Tokyo Bay

by Anthony Grey

  ‘Is the daimyo you spoke of present, Haniwara-san?’ he asked quietly, casting his eye quickly over the groups of nobles now assembled along one side of the pavilion.

  ‘Yes replied the interpreter in a frightened whisper, staring again at the floor. ‘But you can say nothing of this. He has taken my wife and children hostage, to ensure my compliance with his orders... They will be killed if I don’t obey him. ..‘

  All the Japanese nobles were staring grimly at the arriving foreigners but Armstrong encountered for a fleeting moment the deeply malevolent individual gaze of Lord Daizo, who was standing apart from the others close to the entrance of the pavilion. His narrow eyes were focused chillingly on the two of them, and Armstrong knew that he had instinctively identified Haniwara’s tormentor.

  ‘What are your orders?’ asked Armstrong in a frantic last whisper, as they mounted the steps to the inner chamber and prepared to separate to their respective sides. ‘What must you do?’

  ‘For defensive reasons armed warriors are stationed in hiding here: murmured the interpreter. ‘To save the lives of my family I must give them a secret signal to attack. .

  He broke off abruptly on seeing that the American officers in front, who had been shielding them from the gaze of the imperial delegates, were moving aside. Proceeding more briskly, they took up position behind their commander-in-chief, who was already seated regally on one of the carved thrones. Commodore Perry’s back was ramrod straight, one hand rested significantly on his gilded sword-hilt, and his eyes were fixed haughtily on his hosts. Left with no alternative, Armstrong reluctantly parted company with the interpreter and turned aside to assume his own place, standing a respectful pace or two behind the commodore’s seat. He watched Haniwara Tokuma kneel down beside the governor, wondering desperately about the man’s unfinished words and when an awkward silence fell in the chamber, he looked about himself anxiously, trying without success to discern where armed warriors might be hidden behind the sumptuous wall coverings. He felt a strong urge to lean towards the commodore and whisper a warning about the danger they faced - but at the last moment his promise to respect the confidences of the terrified Japanese interpreter stopped him. Waiting and watching in an agony of suspense, he tried to think how he might otherwise help; but no obvious course of action suggested itself, and he resorted again to a fierce, silent prayer.

  ‘Toda-Idzu-no-kami to Ido-Iwami-no-kami deguzaimasu said the governor suddenly, bowing towards the seated Americans. ‘Toda-Idzu-no-kami wa dai-rochu deguzaimasu.’

  ‘Toda, Prince of Idzu, and Ido, Prince of Iwami, are your hosts,’ said Haniwara Tokuma, translating the governor’s words into Dutch in an unsteady voice, ‘Prince Toda, on the left, is the honoured First Counsellor of the Empire.’

  In the curious, strained silence that again followed Armstrong’s further translation into English, nobody else attempted to speak. The two imperial delegates, both grave-faced men in their late fifties or early sixties, continued to sit unmoving on their stools and, directly opposite them, Commodore Perry and his two senior commanders had become equally immobile. No vestige of expression appeared on the faces of the two Japanese dignitaries but, after scrutinizing them carefully, Armstrong felt that in their remote manner there was more than a hint of apprehension.

  At the foot of the red-carpeted steps in the outer vestibule, the two young sailors from the Susquehanna stood as still as they were able, holding in both arms the pouches of scarlet baize which contained the boxed letters from the President of the United States. Beside these diminutive messengers, the two black bodyguards flanking them appeared taller than ever. With their revolving rifles slung about their shoulders, they too stared ahead expressionlessly, dwarfing everybody else in the pavilion. Beyond them, among the nobles grouped by the entrance, Armstrong again picked out the squat, fierce-eyed daimyo whom he had noticed watching Haniwara Tokuma earlier. Lord Daizo’s scowl had not changed and the missionary noticed that his eyes rarely shifted from the figure of the kneeling interpreter. From time to time, however, he cocked his head as though listening intently for some sound from outside the pavilion and, on noticing this, Armstrong knew beyond any shadow of doubt that the Japanese interpreter had been telling the truth.

  ‘Are your official letters and the translations and copies now ready for delivery?’ asked Haniwara Tokuma suddenly in Dutch, after whispered prompting from the governor at his side. ‘If so, Prince Toda is prepared to receive them.’

  The interpreter avoided Armstrong’s eyes as he spoke, but the missionary could see that the tension inside him was increasing. Feeling his own sense of helplessness grow, Armstrong made the translation quickly and watched Commodore Perry signal with one white-gloved hand for the young American bearers and the black bodyguards to stand by.

  ‘We wish to make it clear that Prince Toda will not touch the letters: added the Japanese interpreter hastily, rising to his feet and gesturing to the cloth- covered tray laid out on the lacquered chest. ‘Prince Toda should not be approached... Your letters are to be placed here after your bearers have knelt to show their respect.’

  ‘In our country we show our respect by standing,’ snapped the commodore, on hearing Armstrong’s translation. ‘There will be no kneeling here - by me or any of my men!’

  After listening to Perry’s reply, the governor rose slowly from his knees and took up a position beside his interpreter, leaving clear the approach to the lacquered chest. A moment later the commodore beckoned for the bearers of the letters to advance into the inner chamber. Followed closely by their tall escorts, the boy sailors marched proudly forward in silence. Their faces shone with the excitement of the moment and inside their minds as they moved they could still hear the commodore’s ringing words addressed to them earlier that morning: ‘You will have the honour of bearing the President’s letter ashore. You will carry the very key that will open Japan.’

  On reaching the scarlet chest the boy sailors halted, turned smartly and passed their ornate packages reluctantly into the hands of the two black bodyguards who had moved up beside them. Removing the gold-encrusted rosewood boxes from their pouches of scarlet baize, the bodyguards opened them for all to see. Taking out the President’s letter to the Emperor, and the commodore’s letter of credence, they held them aloft for a moment so that the watching Japanese could see that they were beautifully written on vellum, and bound in blue silk velvet.

  Each of the presidential seals, attached to the letters by cords of interwoven silks, was encased in a large, finely wrought, circular box of pure gold fully six inches in diameter, and a buzz of subdued comment rose from the watching Japanese as the bodyguards leaned forward to place the ornamented letters and their containers in the tray. From the baize pouches they then extracted two further letters, from the commodore to the Emperor, as well as copies and translations of each communication, and positioned them with equal care on the lid of the chest. Having completed their task, the bodyguards drew themselves up to their full height and saluted the documents with great solemnity. Then, after glancing enquiringly towards their commander-in-chief, and receiving his curt nod of approval, they turned and marched briskly back to the outer chamber to resume their places beside the boy sailors.

  ‘Inform His Highness Prince Toda that the communications from the President of the United States and myself are duly delivered,’ said the commodore grandly, rising from his seat and nodding in Samuel Armstrong’s direction. ‘Ensure also that His Highness understands that copies and translations into both the Dutch and Chinese languages have been provided for his convenience.’

  Armstrong complied, and they watched Haniwara bow low to the governor before murmuring his translation in a halting voice. In his turn the governor prostrated himself in front of Prince Toda, to whisper an account of what had been said. But the imperial delegate made no gesture of acknowledgement and, in the silence that followed, Armstrong heard the first sounds of a distant commotion beyond the pavilion’s canvas walls. Several voi
ces were shouting and chanting angrily in unison, and the noise grew in volume as the voices drew nearer. If Commodore Perry heard them, however, he gave no outward sign and he again gesticulated for Armstrong to translate.

  ‘Inform His Highness further that in summary the President’s letter expresses our wish that the United States and Japan should trade with each other for mutual benefit,’ declared the commodore ringingly. ‘And that coal and provisions should be commercially supplied to all our passing steamships whenever required. And that civilized protection should invariably be granted to any Americans shipwrecked on Japan’s shores. .?

  Perry paused for the two sets of translations to be made, then straightened his shoulders a further fraction, to lend additional emphasis to his words.

  ‘In addition, my own letters to the Emperor reiterate that we wish to live in peace and friendship with Japan - but they also point out clearly that no friendship can long exist unless Japan ceases to act towards American citizens as if they were her worst enemies! No more shipwrecked American seamen shall be publicly exhibited in cages! No more visiting US ships should be forced back to sea! Tell His Highness my letters state that, as evidence of our friendly intentions, we have come this time with only four of our smaller warships -- but, should it become necessary, we can return very soon to Yedo Bay with a much larger force!’

  While he was translating this declaration, Armstrong was aware that the commotion from outside was increasing. Haniwara Tokuma clearly noticed this too and in his distraction he stumbled several times over his translation. Around the pavilion, many seated Japanese and some of the American officers were beginning to listen frowningly to the noise, although the imperial delegates themselves remained unmoving and statue-like on their stools. From the corner of his eye Armstrong noticed a sudden flurry of movement by the entrance to the pavilion and, looking up, he noticed that the scowling face of Lord Daizo had disappeared.

  ‘We should like you next to read to the imperial delegates the full texts of the letters: whispered Lieutenant Rice at the missionary’s shoulder, while the governor was completing the translation to his superior. ‘And don’t pay any attention to the noise outside, whatever it may be. It’s the commodore’s wish that we should all continue to preserve an appearance of absolute imperturbability So take all the time you need. There’s no hurry.’

  Riding at full gallop through the outer ranks of archers and pikemen drawn up to the rear of the pavilion, Lord Daizo grunted with satisfaction when he caught sight of moving pennants bearing his own insignia. They fluttered above a long line of samurai cavalrymen descending through the dunes at the foot of the hills, and he recognized immediately the erect figure of his son riding at their head. In the same moment he saw too the black norimono bobbing down the broad path fifty yards or so behind Yakamochi, carried on the shoulders of the turbaned bearers. A growing crowd was gathering on the beach to watch the column approach, and chanting civilians were already running downhill alongside the norimono and its escort.

  The chanting, which had prompted him to rush from the ceremony and mount his horse at the rear of the pavilion, was swelling in volume and as he drew nearer, a smile of grim satisfaction spread slowly across Daizo’s face. He had given his son instructions to encourage the shouting of anti-barbarian slogans as his column approached the beach, and now he could hear angry voices yelling, over and over again, ‘Son no Jo-i! Son no Jo-i!’ - ‘Revere the Emperor! Expel the hideous aliens!’

  Spurring his horse forward, Lord Daizo entered the dunes, followed closely by three personal bodyguards. When they met and halted, his son bowed dutifully from the saddle in greeting, as did Sawara, hi new guard captain, who was riding at his side. On catching sight of the daimyo of the Makabe clan arrayed in his finest formal silks and brocades, the chanting spectators who had been escorting the column fell silent and gathered in awe around the stationary norimono.

  ‘You’ve done well, Yakamochi,’ said Lord Daizo, nodding approvingly. ‘You’ve arrived just at the necessary moment.’

  ‘Thank you, O Kami-san,’ Yakamochi bowed low in acknowledgement of the compliment. ‘I’m glad to have carried out your esteemed instructions successfully.’

  ‘Have you already displayed the barbarian prisoner to the people?’ enquired Daizo, glancing calculatingly at the throng pressing curiously all around them. ‘Have they had their first glimpse of him?’

  ‘Not yet, O Kami-san!’ replied Yakamochi deferentially. ‘But they are aware that we have a treacherous foreign barbarian inside and you’ve already heard the angry outcry which greeted this!’

  ‘Let those inside the pavilion hear more of Nippon’s anger this very moment!’ commanded Daizo fiercely. ‘Show him to them now!’

  Yakamochi nodded to Sawara who dismounted and strode purposefully to the standing norimono, from which its bearers had retreated a few paces.

  Pulling open the door he leaned inside - then froze, staring into the carrying-chair with an astonished expression on his face. For several seconds the new guard captain stood as though paralysed; then, after glancing anxiously over his shoulder towards his waiting masters, he dragged into the daylight the trembling figure of the anonymous Japanese bearer who had been taken captive at dawn by the Kago samurai of Prince Tanaka Yoshio. Still blindfolded, and bound hand and foot, the scrawny Nipponese bearer swayed unsteadily on his feet while Lord Daizo, Yakamochi, all their assembled warriors and the watching crowd gazed at him in stunned disbelief.

  ‘Who is this?’ roared Lord Daizo suddenly. ‘Identify him!’

  Reaching out with one hand the samurai guard captain tugged off the blindfold and the bloodstained cloth which had been wound around the captive’s head by Tanaka’s men as a rough disguise. Confused further by the sudden, blinding sunlight, the terrified prisoner tried to cower away, and would have fallen if the guard captain had not seized him by the shoulder.

  ‘Where is the foreign barbarian?’ demanded Daizo, his voice shaking with barely controlled fury. He urged his horse forward, peered for a moment into the empty carrying-chair, then glared round at his son. ‘He seems to have disappeared into thin air!’

  Speechless and white-faced with shock, Yakamochi dismounted and hurried to stare incredulously into the empty norimono. ‘I don’t understand he stammered, looking up at his scowling father. ‘I can’t imagine how-’

  ‘This is one of our own bearers, O Kami-san,’ exclaimed Sawara suddenly, staring hard at the shuddering captive. ‘But where are the rest of them?’

  ‘There!’ said Daizo sharply from his saddle, pointing over the heads of the crowd. ‘They’re running away!’

  The disguised Kago samurai, who moments before had been standing unnoticed a few yards from the carrying-chair, had slipped quietly away through the crowd and were now dashing through the sand dunes towards the hills. But they were not fleeing in disarray, like fearful men. Instead they were running purposefully, in a disciplined group, making for a track that led up into the nearest belt of trees. Some of them had lost their turbans or cast them off deliberately and their warrior topknots were now clearly visible as they ran.

  ‘Samurai in disguise: breathed Yakamochi in astonishment. He stared after the fleeing men, then turned suddenly to his guard captain. ‘Send men to cut them down! But try to capture at least one of them alive for questioning!’

  As two dozen yelling Makabe warriors spurred their horses towards the hills, scattering the crowd before them, Yakamochi drew his sword and seized the terrified captive by his hair.

  ‘What happened?’ he rasped, jerking the man off his feet. ‘Tell the truth!’

  ‘Please be merciful, my lord,’ wailed the bearer in terror. ‘I was captured in the mist at dawn-’

  ‘Who captured you?’

  ‘Men of the Kago clan, my lord... They threatened to kill me. They made me tell them about the barbarian prisoner. .

  ‘And you told them?’

  The trembling bearer nodded despairingly. ‘Yes, my lord. A
nd they seized a norimono just like ours. - - They tied me hand and foot and put me inside. -. Then they followed you down the ravine, watching for their chance to switch the carrying-chairs and deceive you.’

  As comprehension dawned, Yakamochi released the bearer’s hair and let him sink sobbing to his knees. For a brief instant he stared down at the cowering man, his eyes ablaze with anger and frustration.

  ‘You betrayed the Makabe clan and the land of the gods,’ he said quietly.

  ‘I deeply regret it, my lord!’ whined the bearer. ‘Please forgive my weakness.’

  ‘There can be no forgiveness for such abject cowardice,’ breathed Yakamochi, and in the same moment swung his sword downward with great force, severing the man’s head from his shoulders. He watched dispassionately as the headless body rolled sideways, gushing blood into the sand; then he stepped forward and wiped his crimson blade on the dead man’s tattered clothing, before thrusting it back into its scabbard.

  Looking up, Yakamochi sought the eye of his guard captain. All colour had drained from Sawara’s face during the ruthless execution, and he understood instantly the significance of Yakamochi’s grim expression. Drawing a quick breath, he nodded briefly to his nearest Makabe warrior, then sank slowly to his knees in the sand. He tugged his body armour aside, fumbled briefly with his clothing below the waist, then very slowly drew his short sword from its scabbard. The finely honed blade gleamed in the sun, and Sawara stared at it for only a second or two with a strangely calm look in his eyes.

  ‘I, Sawara, have failed in my duties towards the Makabe clan,’ he said, speaking very softly. ‘Therefore this action is inevitable.’

  Leaning quickly to the ground, he tucked the wide sleeves of his fighting kimono securely under his knees to avoid the humiliation of toppling backwards when he no longer had control. As soon as this was done, he grasped the hilt of the short sword in both fists, placed its sharpened tip against his lower abdomen on the left-hand side, and jabbed it deeply into his vitals. With an expressionless face he drew the sword steadily across to the right-hand side, before turning it in the long wound and cutting sharply upwards. As he removed the sword, his face betrayed its first signs of pain and he stretched out his neck. In this instant the warrior hovering at his side drew his own long sword from his sash. For a second, the blade hung in the air, then it flashed downward, and the ugly thud of the blow striking home was followed by another softer sound. At the moment of his decapitation the guard captain uttered no sound, and died silently.