Shōgun

by James Clavell

  “You’re certain it’ll be all right for me to ask him, Mariko-san?” Blackthorne had said as they began to climb the stairs.

  “Oh yes. Providing you wait till he’s finished. But be sure you know exactly what you’re going to say, Anjin-san. He’s … he’s not as patient as he is normally.” She had not asked him what he had wanted to ask, and he had not volunteered anything.

  “Very well, Anjin-san,” Toranaga was saying. “Please wait outside, Mariko-san.” She bowed and left. “Yes?”

  “So sorry, hear Lord Harima of Nagasaki now enemy.”

  Toranaga was startled for he had heard about Harima’s public commitment to Ishido’s standard only when he himself had reached Yedo. “Where did you get that information?”

  “Please?”

  Toranaga repeated the question slower.

  “Ah! Understand. Hear about Lord Harima at Hakoné. Gyoko-san tell us. Gyoko-san hear in Mishima.”

  “That woman’s well informed. Perhaps too well informed.”

  “Sire?”

  “Nothing. Go on. What about Lord Harima?”

  “Sire, may I respectfully say: my ship, big weapon over Black Ship, neh? If I take Black Ship very quick—priests very anger because no money Christian work here—no money also Portuguese other lands. Last year no Black Ship here, so no money, neh? If now take Black Ship quick, very quick, and also next year, all priest has great fear. That’s the truth, Sire. Think priests must bend if threatens. Priests like this for Toranaga-sama!” Blackthorne snapped his hand shut to make his point.

  Toranaga had listened intently, watching his lips as he was doing the same. “I follow you, but to what end, Anjin-san?”

  “Sire?”

  Toranaga fell into the same pattern of using few words. “To obtain what? To catch what? To get what?”

  “Lord Onoshi, Lord Kiyama, and Lord Harima.”

  “So you want to interfere in our politics like the priests? You think you know how to rule us as well, Anjin-san?”

  “So sorry, please, excuse me, I don’t understand.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Toranaga thought for a long time, then said, “Priests say they’ve no power to order Christian daimyos.”

  “No true, Sire, please excuse me. Money big power over priests. It’s the truth, Sire. If no Black Ship this year, and also next year no Black Ship, ruin. Very, very bad for priests. It’s the truth, Sire. Money is power. Please consider: If Crimson Sky at same time or before, I attack Nagasaki. Nagasaki enemy now, neh? I take Black Ship and attack sea roads between Kyushu and Honshu. Maybe threat enough to make enemy into friend?”

  “No. The priests will stop trade. I am not at war with the priests or Nagasaki. Or anyone. I am going to Osaka. There will be no Crimson Sky. Wakarimasu?”

  “Hai.” Blackthorne was not perturbed. He knew that now Toranaga clearly understood that this possible tactic would certainly draw off a large proportion of Kiyama-Onoshi-Harima forces, all of whom were Kyushu-based. And Erasmus could certainly wreck any large-scale sea-borne transfer of troops from that island to the main one. Be patient, he cautioned himself. Let Toranaga consider it. Maybe it’ll be as Mariko says: There is a long time between now and Osaka, and who knows what might happen? Prepare for the best but do not fear the worst.

  “Anjin-san, why not say this in front of Mariko-san? She will tell priests? You think that?”

  “No, Sire. Only want to try talk direct. Not woman’s business to war. One last ask, Toranaga-sama.” Blackthorne launched himself on a chosen course. “Custom hatamoto ask favor, sometimes. Please excuse me, Sire, may I respectfully say now possible ask?”

  Toranaga’s fan stopped waving. “What favor?”

  “Know divorce easy if lord say. Ask Toda Mariko-sama wife.” Toranaga was dumbstruck and Blackthorne was afraid he’d gone too far. “Please excuse me for my rudeness,” he added.

  Toranaga recovered quickly. “Mariko-san agrees?”

  “No, Toranaga-sama. Secret my. Never say to her, anyone. Secret my only. Not say to Toda Mariko-san. Never. Kinjiru, neh? But know angers between husband wife. Divorce easy in Japan. This my secret only. Ask Lord Toranaga only. Very secret. Never Mariko-san. Please excuse me if I’ve offended you.”

  “That’s a presumptuous request for a stranger. Unheard of! Because you’re hatamoto I’m duty bound to consider it, though you’re forbidden to mention it to her under any circumstances, either to her or to her husband. Is that clear?”

  “Please?” Blackthorne asked, not understanding at all, hardly able to think.

  “Very bad ask and thought, Anjin-san. Understand?”

  “Yes Sire, so sor—”

  “Because Anjin-san hatamoto I’m not angry. Will consider. Understand?”

  “Yes, I think so. Thank you. Please excuse my bad Japanese, so sorry.”

  “No talk to her, Anjin-san, about divorce. Mariko-san or Buntaro-san. Kinjiru, wakarimasu?”

  “Yes, Lord. Understand. Only secret you, I. Secret. Thank you. Please excuse my rudeness and thank you for your patience.” Blackthorne bowed perfectly and, almost in a dream, he walked out. The door closed behind him. On the landing everyone was watching him quizzically.

  He wanted to share his victory with Mariko. But he was inhibited by her distracted serenity and the presence of the guards. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting” was all he said.

  “It was my pleasure,” she answered, as noncommittal.

  They started down the staircase again. Then, after a flight of stairs, she said, “Your simple way of talking is strange though quite understandable, Anjin-san.”

  “I was lost too many times. Knowing you were there helped me tremendously.”

  “I did nothing.”

  In the silence they walked on, Mariko behind him slightly as was correct custom. At each level they passed through a samurai cordon, then, rounding a bend in the stairs, the trailing hem of her kimono caught in the railings and she stumbled. He caught her, steadying her, and the sudden close touch pleased both of them. “Thank you,” she said, flustered, as he put her down again.

  They continued on, much closer than they had been tonight.

  Outside in the torchlit forecourt, samurai were everywhere. Once more their passes were checked and now they were escorted with their flare-carrying porters through the donjon main gate, along a passage that meandered, mazelike, between high, battlemented stone walls to the next gate that led to the moat and the innermost wooden bridge. In all, there were seven rings of moats within the castle complex. Some were man-made, some adapted from the streams and rivers that abounded. While they headed for the main gate, the south gate, Mariko told him that, when the fortress was completed the year after next, it would house a hundred thousand samurai and twenty thousand horses, with all necessary provisions for one year.

  “Then it will be the biggest in the world,” Blackthorne said.

  “That was Lord Toranaga’s plan.” Her voice was grave. “Shigata ga nai, neh?” At last they came to the final bridge. “There, Anjin-san, you can see the castle’s the hub of Yedo, neh? The center of a web of streets that angle out to become the city. Ten years ago there was only a little fishing village here. Now, who knows? Three hundred thousand? Two? Four? Lord Toranaga hasn’t counted his people yet. But they’re all here for one purpose only: to serve the castle that protects the port and the plains that feed the armies.”

  “Nothing else?” he asked.

  “No.”

  There’s no need to be worried, Mariko, and look so solemn, he thought happily. I’ve solved all that. Toranaga will grant all my requests.

  At the far side of the flare-lit Ichi-bashi—First Bridge—that led to the city proper, she stopped. “I must leave you now, Anjin-san.”

  “When can I see you?”

  “Tomorrow. At the Hour of the Goat. I’ll wait in the forecourt for you.”

  “I can’t see you tonight? If I’m back early?”

  “No, so sorry, please excuse me. Not ton
ight.” Then she bowed formally. “Konbanwa, Anjin-san.”

  He bowed. As a samurai. He watched her going back across the bridge, some of the flare-carriers going with her, insects milling the stationary flares that were stuck in holders on stanchions. Soon she was swallowed up by the crowds and the night.

  Then, his excitement increasing, he put his back to the castle and set off after the guide.

  CHAPTER 48

  “The barbarians live there, Anjin-san.” The samurai motioned ahead.

  Ill at ease, Blackthorne squinted into the darkness, the air breathless and sultry. “Where? That house? There?”

  “Yes. That’s right, so sorry. You see it?”

  Another nest of hovels and alleys was a hundred paces ahead, beyond this bare patch of marshy ground, and dominating them was a large house etched vaguely against the jet sky.

  Blackthorne looked around for a moment to get his approximate bearings, using his fan against the encroaching bugs. Very soon, once they had left First Bridge, he had become lost in the maze.

  Their way had led through innumerable streets and alleys, initially toward the shore, skirting it eastward for a time, over bridges and lesser bridges, then northward again along the bank of another stream which meandered through the outskirts, the land low-lying and moist. The farther from the castle, the meaner were the roads, the poorer the dwellings. The people were more obsequious, and fewer glimmers of light came from the shojis. Yedo was a sprawling mass which seemed to him to be made up of hamlets separated merely by roads or streams.

  Here on the southeastern edge of the city it was quite marshy and the road oozed putridly. For some time the stench had been thickening perceptibly, a miasma of seaweed and feces and mud flats, and overlying these an acrid sweet smell he could not place, but that seemed familiar.

  “Stinks like Billingsgate at low tide,” he muttered, killing another night pest that had landed on his cheek. His whole body was clammy with sweat.

  Then he heard the faintest snatch of a rollicking sea shanty in Dutch and all discomfort was forgotten. “Is that Vinck?”

  Elated, he hurried toward the sound, porters lighting his way carefully, samurai following.

  Now, nearer, he saw that the single-story building was part Japanese, part European. It was raised on pilings and surrounded by a high rickety bamboo fence in a plot of its own, and much newer than the hovels that clustered near. There was no gate in the fence, just a hole. The roof was thatch, the front door stout, the walls rough-boarded, and the windows covered with Dutch-style shutters. Here and there were flecks of light from the cracks. The singing and banter increased but he could not recognize any voices yet. Flagstones led straight to the steps of the veranda through an unkempt garden. A short flagpole was roped to the gateway. He stopped and stared up at it. A limp, makeshift Dutch flag hung there listlessly and his pulse quickened at the sight of it.

  The front door was thrown open. A shaft of light spilled onto the veranda. Baccus van Nekk stumbled drunkenly to the edge, eyes half shut, pulled his codpiece aside, and urinated in a high, curving jet.

  “Ahhhhh,” he murmured with a groaning ecstasy. “Nothing like a piss.”

  “Isn’t there?” Blackthorne called out in Dutch from the gateway. “Why don’t you use a bucket?”

  “Eh?” Van Nekk blinked myopically into the darkness at Blackthorne, who stood with the samurai under the flares. “JesusGod-inheavensamurai!” He gathered himself with a grunt and bowed awkwardly from the waist. “Gomen nasai, samurai-sama. Ichibon gomen nasai to all monkey-samas.” He straightened, forced a painful smile, and muttered half to himself, “I’m drunker’n I thought. Thought the bastard sonofawhore spoke Dutch! Gomen nasai, neh?” he called out again, reeling off toward the back of the house, scratching and groping at the codpiece.

  “Hey, Baccus, don’t you know better than to foul your own nest?”

  “What?” Van Nekk jerked around and stared blindly toward the flares, desperately trying to see clearly. “Pilot?” he choked out. “Is that you, Pilot? God damn my eyes, I can’t see. Pilot, for the love of God, is that you?”

  Blackthorne laughed. His old friend looked so naked there, so foolish, his penis hanging out. “Yes, it’s me!” Then to the samurai who watched with thinly covered contempt, “Matte kurasai.” Wait for me, please.

  “Hai, Anjin-san.”

  Blackthorne came forward and now in the shaft of light he could see the litter of garbage everywhere in the garden. Distastefully he stepped out of the dogs and ran up the steps. “Hello, Baccus, you’re fatter than when we left Rotterdam, neh?” He clapped him warmly on the shoulders.

  “Lord Jesus Christ, is that truly you?”

  “Yes, of course it’s me.”

  “We’d given you up for dead, long ago.” Van Nekk reached out and touched Blackthorne to make sure he was not dreaming. “Lord Jesus, my prayers are answered. Pilot, what happened to you, where’ve you come from? It’s a miracle! Is it truly you?”

  “Yes. Now please put your cod in place and let’s go inside,” Blackthorne told him, conscious of his samurai.

  “What? Oh! Oh sorry, I …” Van Nekk hastily complied and tears began to run down his cheeks. “Oh Jesus, Pilot … I thought the gin devils were playing me tricks again. Come on, but let me announce you, hey?”

  He led the way back, weaving a little, much of his drunkenness evaporated with his joy. Blackthorne followed. Van Nekk held the door open for him, then shouted over the raucous singing, “Lads! Look what Father Christmas’s brought us!” He slammed the door shut after Blackthorne for added effect.

  Silence was instantaneous.

  It took a moment for Blackthorne’s eyes to adjust to the light. The fetid air was almost choking him. He saw them all gaping at him as though he were a devil-wraith. Then the spell broke and there were shouts of welcome and joy and everyone was squeezing and punching him on the back, all talking at the same time. “Pilot, where’ve you come from—Have a drink—Christ, is it possible—Piss in my hat, it’s great to see you—We’d given you up for dead—No, we’re all right at least mostly all right—Get out of the chair, you whore, the Pilot-sama’s to sit in the best sodding chair—Hey, grog, neh, quick Godcursed quick! Goddamn my eyes get out of the way I want to shake his hand….”

  Finally Vinck hollered, “One at a time, lads! Give him a chance! Give the Pilot the chair and a drink, for God’s sake! Yes, I thought he was samurai too….”

  Someone shoved a wooden goblet into Blackthorne’s hand. He sat in the rickety chair and they all raised their cups and the flood of questions began again.

  Blackthorne looked around. The room was furnished with benches and a few crude chairs and tables and illuminated by candles and oil lamps. A huge saké keg stood on the filthy floor. One of the tables was covered with dirty plates and a haunch of half-roasted meat, crusted with flies.

  Six bedraggled women cowered on their knees, bowing to him, backed against a wall.

  His men, all beaming, waited for him to start: Sonk the cook, Johann Vinck bosun’s mate and chief gunner, Salamon the mute, Croocq the boy, Ginsel sailmaker, Baccus van Nekk chief merchant and treasurer, and last Jan Roper, the other merchant, who sat apart as always, with the same sour smile on his thin, taut face.

  “Where’s the Captain-General?” Blackthorne asked.

  “Dead, Pilot, he’s dead….” Six voices answered and overrode each other, jumbling the tale until Blackthorne held up his hand. “Baccus?”

  “He’s dead, Pilot. He never came out of the pit. Remember he was sick, eh? After they took you away, well, that night we heard him choking in the darkness. Isn’t that right, lads?”

  A chorus of yesses, and van Nekk added, “I was sitting beside him, Pilot. He was trying to get the water but there wasn’t any and he was choking and moaning. I’m not too clear about the time—we were all frightened to death—but eventually he choked and then, well, the death rattle. It was bad, Pilot.”

  Jan Roper added, “
It was terrible, yes. But it was God’s punishment.”

  Blackthorne looked from face to face. “Anybody hit him? To quieten him?”

  “No—no, oh no,” van Nekk answered. “He just croaked. He was left in the pit with the other one—the Japper, you remember him, the one who tried to drown himself in the bucket of piss? Then the Lord Omi had them bring Spillbergen’s body out and they burned it. But that other poor bugger got left below. Lord Omi just gave him a knife and he slit his own God-cursed belly and they filled in the pit. You remember him, Pilot?”

  “Yes. What about Maetsukker?”

  “Best you tell that, Vinck.”

  “Little Rat Face rotted. Pilot,” Vinck began, and the others started shouting details and telling the tale until Vinck bellowed, “Baccus asked me, for Chrissake! You’ll all get your turn!”

  The voices died down and Sonk said helpfully, “You tell it, Johann.”

  “Pilot, it was his arm started rotting. He got nicked in the fight—you remember the fight when you got knocked out? Christ Jesus, that seems so long ago! Anyway, his arm festered. I bled him the next day and the next, then it started going black. I told him I’d better lance it or the whole arm’d have to come off—told him a dozen times, we all did, but he wouldn’t. On the fifth day the wound was stinking. We held him down and I sliced off most of the rot but it weren’t no good. I knew it wasn’t no good but some of us thought it worth a try. The yellow bastard doctor came a few times but he couldn’t do nothing either. Rat Face lasted a day or two, but the rot was too deep and he raved a lot. We had to tie him up toward the end.”

  “That’s right, Pilot,” Sonk said, scratching comfortably. “We had to tie him up.”

  “What happened to his body?” Blackthorne asked.

  “They took it up the hill and burned it, too. We wanted to give him and the Captain-General a proper Christian burial but they wouldn’t let us. They just burned them.”

  A silence gathered. “You haven’t touched your drink, Pilot!”

  Blackthorne raised it to his lips and tasted. The cup was filthy and he almost retched. The raw spirit seared his throat. The stench of unbathed bodies and rancid, unwashed clothing almost overpowered him.