Gai-Jin (75 page)

A laugh and a kiss had changed his mind. La, I begin to love him and adore the game of getting my own way.

She smiled and began to write again:

The steel nib, set into a bone handle, began blotching. Carefully she dried it and cleaned the tip, marvelling that it was so easy, the nib again as good as new. Up to a few years ago the quill pen was commonplace and she would have had to find the special quill knife and cut a new point, splitting it to last but a page or two, whereas these Mitchell pens, mass-produced in Birmingham, would last for days and came in many sizes to please your fancy and your writing.

Behind her, Struan stirred but did not awaken. Asleep he has a tidy face, she thought. Neat and strong …

The door opened and Ah Soh barged in. “Missee, tiffin, you wan’ here or downstai’, heya?”

Struan had awoken at once. “Your mistress will eat here,” he said brusquely in Cantonese. “I’ll dine downstairs, in our main dining room, and tell the cook the food had better be exceptional.”

“Yes, Tai-pan.” Ah Soh hurried off.

“What did you tell her, Malcolm?”

“Just that you’d lunch here—I’ll be downstairs. I’ve invited Dmitri, Jamie and Norbert.” He looked at her silhouetted against the light. “You look splendid.”

“Thank you. Can I join you? I’d prefer that.”

“Sorry, we’ve business to discuss.”

With a great effort he heaved himself upright and she gave him his two walking sticks. Before he took them he put his arms around her and she allowed her body to sink against him, hiding her anger that she would be cooped up again—nowhere to go, nothing to do, except to write some more or read some more and to wait. Boring boring boring.

Lun Two cut the first of the large deep-dish apple pies into quarters, slid them onto fine pewter plates, poured thick cream generously and served the four men.

“God Almighty, where the devil did you get it?” Norbert Greyforth asked, and Dmitri said over him with equal awe, “I’ll be goddamned.”

“The cream?” McFay belched. “Pardon. Compliments of the tai-pan.”

Dmitri spooned a mouthful. “Last time I had cream was in Hong Kong, six months ago, goddam this’s good. This a new Noble House exclusive?”

Malcolm smiled. “Our last clipper, a few days ago, sneaked in three cows. We unloaded them at night and with the help of the army quartermaster we’ve had them hidden amongst the horses—didn’t want them hijacked or the Jappo Customs asking questions. Day and night guard now.” He could not contain his pleasure at the effect of the cream after a lavish amount of beef, roast potatoes and fresh vegetables, local pheasant pie, French and English cheeses—with beer, Château Haut-Brion ’46, a fine Chablis and port. “We’re going to start a herd if they acclimatize here, and a dairy farm—as a subsidiary of our Hong Kong dairy farm—it was Jamie’s idea originally, and of course the produce will be available to anyone.”

“At the usual ‘Noble’ prices?” Norbert said sarcastically, plainly irritated he had had no forewarning of this new Struan endeavor.

“At a profit—but a reasonable one,” Struan said. He had ordered the cows to be rushed from Hong Kong the moment he arrived here. “More, Dmitri?”

“Thanks, great pie, Malc!”

“How’s the word from home?” Jamie asked, to break the tension between Struan and Norbert Greyforth.

“Lousy. Terrible. Both sides are mixing it and with rifles and long-range artillery—shit, the killings are the worst ever, afraid the New World’s crazy.”

“The whole world’s crazy, old friend,” Norbert said. “But war’s good business, that’s a fact, for the lucky ones,” then added, just to rile Struan, “Brock’s have all the Hawaiian sugar you’ll need, at reasonable prices.”

“It’d be a change for anything to be reasonable,” Dmitri said lightly. He knew all about the huge losses Struan’s was going to sustain because of Tyler and Morgan Brock’s coup, but shrugged to himself. I’m not in their
war, I’ve my own to worry about. Dear God in Heaven, how will it end? “War’s never good for the people. Goddam, the cost’s going to be huge—you hear that Lincoln’s just got his goddam income tax through Congress to pay for the war?”

All the other spoons hesitated. “What’s the rate?”

“Three cents on the dollar,” he said disgustedly, and they all laughed.

“You’re sure?”

“I just heard today by a special off the
Calif Belle.”

“Three percent? You’re bloody lucky, Dmitri,” Jamie said, his plate almost empty. “I expected fifteen.”

“You crazy? There’d’ve been a revolution.”

“You’re already in one. Anyway, three percent is the same as us, but yours is only for three years, that’s … wait a minute,” Jamie said, raising his voice, “that’s what Lincoln promised, swore it was only for three years according to the last
’Frisco Chronicle
, if Congress passed it. Three years.”

“True, but you know goddam politicians, Jamie, once they get a tax through Congress, or Parliament, they’ll never take it off. Goddam Congress, shysters, all of them. Three percent’s only the beginning.”

“You’re right there,” Norbert began, equally sourly, then to Lun, “Yes, I’ll have another slice, and a good dollop of cream. You’re right about bloody taxes! Bloody Pitt, he’s the bugger who first invented income tax and he promised the same and reneged like Lincoln will. Politicians are liars all over but Robert Peel should have been horsewhipped.”

“Robert Peel, the same guy who started a police force, the Peelers?” Dmitri asked, and took another spoon of cream.

“Yes, that’s him. The Peelers were a good idea—though it wasn’t his idea alone, and we could use some here, no doubt about that, but income tax? Monstrous!”

Malcolm said, “Peel was a good Prime Minister. He—”

Norbert deliberately overrode him. “We only had that damned tax for two short periods during the Napoleon Wars, fair enough, but then it was repealed forever in ’15, directly after Waterloo, forever, by God, but didn’t piss-arsed Peel bring it back in ’41 at seven pence in the pound, three percent like Jamie said? And only for three years. Didn’t he renege, and all the other buggers who followed him? It’ll go on forever and twenty guineas to a bent farthing Lincoln’ll renege too. You’re stuck, Dmitri old lad. We are too, because of Peel. Stupid bastard,” he added deliberately to irritate Struan even though privately he agreed with his assessment of Peel overall.

Struan’s good humor was evaporating fast. “Brandy, Lun, then close door!” Lun Two poured generous snifters and left with the other four liveried servants.

Norbert belched. “Cream was good, young Malcolm. Now, to what do we owe the pleasure of such a feast?”

The mood at the big table changed. Deepened.

“What concerns all traders. Sir William and us being excluded from the Shōgun and Bakufu meeting.”

“I agree the bugger should be axed. Never heard anything like it in my life!”

“Yes,” Struan said. “At the very least we should have had a representative there.”

“Agreed,” Dmitri said grimly, most of his mind on home. One brother already dead. Food riots nearby. “Our guy’s nice enough but he’s Yankee. I suggested he appoint me Deputy but he shat on that idea. What do you have in mind, Malc?”

“A joint deputation to make sure it won’t happen again, an immediate complaint to the Governor an—”

“Stanshope’s a berk,” Norbert said and smiled thinly. “But he will do what your mama wants.”

“He’s not our puppet, if that’s what you imply,” Struan said, his eyes as cold as his voice.

Dmitri said, “Puppet or not, will he fire Wee Willie?”

“No,” Struan said. “That has to come from London. My idea is if William won’t agree that we’re to be part of any negotiations in the future, then we advise Stanshope to make it policy—he can certainly do that, after all it’s we who pay taxes, it’s we who negotiate with the Chinese, why not here? Jointly we could accomplish that. Norbert?”

“That bugger will agree to anything for a simple life and it won’t do a bit of good.” His face tightened. “William’s not our whole problem. It’s the Admiral. We need a new Admiral. That’s more important than shoving William aside. It’s him who won’t bombard the bastards like he should. It’s him, not William—any fool can see that.” Norbert finished his brandy and refilled his glass as he continued, pretending not to notice how his barb had rocked Struan and irritated McFay. “Again my compliments on the cream, but the brandy’s not up to scratch. May I send you a barrel of our Napoleon?”

With an effort Struan kept his temper. “Why not? Perhaps it’s better. Is your solution to our problem better?”

“My solution’s well known,” Norbert said harshly. “Demand they hand over Canterbury’s murderers and the indemnity and if no action, three days later flatten Yedo. How many times do I have to say it? But the idiots we’ve got here won’t take normal reprisals, which’s the only action natives understand—any enemy, for that matter. And until the Navy act proper, every bloody one of us here is at risk, by God!”

The silence grew. McFay kept his thoughts off his face, concerned that Struan let himself be at loggerheads with this much older and more experienced
man, and saddened that Norbert’s reply had not been part of Struan’s opening salvo, and disgusted that he had been kept unaware of the real reason for the meeting so had not had an opportunity to give some advice beforehand. “Be that as it may, Norbert, you agree that you, Dmitri and the tai-pan, representing the majority, should see Wee Willie as soon as he returns?”

“It’s all right to see him, but it will mean nothing.” Norbert drank more brandy, feeling better for the confrontation. “I know what Mr. Brock, a real tai-pan, and Sir Morgan would say: Tyler Brock would say, with a lot of blunt Anglo-Saxon, that the Admiral’s the bleeder in the woodpile, William’s an arrogant little bastard who won’t change, that he’ll see Stanshope personally who’s an equal fool, and by the first post he’ll write to our friendly Members of Parliament to raise holy hell.” While he spoke, he lit a cheroot and said through the smoke, his voice sneering, “And he’ll add, even though our friends are more powerful than yours and will do more than yours, meanwhile it’s a bagful of fart because that’ll take five or six months, so he’d say, ‘Get thy arse out of thy godrotting chair, thee’s responsible, by God, thee’s to solve thy problem or I’ll be coming to the Japans and break heads.’”

Struan felt the wave of anger, and wash of latent fear, that always occurred hearing Tyler Brock’s name, or when he read about him in the papers or saw him on the streets of Hong Kong or at the races. “Then what’s the answer?”

“I don’t have one. If I had I would already have done it, by God.” Norbert belched rudely. “Like your secret Jappo and his mining concessions you’ll never get.”

Struan and McFay gaped at him.

Two weeks ago Vargas had excitedly whispered that he had been approached by one of their silk suppliers, acting as an intermediary for a Lord Ota, who wanted to meet the tai-pan secretly “to discuss granting Struan’s an exclusive gold-mining concession in his domain that included most of the Kwanto, the area covering most of the plains and mountains around Yedo—the concession in return for trade: armaments.”

“Perfect,” Struan had said. “If this is bona fide it could be a major breakthrough for us! Eh, Jamie?”

“If it’s real, absolutely!”

“Here, look, here’s their authority.” Vargas showed them the sheet of fine-quality rice paper covered with columns of Chinese-style characters and sealed elaborately. “This seal is Lord Ota’s, and this the seal of one of the
roju
, Lord Yoshi. There are two conditions: that the meeting is to take place in Kanagawa, and that everything is kept secret from the Bakufu.”