“I knew it was bad, but this …” The words trailed off. Sir William was numbed. None of them had slept. The signs of fatigue and worry were in all their faces, their clothes scorched and dirty, Pallidar’s ripped and the worst of all. As the sun rose slightly they could see the whole panorama to Hodogaya on the Tokaidō.
The Yoshiwara no longer existed, nor the village, most of Drunk Town, over half the Settlement including stables. No confirmed reports of casualties yet, but a richness of rumors, all bad. No confirmed reason for the catastrophe yet. Many shouted arson by Japanese, but which Japanese and at whose orders, no one knew, though destruction of the Yoshiwara and village would concern none of them to gain their ends.
“You’ll order evacuation this morning?”
Sir William’s head ached with a thousand questions and forebodings. “First an inspection. Thank you, Thomas. Pallidar, you come with me.” He spurred his pony down the incline. At the Legation he reined in a moment. “Anything new, Bertram?”
“No, sir, no confirmed names or numbers yet.”
“Send for the village Elder, the shoya, at once, ask him to find out how many casualties he has and to see me at once.”
“I don’t speak Japanese, Sir William, and Phillip Tyrer isn’t here.”
“Then bloody find him,” Sir William bellowed, glad for the opportunity to rid himself of some of his pent-up anxiety, concern over Tyrer, and was rewarded to see the effete youth pale. “And bloody learn Japanese or I’ll pack you off to Africa and you can burden them! Get all senior traders here in an hour … No, not here, the Club’s better, and let’s see, it’s six-twenty now, make it at nine-thirty, and for Christ’s sake, pull your finger out and start using your bloody head!” Idiot, he thought, and trotted off feeling better.
Under the lightening sky, the people of Yokohama were picking up the pieces of their places and their lives. At first Sir William, escorted by Pallidar, stayed on the High Street, greeting everyone, answering questions by saying, “First let me have a look. I’ve called a meeting at the Club for nine-thirty, by then I’ll know better.”
Nearer Drunk Town the stench of burned buildings worsened. This morning when the wind had dropped, about 2:00 A.M., the fires had died rapidly and no longer jumped firebreaks or from house to house. Only this had saved the Settlement from oblivion. All Legations were safe, as well as the Harbor Master’s, the main traders and their godowns—Struan’s, Brock’s, Cooper-Tillman and others. Lunkchurch’s was gutted.
The fire had stopped exactly before Holy Trinity, leaving it untouched, and he thanked God for a most suitable miracle. Farther down the street the Catholic church had lost most windows and roof, the maw of charred and smoking beams now like an open mouth of rotten teeth. “’Morning, where’s Father Leo?” he asked a man working in the garden, cleaning up.
“In the vestry, Sir William. Top of the morning to Yourself and that Yourself is safe. Sir William, sir.”
“Thank you. Sorry about your church. I’ve called a meeting in the Club at nine-thirty, spread the word, would you? Father Leo’s welcome, of course.” He went on again.
Unlike the village and Yoshiwara where piles of clean ash were in drifts, like snow, the ravaged areas of the Settlement and Drunk Town were a mess of bricks, flagstones, twisted metal, the remains of machinery, engines, tools, guns, cannon, anvils and other manufactured objects, now junk. The festering sore of No Man’s Land had been cleaned, except for metal, and that pleased him.
He meandered down to the South Gate. The guard house had disappeared. A temporary barrier had been erected in emptiness and samurai were on sentry duty. “Stupid clods,” Pallidar said. “They’re barricading against what?”
Sir William did not answer, too wrapped up in what he could see and what he could do. Ahead at the canal and moat he could see villagers and others wandering around, or squatting in dismal groups. The other side of the moat where the Yoshiwara had been, clusters of women and cooks and menservants sat or stood around the only partial structure still standing, canvas screens up as shelter. Samurai still doused fires here and there. A lot of crying and sobbing on the gentle wind.
“Terrible, sir,” Pallidar said.
“Yes.” Sir William sighed and again made an effort—it was up to him to give the example and, by God, he was going to act like Her Britannic Majesty’s Minister for Japan should act. “Yes, it is, but look there, by God!” On the bluff the tented camp was undamaged. “All our soldiers are safe, cannon safe, artillery safe, all armaments and the munition depot as ever was. And look there!”
In the bay the fleet was unscathed, Union Jacks and ensigns flying proudly and with dawn passing into day, every available cutter plied back and forth, bringing men ashore or taking them aboard for food, drink, and sleep. “All the rest is replaceable, by Harry, except people. Get some soldiers, start counting heads and mounts. I need to know who we’ve lost by the nine-thirty meeting. Off you go!”
“Yes, sir. Most of the stables were opened and the horses bolted for the racecourse or bluff. I saw Zergeyev’s stallion there with a couple of grooms.” Suddenly Pallidar beamed, no longer as shattered. “You’re right, Sir William, my God, how right. So long as the Army and Navy are safe, we’re all all right, everything’s all right. Thanks.” He galloped off.
Sir William turned his attention inland. What to do, what to do? His pony jingled her bridles nervously and pawed the ground, sensing his disquiet.
“’Morning, Sir William.” Grey with fatigue, Jamie McFay was approaching from behind the remains of a building that now was a heap of twisted metal frames, the remains of bedsteads, furniture and charred wood. His clothes were tattered, burnt in places, hair matted. “How many lost? What’s the latest?”
“Nothing for certain yet. Good God, is that … is that all that’s left of the Guardian building and the presses?”
“’Fraid so. But here.” Jamie held the bridle and handed him a badly printed sheet with a smudged banner headline that screamed: YOKOHAMA TORCHED. ARSON SUSPECTED. STRUAN’S AND BROCK’S UNTOUCHED, ARMY, NAVY AND ALL SHIPPING SAFE. FATALITIES EXPECTED TO BE HEAVY IN THE YOSHIWARA AND VILLAGE. Then a brief editorial, with a promise that an afternoon edition would be out and apologies for the bad printing.
“Nettlesmith’s over there.” Under a rough lean-to they could see Nettlesmith, unkempt and filthy, laboriously working the press by hand, his printer clerks sorting type into trays, still salvaging what they could from the ashes.
“I heard you pulled a number of villagers out of a building, saved their lives, Jamie.”
It was still hard for Jamie to think straight. Vaguely he recalled never finding Nemi, or news of her, but not about the others. “I don’t remember much about it, it was chaos everywhere—others were doing the same, or helping folk to the hospital …” His head was swimming with fatigue. “Last night I heard Phillip was lost. Is it true?”
“Don’t know. Hope to God not, though I heard the rumor too.” Sir William exhaled loudly. “I heard the same and there are lots of rumors but I’ve learned not to trust rumor. Zergeyev was reported dead in the Yoshiwara, so was André, but I saw him a short time ago, Zergeyev. So, as I said, best to wait.” He indicated the tear sheet. “Can I keep this, Jamie? Thanks. I’ve convened a meeting at nine-thirty, to discuss what we should do, your opinion would be valuable.”
“Not much to discuss, is there? I’m wiped out.”
“There’s lots to discuss, Jamie. We’re really very lucky. The Army and Navy …” Sir William glanced off, and raised his hat. “’Morning, Miss Maureen.” She was still in the same clothes but clean and fresh and wore a bonny smile.
“’Morning, Sir William, glad to see you’re safe and that the Legation’s safe. ’Morning, love.” Her smile became even more special. She put her arm through Jamie’s, careful not to be forward and kiss him however much she wanted to—he looked so handsome in his charred clothes, his face unshaven and etched with worry, nothing that hot soup and hot whisky and
a good sleep would not cure.
On the way here to find him, many had told her how brave he had been during the night. Most of her night had been spent calming Mrs. Lunkchurch and Mrs. Swann, their spouses and others at the Struan outpost, doling out the demon drink, as her mother called all liquor—though not in her father’s presence—attending to burns or taking them to Hoag or Babcott, who had set up field hospitals as near to the worst areas as possible. “You look fine, Jamie, just tired out.”
“No more than others.”
Knowing he had been forgotten—and not a little envious—Sir William saluted with his quirt. “See you later, Jamie. Miss Maureen.”
They watched him canter away. Her arm and nearness felt good to Jamie. All at once his unhappiness and apprehension for the future surged and he turned and hugged her with the full measure of his misery. She melted against him, so happy, and waited, and gave him all of her strength.
In time he felt his wits revive, his courage returning and his sense of belonging easing back. “Bless you, I can’t believe it but you’ve made me come alive again, bless you.” Then he remembered Tess and the five thousand Maureen had wheedled out of her, and Maureen saying, Tomorrow things will no’ be so bad, and his joy exploded. “By God, Sparkles,” he said, hugging her again, “you’re right. We’re alive and lucky and everything’s going to be fine and it’s all due to you!”
“Now dinna exaggerate, laddie,” she said with a little smile, head against his, not letting go of him yet. “Nothing to do with me.” It’s to do with God, she was thinking, that’s His special gift to us women, as His gift to men is to do the same for women at special times. “It’s just life.” She used “life” but she could have said, “love” but did not though totally sure that’s what it truly was.
“I’m proud of you, lassie. You were grand last night.”
“Och, aye, but I did na do a thing at all. Come along, it’s time to nap.”
“No time to nap, I’ve got to see the shoya.”
“A nap before the meeting, I’ll wake you with a cup of tea. You can use my bed, Albert says it’s our room for as long as we want and I’ll throw everyone else out.”
Smiling through his exhaustion, he said, “What are you going to do?”
She hugged him. “I’ll hold your hand and tell you a bedtime story. Come along.”
Tyrer opened his eyes and found himself in hell, every bone aching, every breath abrading his chest, eyes burning and skin tormented. In the acrid, smoky black he could see disembodied Japanese faces peering at him, two of them, their mouths twisted with cruel smiles and any moment they would pull up their pitchforks and begin to torture him again. A face moved closer. He backed, and let out a cry of pain. Through the mist he heard Japanese and then in English, “Taira-sama, wake, you safe!”
The fog enveloping his mind dissipated. “Nakama?”
“Yes. You safe.”
Now he perceived the light was from an oil lamp, they seemed to be in a cave and Nakama was smiling at him. So was the other face. Saito! Nakama’s cousin, the one interested in ships … No, this isn’t Nakama, this is Hiraga the assassin!
He jerked up and fell back against the wall of the tunnel, his headache blinding him for a moment, and coughed and coughed, bile and a foul taste of smoke making him heave. When there was no more to come up and the spasm had passed, he felt a cup pressed to his lips. He drank the icy water eagerly, choking a little. “Sorry,” he murmured. Again Hiraga wrapped the blanket around his half-burnt sleeping kimono. “Thanks.”
In a minute he had caught his breath, mind slowly moving from blank to a kaleidoscope of images, coalescing into more pictures, blazing walls, Hiraga grabbing him out of a blaze and running, falling and being helped up, Teahouses collapsing around him, shrubs exploding in their faces, can’t breathe, gagging, can’t breathe, Hiraga shouting, “Quick, this way … no, this way, no back, this way …” something missing but picking himself up again, fleeing this way and that, guided through walls of fire in front and behind and to the side, women screaming, smoke, and then at the well head, the fire reaching for them, almost at them, “Down, down there, hurry,” ducking into it, fire searing, a light below, an orb in the darkness, Saito’s face, and then like a thunderbolt …
Fujiko!
“Where’s Fujiko?” he had screamed.
Gasping for breath, Hiraga shouted above the roaring flames, “Quick, go down, she dead in room, Fujiko dead when find you … quick or you dead!”
He remembered that part clearly now. He had leapt out of the well and began to rush back, the fire worse than before, certain death ahead but he had to reach her to make sure and then he was flat on his face, a blinding pain in his neck, he tried to scramble up, the heat monstrous, and all he remembered seeing was the edge of a rock-hard hand driving for the side of his neck. “You … I was going for her but you stopped me?”
“Yes. No way save. Fujiko dead, so sorry, I saw. She dead, you too if go back, so hit and carry here. Fujiko dead in room.” Hiraga said it flat, still disgusted with Tyrer for risking both their lives on such a stupidity. He had only just had time to lift Tyrer onto his shoulder and clamber down, almost losing his footing to reach safety, saving his own life by a paper thickness from the flames. And he was thinking, fuming, even the most baka man must have known there was no chance to find her, no way to survive with the whole garden, entire Teahouses afire, and even if she hadn’t been dead then, she was dead fifteen times now. “If no hit, you dead. Is dead better?”
“No.” Tyrer’s grief swamped him. “Sorry. I owe you my life again.” He wiped his face to try, unsuccessfully, to stop the anguish. Fujiko dead, oh God, oh God. “Sorry, Nak—sorry, Hiraga-sama, where are we?”
“Tunn’er. Near Three Carp. It go to vi’rrage, under fence, moat.” Hiraga motioned up the well. “It day now.”
Tyrer clambered painfully to his feet. Once upright he felt a little better. Daylight at the well head was muted by billowing smoke, but he could see that it was about dawn.
“Dozo.” With a smile Akimoto handed him a loincloth and a spare kimono.
“Domo,” Tyrer said, shocked by the amount his own had been burned. There were some burn patches on his legs, nothing truly bad. Hiraga was climbing the rickety handholds to peer out, to be driven back by the heat.
Once more in the tunnel, Hiraga said, “No good. Too hot. Here.” He offered him the water again and it was accepted gratefully. “Taira-sama, best go that way.” He pointed down the tunnel. “You a’we right?”
“Yes. Fujiko, she was dead? You’re quite sure?”
“Yes.”
“What happened? I was asleep and then … was it a bomb? I can remember … I think I was blown the other side of the room from … from Fujiko. It felt as if a bomb went off below the house. Was it? And why the fire, everything on fire?”
Akimoto touched Tyrer with a smile and said in Japanese, “Taira-sama, you were lucky. If it weren’t for Hiraga you’d be dead. Do you understand?”
“Hai, wakarimasu.” Tyrer bowed solemnly to Hiraga, adding in Japanese, “Thank you, Hiraga-sama, again in debt. Thank you for life.” Sickness went through him. “Sorry, first rest little.” Awkwardly he sat down. “What happen?”
“We speak Ing’erish. Why fires? Bad man have fire bomb. Set fire here, wind take fire to Yokohama and th—”
Tyrer was shocked into life. “The Settlement’s gone too?”
“Don’t know, Taira-sama. No time to ’rook but Yoshiwara gone, think vi’rrage too. Maybe Yokohama too.”
Tyrer scrambled to his feet and went for the well.
“No, not up, this way.” Hiraga lit another lamp. “You fo’rrow, yes?” In Japanese he said to Akimoto, “You stay here, I’ll take him part of the way, I want to see what’s happened, then I’ll come back.” Leading the way down the tunnel, he said again in English, “Bad man have fire bomb. Want hurt gai-jin. South wind make ’ritter fire big fire.”
At once Tyrer understood th
e significance of the south wind pattern: “My God, everything’s so combustible, it’ll blaze like nothing on earth. My God, if …” He stopped, frantic with worry. Water was running down the tunnel wall. He scooped some up to cool his head. The cold helped. “Sorry, go on, a bad man? What bad man?”
“Bad man,” Hiraga repeated darkly, but disoriented, of two minds: he was both filled with fury that Takeda had taken the initiative and demolished his own safe haven, and at the same time delighted with the success of the fire bombs that he had seen. With the south wind and the Yoshiwara fired, the village had to go and the gai-jin’s houses too. And with their Yokohama base gone gai-jin would have to leave as Ori, first, and then Katsumata had predicted. Sonno-joi had been advanced.
An hour or so ago he had tried to peer out of the Drunk Town well head to see for himself but the heat was too much and had driven him back. Perhaps the bricks had cooled enough for him to see the extent of the devastation there. He held in his hope. Tyrer still had to be dealt with.
The success of his story depended on whether or not Takeda had been caught alive. It was a good gamble that Takeda had not been and then his version, mostly true, would be logical: “Bad man want destroy all gai-jin, drive away from Nippon. Man from Bakufu. Bakufu want all gai-jin away, Yoshi want all gai-jin gone. Pay spy to start fire, blame shishi, but man from Bakufu.”
“You know this man?”
Hiraga shook his head. “A Satsuma man, mama-san say me.”
“Raiko-san?”
“No, Wakiko, another Teahouse,” Hiraga said, inventing a name. They had reached the water. “Best take off c’rothes. Safe.” They stripped and, with the oil lamp held up, forded the barrier. And on the other side, while Tyrer painfully retied the loincloth and put on the kimono, Hiraga elaborated on the theme that the Bakufu were evil, they would cast the blame elsewhere, on ronin, the shishi, but they had planned and precipitated it, Anjo, the Elders and especially Yoshi.