In the anteroom, daylight filtered through the door and window gratings, casting soft diamond patterns on the polished cypress floor. Sacred white paper plaits hung from the pillars. The walls were covered with gifts to the shrine: model ships, swords, houses. White curtains shrouded the doorway to the inner sanctuary, receptacle for the god. A calm hush pervaded the air, which smelled of incense, candles, and pine resin. Chief Ohira dropped to his knees before the curtains, head bowed in tacit acknowledgment of Sano’s words. Sano knelt beside him. After a long moment, Chief Ohira spoke in a voice quiet with sad resignation.
“I compromised Deshima security and falsified the warehouse inventory on Governor Nagai’s orders. I didn’t want to, but what choice had I? A samurai must obey his superior.”
In Bushido, obedience was the supreme virtue, which often conflicted with individual morality and the law. Sano, who understood the conflict all too well, realized that guilt and self-hatred had caused Ohira’s physical infirmity, eroding body and spirit.
“Nagai said that if I refused,” Ohira continued, “he would replace me with someone who would allow the smuggling. He threatened to withdraw his patronage of Kiyoshi.” The chief’s voice cracked in anguish; he turned to Sano, hand extended in a plea for understanding. “What was I to do?” Then the rush of emotion subsided. Ohira bent his head over his folded hands. “Now all is lost.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” Sano said.
“What do you mean?” Ohira’s voice held a glimmer of hope.
Sano had evidence; he had Ohira’s confession, which the chief, in his eagerness for punishment, would repeat to the tribunal. But he wanted more.
“Kiyoshi can be saved.” Sano hesitated, feeling a sudden unwelcome sense of identification with Jan Spaen. In view of what he meant to do, was he not also an exploiter of men? “Your son is not a smuggler or a murderer—his one crime was accusing me to protect you. If we can persuade him to tell the truth, he won’t have to die.”
Chief Ohira exhaled in a moan. “You don’t know the whole story. And I can assure you that when you do, you won’t be so willing to help Kiyoshi.
“I visited him in jail this morning. He was like a madman, but he regained his senses long enough to tell me everything. Two months ago, he chased the mysterious lights because a fortune-teller told him they were ghosts who could give him enough money so he could marry the girl he loves. Kiyoshi saw the lights go to Deshima and followed them to the cove, where he saw the smugglers. Later he overheard me telling the guards to relax Deshima security on nights when the smuggling occurred. He didn’t know that Governor Nagai and other officials were involved. He assumed I commanded the ring myself. On the night of his arrest, he went to the cove to persuade me to give it up.”
So it was his father whom Kiyoshi had gone to “stop” and “warn.” Sano’s guess was confirmed.
A mournful laugh caught in Ohira’s throat. “My poor, devoted, naïve son. Yes, he protected me, but not just by lying. He began prowling the waterfront at night because he was afraid the police would catch me—how was he to know they were accomplices?” Ohira paused, as if gathering courage. “Kiyoshi fired arrows at anyone who went near the harbor.”
“He shot me?” Sano said, amazed. Not Nirin or the Deshima guards, then; not an assassin sent by Chamberlain Yanagisawa. He’d guessed Kiyoshi’s motive, but not how far the boy had gone to shield his father. Now his incoherent rambling made sense. He’d “placed personal interests above those of the shogun and nation” not by smuggling, but by protecting his family instead of reporting the crime. The “blood on his hands” was neither Jan Spaen’s nor Peony’s, but Sano’s.
“I apologize for my son,” Ohira said. “He intended no harm; he only meant to frighten you. When you wouldn’t leave the harbor, he panicked. His shot went wild and hit you.” The chief shook his head sadly. “But that’s no excuse. He attacked a representative of the shogun, which is treason. Therefore he must be punished. As must I, and the rest of our family.”
Sano felt no animosity toward the boy who’d almost killed him. He would have done the same to protect his own father. “When the judges learn of your crimes, they’ll have no choice but to impose the death penalty,” Sano said. “I can’t save you—and you don’t want that anyway, do you?” Ohira’s silence was his affirmative. “But when I regain power, I’ll persuade the bakufu to exempt your wife and younger children from punishment.” He had done so for the families of other criminals, under special circumstances. “And Kiyoshi needn’t die if I don’t report what you’ve told me. Which I won’t—if you’ll help me.”
Ohira stared, as though not daring to believe what he’d heard. “Of course. I’ll do anything. Anything!”
“Tell me who killed Jan Spaen,” Sano said, “and the names of all the smugglers.”
“I don’t know.” Fresh despair deepened the lines in Ohira’s face. “I wasn’t there when Spaen died. I’ve never even been to that cove. My second watch commander piloted the boat.” So it was Nirin whom Sano had followed across the harbor on the night of his arrest. “My job was to falsify the inventory, relax surveillance on Deshima, and supply manpower.”
And to take the blame if anything went wrong, Sano thought as his hope of exposing the criminals faded. How efficient of Nagai to set up a scapegoat in advance!
“I don’t know who the smugglers are, or who leads them,” Ohira finished.
“But you must have communicated with them,” Sano said, grasping for any possible clue.
“Anonymous messages arrived at my office in town. I never tried to trace them—I didn’t want to know any more than necessary. And I destroyed every one.”
Thus there was no written evidence against Governor Nagai, Interpreter Iishino, Urabe, or anyone except Ohira. But Sano refused to give up. “What exactly did these messages say?”
“The day and time of the smuggling. The place where my men should take the goods …” A grimace of revulsion twisted Ohira’s lips, as if provoked by an unpleasant memory.
“What is it?” Sano asked.
“Another message came yesterday. My men are to transfer the rest of the illegal goods off the island tomorrow.”
“Where?” Sano demanded. “When?”
If he could deliver the information to the tribunal judges, perhaps they would free him and pursue the real criminals. For the first time Sano felt success within his grasp. And maybe, when the smugglers were caught, he would learn who had killed Spaen and Peony and burned his house.
“The message said that a new rendezvous location must be arranged,” Ohira said, “because the cove is sealed. I’m to await further instructions, which will arrive soon.”
Soon enough to save himself, Sano wondered, and Hirata? Soon enough to deliver Spaen’s killer to the Dutch captain and prevent a war?
Outside, wooden soles clattered up the shrine’s steps, heralding the approach of worshippers. In the distance, the urgent pulse of the war drums continued. Sano rose to leave.
“Tell me the moment you hear,” he said.
“Yes, of course. How shall I reach you?”
With his house ruined, the police surely looking for him, and nowhere to go, Sano said, “Can you suggest a quiet, discreet inn?”
“The Double Happiness.” Ohira gave directions. “I’ll send word to you there.”
Before departing, Sano bowed to the inner sanctuary and placed a coin in the offertory box for good luck. Ohira remained kneeling, eyes closed in silent prayer. An unnatural serenity had fallen over him, lending a strange beauty to his ravaged face.
“Will you be all right?” Sano asked, concerned for the man whose destruction would clear a path toward the truth, and his own salvation.
The chief’s voice sounded remote, preoccupied. “I shall just stay here awhile longer.”
Guilt and pity gnawed at Sano; he felt no triumph over accomplishing this mission. Fervently he wished he was the sort of man who could have declined the investigation, or at lea
st ended it before destroying Peony, Old Carp, and Ohira or endangering Hirata and the nation. His truth-seeking nature seemed a curse, the serving of his personal code of justice a cruel self-indulgence. Yet what could he do now but see the investigation through to the finish? And he still felt in his deepest soul that this was right. He must serve honor and accept his fate—just as Ohira had.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly, but the chief gave no sign that he’d heard. Sano left the shrine, intending to take shelter at the inn while waiting for Ohira’s message. But when he stepped outside the torii gate, a premonition of danger stabbed him a moment before he spied its cause.
Down the highway past him marched a huge procession, led by footsoldiers carrying banners emblazoned with the Tokugawa crest. Mounted troops escorted three palanquins whose open windows framed solemn, elderly officials dressed in black ceremonial caps and robes. An army of servants and porters followed, carrying chests and bundles. Sano’s throat constricted; dread sickened him.
The treason tribunal had arrived a day earlier than expected. Time had run out. And Sano had no chance to adjust his plans. From the direction of the city stampeded an angry horde of samurai: Yoriki Ota, in full battle uniform, riding a gaudily caparisoned steed; doshin brandishing jitte; police assistants carrying sticks, ropes, and ladders; mounted troops and footsoldiers; a drenched and furious Nirin.
“There he is!” shouted Nirin, who must have led the pack to the shrine. “Get him!”
The horde swept down upon Sano. The police stripped off his sword, bound his hands, and interlocked the ladders around him to form a cage.
“Your trial begins tomorrow morning,” Yoriki Ota informed Sano with a triumphant leer. “Until then, you will enjoy the generous hospitality of Nagasaki Jail.” He slapped the reins and motioned for his subordinates to follow. “Let’s go!”
Caged like an animal, prodded by sticks, hounded by jeers, and ready to die of shame and despair, Sano began the long walk to Nagasaki Jail.
The treason tribunal convened in the reception hall of the mansion where the three magistrates were staying. Bleak, early morning light barely penetrated the barred windows. Lanterns cast a sinister yellow glow over the magistrates, who wore black ceremonial robes and surcoats bearing the Tokugawa crest, black caps, and black-hilted swords, seated upon the dais. Court officials and secretaries knelt behind desks. Soldiers guarded the doors. Across a wall mural painted in murky colors, mounted archers hunted a tiger through a forest.
Sano, the accused, wearing a dirty muslin kimono, knelt on a straw mat before the dais on the shirasu: an area of floor covered with white sand, symbol of truth.
“The trial of Sōsakan Sano Ichirō is now in session,” intoned the magistrate who occupied the center position on the dais, behind a low table piled with scrolls. About sixty years of age, he had a long, rectangular face with jutting chin and razor-edged cheekbones. His body was fit and strong, his posture erect. “Hearing this case are Magistrates Segawa Fumio of Hakata and Dazai Moriya of Kurume.” He bowed to the men on either side of him; the secretaries recorded his words. From the hills above the city came the pounding of the war drums, like a monster’s heartbeat. “And myself, in the capacity of supreme judge: Takeda Kenzan of Kumamoto.”
Sano’s throat clenched as he recognized the name. Takeda was famous for a conviction rate of nearly 100 percent, and for the harshness of his sentences. Of the other judges, Sano knew nothing. They represented his chief hope of acquittal, yet their impassive faces betrayed no mercy.
“The defendant is charged with six counts of treason,” Supreme Judge Takeda said. “Operating a smuggling ring; persecuting Japanese citizens; procuring weapons from the Dutch; conspiring with them to overthrow the government; enlisting Chinese military support; and practicing Christianity.”
As Sano prepared to refute the accusations and persuade the judges to let him catch the real criminals, his thoughts were clouded by pain, fatigue, and worry. He’d spent a hellish night in a filthy prison cell. The jailers had denied him food and water, while what seemed like every samurai in town had come to taunt the highest-ranking inmate Nagasaki Jail had ever housed. The trip to the courtroom had further taxed Sano’s strength and wounded his pride. Guards had forced him to walk in the ladder cage past jeering crowds who hurled stones and garbage. His injured shoulder ached; his bruises throbbed; he stank, and knew his appearance would prejudice the judges as much as the lies told about him. Worst of all, the jailers had confiscated the stolen records from Deshima, leaving Sano no evidence for his defense.
“Additional charges against the defendant were brought by the Honorable Governor Nagai yesterday,” Supreme Judge Takeda said. “Trespassing on Deshima and attacking the staff. Bribing the Dutch ship’s crew.” Takeda indicated the scrolls on the table. “We the judges have reviewed the witnesses’ statements and deem them satisfactory. We hereby find the accused guilty of all the aforementioned crimes.”
Staring in shock and disbelief, Sano demanded, “That’s it?” He’d known his chances of fair treatment were slim; yet he hadn’t expected such a perfunctory condemnation. “Don’t the witnesses have to testify? Am I not even allowed to present my own defense?” Even the lowliest peasant usually had his say before the verdict was rendered, and the chance to face his accusers in court. “You can’t be serious.”
“No one gave you permission to speak,” whined Judge Segawa, a wizened little man with a prissy mouth. He turned to Supreme Judge Takeda. “Let us pronounce the sentence and conclude this distasteful business as expediently as the Honorable Chamberlain Yanagisawa would wish.”
Plump, bland Judge Dazai nodded. Sano lost all hope of finding allies in these men, who were obviously Yanagisawa’s flunkies and sought to win the chamberlain’s approbation by destroying him. But he wouldn’t surrender without a fight.
“The charges are false,” Sanos said hotly. “The so-called witnesses have framed me to protect themselves.” The judges frowned in wordless disapproval. Officials, secretaries, and guards watched with disdain. “I demand a chance to prove my innocence!”
After the echo of his voice faded, the ensuing silence lasted an eternity. Then Judge Segawa said, “This emotional outburst is extremely offensive. Takeda-san, I beg you to end these proceedings now.”
But Supreme Judge Takeda’s attention was focused on Sano; interest narrowed his eyes. “Due to the severity of the charges, I’ll allow the accused to speak on his own behalf.” To Sano, he said, “Go ahead.”
Maybe Takeda was merely curious to hear what he would say. But Sano glimpsed in the supreme judge the type of official who wished to believe that everything the government did was right, so he could claim by virtue of association to a share of the honor. Thus he turned a blind eye to malfeasance in his colleagues. When enforcing laws, he erred on the side of harshness because he perceived any offense as a personal insult and preferred that the innocent occasionally be punished rather than the guilty ever go free. Hence, Supreme Judge Takeda had accepted the witnesses’ testimony and assumed Sano’s guilt. However, if Sano read Takeda right, the judge wouldn’t be satisfied with punishing one man if there was a chance that other criminals might be caught. And by agreeing to listen, Takeda had demonstrated more independent spirit than his fellow judges.
Now Sano launched into the most eloquent, desperate speech of his life. He justified his misinterpreted actions. He mentioned his service record as proof of his loyalty and good character. He related Assistant Director deGraeff’s, Dr. Huygens’s, Abbot Liu Yun’s, and Urabe’s motives for killing Jan Spaen. He explained how he’d discovered the smuggling, and his case against the Deshima staff, and that Peony had surely died because of what she knew. Sano cited the burning of his house as evidence of a conspiracy against him—one that certainly included Nagasaki’s all-knowing, all-powerful governor. Last, Sano told of the falsified records, Chief Ohira’s confession, and his plan for capturing the real smugglers and exposing whoever had murdered Jan Spaen an
d Peony.
“Honorable Judges, I swear upon my honor that I have spoken the truth,” Sano finished, hoarse and shaky from intense physical and mental exertion. “I beg you to believe me, and to dispense justice to the actual perpetrators of these heinous crimes!”
Officials and secretaries laid down their brushes; the guards stood like motionless shadows. Sano could tell by the judges’ reflective expressions that they saw the logic in his statement and knew they couldn’t shirk their professional responsibility by dismissing it outright. He felt a surge of premature elation.
Then Supreme Judge Takeda said, “Do you have the documents you mentioned?”
“No, Honorable Judge,” Sano was forced to admit. “They were confiscated after my arrest.”
Judge Segawa laughed, a shrill, nasty cackle. “More likely they never existed.” He and Judge Dazai exchanged nods, their complacency restored, their goal of pleasing Chamberlain Yanagisawa within easy reach.
“But Ohira’s confession will hold,” Sano added hastily. “He wants to enforce the law. The disappearance of the records won’t matter to him.” Sano decided to worry about whether this was true if and when Supreme Judge Takeda agreed to cooperate. “Bring Ohira in. He should know by now when and where the smugglers plan to meet. Give me a chance, and I’ll deliver them all to you.”
Supreme Judge Takeda’s thick brows drew together in a scowl. “You insult me, Sōsakan Sano, if you think I would act on unsubstantiated claims from someone with everything to gain by slandering other men. Do you take me for a fool?”
The other judges smirked. A sense of doom fell over Sano.
“The original verdict stands: guilty on all counts,” Takeda said. “I will now pronounce the sentence.
“Sano Ichirō is denied the privilege of restoring his honor through ritual suicide. His head shall be severed at a public execution, and his remains displayed as a warning to potential traitors.” Takeda clapped his hands twice.
The Way of the Traitor Page 28