James Clavell - Gai-Jin

Piero Vargas was a handsome, middle-aged Eurasian from Macao, the tiny Portuguese enclave, forty-odd miles west of Hong Kong, set like a pimple on a slip of Mainland China and occupied since 1552.

Unlike the British, the Portuguese considered Macao equal to the mother country and not a colony, encouraged their settlers to intermarry with Chinese, accepted Eurasian offspring as nationals, allowing them permanent access to Portugal. British intermarriage was greatly discouraged, though many had families. Their offspring, however, were not accepted in Society.

By custom those born in Shanghai took their father's name, in Hong Kong their mother's.

Ever since the British came to China, they had contentedly employed the brightest Macaoans as shroffs--money changers--and compradores, who, of necessity, spoke English as well as dialects of Chinese. Except the Noble House. Their compradore was the enormously wealthy Gordon Chen, the illegitimate son of their founder, Dirk Struan, by one of his many mistresses, though not the last, the fabled May-may.

"Yes, Piero?"

"Sorry to interrupt, senhor," Piero said, his English liquid and sweet-sounding.

"Kinu-san, our silk supplier, asks for a personal interview with you."

"Oh, why?"

"Well, it's not really for him but for two buyers who arrived with him. From Choshu."

"Oh?" McFay's interest picked up.

Almost two years of tentative probes from the daimyo of Choshu, the fief far to the west on the Straits of Shimonoseki, had produced some very important business last year, authorized by Head Office in Hong Kong and arranged by them: a 200-ton paddle steamer with a very private cargo: cannon, shot and ammunition. Paid for promptly in gold and silver, half in advance, half on delivery. "Bring them in. Wait, better I see them in the main reception room."

"Si, senhor."

"Is one of them the same fellow as last time?"

"Senhor?"

"The young samurai who spoke a little English?"

"I did not take part in the discussion, senhor, I was on leave in Portugal."

"Ah yes, now I remember."

The reception room was big, seating for forty-two at the oak table. Matching sideboards and tallboys for silver plate and glass fronted display cases, gleaming and well kept, some with arms. He opened one of them, took out a belt and holstered pistol attached. He buckled the belt around his waist, making sure the pistol was loaded and loose in the holster. It was always his custom when meeting samurai to be as armed as they were. "A matter of face," he told his subordinates, "as well as safety." As a further prop he leaned the Spencer rifle against a chair, and stood by the window, facing the door.

Vargas came back with three men. One was middle-aged, fat, unctuous and swordless, Kinu, their silk supplier. The other two were samurai, one young the other in his forties though it was difficult to tell. Both short, spare, hard-faced and armed as usual.

They bowed politely. McFay noted that both men had instantly seen the breech-loader. He returned the bow in kind. "Ohayo," he said.

Good morning. Then, "Dozo"--please-- indicating the chairs opposite him, a safe distance away.

"Goo'd morning," the younger said without a smile.

"Ah, you speak English? Excellent.

Please sit down."

"Speak 'ritt're," the youth said--the l's sounding like r's because there was no l sound in Japanese, v's being equally awkward. For a moment he spoke to Vargas in Fukenese, their common Chinese dialect, then the two men introduced themselves, adding they had been sent by Lord Ogama of Choshu.

"I am Jamie McFay, chief of Struan and Company in Nippon and am honored to see you." Again Vargas translated. Patiently Jamie went through the obligatory fifteen minutes of enquires after their daimyo's health, their own health, his health and that of the Queen, the outlook in Choshu, in England, nothing particular, everything bland. Tea was served and admired. At length the young man came to the point.

With great care Vargas kept the excitement out of his own voice. "They want to buy a thousand breech-loaders with a thousand bronze cartridges per gun. We are to name a fair price and deliver within three months. If within two months, they will pay a bonus--twenty percent."

Outwardly, McFay was equally calm. "Is that all they wish to buy at the moment?"

Vargas asked them. "Yes, senhor, but they require a thousand rounds per rifle. And a steamship of small size."

McFay was counting the huge potential profit, but more so he was remembering his conversation with Greyforth, and the well-known hostility of the Admiral and General, supported by Sir William, to any sale of any armaments.

Remembering the various murders. And Canterbury hacked to pieces. And that he himself did not approve of the sale of armaments, not until it was safe. Would it ever be safe with such a warlike people? "Please tell them I can give them an answer in three weeks." He saw the pleasant smile vanish from the younger man's face.

"Answer... now. No three week."

"Not have guns here," McFay said slowly, directly to him. "Must write Hong Kong, Head Office, nine days there, nine days back.

Some breech-loaders there. All rest in America. Four or five months minimum."

"No unner'stand."

Vargas interpreted. Then there was a conversation between the two samurai, the merchant answering their questions with fervent humility. More questions to Vargas, politely responded to. "He says very well, he or a Choshu official will return in twenty-nine days. This transaction is to be secret."

"Of course." McFay looked at the youth.

"Secret."

"Hai! Sek'ret."

"Ask him how the other samurai, Saito, is." He saw them frown, but could read nothing from their faces.

"They don't know him personally, Senhor."

More bows and then Jamie was alone. Lost in thought, he put the gun belt back into the case.

If I don't sell them the guns, Norbert will--whatever the morality.

Vargas returned, very pleased. "An excellent possibility, senhor, but a big responsibility."

"Yes. I wonder what Head Office will say, this time."

"Easy to find out, senhor, quickly. You don't have to wait eighteen days, isn't Head Office upstairs?"

McFay stared at him. "I'll be damned, I'd forgotten! Difficult to think of young Malcolm as tai-pan, our ultimate decider. You're right."

Running feet approached, the door opened, "Sorry to butt in," Nettlesmith said, puffing from his exertion, his grubby top hat askew.

"Thought you'd better know, just got word the blue signal flag went up the Legation mast a few minutes ago... then came down and went up again then came down to half mast and stayed there."

Jamie gaped at him. "What the devil does that mean?"

"Don't know, 'cepting that half mast usually means a death, doesn't it?"

Greatly perturbed, the Admiral again trained his binoculars on the Legation flagpole, the other men on the quarterdeck, his Captains from the rest of the fleet, Marlowe, the General, French Admiral, and von Heimrich equally concerned, Seratard and Andr`e Poncin pretending to be.

When the lookout had given the alarm half an hour ago, they had all hurried on deck from the lunch table. Except the Russian Minister: "If you want to wait in the cold, very well, damned if I am. When word comes from the shore, yes, no or war, please wake me. If you start shelling I'll join you..."

Marlowe was watching the roll over the Admiral's collar, despising him, wishing he was ashore with Tyrer, or aboard his own ship, the Pearl. At noon the Admiral had replaced the temporary captain with a stranger, a Lieutenant Dornfild, disregarding his advice. Bloody old bastard, look at the way he fiddles so bloody pompously with his binoculars--we all know they are highly expensive and issued to Flag Rank only.