For a moment his fingers filled the room.
Tyrer looked at Struan's face, no color now where an hour ago it was ruddy, and strong where now it was stretched and ominous, eyelids flickering from time to time. Strange, he thought, strange how unbelievably naked Struan seems now. Two days ago I'd never even heard his name, now we're bonded like brothers, now life is different, will be different for both of us, like it or not. And I know he's brave and I'm not.
"Ah, you asked about Dutch," Babcott said, scarcely listening to himself, all his attention on the repairs. "Since about 1640 the only contact Japanners have had with the outside, apart from China, has been with Dutchmen. All others were forbidden to land in Japan, particularly Spaniards and Portuguese. Japanners don't like Catholics because they meddled in their politics back in the 1600's. At one time, so legend says, Japan almost went Catholic. Do you know any of this?"
"No sir."
"So the Dutch were tolerated because they'd never brought missionaries here, just wanted to trade."
For a moment he stopped talking but his fingers continued the fine neat stitches. Then he rambled on again.
"So a few Hollanders, men never women, were allowed to stay, but only with the most severe restrictions and confined on a man-made island of three acres in Nagasaki harbor called Deshima. The Dutch obeyed any law the Japanners made, and kowtowed--growing rich meanwhile. They brought in books, when they were allowed, traded, when they were allowed, and carried the China trade that's essential to Japan-- Chinese silks and silver for gold, paper, lacquer, chopsticks--you know what those are?"
"Yes sir. I was in Peking for three months."
"Oh yes, sorry I forgot. Never mind.
According to Dutch journals of the 1600's the first of the Toranaga Shoguns, their equivalent of emperors, decided foreign influence was against Japan's interests, so he closed the country and decreed that Japanners could not build any oceangoing ships, or leave the country--anyone who did could not come back or if they returned, they were to be killed instantly. That's still the law."
His fingers stopped for an instant as the delicate thread parted and he cursed. "Give me the other needle. Can't get decent gut though this silk's fine. Try to thread one of the others but wash your hands first and wash it when you're done. Thanks."
Tyrer was glad to have something to do and turned away but his fingers were helpless. His nausea was growing again, his head throbbing. "You were saying, about the Dutch?"
"Ah yes. So, warily, Dutch and Japanners began learning from the other though the Dutch were officially forbidden to learn Japanese.
Ten odd years ago the Bakufu started a Dutch language school..." Both men heard the running feet.
Hasty knock. The sweating Grenadier Sergeant stood there, trained never to enter while an operation was in progress. "Sorry to interrupt, sir, but there's four of the rotten little buggers coming down the road. Looks like a deputation. They's all samurai."
The doctor did not stop sewing. "Is Lim with them?"
"Yessir."
"Escort them into the reception room and tell Lim to look after them. I'll be there as soon as I can."
"Yessir." The Sergeant took one last glazed look at the table, then fled.
The doctor completed another stitch, knotted it, cut the thread, swabbed the oozing wound, and began anew. "Lim's one of our Chinese assistants. Our Chinese do most of our leg work, not that they're Japanese speakers or, or very trustworthy."
"We... it was the same... we found it was the same in Peking, sir. Dreadful liars."
"The Japanners are worse--but in a way that's not true either. It's not that they're liars, it's just that truth is mobile and depends on the whim of the speaker. Very important for you to learn to speak Japanese very quickly. We don't have even one interpreter, not of our own people."
Tyrer gaped at him. "None?"
"None. The British padre speaks a little but we can't use him, Japanners detest missionaries and priests. We've only three Dutch speakers in the Settlement, one Hollander, one Swiss who's our interpreter, and a Cape Colony trader, none British.
In the Settlement we speak a bastard sort of lingua franca called "pidgin," like in Hong Kong and Singapore and the other China Treaty ports and use compradores, business intercessors."
"It was the same in Peking."
Babcott heard the irritation but more the underlying danger. He glanced up, instantly saw into Tyrer that he was near to breaking, ready to vomit again any second. "You're doing fine," he said encouragingly, then straightened to ease his back, sweat running off him. Again he bent down. Very carefully he resettled the repaired intestine into the cavity, quickly began to stitch another laceration, working outwards. "How'd you like Peking?" he asked, not caring but wanting Tyrer to talk.
Better that than an outburst, he thought. Can't deal with him till this poor bugger's closed up.
"I've never been there. Did you like it?"
"I, well... yes, yes, very much." Tyrer tried to collect his wits through a blinding headache that racked him. "The Manchus are quite subdued at the moment, so we could go anywhere we wanted quite safely." Manchus, a nomadic tribe from Manchuria, had conquered China in 1644 and now ruled as the Ch'ing Dynasty. "We could ride around without... without any problems... the Chinese were... not too friendly but..." The closeness of the room and the smell crested. A spasm took him and he was sick again and, still nauseated, came back. "Sorry."
"You were saying--about Manchus?"
Suddenly Tyrer wanted to scream that he cared nothing about Manchus or Peking or anything, wanting to run from the stench and his helplessness.
"The devil with--"
"Talk to me! Talk!"
"We, we were told that... that normally they're an arrogant, nasty lot and it's obvious the Chinese hate Manchus mortally." Tyrer's voice was phlegmy but the more he concentrated the less he felt the urge to flee. He continued, hesitating, "It, it seems they're all petrified the Tai'ping Rebellion will spread up from Nanking and engulf Peking, and that will be the end of...." He stopped, listening intently. His mouth had a dreadful taste and his head pounded even more.
"What is it?"
"I... I thought I heard someone shouting."
Babcott listened, hearing nothing. "Go on about Manchus."
"Well, the, er, the Tai'ping Rebellion.
Rumor has it that more than ten million peasants have been killed or died of famine in the last few years. But it's quiet in Peking--of course burning and looting the Summer Palace by British and French forces two years ago that Lord Elgin ordered as a reprisal, also taught the Manchus a lesson they won't forget in a hurry. They aren't going to murder any more British lightly. Isn't that what Sir William will order here? A reprisal?"
"If we knew who to carry out the reprisal against we would have started. But against who? You can't bombard Yedo because of a few unknown assassins ..."
Angry voices interrupted him, the Sergeant's English at odds with guttural Japanese. Then the door was jerked open by a samurai and behind him two others threatened the Sergeant, their swords half out of their scabbards, two Grenadiers with breech-loaders levelled stood in the passageway. The fourth samurai, an older man, came forward into the room. Tyrer backed against the wall, petrified, reliving Canterbury's death.
"Kinjiru!" Babcott bellowed, and everyone froze. For a moment it looked as though the older man, furious now, would pull out his sword and attack. Then Babcott whirled and faced them, a scalpel in his enormous fist, blood on his hands and apron, gigantic and diabolical. "Kinjiru!" he ordered again, then pointed with the scalpel. "Get out!
Dete. Dete... dozo." He glared at all of them then turned his back on them and continued sewing and swabbing. "Sergeant, show them the reception room--politely!"
"Yessir." With signs, the Sergeant beckoned to the samurai who chattered angrily amongst themselves. "Dozo," he said, muttering.
"Come on, you rotten little bastards." Again he beckoned. The older samurai imperiously waved at the others and stomped off. At once the other three bowed and followed.
Awkwardly Babcott wiped a bead of sweat off his chin with the back of his hand, then continued his work, his head and neck and back aching. "Kinjiru means It is forbidden," he said, making his voice calm though his heart was beating violently as it always did when samurai were near with drawn or even half-drawn swords and he had no pistol or gun in his hands, cocked and ready. Too many times he had been summoned to the result of their swords, against both Europeans and themselves-- fights and samurai feuds were constant in and around Yokohama, Kanagawa and the surrounding villages. "Dozo means please, Dete go out. Very important to use please and thank you with Japanese. Thank you is domo. Use them even if you shout." He glanced at Tyrer who was still against the wall, shaking. "There's whisky in the cabinet."
"I'm... I'm all right..."
"You're not, you're still in shock. Take a good dose of whisky. Sip it. Soon as I'm finished I'll give you something to stop the sickness.