by John Man
High office, wife, mistress. What an extraordinary turnaround in two years: from exiled and impoverished criminal to government minister, commander, man about town and national hero.
The shogunate continued to slide toward extinction. Having crushed an insurrection in Mito province, the government executed some 400 rebels—a disastrous act, guaranteeing widespread hostility—and exiled another 450, asking Satsuma to take 35 of them to Amami Oshima. Saigo was outraged. Ordinary soldiers should be pardoned and released, as he had released the Choshu captives. As for Choshu itself, the anti-shogun radicals were back in charge, and the shogunate was again talking of reprisals—which it could not possibly undertake. If the shogunate ignored fundamental morality and continued to act so foolishly, in Saigo’s view it did not deserve to survive.
It was becoming ever clearer that Choshu and Satsuma, both opposed to the shogunate, should be partners, not enemies. What brought them a little closer together was a new and highly effective form of firearm, which demands a little background explanation.
Up until the mid-nineteenth century soldiers relied on smoothbore flintlock muskets. These were basically smooth tubes into which the user poured gunpowder, dropped a ball of lead and rammed down a plug of paper to stop the ball from falling out. He sprinkled a bit more gunpowder in a pan at the firing end of the barrel, which he lit by pulling the trigger, which released a lever that struck a spark with a flint. Misfires were common. They were really pretty ineffective weapons, serviceable at forty yards—javelin distance—but of little use at a greater range. “As for firing at a man at 200 yards,” wrote a British officer in 1814, “you might just as well fire at the moon.” Such was the weapon that began to filter into Japan after Perry’s arrival in 1854. But at the same time something rather more effective was emerging, using a rifled barrel to spin the bullet for accuracy and a percussion cap for reliability. The crucial development was in bullet design. The new bullet, named after its French inventor, Claude-Etienne Minié, was conical, with a hollow base that expanded on firing to fit the barrel exactly. The result was a terrific killing device, accurate over a quarter of a mile, which could inflict terrible injuries. It was adapted by the British to create their famous Enfield rifle in 1851, and adapted again as the Springfield rifle for use in the American Civil War, in which it brought battlefield injuries to a new level of awfulness: 200,000 killed, half a million wounded, 90 percent of them by Minié-type bullets. That war ended in April 1865, which was precisely when Saigo was receiving his hero’s reception in Kagoshima and thinking about how to effect a reconciliation with Choshu.
There was at this time a Scottish merchant, Thomas Glover, living in Nagasaki: a small, energetic character with a droopy mustache who had a talent for acting as middleman in deals between Japanese and foreigners, often working in secret to supply domains eager for arms, ambitious merchants and corrupt officials. Nagasaki, with its long landlocked harbor and protective mountains, had become a smuggler’s paradise, Japan’s window on the West, with its easy links to Shanghai and its freebooting buccaneer traders, Glover among them. In his fine house above the harbor, now a tourist attraction, he kept his Japanese common-law wife Tsuru. One of the three hundred or so foreigners in Nagasaki, he played a special role in preparing Japan for modernity by smuggling a few young and ambitious Japanese to England, where they became eager students of military, industrial and scientific matters, several returning to help modernize their country.3 Glover would soon be helping in the purchase of ships, a dry dock and Japan’s first steam train. He also had contacts who could help Satsuma in the matter of weapons, specifically the new ones that fired Minié bullets. In 1864, ignoring the shogun’s ban on importing such weapons, Satsuma bought 3,000 “Minié-ball” rifles (and also some fine Armstrong guns, which used the same principles as the Minié rifles). And now, at Saigo’s suggestion, Glover would help Choshu. In the summer of 1865 two Choshu samurai stayed at the Satsuma residence in Nagasaki, where Glover agreed to supply 7,300 of the new rifles and a steamship.
The result, painstakingly achieved over many tense negotiations, was that in early 1866 Satsuma and Choshu, now well armed, agreed to an alliance. The promises of mutual support were vague, but the alliance and the troops and the rifles would prove useful in less than three years.
The shogunate continued to self-destruct. It planned a second war against Choshu, ordered domains to provide troops, was ignored, went ahead anyway with its own inadequate forces and suffered humiliating defeats.
Meanwhile, Saigo was in Kagoshima reorganizing and modernizing Satsuma’s army into British-style infantry regiments armed not only with muzzle-loading “Minié-ball” Enfields, but also with the first breech-loading Sniders. He now received more support for his belief that the shogunate was doomed from the British, first in the form of the ambassador, Sir Harry Parkes, who came to Kagoshima for five days in late July 1866 to test an idea that British national interests were best served by dealing with the domains individually, in particular Satsuma. Having had a formal meeting aboard his ship with the Shimazu leaders, Parkes met with Saigo. Since the shogun had forbidden foreign diplomats from developing relations with daimyos, Parkes’s presence was both an insult to the shogun and encouragement to Satsuma. Saigo was happy to share his opinions on the hopelessness of the shogunate, and Parkes agreed, adding that Japan really needed a “single national sovereign” if it was to be taken seriously. True, in Saigo’s view; not that he yet saw that this would involve violent revolution.
Six months later, while he was in the Satsuma residence in Hyogo on one of his journeys back and forth to Kyoto, he had his second meeting with a British official, the diplomat Ernest Satow. Satow was a talented and committed Japanologist, Britain’s first, indispensable to Parkes as an interpreter, and indispensable to modern historians as well because he kept a daily diary which eventually amounted to forty-seven volumes. He seems already to have known everyone of importance in Japan, despite being only twenty-one. He at once recognized Saigo, because he had come across him on a steamer off Hyogo just over a year before—“a big burly man . . . who was lying down in one of the berths . . . I noticed that he had the scar of a sword cut on one of his arms.” Saigo was wary of whom he met and what he said, so he used a pseudonym and said nothing; Satow, though well aware of who he was, didn’t press him. Now Saigo could afford to be more relaxed, laughing heartily when reminded of the earlier meeting. Nevertheless, he was not inclined to small talk, and was smart enough to play up his hesitancy, “so as to sound Satow’s true intentions,” as he wrote the next day. Once he was sure of his ground, he opened up. Satow’s account of the meeting provides a good summary of the problems of the time:
“After exchanging the usual compliments, I began to feel rather at a loss, the man looked so solid, and would not make conversation. But he had an eye that sparkled like a big black diamond, and his smile when he spoke was so friendly” that gradually the two formed a bond. Talk turned to the weakness of the shogunate and the lack of consultation with the daimyos.
“The bakufu [the shogun’s government] have got on so badly of late years,” said Saigo, “that my prince is of the opinion that they should not be left to ruin the country as they please . . . They expected to have a share of the government. Now they perceive that such is not the intention of the bakufu, and they don’t intend to be made fools of.”
“What is the position with regard to Choshu? We foreigners cannot comprehend it.”
“It is indeed incomprehensible,” Saigo replied. “The bakufu commenced the war without justification, and they have stopped it equally without reason.”
“Is it peace, or what?”
“No. Simply that hostilities have ceased, and the troops have been withdrawn. There the matter rests.”
“For us foreigners it is a great puzzle why the bakufu attacked Choshu at all. It was certainly not because he [i.e. the daimyo] had fired on foreign ships. If he really had offended the [Tokugawa] Mikado, surely your prin
ce, with his profound affection for the ‘Son of Heaven,’ could have lent assistance.”
“I believe the bakufu hated Choshu all along,” replied Saigo.
At this point Satow summarized the attitude of the British government, and by implication others as well. It was high time that Hyogo was opened to foreigners, as agreed in the Harris Treaty almost ten years previously. But how could one complain if one did not know who to complain to? The treaty was with the country, not any particular person. There was no intention to interfere, it was a matter of indifference to the British who ruled—emperor, shogun or a confederation of states—but somebody or some body had to be in charge. “We have serious doubts,” said Satow—the failure to open Hyogo, the murder of Richardson, the impotence of the bakufu in punishing his murderers, its inability to extend its authority to Satsuma, warships of friendly nations fired on by Choshu—and “we had to go and punish him because the bakufu could not.”
Sir Ernest Satow, linguist, traveler and diplomat, at age twenty-six. The diaries he kept during his time in Japan (1862–83 and again as minister in 1895–1900) are prime historical sources.
(Ernest Satow in 1869, photo from A Diplomat in Japan by Ernest Satow, 1921)
In brief: What on earth was going on?
Saigo’s feelings exactly. Something had to be done, and soon.
And then, to cap the chaos, both the shogun and the emperor died. The shogun—a mere twenty-year-old with no heirs—died with no successor chosen, which meant that the death had to be kept secret for weeks, until the emperor appointed the next shogun, the fifteenth—and, as it turned out, the last: Yoshinobu, also known as Keiki, whose earlier bid for the shogunate had failed with such dire consequences for Saigo. Three weeks later, Emperor Komei died. Only thirty-five, he had had smallpox, but seemed to have recovered, so wild rumors spread that he had been poisoned (in fact, he probably had beriberi, a disease caused by a deficiency of the vitamin thiamine). The nation had been unstable enough under his rule, and things were not likely to improve under his successor, Mutsuhito, his age just fifteen, who would rule through a regent.
Perhaps this was the chance to get the daimyos to work together, a first step in reducing the power of the shogun, restoring the power of the emperor and renegotiating treaties with foreign powers. In Kagoshima, Saigo suggested a conference of domain leaders, and found a receptive audience. He gathered seven hundred troops to make an impression in Kyoto, and with his two lords—the daimyo Tadayoshi and his all-powerful father Hisamitsu—set sail for Kyoto, arriving two weeks later in mid-May 1867.
The two important matters to be decided were a pardon for Choshu, which Saigo had promised, and the opening of Hyogo to foreigners. But if Hyogo were opened, it would be controlled by the shogun, which would strengthen his hand: so good-bye to the idea of reform. Somehow, in a long and tense session on June 26, the shogun, Yoshinobu, managed to strong-arm the imperial regent into approving the opening of Hyogo, leaving open the question of how leniently to treat Choshu. In effect, the daimyos had been slapped down, Saigo’s promise to Choshu was kicked into the long grass and the shogunate had survived.
Insulted beyond endurance, three leading daimyos—from Satsuma, Choshu and Tosa—started talking to each other about forming alliances. Two pacts resulted, a new but still vague one between Satsuma and Choshu and a specific one between Satsuma and Tosa. The draft agreement spoke of revolution: “We must, therefore, reform our political system, restore the reins of government to the Imperial Court, hold a conference of the daimyos, and in concert with one another work for the purpose of lifting the prestige of the nation among the powers of the world.” Other domains hinted they would come aboard. Yet it all came to nothing, again. The pact needed approval back in Tosa—but two British sailors were murdered; samurai were accused; warships arrived; the samurai were exonerated. The crisis passed, but resistance had grown and Tosa’s officials got cold feet.
Meanwhile, Saigo was plotting with Choshu to seize power from the shogun, planning attacks with the one thousand Satsuma troops based in Kyoto and another three thousand in Osaka—plans that he was determined to pursue anyway, even without Tosa. Crucially, Saigo needed support from the court, and to this end made good use both of his reputation and of an important aspect of his personality: his lack of ego. He continued to dress in a simple cotton kimono and sandals, which allowed him to move about inconspicuously. Once, according to legend, he was arrested while leaving the palace, because a guard did not believe this shabby figure could be the Great Saigo until a senior court noble identified him.
Now, at last, the decisive blow could be struck. Saigo and Okubo drafted a letter to be signed by the imperial court. The minds of the people, it said, had been polluted by Tokugawa rule. The shogun was to blame for all the unrest at home and the threats from abroad. He had to be reduced to the rank of a daimyo. Peace in these circumstances was treason, for great principles could be asserted only by force.
Somehow, the shogun got wind of trouble and took preemptive action, rather brilliantly. In many other cultures, he would have fought back. Instead, he resigned, in a sort of political jujitsu, falling in with his opponents in order to disarm them. His statement is worth quoting as an example of how to minimize conflict by welcoming change:
Now that foreign intercourse becomes daily more extensive, unless the government is directed from one central authority, the foundations of the state will fall to pieces. If, however, the old order of things be changed, and the administrative authority be restored to the Imperial Court, and if national deliberations be conducted on an extensive scale, and the Imperial decision be secured, and if the empire be supported by the efforts of the whole people, then the empire will be able to maintain its rank and dignity among the nations of the earth—it is, I believe, my highest duty to realize this ideal by giving up entirely my rule over this land.4
At a stroke, the reason for a coup had vanished—except that the imperial court, having accepted the resignation, asked Yoshinobu to stay on as acting shogun until the court could get all the daimyos together to discuss the situation.
But Saigo and his colleagues, principally Okubo, were not to be deprived of their coup. On November 14, the ringleaders traveled to Choshu, where they restated Satsuma’s readiness to topple the shogunate by force, then went on to Kagoshima to brief Hisamitsu, whom they wanted to lead troops into Kyoto. This was agreed upon. On December 8, Saigo and the daimyo, Tadayoshi, left with three thousand troops and entered Kyoto ten days later, backed by two thousand more from Choshu, all gathering ostensibly to “defend the Imperial Court” during the forthcoming conference of daimyos.
The imperial court met and pardoned several loyalist nobles, including the Choshu daimyo, which is what Saigo had promised. As for dismantling the shogunate, talks continued through the night.
In the morning of January 3, 1868 a leading radical noble, Iwakura Tomomi, drafted a statement proclaiming an imperial restoration, which was agreed to by the top five daimyos. Satsuma troops were ordered to man the gates. This was the moment that came to be known as the Meiji Restoration, the start of the Meiji Era, after the name granted to Mutsuhito after his death. Saigo and Okubo, who had helped to engineer all this, made themselves scarce, Saigo commanding the guards, Okubo sitting at the back. The young emperor, from behind a screen, read a short edict dissolving Japan’s political structure—thus abolishing the shogunate. It is, like Yoshinobu’s statement, worth quoting in full just to show how few words it takes to change history, if they are the right words at the right time:
The Emperor of Japan announces to the sovereigns of all foreign countries and to their subjects that permission has been granted to the shogun Tokugawa Yoshinobu to return the governing power in accordance with his own request. We shall henceforward exercise supreme authority in all the internal and external affairs of the country. Consequently the title of Emperor must be substituted for that of Taikun [Great Lord; Tycoon, as the shogun was usually referred to in Engli
sh], in which the treaties have been made. Officers are being appointed by us to the conduct of foreign affairs. It is desirable that the representatives of the treaty powers recognize this announcement.
He then declared a new structure, with a collateral prince as president, major daimyos as senators, and samurai and lower courtiers as councilors.
This was a moment that changed history, not just for Japan but for the world: a simple statement drafted in haste by a few dozen people and read out in a few minutes. This time, things really would be different, though how they would play out no one had any idea.
Yoshinobu left for Osaka, where he agreed to surrender some of his lands, if other daimyos would also surrender some of theirs to help out with imperial expenses.
The daimyos hesitated.
Deadlock. The future of Japan was in the balance. Change was certain, but how exactly was it to come about?
The deadlock was broken by riots in Edo, when some wild Satsuma ronin went on the rampage, burning part of Edo Castle, sparking retaliation from anti-Satsuma samurai. Yoshinobu was prepared to lead an army to seize the miscreants and condemn them to death. Battle lines were drawn, the shogun and his allies with roughly 5,500 troops versus Satsuma and its allies with 2,300. Saigo, the senior commander in the latter camp, didn’t like the odds. The emperor—the symbol of regeneration, “the jewel” as Saigo called him—was evacuated to Hiroshima, in case of defeat.
As things turned out, the shogunal troops lacked both leadership and morale, and Saigo’s had both. They also had their Minié rifles, while many of the opposition still relied on swords. Over three days (January 27 to 30, 1868), the Satsuma gunners, with their Armstrong cannons, pounded the shogunal lines just outside Kyoto. A turning point came when a force of shogunal allies switched sides, giving the Satsuma alliance a victory, and the advantage of what military theory calls “momentum”: high spirits, cohesion, focus. That was the beginning of the so-called Boshin War (the Earth-Dragon War, from the Chinese zodiac signs for 1868).