The Pure Land

by Spence, Alan

  The Captain was already moving towards the longboat, spoke to Satow. ‘We must leave before the tide turns. Mister Glover has clearly made his mind up and is impervious to reason. On his own head be it.’

  Satow pleaded with Glover one last time. ‘If you change your mind, I’m sure you can negotiate with one of these bargees to ferry you on board.’

  ‘I won’t change my mind,’ said Glover.

  ‘No,’ said Satow, and he shook Glover’s hand; the exchange was at an end.

  *

  Whether it was bravado, or recklessness, or plain foolhardiness, he had no sense of imminent danger to himself, in spite of what Satow had said. It was true his situation was precarious, and he might have been safer if Matsuo had been accompanying him, but he was surrendered to fate, or history, or whatever other forces were at play. If anything, he was more concerned about Sono. If he could not persuade her to leave altogether, perhaps he could at least ensure she moved further from the docks, up to higher ground.

  Shimada’s home was now barricaded; there was no sign of Shimada himself, who would be marshalling defences, commanding the gun emplacements, nor was there any sign of Sono. He prayed she had gone out of town, headed inland, or was at least taking refuge in the Buddhist temple; there at least she should be out of range of the ships’ cannon.

  The area near the docks was alive with folk scurrying to move their possessions, get out of the way. One old man was scrambling to pack up his stall, struggling to cram his goods into crates. Much of it was junk, old kitchen equipment, a set of scales, odd bits of pottery. But in amongst it, Glover saw something he wanted, a spyglass.

  He asked how much. ‘Ikura?’

  The old man, in a panic, quoted more than it was worth. Glover paid him double, shoved the spyglass in his coat pocket, headed out of town.

  By noon the heat was intense. At the temple he was thorough, searched the grounds, disturbed an old monk in the meditation hall, startled a group of young nuns raking a gravel garden. They must have thought him a demonic visitation. He apologised, ascertained Sono was nowhere in the precincts.

  He found a spot, in the shelter of a tree, where he could command a view of the harbour. He sat down on a rock and was suddenly overcome with a kind of dizziness. The intensity of the past few days’ events, the lack of sleep, the turmoil, all combined, now that he had finally stopped and was still, to wash over him like a tide. For a moment he was quite shaken, then he gathered himself again. But he could not throw off the sense of strangeness and distance; it was all dreamlike, yet vividly real.

  A sudden memory came to him, of a moment from his childhood. He had been playing on the beach at Bridge of Don, run pellmell along the sand in pursuit of some childish game, and he’d stopped and turned around, seen his companions as if very far away, their voices, the cries of seagulls, thin and empty against the crash of the waves. And it was as if he had awakened to the absolute reality of his own existence; this was his life and this was him living it; he was here, the centre of his own story. And now it was happening again, in this alien land; the life flowed through him, his story unfolded as it must.

  He felt his breath come and go of itself, he looked out at the expanse before him, the town spread below, the harbour and the bay beyond, the volcano sitting ageless on its island, clouds and mist at its summit. Insects buzzed in the air and from somewhere behind him came the sonorous clang of the temple bell.

  He brought his gaze to rest on the ships in the bay, was jolted into full awareness of the present, the precise situation; this too was real, was actually happening. There was movement among the ships, the gunboats manoeuvring into position.

  Time had slowed, but now seemed to accelerate. The weather suddenly turned, clouds gathered, high winds whipped up. Three Japanese steamers had moved towards the harbour, were surrounded by the British warships. Glover raised the telescope to his eye, adjusted the focal length, managed to home in on one of the steamers. Blue-coated figures were moving on deck, a boarding party; shifting the spyglass, he focused on the other two steamers, saw that they too had been boarded, their crews forced to abandon ship and head for shore in lifeboats. Now the blue-coats seemed to be ransacking the steamers, carrying off plunder, heading back to their own ships. Then there was a sudden flare high in the rigging of the first steamer, and the second, and the third, and all three were ablaze, in no time scuttled, sunk.

  The winds rose even higher, the sky turned darker grey, the threat of a storm. Glover braced himself against the gusts. Now there was a response from the Satsuma, the boom of cannon-fire from the batteries on shore. Glover watched in amazement, the puff of smoke from each shot, the shells exploding in the air above the ships, sudden bursts against the darkening grey of the sky, the ships rolling in the gale, the waves turbulent. Again he was visited by that sense of dreamlike vividness; he was here, watching a battle commence. And these were his people, out there with their squadron of ships; the guns firing back at them were cannon he had sold the Satsuma, the clan of his wife; he was caught between the two worlds, could do nothing but watch the events unfold.

  There was another barrage from the batteries, and this time there was a hit, directly on the flagship. Glover held the telescope to his eye, tried to hold it steady, saw a confusion of water and sky as the lens veered, then he settled on the Euryalus, saw the commotion on deck, smoke and flames, crew rushing to douse the fire, drag bodies clear. This was no dream. The cannon fired again, and again, and one of the gunboats was hit, the other seemed to be struggling in the gale, driven towards shore.

  Then the inevitable, the inexorable, happened. The ships steadied themselves, regrouped and opened fire, bombarded the shore. There was one explosion after another around the gun emplacements, black smoke curling into the air. Buildings caught fire and the fire spread in the high winds, the whole dock area suddenly ablaze. Glover didn’t think, didn’t hesitate, took off running towards the conflagration.

  The scene by the docks was infernal, folk falling over themselves, trying to escape, one building after another going up in flames. He remembered Oliphant, talking about fire, the flower of Edo, that blossoms all year round. Now it was the flower of Kagoshima, and its blossoms flared, orange and red.

  A troop of firemen marched into action along the main street, ludicrous and courageous, a banner at their head, a ladder and a handpump borne along behind. A family dragged their precious possessions, wrapped in quilts, from their burning home, just before it collapsed. The firemen ushered them away from the site, used barbed poles to tear down what was left of the building before setting up the pump, cranking a trickle of water towards the blaze.

  Glover tried to help the family, but they turned on him, the father threatening him with a bamboo pole. All they would see would be a barbarian; they probably thought him part of a landing party, the invading force. He backed off, shoved his way through the crowds, face scorched with the heat of the burning.

  The gun emplacements had taken a pounding; direct hits had left craters where men and guns had been. Through the smoke he saw the figure of Shimada, marshalling the remaining gun crews. At one position the guns were being loaded and fired by young boys, no more than twelve or thirteen years old. A shell whistled overhead, exploded in the air above their heads. They ducked, took cover, got up again and recommenced firing. Glover caught Shimada’s eye, gave him a kind of salute. Shimada nodded, carried on barking orders.

  Stumbling over rubble, he made his way to Shimada’s home, or what was left of it. The roof had been ripped off, two walls blown out, the rest was on fire. Christ, Sono. Desperate, he shielded his face with his arm, looked in the burning wreckage, saw no one. She must have made her escape, surely to God. He staggered away, stumbled through the town, hoping by some miracle to find her in the midst of the chaos.

  *

  He had never seen destruction on this kind of scale, would not have believed it possible. The bombardment had gone on for hours, far longer than it took to batte
r the defences into submission. It had become an act of vengeance, of wrath, a demonstration that might would always prevail. Hundreds had been killed, the whole settlement flattened, laid waste. A rumour had spread that Josling, the Captain of the flagship, had been mortally wounded when that first shell hit its mark. The retribution had been vicious and fierce, pounding the town to rubble and dust; the destruction was indiscriminate, wantonly random. When sufficient damage had been wrought, the squadron had weighed anchor, set sail for Yokohama, secure that justice had been done.

  Glover walked through the ruins, through what had been a beautiful town, looking for landmarks, trying to find his way. The pottery had been blown to smithereens, the gardens scarred by great craters, churned to quagmire, the little shrine to Jizo blasted to nothing.

  The fires had burned long, fanned by the rising winds, the edge of a typhoon, then the rains had come, doused the flames, left only the odd pocket still smouldering. Glover walked in a waking nightmare of utter desolation, drenched by the downpour, past families returning to their burned-out homes, past the injured, the dead and the dying. He came at last to where Shimada’s home had been, found him standing, staring at the wreckage, or through it, beyond it, at nothing.

  Glover waited till he sensed him there, turned to face him.

  ‘Bad,’ said Glover, the only word adequate.

  The old man nodded. ‘Many dead.’

  Glover waited, left the silence there between them, left his one question unspoken till he couldn’t any longer.

  ‘Sono?’

  The old man nodded, a choke in his voice as he spoke. ‘Hai.’

  There was nothing, not one word more, to be said.

  Weary, Glover made his way back through the ravaged town, went one last time to the ryokan.

  Desultory, mechanical, distanced from himself, he packed his bag, sat staring at the walls of the room.

  The next day he negotiated a passage on the first ship out, a Dutch clipper bound for Nagasaki. Repair work had already begun on the docks. As the ship moved out he looked back, thought for a moment he saw Sono standing there, dressed in white, but looking again he saw only a wisp of smoke, blown by the wind.

  *

  Nothing had any meaning. He kept to himself, kept his own counsel, shunned company. He delegated work to his clerks. When Walsh and Mackenzie expressed concern, he told them to go and bugger themselves; he told Ito the same in Japanese. Days, weeks, passed by. He received a letter from Satow, in Edo.

  Dear Glover,

  Word has come to me that you have returned to Nagasaki safe and well. I am relieved to hear it, and take the liberty of sending you this communication. The Kagoshima incident is much in my thoughts. I believe I suggested to you at the time that it was ‘a rum do’. In retrospect, that seems a woefully inadequate description.

  When the skirmishes commenced, when we boarded and scuttled the Japanese steamers blocking our way, I confess I was rather caught up in the excitement of it. I myself was allowed to board one of the vessels and I carried off trophies, a Japanese matchlock, a conical war-hat, which I bore in triumph back to the Euryalus. The whole affair felt like quite an adventure, and seeing the boats fired and sunk was rather thrilling. Even when the batteries on shore began firing at us, the spectacle was exhilarating, the shells bursting in the air above us, exploding against the backdrop of gathering clouds.

  Our delay in returning fire was due entirely to one rather singular circumstance, the irony of which, I feel, will not be lost on you. When the Shogun had finally handed over his payment of indemnity for the Richardson affair (which gave rise to this whole sorry business in the first place), the sum of £100,000, in Mexican silver, was delivered to the Legation in Edo and transferred thence, in huge reinforced boxes, to the deck of the Euryalus. In fact, the boxes were stacked in front of the door to the ammunition magazine – an error of judgement on the part of the ship’s officers, one might have thought, and so it proved to be. It took almost an hour to gain access to the ammunition, by which time the weather conditions had deteriorated, and the accuracy of the enemy gunners had increased. To our alarm and dismay, there were two direct hits on the flagship with ten-inch shells; one landed on the main deck, the other hit the bridge and killed both Captain Josling and another officer, Commander Wilmot.

  When we did engage, it was with a vengeance, and eventually the day was won, though not without cost: some 63 British personnel were killed or seriously wounded in the engagement. Admiral Kuyper, the expedition’s commander, deemed it, notwithstanding, a great success insofar as the Satsuma clan were taught a salutary lesson and some £100,000 worth of damage was done to Kagoshima.

  I know that you will take a rather more circumspect view of the matter, as indeed do I. The circumstances of our meeting were somewhat strained, and I hope there is no bad blood between us. Like you, I have faith that we can work towards ever greater co-operation with the Japanese, and I hope we can leave this sorry incident behind us and do just that. Here in Edo, and in Yokohama, the community is no longer on a war footing. Things have settled down again, calm has been restored and trade continues very much as usual. I trust it is the same in Nagasaki, and that your own business goes from strength to strength.

  I remain, yours sincerely,

  Ernest Satow

  Glover read the letter through again, crumpled it up and threw it across the room. He poured himself a drink, knocked it back, threw on his jacket and headed out of the house. He had to do something to discharge this rage inside him. The evening was beginning its quick descent to night as he crossed Shian Bashi and Omoikiri Bashi.

  *

  He had drunk too much, or not enough. The madame had insisted on introducing him to a new courtesan, Maki Kaga. He’d been brusque with the girl, perfunctory, done the business, taken more drink. At some point he had sworn at her, told her to go; then he’d drunk more, passed out. When he woke from his stupor he was alone, the tiny room dimly lit. He stood up, unsteady, stark naked, felt trapped. He had to get out, but every wall was a shoji screen, closed over; he was shut in, and his head hurt and his bladder was full to bursting. Fuck it. He pished on the floor, spattered the tatami. He stood swaying, disorientated. The first time he’d seen Sono, the shoji had opened and she’d sat there, bowed to him. He let out a roar of anguish and blundered at the screen, crashed right through it, smashing and tearing it as he fell on the other side. He heard screaming, female voices, and hands were on him, turning him over, trying to help him up. He saw Maki’s face a moment, anxious, then she was gone and the voices were male, familiar. Walsh and Ito had come out of other rooms, had pulled on yukata robes to cover themselves.

  Walsh looked at the damage, screwed up his face. ‘Jesus Christ, Tom, you’ve pissed on the goddamn floor!’

  ‘Pish tosh!’ said Glover. ‘Pish fucking tosh!’

  ‘We get him home,’ said Ito.

  ‘Right,’ said Walsh.

  Everything blurred even more, but he had a sense of Maki helping him on with his clothes, then Walsh and Ito taking over again, themselves fully dressed, taking an arm each, supporting his weight, half carrying half dragging him out into the night where the cool air hit him and he retched, threw up. The others let him go and he turned on them, brought them into focus.

  ‘Bastards! What’s the point? What is the point in anything? It’s all fucking mad!’ He pointed an accusing finger at Walsh. ‘You! Bloody Americans. Fuck you and your fast buck!’

  He rounded on Ito. ‘And you! Bloody Japanese. Cut my throat as quick as look at me.’

  He staggered a few steps, threw up again, wiped the vomit and spit from his face. ‘Fuck the lot of you!’ His legs buckled and he pitched forward, dead to the world.

  *

  He woke, dragged up aching out of some hellish nether world where the light seared his eyes and just to breathe was pain. Bombs and rockets had rained on Ipponmatsu, the lone pine was a tree of fire, the house itself was ablaze, but he knew if he mov
ed quickly, fought his way back inside, he might still save Sono. The heat was intense, his throat was raw, black smoke choking him.

  He sat up, was here on his bed fully clothed, stinking of piss and sick. He retched, his throat still on fire, acrid with heartburn. He was still half in the dream, wondered how the blaze had been put out, how the room was intact. Then he came back to this, remembered. The night before was a muddled blur, but he minded some of it, groaned. And behind all that, in at the back of it, was the darkness that was Kagoshima, and all of it had really happened, he had really been there, and Sono was really dead.

  He got to his feet, the sick dull pain thudthudding in his head. The need for water was uppermost, it was absolute, Godalmighty, he had to drink. He lurched, unsteady, through to the front room, and she was there, in a white kimono, kneeling with her back to him. Shimada had got it wrong, she had somehow survived, had come to him here.

  ‘Sono!’

  She turned, alarmed, not her, not Sono, another young woman. She put her hand to her throat, bowed.

  ‘Ie. No.’ She pointed to herself. ‘Tsuru desu.’

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Tsuru. Pleased to meet you. Yoroshiku onegai shimasu. Now what the hell are you doing here?’

  She bowed again, more deeply. ‘Ito-san tell me to come here, help you.’

  ‘Oh, did he now?’ The pain in his head thudded again, nausea swamped him.

  The girl stood up, brisk and efficient, attentive. ‘I make you hocha, tea. Get hot water for wash.’

  ‘Fine,’ he said, sitting down. ‘But water first, to drink.’ He mimed swigging from a cup.

  ‘Hai,’ she said, ‘so desu.’ And she bowed again, shuffled into the kitchen.

  He held his head in his hands. He smelled vile and that made him gag again, his mouth parched, rank.

  The girl came back, a jug of water in one hand, a cup in the other. She filled the cup, handed it to him. He slugged the water down, drank it in one, held out the cup for a refill, glugged cup after cup till the jug was empty, then handed the cup back to her.