the Rose & the Crane

by Clint Dohmen

  The Rose and the Crane

  Clint Dohmen

  © 2017 Clint Dohmen

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 0692930647

  ISBN 13: 9780692930649

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017913570

  Clint Dohmen, Torrance, CA

  For Sakura.

  (Thank you for all the breaks from pecking away at my keyboard with two fingers.)

  Acknowledgements

  IT’S LIKE MONA Lisa Vito was speaking to me in the movie “My Cousin Vinny,” when she said, “You can’t even win a case by yourself, you’re fuckin’ useless.” Well, I couldn’t have gotten this novel to print without the extensive help of the following people: Jessica Hatch, my editor; Masayo Ozawa at abombinabull for her wonderful cover art; Simon Fellowes, history teacher extraordinaire from the land of the white rose; my brother Duncan Hobart Dohmen for checking my Japanese; Ms. Mizuho Bando at Osaka City University for checking my Japanese history; Prof. Hiroshi Niki, Prof. Nobutoshi Shimizu and Hideo Kawabata Sensei; and finally, Kevin Lang and Roxanne Lott who read all umpteen million of my drafts and managed to offer advice and encouragement after every one. I apologize for anyone I’m missing, but I have the memory of a gnat (a particularly memory-challenged one at that). It is not because I’m not grateful. Any historical “adjustments,” are the product of my artistic license and not the fault of anyone above.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 1

  South of the Western Coast of Honshu, Japan, January, 1483

  SIMON LANG DIDN’T think he had many days left as pilot of the Venetian carrack Tigre. Not that he was going to get fired, he’d be right hard to replace out here. Out here, being somewhere that was not China but was probably China-adjacent. Now, China-adjacent was fine if you were Chinese and knew your way around. Not so much if you were an English pilot who had never been to China, much less to China-adjacent. No, he thought his piloting days were numbered because he would probably be dead soon.

  It wasn’t all doom and gloom, though. Fortunately, the Tigre was blessed with a seaman who had been amongst Venice’s shrewdest gamblers, known particularly for his talent at odds-making. This morning Simon had awoken to find that he had moved up two places, and was now rated as: third least likely to die. Only Neno, the ox of a first mate, and the odds-maker himself were better wagers to outlive Simon now. There were also two more pleasing trends on the odds board since the typhoon. First, everyone’s life expectancy had increased by a few days. Second, the heavy favorite in cause of death had transitioned rapidly from dehydration, through drowning, and was now pegged at starvation. Simon thought starvation sounded a trifle more agreeable than the prior two favorites. Of course, both were a considerable improvement over “eaten,” which had occasionally made an appearance at the top of the board. In giving it further consideration, he came to the conclusion that he’d have to keep his wits about him while he starved to death to ensure that “eaten” did not reappear on the board due to “starvation.”

  The shift to starvation as likeliest cause of death doubtless accounted for First Mate Neno Mocenigo’s newfound status as most likely to live the longest. Neno could drop the weight of three people and still be as big as two. The colossal Venetian stood over six feet six inches and weighed in at a natural two hundred and seventy pounds. Taking size into consideration, it was a mystery to Simon why that same rationale hadn’t given the ship’s captain a commensurate jump in anticipated longevity. Sure, Captain Aldo Mitachionne’s paunch had been reduced, but he was working from a not-insignificant head start. Perhaps the odds-maker held a grudge against the captain for some slight, and it was influencing his professionalism. I think I’ll bet the captain to outlive the odds-maker later this afternoon. Simon smiled at the thought.

  Giacomo Aversa would still be a Venetian bookmaker of note if it hadn’t been for an unfortunate piece of betting luck. Prior to his jaunt on the Tigre, Giacomo had wagered correctly on the untimely demise of Pietro Barbo, more commonly known as Pope Paul II. Betting on papal appointments was a popular distraction for all levels of Venetian society, but for nearly a century, betting on their demise had been forbidden (and more lucrative). When news broke that the Venetian-born pontiff had died (a result of his gluttonous appetite for either food or altar boys, depending on whom you asked), Giacomo was briefly wealthy; very briefly. An anonymous tip (likely from his competition) led to the seizure of his assets, and after a brief stint in jail, bookmaker Aversa emerged as soon-to-become seaman Aversa. Slightly built, spry in the riggings, and sharp of mind, he had transitioned well to his new vocation.

  It was seaman Aversa in the crow’s nest who first spotted the squat, single-masted ship in the distance off the starboard bow. He rang the small bell attached to his perch and called out his unexpected discovery: “Ship, right ahead.”

  Yajuro Ueda stood stiff and unmoving as the wind-driven waves rocked his ship. Yajuro was not happy with his place in life. The taste of salt on his tongue, and the intermittent spray of seawater in his face, did not appeal to him. Yajuro liked his feet planted on solid ground. The men called him captain, but the title was empty. Yajuro was a glorified mule driver. His mule was a boat, and his cargo included grand treasures, but in his heart, Yajuro knew he was no better than a peasant mule driver.

  Before losing an arm to the ignoble Hosokawa hirelings, Yajuro had been a samurai of regard. Now he lived as one to be pitied. And pity he had been shown with this mission. Were it not for his storied reputation on the battlefield, he would doubtless be a one-armed beggar at home in Yamaguchi. Yajuro was not ungrateful that the mighty Ouchi clan’s leader had seen fit to give him this assignment, but it did little to restore his pride in himself.

  Yajuro remonstrated against his own self-pitying. After all, the blow to his clan’s pride at being forced from Kyoto was of far greater consequence than any of his trivial personal concerns. The Ouchi clan may have chosen the wrong side in the war for shogunal succession, but they had not been defeated on the field of battle. The loot that came aboard his ship after the sacking of Kyoto was only a minor token towards soothing the pain of that lost pride. It was a much-delayed final shipment from a war that had ended years earlier, but war cost money and this shipment was as valuable as all those that had preceded it.

  The ship’s hold also contained an unexpected bo
unty that Yajuro’s lord was not yet aware of: two Hosokawa samurai who, based on their clothes, were clearly highborn. Given his daimyo’s proclivity for beheading his enemies, Yajuro thought his little gift might help earn him a better detail in the next war. And there would be a next war. A weak shogun had been the initial cause of the civil war in Kyoto, and although that war was now over, very little was actually settled by it. The new shogun had no means of enforcing his will upon the country, and like the Ouchi, every clan of substance was armed to the teeth.

  This was of course all speculation, and predicated on his safe return to Yamaguchi. In sizing up the huge, bizarrely crafted vessel bearing down on him now, he was not convinced that was a certainty. “What is that?” Yajuro shouted over the gusting wind to the samurai standing next to him.

  “It is a ship,” the samurai obediently replied.

  Yajuro gave him an intense glare. “I know it is a ship, you simpleton. I want to know what kind of ship and, more importantly, whose ship?” When you pound obedience into a man’s skull, common sense often becomes collateral damage, Yajuro lamented.

  “Sumimasen,” the samurai quickly apologized, “shirimasen.” I don’t know.

  The approaching ship had a wide belly, raised deck structures both fore and aft, and three tall masts supporting larger sails than Yajuro had seen in his life. Yajuro had heard of monstrously sized Chinese ships, but none of those descriptions resembled what he was looking at. The samurai who stood on the upper deck with Yajuro were all as dumbstruck as their captain. Yajuro’s vision was not what it used to be, and the crusted saltwater stinging his eyes did not help matters. “Can you see the flag?” Yajuro asked the same young samurai that he had previously queried.

  “Hai,” the samurai said promptly.

  Yajuro glanced at the samurai and waited for more detail. It did not come. Scowling at the boy, who looked to be about seventeen, he exploded. “Well, what do you see?”

  “A golden beast, perhaps a winged boar? It is holding a sword,” the samurai replied hurriedly.

  A winged boar? Who would put wings on a boar? I have never heard of any family crest with such markings, Yajuro thought. He studied the ship as it drew closer.

  “What are those?” Yajuro asked, pointing his finger towards the vessel’s side, though at this point he knew all his questions for the young samurai would be rhetorical. The ship seemed to have several round black barrels protruding through cutout sections in the deck’s railing.

  “Wakarimasen.” I’m not sure, the samurai replied, fully living up to Yajuro’s expectations.

  Yajuro, though, did have an idea what they were. He’d heard descriptions of the Chinese having black iron tubes that fired projectiles, and even though he’d never heard of them being used on ships before, he’d also never seen a ship that looked anything like this one. In an effort to hide the concern creeping into his own mind, Yajuro made a concentrated effort to deepen his voice as he shouted to his crew. “Make haste for the coast immediately!”

  It was the only option he had. The hulking ship did not look like it could follow him into shallower waters. Yajuro set off to inspire the rowers.

  “Porca puttana!” Captain Mitachionne yelled as the only ship they’d seen in weeks doubled its oar strokes and began to row north, away from them.

  Simon was reasonably sure Aldo was referring to the ungainly looking ship they were trying to hail, but Aldo had been looking directly at him when he said it, and it was certainly plausible, based on Simon’s past indiscretions, that the captain was referring to him. Simon cocked an eyebrow. “A whore, sure, but a pig-whore, really? I must protest.”

  “Not you, idiot Englishman,” Aldo spat.

  “I should say not.”

  “I would never demean a noble and intelligent animal in such a way. Unlike you, a pig has some redeeming characteristics.”

  Aldo looked his pilot over. Simon was twenty-five years old, tall at a shade over six feet, overly skinny (in Aldo’s estimation), but with wide shoulders and a stout chest that even starvation hadn’t diminished. An unruly, brownish-blond mop of cowlicks perched atop a scarred forehead, followed by high cheekbones, penetrating blue eyes, and a square jaw. As advertised, he had proven to be a superb pilot who had done a remarkable job of navigating uncharted waters all the way from the Red Sea. He was also a magnificent swordsman and an amusing drinking companion. Well, maybe one or two redeeming characteristics, Aldo thought, but I’ll never tell him that.

  Simon smiled for the second time that day. No small thing when starvation necessitated a concentrated effort just to move the muscles in his cheeks. His formerly portly, grand mustachioed captain-cum-business-partner was in fine form. This business venture of sailing to China to purchase silk and spice at its source may not have had a solid foundation in prudence, but it certainly had a solid foundation in companionability.

  Aldo continued his rant. “They will not even pause briefly to see what grand bargains I can offer them? I’ll give them armor to outfit their whole crew if they’ve got a barrel of wine aboard.”

  “I’ll give them all the gaudy decorations in your cabin if they have two,” Simon chimed in.

  “I’d give them the wool equivalent of the sheep that have spent time in your bedroom for three.”

  “I’m English, not Welsh! Or God forbid, Scottish,” Simon protested.

  “Same thing, Inglese.”

  “Bloody well is not.” But Aldo was closer to the mark than Simon liked to admit. Although the Lang family had ruled in Exeter for generations before the Yorkists killed his father, murdered his mother, and seized their lands, Simon well knew his mother’s ancestry was Welsh. He’d spent far too many days of his youth in the cold, clammy castles of his aunts and uncles to forget that regrettable side of his lineage. Were he less conceited about his “Englishness,” he might be thankful for the broad, powerful shoulders and thick chest that were a product of his Welsh blood.

  “Kindly run those gentlemen down, and bring me close enough that I can have a word with their captain,” Aldo ordered his pilot.

  While their carrack was not the sleekest of ships, Simon could tell by the single bank of oars, wide, boxlike appearance, and lone, square-rigged mast that the other ship was not built for speed. With a comfortable wind blowing, they would have little difficulty overtaking it.

  Yajuro was now disturbed. It was becoming clear that they wouldn’t reach the coast before the strange ship reached them. And his ship carried treasures that needed protecting. With practiced mental discipline, Yajuro cleared all doubt and trepidation from his mind as he prepared for battle.

  “Archers to the rail,” he ordered. “Prepare to defend.” Before Yajuro’s eyes, his inept deck crew transformed from bumbling sailors into trained warriors. Arms and armor that had been unnecessary hindrances to their shipboard duties were equipped in a matter of minutes. Then, as one, his samurai moved smoothly to the port side of their seki bune fighting galley. Seconds later, they had all notched arrows into their bowstrings and stood at perfectly spaced intervals, awaiting their next command. And this is why we pound obedience into their skulls, Yajuro thought.

  Simon and Aldo watched as brightly armored archers massed swiftly on the other ship’s deck. The only consistent color seemed to be the small, rectangular, white and black flags protruding above the archers’ backs.

  “We are in poor shape for a fight,” Aldo stated matter-of-factly.

  “Yes, but the crew needs provisions.” Simon shot a faux-worrisome look at Neno. “Thirst and hunger make men do irrational and primitive things. Without food, Neno may soon be eating the rest of us for dinner.”

  Aldo shuddered involuntarily as he remembered the screams of the ship’s doctor that they had lost to cannibals. It had been the wrong Indian Sea island to search for fresh water. Not that he thought his loyal first mate would ever commit such an ungodly act... “Beat to quarters!”

  Rat, tat, tat… tat, tat… tat, tat… tat… tat. A sailor rapp
ed out a staccato beat on a snare drum. The sailor wasn’t a drummer, so the beat was a tad slow and off-cadence, but everyone knew what he meant. The remaining twenty-four men, out of an original crew of a hundred and twenty, took up their positions for battle. The original drummer had been one of the other ninety-six.

  The four iron-bore, twelve-pound cannons on each side of the boat had been Aldo’s own clever modification. He had judged correctly that the Tigre had a low enough center of gravity at its waist to handle the large cannons, provided they were balanced evenly. Luca Magnani, the ageless ship’s master carpenter, accomplished the feat before they left the Red Sea port of Al Quseir. After cutting openings for the cannons in the deck railing, Luca reinforced the remaining sections with iron bands. This enabled the railings to withstand the pull of the ropes as the cannons recoiled on their wheeled carriages. In addition to the large cannons, Luca had also equipped both the forecastle and the aftercastle with smaller hand cannons mounted on the railings. These modifications had proven to be one of the few well–thought-out ideas on the whole voyage.

  “Cute little flags on their backs,” Simon remarked.

  “Hold, hold,” Yajuro yelled. “Release!” His samurai archers with their long-shafted daikyu bows loosed their arrows with practiced skill. The instant their arrows cleared the daikyus’ shafts; the samurai smoothly notched arrows again and let loose their second volley.

  “Christ’s bollocks,” Simon said in shock while ducking behind the helm, arrows thudding into the awning above him. “I didn’t think they’d have the range.”

  “Nor I,” came Aldo’s voice as he cringed behind an empty barrel. Being a good Catholic, he crossed himself at Simon’s blasphemy. Like a true Venetian, Aldo was not opposed to the use of colorful language, but he abhorred Simon’s near-constant inclusion of the savior in his maledictions.

  Simon considered what he’d just witnessed. An English or Welsh longbowman trained from infancy could equal the feat, but no one else in the world that I know of. Yet these people in strange armor, from an unknown island that is possibly China-adjacent, have just delivered an accurate volley at the limit of English longbow range.