She felt tears running down her face and turned away quickly.
When she turned back the general was heaving himself on to his horse. He settled in the saddle, thrust his shoulders back and looked down at her, all trace of doubt gone. On his face was the proud steadfast scowl of a warrior about to lead his army on a glorious crusade.
‘You’re a Kitaoka too,’ he said. ‘Never forget that.’
She dabbed her eyes with her sleeve and bowed.
It was then that she saw Kuninosuké, standing among the bodyguards, laughing and talking. He must have noticed her with the general and had turned away but his scarf had slipped. As she recognized him he pushed it back further, as if wondering if the general’s daughter would acknowledge him, a mere foot soldier.
In daylight he looked younger, more vulnerable than she’d imagined, not intimidating or even particularly good-looking, rather ordinary, in fact. After all that had happened the previous night she wanted at least to wish him good luck. She took a breath and stepped towards him.
He drew himself up. ‘Madam. You are here to say goodbye to your father.’
‘And to you.’
He smiled. He had crooked teeth and his face was gaunt but he had the same pale unfathomable eyes. ‘Like your father said, we’re the forty-seven ronin – except there’s more of us, a lot more!’ He laughed, a careless, boyish laugh. ‘With the gods on our side, we can’t lose. We’ll crush our enemies and be back before you’ve even noticed we’ve gone. This isn’t the last you’ll see of me!’ His face softened. ‘I should beg your forgiveness for my behaviour last night but I’m not sure I’m sorry.’
‘I’ll think of you,’ she said. ‘I won’t forget you. Please take care of yourself and come back safely.’
‘Does my life matter so much to you?’
She didn’t know herself what she felt. She didn’t want to give him an answer that wasn’t true. She blushed and lowered her eyes and fumbled in her sleeve. ‘I’d like to give you something …’
Usually she carried all manner of things in her capacious sleeves – a fan, a purse, a handkerchief, a tobacco pouch. But today she’d rushed out with nothing. All she had was the amulet Nobu had bought for her at Sengaku Temple, a small brocade pouch, red embroidered with gold, containing a prayer for good fortune. It was old now and had lost its potency; amulets always lost their power at the end of the year. But she carried it still in memory of him.
She couldn’t bear to give away something so precious. But then she thought of Sengaku Temple where the forty-seven ronin were buried. She pictured their graves, in four neat rows, with incense burning in front of each. Kuninosuké was a man in their mould. He was about to risk his life for the Satsuma cause. How could she begrudge him anything? It was only right that she should give him the amulet.
She took it from her sleeve. ‘This is from Sengaku Temple. It’s a bit old, I’m afraid, but it might still have a little power to protect you.’ As she pressed it into his hand she felt the touch of his fingers. He knotted it carefully on to his sash. Their eyes met. His were like dark hollows through which for a moment she thought she could see into his soul.
‘I’ll keep it with me always and think of you.’
‘I’ll think of you too – all of you. I’ll offer prayers and incense for your success.’ She stepped back, bowing, conscious of the other guards watching.
‘Good luck,’ she added formally. ‘Be careful.’
Drums were beating and people cheering and in one of the neighbouring houses shamisens played. General Kitaoka put on his plumed hat and set off on his horse, surrounded by his bodyguards, at the head of his troops. The men marched in formation, battalion after battalion, filling the broad avenue. Snow glistened on the dark blue jackets, on the weapons, on the horses’ backs. Banners flapped noisily in the wind as the straw sandals tramped inexorably away.
Snow was falling again, more and more heavily.
Taka watched until the huge figure dwindled to a black dot against the glistening hillside, then disappeared. She watched the line of men marching proudly into the mist and snow, into the high mountains, into the unknown, until the last soldier was gone, followed by the packhorses laden with ammunition and the baggage train and finally the women, straggling along behind. It was impossible to imagine that any army could resist such a mighty force.
She watched and watched till her feet were like ice and the last figures in the distance had faded and dissolved into the blizzard. She almost wished she could have gone too.
She turned to go home. The city was frighteningly empty. There was no one left – only women and children, the old and infirm. Even the geishas had gone. Under the make-up and perfume and exquisite kimonos, they were tough working girls, and many had bundled themselves up in thick jackets to follow their men. It was going to be lonely.
PART V
Across a Magpie Bridge
29
Third month, year of the ox, the tenth year of the Meiji era (April 1877)
‘OI, YOSHIDA. NOSE in your book again?’ The taunt rang out above the din of engines, the creak of the paddle wheel and the sailors’ shouts. Bells clanged amidships and footsteps pounded across the metal deck above Nobu’s head.
Sweat trickled down the back of his neck and his clothes stuck to his damp skin. He heaved a sigh and hugged his manual of French infantry tactics to his chest. He knew that sarcastic twang – Sakurai, a thuggish third-year man from one of the minor clans who delighted in tormenting the junior cadets. He and his classmates had been eager to beat Nobu down to size when he joined up and had discovered to their surprise that, studious though he was, he was well able to take care of himself. They had treated him with grudging respect ever since.
Nobu was sitting with his knees pressed to his chin in the four-man cabin he shared with ten other officer cadets, holding his book under the shaft of light that shone through the porthole. His fellow cadets were squashed in around him in their shirtsleeves, some sleeping, some reading, wearily fanning themselves. Caps and overcoats hung on hooks on the wall and there were clothes draped anywhere they could find a place for them. It was as hot and moist as a bathhouse.
But at least he was in the officers’ quarters. He’d been sent on an errand to the bowels of the ship once and plunged down the narrow steps to the dungeon-like hold where the conscripts were billeted. He felt the heat and smelt the coal fumes and the stench of sweat and vomit before he even got there. The hold was right above the engine room and he could hear the roar of the furnace and feel the floor judder as the pistons drove the mighty ship. There were men everywhere, the lucky ones in hammocks strung one above the other, the rest side by side on the floor, never seeing daylight, eating where they slept while their fellow soldiers threw up around them. He’d picked his way through them, steering clear of the overflowing latrines, thanking his lucky stars he wasn’t down there with them.
It had been two months earlier, in late February, that rumours had begun to spread that the Satsuma had risen. The principal had called the college together and told the assembled men that the Satsuma had invaded the neighbouring prefecture, Kumamoto, and that imperial orders had been issued to put them down.
The First Infantry Regiment of the Imperial Guard had left for the south straight away, followed by several contingents of soldiers. Everyone knew that the Satsuma were battle-hardened veterans, some of the finest soldiers in the land. But there were other fine soldiers too, who had excellent reasons to hate the Satsuma, and soon unemployed ex-samurai from the northern clans were queuing up to go to the front.
Nobu knew that for his fellow northerners, the details of what they were fighting for or why were irrelevant. In the new Japan, all the good jobs had been monopolized by men of the winning clans – the Choshu, Satsuma, Hizen and Tosa. A few northerners, like Nobu, had been lucky enough to get into the army. For a man of warrior stock, a samurai, it was a chance – virtually the only chance – to keep his head up, maintain his pride and make
a decent life by working his way up through the ranks. Above all it was a job, one of the few jobs available to a northerner. It was not a matter of ideology but survival.
But most northern samurai, like Nobu’s brothers, were living in poverty, reduced to scraping around to survive. And now it had been thrust into their laps – the chance to take revenge on their old enemy, the cause of all their misfortunes. They wouldn’t have to break any laws or be punished, all they had to do was join the army or police force to kill Satsuma – legitimately. They’d even get paid for it. Their positions had been reversed. It had been the Aizu who had been ground under the heel of the other clans, and now it was the turn of the Satsuma. It was a gift from the gods. They’d finally given the Aizu their chance to make the enemy pay – to avenge themselves on the Satsuma for the terrible suffering and humiliation they had meted out to them.
Nobu should have been overjoyed. It was the best news any Aizu man could ever have imagined, the government declaring war on the potato samurai. But his joy was soured by the fact that the enemy they were fighting was Taka’s people, led by her father, General Kitaoka. He dreaded coming face to face on the battlefield with his old nemesis, her brother, Eijiro, or being ordered to attack her beloved father; and worst of all he was full of fear that she herself might be in danger. He couldn’t celebrate wholeheartedly as a loyal Aizu man should, as his brothers and clansmen were doing.
At the Military Academy everyone was far too keyed up to study. Nobu was promoted to officer cadet and issued with a Snider and spent his days at the firing range, learning to manipulate the heavy rifle until he was on target every time. There were regular manoeuvres, grand heart-stirring events when the soldiers lined up in their thousands and presented arms, marching and wheeling in perfect unison to the sound of the French drill masters’ barked orders:
‘Attention! En avant – marche!’
‘Sur le pied droit, halte. Repos!’
They’d paraded through the city in their splendid uniforms, rifles gleaming, while crowds lined the streets to watch.
With the chafe of rough wool on his neck, hearing the shouts and the stamp of boots, Nobu felt home and dry. At the barracks, every moment was accounted for – reveille at dawn, roll call, uniform inspection, drill, breakfast, and so on through the day. He didn’t have to worry about money or where he would live or how he would find the next meal; and there was not a single spare moment when he had a chance to stop and reflect, to brood about Taka and Jubei’s death and the terrible events of the summer. He obeyed orders and that was all. It was best that way, best to lose himself in the daily routine of army life. Thinking only brought pain and confusion.
Then on 11 April came the call Nobu had been waiting for. Along with his classmates he packed his kitbag, tied a jaunty red blanket on top and an extra pair of shoes, one on each side, put on his uniform, overcoat and cap, strapped on his sword and picked up his rifle, and boarded the train for Yokohama, carrying himself tall and proud. There he lined up at the jetty along with thousands of others to be ferried out to the towering Mitsubishi troopship.
Along with everyone else Nobu had spent his first days on board laid out on his pallet, groaning and retching with every pitch and lurch of the ship. But as soon as he found his sea legs he was back at work. While most of the others spent the voyage drinking, gambling and grumbling, he cleaned his rifle every day and occasionally fired a few shots to make sure it stayed in good working order. For the rest of the time he pored over his textbooks, boning up on French military tactics. All his training was soon to be put to the test and he wanted to be sure he was good and ready.
‘These coves say they know you.’ Sakurai loomed over him, casting a huge shadow, as he propelled a short, bow-legged fellow into the cabin. Grumbling, Nobu’s fellow cadets cleared a way as the man stumbled in, tripping over their kitbags and bedrolls. ‘Conscripts,’ Sakurai added, wrinkling his nose. ‘The gods know when this one last had a wash.’ One of Sakurai’s sidekicks, Sato, hovered in the doorway, holding a second man by the scruff of the neck.
The conscripts had the stunted, undernourished look of townsmen or peasants. They were wearing ill-fitting, crumpled uniforms with sleeves that dangled below their wrists, and they shifted awkwardly from foot to foot as if they weren’t used to leather boots.
All the officer cadets thought of conscripts as a lower order, almost another species. Nobu had heard very little good and a lot of bad about them. He knew the army was desperate for manpower in the face of the southern threat and was using the new conscription law to round up thousands of raw recruits; but, as the officers knew all too well, the new men were virtually useless. They were there under duress, they were untrained, but above all they were not samurai; they lacked fighting spirit, they were not ready to die, as samurai were. By all accounts they’d proved no match for Kitaoka’s veterans. Most ended up getting cut down straight away. He’d heard that in the heat of battle many were so nervous that they shoved two bullets into their rifle instead of one and the rifle blew up in their hands when they pulled the trigger.
‘Conscripts? I’m not acquainted with any conscripts,’ Nobu grunted. Sakurai was needling him again. The only course was to humour him until he lost interest and went away.
Sakurai’s prisoner gave a strangled squawk. ‘No …’
‘Shut your mouth. Who told you to speak?’ Sakurai whacked the man around the head. ‘Caught them snooping around outside, looking for something to nick, most like. I was about to give them a thrashing when this worm starts mouthing off. Looking for Nobu, he says, Nobuyuki Yoshida. Old friends, he says. Likely story, I thought, but you never know, what with our Yoshida’s dubious origins. What do you say we give them a good beating, teach them some respect?’
The bow-legged man was struggling, flapping his arms, trying to break free of Sakurai’s unyielding grip. ‘No … Nobu, it’s us, your old mates.’
Nobu stared at him, startled. He knew that cocky Edo chirrup. ‘Bunkichi! Zenkichi!’
He threw down his book and sprang to his feet in delight. The last time he’d seen them had been back at Mori’s, at the end of the summer holidays. They’d been apprentices then, with shiny shaven pates and oiled topknots, in cotton jackets and leggings. Now their hair had grown in on top and been chopped off into a ragged fringe, making their faces broad and square instead of egg-shaped; but he recognized those ugly mugs all the same. He remembered trailing along the main boulevard of the Yoshiwara pleasure quarters with them while Mori-sama swaggered on ahead, and sleeping squashed together in the servants’ quarters at Mori’s meagre house.
‘Bunkichi and Zenkichi, grooms at Mori-sama’s. We worked together. Leave them be!’
‘You certainly have odd friends, Yoshida,’ drawled Sakurai, looking down his crumpled nose with a sneer.
‘Not grooms no more, we ain’t, nor coves neither.’ Bunkichi thrust out his scrawny chest as Sakurai released him. ‘Privates, if you don’t mind. Private Kuroda and Private Toyoda, fifth division, second battalion, Fifth Infantry Regiment, at your service.’
‘Kuroda? Toyoda? Since when did you have surnames?’ said Nobu, laughing.
‘Always ’ave ’ad. Trouble with you, young Nobu, is you never gives us the respect we deserves. Thought you’d seen the last of us, didn’t you? We’re not so easy to get rid of. Isn’t that right, Zenkichi?’ He scowled at Sakurai. ‘Bloody samurai, think you’re so high and mighty. We can handle a rifle good as anyone. I’ll show you one of these days.’
‘Townsmen? With rifles? You wouldn’t even know which end to hold,’ snarled Sakurai. ‘I’d watch it, Yoshida, wasting time with conscripts. It won’t look good on your report. Shouldn’t you be on mess duty?’ He strode off, Sato at his heels.
*
Nobu glanced around the airless cabin at his fellow cadets, squashed shoulder to shoulder, staring blank-eyed at the new arrivals with a mixture of curiosity and contempt. He could smell their bodies and feel their collective misery.
‘Are we allowed up there?’ Bunkichi asked nervously.
‘With me you are.’
The officers lounging around the corridors and the grand staircase looked at them curiously as they brushed past.
Nobu leaned over the railing, hearing the roar and rush of water and the creak and clatter of the paddle wheel as the ship cut through the waves. There was a gentle swell, no more. Above them the furled sails flapped and banged in the wind. Steam poured from the funnel.
He took a breath, enjoying the smell of sea air and the feel of wind on his cheeks. The water was iridescent and the sky bluer than he’d ever seen. Even the light was different, sharp and clear. The crags lining the coast were a tangle of green, with the purple and blue cones of volcanoes shimmering mistily behind. Seagulls swooped and shrieked.
‘Give me dry land any day,’ shouted Bunkichi. He and Zenkichi were keeping well away from the railing, eyes screwed up, big work-roughened hands shading their eyes. They looked distinctly uncomfortable, like creatures of the shadows who belonged in small smoky rooms in the narrow alleys of the townsmen’s district, as if all their dark secrets would be revealed in the glaring sunlight.
Nobu grinned. ‘So how’s Mori coping without me?’
‘That Mori. “Not taking no more students,” says he after you left. “Eat my food, never do any work, come and go as they please any time of day or night …” He found a new servant soon enough, though. You know what they say. “Can’t take a step without …” ’
‘“… treading on a servant.”’ Nobu was back in the wooden house near Kaji Bridge, remembering Mori’s pouchy face and kimonos stinking of tobacco, the trips to the bathhouse, washing out his loincloth, the regular humiliations … No matter. The job had served its purpose, it had tided him over the summer and he’d been able to give money to his brothers too.
The Samurai's Daughter Page 29