Shōgun by James Clavell
“How’s the grog, Pilot?” van Nekk asked.
“Fine, fine.”
“Tell him about it, Baccus, go on!”
“Hey! I made a still, Pilot.” Van Nekk was very proud and the others were beaming too. “We make it by the barrel now. Rice and fruit and water and let it ferment, wait a week or so and then, with the help of a little magic….” The rotund man laughed and scratched happily. “’Course it’d be better to keep it a year or so to mellow, but we drink it faster than …” His words trailed off. “You don’t like it?”
“Oh, sorry, it’s fine—fine.” Blackthorne saw lice in van Nekk’s sparse hair.
Jan Roper said challengingly, “And you, Pilot? You’re fine, aren’t you? What about you?”
Another flood of questions which died as Vinck shouted, “Give him a chance!” Then the leathery-faced man burst out happily, “Christ, when I saw you standing at the door I thought you was one of the monkeys, honest—honest!”
Another chorus of agreement and van Nekk broke in, “That’s right. Damned silly kimonos—you look like a woman, Pilot—or one of those half-men! God-cursed fags, eh! Lot of Jappers are fags, by God! One was after Croocq …” There was much shouting and obscene banter, then van Nekk continued, “You’ll want your proper clothes, Pilot. Listen, we’ve got yours here. We came to Yedo with Erasmus. They towed her here and we were allowed to bring our clothes ashore with us, nothing else. We brought yours—they allowed us to do that, to keep for you. We brought a kit bag—all your sea clothes. Sonk, fetch ’em, hey?”
“Sure I’ll fetch them, but later, eh, Baccus? I don’t want to miss nothing.”
“All right.”
Jan Roper’s thin smile was taunting. “Swords and kimonos—like a real heathen! Perhaps you prefer heathen ways now, Pilot?”
“The clothes are cool, better than ours,” Blackthorne replied uneasily. “I’d forgotten I was dressed differently. So much has happened. These were all I had so I got used to wearing them. I never thought much about it. They’re certainly more comfortable.”
“Are those real swords?”
“Yes, of course, why?”
“We’re not allowed weapons. Any weapons!” Jan Roper scowled. “Why do they allow you to have ’em? Just like any heathen samurai?”
Blackthorne laughed shortly. “You haven’t changed, Jan Roper, have you? Still holier than thou? Well, all in good time about my swords, but first the best news of all. Listen, in a month or so we’ll be on the high seas again.”
“Jesus God, you mean it, Pilot?” Vinck said.
“Yes.”
There was a great roaring cheer and another welter of questions and answers. “I told you we’d get away—I told you God was on our side! Let him talk—let the Pilot talk …” Finally Blackthorne held up his hand.
He motioned at the women, who still knelt motionless, more abject now under his attention. “Who’re they?”
Sonk laughed. “Them’s our doxies, Pilot. Our whores, and cheap, Christ Jesus, they hardly cost a button a week. We got a whole house of ’em next door—and mere’s plenty more in the village—”
“They rattle like stoats,” Croocq butted in, and Sonk said, “That’s right, Pilot. ’Course they’re squat and bandy but they’ve lots of vigor and no pox. You want one, Pilot? We’ve our own bunks, we’re not like the monkeys, we’ve all our own bunks and rooms—”
“You try Big-Arse Mary, Pilot, she’s the one for you,” Croocq said.
Jan Roper’s voice overrode them. “The Pilot doesn’t want one of our harlots. He’s got his own. Eh, Pilot?”
Their faces glowed. “Is that true, Pilot? You got women? Hey, tell us, eh? These monkeys’re the best that’s ever been, eh?”
“Tell us about your doxies, Pilot!” Sonk scratched at his lice again.
“There’s a lot to tell,” Blackthorne said. “But it should be private. Less ears the better, neh? Send the women away, then we can talk privately.”
Vinck jerked a thumb at them. “Piss off, hai?”
The women bowed and mumbled thanks and apologies and fled, closing the door quietly.
“First about the ship. It’s unbelievable. I want to thank you and congratulate you—all the work. When we get home I’m going to insist you get triple shares of all the prize money for all that work and there’s going to be a prize beyond …” He saw the men look at each other, embarrassed. “What’s the matter?”
Van Nekk said uncomfortably, “It wasn’t us, Pilot. It was King Toranaga’s men. They did it. Vinck showed ’em how, but we didn’t do anything.”
“What?”
“We weren’t allowed back aboard after the first time. None of us has been aboard except Vinck, and he goes once every ten days or so. We did nothing.”
“He’s the only one,” Sonk said. “Johann showed ’em.”
“But how’d you talk to them, Johann?”
“There’s one of the samurai who talks Portuguese and we talk in that—enough to understand each other. This samurai, his name’s Satosama, he was put in charge when we came here. He asked who were officers or seamen among us. We said that’d be Ginsel, but he’s a gunner mostly, me and Sonk who—”
“Who’s the worst pissing cook that—”
“Shut your God-cursed mouth, Croocq!”
“Shit, you can’t cook ashore let alone afloat, by God!”
“Please be quiet, you two!” Blackthorne said. “Go on, Johann.”
Vinck continued. “Sato-sama asked me what was wrong with the ship and I told him she had to be careened and scraped and repaired all over. Well, I told him all I knew and they got on with it. They careened her good and cleaned the bilges, scrubbed them like a prince’s shit house—at least, samurai were bosses and other monkeys worked like demons, hundreds of the buggers. Shit, Pilot, you’ve never seen workers like ’em!”
“That’s true,” Sonk said. “Like demons!”
“I did everything the best I could against the day…. Jesus, Pilot, you really think we can get away?”
“Yes, if we’re patient and if we—”
“If God wills it, Pilot. Only then.”
“Yes. Perhaps you’re right,” Blackthorne replied, thinking, what’s it matter that Roper’s a fanatic? I need him—all of them. And the help of God. “Yes. We need the help of God,” he said and turned back to Vinck. “How’s her keel?”
“Clean and sound, Pilot. They’ve done her better’n I’d’ve thought possible. Those bastards are as clever as any carpenters, shipwrights, and ropemakers in all Holland. Rigging’s perfect—everything.”
“Sails?”
“They made a set out of silk—tough as canvas. With a spare set. They took ours down and copied ’em exact, Pilot. Cannon are perfect as possible—all back aboard and there’s powder and shot a-plenty. She’s ready to sail on the tide, tonight if need be. ’Course she hasn’t been to sea so we won’t know about the sails till we’re in a gale, but I’ll bet my life her seams’re as tight as when she was first slipped into the Zuider Zee—better ’cause the timbers’re seasoned now, thanks be to God!” Vinck paused for breath. “When are we off?”
“A month. About.”
They nudged each other, brimming with elation, and loudly toasted the Pilot and the ship.
“How about enemy shipping? There any hereabouts? What about prizes, Pilot?” Ginsel asked.
“Plenty—beyond your dreams. We’re all rich.”
Another shout of glee. “It’s about time.”
“Rich, eh? I’ll buy me a castle.”
“Lord God Almighty, when I get home …”
“Rich! Hurrah for the Pilot!”
“Plenty of Papists to kill? Good,” Jan Roper said softly. “Very good.”
“What’s the plan, Pilot?” van Nekk asked, and they all stopped talking.
“I’ll come to that in a minute. Do you have guards? Can you move around freely, when you want? How often—”
Vinck said quickly, “We can mo
“Not across the bridge,” Sonk broke in happily. “Tell him about the bridge, Johann!”
“Oh, for the love of God, I was coming to the bridge, Sonk. For God’s sake, don’t keep interrupting. Pilot, there’s a bridge about half a mile southwest. There’re a lot of signs on it. That’s as far as we’re allowed. We’re not to go over that. ‘Kinjiru,’ by God, the samurai say. You understand kinjiru, Pilot?”
Blackthorne nodded and said nothing.
“Apart from that we can go where we like. But only up to the barriers. There’s barriers all around about half a league away. Lord God … can you believe it, home soon!”
“Tell him about the doc, eh, and about the—”
“The samurai send a doctor once in a while, Pilot, and we have to take our clothes off and he looks at us….”
“Yes. Enough to make a man shit to have a bastard heathen monkey look at you naked like that.”
“Apart from that, Pilot, they don’t bother us except—”
“Hey, don’t forget the doc gives us some God-rotting filthy powdered ‘char’ herbs we’re supposed to steep in hot water but we toss ’em out. When we’re sick, good old Johann bleeds us and we’re fit.”
“Yes,” Sonk said. “We throw the char out.”
“Apart from that, except for—”
“We’re lucky here, Pilot, not like at first.”
“That’s right. At first—”
“Tell him about the inspection, Baccus!”
“I was coming to that—for God’s sake, be patient—give a fellow a chance. How can I tell him anything with you all gabbing. Pour me a drink!” van Nekk said thirstily and continued. “Every ten days a few samurai come here and we line up outside and he counts us. Then they give us sacks of rice and cash, copper cash. It’s plenty for everything, Pilot. We swap rice for meat and stuff—fruit or whatever. There’s plenty of everything and the women do whatever we want. At first we—”
“But it wasn’t like that at first. Tell him about that, Baccus!”
Van Nekk sat on the floor. “God give me strength!”
“You feeling sick, poor old lad?” Sonk asked solicitously. “Best not drink any more or you’ll get the devils back, hey? He gets the devils, Pilot, once a week. We all do.”
“Are you going to keep quiet while I tell the Pilot?”
“Who, me? I haven’t said a thing. I’m not stopping you. Here, here’s your drink!”
“Thanks, Sonk. Well, Pilot, first they put us in a house to the west of the city—”
“Down near the fields it was.”
“Damnit, then you tell the story, Johann!”
“All right. Christ, Pilot, it was terrible. No grub or liquor and those God-cursed paper houses’re like living in a field—a man can’t take a piss or pick his nose, nothing without someone watching, eh? Yes, and the slightest noise’d bring the neighbors down on us, and samurai’d be at the stoop and who wants those bastards around, eh? They’d be shaking their God-cursed swords at us, shouting and hollering, telling us to keep quiet. Well, one night someone knocked over a candle and the monkeys were all pissed off to hell with us! Jesus God, you should’ve heard them! They came swarming out of the woodwork with buckets of water, God-cursed mad, hissing and bowing and cursing…. It was only one poxy wall that got burned down…. Hundreds of ’em swarmed over the house like cockroaches. Bastards! You’ve—”
“Get on with it!”
“You want to tell it?”
“Go on, Johann, don’t pay any attention to him. He’s only a shit-filled cook.”
“What!”
“Oh, shut up! For God’s sake!” Van Nekk hurriedly took up the tale once more. “The next day, Pilot, they marched us out of there and put us into another house in the wharf area. That was just as bad. Then some weeks later, Johann stumbled onto this place. He was the only one of us allowed out, because of the ship, at that time. They’d collect him daily and bring him back at sunset. He was out fishing—we’re only a few hundred yards upstream from the sea…. Best you tell it, Johann.”
Blackthorne felt an itch on his bare leg and he rubbed it without thinking. The irritation got worse. Then he saw the mottled lump of a flea bite as Vinck continued proudly, “It’s like Baccus said, Pilot. I asked Sato-sama if we could move and he said, yes, why not. They’d usually let me fish from one of their little skiffs to pass the time. It was my nose that led me here, Pilot. The old nose led me: blood!”
Blackthorne said, “A slaughterhouse! A slaughterhouse and tanning! That’s …” He stopped and blanched.
“What’s up? What is it?”
“This is an eta village? Jesus Christ, these people’re eta?”
“What’s wrong with eters?” van Nekk asked. “Of course they’re eters.”
Blackthorne waved at the mosquitoes that infested the air, his skin crawling. “Damn bugs. They’re—they’re rotten, aren’t they? There’s a tannery here, isn’t there?”
“Yes. A few streets up, why?”
“Nothing. I didn’t recognize the smell, that’s all.”
“What about eters?”
“I … I didn’t realize, stupid of me. If I’d seen one of the men I’d’ve known from their short hairstyle. With the women you’d never know. Sorry. Go on with the story, Vinck.”
“Well, then they said—”
Jan Roper interrupted, “Wait a minute, Vinck! What’s wrong, Pilot? What about eters?”
“It’s just that Japanese think of them as different. They’re the executioners, and work the hides and handle corpses.” He felt their eyes, Jan Roper’s particularly. “Eta work hides,” he said, trying to keep his voice careless, “and kill all the old horses and oxen and handle dead bodies.”
“But what’s wrong with that, Pilot? You’ve buried a dozen yourself, put ’em in shrouds, washed ’em—we all have, eh? We butcher our own meat, always have. Ginsel here’s been hangman…. What’s wrong with all that?”
“Nothing,” Blackthorne said, knowing it to be true yet feeling befouled even so.
Vinck snorted. “Eters’re the best heathen we’ve seen here. More like us than the other bastards. We’re God-cursed lucky to be here, Pilot, fresh meat’s no problem, or tallow—they give us no trouble.”
“That’s right. If you’ve lived with eters, Pilot …”
“Jesus Christ, the Pilot’s had to live with the other bastards all the time! He doesn’t know any better. How about fetching Big-Arse Mary, Sonk?”
“Or Twicklebum?”
“Shit, not her, not that old whore. The Pilot’ll want a special. Let’s ask mama-san….”
“I bet he’s starving for real grub! Hey, Sonk, cut him a slice of meat.”
“Have some more grog …”
“Three cheers for the Pilot …”
In the happy uproar van Nekk clapped Blackthorne on the shoulders. “You’re home, old friend. Now you’re back, our prayers ’re answered and all’s well in the world. You’re home, old friend. Listen, take my bunk. I insist….”
Cheerily Blackthorne waved a last time. There was an answering shout from the darkness the far side of the little bridge. Then he turned away, his forced heartiness evaporated, and he walked around the corner, the samurai guard of ten men surrounding him.
On the way back to the castle his mind was locked in confusion. Nothing was wrong with eta and everything was wrong with eta, those are my crew there, my own people, and these are heathen and foreign and enemy….
Streets and alleys and bridges passed in a blur. Then he noticed that his own hand was inside his kimono and he was scratching and he stopped in his tracks.
“Those goddamned filthy …” He undid his sash and ripped off his sopping kimono and, as though it were defiled, hurled it in a ditch.
“Dozo, nan desu ka, Anjin-san?” one of the samurai asked.
“Nani mo!” Nothin
“Ah! Eta! Wakarimasu! Gomen nasai!” The samurai chatted among themselves but he paid them no attention.
That’s better, he was thinking with utter relief, not noticing that he was almost naked, only that his skin had stopped crawling now that the flea-infested kimono was off.
Jesus God, I’d love a bath right now!
He had told the crew about his adventures, but not that he was samurai and hatamoto, or that he was one of Toranaga’s protégés, or about Fujiko. Or Mariko. And he had not told them that they were going to land in force at Nagasaki and take the Black Ship by storm, or that he would be at the head of the samurai. That can come later, he thought wearily. And all the rest.
Could I ever tell them about Mariko-san?
His wooden clogs clattered on the wooden slats of First Bridge. Samurai sentries, also half-naked, lolled until they saw him, then they bowed politely as he passed, watching him intently, because this was the incredible barbarian who was astonishingly favored by Lord Toranaga, to whom Toranaga had, unbelievably, granted the never-given-before-to-a-barbarian honor of hatamoto and samurai.
At the main south gate of the castle another guide waited for him. He was escorted to his quarters within the inner ring. He had been allocated a room in one of the fortified though attractive guest houses, but he politely refused to go back there at once. “First bath please,” he told the samurai.
“Ah, I understand. That’s very considerate of you. The bath house is this way, Anjin-san. Yes, it’s a hot night, neh? And I hear you’ve been down to the Filthy Ones. The other guests in the house will appreciate your thoughtfulness. I thank you on their behalf.”
Blackthorne did not understand all the words but he gathered the meaning. ‘Filthy Ones.’ That describes my people and me—us, not them, poor people.
“Good evening, Anjin-san,” the chief bath attendant said. He was a vast, middle-aged man with immense belly and biceps. A maid had just awakened him to announce another late customer was arriving. He clapped his hands. Bath maids arrived. Blackthorne followed them into the scrubbing room and they cleansed him and shampooed him and he made them do it a second time. Then he walked through to the sunken bath, stepped into the piping-hot water and fought the heat, then gave himself to its mind-consuming embrace.