castle keep, Shōgun Nobusada and Princess Yazu were cowering behind a flimsy screen, their arms around each other, their guards, maids and court ready for instant departure, only awaiting the Guardian’s permission to leave. Everywhere in the castle proper, men were preparing defenses in depth, others harnessing horses and packing the most valuable possessions of the Elders for evacuation, with their owners, the moment shelling began or word was brought to the Council that enemy troops were disembarking.

In the Council chamber at the hurriedly convened meeting of the Elders, Yoshi was saying, “I repeat, I don’t believe they’ll attack us in force, or sh—”

“And I see no reason to wait. To go is prudent, they will start shelling any moment,” Anjo said. “The first cannonade was their warning.”

“I don’t think so, I think it was just an arrogant announcement of their presence. There were no shells in the city. The fleet won’t shell us and I repeat, I believe the meeting tomorrow will take place as planned. At the meet—”

“How can you be so blind? If our positions were reversed and you commanded
that fleet and possessed that overwhelming power, would you hesitate for a moment?” Anjo was stark with rage. “Well, would you?”

“No, of course not! But they are not us and we not them and that’s the way to control them.”

“You are beyond understanding!” In exasperation Anjo turned to the other three Councillors. “The Shōgun must be taken to a safe place, we must go too to carry on the government. That’s all I propose, a temporary absence. Except for our personal retainers, all other samurai will stay, the Bakufu stays.” Once more he glared at Yoshi. “You stay if you wish. Now we will vote: the temporary absence is approved!”

“Wait! If you do that the Shōgunate will lose face forever, we’ll never be able to control the daimyos and their opposition—or the Bakufu. Never!”

“We are just being prudent! The Bakufu remains in place. So do all warriors. As Chief Councillor it’s my right to call for a vote, so vote! I vote Yes!”

“I say No!” Yoshi said.

“I agree with Yoshi-san,” Utani said. He was a short, thin man with kind eyes and spare visage. “I agree, if we leave we lose face forever.”

Yoshi smiled back, liking him—daimyos of the Watasa fief were ancient allies since before Sekigahara. He looked at the other two, both senior members of Toranaga clans. Neither met his eyes. “Adachi-sama?”

Finally, Adachi, daimyo of Mito, a rotund little man, said nervously, “I agree with Anjo-sama that we should leave, and the Shōgun of course. But I also agree with you that then we may lose even though we gain. Respect fully I vote No!”

The last Elder, Toyama, was in his middle fifties, grey-haired with heavy dewlaps and blind in one eye from a hunting accident—an old man as ages went in Japan. He was daimyo of Kii, father of the young Shōgun. “It bothers me not at all if we live or die, nor the death of my son, this Shōgun—there will always be another. But it bothers me very much to retreat just because gai-jin have anchored off our shore. I vote against retreat and for attack. I vote we go to the coast and if the jackals land we kill them all, their ships, cannon, rifles notwithstanding!”

“We don’t have enough troops here,” Anjo said, sick of the old man and his militancy that had never been proved. “How many times do I have to say it: we do not have enough troops to hold the castle and stop them landing in strength. How many times do I have to repeat, our spies say they have two thousand soldiers with rifles in the ships and at the Settlement, and ten times that number in Hong Kong an—”

Yoshi interrupted angrily, “We would have had more than enough samurai and their daimyos here if you hadn’t cancelled
sankin-kotai!”

“That was at the Emperor’s request, given in writing and presented by a Prince of his Court. We had no option but to obey. You would also have obeyed.”

“Yes—if I’d taken delivery of the document! But I would never have accepted it, I would have been away, or would have delayed the Prince, any one of a hundred ploys, or bartered with Sanjiro who instigated the ‘requests,’ or told one of our Court supporters to petition the Emperor to withdraw the requests,” Yoshi’s voice snapped. “Any petition from the Shōgunate must be approved—that’s historic law. We still control the Court’s stipend! You betrayed our heritage.”

“You call me a traitor?” To everyone’s shock Anjo’s hand tightened on his sword hilt.

“I say you allowed Sanjiro to puppet you,” Yoshi replied without moving, calm on the surface of his skin, hoping that Anjo would make the first move and then he could kill him and have done with his stupidity forever. “There is no precedent to go against the Legacy. It was a betrayal.”

“All daimyos other than immediate Toranaga families wanted it! The consensus of Bakufu agreed, the
roju
agreed, better to agree than to force all daimyos into the camp of the outside lords to challenge us at once as Sanjiro, the Tosas and Choshus would have done. We would have been totally isolated. Isn’t that true?” he said to the others. “Well, isn’t it?”

Utani said quietly, “It’s certainly true I agreed—but now I think it was a mistake.”

“The mistake we made was not to intercept Sanjiro and kill him,” Toyama said.

“He was protected by Imperial Mandate,” Anjo said.

His old man’s lips curled from his yellow teeth. “So?”

“All Satsuma would have risen up against us, rightly; the Tosa and Choshu would join in and we’d have a general civil war we cannot win. Vote! Yes or no?”

“I vote for attack, only attack,” the old man said stubbornly, “today on any landing, tomorrow at Yokohama.”

From far off came the skirl of bagpipes.

Four more cutters were heading for the wharf, three packed with Highland Infantry to join others already formed up there, drums beating and bagpipes wailing impatiently. Kilts, busbies, scarlet tunics, rifles. Sir William, Tyrer, Lun and three of his staff were in the last boat.

As they came ashore, the captain in charge of the detachment saluted. “Everything’s ready, sir. We’ve patrols guarding this wharf and the surrounding areas. Marines will take over from us within the hour.”

“Good. Then let’s proceed to the Legation.”

Sir William and his party got into the carriage that had been ferried and manhandled ashore with so much effort. Twenty sailors picked up the traces. The captain gave the order to advance and the cortege marched off,
flags waving, soldiers surrounding them, a resplendent, six-foot-eight drum major to the fore, Chinese coolies from Yokohama nervously dragging baggage carts in the rear.

The narrow streets between the low, one-story shops and buildings were eerily empty. So was the inevitable guard post at the first wooden bridge over a festering canal. And the next. A dog charged out of an alley, barking and snarling, then picked itself up and scuttled away howling after a kick lifted it into the air and sent it sprawling ten yards. More empty streets and bridges, yet their way to the Legation was tortuous because of the carriage and because all streets were only for foot traffic. Again the carriage stuck.

“Perhaps we should walk, sir?” Tyrer asked.

“No, by God, I arrive by carriage!” Sir William was furious with himself. He had forgotten the narrowness of the streets. At Yokohama he had privately decided on the carriage just because wheels were forbidden, to further ram home his displeasure to the Bakufu. He called out, “Captain, if you have to knock down a few houses, so be it.”

But that did not become necessary. The sailors, used to handling cannon in tight places belowdecks, good-naturedly shoved and pushed and cursed and half carried the carriage around the bottlenecks.

The Legation was on a slight rise in the suburb of Gotenyama, beside a Buddhist temple. It was a two-story, still uncompleted structure of British style and design inside a high fence and gates. Within three months of the Treaty’s signing, work had begun.

Building had been agonizingly slow, partially because of British insistence on using their plans and their normal building materials such as glass for windows and bricks for bearing walls—which had to be brought from London, Hong Kong or Shanghai—constructing foundations and the like, which Japanese houses did not normally possess, being of wood, deliberately light and easy to erect and repair because of earthquakes, and raised off the ground. Most of the delays, however, were due to Bakufu reluctance to have any foreign edifices whatsoever outside Yokohama.

Even though not fully finished, the Legation was occupied and the British flag raised daily on the dominant flagpole, which further incensed the Bakufu and local citizens. Last year occupation was temporarily abandoned by Sir William’s predecessor when ronin, at night, killed two guards outside his bedroom door, to British fury and Japanese rejoicing.

“Oh, so sorry …” the Bakufu said.

But the site, leased in perpetuity by the Bakufu—mistakenly, it had been claimed ever since—had been wisely chosen. The view from the forecourt was the best in the neighborhood and they could see the fleet drawn up in battle order, safely offshore, safely at anchor.

The cortege arrived in martial style to take possession again. Sir
William had decided to spend the night in the Legation to prepare for tomorrow’s meeting and he bustled about, stopping as the Captain saluted. “Yes?”

“Raise the flag, sir? Secure the Legation?”

“At once. Keep to the plan, lots of noise, drums, pipes and so on. Pipe the retreat at sunset, and have the band march up and down.”

“Yes, sir.” The Captain walked over to the flagstaff. Ceremoniously, to the heady skirl of more pipes and drums, once more the Union Jack broke out at the masthead. Immediately, by previous agreement, there was an acknowledging broadside from the flagship. Sir William raised his hat and led three resounding cheers for the Queen. “Good, that’s better. Lun!”

“Heya, Mass’er?”

“Wait a minute, you’re not Lun!”

“I Lun Two, Mass’er, Lun One come ’night, chop chop.”

“All right, Lun Two. Dinner sunset, you make every Mass’er shipshape never mind.”

Lun Two nodded sourly, hating to be in such an isolated, indefensible place, surrounded by a thousand hidden, hostile eyes that everyone carelessly dismissed, though nearly all must sense. I’ll never understand barbarians, he thought.

That night Phillip Tyrer could not sleep. He lay on one of the straw mattresses atop a ragged carpet on the floor, wearily changing his position every few minutes, his mind unpleasantly crossed with thoughts of London and Angelique, the attack and the meeting tomorrow, the ache in his arm, and Sir William who had been irritable all day. It was cold with a slight promise of winter on the air, the room small. Windows with glass panes overlooked the spacious, well-planted back gardens. The other mattress bed was for the Captain but he was still making his rounds.

Apart from sounds of dogs foraging, a few tomcats, the city was silent. Occasionally he could hear distant ships’ bells of the fleet sounding the hours and the throaty laughter of their soldiers and he felt reassured. Those men are superb, he thought. We’re safe here.

At length he got up, yawned and padded over to the window, opened it to lean on the sill. Outside it was black, the cloud cover thick. No shadows but he saw many Highlanders patrolling with oil lamps. Beyond the fence to one side was the vague shape of the Buddhist temple. At sunset after the bagpipes had beat the retreat and the Union Jack had been ritually pulled down for the night, monks had barred their heavy gate, sounded their bell, then filled the night with their strange chanting:
“Ommm mahnee padmee hummmmm …”
over and over again. Tyrer had been calmed by it, unlike many of the others who shouted catcalls, telling them rudely to shut up.

He lit a candle that was beside the bed. His fob watch showed it was 2:30. Yawning again, he rearranged the blanket, propped himself up with the rough pillow and opened his small attaché case, his initials embossed on it—a parting gift from his mother—and took out his notebook. Covering the column of Japanese words and phrases he had written out phonetically, he muttered the English equivalents, then the next page, and the next. Then the same with the English and said aloud the Japanese. It pleased him every one was right.