by Gai-Jin(Lit)
European related. If you're that way inclined, wear a sheath, they're not safe, not much good yet.
Best you don't, if you know what I mean."
Phillip Tyrer shuddered. He had had only one experience. Two years ago he had become boisterously drunk with some fellow students after their finals, in the Star and Garter public house on Pont Street. "Now's the time,
Phillip, old boy. It's all fixed, she'll do it for tuppence, won't you,
Flossy?"' She was a bar girl, a bawdy of about fourteen, and the tumble had taken place hurriedly, sweatily, in a smelly upstairs cubbyhole--a penny for her and a penny for the publican. For months afterwards he was petrified he was poxed.
"We have more than fifty Teahouses, as they're called, or Inns, to choose from in our
Yoshiwara, all licensed and controlled by the authorities, more going up every day. But take care, go nowhere in Drunk Town." This was the unwholesome part of the Settlement, where the low-class bars and rooming houses clustered around the only European brothel: "It's for soldiers and sailors and seamen, and for the riffraff, ne'er do wells, remittance men, gamblers and adventurers who congregate there, on sufferance.
Every port acquires them because we have no police yet, no immigration laws. Perhaps Drunk
Town's a safety valve but unwise to visit after dark. If you value your pocket book and your privates don't take them out there.
Musuko-san deserves better."
"What?"'
"Ah, a very important word. Musuko means son, or my son. Musuko-san literally means Honorable Son, or Mr. My
Son, but in the patois, cock or My
Honorable Cock, pure and simple. Girls are called musume. Actually the word means daughter, or my daughter, but in the
Willow World, vagina. You say to your girl,
"Konbanwa, musume-san." Good evening, ch@erie. But if you say it with the twinkle she knows you mean, How is it? How is your Golden
Gully, as Chinese sometimes call man's passage to paradise--they are so wise, the
Chinese, because the sides certainly are lined with gold, the whole nourished by gold and only opened with gold, one way or another..."
Tyrer lay back, his notebook forgotten, brain churning. Almost before he realized it, the little book of ukiyo-every that he had hidden in his briefcase was open and he was studying the pictures. Abruptly he replaced it.
No future in looking at dirty pictures, he thought consumed with disgust. The candle was guttering now. He blew out the flame, then lay back, the familiar ache in his loins.
What a lucky man Andr`e is. Obviously he has a mistress. That must be marvelous, if even half of what he says is true.
I wonder if I could get one too? Could I buy a contract? Andr`e said many here do, and rent private little houses in the Yoshiwara that can be secret and discreet if you wish: "It's rumored all the Ministers possess one, Sir
William certainly goes there at least once a week--he thinks no one knows but everyone spies him and laughs--but not the Dutchman who's impotent, according to rumor, and the Russian who openly prefers to sample different houses.
..."
Should I risk it, if I could afford it? After all, Andr`e gave me a very special reason:
"To learn Japanese quickly, Monsieur, acquire a sleeping dictionary--it's the only way."
But his last thought before sleep overwhelmed him was: I wonder why Andr`e was so kind to me, so voluble. Rare for a Frenchman to be so open with an
Englishman. Very rare. And strange that he never mentioned Angelique once...
It was just before dawn. Ori and Hiraga, again in all-encompassing ninja clothes, came out of their hiding place in the temple grounds overlooking the
Legation and ran silently down the hill, across the wooden bridge and into an alley, down it and into another. Hiraga led. A dog saw them, growled, moved into their path and died. The deft short arc of Hiraga's sword was instantaneous and he hurried onwards with the blade unsheathed, hardly missing a step, ever deeper into the city. Ori followed carefully. Today his wound had begun to fester.
In the lee of a hut on a protected corner,
Hiraga stopped. "It's safe here, Ori!" he whispered.
Hastily both men slipped out of their ninja clothes and stuffed them into the soft bag Hiraga carried slung on his back, replacing them with nondescript kimonos. With great care
Hiraga cleansed his sword using a piece of silk cloth, carried for that purpose by all swordsmen to protect their blades, then sheathed it. "Ready?"
"Yes."
Again he led onwards into the maze, surefooted, staying under cover where he could, hesitating at every open space until he was sure they were safe, seeing no one, meeting no one, then pressed on, heading for their safe house.
They had been watching the Legation since early morning, the bonzes--the Buddhist priests-- pretending not to notice them, once they were sure the two men were not thieves and Hiraga had identified himself and their purpose: to spy on the gai-jin. All bonzes were fanatically xenophobic and anti-gai-jin, to them synonymous with Jesuit, still their most hated and feared enemy.
"Ah, you are shishi, then you are both welcome," the old monk had said. "We have never forgotten Jesuits ruined us, or that the
Toranaga Sh@oguns are our scourge."
From the middle of the fifteenth century to the early sixteenth, Portuguese alone knew the way to Japan. Papal edicts had also given them exclusivity to the islands, and Portuguese
Jesuits the sole right to proselytize. Within a few years they had converted so many daimyos to Catholicism, therefore naturally their retainers, that Dictator Goroda had used them as an excuse to massacre thousands of Buddhist monks at that time militant, dominant in the land and opposed to him.
The tair@o, Nakamura, who inherited his power, expanded it immensely, and played off bonze against Jesuit with honey, persecution, suffering and killing. Then came
Toranaga.
Toranaga, tolerant of all religions, though not of foreign influence, observed that all converted daimyos had initially fought against him at
Sekigahara. Three years later, he became
Sh@ogun and two years after that he resigned in favor of his son, Sudara, but kept actual power--an old established Japanese custom.
During his lifetime he leashed Jesuits and
Buddhists severely, and eliminated or neutralized the Catholic daimyos. His son,
Sh@ogun Sudara, tightened the curbs and his son, Sh@ogun Hironaga, finished the plan laid down so carefully in the Legacy where he formally outlawed Christianity from Japan on pain of death. In 1638, Sh@ogun Hironaga destroyed the last Christian bastion at
Shimabara, near Nagasaki, where a few thousand ronin, thirty thousand peasants and their families were in rebellion against him. Those who refused to recant were crucified or put to the sword immediately as common criminals. All but a handful refused. Then he turned his attention to the
Buddhists. Within days he was pleased to accept the gift of all their lands, and so fettered them.
"You are welcome, Hiraga-san,
Ori-san," the old monk had said again. "We are for the shishi, for sonno-joi and against the
Sh@ogunate. You are free to come or go as you please. If you want help, tell us."
"Then keep a tally of the numbers of soldiers, their comings and goings, what rooms are occupied and by whom."
The two men had waited and watched throughout the day. At dusk they put on their ninja clothes.
Twice Hiraga moved closer to the Legation, once he scaled the fence to experiment and reconnoiter but quickly retreated unseen when a patrol almost trod on him.
"We'll never get in by night, Ori," he whispered. "Or by day. Too many troops now."
"How long do you think they'll stay?"'
Hiraga smiled. "Until we drive them out."
Now they were almost at their safe house, an Inn that lay to the east of the castle. Dawn was near, the sky lighter and cloud cover thinner than ye
sterday.
Ahead the street was deserted. So was the bridge.
Confident, Hiraga hurried onto it, skidded to a stop. A Bakufu patrol of ten men stepped out of the shadows. At once both sides went into attack-defense positions, hands on their sword hilts.
"Come forward and give me your identification papers," the senior samurai called out.
"Who are you to challenge anyone?"
"You see our badges," the man said angrily, stepping onto the wooden slats of the bridge. The remainder of his men spread out behind him. "We are of warriors of Mito, 9th
Regiment, guardians of the Sh@ogun. Identify yourselves."
"We have been spying on the enemy stockade.
Let us pass."
"You look like thieves. What's in that bag on your back, eh? Identification!"
Ori's shoulder was throbbing. He had seen the telltale discoloration but had hidden it from
Hiraga, and the pain. His head ached but he knew instantly he had nothing to lose and an admirable death to gain.
"Sonno-joi!" he bellowed suddenly and hurled himself at the samurai on the bridge. The others backed off to give them room as Ori hacked with all his might, recovered as the blow was deflected and again attacked, feinted and this time his blow was true. The man was dead on his feet, then crumpled. At once Ori darted for another man who retreated, went for another who also retreated. The ring of men began to close.
"Sonno-joi!" Hiraga shouted and rushed to Ori's side. Together they stood at bay.
"Identify yourselves!" a young warrior said, unimpressed. "I am Hiro Watanabe and do not wish to kill or be killed by an unknown warrior."
"I am shishi from Satsuma!" Ori said proudly, adding an alias as was their usual custom, "Riyama Takagaki."
"And I from Choshu, my name Shodan Moto!
Sonno-joi," Hiraga shouted and hurled himself at Watanabe who retreated without fear, as did the others nearby.
"I've never heard of either of you," Watanabe said through his teeth. "You're not shishi--you are scum." His rush was parried. Hiraga, a master swordsman, used his assailant's strength and speed to catch him off balance, sidestepped and cut under the opposing sword into the man's unprotected side, withdrew and in one continuous movement sliced into the man's neck, decapitated him as he toppled to the ground, ending once more in perfect attack position.
The silence was profound. "Who did you study under?" someone asked.
"Toko Fujita was one of my Sensei,"
Hiraga said, every part of him ready for the next killing.
"Eeeee!" This was one of Mito's revered sword masters who had been killed in Yedo's earthquake of '55 when a hundred thousand also perished.
"They are shishi, and men of Mito do not kill shishi, their own kind," one of the men said softly.
"Sonno-joi!" Warily, this man moved aside a pace, not sure of the others, his sword still ready. They looked at him, then at one another. Opposite him another man moved.
Now there was an inviting, narrow path between them, but all swords stayed poised.
Hiraga readied, expecting a trick, but
Ori nodded to himself, his pain forgotten, victory or death the same to him. Taking his time, he cleansed his blade and sheathed it. Politely he bowed to both the dead men and strode through the narrow passage, looking neither right nor left nor backwards.
In a moment Hiraga followed. Equally slowly. Until they turned the corner. Then they both took to their heels and did not stop until they were well away.
The five Bakufu representatives came leisurely into the Legation forecourt in their palanquins. They were an hour late and preceded by samurai with banners bearing their official emblems and surrounded by guards. Sir William stood at the top of the wide steps that led to the imposing entrance. Beside him were the French,
Russian and Prussian Ministers--their aides, Phillip Tyrer and others of the Legation staff to one side--and an honor guard of
Highlanders with some French soldiers Seratard had insisted upon. Admiral Ketterer and the General had remained aboard, in reserve.
Ceremoniously the Japanese bowed, Sir
William and the others raised their hats.
Ritually they conducted the Japanese to the large audience hall, trying to restrain their amusement at their outlandish costumes: small black lacquered hats set square on their shaven pates and tied elaborately under their chins, the vast shouldered overgarments, multicolored ceremonial silk kimonos, voluminous pantaloons, thong sandals and shoe socks split between the toes--tabi--fans in their belts and the inevitable two swords. "Those hats aren't big enough to piss in," the Russian said.
Sir William sat in the center of one line of chairs with the Ministers, Phillip Tyrer on one end to balance the delegation. The Bakufu took the opposite row, interpreters on cushions in between. After lengthy discussion they agreed on five guards each. These men stood behind their masters and eyed each other suspiciously.
Following strict protocol the adversaries introduced themselves. Toranaga Yoshi was last:
"Tomo Watanabe, junior official, second class," he said, pretending a humbleness he did not feel, and took the lowest position at the end of the row, his clothes less elaborate than those of the others who, with all guards, had been commanded on pain of punishment to treat him as the least important official here.
He settled himself, feeling strange. How ugly these enemies are, he was thinking, how ridiculous and laughable with their tall hats, outlandish boots and ugly, heavy black clothes
--no wonder they stink!
Sir William said carefully and simply:
"An Englishman has been murdered by Satsuma samurai..."
By five o'clock European tempers were frayed, the Japanese still polite, smiling, outwardly imperturbable. In a dozen different ways their spokesman claimed that... so sorry but they had no jurisdiction over the Satsuma, or knowledge of the murderers or any way to find them, but yes, it was a regrettable affair but no, they did not know how to obtain reparations but yes, under some circumstances reparations might be sought but no, the Sh@ogun was not available but yes, the Sh@ogun would be pleased to grant an audience when he returned, but no, not in the foreseeable future but yes, we will immediately petition for an exact day, but no, it could not be this month because his present whereabouts are not known for certain, but yes, it would be as soon as possible but no, the next meeting and all meetings should not take place in Yedo, but yes in
Kanagawa but so sorry, not this month, perhaps next, but no so sorry we do not have authority.
...
Every point had to be translated from English to Dutch to Japanese--as usual to be discussed at length by them--then pedantically resubmitted into Dutch into English with an inevitable homily, and ever polite requests for explanations on the most trivial point.
Yoshi found the whole proceeding vastly interesting, never having been near gai-jin en masse or attended a meeting where unequals, astonishingly, discussed policy and did not listen and obey.
Three of the other four were genuine though unimportant Bakufu officials. All had used false names, a normal custom when dealing with aliens. The imposter, who secretly spoke
English, sat beside Yoshi. His name was
Misamoto. Yoshi had ordered him to remember everything, to tell him discreetly of anything important not translated accurately, otherwise to keep his mouth shut. He was a felon under sentence of death.
When Yoshi had sent for him the day before yesterday, Misamoto had at once prostrated himself, shaking with fear.
"Get up and sit over there." Yoshi pointed with his fan to the edge of the tatami platform on which he sat.
Misamoto obeyed instantly. He was a small man with slitted eyes and long, grizzled hair and beard, the sweat running down his face, his clothes coarse and almost rags, hands callused and his skin the color of dark honey.
"You will tell me the truth: your interrogators report that you speak English?"'
"Yes, Lord."
"You were born in Anjiro in Izu and have been to the land called America?"'
"Yes, Lord."
"How long were you there?"'
"Almost four years, Lord."
"Where in America?"'
"San Francisco, Lord."
"What is San'frensiska?"'
"A big city, Lord."
"Just there?"'