Gai-Jin (24 page)

But his last thought before sleep overwhelmed him was: I wonder why André was so kind to me, so voluble. Rare for a Frenchman to be so open with an Englishman. Very rare. And strange that he never mentioned Angelique once …

It was just before dawn. Ori and Hiraga, again in all-encompassing ninja clothes, came out of their hiding place in the temple grounds overlooking the Legation and ran silently down the hill, across the wooden bridge and into an alley, down it and into another. Hiraga led. A dog saw them, growled, moved into their path and died. The deft short arc of Hiraga’s sword was instantaneous and he hurried onwards with the blade unsheathed, hardly missing a step, ever deeper into the city. Ori followed carefully. Today his wound had begun to fester.

In the lee of a hut on a protected corner, Hiraga stopped. “It’s safe here, Ori!” he whispered.

Hastily both men slipped out of their ninja clothes and stuffed them into the soft bag Hiraga carried slung on his back, replacing them with nondescript kimonos. With great care Hiraga cleansed his sword using a piece of silk cloth, carried for that purpose by all swordsmen to protect their blades, then sheathed it. “Ready?”

“Yes.”

Again he led onwards into the maze, surefooted, staying under cover where he could, hesitating at every open space until he was sure they were safe, seeing no one, meeting no one, then pressing on, heading for their safe house.

They had been watching the Legation since early morning, the bonzes—the Buddhist priests—pretending not to notice them, once they were sure the two men were not thieves and Hiraga had identified himself and their purpose: to spy on the gai-jin. All bonzes were fanatically xenophobic and anti-gai-jin, to them synonymous with Jesuit, still their most hated and feared enemy. “Ah, you are shishi, then you are both welcome,” the old monk had said. “We have never forgotten Jesuits ruined us, or that the Toranaga Shoguns are our scourge.”

From the middle of the fifteenth century to the early sixteenth, Portuguese alone knew the way to Japan. Papal edicts had also given them exclusivity to the islands, and Portuguese Jesuits the sole right to proselytize. Within a few years they had converted so many daimyos to Catholicism, therefore naturally their retainers, that Dictator Goroda had used them as an excuse to massacre thousands of Buddhist monks at that time militant, dominant in the land and opposed to him.

The tairō, Nakamura, who inherited his power, expanded it immensely, and played off bonze against Jesuit with honey, persecution, suffering and killing. Then came Toranaga.

Toranaga, tolerant of all religions, though not of foreign influence, observed that all converted daimyos had initially fought against him at Sekigahara. Three years later, he became Shōgun and two years after that he resigned in favor of his son, Sudara, but kept actual power—an old established Japanese custom.

During his lifetime he lashed Jesuits and Buddhists severely, and eliminated or neutralized the Catholic daimyos. His son, Shōgun Sudara, tightened the curbs and his son, Shōgun Hironaga, finished the plan laid down so carefully in the Legacy where he formally outlawed Christianity from Japan on pain of death. In 1638, Shōgun Hironaga destroyed the last Christian bastion at Shimabara, near Nagasaki, where a few thousand ronin, thirty thousand peasants and their families were in rebellion against him. Those who refused to recant were crucified or put to the sword immediately as common criminals. All but a handful refused. Then he turned his attention to the Buddhists. Within days he was pleased to accept the gift of all their lands, and so fettered them.

“You are welcome, Hiraga-san, Ori-san,” the old monk had said again. “We are for the shishi, for
sonno-joi
and against the Shōgunate. You are free to come or go as you please. If you want help, tell us.”

“Then keep a tally of the numbers of soldiers, their comings and goings, what rooms are occupied and by whom.”

The two men had waited and watched throughout the day. At dusk they put on their ninja clothes. Twice Hiraga moved closer to the Legation, once he scaled the fence to experiment and reconnoiter but quickly retreated unseen when a patrol almost trod on him.

“We’ll never get in by night, Ori,” he whispered. “Or by day. Too many troops now.”

“How long do you think they’ll stay?”

Hiraga smiled. “Until we drive them out.”

Now they were almost at their safe house, an Inn that lay to the east of the castle. Dawn was near, the sky lighter and cloud cover thinner than yesterday. Ahead the street was deserted. So was the bridge. Confident, Hiraga hurried onto it, skidded to a stop. A Bakufu patrol of ten men stepped out of the shadows. At once both sides went into attack-defense positions, hands on their sword hilts.

“Come forward and give me your identification papers,” the senior samurai called out.

“Who are you to challenge anyone?”

“You see our badges,” the man said angrily, stepping onto the wooden slats of the bridge. The remainder of his men spread out behind him. “We are warriors of Mito, 9th Regiment, guardians of the Shōgun. Identify yourselves.”

“We have been spying on the enemy stockade. Let us pass.”

“You look like thieves. What’s in that bag on your back, eh? Identification!”

Ori’s shoulder was throbbing. He had seen the telltale discoloration but had hidden it from Hiraga, and the pain. His head ached but he knew instantly he had nothing to lose and an admirable death to gain.

“Sonno-joi!”
he bellowed suddenly, and hurled himself at the samurai on the bridge. The others backed off to give them room as Ori hacked with all his might, recovered as the blow was deflected and again attacked, feinted, and this time his blow was true. The man was dead on his feet, then crumpled. At once Ori darted for another man who retreated, went for another who also retreated. The ring of men began to close.

“Sonno-joi!”
Hiraga shouted, and rushed to Ori’s side. Together they stood at bay.

“Identify yourselves!” a young warrior said, unimpressed. “I am Hiro Watanabe and do not wish to kill or be killed by an unknown warrior.”

“I am shishi from Satsuma!” Ori said proudly, adding an alias as was their usual custom, “Riyama Takagaki.”

“And I from Choshu, my name Shodan Moto!
Sonno-joi,”
Hiraga shouted, and hurled himself at Watanabe, who retreated without fear, as did the others nearby.

“I’ve never heard of either of you,” Watanabe said through his teeth. “You’re not shishi—you are scum.” His rush was parried. Hiraga, a master swordsman, used his assailant’s strength and speed to catch him off balance, sidestepped and cut under the opposing sword into the man’s unprotected side, withdrew and in one continuous movement sliced into the
man’s neck, decapitated him as he toppled to the ground, ending once more in perfect attack position.

The silence was profound. “Who did you study under?” someone asked.

“Toko Fujita was one of my Sensei,” Hiraga said, every part of him ready for the next killing.

“Eeeee!” This was one of Mito’s revered sword masters, who had been killed in Yedo’s earthquake of ’55 when a hundred thousand also perished.

“They are shishi, and men of Mito do not kill shishi, their own kind,” one of the men said softly.
“Sonno-joi!”
Warily, this man moved aside a pace, not sure of the others, his sword still ready. They looked at him, then at one another. Opposite him another man moved. Now there was an inviting, narrow path between them, but all swords stayed poised.

Hiraga readied, expecting a trick, but Ori nodded to himself, his pain forgotten, victory or death the same to him. Taking his time, he cleansed his blade and sheathed it. Politely he bowed to both the dead men and strode through the narrow passage, looking neither right nor left nor backwards.

In a moment Hiraga followed. Equally slowly. Until they turned the corner. Then they both took to their heels and did not stop until they were well away.

The five Bakufu representatives came leisurely into the Legation forecourt in their palanquins. They were an hour late and preceded by samurai with banners bearing their official emblems and surrounded by guards. Sir William stood at the top of the wide steps that led to the imposing entrance. Beside him were the French, Russian and Prussian Ministers—their aides, Phillip Tyrer and others of the Legation staff to one side—and an honor guard of Highlanders with some French soldiers Seratard had insisted upon. Admiral Ketterer and the General had remained aboard, in reserve.

Ceremoniously the Japanese bowed, Sir William and the others raised their hats. Ritually they conducted the Japanese to the large audience hall, trying to restrain their amusement at their outlandish costumes: small black lacquered hats set square on their shaven pates and tied elaborately under their chins, the vast shouldered overgarments, multicolored ceremonial silk kimonos, voluminous pantaloons, thong sandals and shoe socks split between the toes—
tabi—
fans in their belts and the inevitable two swords. “Those hats aren’t big enough to piss in,” the Russian said.

Sir William sat in the center of one line of chairs with the Ministers,
Phillip Tyrer on one end to balance the delegation. The Bakufu took the opposite row, interpreters on cushions in between. After lengthy discussion they agreed on five guards each. These men stood behind their masters and eyed each other suspiciously.

Following strict protocol, the adversaries introduced themselves. Toranaga Yoshi was last: “Tomo Watanabe, junior official, second class,” he said, pretending a humbleness he did not feel, and took the lowest position at the end of the row, his clothes less elaborate than those of the others who, with all guards, had been commanded on pain of punishment to treat him as the least important official here.

He settled himself, feeling strange. How ugly these enemies are, he was thinking, how ridiculous and laughable with their tall hats, outlandish boots and ugly, heavy black clothes—no wonder they stink!

Sir William said carefully and simply: “An Englishman has been murdered by Satsuma samurai …”

By five o’clock European tempers were frayed, the Japanese still polite, smiling, outwardly imperturbable. In a dozen different ways their spokes man claimed that … so sorry, but they had no jurisdiction over the Satsuma, or knowledge of the murderers or any way to find them, but yes, it was a regrettable affair, but no, they did not know how to obtain reparations, but yes, under some circumstances reparations might be sought, but no, the Shōgun was not available, but yes, the Shōgun would be pleased to grant an audience when he returned, but no, not in the foreseeable future, but yes, we will immediately petition for an exact day, but no, it could not be this month because his present whereabouts are not known for certain, but yes, it would be as soon as possible, but no, the next meeting and all meetings should not take place in Yedo, but yes, in Kanagawa, but so sorry, not this month, perhaps next, but no, so sorry we do not have authority….

Every point had to be translated from English to Dutch to Japanese—as usual to be discussed at length by them—then pedantically resubmitted into Dutch into English with an inevitable homily, and ever polite requests for explanations on the most trivial point.

Yoshi found the whole proceeding vastly interesting, never having been near gai-jin en masse or attended a meeting where unequals, astonishingly, discussed policy and did not listen and obey.

Three of the other four were genuine though unimportant Bakufu officials. All had used false names, a normal custom when dealing with aliens. The imposter, who secretly spoke English, sat beside Yoshi. His name was Misamoto. Yoshi had ordered him to remember everything, to tell him discreetly of anything important not translated accurately, otherwise to keep his mouth shut. He was a felon under sentence of death.

When Yoshi had sent for him the day before yesterday, Misamoto had at once prostrated himself, shaking with fear.

“Get up and sit over there.” Yoshi pointed with his fan to the edge of the tatami platform on which he sat.

Misamoto obeyed instantly. He was a small man with slitted eyes and long, grizzled hair and beard, the sweat running down his face, his clothes coarse and almost rags, hands callused and his skin the color of dark honey.

“You will tell me the truth: your interrogators report that you speak English?”

“Yes, Lord.”

“You were born in Anjiro in Izu and have been to the land called America?”

“Yes, Lord.”

“How long were you there?”

“Almost four years, Lord.”

“Where in America?”

“San Francisco, Lord.”

“What is San’frensiska?”

“A big city, Lord.”

“Just there?”

“Yes, Lord.”

Yoshi studied him, needing information quickly. He could see that the man was desperate to please but at the same time frightened to death, of him and of the guards who had hustled him in and shoved his head to the ground. So he decided to try a different approach. He dismissed the guards and got up and leaned on the windowsill, looking at the city. “Tell me, quickly, in your own words what happened to you.”

“I was a fisherman in the village of Anjiro in Izu, Lord, where I was born thirty-three years ago, Lord.” Misamoto began at once—obviously the tale told a hundred times before. “Nine years ago I was fishing with six others in my boat, a few
ri
offshore, but we were caught in a sudden storm that quickly became a great one and we were blown before it for thirty days or more, eastwards, out into the great sea, hundreds of
ri
, perhaps a thousand, Sire. During this time, three of my companions were washed overboard. Then the sea became calm but our sails had been ripped to pieces and there was no food and no water. The three of us fished but caught nothing, there was no water to drink … One of us went mad and jumped into the sea and began to swim to an island he thought he saw and drowned quickly. We saw no land or ship, just water. Many days later the other man, my friend Ishii, died and I was alone. Then one day I thought I had died because I saw this strange ship that went along without sails and seemed to
be on fire, but it was just a paddle steamer, American, going from Hong Kong to San Francisco. They rescued me, gave me food and treated me as one of them—I was petrified, Lord, but they shared their food and drink and clothed me…. ”