Gai-Jin

by James Clavell

  “Ah, yes. Sire, everything is as you require.”

  “Otsu at long last, Sire,” Princess Yazu said gaily, sweeping in with several ladies-in-waiting. “Tomorrow we arrive home and everything will be marvelous.” She dropped her huge, also veiled, hat and outer clothes. Maids scrambled to gather them up. “Tomorrow we will be home! Home, Sire! Bypassing a few way stations will be well worth it, neh?”

  “Oh, yes, Yazu-chan, if you say so,” he said, smiling at her, quickly caught up in her exuberance.

  “You will meet all my friends, cousins, aunts, uncles, elder sister and baby sister, my dear stepbrother Sachi, he’s nine this year”—she twirled with happiness—“and hundreds of less close relatives and in a few days you’ll meet the Emperor and he will greet you as his brother too and solve all our problems and we will live in tranquility ever after. It’s cold in here. Why isn’t everything ready? Where is the bath?”

  Their Chamberlain—a portly, greying man of fifty with few teeth and heavy jowls—had already been here a day with an advance party of special maids and cooks to prepare their quarters, and particular foods and fruits, with an abundance of polished rice, which the Shōgun’s delicate stomach required and the Princess demanded. Superb flower arrangements by a Master of ikebana abounded. Again he bowed, inwardly cursing her. “Extra charcoal heaters are ready, Imperial Highness. The bath is ready, your light meal just as you and Shōgun Nobusada ordered, dinner the same. It will be the most sumptuous—”

  “Emiko! Our bath!”

  At once her chief lady-in-waiting led her out and down the corridor, cocooned by other ladies and maids like the queen bee she was. Nobusada glared up at the Chamberlain and stamped his tiny foot. “Am I to be kept waiting? Show me the bath and send for the masseuse, I want my back rubbed now. And make sure there is no noise—I forbid noise!”

  “Yes, Sire, the Captain issues the order daily and I will send the masseuse to the bathhouse, Sire. Sako will b—”

  “Sako? She’s not as good as Meiko—where’s Meiko?”

  “So sorry, she’s sick, Sire.”

  “Tell her to get better! Tell her to be better by sunset. No wonder she’s sick. I feel sick! This foul journey! Baka! How many days on the road? It should be at least fifty-three and it’s less than…why all the haste … ?”

  The Captain of the Escort waited for the Chamberlain in the garden. He was in his thirties, bearded, highly trained, a renowned Master of Swords. His adjutant hurried up.

  “Everything is secure, sir.”

  “Good. It should all be routine by now,” the Captain said, his voice weary and edged. Both wore light travelling armor and hats and two swords over Shōgunate tunics and pantaloons. “Only one more day—then our problems get worse. I still cannot believe the Council and Guardian would allow such a dangerous venture.”

  His adjutant had heard the same thing said every day. “Yes, Captain. At least we will be in our own barracks, with hundreds more men.”

  “Not enough, never enough, we should never have left. But we did and karma is karma. Check the rest of the men and make sure the evening roster of guards is correct. And then tell the horse master to look at my mare, to take a look at her left foot, she may have split her hoof …” Shoeing horses was unknown in Japan at this time. “She almost shied passing the barrier, then come back and report.” The man hurried away.

  The Captain was more satisfied than usual. His tour of the Inn and its grounds within the high, giant perimeter bamboo fences, and particularly this sector, the hedged area with a single gateway, had reassured him that the Shōgun’s cluster of bungalows was easy to defend, that all other travellers had been forbidden the Inn for this night, that the watch knew the password and were clear on their prime duty: no one was allowed within five metres of the Shōgun or his wife uninvited, and no one, ever, with any weapons—except the Guardian, the Council of Elders and himself, and any guards accompanying him. The law was well known, the punishment for an armed approach death, for both the armed man and the unalert guards—unless pardoned by the Shōgun personally.

  “Ah, Chamberlain! Is there any change of plans?”

  “No, Captain.” The old man sighed and mopped his brow, his jowls shaking. “The August Ones are bathing as usual, then they will rest as usual, take their real bath and massage at sunset as usual, after which they will dine as usual, play Go as usual and go to bed. All is in order?”

  “Here, yes.” The Captain had a garrison of a hundred and fifty samurai at any one time within the compound that measured about two hundred metres square. A unit of ten men guarded the only entrance, a pleasing bridge over a stream that led to tall decorative beams and equally ornate gates. Around the whole perimeter hedge a samurai was stationed every ten paces. These would be relieved by fresh units from the six hundred samurai lodging in barracks just outside the main gate or nearby in other Inns. Patrols would scour the garden and fence line discreetly, as noise and an obvious samurai presence infuriated the Princess and therefore her husband.

  Above them the clouds were thickening, a bleak, misted sun not yet on the horizon, a high wind toying with the clouds. It was cold and promised to be colder. Servants were lighting lanterns amongst the shrubs, their light already reflected in the pools, and glistening off rocks that had been moistened for that effect moments ago.

  “It’s beautiful,” the Captain said. “Easily the best, though most of the other Inns have been good.” This was the first time he had ever made such a journey. All his life he had been within or near Yedo Castle, with or near Nobusada, or the previous Shōgun. “Beautiful, yes, but I’d rather have the Lord Shōgun and his wife in Sakamoto Castle than here. You should have insisted.”

  “I tried, Captain, but … but she decided.”

  “I will be glad when we are in our own barracks, when they are within the palace walls and even gladder when we and they are safe at home in Yedo Castle.”

  “Yes,” the Chamberlain said, privately weary of his Master and Mistress and the constant fault finding, nagging and petulance. Still, he thought, his back aching, wanting a bath and massage too, and the attentions of his youthful friend, I suppose I would be the same if I were as exalted as them, so mollycoddled from birth, and only sixteen. “May I ask the password, Captain?”

  “Until the middle of the night it is ‘Blue Rainbow.’”

  Two hundred metres away on the eastern outskirts of the village, an old broken-down farmhouse huddled at the end of an alley not far from the Tokaidō and the Otsu barrier. Inside, the leader of the shishi attack team, a Choshu youth called Saigo, glowered at the farmer, his wife, four children, father and mother, brother and a maid who knelt petrified, crowded into a corner. This was the only room and it served for living, eating, working, sleeping. A few scrawny chickens in a rafter cage clucked nervously. “Remember what I told you. You know nothing, have seen nothing.”

  “Yes, Lord, certainly, Lord,” the old man whimpered.

  “Shut up! Turn your backs, face the corner and close your eyes, all of you. Tie your sashes around your eyes!”

  They obeyed. Instantly.

  Saigo was eighteen, tall and strongly built, with a rugged handsome face and he wore a short dark tunic and pantaloons similar to the samurai at the Inn and two swords, straw sandals, no armor. When he was satisfied the peasants were blind as well as docile, he sat beside the door and peered out through rips in the window paper and began to wait.

  He could see the barrier and guard houses clearly. It was not yet sunset so the barrier was still open to latecomers. It had taken him and his men many days to find this place, ideal for their purposes. The back door led to a maze of alleys and paths, perfect for a sudden retreat. This afternoon, the moment the Shōgun’s party had passed through the barrier, he had taken sudden possession.

  Footsteps. His hand readied his sword, then relaxed. Another youth came in silently, to be followed by another from a different direction. Soon seven more were within. Outside one stood guard, a
nother at the corner of the alley that joined with the Tokaidō, with an eleventh man, hiding in the village, to act as courier to gallop the glad tidings of success to Katsumata in Kyōto that would signal the attack on Ogama and the Gates. They were tough young men, dressed as he was without armor and identification, formerly goshi—the lowest rank of samurai—now ronin, all more or less the same age, nineteen to twenty-two. Only Saigo, eighteen, and Tora, seventeen, his Satsuma second in command, were younger. Drafts through rents in the window shivered them—that and their tension.

  With signs he motioned them to check their swords, shuriken and other lethal weapons—no need for words during the whole operation. As much as could be planned had been decided over the days. They all agreed it was to be conducted in silence. A glance out of the window. The sun was touching the horizon, sky clear. It was time.

  Solemnly he bowed to them and they bowed to him.

  He turned his attention back to the peasants. “Three men will be outside,” he said harshly. “One rustle out of any of you until I get back and they’ll fire the farm.”

  Again the old man whimpered.

  Saigo gestured to the others. They followed him. So did the outside guard and the one on the corner. No turning back now. Those who were Buddhist had said a final prayer before a shrine, those who were Shinto had lit a last stick of incense and so joined their spirit with the thread of smoke that represented the fragility of life. All had written their death poems and sewn them to the breast of their tunics. Proudly they had given their correct fiefs; only the names were false.

  Once in the alley they split up into pairs, each taking an independent route. Soon they were in position, crouched down in the tall weeds and coarse vegetation beside the perimeter fence at the back of the Inn, within sight of each other, Saigo at the southeast corner. The fence was three metres high and strongly made of giant bamboo and spiked at the top. By now shadows were losing form in the fading light.

  Waiting. Heartbeats heavy in their chests, palms sweaty, the slightest rustle an enemy patrol. Strange, strong taste in every mouth. Stabbing pains in the loins. Somewhere nearby a cricket began its urgent mating call, reminding Saigo of his death poem:

  A cricket with its joy-filled song,

  Dies quickly anyway

  Better to be joy filled than sad.

  He felt his eyes mist as the sky was misting, So beautiful to be so happy yet so sad.

  From inside the fence they could hear voices of servants, maids, occasionally samurai, and the clatter of metal dishes, for the kitchen area was not far away. In the distance a samisen and the singer. Waiting. Sweat fell down Saigo’s face. Then he heard the approaching, barely perceptible rustle of a kimono and a girl whisper, “Blue Rainbow … Blue Rainbow.” Then silence. Again sounds of the Inn.

  At once he motioned to Tora, beside him. Silently this youth hurried to the other units and gave them the words and came back again. At Saigo’s signal each pair found the ladders they had made, camouflaged and hidden in the wild undergrowth so carefully, set them against the fence. Again he watched the sky. As the last thread of sunlight went, another signal and they went up and over the fence as one man, jumping to the ground that was soft and tilled, crouching motionlessly in the meticulous shrubbery but ready for an instant frontal attack.

  Miraculously, no alarm yet. They looked up, warily. Ahead, sixty metres away, was the Shōgun’s section, the thatched roofs showing just above the tall, thick hedge of hemlock, the roofs of the central sleeping section and bathhouses a little higher. The main entrance was well away from them, its doors still open. Everything exactly as they expected. Except for the guards, many more than planned for. Bile jumped into their mouths.

  To their right were the main kitchens with great steaming cauldrons and massed staff—more guards there. Left and all around the compound were a scattering of guest cottages, in other gardens with streams and bridges, each with a well-tended entrance path curling through the shrubs. Silence there and no lights within, just one lantern at the front veranda. More anguish, they had expected them to be occupied and to serve as cover and a necessary diversion.

  Karma, Saigo thought. Even so our positions are as we predicted, so are those of the enemy, the plan is good and we know the password. During the previous two weeks, disguised as an ordinary samurai traveller, he had found the correct courtesan and inveigled his way into her emotions so that soon he had been taken on a secret guided tour of the grounds—even to the places where the Hallowed Travellers were to rest.

  “Why not?” he had whispered. “Who will know? They’re not due here for days—ah, you are so beautiful. Let us join where a Shōgun and a sister of the Son of Heaven will join—that will be something to whisper to our grandchildren, eh? I think I shall never leave you…. ”

  It had been equally easy to find a bathhouse maid who was secretly fanatic for shishi, and to persuade her there was no risk to listen and whisper a few words into the night.

  He felt Tora touch his arm. Anxiously the youth pointed. A patrol had come through the far gates. It began to circle the grounds. Small pools of light were beneath the lanterns. Inevitably the patrol would come this way and be very close. His signal, the call of a night bird, gave the order.

  At once they sank deeper into the foliage and kept their heads lowered, hardly breathing. The patrol approached, and then passed without seeing them—just as Katsumata had forecast when he had suggested their attack plan: “Initially it will be easy to be missed in the dark. Never forget surprise is with you. Your infiltration will be totally unexpected. Who would dare to attack the Shōgun when he is surrounded by so many men? At a way station? Impossible! Remember, with stealth, surprise and ferocious speed two or three of you will reach the kernel—and one is enough.”

  Saigo watched the enemy marching away. A marvelous glow pervaded him and all his confidence returned. Another short wait until the enemy patrol had turned the corner, then he motioned for the attack teams to move into their predetermined positions. Protected from view by the shrubbery, four men slithered away to his right, two to his left. When all were in position, he took a deep breath to help slow his heartbeat. His signal, again the call of a night bird, gave the order to begin.

  At once the pair on his far right eased out of the shrubs onto the path, adjusting the ties on their pantaloons, and began strolling away, their arms around each other as lovers will. Within moments they had been noticed by the guards at the nearest hedge. “You two, halt!”

  The two youths obeyed and one called out, “Blue Rainbow, Blue Rainbow, Lord Sergeant,” and both laughed, pretending to be shy at being seen, then continued to stroll away, hand in hand.

  “Halt! Who are you?”

  “Ah, so sorry, just friends on a nightly stroll,” the youth said in his softest, most gentle voice. “Blue Rainbow, have you forgotten our password?”

  One of the samurai laughed and said, “If the Captain catches you ‘strolling’ in the bushes around here you’ll get more than a Blue Rainbow and both pairs of cheeks will know another type of beating!”

  Again both youths pretended to laugh. Unhurried, they walked away, ignoring more strident calls to stop. Finally the Sergeant shouted, “You two. Come here, at once!” They faced him a moment, calling out plaintively there was no harm in what they were doing. Saigo and the others, covered by the diversion, had been crawling into final positions. Taut with excitement that they had not been noticed, they rested a second, knowing this diversion was almost over. The sound of the night bird Saigo made this time was loud enough to reach the two youths.

  Without hesitation, they pretended to laugh and ran off gaily, hand in hand, directly away from the guards as though playing a game. Their path carelessly took them through a pool of light and allowed them to be seen clearly for the first time. With a shout of rage the Sergeant and four men charged in pursuit. Sentries at the far main gate peered into the darkness to see what was happening, and those guards at the hedge who could see beckoned
others nearby, all of them alert.

  The two shishi were quickly surrounded. Back to back, swords ready, they stood silently at bay under a barrage of questions, nothing effeminate now in their stance or the way their lips were drawn back from the teeth.

  Enraged, the Sergeant stepped forward a pace. The youth opposing him readied. His right hand darted into his sleeve and came out with a shuriken and before the Sergeant could duck or move aside the five-pointed circle of steel was embedded in his throat and he fell burbling, choking in his own blood. Both shishi leapt to the attack but neither could break out of the net and though they fought bravely, wounding three of the samurai, they were no match for the others who, though wanting to disarm them and capture them alive, could not do so.

  One of the youths took a sword thrust through the lower part of his back and cried out, severely wounded but not enough to kill him immediately. The other whirled to his aid and in that instant was mortally wounded and crumpled, dying. “Sonno-joi,” he gasped. Aghast, the other heard him, made one last impotent attempt to close with an attacker, then abruptly turned his sword on himself and fell on it.

  “Find the Captain,” a samurai panted, blood streaming from a sword slash in his arm. One of the others ran off as the rest collected around the bodies, the Sergeant still gurgling though dying fast. “Nothing we can do for him. Never seen a shuriken so fast.” Someone turned the two dead men over. “Look, death poems! Shishi all right—eeee, both Satsumas! They must have gone mad.”

  “Sonno-joi!” another muttered. “That’s not mad.”

  “It’s mad to say that aloud,” a hard-faced ashigaru warned him. “If an officer hears you …”

  “Listen, these motherless dogs had the password, there’s a traitor here!” More nervously they looked at each other.

  Over on the right the kitchen staff were transfixed, not knowing what was going on. Many samurai had been drawn away from the hedge and stood gaping at the bodies, creating the opening Katsumata and Saigo had planned.