At once the girl pointed at herself.
"Soji shimasu." I will do it.
Hoag frowned. "Tell her it will be very unpleasant, much blood, much stink, and ugly."
He saw her listen intently to the Chinese, then reply with evident pride, "Gomen nasai, Hoh Geh-san, wakarimasen. Watashi samurai desu."
"She say, "Please to excuse, I understand.
I am samurai."
"I don't know what that means to you, pretty young lady, and I didn't know women could be samurai, but let's begin."
Hoag found out quickly that one characteristic of samurai was courage. Never once did she falter during the cleaning operation, cutting away the infected tissue, releasing the foul-smelling pus, flushing the wound, blood pulsing from a partially severed vein until he could stanch the flow and repair it, swabbing and swabbing again--the big sleeves of the maid's kimono into which she had changed rolled up and fastened out of the way, and the scarf with which she had tied back her hair, both soon soiled and reeking.
For an hour he worked away, humming from time to time, ears closed, nostrils closed, every sense engrossed, repeating an operation he had done a thousand times too often. Cutting, sewing, cleaning, bandaging. Then he had finished.
Without haste he stretched to ease his cramped back muscles, washed his hands and took off the now bloody sheet he had used as an apron.
Ori was balanced on the edge of the veranda as a makeshift table, he standing in the garden against it: "Can't operate on my knees easily, Uki," he had said.
Everything he had wanted done she had done without hesitation. There had been no need to anesthetize the man he was told was Hiro Ichikawa, his coma was so deep. Once or twice Ori cried out, but not from pain, just some devil in his nightmare. And struggled, but without strength.
Ori sighed deeply. Anxiously Hoag felt his pulse. It was imperceptible, so was the breathing. "Never mind," he muttered. "At least he has a pulse."
"Gomen nasai, Hoh Geh-san," the soft voice said, "anata kangaemasu, hai, iy`e?"
"She says, "Excuse me, Honorable Wise Enlightened you think yes or no?"'
Cheng-sin coughed. He had spent the time well away from the veranda, his back towards them.
Hoag shrugged, watching her, wondering about her, where the strength came from, where she lived and what would happen now. She was quite pale, her features stark but still dominated by an iron will. His eyes crinkled with a smile. "I don't know. It's up to God.
Uki, you number one. Samurai."
"Domo... domo arigato gozaimashita." Thank you. She bowed to the tatami. Her real name was Sumomo Anato, she was Hiraga's wife-to-be, and Shorin's sister, not Ori's.
"She asks what should she do now?"
"For her brother, nothing at moment. Tell the maid to put cold towels on his forehead and keep bandages soaked with clean water until the fever goes down. If the... once the fever's gone --I hope before dawn--the youth will live.
Perhaps." And what are the odds, was usually the next question. This time it did not happen. "Well, I'll go now. Tell her to send guide for me early tomorrow morning..." if he's still alive, was in his mind but he decided not to say it.
As Cheng-sin translated he began to wash his instruments. The girl beckoned the manservant and spoke to him. "Hai," the man said and hurried away.
"Medicine Doctor Wise Enlightened, before you go Lady say sure to want bath. Yes?"
Dr. Hoag was on the point of saying no, but found himself nodding yes. And he was glad that he did.
In the gloaming Babcott sat on the Legation veranda enjoying a whisky, exhausted but pleased with his surgery. There was a good smell of the sea on the breeze that touched the garden. As his eyes strayed involuntarily to the shrubbery where the black-clothed assassin had been caught and killed three weeks ago, the temple bell began tolling and the distant deep-throated chant of the monks sounded:, "Ommm mahnee padmee hummmmm..."
He looked up as Hoag plodded up towards him. "Good God!"
Hoag wore a patterned, belted yukata, white shoe-socks on his feet and Japanese clogs. Hair and beard combed and freshly washed.
Under his arm was a large straw-covered cask of sak`e and he was beaming. "Evening, George!"
"You look pleased with yourself, where have you been?"
"The best part was the bath." Hoag put the cask onto a sideboard, poured a stiff whisky. "My God, the best I've ever had.
Can't believe how good I feel now."
"How was she?" Babcott asked dryly.
"No sex, old man, just scrubbed clean and dunked in damn near boiling water, pummelled and massaged and then into this garb. Meanwhile all my clothes were washed and ironed, boots cleaned and socks replaced. Marvelous. She gave me the sak`e and these..." He fished into his sleeve and showed Babcott two oval-shaped coins and a scroll covered with characters.
"My God, you've been well paid, these are gold oban--they'll keep you in champagne for at least a week! The Sergeant told me you were on a house call." They both laughed. "Was he a daimyo?"
"Don't think so, he was a youth, a samurai. Don't think I helped him much. Can you read the scroll?"
"No, but Lim can. Lim!"
"Yes Mass'r?"
"Paper what?"
Lim took the scroll. His eyes widened and then he re-read it carefully, and said to Hoag in Cantonese: "It says, "Medicine Doctor Wise Enlightened has performed a great service. In the name of Satsuma shishi, give him all help he needs."" Lim pointed at the signature, his finger trembling. "Sorry, Lord, the name I can't read."
"Why are you frightened?" Hoag asked, also in Cantonese.
Uneasily Lim said, "Shishi are rebels, bandits hunted by the Bakufu. There're bad people even though samurai, Lord."
Impatiently Babcott asked, "What's it say, Ronald?"
Hoag told him.
"Good God, a bandit? What happened?"
Thirstily Hoag poured another drink and began describing in detail the woman, the youth and wound and how he had cut away the dead tissue. "... seems the poor bugger got shot two or three weeks ago an--"
"Christ Almighty!" Babcott leapt to his feet as everything fell into place, startling Hoag who spilt his drink.
"Are you bonkers?" Hoag spluttered.
"Can you find your way back there?"
"Eh? Well, well yes I suppose so but what--"
"Come on, hurry." Babcott rushed out shouting, "Sergeant of the Guard!"
They were loping down a back alley, Hoag leading, still in his yukata, but now wearing his boots, Babcott close behind, the Sergeant and ten soldiers following, all of them armed. The few pedestrians, some with lanterns, scattered out of the way. Above was a fair moon.
Hurrying faster now. A missed turning.
Hoag cursed, then doubled back, got his bearings and found the half-hidden mouth to the correct alley. On again. Another alley. He stopped, pointed. Twenty yards ahead was the door.
At once the Sergeant and soldiers charged passed him. Two put their backs to the wall on guard, four slammed their shoulders into the door, bursting it off its hinges and they poured through the gap, Hoag and Babcott after them--both carrying borrowed rifles easily, expert in their use, a common skill and a necessity for European civilians in Asia.
Along the pathway. Up the steps. The Sergeant hauled the shoji open. The room was empty. Without hesitation he led the way into the next room and the next. No sign of anyone in any of the five interconnecting rooms or kitchen or little wooden outhouse. Out again into the garden.
"Spread out, lads, Jones and Berk go that way, you two over there, you two that way and you two guard here and for Chrissake keep your 'kin eyes open." They went deeper into the garden in pairs, one guarding the other, the lesson of the first assassin well learned. Into every nook. Around all the perimeter, safety catches off.