“Allowing them to go was a misguided decision and will come back to haunt us,” Yoshi had said.
“In this you are wrong. Please prepare a plan, your ideas how to bring that dog Sanjiro and Satsuma to heel. I vote we meet in two weeks, unless there is an emergency …”
Later, going back to his own quarters, Yoshi had not been able to think of any potential emergency that would require his presence in Yedo—even the second covert, whispered invitation to visit the French warship that he neither accepted nor refused but left open for the weeks ahead was not urgent. So he had resolved to put into effect at once the plan he and his wife, Hosaki, had devised. Now Anjo and his bowmen were barring his path.
What to do?
“Good night, Anjo-sama,” he said, making the decision. “As always, I will keep you advised.” Covering his disquiet and feeling naked, he spurred his pony forward, heading for the far archway. None of the archers moved, waiting for orders. His men and the two palanquins followed him, feeling equally defenseless.
Anjo watched them go, enraged. But for those rifles I would have had him arrested as planned. On what charge? Treason, plotting against the Shogun! But Yoshi would never have been brought to trial, oh no, so sorry, fools would have killed him as he tried to escape justice.
A sudden shaft of pain in his bowels made him grope for a seat. Baka doctors! There must be a cure, he told himself, then heaped more curses on Yoshi and the men who had disappeared under the far archway.
Yoshi was breathing better now, the fear sweat no longer chilling him. He trotted deeper into fortifications, along poorly lit corridors, passed more stables and harness rooms until he came to the end wall. The wall was sheathed in wood. Men dismounted and lit torches from those in wall brackets.
With his riding whip he pointed at a knob to one side. His aide dismounted and pulled it sharply. A whole section of the wall swung outwards to reveal a tunnel, tall enough and wide enough for two men to ride along, side by side. At once he heeled his pony into motion. When the palanquins and the last man were through and the door once more closed, he sighed with relief. Only then did he holster the rifle.
But for you, Rifle-san, he thought affectionately, I might be a dead man, at the very least a prisoner. Sometimes I can see a rifle really is better than a sword. You deserve a name—it was ancient Shinto custom to give names to special swords or weapons or even rocks or trees. I shall call you “Nori,” which also can mean “seaweed” and is a pun on Nori Anjo, to remind me that you saved me from him and that one of your bullets belongs to him, in his heart or head.
“Eeee, Lord,” his Captain said, riding alongside. “Your shooting was a marvelous thing to behold.”
“Thank you, but you and all the men were ordered to be silent until I gave you leave to speak. You are demoted. Go to the rear.” The crestfallen man hurried away. “You,” Yoshi said to his second in command, “you are now Captain.” He turned in his saddle and went forward again, leading.
The air was stale in the tunnel. This was one of the many secret escape routes honeycombing the castle. The castle with its three moats and soaring donjon had taken just four years to build—five hundred thousand men had, at Shōgun Toranaga’s suggestion and at no cost to him, proudly worked on it night and day until it was finished.
The floor of the tunnel sloped downwards and curled this way and that, the sides hewn out of rock in places and roughly bricked in others, the ceiling propped here and there but in good repair. Always downwards but without danger. Now water dripped from the sides and the air became cooler and Yoshi knew that they were under the moat. He pulled his cloak closer around him, hating the tunnel and almost sick with claustrophobia—a legacy from the time when he and his wife and sons had been close confined for almost half a year in dungeon-like rooms by tairō Ii not so very long ago. Never again will I be confined, he had sworn, never again.
In time the floor sloped upwards and they came to the far end that opened into a house. This was a safe place that belonged to a loyal Toranaga clan vassal, who, forewarned, greeted him. Relieved that there was no further trouble, Yoshi motioned the advance guard to lead.
The night was pleasing and they trotted through the city by little known paths until they were on the outskirts and at the first barrier of the Tokaidō. There hostile guards immediately became docile seeing the Toranaga standard. Hastily they opened the barricade and bowed and closed it, all of them curious but none stupid enough to ask questions.
Not far beyond the barrier the road forked. A side road meandered northwards, inland, towards the mountains that, in a normal three or four days’ ride, would bring him to his castle, Dragon’s Tooth. Gladly the advance guard swung that way, heading for home—to their homes as well as his, most of them not having seen their families, fiancées or friends for the best part of a year. Half a league down the road, approaching a village where there was a fine watering place and a hot spring, he called out, “Guards!” beckoning them back.
The new Captain of the escort reined in alongside and almost said, Sire? but caught himself in time. He waited.
Yoshi pointed at an Inn as though a sudden decision. “We stop there.” It was called Seven Seasons of Happiness. “No need for silence now.”
The courtyard was neat and tidy and cobbled. At once the proprietor and maids and menservants hurried out with lanterns, bowing and anxious to please, honored with the majesty of their expected guest. Maids surrounded the palanquin to take care of Koiko, while the proprietor, a neat, balding, slim old man who walked with a limp, conducted Yoshi to the best and most isolated bungalow. He was a retired samurai called Inejin who had decided to shave his knot and become an innkeeper. Secretly he was still hatomoto—a privileged samurai—one of Yoshi’s many spies that dotted the surrounds of Yedo and all approaches to Dragon’s Tooth. The new Captain, conscious of his responsibility, and four samurai accompanied them, Misamoto and his two guards last.
Quickly the Captain made sure the dwelling was secure. Then Yoshi settled himself on the veranda, on a cushion facing the steps, the Captain and the other samurai kneeling on guard behind him. He noticed the maid offering tea was fresh-faced and well chosen, the tea tasting better for it. When he was quite ready he waved the maids and servants away. “Please bring them here, Inejin,” he ordered.
In moments Inejin returned. With him were the two gai-jin prospectors. One tall, the other stocky, both gaunt, tough-looking, bearded men wearing grimy, rough clothes and battered caps. Yoshi studied them curiously, distastefully, seeing them more as creatures than men. Both were uneasy. They stopped near the steps, gaping at him.
At once the Captain said, “Bow!” and when they did nothing, just stared at him without understanding, he snarled at two samurai, “Teach them manners.”
In seconds they were on their knees, faces in the dirt, cursing their stupidity at accepting such a perilous job: “Wot the fuck, Charlie,” the stocky man, a Cornish miner, had said in Drunk Town a few days ago after their meeting with Norbert Greyforth, “wot we’s got to lose? Nuffink! We’s starving and we’s broke, we’s no work, we’s can put nuffink more on the slate, man—even with my cobber Bonzer, for Gawd’s sake—there ain’t a bar in Yokopoko that’ll give us a beer, a bed or a bite of bread let alone some crumpet. Not a ship’ll give us a berth. We’s stuck and soon the Aussie Peelers’ll land here, or yors from ’Frisco, then we’s both be in chains, me hanging for bushwhacking a few poxy, claim-jumping miners and you for rustling and shooting some bloody bankers.”
“You trust that bastard Greyforth?”
“Where’s yor honner, me old cock sparrer! We give him our markers, right? He done like he promise, a proper toff, right? He give we’s twenty-two quid to pay wot we’s owe to stay out of the brig, another twenty in the bank for when we’s back, all shovels, powder and goods we’s need and a sworn contract in front of the preacher that we’s to gets two parts of every five we ships to Yoko, right? All like he promise, right? He’s a toff but all toffs
is slimy.”
The two men had guffawed, the other saying, “You’re goddam right.”
“Now we’s the prospectors, right? It’s we’s who finds the pay dirt, right? In Jappo land, where’s we’s alone, right? We’s kin hide a poke or two, eh? And sneak it out, right? All the grub, booze and dinkie-die for a year, our own bleeding Yoshiwara for not a penny piece, an’ a first shot at Jappo gold? Me, I’m in if you isn’t…. ”
“Let them sit up, do not hurt them. Misamoto!”
Misamoto was on his knees at once. The moment the two men saw him, some of their concern left them.
“These are the men you met at the dock yesterday?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“They know you as Watanabe?”
“Yes, Lord.”
“Good. They know nothing about your past?”
“No, Lord, I did it all as you ordered, everything an—”
“You said sailors in Nagasaki taught you English?”
“Yes, Lord.”
“Good. Now, first tell them they will be well treated and not to be afraid. What are their names?”
“Listen, you two, this’s the Boss, this’s Lord Ota,” Misamoto said as he had been told to name Yoshi, his coarse slang American easily understood by them. “I tol’ you bastards to bow and scrape or you’d hav’ it done for you. He says you’re to be well treated and wants to know yor names.”
“I’m Johnny Cornishman and he’s Charlie Yank an’ so far we’s nothing to eat or drink, for Christ’s sweet sake!”
As best he could, Misamoto translated the names.
“You will tell them nothing about me or what you have done since I took you out of prison—remember I have ears everywhere and I will know.”
“I will not fail, Lord.” Misamoto bowed deeply, hiding his hatred, desperate to please and frightened for his future.
“Yes.” For a moment Yoshi considered him. In the two-odd months since he had taken Misamoto into his service the man had changed radically, outside. Now he was clean-shaven, his pate also shaved and his hair groomed in samurai fashion. Enforced cleanliness had improved his appearance greatly, and even though he was deliberately kept in the vestments of the lowest class of samurai, he looked samurai and wore the two swords now as though they belonged. The swords were still false, just hilts with no blades within the scabbards.
Thus far Yoshi was pleased with his performance and when he had seen him robed and hatted as an Elder, he had been astonished, not recognizing him. A good lesson to remember, he had thought at the time: how easy it is to appear to be what you are not!
“It would be better for you not to fail,” he said, then turned his attention to Misamoto’s two guards. “You two are responsible for the safety of these two men. The Lady Hosaki will supply further guards and guides but you two are responsible for the success of the venture.”
“Yes, Lord.”
“As to this fake Watanabe,” he said, his voice soft but no man mistook the finality therein, “he is to be treated as samurai though of the lowest rank, but if he disobeys correct orders, or tries to escape, you will tie his hands and feet and drag him to wherever I am. You are both responsible.”
“Yes, Lord.”
“I won’t fail you, Lord,” Misamoto muttered, grey-faced, some of his terror passing on to the two miners.
“Tell these men they are quite safe. And also that you will be their helper and teacher, there is no need for any of you to be frightened if you obey. Tell them I hope for a quick success to their search.”
“The Boss says there’s no need to be scared.”
“Then why’s yous pissing in yor pants?”
“Piss off yorself. I’m … I’m to be in charge, so mind yor goddam manners.”
“Best watch yors or when we’s alone we’s feeding you yor balls. Where’s the piss-arsed grub and where’s the booze an’ where’s the doxies we’s promised?”
“You be getting it soon enough, and best be polite around these … guys,” Misamoto said cautiously. “They’s like a cat with a bee up its ass. And the Boss says best find the gold right smartly too.”
“If there’s gold we’s kin find it, Wotinabey, old cock. If it ain’t there it ain’t there, right, Charlie?”
“Excuse me, Lord, they thank you for your kindness,” Misamoto said, not quite so frightened. He had suddenly realized that if he was to accompany them he would be the first to know about a strike. “They promise to try to find treasure as quick as possible. They respectfully ask if they could have some food and drink and when can they begin.”
“Impress it on them it pays to be patient, pays to be polite and to be diligent. Teach them correct manners, how to bow and so on. You are responsible.”
As Misamoto obeyed, Yoshi motioned to his aide, who brought out the two short overmantles that Hosaki had had especially made, like waistcoats with ties on them. On the front and back were panels of inked characters on pale silk that read: This gai-jin is a personal retainer and prospector, under my protection, who is allowed, provided he has official guides with correct papers, to prospect anywhere within my domain. All are ordered to assist in this work. Each panel bore his seal. “Tell them they are to wear it always and it will give them safe passage—explain what the writing says.”
Again Misamoto obeyed without thought and showed the two men how to wear them. Cautiously now, they pretended a patience and humility alien to their nature and upbringing. “Charlie,” the Cornishman whispered, adjusting the tie strings, hardly moving his lips to speak like most ex-cons—he had had four years’ hard labor in the Australian outback for claim jumping: “In for a penny, in for a fuckin’ quid.”
The American grinned suddenly, more at ease. “I hope there’s more than a quid’s worth, old buddy ….”
Yoshi watched them. When he was satisfied he motioned to Misamoto. “Take them with you and wait in the courtyard.”
Once they had gone, after bowing correctly without assistance this time, he sent everyone out of hearing range, except Inejin. “Sit down, old friend.” He motioned to the steps where the old man could sit comfortably—his left hip crushed in a fall from a horse, making it impossible for him to kneel. “Good. Now, what news?”
“Everything and nothing, Lord.” For three centuries Inejin and his forefathers had served this branch of the Toranagas. As a hatomoto he had no fear of speaking the truth but the obligation to do so: “The land has been worked diligently and manured properly, crops grow, but farmers say this year there will be famine even here in the Kwanto.”
“How bad will the famine be?”
“This year we will need rice from elsewhere to be safe, and elsewhere will be far worse.”
Yoshi remembered what Hosaki had already told him, and was very glad with her foresight and prudence. And also glad to have a vassal like Inejin—rare to find a man who could be trusted implicitly, even rarer to find one who would speak truthfully, the truth based on real knowledge and not for reasons of personal aggrandizement. “Next?”
“All loyal samurai are seething with impatience at the impasse between Bakufu and the rebellious Outside Lords of Satsuma, Choshu and Tosa, their samurai equally discontented, mostly because of the usual problem: rates of pay fixed a century ago are causing ever greater hardship, it being ever more difficult to pay the interest on ever-increasing debts, and to buy rice and food at ever-increasing prices.” Inejin was deeply aware of the problem, as the majority of his widespread family, still samurai class, were suffering badly. “Daily the shishi gather adherents, if not openly, certainly undercover. Peasants are correctly docile, merchants not so, but all, except most merchants in Yokohama and Nagasaki, would like the gai-jin expelled.”
“And sonno-joi?”
After a pause the old man said, “Like many things on earth, Lord, that battle cry is part right, part wrong. All Japanese detest gai-jin—worse than Chinese, worse than Koreans—all want them gone, all revere the Son of Heaven and believe His wish to expel them
correct policy. Of your twenty men here tonight, I believe twenty would support that part of sonno-joi. As you yourself do, providing it is the Shōgunate who wield the temporal power to effect His wishes, according to procedures laid down by Shōgun Toranaga.”
“Quite correct,” Yoshi agreed, but in his innermost heart he knew that if he had had the power he would never have allowed the first Treaty, so never a need for the Emperor to interfere in Shōgunate matters, and would never have allowed mean-minded men surrounding the Son of Heaven to misguide Him.
Even so, contrary to sonno-joi, if he had power, now he would invite some of the gai-jin in while he had time. But only on his terms. And only for the trade he desired. It is only with fleets and guns like theirs, he thought, that we can deny them our land, expel them from our seas, and at last fulfill our historic destiny to place the Emperor on the Dragon Throne of China. And then, with their millions and our bushido, the whole gai-jin world will obey. “Go on, Inejin.”
“There’s not much more that you do not already know, Lord. Many fear the boy Shōgun will never be a man, many are disturbed by the less than wise Council, many are shocked that your prudent advice against his journey to Kyōto as a supplicant was overridden, many regret that you do not control the roju to force necessary changes: the Bakufu made corruptless, clever—and to stop the rot.”
“The Shōgun is the Shōgun,” Yoshi said curtly, “and all must support him and his Council. He is our liege Lord and must be supported as such.”
“I completely agree, Sire, I merely report samurai opinion as best I can. Few want the Bakufu and Shōgunate cast out. Only a handful of numbskulls believe the Emperor could rule Nippon without the Shōgunate. Even amongst shishi few really believe the Shōgunate should be ended.”
“So?”
“The solution is obvious: somehow a strong hand must take control and rule as Shōgun Toranaga ruled.” Inejin eased his leg more comfortably. “Please excuse me for being long-winded. May I say how honored I am by your visit.”
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