Tokyo Bay

by Anthony Grey

  Armstrong watched tensely as Haniwara Tokuma began to translate again, but before he had gone very far there was a stirring at the entrance to the pavilion. The missionary looked up in time to see the glowering figure of Lord Daizo step silently inside, accompanied by an equally dark-faced young Japanese wearing the travel-stained armour of a samurai beneath a nobleman’s red jimbaori. The demeanour of both men was tense and hostile, and Haniwara Tokuma stumbled again over his words as he lifted his head to dart an uneasy glance in their direction. After a moment he recovered himself and Armstrong saw Lord Daizo and his companion shift to a position from which they could be seen clearly by the interpreter.

  As soon as the translation ended, the Governor of Uraga rose and stepped respectfully towards the grave, impassive figure of Prince Toda. In front of the prince’s stool he suddenly prostrated himself full- length, pressed his forehead to the red carpet, and remained in this position of absolute homage for several seconds. Feeling his own anxiety mounting, Armstrong moved unobtrusively to the side of the Japanese interpreter and leaned close to his ear.

  ‘What is happening, Haniwara-san?’ asked the missionary in an urgent whisper. ‘Is His Excellency about to deliver your receipt to the admiral?’

  ‘Yes: replied the Japanese in a frantic undertone. ‘I have a translation for you...’ He paused, took a text in Dutch from his sleeve, and handed it over. ‘Now, please return to your place.’

  ‘I wish to help you avert a disaster,’ whispered Armstrong, glancing at the translation and pretending to point enquiringly to something on the page. ‘What must you do to unleash the attack?’

  The Japanese caught his breath and looked up with a haunted expression in his eyes. Then his face clenched suddenly and some dam of inner reserve gave way, broken at last by the heavy burden of fear he had nursed alone for so long. ‘When given a signal, I should strike the trapdoor three times with my foot he whispered hoarsely. ‘I must do it.’

  ‘Where’s the trapdoor?’ hissed Armstrong, pointing to his translation again, but glancing desperately around the pavilion. ‘Where exactly is it?’

  ‘Behind the red chest: murmured the Japanese, bending forward to make a show of looking more closely at Armstrong’s sheet of paper. ‘It’s very near to your admiral’s seat

  The governor had raised himself from the carpet but was still kneeling deferentially with his head bowed, in a waiting posture. Very slowly, without otherwise moving, Prince Toda pulled a scroll from one of the deep sleeves of his gown and handed it wordlessly to the governor. After prostrating himself once more, the official rose and backed slowly away from the First Counsellor of the Empire, bowing repeatedly at each step. Finally, at a distance, he turned and began to cross the pavilion towards Commodore Perry carrying the scroll which was bound with an imperial yellow ribbon. As he watched-him go, Armstrong glanced quickly towards the pavilion entrance and saw Lord Daizo staring hard at Haniwara Tokuma, as though willing him to look in his direction.

  ‘I will go and stand on the trapdoor myself and block the way,’ whispered Armstrong, making a sudden decision. ‘Then you’ll be unable to reach it to give the order to attack!’

  The Japanese interpreter’s eyes grew suddenly - round. ‘No! No! Please don’t, Armstrong-san! If you do, you could be the first to die!’

  Armstrong felt a sudden chill of fear deep inside his bowels and he hesitated; then he noticed that a glimmer of hope had appeared in the stricken eyes of the Japanese interpreter. ‘It’s only right I should take some risk myself after all this time,’ muttered the missionary and moved off towards the lacquered chest, trying to make his action seem casual.

  Walking very slowly, Armstrong paused before the chest and looked over the formal documents and their containers, as though assuring himself that every last formality had been complied with. Then he stepped sideways and shuffled back a pace or two, clearing his throat and glancing down at his translation of the imperial receipt. Noticing for the first time the seams in the floor-covering which defined the trapdoor, he took a deep breath and stepped squarely onto one end of it as if he was seeking a less obtrusive standpoint from which to observe the rest of the proceedings. Watching the governor begin to prostrate himself in front of Commodore Perry, Armstrong steeled himself not to look towards Lord Daizo, and at the same time he tried not to think about the hidden cohort of armed warriors waiting to spring into action a few feet beneath the soles of his boots.

  ‘What is being presented now, Mr. Armstrong, please?’ asked Flag Lieutenant Rice suddenly as the governor straightened up from his prostration and offered the parchment respectfully to Commodore Perry.

  ‘This is the imperial receipt for our Presidential letter,’ replied the missionary hastily, lifting the paper in his hand into view. ‘I’ve been given this translation in Dutch, which I shall read out in a moment. It’s quite in order for the commodore to accept it.’

  The throne borrowed from the Buddhist temple creaked in the silence as Perry leaned down stiffly to accept the scroll from the governor’s hand. Once he had taken it, the governor lowered his face to the floor once more, then rose and backed away, bowing at each step until he had resumed his place beside his own interpreter on the opposite side of the pavilion. Haniwara Tokuma’s hands were shaking as he lifted his translation into view and began to read it aloud; but it was also noticeable that he no longer allowed his attention to stray to the pavilion entrance, where Lord Daizo and his son still stood staring fixedly at him.

  ‘The imperial receipt states that the letter of the American President is “hereby received and will be delivered to the Emperor”: said Armstrong, glancing up from his text towards Commodore Perry; who was looking enquiringly in his direction. ‘It further says, “Many times it has been communicated to you that business relating to foreign countries cannot be transacted here in the Bay of Yedo but only in Naga-said. However, it being observed that the admiral, in his capacity as ambassador of the American President, would be insulted by these arrangements, the justice of this has therefore been acknowledged. Consequently the above-mentioned letter is hereby received on this day and at this place, Kurihama, although such acceptance is quite contrary to the general laws of Japan.”

  Armstrong paused in his reading to look up, and saw Commodore Perry nod haughtily in acknowledging that he had succeeded in forcing an unprecedented concession from his reluctant hosts. The commanders of the Susquehanna and the Mississippi, who were seated close behind, also leaned forward to nod and murmur approvingly. From the corner of his eye, however, Armstrong saw Lord Daizo move a pace or two further into the pavilion, so as to become directly visible to Haniwara Tokuma. Seeing this convinced Armstrong that a moment of crisis was approaching, and he looked down quickly again at his translation.

  ‘There’s one last paragraph, Commodore: he said in a more urgent tone. ‘And it’s very brief and to the point. It says simply: “Because this is not a place where negotiations can be conducted with foreigners, neither a conference nor any entertainment can be permitted. Therefore as the letter has been received, you will now leave here immediately.”

  Perry bristled on his seat. Then he frowned and turned to confer in a confidential undertone with his two commanders. At that moment Armstrong looked up towards the entrance of the pavilion and saw Lord Daizo lift his right hand slowly across his body to clasp his left shoulder in a deliberate gesture; he had already fixed his hostile gaze on Haniwara Tokuma, and the missionary knew instinctively he was seeing the prearranged signal being made. Inside his chest his heart began to throb wildly, and he held his breath as he watched for the interpreter’s response.

  For a long time Haniwara seemed to stare back at the daimyo, as though hypnotized. He did not move but Armstrong could see that his hands, which still clutched the translation of the imperial receipt, were shaking more than ever. Then abruptly he turned to look towards the American missionary; his expression was agonized and beseeching in the same moment, and his eyes burned with a te
rrible indecision. Wondering what he would do if the interpreter decided to rush towards the trapdoor and push him aside by physical force, Armstrong felt sweat break out on his own brow. He was trying wordlessly to convey encouragement and compassion in equal measure to the Japanese as he looked steadily back at him but, fearing he was not being successful, he began to pray desperately inside his head.

  The indistinct murmur of the commodore’s voice merging with those of his senior officers was the only sound to break the strained silence in the pavilion, and all eyes were focused intently on them. Nobody but Armstrong was aware of the terrible battle of wills being fought out silently by the daimyo and the scholarly interpreter, and only the missionary witnessed the decisive moment when the struggle was lost and won. Outwardly the appearance of the interpreter scarcely changed; his face remained very pale but Armstrong noticed that a curious calmness seemed to descend upon him as he turned again in the direction of the daimyo with a new sense of resolution evident in his bearing. His eyes were lowered, and the missionary saw that he did not raise his head to challenge Lord Daizo directly; but his determined defiance of the nobleman’s intimidation was silently and unmistakably expressed in the total immobility of his small, slender body.

  As the moments ticked by, Lord Daizo had become visibly more impatient, but Armstrong saw his face darken suddenly with rage when he recognized the interpreter’s defiance for what it was. Dropping his right arm to his side, he lifted it very deliberately across his chest in a last, furious repetition of the secret signal, while glaring anew at the interpreter, willing him to obey. But, instead of reacting, Haniwara Tokuma slowly turned his back on the daimyo and glanced towards the governor who was standing at his side, making it clear he was patiently awaiting the instructions of his immediate superior.

  For a moment Lord Daizo stared across the pavilion with an expression of outright disbelief on his face. Then Armstrong saw him lean angrily towards his son and whisper urgent orders in his ear. While listening, Yakamochi glanced towards Commodore Perry and the other senior American officers who, in defiance of the order they had been given to leave, were still conferring in low voices. Yakamochi’s eyes narrowed in concentration as he listened, suggesting to Armstrong that he was memorising positions and measuring distances in his mind; then he bowed quickly to his father and rushed from the pavilion.

  The exterior entrance to the tunnel which gave access to the secret underground chamber was situated a hundred yards to the rear of the ceremonial pavilion. The entrance itself and the approaches to it were all heavily screened with blue and white canvas barriers, and groups of sentinels drawn randomly from different regional clans were stationed at intervals along the narrow canvas corridors. An expectant hush had fallen over the whole beach, and the thousands of Japanese fighting men and civilians drawn up around the crescent-shaped bay seemed to strain their ears in a vain effort to detect what was going on inside the marquee.

  On emerging hurriedly from the outer vestibule, Yakamochi stopped and beckoned to his chief bodyguard, who had been waiting discreetly in the shadow of the pavilion. Lifting a hand to shade his eyes, Yakamochi scanned the nearest groups of sentinels, searching for signs of Makabe emblems on their battle-dress.

  ‘What are you seeking, my lord?’ asked the bodyguard. ‘May I be of assistance?’

  ‘Yes hissed Yakamochi. ‘We need the correct passwords to gain immediate entry to the underground chamber! One of our samurai sentries could tell us!’

  ‘What is our aim, my lord?’

  ‘A signal to attack the foreign barbarians inside the pavilion has been ignored. We must lead the assassination force ourselves!’

  Without hesitation the bodyguard ran to the nearest group of sentries and drew aside a Makabe samurai. After conferring briefly with him he returned quickly to Yakamochi’s side.

  ‘The password for the screened areas and the tunnel entrance, my lord, is kurufune - black ships! And for the door of the chamber itself at the end of the tunnel it is kamikaze - divine storm!’

  ‘Excellent! We must move quickly. Follow me!’ Yakamochi set off rapidly along the outside border of the screened zone, followed closely by the guard. When they reached the guard post nearest to the tunnel entrance and gave the password the sentries bowed low and allowed both men through without further questions. The narrow, low-roofed tunnel, shored up with pinewood props, was lit only feebly with a few paper lanterns, but Yakamochi led the way through it at a crouching run. Outside the wooden door of the chamber, two samurai sentries again bowed deferentially low on hearing the whispered code-word, and stepped aside after indicating that strict silence should be observed inside the underground chamber itself

  As Yakamochi pushed open the door and stepped quietly over the threshold, the alert eyes of a dozen fully armoured warriors turned to look at him. By the light of a single, flickering lantern he could see that some of the samurai were crouching warily by the flight of wooden steps that led up to the trapdoor; others were standing or kneeling beside the earthen wails, and all without exception carried long killing swords, as well as shorter daggers in their sashes. It was evident from their alert postures that all were ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice and that every swordsman was listening attentively for the slightest sound from above.

  ‘The signal for action has already been given!’ rasped Yakamochi, looking quickly around the chamber. ‘But a treacherous official failed to carry out his orders! I’ve been sent to lead you in the attack!’

  He drew his sword with a flourish and stepped towards the wooden steps.

  ‘Follow me, now! Death to the foreign barbarians!’

  He lunged towards the steps, but as he did so Prince Tanaka Yoshio ducked silently out of the shadows beneath them to bar his way, his naked sword already raised in his hand. Behind him, Gotaro was also dimly visible and Yakamochi could see that he too was holding an unsheathed sword.

  ‘If you wish, to attack the foreign barbarians, you will have to kill us first!’ said Tanaka softly, positioning himself with care on the lower step. ‘We shall not let you pass.’

  Looking Yakamochi in the eye, Tanaka stood very still, his sword as steady as a rock before him.

  ‘Why do you love the foreign barbarians so much,

  O Kami-san?’ snarled Yakamochi, moving slowly towards him. ‘What is the reason for your abject treachery?’

  ‘It would be madness to attack the barbarians now! With their superior weapons and ships they can invade us and make us their slaves for centuries to come.’ Tanaka paused, measuring the distance between them with his eye; then very quickly he moved two steps higher. ‘If we provoke them, they will do just that - and our proud nation will be ruined. . . perhaps forever!’

  ‘And if we don’t?’ demanded Yakamochi in a harsh whisper, moving slowly forward once again. ‘Do you think they won’t see us as weak and cowardly - and treat us even worse than slaves?’

  Watching the young Makabe nobleman intently, Tanaka lowered the tip of his sword until it pointed directly at the centre of his chest. ‘With their guns and mighty ships, the foreign barbarians are the overlords of the whole world at present. But it’s the divine destiny of our great Emperor to become the chief of all nations. .

  ‘We agree on that, so we should kill now - to show them our courage!’

  ‘No! We must deceive the foreign barbarians long enough to learn all their secrets. Then some day we shall exceed their strength - and lead the world in their place!’

  ‘You’re wrong, O Kami-san,’ sneered Yakamochi, taking a sudden step forward and dropping into a crouch by the bottom step. ‘It’s always best to attack first - and by surprise! Your body will be trampled in our attack!’

  Yakamochi dodged suddenly to the left and his sword flashed towards Tanaka’s head in a feint designed to throw him off balance. But, to his astonishment, Tanaka remained absolutely motionless on the higher step, watching his opponent’s blade calmly as it passed within a few inches of his
face. Caught off balance himself, Yakamochi tried to lunge to the other side, slashing ferociously upwards at Tanaka’s throat. But Tanaka leaned forward with lightning speed, and in the same movement plunged his sword hilt-deep into Yakamochi’s chest. He withdrew the weapon just as swiftly and Yakamochi froze in his tracks, his eyes staring sightlessly, his arms held high in the air. His sword fell first to the sandy floor of the chamber, then he sagged down silently beside it, his mouth opened wide in a soundless scream of agony.

  ‘Does anybody. else favour attacking the foreign barbarians now?’ asked Tanaka softly, looking first at Yakamochi’s stunned bodyguard, then glancing round slowly at the face of each samurai warrior in turn. ‘If you do, please say so.’

  Nobody moved or spoke. In the deep silence Tanaka came slowly down from the steps and wiped his sword with great care on Yakamochi’s red cloak. After one further quick glance around the shadowy chamber he returned the clean blade emphatically to its scabbard.

  In the main hall of the pavilion above, there was a rustle of anticipation as Commodore Perry finished his murmured consultations and turned back to confront the two grave-faced Japanese dignitaries. Rising to his feet, he looked sternly across the room, and the silken tassels of his cockade shivered as he drew himself up to his full height.

  ‘It is my intention to leave the Bay of Yedo at a time of my own choosing,’ he declared sonorously. ‘My squadron of ships will probably depart two or three days from now, when our nautical surveys of the bay are complete.’