“Like her second skin. You sent for me, Sire?”
“I want you to find Katsumata, alive if you can,” he had said. “Did you remove the traitor ronin working for the gai-jin as I ordered? What was his name? Ori Ryoma, a Satsuma, yes, that’s it.”
“That man is dead, Sire, but it seems he was not the traitor. Gai-jin killed Ori some weeks ago. They shot him trying to break into one of their houses. The man supplying them with information, still, is a Choshu ronin named Hiraga.”
Yoshi was startled. “He of the poster? The shishi who led those who murdered Utani?”
“Yes, Sire. For the moment I cannot remove him, he is under the protection of the Chief Ing’erish and stays close to their building. I have a spy in the village and can tell you more in a few days.”
“Good. What else? All this talk of war?”
“I hope to have more news in a few days.”
“Make it fewer than more,” he said curtly, dismissing him. “When you have serious news come back.”
Inejin won’t fail me, he thought, sorry that he had been short-tempered. Spies must be cherished like no others … on them depends your ability to move … Ah, Sun-tzu, what a genius you were—but even my intimate knowledge of your precepts does not tell me what to do about the gai-jin, about that stupid boy and my archenemy, the Princess Yazu—both still gorging on the honeyed gruel served by Court sycophants obeying that dog, the Lord Chancellor. What would you do to destroy the enemies that surround me? Anjo, the Elders, the Court, Ogama, Sanjiro—the list endless. And impossible. And atop them all, the gai-jin.
Then he had remembered the invitation to go aboard the Furansu—French—warship. The coaling venture that his wife, Hosaki, had positioned in conjunction with the Gyokoyamas and the gai-jin prospector, made it easy for him to send Misamoto, his make-believe samurai, the fisherman interpreter, to make the arrangements. This had taken place yesterday.
* * *
He had slipped away from Yedo by oared galley to a sea rendezvous without fanfare, just beyond sight of land—with Abeh twenty guards and Misamoto. The experience had been awesome. The size and power of the ship’s engines, and cannon, the amount of powder and shot and coal carried, and the stories they told, lies or truths he could not yet tell about the extent of their Furansu Empire, its wealth and power, the leagues of travel such a ship could cover, numbers of warships and cannon, and size of their armies, as they stated them, were beyond belief. Misamoto interpreted, with the interpreter who called himself Andreh Furansu-san. Though they had their own language this meeting was conducted mostly in English.
A lot of what he was told, Yoshi had not understood. The words used were strange and much time was spent explaining miles and yards and powder and pitch and pistons, paddle steamers against screw power, breech blocks and flintlocks, factories and firepower.
Yet all of it was illuminating and certain pieces of information of major importance: the vital necessity of coaling facilities and safe harbors, without which steamer warships were so many hulks—unable to carry all the coal needed for the voyage out, for naval operations, and then the voyage back. And second, as he had witnessed at the Council meeting with gai-jin in Yedo Castle and found it difficult to believe the true extent, any mention of Ing’erish gai-jin brought sneers to Furansu gai-jin faces, who had no hesitation in showing the extent of their hatred.
This delighted him and enhanced what Misamoto had said earlier, that Ing’erish were hated by nearly every other nation on earth because they had the biggest Empire, they were the strongest and wealthiest nation, with the greatest, most modern fleets, the most powerful, disciplined and best-equipped armies, as well as enjoying their gains by producing more than half of the world’s goods. With, best of all, an impregnable island redoubt to guard it all.
Of course they are hated. Like we Toranagas are hated. And therefore, he thought with an ache in his bowels for his past mistake, these Ing’erish gai-jin are the ones to be fawned on, to befriend, and handle with the most exquisite care. Best fleets? And arms? How could I tempt them into building me a fleet? Providing me with one? Would coal pay for it?
“Misamoto, say to them that I would like to learn more about these marvelous Furansu devices,” he said blandly, “and yes, I would like friends amongst gai-jin. I am not opposed to trade—perhaps I could arrange my coal concession to go to the Furansu and not the Ing’erish.”
This caught their immediate interest. At this time they were below decks in the largest cabin in the stern, which he found cramped and foul-smelling, with odors of oil and coal smoke and human waste, with a fine coating of coal dust everywhere. They sat around a long table, half a dozen officers in gold-braided uniforms and their leader, Seratard—Serata as it was correctly pronounced—in the center. Abeh and half his guards were at his back, the rest on deck.
The moment he had seen Seratard and heard his name he liked him immediately—totally different from the tall, sour-faced Ing’erish High Leader with the unpronounceable name. Serata, like Furansusan Andreh, were easily pronounceable. In fact the names were Japanese. Serata was a miraculous omen.
Serata was the name of his family’s ancestral village in which their ancestor, Yoshi-shigeh Serata-noh Minowara, had settled in the twelfth century. In the thirteenth, the warrior daimyo Yoshi-sada Serata raised an army against his overlords, the Hojo, obliterated them and captured their capital Kamakura and made it his own. Since then his direct descendants, the Yoshi noh Toranaga noh Serata, still ruled Kamakura—Shogun Yoshi Toranaga being buried there in his great mausoleum.
“So we are related,” he had joked, after explaining the coincidence to Seratard. Seratard had laughed and, with the others who chattered like so many monkeys in outlandish uniforms, then had explained that his own family was an ancient one in Furansuland too, but in no way as illustrious.
“My Master,” Andreh said with a bow, “my Master, he greatly honored be friend and gai-jin part of your great family, Sire.”
“Tell him that I consider his name a good sign,” he had said, noting this man seemed much more than just an interpreter.
“My Master thanks and says what Ing’erish promise, Furansu promise better.”
Misamoto said, obsequiously, “Lord, he means they will make a better deal—money arrangement. The Furansu make cannon as well as Ing’erish, though not as many.”
“Tell them I will consider a proposal to give them the coal concession. They must tell me how many guns or cannons, with powder and shot, and when I can have them, for how much coal. And I want a steamer, a steamship with officers to train my officers and sailors. In fact,” he added innocently, “perhaps I could grant Furansus the sole right to build, sell and train a navy. Of course, I would pay. If reasonable.”
He saw Misamoto’s eyes widen, but before Misamoto had time to begin, the gai-jin Andreh who had been listening equally carefully said, “My Master sure King of Furansuland, greatly honor assist Lord Yoshi Toranaga in ships.” Fascinated, he watched Andreh turn to Leader Serata and begin talking, the naval officers listening and nodding, quickly becoming as excited. Astonishing how easy to manipulate these men with trade and the future promise of money, he had thought. If the Furansus react so quickly, surely the Ing’erish leader will do so also. Two fish fighting for the same hook is better than one.
They had talked of other matters, not enough time to cover them all, but he learned enough to want to learn more. One detail Andreh Furansu-san had mentioned had rocked him. They had been discussing modern medical knowledge, and how easy it would be to train and equip a hospital: “Chief Medicine Doctor in Kanagawa good, Sire. Hear Tairō Anjo sick. Hear maybe tairō see Chief Doctor-sama.”
“When and where is this meeting to take place?”
“My Master say: not sure if arranged yet, Sire. Perhaps Chief Medicine Doctor help tairō.”
“If a meeting is arranged, tell me. Tell Serata also that a hospital is an interesting possibility.”
He decided to let
it go at that. For the moment. But that was another piece of information that Misamoto had better forget. How can I get a personal interpreter I can trust? I must have one. Perhaps I should train Misamoto, he is my running dog, dependent and in my grasp. So far he has been obedient. Certainly he handled the prospectors well. Pity he was away, detailing progress to Hosaki, when they fought—like wild beasts, the samurai reported, how apt! Had Misamoto been at the mine, perhaps he could have stopped them. Not that it matters, one dead is one less to worry about, and surely the survivor is not long for this world. Coal! So we have an abundance of coal, Hosaki says, and that for these gai-jin coal is as good as gold.
Deliberately, he changed tack. “Ask Serata-san why gai-jin fire cannon and rifles and send warships up and down to disturb the peace of this Land of the Gods? Do they prepare for war?”
There was a silence. The mood reversed.
“My Master say, no prepare war.” He saw Andreh gai-jin was translating meticulously. “Prepare defend only. So sorry, tairō say all gai-jin must leave.”
“Why not leave for a month or two and then return?” He laughed inwardly, seeing the consternation this generated.
“My Master says, Treaty signed by Lord Shōgun and made true by Bakufu leader tairō Ii, and Most High Emperor, allow us Yokohama, Kanagawa, Kobe soon. Treaty is good treaty for Nippon, gai-jin. tairō Anjo, so sorry, wrong to be angry.”
“Many daimyos do not think so. tairō Anjo is the leader. You should do what he orders. This is our land.”
“My Master says Furansu want help Nippon be great nation in world … as here too.”
“Say to Serata-sama, the tairō is the leader, what he says is to be obeyed, though sometimes,” he said delicately, “even the tairō may change if given the correct advice.” He saw this register. “So sorry, we have explained a dozen times that Satsuma matters may only be resolved by Sanjiro, the Satsuma daimyo.”
“My Master say hope someone can give correct advice to tairō. Satsuma daimyo must say sorry, pay indemnity agreed in Yedo meeting, punish killer openly.”
He had nodded as if gravely concerned. Abruptly, he got up to more consternation—no point in further talk with these underlings who were valuable in other ways, the Ing’erish Leader must be approached. This suited him perfectly. And while he kept his demeanor haughty and stern, he showed some friendliness and agreed, with pretended reluctance, to another meeting. “Misamoto, tell them we can meet in ten days, in Yedo. They may come to Yedo for a private meeting.”
Just as he was leaving the warship, the gai-jin Andreh said, “My Master wish you Good New Year.” Dumbfounded, he learned that the gai-jin world had its own calendar, totally different from the Japanese—and Chinese-lunar calender that had been the way to count the days and the months and years since the beginning of time.
“The first day of our year, Serata-sama,” Misamoto explained, “is between 16th day of First Month and 22nd day of Second Month depending on the moon. This year, the Year of the Dog, First Day, which begins our season of festivals, is the 18th of First Month. That’s when all China says Kung Hay Fat Choy.”
All the way back to Yedo in the galley Yoshi had wondered about these men. Mostly he was appalled—gai-jin were like monsters in the shape of men who had come from the stars, their ideas and attitudes the wrong side of yin and yang.
Yet for us to survive as a nation, Nippon has to have bigger ships and guns and more power to protect ourselves from this alien evil. And for now, he thought, feeling nauseated, the Shōgunate must make an accommodation with them.
They will never go away, not all of them, of their own accord. If not these, others will come to steal our heritage, Chinese or Mongols or Hairies from the Siber Ice lands who eye us like slavering dogs from ports stolen from China. And always the Ing’erish will be around us. What to do about them?
That was yesterday. Last night and in this dawn he had been deep in thought, hardly eating, hardly sleeping, conscious too of the emptiness of his bed and of his life—the seams of Koiko’s compartment leaking—like Anjo’s, and Ogama’s and the others. Many times during the journey here from Kyōto he had thought of the clean sword, the cleanliness and peace of death, the minute and the hour and the day chosen with godlike power—to choose your own death time made you a god: from nothing into nothing. No more sorrow grinding you to petals of pain.
So easy.
The first ray of dawn came through the shutters, touching his short sword. It was beside the bed with his long sword, both within perfect reach, his rifle there as well, loaded, the one he had named Nori. The short sword was an heirloom made by the Master Swordsmith Masumara and once possessed by Shōgun Toranaga. He saw the old used scabbard and through it, in his mind, the perfection of the blade. His hand stretched out, caressing the leather, then moved up to the hilt to rest on the small toggle secured to it. His father had instructed their swordsmith to attach it before presenting the sword to him, formally, in front of their inner circle of retainers. Yoshi was fifteen then and had killed his first man, a ronin who had run amok near his family castle, Eagle’s Nest.
“This is to remind you of your oath, my son: that you will carry this blade with honor, that you will use only this blade to commit seppuku, that you will only commit seppuku to avoid capture on a battlefield, or if the Shōgun orders it and the Council of Elders confirms the order unanimously. All other reasons are insufficient while the Shōgunate is in jeopardy.”
A terrible sentence, he thought, and lay back on his bed, safe for the moment in this room high up in his castle quarters where he had had so much pleasure. His eyes went back to the short sword. Today his need was very great. In his imagination he had rehearsed the act so many times that it would be so smooth and kind and releasing. Soon Anjo will send men to arrest me and that will be my excuse …
His sharp ears heard footsteps. Marching feet. His hands took up the short sword and the long sword and he was in defend-attack position.
“Sire?”
He recognized Abeh’s voice. That did not mean safety, Abeh could have a knife at his throat or Abeh could be a traitor—after Koiko everyone was suspect. “What is it?”
“The man Inejin begs to see you.”
“Have you searched him?”
“Seriously.”
Yoshi used the rope he had had rigged, allowing him to slide back the bolt on the reinforced door without moving.
Inejin, Abeh and four samurai waited there. He relaxed. “Come in, Inejin.” Abeh and the others of his personal guard started to follow. “There’s no need, but stay within calling.”
His spymaster came in and closed the door, noticed the bolt arrangement but did not comment, and knelt ten paces away.
“You’ve found Katsumata?”
“He will be in Yedo within three days, Sire. His first place of calling will be the House of Wisteria.”
“That den of scorpions?” Yoshi had not closed the trap on mama-san Meikin to learn the real extent of the plot against him before taking vengeance—vengeance best savored calmly. And he did not yet feel calm. “Could we take him alive?”
Inejin smiled strangely. “I doubt it, but may I tell the story in my own way, Sire?” He settled his aching knee more comfortably. “First about the gai-jin: a development hoped for and encouraged since the beginning has happened. A gai-jin spy has offered their battle plans for money.”
His attention soared. “Not false ones?”
“I do not know, Sire, but it was whispered they contained troop and ship movements. The price was modest, even so the Bakufu official did not buy at once and began to haggle and the seller became frightened. With Anjo at the head …” The cracked leather lips twisted with disgust at the name. “He’s baka, unworthy!—if the head is rotten the body is worse.”
“I agree. Stupid.”
Inejin nodded. “They forgot Sun-tzu again, Sire: To remain in ignorance of the enemy’s condition, begrudging the outlay of a few hundred ounces of silver is the height o
f inhumanity. Fortunately an informant whispered about it to me.” Inejin took a scroll from his sleeve and put it on the table. Yoshi sighed, pleased. “So ka!”
“With the help of my informant, I bought it for you, a gift, Sire. Also at great risk to my informant, I substituted a false scroll the Bakufu eventually will buy cheaply.”
Yoshi did not touch the scroll, only looked at it with anticipation. “Please allow me to reimburse you,” he said. Inejin covered his vast relief, for he had had to pledge their Inn to the Gyokoyama to obtain the money. “See my cashier today. Is the information to be trusted?”
Inejin shrugged. Both knew another of Sun-tzu’s precepts: An inside spy is the most dangerous, one who sells secrets for money. It takes a man of genius to penetrate such. “My informant swears that the information is to be trusted and also the spy.”
“And it says?”
“The gai-jin plan is frighteningly simple. On Battle Day, ten days after their ultimatum is delivered—if not complied with—their whole fleet moves against Yedo. The first day the attack area is farthest from the coast, Sire, the extreme range of their heaviest cannon, designed to pulverize all bridges and roads leading out of Yedo—these are pinpointed, more knowledge given them no doubt by the traitor Hiraga. That night, by the light of the fires they have begun, they bombard the castle. The next day the coastal areas are decimated. On the third day they will land a thousand rifle soldiers and drive for the castle gates. There they will mount siege mortars and smash the gates and bridges and as much of the castle as they can. On the fifth day they retreat and sail away.”
“To Yokohama?”
“No, Sire. The plan says they will evacuate all gai-jin the day before Battle Day and retreat to Hong Kong until the spring. Then they will come back in force. The cost of the war—as with their Chinese wars, and is their custom—will be doubled, and demanded as reparations from the Shōgunate and the Emperor as well as complete access to all Nippon, including Kyōto and an island ceded in perpetuity, to cease hostilities.”
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