Gai-Jin (105 page)

The shoya was prepared, aware the thread between a sudden, berserk attack and sanity was stretched to breaking, shishi never to be trusted, one hand not far from his sleeve pocket. He kept his voice soft, nevertheless there was no mistaking the threat, or promise: “My superiors told me to tell you that your secrets and those of your father, honored clients, though recorded, are private, completely private…between us.”

Hiraga sighed and sat back, the threat cleansing his head of useless anger, and he considered all that the shoya had told him, the threat—or the promise—and all the rest, the danger of the man himself, the Gyokoyama and their like, weighing his choice, his heritage and training in the balance.

The choice was simple: To kill or not to kill, to listen or not to listen. When he was very young his mother had said, “Beware, my son, and remember seriously: to kill is easy, to unkill impossible.”

For a moment his mind dwelt on her, always wise, always welcoming him, always with arms outstretched—even during the pains in her joints that were a way of life for her as long as he could remember, and twisted her a little worse every year. “Very well, shoya, I will listen, once.”

In his turn the shoya sighed, a major ravine straddled. He filled the cups. “To
sonno-joi
and shishi!”

They drank. He replenished the cups from time to time. “Otami-sama, please be patient with me but we believe we can have all that the gai-jin have. As you know, in Nippon rice is a currency, rice merchants are bankers, they lend money to farmers against future crops, to buy seeds and so on, without the money most years there would be no crops, therefore no taxes to collect; they lend to samurai and daimyos for their living against future pay, future koku, future taxes, without this money there is usually no living until there are crops to tax. Money makes any way of life possible. Money, in the form of gold, silver, rice or silk or even manure, money is the wheel of life, profit the grease of the wheel an—”

“Come to the point. The secret.”

“Oh, so sorry, the point is that somehow, incredibly, gai-jin moneylenders, bankers—in their world it is an honorable profession—have found a way to finance all their industries, machines, ships, cannon, buildings, armies, anything and everything, profitably, without using real gold. There cannot be that amount of real gold in all the world. Somehow they can make vast loans using the
promise
of real gold, or
pretend
gold, and that alone makes them strong, and, seemingly, they do it without debasing their currency, as daimyos do.”

“Pretend gold? What are you talking about? Be clearer!”

The shoya wiped a bead of sweat off his lip, excited now, the saké helping his tongue, but more so because now he began to believe it was possible that this youth could solve the puzzle. “Excuse me if I am complicated but we know what they do, but not yet know how they do it. Perhaps your Taira, this gai-jin fountain of information you so cleverly drain, perhaps he would know, could explain to you how they do it, the tricks, the secrets, then you can tell us and we can make Nippon as strong as five Englands. When you achieve
sonno-joi
, we and other moneylenders can join to finance all the ships and arms Nippon will ever need …”

Cautiously, he elaborated on his theme, eloquently answering questions, guiding Hiraga, helping him, flattering him, judiciously plying him with saké and knowledge, impressed with his intelligence, over the hours snaring his imagination, and he continued until the sun was down.

“Money, eh? I will ad … admit, shoya,” Hiraga said unsteadily, heavy with alcohol, his head bursting with so many new and unsettling ideas that conflicted with as many deep beliefs, “admit money never inter … ested me. Never really … really understood money, only the lack.” A belch almost choked him. “I—I think I can see—yes, Taira will tell me.” He tried to get up and failed.

“First may I offer a bath, and I will send for the masseuse?” The shoya easily persuaded him, called for a servant to help and gave Hiraga over to strong though gentle hands—soon to be snoring and oblivious.

“Well done, Ichi-chan,” his wife whispered when it was safe, beaming at him. “You were perfect,
neh?”

He beamed back, also speaking softly, “He is dangerous, always will be, but we begin, that’s the important part.”

She nodded, satisfied that he had taken her advice to send for Hiraga this afternoon, to be armed, and not to be afraid to use the threat. Both knew the risks, but then, she reminded herself, her heart still pounding from listening to the parry and thrust, this is an opportunity sent by the gods and gains are proportionate to risks. Eeee, she chortled to herself, with success we will be granted samurai status, our descendants will be samurai, and my Ichi will be a Gyokoyama overlord. “You were so wise to say two and not three escapees and not to reveal what else we know.”

“It is important to keep something in reserve. To further control him.”

She patted her husband maternally and again told him how clever he was and did not remind him that this too had been her suggestion. She let her mind drift a moment, still puzzled by the two shishi making for Yedo, thus surely risking capture or betrayal immeasurably. And even more puzzling was why the girl Sumomo, Hiraga’s samurai wife-to-be, had joined the household of Koiko, Yedo’s most famous courtesan, now the pleasure person of Lord Yoshi. Very puzzling indeed.

A vagrant thought blossomed. “Ichi-chan,” she said delicately, “something you said earlier made me want to ask you: If these gai-jin are so clever and such magical bankers, would it not be wise for you to begin a careful venture with one of them, quietly, very quietly.” She saw his eyes fix and the dawning of a seraphic smile. “Toshi is nineteen, the cleverest of our sons, and could be the figurehead,
neh?”

MONDAY, 1ST DECEMBER
:

Norbert Greyforth came on deck of the mail ship just rounding the headland. She was from Hong Kong via Shanghai and now ahead was the Yokohama coastline. He was freshly shaven and wore a top hat and frock coat against the early morning chill and he saw the Captain and others on the bridge in front of the funnel with its plume of acrid smoke trailing aft, seamen preparing for port, sails furled on her three masts. On the fore-deck, behind locked grilles separating them completely from the rest of the ship, were steerage passengers, the flotsam of Asia, remittance men and riffraff, huddled under canvas shelters. Grilles were standard on passenger ships against piracies attempted from this area.

The wind was brisk and smelt good to him and tasted clean, not like below where the stench of oil and coal smoke and the throbbing, headache-making engine noise permeated the closeness.
Asian Queen
had been under power for hours, battling the head wind. Much as he loathed steamers, Norbert was pleased, otherwise they would have been many more days late. He bit the end off a cheroot, spat it overboard and cupped his hands, lighting it carefully.

The Settlement looked the same as ever. Samurai guard houses and Customs House, north and south, outside the fence and over small bridges, smoke from various chimneys, men walking the promenade, horsemen exercising their ponies on the racetrack, Drunk Town its usual mess with little of their fire and earthquake damage cleaned up, contrasting with the
disciplined tent lines of the encampment on the bluff where soldiers were drilling, the odd bugle call wafting seawards. As if peeping over the fence were the Yoshiwara roofs. He felt a halfhearted stirring, nothing like normal for he was still satiated from carousing in Shanghai, the richest, raunchiest, wildest city in Asia, with the best racing, gambling, whoring, bars and European food anywhere.

Never mind, he thought, I’ll give Sako the bolt of silk and that’ll make her toolie flutter and who knows?

His eyes passed the flagpoles of the various Legations, hardened as they saw the Struan Building, then centered on his own. During the three weeks he had been away he was pleased to see external repairs to the top floor had been completed, no sign of fire damage. He was too far away to recognize people going in and out of the buildings fronting High Street, then he caught a glimpse of a blue bonnet and hooped dress and parasol crossing to the French Legation. Only one like that, he thought. Angel Tits! It was as if he could smell the perfume surrounding her. Wonder if she knows about the duel.

Morgan Brock had guffawed when he told them. “Thee’s my consent to blow his head or balls off. ’Stead of pistols, make it fighting irons and really earn thy bonus.”

Tenders were already scurrying to meet the mail ship. Sourly, he noted that the Struan steam launch was waiting in the chop, first in line, Jamie McFay in the stern. His oared launch second. Never mind, won’t be long before your launch’s mine, your building, with you and all the bloody Struans beached or dead, though maybe I’ll give you a job, Jamie, maybe, just for amusement. Then he saw McFay put binoculars to his eyes and knew he would see him. He waved perfunctorily, spat over the side and went to his cabin below.

“’Morning, Mr. Greyforth, suh,” Edward Gornt said with Southern charm. He stood at the door of the cabin opposite, a tall, though slight, good-looking young man from Virginia, twenty-seven, with deep-set brown eyes and brown hair. “I’ve been watching from the aft deck. Nothing like Shanghai, is it?”

“In more ways than you can think. Are you packed?”

“Yes, suh, and ready to have at it.” Apart from the slight roll to the “suh” his accent was faint, much more English than Southern.

“Good. Sir Morgan told me to give you this when we arrived.” He took an envelope from his briefcase and handed it to him. The more he thought about his whole trip the more flabbergasted he became. Tyler Brock had not come to Shanghai. A curt note had greeted Greyforth instead, telling him to obey his son, Morgan, as though he was giving the orders. Sir Morgan Brock was a big-bellied, balding man, not as coarse as his father,
but just as mean-tempered and bearded like him. Unlike him, he was London-trained in Threadneedle Street, center of the world’s stock markets, and for all manner of international trade. As soon as Greyforth arrived Morgan had laid out his plan to break Struan’s.

It was foolproof.

For a year he, his father and their associates on the board of the Victoria Bank of Hong Kong had been buying up Struan’s debt paper. Now, with the whole board backing them, they only had to wait until the 30th of January to foreclose. There was no way Struan’s could meet this deadline. On that date the bank would own Struan’s, lock, stock and clipper ship, with Morgan cornering the Hawaiian sugar markets, cunningly excluding Struan’s, who counted on their yearly profits from those markets to service their debts. He would make the killing certain. And another, even bigger coup: Morgan, with supreme cleverness, had bartered these crops forward to Union and Confederate importers for Union goods and Southern cotton for the huge British market that still, by law, could only be serviced by British ships—their ships.

“It’s a genius scheme, Sir Morgan, congratulations,” Norbert said, awed, for it would make Brock’s the wealthiest trading company in Asia,
the Noble House
, and guarantee his stipend of five thousand guineas a year.

“We be buying Struan’s at ten pennies on the pound from the Bank, that be agreed, Norbert, their fleet, everything,” Sir Morgan had said, his huge belly shaking with laughter. “Thee’s to retire soon, and we be very grateful for thy service. If all goes well in Yokohama, we be thinking of another five thousand a year as bonus. Look after young Edward and show him everything.”

“To what end?” he had asked, that vast amount of money every year swamping him.

“To any end I want,” Sir Morgan had said curtly. “But since thee asks, perhaps I be wanting him to take over Japan, take over thy job when thee goes, if he’s worthy. Rothwell’s be giving him a month’s leave”—this was Gornt’s present employer, one of the oldest Shanghai companies and associates of Cooper-Tillman, the biggest American China trader, for whom he had been working for three years, and with whom Brock’s, as well as Struan’s, had extensive business relations—“this be enough time for the lad to decide, perhaps he’ll take over from thee, when thee retires.”

“You think he’s experienced enough, Sir Morgan?”

“By the time thee leaves, make sure he is—that’s thy job, teach him, toughen him. Don’t break him, I don’t want him scared off, broken—don’t forget now!”

“How much should I tell him?”

After thought, Sir Morgan said, “Everything about our business in the
Japans, the gunrunning plan and opium smuggling if them bastards in Parliament get their way. Tell him thy ideas on opening up the opium trade and busting any embargo if there be one, but nought about provoking Struan, or about our scheme to smash them. The lad knows about the Struans, no love lost on them at Rothwell’s, he knows what scum they really be and the devilment old Dirk did, murdering my stepbrother and the like. He’s a good lad, so tell him what thee will, but not about sugar!”

“Just as you say, Sir Morgan. What about all the specie and paper I brought? I’ll need replacements to pay for the guns, silks and this year’s trade goods.”

“I be sending it from Hong Kong, when I returns, and Norbert, it were right clever to shove Struan’s out of the way with the Jappo prospecting offer—if that pays dirt, thee will share in’t. As to Edward, after the month send him to Hong Kong with a confidential report to the Old Man. I like the lad, he be highly thought of in Shanghai and by Rothwell’s—and the son of an old friend.”

Norbert had wondered about “what” old friend, and about the debt Sir Morgan owed the man to take so much trouble, unusual for him to be kind to anyone. But he was too shrewd to ask and kept his own counsel, happy that the problem of staying in Brock’s good favor would not concern him much longer.

Edward Gornt proved to be pleasant enough, reticent, a good listener, more English than American, intelligent, and, rare in Asia, a nondrinker. Greyforth’s immediate assessment had been that Gornt was totally un-suited to the rough, adventurous, hard-drinking China trade—a lightweight in everything, except at cards. Gornt was an exceptional bridge player and lucky at poker, a major virtue in Asia, but even this was academic for he never played for high stakes.