Gai-Jin (57 page)

Hiraga imitated him. It took all of his willpower not to cry out from the heat, and to hold in what was the foulest-tasting liquid he had ever had in his life.

“Good, eh?” Tyrer said with a beam, finishing his cup. “Some more?”

“No, no, thank you. Ing’erish custom, yes?”

“English and American, yes, not French. The French—” Tyrer shrugged “—they’ve no taste.”

“Ah, so ka?”
Hiraga had noticed the slight sneer. “French not same as Ing’erish?” he asked with a pretended innocence, his fury compartmentalized for later.

“My goodness me, no, not like them at all. They’re on the Continent, we’re an island nation like you. Different customs, different foods, government, everything, and of course France’s a minor power compared to Britain.” Tyrer stirred in another spoon of sugar, pleased with himself that the man’s rage seemed to have dissipated. “Very different.”

“Oh, so? Ing’erish and French warred hav?”

Tyrer laughed. “Dozens of times over the centuries, and allies in other wars—we were allies in the last conflict.” He told him briefly about the Crimea, then about Napoleon Bonaparte, the French revolution, and the present Emperor Louis Napoleon. “He’s Bonaparte’s nephew, an absolute buffoon. Bonaparte wasn’t, but one of the most evil men ever born, he was responsible for hundreds of thousands of deaths. But for Wellington and Nelson and our troops he would have ruled the world. Are you understanding all this?”

Hiraga nodded. “No o’rr word, but unn’erstan’.” But he had caught the gist and this turned his head upside down, though he could not fathom why a great general should be considered evil. “P’rease go on, Taira-san.”

For a little while Tyrer did, then stopped the history lesson and gave him a lead: “Now to your problem. When you left the Yoshiwara those guards gave you no trouble?”

“No, pretend take vegitab’res.”

“That’s good. Oh, by the way, did you see Raiko-san?”

“Yes. Fujiko not possib’re tomorrow.”

“Oh. Well, never mind.” Tyrer shrugged, dying inside.

But Hiraga saw the vast disappointment and savored it.
Sonno-joi
, he thought grimly. He had had to buy Fujiko’s services himself but he did not
mind. Raiko had said: “Since you pay well, though not gai-jin prices, I agree. But he should bed her the day after. I wouldn’t want him to find another …”

Tyrer was saying, “Nakama-san, the only real way you can be safe here is to never go out. I won’t send you to the Yoshiwara anymore. You must stay here, inside the Legation.”

“Better, Taira-san, I stay in vi’rrage, find safe house. Inside fence safer. Each day I come at sunup, or when you want teach and to ’rearn. You very good Sensei. This so’rve prob’rem, yes?”

Tyrer hesitated, not wanting him off the leash but no longer caring to have him too close. “Yes, if first you show me where exactly and do not move without telling me.”

In a moment Hiraga nodded and said, “I agree. P’rease, you say so’diers good me stay here and in vi’rrage?”

“Yes, I’ll do that. I’m sure Sir William will agree.”

“Thank you, Taira-san. Say so’diers also, if attack again I get
katana.”

“You will do no such thing! I forbid it, Sir William has forbidden it! No weapons, no swords!”

“P’rease you say so’dier, no attack p’rease.”

“Yes, I’ll do that but if you wear swords here you will be killed, they’ll shoot you!”

Hiraga shrugged. “P’rease, no attack.
Wakatta?”

Tyrer did not reply.
Wakatta
was the imperious form of
wakarimasu ka:
Do you understand?

“Domo.”
With a contained violence that Tyrer could almost smell, Nakama thanked him again and said that he would return at dawn to guide him to the safe house, and would be ready then to answer any questions that he wanted to ask. He bowed stiffly. Tyrer did the same. He walked out. It was only then that Tyrer saw the extent of the bruises over all his back and legs.

That night the wind became changeable, the sea choppy.

Out in the roads the fleet was snug at anchor and ready for sleep, the first night watch that came on duty at 8:00
P.M.
already at their stations. Upwards of fifty men were in various cells for various offenses; and with varying degrees of fear six were diligently making their own cat-o’-ninetails for the fifty lashes they were due at dawn for conduct prejudicial to good order and military discipline: one for threatening to break the neck of a sodomite Bosun, three for fighting, one for stealing a rum ration, and another for swearing at an officer.

Nine sea burials were scheduled for sunup.

All ship’s sick bays were overloaded with sufferers of dysentery, diarrhea, the croup, whooping cough, scarlet fever, measles, venereal diseases, broken limbs, hernias and the like, routine—except for a dangerous fourteen with smallpox—aboard the flagship. Bleeding and violent purges were the recommended cures for most illnesses—the majority of doctors also being barbers—except for the lucky few patients who were given Dr. Collis’s Tincture, one he had invented during the Crimea, which had cut dysentery deaths by three quarters. Six drops of the dark, opium-based liquid and your bowels began to quieten.

Throughout the Settlement everyone was preparing for dinner and the most eagerly anticipated part of the day: after-dinner conversation, discussing the day’s rumors or news—thank God the mail ship’s due tomorrow—enjoying the warm camaraderie and laughter over spicy scandals, the ball, tension over business problems and if war would begin, or about the latest book someone had read, a new funny story or poem another had thought up, or telling tales of storms or ice lands or desert, or journeys made to strange places throughout the Empire—New Zealand, Africa and Australia hardly explored but for coastal areas—or the Wild West of America and Canada, stories of the California Gold Rush of ’49, or visits to Spanish or French or Russian America. Dmitri had once sailed the mostly uncharted western seaboard from San Francisco north to Russian Alaska. Each man told of strange sights he had seen, girls sampled or wars witnessed. Good wine and drinks and pipes and tobacco from Virginia, a few nightcaps at the Club, then prayers and bed.

A normal night in the Empire.

Some hosts specialized in chorals or poetry readings or excerpts from a coveted novel, and tonight at Norbert Greyforth’s extremely private party, all guests sworn to secrecy, a special reading of the last chapter from the bootlegged copy he had had produced in his allotted hour by putting all his fifty clerks on it. “If this leaks, the whole lot of you are dismissed,” he had threatened.

In the Club they were still discussing the previous night’s ball and trying to work out how to have another. “Why not make it a bloody weekly bash, eh? Angel Tits can kick up her heels and show her knickers for me every day of the week along with Naughty Nellie Fortheringill—”

“Stop calling her Angel Tits, for chrissake, or else!”

“Angel tits she has, and Angel Tits she is!”

To jeers and catcalls the fight started, bets were taken and the two contenders, Lunkchurch and Grimm, another trader, toed the line and tried to smash each other senseless.

Almost directly across the road, on the sea side, was the large brick bungalow of the British Legation, flagpole in the courtyard, gardens, and surrounded like most important dwellings with a defendable fence. Sir
William was already dressed for dinner and so was his main guest, the Admiral. Both were furious.

“The bloody bastards!” the Admiral said, his flushed face more flushed than usual, going to the sideboard to pour another large whisky. “They’re beyond comprehension.”

“Totally.” Sir William tossed the scroll aside and glared at Johann and Tyrer who stood in front of him. An hour ago the scroll had arrived by messenger from the Japanese Governor who had sent it on behalf of the Bakufu. “Very urgent so sorry.” Instead of being in Dutch as was normal, it was in characters. With Seratard’s agreement, Johann had co-opted one of the visiting French Jesuit missionaries and had produced a rough copy that Tyrer at once put into correct English. The message was from the Council of Elders, and signed by Anjo:

“Johann,” Sir William said, his voice icy, “would you say this is unusually rude, impolite and altogether vile?”

The Swiss said cautiously, “I think that’s about right, Sir William.”

“For Christ sake, I’ve spent days negotiating, threatening, losing sleep, renegotiating until they swore on the Shōgun’s head to meet in Yedo on November 5th, the Shōgun on November 6th and now this!” Sir William gulped his drink, choked and swore for almost five minutes in English, French and Russian, the others staring with admiration at the gorgeously descriptive vulgarities.

“Quite right,” the Admiral said. “Tyrer, pour Sir William another gin.”

Instantly Tyrer obeyed. Sir William found his handkerchief, blew his nose, took some snuff, sneezed and blew his nose again. “The pox on all of them!”

“What do you propose, Sir William?” the Admiral asked, keeping the delight off his face at this further humbling of his adversary.

“Naturally I’ll reply at once. Please order the fleet to Yedo tomorrow to bombard port facilities of my choosing.”

The Admiral’s blue eyes narrowed. “I think we will discuss this in private. Gentlemen!” Tyrer and Johann at once began to leave.

“No,” Sir William said tightly. “Johann, you can go, please wait outside. Tyrer’s my personal staff, he stays.”

The Admiral’s neck reddened but he said nothing until the door had closed. “You know my views on bombardment very well. Until the order from England arrives, I-will-not-order-it unless I am attacked.”

“Your position makes negotiations impossible. Power comes from the barrels of our cannon, nothing else!”

“I agree, we only disagree on timing.”

“Timing is my decision. Good. Then kindly just order a small cannonade, twenty shells on targets of my choosing.”

“Dammit, no! Am I not clear? When the order arrives I will conflagrate Japan if necessary, not before.”

Sir William flushed. “Your reluctance to assist Her Majesty’s policy in the most minor way is beyond belief.”

“Personal aggrandizement seems to be the real problem. What do a few months matter? Nothing—except prudence!”

“Prudence be damned,” Sir William said angrily. “Of course we will get instructions to proceed as I—I repeat, I—advise! It is imprudent to delay. By tomorrow’s mail I will request you are replaced by an officer who is more tuned to Her Majesty’s interests—and battle trained!”

The Admiral went purple. Only a few knew that in all his career he had never participated in a sea or land engagement. When he could talk he said, “That, sir, is your privilege. Meanwhile until my replacement, or yours arrives, I command Her Majesty’s Forces in Japan. Good night, sir.” The door slammed.

“Rude bugger,” Sir William muttered, then to his surprise saw Tyrer who had been standing behind him, out of his eye line, paralyzed by the salvos. “You’d best keep your mouth shut. Did they teach you that?”

“Yessir, yes, indeed.”

“Good,” Sir William said, and took his agitated mind off the Gordian knot of the Bakufu,
roju
and intransigence of the Admiral for later. “Tyrer, get yourself a sherry, you look as though you need one, and you’d better join us for dinner as the Admiral has declined my invitation. You play backgammon?”

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir,” Tyrer said meekly.

“While I think of it, what’s this I hear about a skirmish, your pet samurai versus the British Army?”

Tyrer gave him the details and his solution, but not about his Sensei’s threat to get swords, feeling ever more guilty about hiding facts from the Minister. “I’d like to retain him, of course with your approval, sir, but he is a very good teacher and I think will be most useful to us.”

“I doubt that and it’s more important to have no more trouble here. No telling what the fellow will do, he could become a viper in our nest. He’s ordered out tomorrow.”

“But sir, he’s already given me some very valuable information.” Tyrer
held on to his sudden distress and blurted out, “For instance he told me the Shōgun’s only a boy, barely sixteen, he’s only the puppet of the Bakufu, the real power belongs to their Emperor—he used the title Mikado several times—who lives in Kyōto.”

“God Almighty!” Sir William exploded. “Is this true?”

It was on the tip of Tyrer’s tongue to tell about the English speaking, but he managed to stop himself. “I don’t know yet, sir. I haven’t had time to really question him, he’s difficult to bring out, but yes, I think he told me the truth.”

Sir William stared at him, his mind agog with the implications of the information. “What else has he told you?”

“I’ve only just started and it all takes time, as you’ll appreciate.” Tyrer’s excitement picked up. “But he’s told me about ronin. The word means ‘wave,’ sir, they’re called ronin because they’re as free as the waves. They’re all samurai, but outlawed for different reasons. Most of them are adversaries of the Bakufu, like Nakama, who believe they’ve usurped power from the Midako, sorry, Mikado, as I said.”

“Wait a moment, slow down, slow down, Tyrer. There’s plenty of time. Now, what is a ronin, exactly?”

Tyrer told him.

“Good God!” Sir William thought a moment. “So ronin are samurai who are either outlawed because their king has lost favor, or outlawed by their kings for crimes real or imagined, or voluntary outlaws who are banding together to overthrow the central government of the puppet Shōgun?”

“Yes, sir. He says illegal government.”

Sir William sipped the last of his gin, nodding to himself, astonished and elated as he ran this all around in his mind. “Then Nakama’s a ronin, and what you call a dissident, and what I’d call a revolutionary?”