by Donald Keene
The emperor’s reply was by no means cheerful: “Alas! wherever you look, in the conditions that obtain today, you will see that the dangers threatening us are great and imminent indeed. At home, the scene is virtually one of disintegration and collapse: public order has broken down, high and low are disunited, and the people suffer extremes of distress. Abroad, we are subjected to the insults of five arrogant powers; conquest by them seems certain to be our fate. Thinking of this, I can neither sleep by night nor yet swallow food. And alas! however one regards these facts, the responsibility is not yours. The fault is mine and lies in my own want of virtue.”13
Although conventional in phraseology, the emperor’s words seem to come from the heart. And when later in the letter he declared that he loved the shogun as his own son and asked that the shogun love him as a father, he revealed personal affection for Iemochi. He urged Iemochi to live up to his title of “subduer of barbarians,” adding, “The subjugation of the hated foreigner is the greatest of the national tasks facing us. It will finally become possible only if we raise forces with which to chastise them. However, it is not my wish that the expulsion of foreigners be carried out recklessly. I ask you, rather, to evolve a suitable plan with due deliberation and report it to me.”14
The letter, written in more direct language than most documents of the time, forcefully stated Kōmei’s position. He favored cooperation with the shogunate in restoring the country’s stability and prosperity by driving out the ugly barbarians, but he did not approve of the rash assaults on foreigners of the kind committed by the Chōshū samurai. He conveyed his concern about the urgency of the situation by using two old locutions, ruiran and shōbi: ruiran is a pile of eggs that will tumble over at the least provocation, and shōbi is danger so close that it singes one’s eyebrows.
Iemochi’s visit was otherwise pleasant and leisurely, lasting until the fifth month. There were many occasions for giving and receiving presents, and Iemochi was invited to all the feasts and entertainments held in the palace. The jōi faction at the court had lost its strength as the result of Sanjō Sanetomi’s flight to Chōshū, and there was also something of a lull in antiforeign activities elsewhere in the country.
The first incident to disrupt the calm took place on July 8. The Chōshū domain had sent a petition to the court asking that Sanjō Sanetomi, the daimyo Mōri Yoshichika, and his son Sadahiro be pardoned and allowed to return to the capital. The court refused to intervene, leaving the matter to the shogunate to decide. The rōnin of the domain, learning of the refusal, were incensed. Some of them secretly gathered in Kyōto at a restaurant called the Ikeda-ya to plan the next step. But the shogunate got word of this gathering and sent the celebrated Shinsengumi, an elite band of swordsmen organized by the shogunate and led by Kondō Isami (1834–1868), to attack the place. All the rōnin were either killed or captured.15
When news of the Ikeda-ya incident reached Hagi, the domain, furious, sent a force of more than 1,000 soldiers to Kyōto under Fukuhara Echigo (1815–1864). Their numbers were augmented by rōnin of like convictions, and they camped in different areas around the city. They sent a petition to the court and the shogunate, once again asking for pardon. The Court Council decided on July 27 that either Mōri Yoshichika or his son would be permitted to visit the capital; and if he stated that he repented of his actions, the court was prepared to relent. At the request of Tokugawa Yoshinobu, the court also insisted that the Chōshū forces around the capital withdraw from their positions and return to Chōshū. These terms were rejected. Instead, the Chōshū domain drew up its own plan: to set fires in Kyōto on a day of strong winds. In the ensuing confusion, the forces would kill Matsudaira Katamori, the Kyōto military governor, and Prince Nakagawa; persuade the emperor to move to Chōshū; attack the Shinsengumi; replace the Aizu daimyo with the Chōshū daimyo in the office of the Kyōto military governor; and compel the shogun to carry out jōi.16
The particular enmity displayed toward Prince Nakagawa and Matsudaira Katamori probably originated in rumors circulating at the time that these two men had adopted the proposal of Sakuma Shōzan (1811–1864) that the emperor be moved to Hikone. This was not the first time there had been such a rumor. In July 1863, Ogasawara Nagamichi (1822–1891), a member of the Council of Elders and an advocate of opening the country, had sailed from Edo to Ōsaka with 1,500 shogunate troops. It was rumored that he intended to force the court to open the country and that if it did not, he would set fire to the capital, tie up the nobles, and, in one mighty blow, destroy the city. It was further rumored that the shogunate intended to move the capital to Hikone.17 Now, a year later, similar rumors reached the ears of the Chōshū patriots.
The Confucian scholar Sakuma Shōzan, as the supposed originator of the plan and as an advocate of opening the country, was especially hated by the rōnin, and they assassinated him in Kyōto on August 12.18 This rash action on the part of Chōshū men aroused other domains to demand a punitive expedition against that domain.
Pro- and anti-Chōshū forces gathered around the capital. The Court Council sent a message on August 19 to the Chōshū domain asking it to withdraw immediately all forces from the area. It promised also that if the domain obeyed the imperial command and then appealed for a pardon, its plea would be seriously considered. But the Chōshū samurai refused to obey; instead, they submitted a memorial to the court listing Matsudaira Katamori’s crimes and their determination to wreak divine punishment on him. Messages explaining why the domain had no choice but to open hostilities were tossed into the nobles’ houses.
The court was thrown into a panic. The chancellor, Prince Nakagawa, Tokugawa Yoshinobu, and others were received in audience by the emperor, who issued a edict ordering the subjugation of Chōshū. By this time, fighting had begun at Fushimi, and gunfire could be heard even in the palace. Yoshinobu ordered all gates to the palace closed.
By seven the next morning rebel soldiers were pressing close to the palace gates. Fukuhara Echigo’s troops were repulsed by soldiers of the Ōgaki domain, but other rebels managed to get as far as the Hamaguri and Nakadachiuri Gates. The noise of the fighting was described as resembling 10 million bolts of thunder, and the palace buildings shook as if in an earthquake.19 The main rebel effort was concentrated on the Hamaguri Gate, defended by the Aizu domain. A fierce battle ensued, and the rebels had all but broken through the gate when reinforcements from Kuwana and Satsuma arrived and joined the forces to attack and rout the Chōshū forces. Success at the Hamaguri Gate encouraged the loyalists, and by the time the battle was over, five hours after it began, the rebels had been crushed.20
Great consternation had been aroused in the palace by the fighting. By order of the emperor, Prince Mutsuhito was moved from his own quarters to the “residential palace” along with the empress and Princess Sumiko. Boarded palanquins (itagoshi) were ready to evacuate members of the imperial family in case of an emergency. The emperor, in full court dress, sat impassively, seemingly unruffled by the furious activity around him.21 Courtiers were dressed for fighting, their sleeves tied back and their feet shod in straw sandals, quite unlike their normal appearance. The palace grounds swarmed with soldiers in armor, and shells smashed the doors of the palace gates, at times staining them with blood. Suddenly flames shot up outside the gates and spread in all directions. The fierce fires burning along Karasuma Avenue threatened to engulf the palace. The confusion inside the palace was indescribable, as members of the court wondered where they should flee. Only the intervention of Matsudaira Katamori, who insisted that they must not attempt to escape, saved them from being caught between the two warring armies.22
The next day, taking advantage of their success, the loyalists executed more than thirty men of the sonnō jōi faction who were being held in the Rokkaku prison. Bodies of the dead were piled up and exposed for three days outside the palace gates, a place that for more than 250 years had not seen warfare. Some 28,000 buildings in the capital, including temples and shrines, were destroyed
by fire during the fighting. The fires were not extinguished for days.
Even after the Chōshū rebels had been defeated and the capital once again took on a semblance of calm and order, there were still disturbing occurrences. One night a group of men broke into the palace and attempted to steal the imperial palanquin. When word of this reached Tokugawa Yoshinobu, the commander of palace defense, he rushed to the palace and found some 300 men in the inner courtyard of the emperor’s “residential palace.” Yoshinobu ordered them to disperse and sent word to the chancellor and Prince Nakagawa who came rushing to the scene. They asked the emperor to move to a safer place. Later, at Yoshinobu’s request, the emperor moved to the Hall of State Ceremonies. Prince Mutsuhito and the empress accompanied him. Some of the court ladies, terrified and not knowing what was going on, were weeping and wailing. The prince was so startled that he fainted and was revived by an attendant.23
A corrupted form of this account has become an established part of postwar writings about Prince Mutsuhito. For example, one (unfriendly) biographer wrote, “When the Chōshū clan fired shells at the Hamaguri Gate in the seventh month of 1864, [Meiji], frightened by the roar of the explosions, fainted. From this act, one can surmise that he had a weak-spirited, cowardly nature.”24 Probably what made the prince faint was not the roar of cannon at the Hamaguri Gate (the attack at this gate had taken place a day earlier) but being wakened in the middle of the night and suddenly carried off to the Hall of State Ceremonies amid shrieking women. The shrieks were occasioned by a freak accident: the maidservant of a certain lady, accompanying her mistress from one building to another, accidentally dropped a jar containing liquid used in blackening teeth. The sound of the jar breaking against the board floor was mistaken for gunfire, and the smell of the liquid that spilled out was so strong that it caused panic.25
The incident in itself was of no intrinsic importance, but it is startling to find in the sober pages of the chronicle of Meiji’s life an anecdote that might more appropriately appear in a medieval romance. Who were the mysterious figures in the courtyard? Why did they want to steal the emperor’s palanquin? Why was no trace ever found of even one of the 300? Why was the maid carrying a jar of teeth-blackener at this critical moment? Why should the sound of one jar breaking against the floor have thrown so many people into a state of panic?
On the day after this mysterious incident, the prince sent for his grandfather Nakayama Tadayasu. Taking out some picture books, he asked the old man to explain them. It is reassuring that even in this dangerous period, the worst to have faced the imperial family in centuries, the twelve-year-old prince remained a boy for whom real adventure did not take the place of adventure stories.
Chapter 10
The year 1864 was filled with disasters. Only two weeks after the violence in the Gosho, a fleet of warships from England, France, America, and Holland bombarded Shimonoseki in retaliation for Chōshū’s attack on foreign ships. The action by the allied fleet had taken place at the suggestion of the British minister, Sir Rutherford Alcock, who had grown impatient with the shogunate’s procrastination and believed that the use of force was necessary.
Earlier that year a Japanese mission had been sent to France under the minister of foreign affairs, Ikeda Nagaoki (1837–1879), to negotiate closing the port of Yokohama to foreign ships. Although the shogunate was not in favor of this, it felt obliged to honor the promise it had made to the court. Ikeda soon learned that the French were totally unwilling to discuss the matter. Instead, they demanded reparations for the attack on French ships and guarantees that in the future they would be able to pass unharmed through the Shimonoseki Straits. Ikeda, convinced that the shogunate must change its fundamental policies, signed a treaty on June 20, 1864,1 accepting the French demands, even though he had not been authorized by his government to do so.2 He decided, also in disregard of orders, not to visit England or other countries, feeling sure that they would be equally unwilling to consent to closing Yokohama to foreign ships.
When representatives in Edo of the four nations learned of the treaty after Ikeda’s unexpectedly early return, they asked the shogunate to implement its provisions, but it replied that it was not bound by the treaty because Ikeda had violated the terms of his commission. (He and his colleagues were subsequently removed from their posts and punished.) The four nations, exasperated by what seemed to be another example of the shogunate’s dilatory tactics, took matters into their own hands. An allied fleet set sail for Shimonoseki despite the shogunate’s attempts to forestall this action and Chōshū’s desire to negotiate a peaceful settlement. On September 5 the fleet opened fire on the Chōshū batteries, and after three days of fighting, the foreigners landed and demolished the fortifications. Mōri Yoshichika, the daimyo of Chōshū, was forced to sue for peace and to accept the conditions laid down by the allies: that foreign ships passing through the Shimonoseki Straits would be accorded friendly treatment; that the gun batteries would be neither replaced nor repaired; that firewood, water, food, and coal would be supplied; and that an indemnity of 3 million dollars would be paid.
A lull followed until November when Tokugawa Iemochi assumed command of an expeditionary force sent to chastise Chōshū for the unruly behavior of its soldiers in the capital. In an effort to reassert the shogunate’s authority, he ordered various domains to provide troops. Some refused, making excuses; they were obviously reluctant to assist the shogunate. Although Chōshū had been branded as traitorous, its courageous stance was widely admired, and when word was received of the bombardment of Shimonoseki by the allied fleet, sympathy for Chōshū spread throughout the country. Aware of these feelings, the shogunate asked Chōshū only to apologize and to issue a statement of submission. Mōri Takachika agreed to these conditions and, as a sign of compliance, offered up the heads of three of his major advisers. He also promised to obey the shogunate’s wishes with respect to the disposition of Sanjō Sanetomi and the other nobles who had taken refuge in Chōshū3
This victory by the shogunate was not impressive, but at least it provided a breathing space in its domestic and foreign troubles. Although life at the court had, at least on the surface, resumed its normal calm, vague apprehensions continued. Nakayama Tadayasu felt so upset over a recurrent dream of Prince Mutsuhito that he sent a retainer to the Kitano Shrine to pray for the prince’s safety. His wife, sharing his anxiety, sent messages asking about the prince’s health.4
Even after the new year, 1865, began, the disposition of Sanjō Sanetomi and the other nobles who had taken refuge in Chōshū was still being debated. One of those who advocated exiling the men to Kyūshū was Saigō Takamori (1828–1877), his first appearance in the Record of the Emperor Meiji.5 On February 7 the nengō Genji was changed to Keiō, as the previous nengō was blamed for the violence that had threatened the sanctity of the palace in the previous autumn.
The new nengō did not greatly improve the situation. On July 14 Tokugawa Iemochi arrived in Kyōto. The arrival of the shogun in the capital, an event that a few years earlier would have been of extraordinary importance, had now become almost routine. Iemochi reported to the emperor that despite Mōri Takachika’s professed repentance for his crimes, jōi agitators in his domain were again making ominous noises. Moreover, Takachika had sent underlings to foreign countries to purchase large supplies of weapons. Iemochi claimed to have positive proof that Takachika was secretly trading with foreigners, and he had decided to march against him.
Iemochi was stating his intentions to the emperor before he actually moved against Chōshū. This in itself would have been inconceivable even ten years earlier; it would not have occurred to the shogun to inform the emperor of political or military plans. Iemochi probably intended his communication mainly as a report of the situation, but Kōmei interpreted the report as a request for his permission to attack Chōshū. His first reaction was to invite Iemochi to the residential palace where he personally poured saké for the shogun in a gesture of friendship and as a sign of approva
l of Iemochi’s plans. After the emperor had retired to his private apartments, the court spokesmen, the military liaison officers, and other palace officials took Iemochi aside to inform him that the emperor had been so pleased by Iemochi’s repair of the imperial tombs, completed earlier that year, that he was considering bestowing “god names” on his ancestors Hidetada and Iemitsu. Iemochi firmly declined this honor, only to be informed that this was a most unusual gesture on His Majesty’s part and that the shogun must accept it without hesitation.6 Iemochi yielded to what in effect was an imperial command, another instance of the change in relations between the emperor and the shogunate.
On November 16, 1865, nine warships of England, France, the United States, and Holland appeared off the coast of Settsu Province. A message was sent ashore demanding in the names of these countries that the shogunate open the port of Hyōgo and that it secure the emperor’s approval7 for the treaties. In return for these favors, the allies were willing to forgo two-thirds of the 3 million–dollar indemnity for the Shimonoseki incident. However, if the shogunate would not grant these two demands immediately, the foreigners would go to Kyōto and make the same demand of the court. And if the court likewise refused to accept the demands, they would meet again amid “gun-smoke and a rain of bullets.”8 The Japanese were given seven days to make a reply.
The members of the Council of Elders stationed in Hyōgo, Abe Masato and Matsumae Takahiro, favored granting the foreigners’ demands. They argued that there was no time to consult the court, and if they were to insist on doing so anyway, this would surely lead to warfare in which many lives would be lost and incalculable damage inflicted by the foreign powers. When the emperor learned of their attitude, he was extremely upset. He ordered that the two men be stripped of their official rank and commanded the shogunate to have the men confined to their residences, there to await further orders.9 The shogunate obeyed, although it was unprecedented for the court to issue such orders concerning shogunate personnel. No explanation for this action was provided in the wording of the imperial command, but we know from other sources the desperate steps that Tokugawa Yoshinobu took to keep the foreigners from opening hostilities.10