Gai-Jin by James Clavell
When this was translated, he saw consternation on the face of the elderly man. Another lengthy conversation between him and the Bakufu official.
Johann reported wearily, “The old fellow dismisses this with their usual: that that ‘unfortunate occurrence’ was by a Legation staff employee who then committed seppuku—suicide. It’s not the Bakufu’s fault at all.”
Equally tiredly, Sir William said, “Give them back the usual, by God: that they appointed him, they insisted we employ him, so they are responsible—and he only committed suicide because he was badly wounded in the murder attempt on my predecessor and liable for immediate capture!” Trying to push away his tiredness, he watched the two officials talking with their interpreter, and the third man listening as he had done all afternoon. Perhaps he’s the one with real power. What happened to the other men from yesterday, particularly the younger man—the one André Poncin accosted as he left. What is that devious bastard Seratard up to?
The freshening wind caught a loose shutter and jolted it against the window. One of the sentries leaned over the lintel and hooked it back in place. Not far offshore was the fleet, the ocean a deep grey now and white-capped. Sir William noticed the looming squall line. His anxiety for the ships increased.
Johann said, “The old fellow asks, will you accept three thousand?”
Sir William’s face went red. “Ten thousand in gold!”
More talk, then Johann mopped his brow. “Mein Gott, ten it is, to be paid in two installments at Yokohama, ten days from now, the balance the day before the Yedo meeting.”
After a deliberately dramatic pause, Sir William said, “I will give them my answer in three days if it’s acceptable.”
Much sucking in of breath, a few more wily attempts to change the three days to thirty, to ten, to eight, all of which were stonewalled and refused. “Three.”
Polite bows and the Delegation was gone.
Once they were alone, Johann beamed. “That’s the first time we made any progress, Sir William, the very first time!”
“Yes, well, we’ll see. Just don’t understand them at all. Obviously they were trying to wear us down. But why? What’s the good of that? They already had the scroll so why the devil didn’t they hand it over in the beginning and have done with all their cursed time wasting? Bunch of bloody idiots! And why send two empty palanquins?”
Phillip Tyrer said brightly, “Seems to me, sir, that’s just one of their characteristics. To be devious.”
“Yes, well, Tyrer, come with me, please.” He led the way to his private office and when the door was closed he said angrily, “Didn’t the F.O. teach you anything? Are you totally without brains? Don’t you have enough sense to have a poker face at diplomatic meetings? Are your brains addled?”
Tyrer was in shock at the venom. “Sorry, sir, very sorry, sir, I was just so pleased at your victory I cou—”
“It wasn’t a victory, you idiot! It was just a delay, albeit heaven sent!” Sir William’s relief that the meeting was over and had, against his expectations, achieved much more than he could have wished for, fuelled his irritability. “Are your ears filled with mildew? Didn’t you hear the ‘what appears to be a just complaint’—that’s the biggest hole they could ever leave, by God! We achieved a delay, that’s all, but it happens to suit me perfectly and if the Yedo meeting takes place in thirty days I’ll be astounded. The next time don’t let your feelings show, for God’s sake, and if you ever become an interpreter…you just better learn Japanese quickly or you’ll be on the next boat home with a note on your record that will get you a posting to Esquimoland for the rest of your life!”
“Yes, sir.”
Still steaming, Sir William saw the young man staring at him stoically and wondered what was different about him. Then he noticed his eyes.
Where have I seen that look before—the same, almost indefinable strangeness that young Struan also had? Ah yes, of course, now I remember! In the eyes of the young soldiers coming back from the Crimea, the untouched as well as the wounded—allied or enemy. War had torn the youth out of them, torn out their innocence with such obscene speed that forever after they were changed. And it always shows not in their faces but in their eyes. How many times was I told: before the battle a youth, a few minutes or hours later, an adult—British, Russian, German, French, or Turk the same.
I’m the idiot, not this young chap. I’d forgotten he’s hardly twenty-one and in six days he’s almost been murdered and been through as violent an experience as any man can have. Or woman, by Heaven! That’s right, there was the same look in the girl’s eyes too. Stupid of me not to realize it. Poor girl, isn’t she barely eighteen? Terrible to grow up so fast. I’ve been so lucky.
“Well, Mr. Tyrer,” he said gruffly, envying him—that he had come through his baptism of fire bravely, “I’m sure you’ll be all right. These meetings are, well, enough to try the patience of Job, eh? I think a sherry is in order.”
Hiraga had had great difficulty escaping from the garden through the circles of samurai, and sneaking back to the Inn of the Forty-seven Ronin. When he reached it, long overdue, he was shocked to discover the assassination party had already left for the ambush.
Ori said helplessly, “One of our people reported that the Delegation had come out of the castle exactly as yesterday, banners as yesterday, that there were five palanquins as yesterday, so we presumed Lord Yoshi would be in one.”
“Everyone was supposed to wait.”
“They did, Hiraga, but if ….if they hadn’t left when they did they would never be in place in time.”
Rapidly Hiraga changed into a cheap kimono and collected his weapons. “Did you see the doctor?”
“We, the mama-san and I, we thought it too dangerous today. Tomorrow will be fine.”
“I’ll see you in Kanagawa then.”
“Sonno-joi!”
“Go to Kanagawa! Here you’re a hazard!”
Hiraga slipped over the fence and went by back alleys and little-used paths and bridges, circling for the castle. This time he was lucky and avoided all patrols.
Most of the daimyo palaces outside the castle walls were deserted. Using cover well, he picked his way from garden to garden until he reached the burnt-out wreckage of what had been the daimyo’s palace destroyed during the earthquake three days ago. As planned, his shishi friends were gathered for the ambush near the broken main gate that fronted the main pathway to the castle gate. There were nine of them, not eleven.
“Eeee, Hiraga, we’d given you up!” the youngest, the most excited, whispered. “From here we’ll kill him easily.”
“Where are the Mori samurai?”
“Dead.” His cousin, Akimoto, shrugged. He was the oldest amongst them, a burly twenty-four. “We came by separate ways but I was near them and the three of us ran into a patrol.” He beamed. “I fled one way, they another. I saw one take an arrow and go down. I never knew I could run so fast. Forget them, when will Yoshi pass by?”
Their disappointment was vast when Hiraga told them their prey was not in the cortege. “Then what shall we do?” a tall, very handsome youth of sixteen asked. “This ambush is perfect—half a dozen important Bakufu palanquins have gone by with hardly a guard around them.”
“This place is too good to risk for no special reason,” Hiraga said. “We’ll leave one at a time. Akimoto, you firs—”
The shishi on guard whistled a warning. Instantly, they went deeper into cover, eyes pressed to openings in the broken fences. An ornate, covered palanquin with eight half-naked bearers and a dozen samurai banner guards was thirty-odd yards away, heading leisurely for the castle gate. No one else was in sight, either way.
Instant recognition of the emblem: Nori Anjo, head of the Council of Elders. Instant decision, “Sonno-joi!”
With Hiraga in the lead they rushed as one man to the attack, slaughtered the front two ranks of guards and hurtled for the palanquin. But in their excitement they had misjudged by a few seconds and that a
Cursing, Hiraga jerked the sword out, whirled in defense as he was menaced from the back, killed the man after a searing clash of swords, then leaped over the poles for Anjo who had scrambled to his feet, his sword out and now covered by three guards. Behind Hiraga, five of his friends were duelling with the other four samurai, one shishi was already dead, one helpless on the ground mortally wounded, and another, screaming with bloodlust, misjudging his adversary, slipped on the body of a sobbing bearer, and took a terrible cut in his side. Before his assailant could recover, a shishi slashed at the guard with total ferocity and the samurai’s head rolled in the dust.
Now it was seven against six.
At once Akimoto broke off his fight and rushed to support Hiraga who had hurled himself at Anjo and his three guards and was being overwhelmed. Feinting brilliantly, Hiraga forced one of the guards off balance and impaled him, withdrew and darted to one side to draw off the other two, giving Akimoto the opening he needed to dispatch Anjo.
At that moment there was a warning shout. Twenty castle guards had rounded the corner fifty yards away and were charging to Anjo’s support. The barest hesitation from Akimoto gave a guard time to parry the ferocious blow that would have killed Anjo, allowing him to scramble and flee towards the reinforcements. Now the shishi were completely out numbered.
No way to get Anjo! No way to overcome!
“Retreat!” Hiraga shouted, and, again as one man, the maneuver rehearsed many times, Akimoto and the remaining four broke off their duels and charged back through the damaged main gate, Hiraga last—the badly wounded youth, Jozan, hobbling after them. Momentarily the guards were thrown into confusion. Then they collected themselves and, heavily reinforced, hurtled in pursuit while others intercepted Jozan, at bay, sword high, reeling, blood pouring from his side.
Akimoto was leading the pell-mell retreat through the damaged castle, their line of pullback already well reconnoitered. Hiraga was rearguard, the enemy gaining on him. He waited until he reached the first barricade where Gota waited in ambush to support him, stopped suddenly and the two of them whirled to counterattack, chopping and hacking viciously, mortally wounding one man, forcing the next to fall and bring down another. Instantly they fled again, leading the enemy deeper into the maze.
Almost stumbling, they rushed through the next narrow gap in the half-burnt wall where Akimoto and another waited in a second ambush. Without hesitation these two cut down the first of the attackers, screaming “Sonno-joi” while the remainder, stunned by the suddenness of the assault, halted to regroup. When they gave their battle cry and jumped over the body of their comrade through the bottleneck, Akimoto, Hiraga, and the others were nowhere to be seen.
At once the samurai fanned out and began a meticulous search, the sky filled with nimbus clouds and menacing.
In front of the burnt-out main gate, Anjo was now surrounded by guards. Five of his men had been killed, two were badly wounded. The two dead shishi had already been beheaded. The young shishi was helpless on the ground, one leg almost severed and he was holding on to it in agony, trying to stick it back together. Jozan was huddled against a wall. Rain began.
The samurai standing over the youth said again, “Who are you? What’s your name, who sent you, who’s your leader?”
“I’ve told you, shishi from Choshu, Toma Hojo! I was leader! No one sent me. Sonno-joi!”
“He’s lying, Sire,” a panting officer said.
“Of course,” Anjo said, seething. “Kill him.”
“Respectfully request he be allowed to commit seppuku.”
“Kill him!”
The officer, a big, bearlike man, shrugged and went over to the youth. With his back to the Elder, he whispered, “I have the honor to act as your second. Stretch your neck.” His sword sang in the air as he dealt the single blow. Formally he lifted the head by its topknot, presenting it to Anjo.
“I have seen it,” Anjo said, following correct ritual, at the same time choked with rage that these men had dared to attack him, dared to frighten him half to death—him, Chief of the roju! “Now that one—he’s a liar too, kill him!”
“Respectfully request he be allowed to commit seppuku.”
Anjo was about to rave at him to kill the attempted assassin brutally or commit seppuku himself when he sensed the sudden collective antagonism of the samurai around him. The usual fear permeated him: whom do I trust? Only five of these men were his personal guards.
He pretended to consider the request. When his fury was contained, he nodded, turned and stomped off towards the castle gates in the increasing rain. His men went with him. The remainder circled Jozan.
“You can rest a moment, shishi,” the officer said kindly, wiping the rain from his own face. “Give him some water.”
“Thank you.” Jozan had prepared for this moment ever since, with Ori and Shorin and others four years ago, he had sworn to “honor the Emperor and expel the foreigners.” Summoning his waning strength, he groped to his knees, and was horrified to realize he was petrified of dying.
The officer had seen the terror, had expected it and quickly came forward and squatted beside him. “Do you have a death poem, shishi? Tell it to me, hold on, do not give way, you are samurai and this is as good a day as any,” he said softly, encouraging the youth, willing the tears to stop. “From nothing into nothing, one sword cuts your enemy, one sword cuts you. Shout your battle cry and you will live forever. Say it: Sonno-joi … again …”
All the time he had been preparing himself. With a sudden fluid movement, he stood erect and whirled his sword from the sheath—and the youth into eternity.
“Eeee,” one of his men said with admiration. “Uraga-san, that was marvelous to see.”
“Sensei Katsumata of Satsuma was one of my teachers,” he said throatily, his heart pounding like never before, but pleased that he had performed his duty as a samurai correctly. One of his men picked up the head by its topknot. The rain became tears, washing away the real ones. “Clean the head and take it to Lord Anjo for viewing.” Uraga glanced at the castle gates. “Cowards disgust me,” he said, and walked away.
* * *
That night, when it was safe, Hiraga and the others sneaked out of the cellar that had been located in advance. By different routes they slipped away for their safe house.
It was overcast and black, wind strong with spattering rain. I will not feel cold, I will not show discomfort, I am samurai, Hiraga ordered himself, following the pattern of training in his family ever since he could remember. Just as I will train my sons and daughters—if my karma is to have sons and daughters, he thought.
“It’s time you married,” his father had said a year ago.
“I agree, Father. I respectfully request you change your mind and allow me to marry my choice.”
“First, it is the duty of the son to obey the father; second, it is the father’s duty to choose the wives of his sons and husbands of his daughters; third, Sumomo’s father does not approve, she is Satsuma and not Choshu, and last, however desirable, she is not suitable. What about the Ito girl?”
“Please excuse me, Father, I agree my choice is not perfect but her family is samurai, she is samurai trained and I am possessed by her. I beg you. You have four other sons—I have only one life and we, you and I, we both agree it is to be devoted to sonno-joi and will therefore be short. Grant this to me as a lifetime wish.” By custom such a wish was a most serious request and meant that, if granted, it precluded asking for any other, ever.
“Very well,” his father had said gruffly. “But not as a lifetime wish. You may be affianced when she is seventeen. I will welcome
That was last year. A few days later he had left Shimonoseki, supposedly to join the Choshu regiment in Kyōto, actually to declare for sonno-joi and become ronin—and put his secret four-year adherence and training to use.
Now it was Ninth Month. In three weeks Sumomo became seventeen but now he was so far outside the law there was no chance of safe return. Until yesterday. His father had written: Astonishingly, our Lord Ogama has offered a pardon to all warriors who openly embraced sonno-joi and will restore all stipends if they return at once, renounce the heresy and again swear allegiance to him publicly. You will take advantage of this offer. Many are returning.
The letter had saddened him, almost destroying his resolve. “Sonno-joi is more important than family or even Lord Ogama, even Sumomo,” he had told himself over and over. “Lord Ogama cannot be trusted. As to my stipend …”
Fortunately his father was relatively well off compared with most, and, because of his shoya grandfather, had been promoted to hirazamurai, the third rank of samurai. Above were senior samurai, hatomoto and daimyo. Below hirazamurai were all others—goshi, ashigaru, rural samurai, and foot soldiers, who were of the feudal class but below samurai. As such his father had had access to lower officials and the education of his sons was the best available.
I owe him everything, Hiraga thought.
Yes, and obediently I worked to become the best pupil in the Samurai School, the best swordsman, the best at English. And I have his permission and approval and that of the Sensei, our chief teacher, to embrace sonno-joi, to become ronin, to lead and organize Choshu warriors as a spearhead for change. Yes, but their approval is secret, for if known, surely it would cost my father and the Sensei their heads.
Karma. I am doing my duty. Gai-jin are scum we do not need. Only their weapons to kill them with.
The rain increased. And the tempest. This pleased him, for it made interception less likely. The beckoning bath and saké and clean clothes kept him warm and strong. That the attack had failed did not concern him. That was karma.