The Incident at Naha

by M. J. Bosse

Soon I was there again, amazingly seated like an actual scholar in front of a microviewer. After I threaded the little coil of film into the holders and turned one of those knobs on the thing, there suddenly into view came the now-familiar scrawl of our Bostonian. It was like meeting a close friend, the kind you run up to and kiss after only a week’s separation. I was quickly oriented; I mean, I knew where I was at in the complicated voyage. I was proud of it. Ho ho, there were two historians in the family.

  The steam frigates had left Tokyo after the first visit and were headed south for overhaul in Hong Kong. Chronologically, therefore, Jimmy’s Pot followed on the heels of Paco’s Prince. This meant I was, like, in the middle of the whole voyage, so I had to read as if I didn’t know about the Bostonian’s final attitude toward Perry and the expedition. Where I was now, the fleet was between Tokyo and Naha. Our Bostonian grumbled in the first few entries about casual observance of the Sabbath and described sea conditions in the language of the old salt I think he wanted to think of himself as being. He got into a groovy mood when his ship approached Naha and sort of showed off his French.

  Warm weather, sunny days, and calm moonlight nights are now our common portion as we head South. Few can properly appreciate such blessings as we do, because for weeks we have been wearing great coats, a singular and unparalleled confession for tars on an East India cruiser to make. I for one most gladly hail the grateful feeling of a warm summer wind, to once more lounge on deck en déshabille and indulge a taste for literature or inhale the fragrant and narcotic aroma of a meerschaum sans cérémonie.

  That bit about the meerschaum would endear him to Virgil forever.

  When the fleet arrived at Naha, the Commodore exerted his Christian authority and won approval from the Okinawan Regent for American sailors to go ashore. Typically, our Bostonian was observant.

  During our absence one harvest has been gathered, another is being planted. Women are busily engaged pounding the grain in the large mortars. Have I mentioned the streets of Naha? They are all paved with granite that is cut in many shapes, all edges neatly fitting together. Tyles of roofs are cemented tidily together. The dress of the Lew Chewan consists of a short pair of “what d’ye call ’ems,” something like a ballet mistress’s costume, and a garment built of linen, blue or brown. Their hair is shaved on the crown of the head, leaving the rest gathered up into a neat little knot on the top of their pates and secured with a couple of skewers.

  He went on to describe a Japanese called Sam Patch whom they had initially taken on board in Shanghai.

  He wears Government slops and lets his hair grow all over his head like a Christian. He is a stanch supporter of the dignity of the American flag, seeking assurance in constantly reiterating the fact of considering himself American.

  This Sam Patch was a favorite of our Bostonian, and apparently they spoke a patois of Japanese, English, and Dutch—especially the last, because Sam Patch had learned it from Dutch traders in Nagasaki.

  I was getting tired. Already I’d been an hour at the viewer and not very much was going on. Our Bostonian seemed, like, snug and comfortable, a tourist type, hardly the same uptight man who had finally smuggled this journal ashore and into the hands of Ikuko’s ancestors.

  Then I came face to face with the entry for 23 June.

  Not long after the meridian I was summoned from my cabin to the quarter deck by a Master’s Mate. Two jack tars were being held in custody by Marine guards. On the deck lay the naked body of a black man who had been wrapped in canvas and apparently brought aboard. I bent over this man, who was dead and covered with blood, and recognized him instantly as one of Old Matt’s bodyguards at the meeting at Kurihama, where President Fillmore’s letter was presented to the Japanese envoy. I remember him having taken the official letter from the box of rosewood, the letter bound in blue velvet, and laying it on the scarlet box that the Japanese had brought. I remember vividly the man’s dignity on that day. He had been as quietly impressive as had Perry and the Japanese dignitaries, and now he lay wallowing in his own gore on a piece of tarpolin. I turned his body over to search for the fatal wound and discovered that his skull from behind had been laid open from the crown of his head to the base of his neck. The Master’s Mate explained that the Negro had been killed by Lew Chewans for taking a young native woman by force. These two men had been rescued from an angry mob which had been bent upon revenge for the woman’s mistreatment. My own scrutiny of the two Jack tars made me instantly suspicious, for they were both exceedingly drunk, indeed, they were swaying in the grip of their guards. Did these men have their swords when apprehended in this condition, I asked the Master’s Mate, who replied that in fact one of them had lost his sword. I looked again at the prone body of the man whose dignity I had often noted when he walked the deck in attendance upon the Commodore. I examined once again the tremendous sword slash which had nearly cleft in two the back of the man’s head. Then I questioned the tars, whose demeanors were arrogant and whose minds were befuddled. When I asked had they accompanied the black man ashore, they answered scornfully that d——mme if they would ever be seen with a Sambo. They had heard a woman scream, and going to her rescue they had seen this Sambo run out of a doorway and start for a bridge over a small stream. At this point, according to their account, a gathering mob had stoned the Sambo, whereby he fell dead into the water. Had their shipmates not then appeared, they would have also been murdered by the Lew Chewans. I instructed the Master’s Mate to put the two tars in the brig. He seemed surprised by my command, so I reminded him that fleet regulations require such disposal of inebriated sailors, and only then did he have the guards take them away. I went to the Flag Lieutenant and explained that there was sufficient cause for further investigation of the ruckus ashore. Though he too seemed reluctant, the Flag Lt. finally agreed to my undertaking a short investigation of the affair, and, for this purpose, I was allowed to take the man Sam Patch along as interpreter, because of Lew Chewans’ fluency in Japanese.

  I gathered up my little companion and we went ashore, finding our way to the scene of the murder by virtue of the ready cooperation of Lew Chewans who, when Sam Patch explained our mission, seemed anxious to help. We came to the bridge which was, as most things in this part of the world, on a miniature scale. It arched a stream which flowed swiftly over rocks and boulders worn smooth by the motion of the current. We stood on the bridge, alongside curious Lew Chewans, and peered down into the water. Soon those assembled natives were gesticulating for our attention, so that Sam Patch thereupon engaged them in conversation and learned from them the whereabouts of the woman in question. Hard by the bridge in one of the numerous shantys, slapped together out of wood and tyle, which lined the dusty little streets, was the place of business of this female whose morals were obviously of a licentiousness unknown to women of Christian countries.

  I hooted out loud at that observation, causing nearby students to give me mean little scholarly frowns.

  We entered the dark cubicle and discovered a small, thin, disheveled woman huddling in the corner, mayhap afraid that we had come to arrest her. However, Sam Patch, whose cheerful countenance would put the D——vil himself in good humor, soon assuaged her fears. We sat on the dirty rice mats in the dimly lit room and, with smiling, gesticulating, and nodding, Sam Patch questioned this female at length. Suffice to say, that her version of the day’s events differed considerably from the account given by our drunken tars. Without the slightest blush she confessed to giving herself up to the black man’s lust in exchange for a gold piece. In the midst of their pleasures they had been interrupted by the arrival of the two tars, who had learned elsewhere of her profession and had come to avail themselves of her. Whereupon they had attacked the black man in anger and driven him out of the house. This woman, fearful of her life, had not followed them to the door, but had remained inside. Consequently, she had not witnessed the tars’ usage of the black man, whatever that might have been. At the conclusion of this revealing interview, I thrust
a gold piece into the woman’s hand, and to my horror and embarrassment, she not only began to smile broadly, showing rotten teeth, but also to remove her blue cotton shirt. I beat a hasty retreat, Sam Patch laughing foolishly at my elbow, until I squelched his laughter with a severe look.

  Outside, a small crowd of grinning natives had gathered, obviously intrigued by our investigation of the woman of pleasure. One of them pulled the sleeve of my little companion’s coat, indicating that there was somewhere else we must go. Surrounded by this eager entourage we walked to the end of the hot dusty street and with their encouragement entered into a small publick house, the smells from which had assailed our nostrils long before our arrival there. Doubtlessly such delicacies as dog intestine and rotten worms were standard fare, for never have I endured such odors in my Christian life. The owner of this incomparable tavern showed fear similar to that of the female until Sam Patch disarmed him through smiles and cordiality. This interview took longer, so I allowed Sam Patch to partake of the owner’s fiery liquor, which, though clear as water, must have been extremely powerful, for, at the first sip, my little interpreter gasped and his eyes bulged. I would not allow him a second cup of this beverage which, quite plainly, would befuddle the wits of the heartiest drinker. This interview also proved revelatory, because Sam Patch learned that our tars had been to this publick house earlier in the day. We were taken into a back room, through a curtain hanging in a small doorway, and found large standing pools of liquid on the bare earth floor. There were huge casks sitting on wooden frames, and I hardly needed the intervention of Sam Patch for me to understand what had occurred in this storage room. Our tars had turned the spigots on and flooded the place with wine, thus wrecking the shopkeeper’s business. It was an act of sheer malice and wantonness, notwithstanding the fact that the product which our sailors had wasted was of itself destructive. At the recollection of this event the owner began beating his forehead and breast, moaning, and complaining in such a rapid tongue that Sam Patch had to interupt him frequently in order to understand him. My companion finally informed me that a group of customers in the publick house had come to the owner’s aid, a scuffle had ensued between them and our chaps, and the enraged natives had chased the two into the street, whereupon, nearing the bridge in pursuit of the miscreants, they had come upon a group of ship’s company approaching from the opposite direction. The aforesaid Americans had taken the two into protective custody, at which point the tars had pointed to the dead man lying in the stream below the bridge and had then accused the native crowd, which dispersed in fear of the muskets carried by our band of sailors.

  Upon returning to the Sus I went straightway to the Flag Lt. with my report, which was, to wit, that in my opinion the dead man had not forced the native woman, that the Jack tars had been attacked by townspeople because of the vandalism wrecked upon a publick house, and finally that the question of the black man’s murder had not yet been satisfactorily answered. To this the Flag Lt. said nothing. When I persisted in my effort to receive permission for further investigation, he consented, but only after a strong expression of doubt as to whether such scrutiny of the affair would in fact benefit our official position in the Lew Chews. “I beseech you to take extraordinary care of what you say and do,” he warned, “because the Commodore has already sent the Regent a letter demanding diplomatic reparations for the death of an American national.”

  I left the Flag Lt. in a state of puzzlement and apprehension. Had my Christian conscience not prompted me to continue, I would have taken his hint, returned to my cabin, and said nothing more. This I could not do, however, and so I proceeded to the brig where I found the prisoners sullenly leaning against the bulkhead. When I entered the compartment, they came to attention, but only after some muttering. I accused them at once of murder. I told them plainly that the dead man had been struck by a sword, not bludgeoned by rocks as they had claimed. The taller one, with an evil stubble of whiskers outcropping on his drunken face, protested his innocence. I observed that it had been he who had come back without his sword. “Where is that sword?” I cried. “Lying on the bank somewhere all caked with blood?” There was a period of silence, during which the two men glanced suspiciously at each other. Finally I said to the taller one, “Very well, it shall be you who are charged with the murder.” “D’ye understand our disgust, i’faith, when we got in that house and saw her with Sambo?” the tall one said self-righteously. The shorter one took up that idea, solemnly explaining to me that for a Sambo to lie with a female who also accepted proper sailors was a disgrace to the flag of our nation. Coming upon Sambo in the arms of the Lew Chewan woman had so enraged them, according to the tall one, that they had chased him out of the house onto the bridge, whereat the black man had been accidently killed. I repeated what he had said, that they had chased the man out of the house. “Naked as a blue jay, bare as a pickaninny,” replied the tall one with an evil grin. “You killed him with your sword,” I charged and turned directly to the tall one to whom I said, “from behind.” Instantly he swore that they had both struck in defense of their lives, because the black man had been powerful and violent. The short one reluctantly agreed that both had struck, doubtless afeard for his own life once I was out of the brig and he was alone with the tall one. I then asked them had they been threatened by the natives because of the woman. Indeed they had, replied the tall one. The Lew Chewans had been horrified to learn of the black man taking pleasure with one of their women. This was so far fetched that I almost laughed outright. I coldly informed these despicable men that the Lew Chewans had been angry only because of the havoc wrecked in the publick house. The tars’ faces spoke plainly enough of their guilt and their inability to avoid the truth.

  I left them and was upon my way to the Flag Lt. when he himself intercepted me on deck and thrust a communication into my hand. I was given to understand that this was a copy of the translation made by Mr. Williams, another interpreter whose specialty is Chinese, of the regent’s reply, written in classical Chinese, to Commodore Perry’s letter for redress of grievances in this affair:

  It appears that on the 23rd of June an American sailor, passing through the streets of Naha, was set upon and stoned to death. It further appears that he had entered a house and took therefrom some liquor which he drank until he became drunk, whereupon he attempted to force a woman, who resisted him and cried out for help. Alarmed and repulsed by her, the man fled to escape, but the assembled people pursued after him and, without attempting to restrain him for examination by representatives of the United States Government, took justice into their own hands. Those who acted thus will be apprehended and prosecuted, for it is altogether illegal under the Regent’s law to throw stones and wound persons, although they are drunk and offensive, thereby causing them to fall into the water and be drowned. The guilty persons are now being sought for trial and their punishment will be meted out for the inspection of representatives from the government of the United States.

  I did not hesitate to inform the Flag Lt. just how distorted were the facts of this letter from the Regent. I gave my opinion as to the true state of affairs, namely, that two sailors not even mentioned in the Regent’s letter had set upon the black man, who admittedly was in communication with a female of loose morals, and from pure wickedness and because of his African race had murdered him with swords and had flung him over the bridge into the water; that they had then repaired to a publick house in which their behavior having become intolerable, other customers had driven them into the street where fortunately for them they were discovered and apprehended by a passing group of ship’s company. The Flag Lt. reminded me of the Commodore’s official complaint to the Regent pursuant to the treatment of American nationals. The Flag Lt. took back the translation of the Regent’s letter and informed me that I would not be one of the officers assigned to attend the official Lew Chewan investigation of the affair. The Flag Lt. commanded me never to mention this matter to him again.

  24 June. My friend, Kit,
will attend, as so ordered by the Commo. I am despondent and unreconciled to my exclusion from the investigation, for I have two confessions which will completely absolve the Lew Chewans and our black seaman as well from any wrong doing and fix the blame where it properly belongs, upon two drunken men, disgraces to their religion and to their country, for whom human life has little meaning and who deserve the full penalty of law. In response to my open despair, Kit warned me to remain silent, explaining that, after all, this was an appropriate occasion for the Commodore to assert the right of American citizens in an Asian port. Kit said that we could not afford the loss of one man, whatever the circumstances of his death, without demanding public reparation from that Asian country. Had the man been a true American, of course, the Commodore might have felt compelled to conduct a military trial involving the two Jack tars, but what harm, Kit argued, when the murdered man was but a Negro?

  25 July. I waited impatiently for Kit’s return from the Naha townhall, where the investigation took place. Mr. Williams, having a good knowledge of Chinese which apparently is the language used in Lew Chewan courts, was our official representative, and Kit accompanied him.

  I had finished copying out those last few words when, feeling someone, like, literally breathing down my neck, I turned quickly and met the laughing eyes of Roger Wales, who said, “Still think you look like Julie Christie?”

  “Bug off,” I told him. When he just stood there smirking, I said, “Bug off or I’ll tell the librarian you’re annoying me.”

  “You’d do that?” The idea amused Roger, the creep, and had I been working on my own term paper, I’d have turned away and ignored him. But if he kept standing there he might get a glimpse of my notes, and Virgil wouldn’t want that. So I smiled at Roger and made a date to have coffee with him later in the afternoon. I watched him stroll away all pleased with himself for having annoyed me into making a date. I was learning how to be a first-class jive cat. Back to the viewer I went.