She was very fleet and he did not catch up with her as they rounded the corner and headed across the open space. He had never felt so naked. The moment they appeared, the Grays spotted them and surged forward. Soon they were surrounded, Mariko jabbering feverishly with the samurai and the Grays. Then he too added to the babel in a panting mixture of Portuguese, English, and Dutch, motioning them to hurry, and groped for the gangway to lean against it, not needing to pretend that he was badly winded. He tried to see inside the ship but could make out nothing distinctly, only many heads appearing at the gunwale. He could see the shaven pates of many samurai and many seamen. He could not discern the color of the kimonos.
From behind, one of the Grays was talking rapidly to him, and he turned around, telling him that he didn’t understand—to go there, quickly, back up the street where the God-cursed battle was going on. “Wakarimasu ka? Get your scuttle-tailed arse to hell out of here! Wakarimasu ka? The fight’s there!”
Mariko was frantically haranguing the senior officer of the Grays. The officer came back toward the ship and shouted orders. Immediately more than a hundred samurai, all Grays, began pouring off the ship. He sent a few north along the shore to intercept the wounded and help them if necessary. One was sent scurrying off to get help from the Grays near the Portuguese galley. Leaving ten men behind to guard the gangway, he led the remainder in a rush for the street which curled away from the dock, up to the city proper.
Mariko came up to Blackthorne. “Does the ship seem all right to you?” she asked.
“She’s floating.” With a great effort Blackthorne grasped the gangway ropes and pulled himself on deck. Mariko followed. Two Browns came after her.
The seamen packing the port gunwale gave way. Four Grays were guarding the quarterdeck and two more were on the forepoop. All were armed with bows and arrows as well as swords.
Mariko questioned one of the sailors. The man answered her obligingly. “They’re all sailors hired to take Kiritsubo-san to Yedo,” she told Blackthorne.
“Ask him …” Blackthorne stopped as he recognized the short, squat mate he had made captain of the galley after the storm. “Konbanwa, Captain-san!”—Good evening.
“Konbanwa, Anjin-san. Watashi iyé Captain-san ima,” the mate replied with a grin, shaking his head. He pointed at a lithe sailor with an iron-gray stubbly queue who stood alone on the quarterdeck, “Imasu Captain-san!”
“Ah, so desu? Halloa, Captain-san!” Blackthorne called out and bowed, and lowered his voice. “Mariko-san, find out if there are any Grays below.”
Before she could say anything the captain had bowed back and shouted to the mate. The mate nodded and replied at length. Some of the sailors also voiced their agreement. The captain and all aboard were very impressed.
“Ah, so desu, Anjin-san!” Then the captain cried out, “Keirei!”—Salute! All aboard, except the samurai, bowed to Blackthorne in salute.
Mariko said, “This mate told the captain that you saved the ship during the storm, Anjin-san. You did not tell us about the storm or your voyage.”
“There’s little to tell. It was just another storm. Please thank the captain and say I’m happy to be aboard again. Ask him if we’re ready to leave when the others arrive.” And added quietly, “Find out if there are any more Grays below.”
She did as she was ordered.
The captain came over and she asked for more information and then, picking up the captain’s cue concerning the importance of Blackthorne aboard, she bowed to Blackthorne. “Anjin-san, he thanks you for the life of his ship and says they’re ready,” adding softly, “About the other, he doesn’t know.”
Blackthorne glanced ashore. There was no sign of Buntaro or the column to the north. The samurai sent running southward toward the Santa Theresa was still a hundred yards from his destination, unnoticed as yet. “What now?” he said, when he could stand the waiting no longer.
She was asking herself, Is the ship safe? Decide.
“That man’ll get there any moment,” he said, looking at the frigate.
“What?”
He pointed. “That one—the samurai!”
“What samurai? I’m sorry, I can’t see that far, Anjin-san. I can see everything on the ship, though the Grays to the front of the ship are misted. What man?”
He told her, adding in Latin, “Now he is barely fifty paces away. Now he is seen. We need assistance gravely. Who giveth the sign? With importance it should be given quickly.”
“My husband, is there any sign of him?” she asked in Portuguese.
He shook his head.
Sixteen Grays stand between my Master and his safety, she told herself. Oh Madonna, protect him!
Then, committing her soul to God, frightened that she was making the wrong decision, she went weakly to the head of the gangway and pretended to faint.
Blackthorne was taken unawares. He saw her head crash nastily against the wooden slats. Seamen began to crowd, Grays converged from the dock and from the decks as he rushed over. He picked her up and carried her back, through the men, toward the quarterdeck.
“Get some water—water, hai?”
The seamen stared at him without comprehension. Desperately he searched his mind for the Japanese word. The old monk had told it to him fifty times. Christ God, what is it? “Oh—mizu, mizu, hai?”
“Ah, mizu! Hai, Anjin-san.” A man began to hurry away. There was a sudden cry of alarm.
Ashore, thirty of Toranaga’s ronin-disguised samurai were loping out of the alleyway. The Grays that had begun to leave the dock spun around on the gangway. Those on the quarterdeck and forepoop craned to see better. Abruptly one shouted orders. The archers armed their bows. All samurai, Browns and Grays below, tore out their swords, and most rushed back to the wharf.
“Bandits!” one of the Browns screamed on cue. At once the two Browns on deck split up, one going forward, one aft. The four on land fanned out, intermingling with the waiting Grays.
“Halt!”
Toranaga’s ronin-samurai charged. An arrow smashed a man in the chest and he fell heavily. Instantly the Brown on the forepoop killed the Gray archer and tried for the other but this samurai was too quick and they locked swords, the Gray shouting a warning of treachery to the others. The Brown on the aft quarterdeck had maimed one of the Grays but the other three dispatched him quickly and they raced for the head of the gangway, seamen scattering. The samurai on the dock below were fighting to the death, the Grays overwhelming the four Browns, knowing that they had been betrayed and that, at any moment, they too would be engulfed by the attackers. The leader of the Grays on deck, a large tough grizzle-bearded man, confronted Blackthorne and Mariko.
“Kill the traitors!” he bellowed, and with a battle cry, he charged.
Blackthorne had seen them all look down at Mariko, still lying in her faint, murder in their eyes, and he knew that if he did not get help soon they were both dead, and that help would not be forthcoming from the seamen. He remembered that only samurai may fight samurai.
He slid his knife into his hand and hurled it in an arc. It took the samurai in the throat. The other two Grays lunged for Blackthorne, killing swords high. He held the second knife and stood his ground over Mariko, knowing that he dare not leave her unprotected. From the corner of his eye he saw the battle for the gangway was almost won. Only three Grays still held the bridge below, only these three kept help from flooding aboard. If he could stay alive for less than a minute he was safe and she was safe. Kill ’em, kill the bastards!
He felt, more than saw, the sword slashing for his throat and leaped backward out of its way. One Gray stabbed after him, the other halted over Mariko, sword raised. At that instant Blackthorne saw Mariko come to life. She threw herself into the unsuspecting samurai’s legs, crashing him to the deck. Then, scrambling across to the dead Gray, she grabbed the sword out of his still twitching hand and leaped on the guard with a cry. The Gray had regained his feet, and, howling with rage, he came at her. She ba
cked and slashed bravely but Blackthorne knew she was lost, the man too strong. Somehow Blackthorne avoided another death thrust from his own foe and kicked him away and threw his knife at Mariko’s assailant. It struck the man in the back, causing his blow to go wild, and then Blackthorne found himself on the quarterdeck, helplessly at bay, one Gray bounding up the steps after him, the other, who had just won the forepoop fight, racing toward him along the deck. He jumped for the gunwale and the safety of the sea but slipped on the blood-wet deck.
Mariko was staring up, white-faced, at the huge samurai who still had her cornered, swaying on his feet, his life ebbing fast but not fast enough. She hacked at him with all her force but he parried the blow, held her sword, and tore it out of her grasp. He gathered his ultimate strength, and lunged as the ronin-samurai burst up the gangway, over the dead Grays. One pounced on Mariko’s assailant, another fired an arrow at the quarterdeck.
The arrow ripped into the Gray’s back, smashing him off balance, and his sword sliced past Blackthorne into the gunwale. Blackthorne tried to scramble away but the man caught him, brought him crashing to the deck, and clawed for his eyes. Another arrow hit the second Gray in the shoulder and he dropped his sword, screaming with pain and rage, tearing futilely at the shaft. A third arrow twisted him around. Blood surged out of his mouth, and, choking, his eyes staring, he groped for Blackthorne and fell on him as the last Gray arrived for the kill, a short stabbing knife in his hands. He hacked downward, Blackthorne helpless, but a friendly hand caught the knife arm, then the enemy head had vanished from the neck, a fountain of blood spraying upwards. Both corpses were pulled off Blackthorne and he was hauled to his feet. Wiping the blood off his face, he dimly saw that Mariko was stretched out on the deck, ronin-samurai milling around her. He shook off his helpers and stumbled toward her, but his knees gave out and he collapsed.
CHAPTER 25
It took Blackthorne a good ten minutes to regain enough strength to stand unaided. In that time the ronin-samurai had dispatched the badly wounded and had cast all corpses into the sea. The six Browns had perished, and all the Grays. They had cleansed the ship and made her ready for instant departure, sent seamen to their oars and stationed others by the stanchions, waiting to slip the mooring ropes. All flares had been doused. A few samurai had been sent to scout north along the shore to intercept Buntaro. The bulk of Toranaga’s men hurried southward to a stone breakwater about two hundred paces away, where they took up a strong defensive position against the hundred Grays from the frigate who, having seen the attack, were approaching fast.
When all aboard had been checked and double-checked, the leader cupped his hands around his lips and hallooed shoreward. At once more ronin-disguised samurai under Yabu came out of the night, and fanned into protective shields, north and south. Then Toranaga appeared and began to walk slowly toward the gangway alone. He had discarded the woman’s kimono and the dark traveling cloak and removed the makeup. Now he wore his armor, and over it a simple brown kimono, swords in his sash. The gap behind him was closed by the last of his guards and the phalanx moved with measured tread toward the wharf.
Bastard, Blackthorne thought. You’re a cruel, cold-gutted, heartless bastard but you’ve got majesty, no doubt about that.
Earlier, he had seen Mariko carried below, helped by a young woman, and he had presumed that she was wounded but not badly, because all badly wounded samurai are murdered at once if they won’t or can’t kill themselves, and she’s samurai.
His hands were very weak but he grasped the helm and pulled himself upright, helped by the seaman, and felt better, the slight breeze taking away the dregs of nausea. Swaying on his feet, still dulled, he watched Toranaga.
There was a sudden flash from the donjon and the faint echoing of alarm bells. Then, from the castle walls, fires began to reach for the stars. Signal fires.
Christ Jesus, they must’ve got the news, they must’ve heard about Toranaga’s escape!
In the great silence he saw Toranaga looking back and upward. Lights began to flicker all over the city. Without haste Toranaga turned and came aboard.
From the north distant cries came down on the wind. Buntaro! It must be, with the rest of the column. Blackthorne searched the far darkness but could see nothing. Southward the gap between attacking Grays and defending Browns was closing rapidly. He estimated numbers. About equal at the moment. But for how long?
“Keirei!” All aboard knelt and bowed low as Toranaga came on deck. Toranaga motioned to Yabu, who followed him. Instantly Yabu took command, giving orders to cast off. Fifty samurai from the phalanx ran up the gangway to take defensive positions, facing shoreward, arming their bows.
Blackthorne felt someone tugging at his sleeve.
“Anjin-san!”
“Hai?” He stared down into the captain’s face. The man uttered a spate of words, pointing at the helm. Blackthorne realized that the captain presumed he held the con and was asking permission to cast off.
“Hai, Captain-san,” he replied. “Cast off! Isogi!” Yes, very quick, he told himself, wondering how he remembered the word so easily.
The galley eased away from the jetty, helped by the wind, the oarsmen deft. Then Blackthorne saw the Grays hit the breakwater away up the shore and the tumultuous assault began. At that moment, out of the darkness from behind a nearby line of beached boats charged three men and a girl embroiled in a running fight with nine Grays. Blackthorne recognized Buntaro and the girl Sono.
Buntaro led the hacking retreat to the jetty, his sword bloody, arrows sticking into the armor on his chest and back. The girl was armed with a spear but she was stumbling, her wind gone. One of the Browns stopped courageously to cover the retreat. The Grays swamped him. Buntaro raced up the steps, the girl beside him with the last Brown, then he turned and hit the Grays like a mad bull. The first two went crashing off the ten-foot wharf; one broke his back on the stones below and the other fell howling, his right arm gone. The Grays hesitated momentarily, giving the girl time to aim her spear, but all aboard knew it was only a gesture. The last Brown rushed past his master and flung himself headlong at the enemy. The Grays cut him down, then charged en masse.
Archers from the ship fired volley after volley, killing or maiming all but two of the attacking Grays. A sword ricocheted off Buntaro’s helmet onto his shoulder armor. Buntaro smashed the Gray under the chin with his mailed forearm, breaking his neck, and hurled himself at the last.
This man died too.
The girl was on her knees now, trying to catch her breath. Buntaro did not waste time making sure the Grays were dead. He simply hacked off their heads with single, perfect blows, and then, when the jetty was completely secure, he turned seaward, waved at Toranaga exhausted but happy. Toranaga called back, equally pleased.
The ship was twenty yards from the jetty, the gap still widening.
“Captain-san,” Blackthorne called out, gesturing urgently. “Go back to the wharf! Isogi!”
Obediently the captain shouted the orders. All oars ceased and began to back water. At once Yabu came hurtling across to the quarterdeck and spoke heatedly to the captain. The order was clear. The ship was not to return.
“There’s plenty of time, for Christ’s sake. Look!” Blackthorne pointed at the empty beaten earth and at the breakwater where the ronin were holding the Grays at bay.
But Yabu shook his head.
The gap was thirty yards now and Blackthorne’s mind was shouting, What’s the matter with you, that’s Buntaro, her husband.
“You can’t let him die, he’s one of ours,” he shouted at Yabu and at the ship. “Him! Buntaro!” He spun round on the captain. “Back there! Isogi!” But this time the seaman shook his head helplessly and held the escape course and the oarsmaster continued the beat on the great drum.
Blackthorne rushed for Toranaga, who had his back to him, studying the shore and wharf. At once four bodyguard samurai stepped in the pilot’s way, swords on high. He called out, “Toranaga-sama! Dozo! Or
der the ship back! There! Dozo—please! Go back!”
“Iyé Anjin-san.” Toranaga pointed once at the castle signal flares and once at the breakwater, and turned his back again with finality.
“Why, you shitless coward …” Blackthorne began, but stopped. Then he rushed for the gunwale and leaned over it. “Swiiiiimm!” he hollered, making the motions. “Swim, for Christ’s sake!”
Buntaro understood. He raised the girl to her feet and spoke to her and half-shoved her toward the wharf edge but she cried out and fell on her knees in front of him. Obviously she could not swim.
Desperately Blackthorne searched the deck. No time to launch a small boat. Much too far to throw a rope. Not enough strength to swim there and back. No life jackets. As a last resort he ran over to the nearest oarsmen, two to each great sweep, and stopped their pull. All oars on the portside were momentarily thrown off tempo, oar crashing into oar. The galley slewed awkwardly, the beat stopped, and Blackthorne showed the oarsmen what he wanted.
Two samurai went forward to restrain him but Toranaga ordered them away.
Together, Blackthorne and four seamen launched the oar like a dart over the side. It sailed for some way then hit the water cleanly, and its momentum carried it to the wharf.
At that moment there was a victory shout from the breakwater. Reinforcements of Grays were streaming down from the city and, though the ronin-samurai were holding off the present attackers, it was only a matter of time before the wall was breached.
“Come on,” Blackthorne shouted. “Isogiiii!”
Buntaro pulled the girl up, pointed at the oar and then out to the ship. She bowed weakly. He dismissed her and turned his full attention to battle, his vast legs set firm on the jetty.
The girl called out once to the ship. A woman’s voice answered and she jumped. Her head broke the surface. She flailed for the oar and grabbed it. It bore her weight easily and she kicked for the ship. A small wave caught her and she rode it safely and came closer to the galley. Then her fear caused her to loosen her grip and the oar slipped away from her. She thrashed for an endless moment, then vanished below the surface.
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