Shōgun by James Clavell
Then he took two sections and replaced the last in the orange cradle, in the center on its side, as though a crescent moon within a sun.
He ate one very slowly. When he had finished, he put the other in the center of his hand and offered it. “This you must have because it is the second to last. This is my gift to you.”
Suisen could hardly breathe. What was the last one for?
Kiku took the fruit and ate it. It was the best she had ever tasted.
“This, the last one,” Omi said, putting the whole flower gravely into the palm of his right hand, “this is my gift to the gods, whoever they are, wherever they are. I will never eat this fruit again, unless it is from your hands.”
“That is too much, Omi-sama,” Kiku said. “I release you from your vow! That was said under the influence of the kami who lives in all saké bottles!”
“I refuse to be released.”
They were very happy together.
“Suisen,” she said. “Now leave us. And please, child, please try to do it with grace.”
“Yes, Mistress.” The young girl went into the next room and checked that the futons were meticulous, the love instruments and pleasure beads near at hand, and the flowers perfect. An imperceptible crease was smoothed from the already smooth cover. Then, satisfied, Suisen sat down, sighed with relief, fanned the heat out of her face with her lilac fan, and contentedly waited.
In the next room, which was the finest of all the rooms in the tea house, the only one with a garden of its own, Kiku picked up the long-handled samisen. It was three-stringed, guitarlike, and Kiku’s first soaring chord filled the room. Then she began to sing. At first soft, then trilling, soft again then louder, softer and sighing sweetly, ever sweetly, she sang of love and unrequited love and happiness and sadness.
* * *
“Mistress?” The whisper would not have awakened the lightest sleeper but Suisen knew that her mistress preferred not to sleep after the Clouds and the Rain, however strong. She preferred to rest, half awake, in tranquillity.
“Yes, Sui-chan?” Kiku whispered as quietly, using “chan” as one would to a favorite child.
“Omi-san’s wife has returned. Her palanquin has just gone up the path to his house.”
Kiku glanced at Omi. His neck rested comfortably on the padded wooden pillow, arms interlocked. His body was strong and unmarked, his skin firm and golden, a sheen there. She caressed him gently, enough to make the touch enter his dream but not enough to awaken him. Then she slid from under the quilt, gathering her kimonos around herself.
It took Kiku very little time to renew her makeup as Suisen combed and brushed her hair and retied it into the shimoda style. Then mistress and maid walked noiselessly along the corridor, out onto the veranda, through the garden to the square. Boats, like fireflies, plied from the barbarian ship to the jetty where seven of the cannon still remained to be loaded. It was still deep night, long before dawn.
The two women slipped along the narrow alley between a cluster of houses and began to climb the path.
Sweat-stained and exhausted bearers were collecting their strength around the palanquin on the hilltop outside Omi’s house. Kiku did not knock on the garden door. Candles were lit in the house and servants were hurrying to and fro. She motioned to Suisen, who immediately went to the veranda near the front door, knocked, and waited. In a moment the door opened. The maid nodded and vanished. Another moment and the maid returned and beckoned Kiku and bowed low as she swept past. Another maid scurried ahead and opened the shoji of the best room.
Omi’s mother’s bed was unslept in. She was sitting, rigidly erect, near the small alcove that held the flower arrangement. A small window shoji was open to the garden. Midori, Omi’s wife, was opposite her.
Kiku knelt. Is it only a night ago that I was here and terrified on the Night of the Screams? She bowed, first to Omi’s mother, then to his wife, feeling the tension between the two women and she asked herself, Why is it there is always such violence between mother-in-law and daughter-in-law? Doesn’t daughter-in-law, in time, become mother-in-law? Why does she then always treat her own daughter-in-law to a lashing tongue and make her life a misery, and why does that girl do the same in her turn? Doesn’t anyone learn?
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mistress-san.”
“You’re very welcome, Kiku-san,” the old woman replied. “There’s no trouble, I hope?”
“Oh, no, but I didn’t know whether or not you’d want me to awaken your son,” she said to her, already knowing the answer. “I thought I’d better ask you, as you, Midori-san”—she turned and smiled and bowed slightly to Midori, liking her greatly—“as you had returned.”
The old woman said, “You’re very kind, Kiku-san, and very thoughtful. No, leave him in peace.”
“Very well. Please excuse me, disturbing you like this, but I thought it best to ask. Midori-san, I hope your journey was not too bad.”
“So sorry, it was awful,” Midori said. “I’m glad to be back and hated being away. Is my husband well?”
“Yes, very well. He laughed a lot this evening and seemed to be happy. He ate and drank sparingly and he’s sleeping soundly.”
“The Mistress-san was beginning to tell me some of the terrible things that happened while I was away and—”
“You shouldn’t have gone. You were needed here,” the old woman interrupted, venom in her voice. “Or perhaps not. Perhaps you should have stayed away permanently. Perhaps you brought a bad kami into our house along with your bed linen.”
“I’d never do that, Mistress-san,” Midori said patiently. “Please believe I would rather kill myself than bring the slightest stain to your good name. Please forgive my being away and my faults. I’m sorry.”
“Since that devil ship came here we’ve had nothing but trouble. That’s bad kami. Very bad. And where were you when you were needed? Gossiping in Mishima, stuffing yourself and drinking saké.”
“My father died, Mistress-san. The day before I arrived.”
“Huh, you haven’t even got the courtesy or the foresight to be at your own father’s deathbed. The sooner you permanently leave our house, the better for all of us. I want some cha. We have a guest here and you haven’t even remembered your manners enough to offer her refreshment!”
“It was ordered, instantly, the moment she—”
“It hasn’t arrived instantly!”
The shoji opened. A maid nervously brought cha and some sweet cakes. First Midori served the old woman, who cursed the maid roundly and chomped toothlessly on a cake, slurping her drink. “You must excuse the maid, Kiku-san,” the old woman said. “The cha’s tasteless. Tasteless! And scalding. I suppose that’s only to be expected in this house.”
“Here, please have mine.” Midori blew gently on the tea to cool it.
The old woman took it grudgingly. “Why can’t it be correct the first time?” She lapsed into sullen silence.
“What do you think about all this?” Midori asked Kiku. “The ship and Yabu-sama and Toda Hiro-matsu-sama?”
“I don’t know what to think. As to the barbarians, who knows? They’re certainly an extraordinary collection of men. And the great daimyo, Iron Fist? It’s very curious that he arrived almost the same time as Lord Yabu, neh? Well, you must excuse me, no, please, I can see myself out.”
“Oh, no, Kiku-san, I wouldn’t hear of it.”
“There, you see, Midori-san,” the old woman interrupted impatiendy. “Our guest’s uncomfortable and the cha awful.”
“Oh, the cha was sufficient for me, Mistress-san, really. No, if you’ll excuse me, I am a little tired. Perhaps before I go tomorrow, I may be allowed to come to see you. It’s always such a pleasure to talk with you.”
The old woman allowed herself to be cajoled and Kiku followed Midori onto the veranda and into the garden.
“Kiku-san, you’re so thoughtful,” Midori said, holding her arm, warmed by her beauty. “It was very kind of you, thank you.”
Kiku glanced bac
k at the house momentarily, and shivered. “Is she always like that?”
“Tonight she was polite, compared to some times. If it wasn’t for Omi and my son I swear I’d shake her dust off my feet, shave my head, and become a nun. But I have Omi and my son and that makes up for everything. I only thank all kami for that. Fortunately Mistress-san prefers Yedo and can’t stay away from there for very long.” Midori smiled sadly. “You train yourself not to listen, you know how it is.” She sighed, so beautiful in the moonlight. “But that’s unimportant. Tell me what’s happened since I left.”
This was why Kiku had come to the house so urgently, for obviously neither the mother nor the wife would wish Omi’s sleep disturbed. She came to tell the lovely Lady Midori everything, so she could help to guard Kasigi Omi as she herself would try to guard him. She told her all that she knew except what had happened in the room with Yabu. She added the rumors she had heard and the stories the other girls had passed on to her or invented. And everything that Omi had told her—his hopes and fears and plans—everything about him, except what had happened in the room tonight. She knew that this was not important to his wife.
“I’m afraid, Kiku-san, afraid for my husband.”
“Everything he advised was wise, Lady. I think everything he did was correct. Lord Yabu doesn’t reward anyone lightly and three thousand koku is a worthy increase.”
“But the ship’s Lord Toranaga’s now, and all that money.”
“Yes, but for Yabu-sama to offer the ship as a gift was an idea of genius. Omi-san gave the idea to Yabu—surely this itself is payment enough, neh? Omi-san must be recognized as a preeminent vassal.” Kiku twisted the truth just a trifle, knowing that Omi was in great danger, and all his house. What is to be will be, she reminded herself. But it does no harm to ease the brow of a nice woman.
“Yes, I can see that,” Midori said. Let it be the truth, she prayed. Please let it be the truth. She embraced the girl, her eyes filling with tears. “Thank you. You’re so kind, Kiku-san, so kind.” She was seventeen.
CHAPTER 8
“What do you think, Ingeles?”
“I think there’ll be a storm.”
“When?”
“Before sunset.”
It was near noon and they were standing on the quarterdeck of the galley under a gray overcast. This was the second day out to sea.
“If this was your ship, what would you do?”
“How far is it to our landfall?” Blackthorne asked.
“After sunset.”
“How far to the nearest land?”
“Four or five hours, Ingeles. But to run for cover will cost us half a day and I can’t afford that. What would you do?”
Blackthorne thought a moment. During the first night the galley had sped southward down the east coast of the Izu peninsula, helped by the large sail on the midships mast. When they had come abreast of the southmost cape, Cape Ito, Rodrigues had set the course West South West and had left the safety of the coast for the open sea, heading for a landfall at Cape Shinto two hundred miles away.
“Normally in one of these galleys we’d hug the coast—for safety,” Rodrigues had said, “but that’d take too much time and time is important. Toranaga asked me to pilot Toady to Anjiro and back. Quickly. There’s a bonus for me if we’re very quick. One of their pilots’d be just as good on a short haul like this, but the poor son of a whore’d be frightened to death carrying so important a daimyo as Toady, particularly out of sight of land. They’re not oceaners, Japmen. Great pirates and fighters and coastal sailors. But the deep frightens them. The old Taikō even made a law that the few ocean ships Japmen possess were always to have Portuguese pilots aboard. It’s still the law of their land today.”
“Why did he do that?”
Rodrigues shrugged. “Perhaps someone suggested it to him.”
“Who?”
“Your stolen rutter, Ingeles, the Portuguese one. Whose was it?”
“I don’t know. There was no name on it, no signature.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“From the chief merchant of the Dutch East India Company.”
“Where’d he get it from?”
Blackthorne shrugged.
Rodrigues’ laugh had no humor in it. “Well, I never expected you to tell me—but whoever stole it and sold it, I hope he burns in hellfire forever!”
“You’re employed by this Toranaga, Rodrigues?”
“No. I was just visiting Osaka, my Captain and I. This was just a favor to Toranaga. My Captain volunteered me. I’m pilot of the—” Rodrigues had stopped. “I keep forgetting you’re the enemy, Ingeles.”
“Portugal and England have been allies for centuries.”
“But we’re not now. Go below, Ingeles. You’re tired and so am I and tired men make mistakes. Come on deck when you’re rested.”
So Blackthorne had gone below to the pilot’s cabin and had lain on the bunk. Rodrigues’ rutter of the voyage was on the sea desk which was pinned to the bulkhead like the pilot’s chair on the quarter-deck. The book was leather-covered and used but Blackthorne did not open it.
“Why leave it there?” he had asked previously.
“If I didn’t, you’d search for it. But you won’t touch it there—or even look at it—uninvited. You’re a pilot—not a pig-bellied whoring thieving merchant or soldier.”
“I’ll read it. You would.”
“Not uninvited, Ingeles. No pilot’d do that. Even I wouldn’t!”
Blackthorne had watched the book for a moment and then he closed his eyes. He slept deeply, all of that day and part of the night. It was just before dawn when he awoke as always. It took time to adjust to the untoward motion of the galley and the throb of the drum that kept the oars moving as one. He lay comfortably on his back in the dark, his arms under his head. He thought about his own ship and put away his worry of what would happen when they reached shore and Osaka. One thing at a time. Think about Felicity and Tudor and home. No, not now. Think that if other Portuguese are like Rodrigues, you’ve a good chance now. You’ll get a ship home. Pilots are not enemies and the pox on other things! But you can’t say that, lad. You’re English, the hated heretic and anti-Christ. Catholics own this world. They owned it. Now we and the Dutch’re going to smash them.
What nonsense it all is! Catholic and Protestant and Calvinist and Lutherist and every other shitist. You should have been born Catholic. It was only fate that took your father to Holland where he met a woman, Anneke van Droste, who became his wife and he saw Spanish Catholics and Spanish priests and the Inquisition for the first time. I’m glad he had his eyes opened, Blackthorne thought. I’m glad mine are open.
Then he had gone on deck. Rodrigues was in his chair, his eyes red-rimmed with sleeplessness, two Japanese sailors on the helm as before.
“Can I take this watch for you?”
“How do you feel, Ingeles?”
“Rested. Can I take the watch for you?” Blackthorne saw Rodrigues measuring him. “I’ll wake you if the wind changes—anything.”
“Thank you, Ingeles. Yes, I’ll sleep a little. Maintain this course. At the turn, go four degrees more westerly and at the next, six more westerly. You’ll have to point the new course on the compass for the helmsman. Wakarimasu ka?”
“Hai!” Blackthorne laughed. “Four points westerly it is. Go below, Pilot, your bunk’s comfortable.”
But Vasco Rodrigues did not go below. He merely pulled his sea cloak closer and settled deeper into the seachair. Just before the turn of the hourglass he awoke momentarily and checked the course change without moving and immediately went back to sleep again. Once when the wind veered he awoke and then; when he had seen there was no danger, again he slept.
Hiro-matsu and Yabu came on deck during the morning. Blackthorne noticed their surprise that he was conning the ship and Rodrigues sleeping. They did not talk to him, but returned to their conversation and, later, they went below again.
Near midday Rodrigues h
ad risen from the seachair to stare north-east, sniffing the wind, all his senses concentrated. Both men studied the sea and the sky and the encroaching clouds.
“What would you do, Ingeles, if this was your ship?” Rodrigues said again.
“I’d run for the coast if I knew where it was—the nearest point. This craft won’t take much water and there’s a storm there all right. About four hours away.”
“Can’t be tai-fun,” Rodrigues muttered.
“What?”
“Tai-fun. They’re huge winds—the worst storms you’ve ever seen. But we’re not in tai-fun season.”
“When’s that?”
“It’s not now, enemy.” Rodrigues laughed. “No, not now. But it could be rotten enough so I’ll take your piss-cutting advice. Steer North by West.”
As Blackthorne pointed the new course and the helmsman turned the ship neatly, Rodrigues went to the rail and shouted at the captain, “Isogi! Captain-san. Wakarimasu ka?”
“Isogi, hai!”
“What’s that? Hurry up?”
The corners of Rodrigues’ eyes crinkled with amusement. “No harm in you knowing a little Japman talk, eh? Sure, Ingeles, ‘isogi’ means to hurry. All you need here’s about ten words and then you can make the buggers shit if you want to. If they’re the right words, of course, and if they’re in the mood. I’ll go below now and get some food.”
“You cook too?”
“In Japland, every civilized man has to cook, or personally has to train one of the monkeys to cook, or you starve to death. All they eat’s raw fish, raw vegetables in sweet pickled vinegar. But life here can be a piss-cutter if you know how.”
“Is ‘piss-cutter’ good or bad?”
“It’s mostly very good but sometimes terribly bad. It all depends how you feel and you ask too many questions.”
Rodrigues went below. He barred his cabin door and carefully checked the lock on his sea chest. The hair that he had placed so delicately was still there. And a similar hair, equally invisible to anyone but him, that he had put on the cover of his rutter was also untouched.
You can’t be too careful in this world, Rodrigues thought. Is there any harm in his knowing that you’re pilot of the Nao del Trato, this year’s great Black Ship from Macao? Perhaps. Because then you’d have to explain that she’s a leviathan, one of the richest, biggest ships in the world, more than sixteen hundred tons. You might be tempted to tell him about her cargo, about trade and about Macao and all sorts of illuminating things that are very, very private and very, very secret. But we are at war, us against the English and Dutch.
He ate one very slowly. When he had finished, he put the other in the center of his hand and offered it. “This you must have because it is the second to last. This is my gift to you.”
Suisen could hardly breathe. What was the last one for?
Kiku took the fruit and ate it. It was the best she had ever tasted.
“This, the last one,” Omi said, putting the whole flower gravely into the palm of his right hand, “this is my gift to the gods, whoever they are, wherever they are. I will never eat this fruit again, unless it is from your hands.”
“That is too much, Omi-sama,” Kiku said. “I release you from your vow! That was said under the influence of the kami who lives in all saké bottles!”
“I refuse to be released.”
They were very happy together.
“Suisen,” she said. “Now leave us. And please, child, please try to do it with grace.”
“Yes, Mistress.” The young girl went into the next room and checked that the futons were meticulous, the love instruments and pleasure beads near at hand, and the flowers perfect. An imperceptible crease was smoothed from the already smooth cover. Then, satisfied, Suisen sat down, sighed with relief, fanned the heat out of her face with her lilac fan, and contentedly waited.
In the next room, which was the finest of all the rooms in the tea house, the only one with a garden of its own, Kiku picked up the long-handled samisen. It was three-stringed, guitarlike, and Kiku’s first soaring chord filled the room. Then she began to sing. At first soft, then trilling, soft again then louder, softer and sighing sweetly, ever sweetly, she sang of love and unrequited love and happiness and sadness.
* * *
“Mistress?” The whisper would not have awakened the lightest sleeper but Suisen knew that her mistress preferred not to sleep after the Clouds and the Rain, however strong. She preferred to rest, half awake, in tranquillity.
“Yes, Sui-chan?” Kiku whispered as quietly, using “chan” as one would to a favorite child.
“Omi-san’s wife has returned. Her palanquin has just gone up the path to his house.”
Kiku glanced at Omi. His neck rested comfortably on the padded wooden pillow, arms interlocked. His body was strong and unmarked, his skin firm and golden, a sheen there. She caressed him gently, enough to make the touch enter his dream but not enough to awaken him. Then she slid from under the quilt, gathering her kimonos around herself.
It took Kiku very little time to renew her makeup as Suisen combed and brushed her hair and retied it into the shimoda style. Then mistress and maid walked noiselessly along the corridor, out onto the veranda, through the garden to the square. Boats, like fireflies, plied from the barbarian ship to the jetty where seven of the cannon still remained to be loaded. It was still deep night, long before dawn.
The two women slipped along the narrow alley between a cluster of houses and began to climb the path.
Sweat-stained and exhausted bearers were collecting their strength around the palanquin on the hilltop outside Omi’s house. Kiku did not knock on the garden door. Candles were lit in the house and servants were hurrying to and fro. She motioned to Suisen, who immediately went to the veranda near the front door, knocked, and waited. In a moment the door opened. The maid nodded and vanished. Another moment and the maid returned and beckoned Kiku and bowed low as she swept past. Another maid scurried ahead and opened the shoji of the best room.
Omi’s mother’s bed was unslept in. She was sitting, rigidly erect, near the small alcove that held the flower arrangement. A small window shoji was open to the garden. Midori, Omi’s wife, was opposite her.
Kiku knelt. Is it only a night ago that I was here and terrified on the Night of the Screams? She bowed, first to Omi’s mother, then to his wife, feeling the tension between the two women and she asked herself, Why is it there is always such violence between mother-in-law and daughter-in-law? Doesn’t daughter-in-law, in time, become mother-in-law? Why does she then always treat her own daughter-in-law to a lashing tongue and make her life a misery, and why does that girl do the same in her turn? Doesn’t anyone learn?
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mistress-san.”
“You’re very welcome, Kiku-san,” the old woman replied. “There’s no trouble, I hope?”
“Oh, no, but I didn’t know whether or not you’d want me to awaken your son,” she said to her, already knowing the answer. “I thought I’d better ask you, as you, Midori-san”—she turned and smiled and bowed slightly to Midori, liking her greatly—“as you had returned.”
The old woman said, “You’re very kind, Kiku-san, and very thoughtful. No, leave him in peace.”
“Very well. Please excuse me, disturbing you like this, but I thought it best to ask. Midori-san, I hope your journey was not too bad.”
“So sorry, it was awful,” Midori said. “I’m glad to be back and hated being away. Is my husband well?”
“Yes, very well. He laughed a lot this evening and seemed to be happy. He ate and drank sparingly and he’s sleeping soundly.”
“The Mistress-san was beginning to tell me some of the terrible things that happened while I was away and—”
“You shouldn’t have gone. You were needed here,” the old woman interrupted, venom in her voice. “Or perhaps not. Perhaps you should have stayed away permanently. Perhaps you brought a bad kami into our house along with your bed linen.”
“I’d never do that, Mistress-san,” Midori said patiently. “Please believe I would rather kill myself than bring the slightest stain to your good name. Please forgive my being away and my faults. I’m sorry.”
“Since that devil ship came here we’ve had nothing but trouble. That’s bad kami. Very bad. And where were you when you were needed? Gossiping in Mishima, stuffing yourself and drinking saké.”
“My father died, Mistress-san. The day before I arrived.”
“Huh, you haven’t even got the courtesy or the foresight to be at your own father’s deathbed. The sooner you permanently leave our house, the better for all of us. I want some cha. We have a guest here and you haven’t even remembered your manners enough to offer her refreshment!”
“It was ordered, instantly, the moment she—”
“It hasn’t arrived instantly!”
The shoji opened. A maid nervously brought cha and some sweet cakes. First Midori served the old woman, who cursed the maid roundly and chomped toothlessly on a cake, slurping her drink. “You must excuse the maid, Kiku-san,” the old woman said. “The cha’s tasteless. Tasteless! And scalding. I suppose that’s only to be expected in this house.”
“Here, please have mine.” Midori blew gently on the tea to cool it.
The old woman took it grudgingly. “Why can’t it be correct the first time?” She lapsed into sullen silence.
“What do you think about all this?” Midori asked Kiku. “The ship and Yabu-sama and Toda Hiro-matsu-sama?”
“I don’t know what to think. As to the barbarians, who knows? They’re certainly an extraordinary collection of men. And the great daimyo, Iron Fist? It’s very curious that he arrived almost the same time as Lord Yabu, neh? Well, you must excuse me, no, please, I can see myself out.”
“Oh, no, Kiku-san, I wouldn’t hear of it.”
“There, you see, Midori-san,” the old woman interrupted impatiendy. “Our guest’s uncomfortable and the cha awful.”
“Oh, the cha was sufficient for me, Mistress-san, really. No, if you’ll excuse me, I am a little tired. Perhaps before I go tomorrow, I may be allowed to come to see you. It’s always such a pleasure to talk with you.”
The old woman allowed herself to be cajoled and Kiku followed Midori onto the veranda and into the garden.
“Kiku-san, you’re so thoughtful,” Midori said, holding her arm, warmed by her beauty. “It was very kind of you, thank you.”
Kiku glanced bac
“Tonight she was polite, compared to some times. If it wasn’t for Omi and my son I swear I’d shake her dust off my feet, shave my head, and become a nun. But I have Omi and my son and that makes up for everything. I only thank all kami for that. Fortunately Mistress-san prefers Yedo and can’t stay away from there for very long.” Midori smiled sadly. “You train yourself not to listen, you know how it is.” She sighed, so beautiful in the moonlight. “But that’s unimportant. Tell me what’s happened since I left.”
This was why Kiku had come to the house so urgently, for obviously neither the mother nor the wife would wish Omi’s sleep disturbed. She came to tell the lovely Lady Midori everything, so she could help to guard Kasigi Omi as she herself would try to guard him. She told her all that she knew except what had happened in the room with Yabu. She added the rumors she had heard and the stories the other girls had passed on to her or invented. And everything that Omi had told her—his hopes and fears and plans—everything about him, except what had happened in the room tonight. She knew that this was not important to his wife.
“I’m afraid, Kiku-san, afraid for my husband.”
“Everything he advised was wise, Lady. I think everything he did was correct. Lord Yabu doesn’t reward anyone lightly and three thousand koku is a worthy increase.”
“But the ship’s Lord Toranaga’s now, and all that money.”
“Yes, but for Yabu-sama to offer the ship as a gift was an idea of genius. Omi-san gave the idea to Yabu—surely this itself is payment enough, neh? Omi-san must be recognized as a preeminent vassal.” Kiku twisted the truth just a trifle, knowing that Omi was in great danger, and all his house. What is to be will be, she reminded herself. But it does no harm to ease the brow of a nice woman.
“Yes, I can see that,” Midori said. Let it be the truth, she prayed. Please let it be the truth. She embraced the girl, her eyes filling with tears. “Thank you. You’re so kind, Kiku-san, so kind.” She was seventeen.
CHAPTER 8
“What do you think, Ingeles?”
“I think there’ll be a storm.”
“When?”
“Before sunset.”
It was near noon and they were standing on the quarterdeck of the galley under a gray overcast. This was the second day out to sea.
“If this was your ship, what would you do?”
“How far is it to our landfall?” Blackthorne asked.
“After sunset.”
“How far to the nearest land?”
“Four or five hours, Ingeles. But to run for cover will cost us half a day and I can’t afford that. What would you do?”
Blackthorne thought a moment. During the first night the galley had sped southward down the east coast of the Izu peninsula, helped by the large sail on the midships mast. When they had come abreast of the southmost cape, Cape Ito, Rodrigues had set the course West South West and had left the safety of the coast for the open sea, heading for a landfall at Cape Shinto two hundred miles away.
“Normally in one of these galleys we’d hug the coast—for safety,” Rodrigues had said, “but that’d take too much time and time is important. Toranaga asked me to pilot Toady to Anjiro and back. Quickly. There’s a bonus for me if we’re very quick. One of their pilots’d be just as good on a short haul like this, but the poor son of a whore’d be frightened to death carrying so important a daimyo as Toady, particularly out of sight of land. They’re not oceaners, Japmen. Great pirates and fighters and coastal sailors. But the deep frightens them. The old Taikō even made a law that the few ocean ships Japmen possess were always to have Portuguese pilots aboard. It’s still the law of their land today.”
“Why did he do that?”
Rodrigues shrugged. “Perhaps someone suggested it to him.”
“Who?”
“Your stolen rutter, Ingeles, the Portuguese one. Whose was it?”
“I don’t know. There was no name on it, no signature.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“From the chief merchant of the Dutch East India Company.”
“Where’d he get it from?”
Blackthorne shrugged.
Rodrigues’ laugh had no humor in it. “Well, I never expected you to tell me—but whoever stole it and sold it, I hope he burns in hellfire forever!”
“You’re employed by this Toranaga, Rodrigues?”
“No. I was just visiting Osaka, my Captain and I. This was just a favor to Toranaga. My Captain volunteered me. I’m pilot of the—” Rodrigues had stopped. “I keep forgetting you’re the enemy, Ingeles.”
“Portugal and England have been allies for centuries.”
“But we’re not now. Go below, Ingeles. You’re tired and so am I and tired men make mistakes. Come on deck when you’re rested.”
So Blackthorne had gone below to the pilot’s cabin and had lain on the bunk. Rodrigues’ rutter of the voyage was on the sea desk which was pinned to the bulkhead like the pilot’s chair on the quarter-deck. The book was leather-covered and used but Blackthorne did not open it.
“Why leave it there?” he had asked previously.
“If I didn’t, you’d search for it. But you won’t touch it there—or even look at it—uninvited. You’re a pilot—not a pig-bellied whoring thieving merchant or soldier.”
“I’ll read it. You would.”
“Not uninvited, Ingeles. No pilot’d do that. Even I wouldn’t!”
Blackthorne had watched the book for a moment and then he closed his eyes. He slept deeply, all of that day and part of the night. It was just before dawn when he awoke as always. It took time to adjust to the untoward motion of the galley and the throb of the drum that kept the oars moving as one. He lay comfortably on his back in the dark, his arms under his head. He thought about his own ship and put away his worry of what would happen when they reached shore and Osaka. One thing at a time. Think about Felicity and Tudor and home. No, not now. Think that if other Portuguese are like Rodrigues, you’ve a good chance now. You’ll get a ship home. Pilots are not enemies and the pox on other things! But you can’t say that, lad. You’re English, the hated heretic and anti-Christ. Catholics own this world. They owned it. Now we and the Dutch’re going to smash them.
What nonsense it all is! Catholic and Protestant and Calvinist and Lutherist and every other shitist. You should have been born Catholic. It was only fate that took your father to Holland where he met a woman, Anneke van Droste, who became his wife and he saw Spanish Catholics and Spanish priests and the Inquisition for the first time. I’m glad he had his eyes opened, Blackthorne thought. I’m glad mine are open.
Then he had gone on deck. Rodrigues was in his chair, his eyes red-rimmed with sleeplessness, two Japanese sailors on the helm as before.
“Can I take this watch for you?”
“How do you feel, Ingeles?”
“Rested. Can I take the watch for you?” Blackthorne saw Rodrigues measuring him. “I’ll wake you if the wind changes—anything.”
“Thank you, Ingeles. Yes, I’ll sleep a little. Maintain this course. At the turn, go four degrees more westerly and at the next, six more westerly. You’ll have to point the new course on the compass for the helmsman. Wakarimasu ka?”
“Hai!” Blackthorne laughed. “Four points westerly it is. Go below, Pilot, your bunk’s comfortable.”
But Vasco Rodrigues did not go below. He merely pulled his sea cloak closer and settled deeper into the seachair. Just before the turn of the hourglass he awoke momentarily and checked the course change without moving and immediately went back to sleep again. Once when the wind veered he awoke and then; when he had seen there was no danger, again he slept.
Hiro-matsu and Yabu came on deck during the morning. Blackthorne noticed their surprise that he was conning the ship and Rodrigues sleeping. They did not talk to him, but returned to their conversation and, later, they went below again.
Near midday Rodrigues h
“What would you do, Ingeles, if this was your ship?” Rodrigues said again.
“I’d run for the coast if I knew where it was—the nearest point. This craft won’t take much water and there’s a storm there all right. About four hours away.”
“Can’t be tai-fun,” Rodrigues muttered.
“What?”
“Tai-fun. They’re huge winds—the worst storms you’ve ever seen. But we’re not in tai-fun season.”
“When’s that?”
“It’s not now, enemy.” Rodrigues laughed. “No, not now. But it could be rotten enough so I’ll take your piss-cutting advice. Steer North by West.”
As Blackthorne pointed the new course and the helmsman turned the ship neatly, Rodrigues went to the rail and shouted at the captain, “Isogi! Captain-san. Wakarimasu ka?”
“Isogi, hai!”
“What’s that? Hurry up?”
The corners of Rodrigues’ eyes crinkled with amusement. “No harm in you knowing a little Japman talk, eh? Sure, Ingeles, ‘isogi’ means to hurry. All you need here’s about ten words and then you can make the buggers shit if you want to. If they’re the right words, of course, and if they’re in the mood. I’ll go below now and get some food.”
“You cook too?”
“In Japland, every civilized man has to cook, or personally has to train one of the monkeys to cook, or you starve to death. All they eat’s raw fish, raw vegetables in sweet pickled vinegar. But life here can be a piss-cutter if you know how.”
“Is ‘piss-cutter’ good or bad?”
“It’s mostly very good but sometimes terribly bad. It all depends how you feel and you ask too many questions.”
Rodrigues went below. He barred his cabin door and carefully checked the lock on his sea chest. The hair that he had placed so delicately was still there. And a similar hair, equally invisible to anyone but him, that he had put on the cover of his rutter was also untouched.
You can’t be too careful in this world, Rodrigues thought. Is there any harm in his knowing that you’re pilot of the Nao del Trato, this year’s great Black Ship from Macao? Perhaps. Because then you’d have to explain that she’s a leviathan, one of the richest, biggest ships in the world, more than sixteen hundred tons. You might be tempted to tell him about her cargo, about trade and about Macao and all sorts of illuminating things that are very, very private and very, very secret. But we are at war, us against the English and Dutch.