But now that he was back in Japan, it was not the grand monuments he missed so much as the everyday sights – the hansom cabs, the men in shiny top hats and women in dresses shaped like temple bells, the modest streets of brick houses, the Metropolitan Railway which burrowed deep under the earth like a mole, the ear-shattering whistle of the trains, the choking coal dust that filled the air and the thick dank fogs – ‘pea-soupers’, they’d called them – which had blanketed the city in winter.
And above all there’d been the women, parading up and down the Haymarket with their smiles and painted faces and billowing bosoms. With their blue eyes and yellow hair and pinkish skin, they’d been so different from the ladies of the Yoshiwara, but they’d provided welcome and comfort all the same. What he wouldn’t give to get back there one day, he thought.
Suddenly he found himself treading on the heels of the man in front of him. The Commander had stopped in a clearing, strode over to a rock, sprung on to it and pulled out a telescope. He stood staring down, then turned and beckoned imperiously.
Jerked back roughly into the present, Yozo raised his own telescope and focused it. They had reached the top of the pass, and below them, stretching as far as he could see, was a glittering plain of snow and ice, with hills in the distance and the lowering dome of the sky overhead. To one side was a web of streets crisscrossing the snow, dotted with houses, and in the distance lay the ocean, grey as lead. They’d crossed the peninsula. Directly below them, etched small but sharp against the dazzling white, was a perfect five-pointed star – the fort. Yozo could see smoke rising inside and the sparkle of ice on its moat.
‘The Star Fort,’ came a shout. Others took up the cry: ‘The Star Fort! Banzai!’
Yozo’s fingers and toes were like sticks of ice but he barely noticed. Quickly he and his companions crowded into the clearing, ducking under trees or finding rocks to perch on. The Commander stood straight and proud on a great overhang, shoulders thrown back. His western-style boots were encrusted with dirt and snow, his greatcoat stained. His gleaming black hair hung in wild strands around his face as he stared down at his troops.
‘Men of the Kyoto militia,’ he shouted, his voice loud in the silence. ‘Volunteers, patriots.’ He swept his arm towards the plain. ‘The Star Fort, a five-pointed star, like the star of the Northern Alliance. It belongs to us, it’s ours, it’s our destiny!
‘The southern traitors have driven our lord from Edo Castle and forced him into exile. They’ve murdered our families, destroyed our lands and seized our castles. But now the tide is beginning to turn. This is our chance.
‘We all know that the Star Fort is designed to be impregnable. But the men of the garrison have only recently changed sides and they won’t want to die for a cause they don’t believe in. As for us, we are great warriors. We are fighting for our lord and we are not afraid of death.
‘General Otori and the regular army are advancing through the pass on the other side of the hill. They will attack the fort from the north and take the northern bridge. Our job is to sneak down in twos and threes and take the bridge to the south. We’ll keep well hidden and close in under cover of darkness. Once we have the fort, Hakodate will be ours and our fleet will anchor in Hakodate Bay. Today the Star Fort, tomorrow the whole island of Ezo! Long live the shogun! Banzai!’
The soldiers cheered so loudly it brought clumps of snow tumbling from the branches of the trees.
Yozo laughed aloud. He was ready to go, eager to have his rifle in his hands, to feel the recoil and the cut of his sword biting into flesh. Even Kitaro was beaming and cheering at the top of his voice.
The men swarmed down the hillside like a pack of wolves, then spread out and made their way silently across the plain. It was getting dark and the snow muffled the sound of their feet.
Keeping together, Yozo and Kitaro dodged through the snow, hiding behind trees, keeping the muzzles of their rifles covered and their ammunition dry. A couple of times one or other of them misjudged the depth of a pile of snow and floundered up to his neck in a drift. As twilight fell, they saw massive granite battlements looming out of the blanket of white not far in front of them and the shadows of gun emplacements along the walls. Yozo’s mouth was dry. His heart beat hard and there was a knot in his stomach. The time had come.
There was a whistle like a bat’s squeak and Yozo glanced around. Shadowy figures waved urgently. Huddling close to the ground, they crept nearer and nearer to the battlements, black specks against the snow. Yozo’s breath came in quick shallow gasps. He had to stay alert, calm, focused, he told himself.
In twos and threes the men edged around the moat, doing their best to keep out of sight. Mounds of snow were piled against the walls and heaped along the ramparts. The moat was covered in ice.
The snow had been cleared on the bridge itself. Keeping light and low like a wild cat, Yozo padded silently across the icy boards, other men following close on his heels. He could see the sentries in their military greatcoats and straw sandals guarding the huge gates, their breath puffs of smoke in the frozen air. They stood awkwardly, as if they were uncomfortable in their foreign clothes. Drawing his dagger, Yozo grabbed one around the neck and pulled his knife across his throat. Hot blood sprayed out, soaking his hand. As the other sentry started forward, Yozo stepped across the body and thrust his dagger into the man’s stomach.
With Kitaro, he dragged the sentries out of the way as silent figures raced past. Then the gates creaked open and the troops poured in, the Commander loping at their head. Yozo caught a glimpse of his eyes, like a wolf’s in the darkness, darting from side to side, taking everything in.
Once inside, Yozo could see that the Star Fort was unlike any castle he had ever been in. It was a maze, a vast sprawl of barracks. Dodging from one building to the next, using them as cover, the men sprinted towards a massive wooden construction with steep roofs buried under a thick layer of snow and a watchtower poking out at the top. Icicles like spears gleamed under the eaves. The wind whipped the snow into flurries, shimmering in the darkness, dusting the men and the buildings.
Suddenly there was a bang, deafeningly loud, and Yozo hurled himself to the ground, grabbing Kitaro, who was still on his feet, and pulling him down with him. After a moment he raised his head and looked around. There was another bang, and Yozo realized that it was coming from outside the fortress. Then came another, then another, followed by the crackle of gunfire. Flashes lit the sky, reflecting off the clouds, throwing the great fortress into silhouette.
‘Our men. General Otori,’ he muttered. Kitaro nodded. Yozo could hear him breathing out in relief.
An explosion split the sky, and for a moment the Commander’s ragtag army, six hundred desperadoes, were lit up as they ran through the fort, rifles levelled. An alarm bell jangled wildly and there was a volley of shots from inside the building.
‘Cover us,’ barked the Commander.
Yozo scrambled up a tree in the grounds of the fort, wedging himself into a fork. He reached into his pack for a cartridge and loaded his Snider-Enfield. Seeing lights moving inside the fort, he aimed for the windows and fired. He reloaded and got in shot after shot as the Commander and the militia charged the door, yelling like a pack of wild animals.
He dodged as something whistled past his ear. A bullet. Another slammed into the tree trunk. Yozo ducked and half jumped, half tumbled, into a snowdrift. Dark figures raced towards him, swords flashing. Picking himself up, Yozo grabbed his rifle by the barrel and swung it. There was a rush of air and a crack as the butt made contact with a skull. Another man was sprinting towards him, yelling a war cry. Yozo swung his rifle on to his shoulder and put his hand on his sword hilt. With one movement he had it out of its scabbard and had clipped the man across the throat. He stepped out of the way as the man fell.
Footsteps padded towards him from behind. He swung round, deflected the blow, then hurled himself on his attacker and they rolled in the snow, punching and clawing at each other. Finally, Yozo
twisted the man’s arm behind his back, held him down with his knee and pressed his face in the snow.
‘Why fight for traitors?’ he yelled.
The man thrashed desperately. Yozo was holding him down when he heard the rattle of drums. He looked up. The light of many lanterns flickered through the trees. There was a sound, distant at first then growing louder and louder. Thousands of straw-sandalled feet were tramping across the northern bridge and the frozen moat, between the great granite ramparts, through the gates into the Star Fort. He caught a glimpse of something white fluttering above the trees. It was the five-pointed star of the Northern Alliance.
The surviving members of the garrison came stumbling out of the castle headquarters, their uniforms torn and bloodied, their hands above their heads.
Yozo released his opponent.
‘Get up,’ he said roughly. The man rolled on to his knees, gasping convulsively. He was a skinny youth, no more than sixteen, with acned skin and projecting teeth.
‘You’ll pay for this,’ he snarled.
‘Go home to your parents,’ said Yozo wearily. ‘And be thankful you’re still alive.’
That night they celebrated. Inside the castle headquarters General Otori held court, commending men for their bravery.
The Commander sat outside with the militia. Gathered around campfires, the men ate and drank, then they stood up one by one and danced slow, stately Noh dances. Later, when enough rum and rice wine had been consumed, they sang nostalgic songs of their yearning for home, for wives and lovers left behind.
‘ “Ah, take me home, home to the north country, take me home,” ’ sang one. The rest swayed, softly joining in the chorus.
At least these men knew where their homes were, even though there was a good chance they no longer existed, thought Yozo. For many, their houses had been burned down and their wives and children were dead. But he … His family was dead, he knew that for sure. He had travelled so much, been away for so long, that the Kaiyo Maru had become the only home he had.
He glanced at the Commander, who was sitting in the shadows a little way away from the others, warming his hands, staring into the flames. The fire brought out the craggy contours of his face and its light seemed to burn in his eyes, and Yozo noticed an unexpected softness in them, as if the Commander was thinking of something or someone long ago. He looked away, feeling he’d intruded on some private thought.
‘Hey, Tajima,’ called one of the men. ‘Sing us a Dutch song, something sad.’
Yozo scowled. The last thing he wanted was to draw attention to how different he and Kitaro were from the rest.
‘I don’t know any songs,’ he muttered.
‘A song, a song,’ the men clamoured.
Kitaro was sitting next to Yozo.
‘I know a song,’ he announced. Yozo grabbed his arm and tugged him back but he shook it off and rose tipsily to his feet. In the firelight his neck with its jutting Adam’s apple seemed longer and thinner than ever.
He stood for a moment looking into the fire, recalling the words, then launched into a shanty, swaying as he sang:
‘I’ll sing you a song, a good song of the sea,
With a way, hey, blow the man down …’
Yozo closed his eyes. The foreign words took him back to faraway places, to that long-ago journey to Europe. Suddenly he was on the high seas again, the smell of salt and sweat and oil and coal in his nostrils, hearing the seamen belt out the words as they heaved and strained on the ropes, unfurling the topsail little by little. But the soldiers were shuffling uncomfortably and he realized that to their ears the tune sounded jarring and discordant.
‘What kind of song do you call that?’ barked a voice. Kitaro’s shanty tailed off and he stared at the ground.
‘A sailor’s song,’ he muttered sullenly. ‘We sing it when we’re hoisting the topsail.’
‘Is that so?’ said the Commander, drawling the words sardonically. ‘Sounds like a barbarian song to me. You two certainly know a lot about foreign parts, but if you hang around with barbarians too long you’ll start to smell like them too. Don’t forget that. We have enough to put up with already, what with foreigners invading our country, tramping our soil, interfering in our lives, selling arms to our enemies. But you – you look Japanese, you can fool us into thinking you belong here with us, but how are we to know you’re not spying on us? We don’t need your barbarian ways around here.’
There was a stunned silence, then a soldier picked up a shamisen and began to play a nostalgic melody.
‘You’re brave enough so we’ll let it pass this time,’ said the Commander, scowling at Yozo. ‘But don’t offend our ears with your ugly barbarian songs again.’
‘Barbarians have hearts too,’ said a gravelly voice in heavily accented Japanese. The Commander turned slowly. A tall, hefty figure with deep-set eyes and a bushy moustache was squatting on a rock in the shadows. It was Jean Marlin, the dour heavy-jowled Frenchman who had accompanied General Otori’s troops.
The men made a space by the fire. Marlin was a barbarian, there was no doubt about that, but he was also a friend, a fine soldier and a teacher. He was owed respect.
The Commander grunted and Yozo stiffened, feeling his eyes on him and Kitaro. In the firelight his face was as impenetrable as the masks that actors wore in the Noh dramas. The Commander had been made to look foolish and he would hold it against them, unfair though that was. They would have to be on their guard.
8
Early the next day Yozo and Kitaro set off for the port at the head of a contingent of soldiers. The city of Hakodate straggled across the plain and, as they strode along the broad streets between heaped walls of cleared snow, Yozo couldn’t help noticing how small and miserable the wooden houses were. There were paving stones poking through the snow on the roofs to stop the tiles from being blown away by the relentless winds. Women bundled in thick clothing, with red-veined faces and swollen, chapped hands, stood unsmiling beside stalls with bear skins, otter skins, deer skins and deer horns laid out for sale. Salmon wriggled on other stalls and there were slabs of bear and deer meat on offer too. It was a desolate place.
He smiled as he caught the whiff of the sea and quickened his pace. They hurried along the road between the ocean and the steep flank of Mount Hakodate down to the port, where the water swirled grey and sullen beneath the leaden sky. Junks bobbed at anchor and seagulls screamed, swooping in to settle on the waves, rising and falling like black dots on the swell. Craggy snow-covered hills circled the bay. It was a perfect harbour, just as Enomoto had said, with land on three sides protecting it from the bitter winds and huge waves.
Yozo set the soldiers to work along with the crowds of dock-workers, shovelling away snow to clear the landing berths. Late in the afternoon some sixth sense made him look up. The hills across the bay were fading in the evening light, and a stray ray of sunshine lit the grey water. Edging shyly around the headland was the tip of a familiar bowsprit. Yozo felt his heart beat faster and his breath quicken.
‘The Kaiyo Maru!’ he cried. Kitaro straightened his back, yelling with delight as a sleek black prow and gleaming hull appeared, sails swelling. At the top of the mainmast fluttered the five-pointed star of the Northern Alliance, on the aftmost mast the red sun of Japan. In place of a figurehead, the hollyhock crest of the shogun was etched on her prow. The soldiers threw down their shovels and let out a cheer.
Yozo read out the hoist, strung from the masts in a colourful display of signal flags: ‘All clear to land?’
He took his signalling mirror out of his fob pocket, focused the ray of sunlight on it and semaphored a message back in a series of long and short flashes: ‘All clear.’ A reply flashed from the upper deck: ‘Coming in to land.’ There was a barrage of earsplitting booms and puffs of smoke billowed from the gunports. Cannonballs splashed into the water, sending up fountains of spray as reports reverberated off the hills.
The soldiers lined up on shore watched the salute, shading thei
r eyes with their hands and slapping each other on the back as the ship swept in, like a great white swan. The other seven ships of the fleet glided into port in a long line behind her.
‘Banzai! Banzai!’ The men yelled until they were hoarse. They were home and dry. The Star Fort was theirs, and the city of Hakodate. There were only two more towns on the island – Matsumae and Esashi – and once they had captured those the whole of Ezo would be in northern hands. Their time had come at last.
Later that evening, Yozo sprang up the gangplank, delighted to feel the roll of the ship beneath his feet again. He headed for the captain’s cabin, casting his eyes around as he went, taking everything in. He scrutinized every plank and nail, making sure everything was as it should be. The Kaiyo Maru was not his, never could be, nor any man’s; she belonged to the shogun, to the country. Nevertheless every man who sailed in her loved her. But his love, he thought to himself, was greater. He had been there from her inception, when she was no more than a twinkle in the shogun’s eye; he had been there when the order was placed and had overseen her construction; he had been there proudly at her launch and had sailed her halfway round the world back to Japan. Their fates were bound together.
Enomoto was in his cabin gathering up his papers. He glanced up as Yozo pushed open the door. The gold braid on his black uniform glittered as he drew himself up, every inch the aloof admiral. Then his stern face relaxed into a smile as his eyes lit on his friend.
‘Just the man I wanted to see,’ he said, beaming. ‘We’ve had quite a job of it getting her round here. This weather is tough on the crew, but we had a good tail wind to bring her into harbour.’
He strolled across to a glass-fronted cabinet and studied the array of bottles inside.
The Courtesan and the Samurai Page 6