Shades of the Past

by Harold Williams

  The journey had taken much longer than the foreign mourners had expected. The hearse halted in the pitch darkness just inside the main gate. A heavy mist had settled over the place. Clark alighted from his jinrikisha and fumbled his way through the gravestones in search of the grave which earlier that day he had ordered to be dug. Finally he stumbled upon the square hole. (It was not until a much later date, when the population of Japan had greatly increased, that cremation was, as a matter of necessity, generally adopted throughout Japan.)

  When Clark returned to the gate he found the foreign clergyman, who was in the initial stages of consumption, sheltering in a nearby hut. The clergyman was in physical distress and suffering from the cold and dampness of the place. The coffin, however, had disappeared. Clark thereupon prevailed upon the Japanese Bible teacher to escort the clergyman and his wife home, and, after bidding them good night, he set out in search of the missing coffin.

  When he drew near the main temple, which he noticed was dimly illuminated within, he could hear a service being conducted inside. Out of curiosity he stepped up to the entrance and for a minute or so he stood peering into the interior. The place was dimly lighted by several candles arranged in front of the altar. Two finely robed priests were intoning the Buddhist sutras, striking every now and again the wooden gongs in front of them.

  He gazed at the gilded Buddha sitting upon the golden leaves of the lotus in contemplation of all before him. He saw the incense smoke curling upwards from the great bronze brazier and he sensed that a funeral service was in progress. Finally he was able to make out among the shadows the shape of a square coffin, resting upon the top of which, he could see a wooden tablet bearing in large Japanese characters the name of the deceased. He could not read the name but suddenly a suspicion awoke within him that all was not well. He stole up alongside the priest and then he recognised the missing coffin. On the top was the same bunch of flowers that he had gathered earlier in the day.

  Knowing that the corpse within the coffin was clutching in his hand a Christian Testament, Clark's first impulse was to stop the service, but then he noted that the two Japanese women kneeling on the floor were seemingly deriving comfort from the ceremony. He therefore withdrew into the shadows and waited for the service to end. He saw the priest rise and move out of the temple still chanting the prayers. He saw the two tattered old men lift up the coffin. The funeral procession to the newly-dug grave was resumed in the flickering light of several torches and a lantern. He followed the procession. He stopped when the procession moved about in circles several times in order to confuse any evilly-disposed spirits which might have been following or hovering near. He saw the coffin lowered into the grave, the last prayer said, and the onlookers depart after each had thrown into the grave a twig of the sacred sakaki tree, a last gift to the dead. The two tattered old men departed grumbling at the cold.

  Clark scattered a handful of soil on the top of the coffin, whilst he also said a prayer:

  "... earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust..."

  He saw the gravedigger begin to strike the top of the coffin with his spade and he asked what he was doing. He learned that it was the custom to break in the head of the coffin so that the earth might fill up the inside. He told the gravedigger that he might on this occasion dispense with that custom and he waited until the grave was filled in.

  Later he caused a stone cross to be erected over the grave on which were inscribed two English words—SAM PATCH.

  A hundred and more years ago the sea voyage from Osaka to Yedo sometimes took several months because the junks had to creep along the coast frequently putting into ports of refuge from storms and high seas. Often they were blown ashore or driven out into the Pacific never to return. One such junk was blown far out to sea by an off-shore gale and had then drifted helpless for fifty days before being sighted by the American brig "Auckland." The crew of seventeen rescued from the junk were carried to San Francisco, and thereafter at least three of them made history. In this article we are interested in only one of the three. His name was Sentaro.

  On arrival in San Francisco most of them were transferred to a revenue cutter where they remained for twelve months, until an opportunity arose of transporting them on a U.S. sloop-of-war to China, whence it was hoped they could be repatriated to their homeland. Later they were moved to the U.S.S. "Susquehanna." When that vessel joined Commodore Perry's squadron in preparation for the task of forcing Japan to open her doors, all with one exception begged to be discharged in China. They feared that if they were returned to Japan they would be beheaded—that or worse was often the punishment for Japanese who left their homeland, even for castaways who left through no fault of their own. The exception, who was content to remain on board the "Susquehanna," was Sentaro. He had signed on as a regular member of the crew. He was a friendly type with a droll sense of humour. He soon became a favourite with his shipmates. Finding his Japanese name too awkward they nicknamed him Sam Patch, a sobriquet which so delighted him that thenceforward he abandoned his Japanese name.

  Such, according to at least one authority was the origin of his nickname, but more than likely it was bestowed upon him at a much earlier date, possibly when rescued and put aboard the brig "Auckland"—a sea-waif in clothes of threads and patches.

  Upon arriving in Japan in Perry's squadron he had prepared a letter which he wished to have forwarded to his relatives. In order that the circumstances of the letter could be explained, he was ordered to appear for presentation to the Japanese officials, whereupon on coming into their presence he prostrated himself on the deck and remained there awe-stricken, with his head bowed low. The American deck-officer sternly ordered him to rise and reminded him that as a crew member of an American man-of-war he had nothing to fear, but even so Sam Patch was still such an object of trembling servility that he was soon dismissed from their presence.

  Later the Governor of Uraga requested that Sam should be allowed to remain in Japan. Sam was again called to appear and was told that he was free to leave the ship subject to the Japanese governor giving a solemn assurance that no punishment whatever would be meted out to him. Once again Sam went down on his knees before the Japanese officials and again he was ordered by the American naval officers to get up. He begged to be allowed to remain on board, so convinced was he that his life would be forfeited if he went ashore. He therefore continued in the service of the U. S. Navy.

  One of the marines on board, Jonathan Goble by name, a religious type of man, had befriended him, and when the squadron subsequently returned to America, Goble left the navy and took Sam Patch to his home in New York. This was the same Goble who later returned to Japan as a missionary of the Baptist Free Missionary Society, and subsequently invented the jinrikisha. Sam was converted to the Christian faith, and thereafter he seemed to have a simple trust in Christ which remained with him to the last.

  And so it was that while young men in Japan were risking their lives, and some losing their lives, in attempts to smuggle themselves out of Japan in order to study the ways of the Western world, Sam Patch had fallen heir to all the opportunities which they were seeking. He was befriended by many, but he lacked brains and ambition to such a degree that he just drifted along, a droll and likable fellow. Eventually missionary friends sent him back to Japan, where he married and after many vicissitudes he became chief cook to E. Warren Clark, the American missionary and educationalist. Although a sore trial at times, he did in fact in that state accomplish his greatest achievement in life—the making of rice cakes for which he became locally famous.

  In course of time Sam Patch became ill from beriberi a dreaded disease in Japan in those days before the principles of vitamin deficiency were known. When his end was near the lovable but timid Sam, was as timid in death as on the deck of Admiral Perry's flagship when he fell upon his knees before the Japanese governor of Uraga.

  In accordance with custom his body after death was placed in a square coffin with head bowed and knees do
ubled up and his limbs crossed in front, as in a position of birth, thereby enabling the body to be fitted into what would appear to be an incredibly small space. It is not known whether the body of Sam Patch was fitted into the coffin whilst still supple and before rigor mortis had set in, or whether, as was more often the case, the ligaments under the big toes and knees had first to be cut. We hope not, for the common belief in those days was that the cutting of the ligaments spoiled the dreams about the Land of Bliss, dreams which we would wish were not denied to Sam Patch.

  As customary the coffin lid was secured in position with nails driven in by a stone rather than a hammer, for it was the common fear then that the spirits of the dead might cling to the hammer and cause injury to those who used it afterwards.

  It was Sam Patch's wife who had contrived to give him the benefits of a Buddhist funeral service, as has been told at the beginning of this article. Nevertheless before the coffin lid had been nailed down it was she also who had placed in his hands his Christian Testament, that it might accompany him into the Unknown.

  AN

  EMPEROR'S

  GRIEF

  Their Lawes are very strict and full of severetie, affording no other kinde of punishment but either Death or Banishment.—Description of Japan by Rev. ARTHUR HATCH, 1623

  The roads in Otsu, near Lake Biwa, are wide nowadays—wide enough to take the largest buses and military trucks. But there was a time sixty-eight years ago, when they were so narrow that not even a horse-drawn carriage could pass through the town—nothing in fact wider than a rikishaw. It was that circumstance which made possible an incident that caused an emperor great grief and might even have split the world in war.

  In June 1914 in Sarajevo, the capital of Bosnia, a somewhat similar but more tragic incident occurred. The Archduke Francis Ferdinand of Austria was assassinated; a monstrous happening but not important enough to plunge the world in war and to take the lives of millions of people. And yet within little more than a month later the lamps of Europe went out and were not lighted again for more than four years.

  In 1890 the heir-apparent of the Russian throne, the Czarevitch or Cesarevitch as some preferred the title, a young man of twenty-two set out on an official tour of the Far East to acquaint himself with some of his country's problems. This was the young man who was subsequently to become Emperor Nicholas II, that hapless Czar who in July, 1918 was shot together with his family by the Russian Communists.

  From China the Czarevitch was to come to Japan where the Emperor Meiji intended to honour him as no foreign prince had ever been honoured before. The tour through Japan was to occupy a month and was intended to cement the bonds of friendship between the two countries. The Russian Minister in Tokyo had expressed in advance some anxiety for the young prince's safety, but had been assured by Emperor Meiji that every precaution would be taken, that he would be guarded and protected wherever he went, but in any event no Japanese would harm the Emperor's guest. Said the Emperor:

  I take the personal responsibility of the Cesarevitch's visit. His person shall be sacred as my own. I answer for his safety with my own honour.

  The Czarevitch's party, including his cousin Prince George of Greece, arrived in Japan attended by a squadron of Russian warships and after having visited Nagasaki and Kagoshima landed at Kobe, whence they proceeded to Kyoto. Before passing on towards Tokyo a visit was made to Otsu. After a trip on Lake Biwa in a steam launch, luncheon was served at the Governor's house after which the party started on the return journey to Kyoto, passing along the same narrow streets in Otsu as in the morning. The streets in Otsu were then so narrow that the journey had to be made by rikishaws, some fifty in all, each pulled by one man with another pushing behind. First came the Governor, the Chief of Police and two police inspectors, then a few paces behind them the Czarevitch, followed by Prince George of Greece, the Emperor's representative, Prince Arisugawa, the Russian Ambassador, and other Russian and Japanese dignitaries. The narrow streets were lined with police on either side, the men standing a couple of paces from one another. The procession formed an unbroken line which passed at a trot between the two rows of policemen. Every precaution had been taken for the safety of the royal visitor.

  Among the police was one named Tsuda Sanzo, a middle-aged man and formerly a sergeant-major in the army. He had stood at the same spot in the morning but had given no hint of evil intent. When the Czarevitch's rikishaw drew level with him, he sprang out and drawing his sword aimed a two-handed murderous blow at the Czarevitch's head. Fortunately he had misjudged the speed of the rikishaw and the blow was deflected slightly by the prince's hat, and just when he aimed a second blow the rikishaw-man dropped the shafts and with rare coolness and courage threw himself at the feet of the policeman bringing him struggling to the ground. A second rikishaw-man thereupon snatched up the sword and dealt the fighting policeman several heavy blows. While Sanzo was being trussed up by other policemen who had rushed in from all sides, the Czarevitch, blinded with blood from a head wound, was led into an open shop where first aid was rendered. Both Japanese and Russian sources report that he pleasantly endeavoured to reassure the horrified Japanese officials that there was no need for alarm.

  Do not be anxious. Ce n'est que du sang. It is nothing.

  Within two hours of the news reaching Tokyo a cabinet meeting was being held, and a special train was leaving for Kyoto conveying the Emperor's representative, Prince Kitashirakawa, the Emperor's personal surgeon and other officials. A few hours later another special train left carrying a number of Cabinet Ministers, various Court officials, distinguished medical men of the capital and medical professors of Tokyo Imperial University. Early the next morning the Emperor himself, with all his staff left for Kyoto amid an outburst of national grief and indignation. In the meantime an Imperial Rescript had been issued.

  It is with the most profound grief and regret that.....It is Our will that justice shall take its speedy course on the miscreant offender to the end that Our mind may be relieved, and that Our friendly and intimate relations with Our good neighbour may be secured against disturbance.

  There then occurred one of the most remarkable demonstrations of public sympathy that the world has witnessed. For awhile the life of the nation stood still. The theatres were closed, work stopped, shops were shut and markets abandoned as the people mourned with their Emperor. Over 20,000 persons made formal calls at the hotel in Kyoto where the Czarevitch was resting. Prefectures, cities, towns, villages, corporations, guilds and associations sent their representatives. Telegrams poured into Kyoto in such numbers that the telegraph office was barely able to cope with the traffic. All the newspapers of the Empire shared in the expressions of grief and indignation, and of sympathy for the Emperor whose honour had been so cruelly wronged. Visits were made to the shrines; incense was lighted, and the temple gongs and bells were sounded as prayers were offered to the Gods for the recovery of the Prince.

  Some of the townsmen of Otsu even suggested that the name of their city had become too infamous to remain and that a new name should be selected. However, with the recovery of the Czarevitch, it was not considered necessary to carry that proposal further.

  The Emperor arrived in Kyoto at 11 p.m. on the day following the attack and wished to see the Prince at once, but owing to the lateness of the hour had to postpone his call until the following morning. Later he accompanied the Czarevitch in the train to Kobe and thence to the landing-stage whence the Prince was carried on board a Russian warship. The tour of Japan had to be abandoned and four days later on learning the Czar's desire that the Czarevitch should proceed to Vladivostok, the Emperor accompanied by his suite went on board to bid him farewell. The decks, the passageways of the vessel, the cabins, and all free space were deeply encumbered by the gifts which poured in from all parts of the country. The wealthy gave of their costly possessions, the merchants and guilds sent silks and cloth, lacquers, bronzes and porcelains. Even farmers trudged for miles into Kobe to bring the traditio
nal offerings of eggs. Rice, shoyu, dried fish, barley and beans were spontaneously brought by people who had never been able to afford many of the good things of life. Emblems of good luck and offerings of all description were piled on the deck.

  Later the two rikishaw-men who had saved the life of the Czarevitch were munificently rewarded by the Russian Government with a pension of $1,000 a year for life, and with a gift of $2,500 and a Russian decoration from the Czarevitch. From their own Government they also received a pension and a medal. The two rikishaw-men on arriving on board the Russian ship to receive their awards were cheered by the Russian sailors, then seized, chaired, and toasted, and generally made so much of that they were quite bewildered at the fuss.

  On the other hand the unfortunate Governor although only a few days in office was dismissed, as also was the Chief of Police.

  When the Russian war vessel departed from Kobe she was escorted as far as the western entrance to the Inland Sea by a squadron of Japanese war vessels.

  The world has long since forgotten this remarkable happening and forgotten too the two men who by their bravery may have saved a world from war. One of them survived all the hazards of wealth and fortune; he invested his money wisely and his family prospered. The other was made of poorer stuff; he was not strong enough to meet the good fortune that had come his way. He soon squandered his money and thereafter lived in poverty spending his pension on drink.

  Following the Russian revolution in 1918 members of the Russian nobility, pseudo-princesses and others, have frequently attempted to cash in upon their avowed knowledge of Russian Court secrets by writing memoirs, in several of which the above incident, its political implications, and the assailant's motive are fancifully described. Some have even gone so far as to state that the incident so rankled in Nicholas' mind that it ultimately ushered in the disastrous Russian war with Japan.