"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 Shogun'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 Kyoto."
"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 Shogun?"
"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?"
"Yes sir. Excuse me, sir, can I sit down?" Tyrer asked shakily, desperate to blurt out the real truth about the man and afraid to do so.
"Of course, of course, Tyrer, so sorry, but first get another sherry and bring me a tot of gin," Sir William watched him, delighted with him yet somehow perturbed. Years of dealing with diplomats, spies, half-truths, lies and blatant disinformation were calling up warning signals that something was being hidden from him. He accepted the drink. "Thanks. Take that chair, it's the most comfortable. Cheers! You must be speaking very good Japanese to get all this in such a short time," he said easily.
"No sir, sorry, I don't, but I spend all my time at it. With Nakama, it's, well, mostly patience, gestures, a few English words and Japanese words and phrases Andr`e Poncin has given me, he's been tremendously helpful, sir."
"Does Andr`e know what this man has told you?"
"No sir."
"Tell him nothing. Nothing at all. Anyone else?"
"No sir, except Jamie McFay."
Tyrer gulped his sherry. "He knew a little already and, well, he's very persuasive and he, well, pried it out about the Shogun."
Sir William sighed. "Yes, Jamie's persuasive, to say the least, and always knows far more than he tells."
He sat back in the comfortable old leather swivel chair and sipped his drink, his mind roving over all this priceless new knowledge, already redesigning his reply to tonight's rude missive, wondering how far he dare gamble and how far he could trust Tyrer's information. As always in these circumstances, queasily he remembered the Permanent Under Secretary's parting salvos about failure.
"About Nakama," he said. "I'll agree to your plan, Phillip... may I call you Phillip?"
Tyrer flushed with pleasure at the sudden and unexpected compliment. "Of course sir, thank you sir."
"Good, thank you. For the moment I'll agree to your plan, but for God's sake be careful of him, don't forget ronin have committed all the murders, except poor Canterbury."
"I'll be careful, Sir William.
Don't worry."
"Get all you can out of him but tell no one else and give me the information at once. For God's sake be careful, always have a revolver on hand and if he shows the slightest indication of violence, scream bloody murder, shoot him or clap him in irons."
Next door to the British Legation was the American, then the Dutch, Russian, German and last, the French, and there, in her suite that evening, Angelique was dressing for dinner, helped by Ah Soh. In an hour, the dinner Seratard was giving her and Malcolm to celebrate their engagement, was due to begin. Then later there would be music. "But don't play too long, Andr`e, say you're tired," she had cautioned him earlier. "Leave plenty of time for your mission, no? Men are so lucky."
She was glad and sad that she had moved. It's wiser, better, she thought. In three days I can move back. A new life, a new...
"Wat wrong, Miss'ee?"
"Nothing, Ah Soh." Angelique forced her mind away from what must soon be endured, and buried her fear deeper.
Just down the street in the best location on the waterfront, the Struan Building was well lit, as was Brock and Sons, next door, both with many clerks and shroffs still at their work. Today Malcolm Struan had moved into the tai-pan suite that was much bigger and more comfortable than the one he had been using and now he was fighting his way into his dinner clothes. "What's your advice, Jamie? Damned if I know what to do about Mother and her letters but that's my damned problem not yours-- she's giving you stick too, isn't she?"
Jamie McFay shrugged. "It's awfully difficult for her. From her point of view she's right, she only wants the best for you. I think she's worried to death over your health, you being so far away, she unable to come here. And nothing about Struans can be solved from Yokohama, everything in Hong Kong. China Cloud docks in a few days from Shanghai, then a quick turn around for Hong Kong. You'll be returning with her?"
"No, and please don't bring it up again,"
Struan said sharply. "I'll tell you when we, Angelique and I, are leaving. I just hope to God Mother isn't on China Cloud--that'd be the last straw." Struan bent to pull on his boots, failed, the pain too much. "Sorry, could you? Thanks," then he burst out, "this being like a fucking cripple is driving me over the brink."
"I can imagine." McFay covered his surprise. This was the first time he had ever heard Struan use that expletive. "I'd be the same, no, not the same, a bloody sight worse," he added kindly, liking him, admiring his courage.
"I'll be fine when we're married and all the waiting's over, everything tidy." Struan with difficulty used the chamber pot, painful always, and saw a few flecks of blood in the stream.
He had told Hoag about it yesterday when it had begun anew and Hoag had said not to worry.
"Then why do you look so worried?"' "I'm not, Malcolm, just concerned. With these kinds of vicious internal wounds, any indication during the healing process should be noted..."
Struan finished and hobbled over to the chair by the window and sat gratefully. "Jamie. I need a favor."
"Of course, anything, what can I do?"
"Can you, well, I must have a woman. Could you arrange it from the Yoshiwara?"
Jamie was startled. "I, yes, I imagine so." Then he added, "Is that wise?"
A gust rattled the shutters and tugged at trees and gardens, clattering a few loose roof tiles to the ground, sending the rats scurrying from the piles of garbage thrown carelessly into the High Street and from the encircling turgid and fetid canal that was also served as a sewer.
"No," Malcolm said.
Half a mile away from the Struan Building, near Drunk Town, in a nondescript dwelling in the Japanese village, Hiraga was lying on his stomach, naked, being massaged. The house was ordinary, the facade facing the street decrepit, a pattern of the others that lined both sides of the narrow dirt roadway, each serving as home, warehouse, and shop during the day. Inside, like many that belonged to the more substantial merchants, everything was sparkling clean, polished, cherished and extensive. It was the house of the shoya, the village elder.