Shōgun

by James Clavell

  “I’ve thought of that. But we’re not fit enough yet. It’ll take a week for the scurvy to go,” Blackthorne replied, disquieted. “There are too many of them aboard ship. I wouldn’t like to take on even one without a spear or gun. Are you guarded at night?”

  “Yes. They change guard three or four times. Has anyone seen a sentry asleep?” van Nekk asked.

  They shook their heads.

  “We could be aboard tonight,” Jan Roper said. “With the help of God we’ll overpower the heathen and take the ship.”

  “Clear the shit out of your ears! The pilot’s just got through telling you! Don’t you listen?” Vinck spat disgustedly.

  “That’s right,” Pieterzoon, a gunner, agreed. “Stop hacking at old Vinck!”

  Jan Roper’s eyes narrowed even more. “Look to your soul, Johann Vinck. And yours, Hans Pieterzoon. The Day of Judgment approaches.” He walked away and sat on the veranda.

  Van Nekk broke the silence. “Everything is going to be all right. You’ll see.”

  “Roper’s right. It’s greed that put us here,” the boy Croocq said, his voice quavering. “It’s God’s punishment that—”

  “Stop it!”

  The boy jerked. “Yes, Pilot. Sorry, but—well …” Maximilian Croocq was the youngest of them, just sixteen, and he had signed on for the voyage because his father had been captain of one of the ships and they were going to make their fortune. But he had seen his father die badly when they had sacked the Spanish town of Santa Magdellana in the Argentine. The plunder had been good and he had seen what rape was and he had tried it, hating himself, glutted by the blood smell and the killing. Later he had seen more of his friends die and the five ships became one and now he felt he was the oldest among them. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

  “How long have we been ashore, Baccus?” Blackthorne asked.

  “This is the third day.” Van Nekk moved close again, squatting on his haunches. “Don’t remember the arrival too clearly, but when I woke up the savages were all over the ship. Very polite and kind though. Gave us food and hot water. They took the dead away and put the anchors out. Don’t remember much but I think they towed us to a safe mooring. You were delirious when they carried you ashore. We wanted to keep you with us but they wouldn’t let us. One of them spoke a few words of Portuguese. He seemed to be the headman, he had gray hair. He didn’t understand ‘Pilot-Major’ but knew ‘Captain.’ It was quite clear he wanted our ‘Captain’ to have different quarters from us, but he said we shouldn’t worry because you’d be well looked after. Us too. Then he guided us here, they carried us mostly, and said we were to stay inside until his captain came. We didn’t want to let them take you but there was nothing we could do. Will you ask the headman about wine or brandy, Pilot?” Van Nekk licked his lips thirstily, then added, “Now that I think of it, he mentioned ‘daimyo’ too. What’s going to happen when the daimyo arrives?”

  “Has anyone got a knife or a pistol?”

  “No,” van Nekk said, scratching absently at the lice in his hair. “They took all our clothes away to clean them and kept the weapons. I didn’t think anything about it at the time. They took my keys too, as well as my pistol. I had all my keys on a ring. The strong room, the strongbox, and the magazine.”

  “Everything’s locked tight aboard. No need to worry about that.”

  “I don’t like not having my keys. Makes me very nervous. Damn my eyes, I could use a brandy right now. Even a flagon of ale.”

  “Lord Jesus! The sameree cut him into pieces, did he?” Sonk said to no one in particular.

  “For the love of God, shut your mouth. It’s ‘samurai.’ You’re enough to make a man shit himself,” Ginsel said.

  “I hope that bastard priest doesn’t come here,” Vinck said.

  “We’re safe in the good Lord’s hands.” Van Nekk was still trying to sound confident. “When the daimyo comes we’ll be released. We’ll get our ship back and our guns. You’ll see. We’ll sell all our goods and we’ll get back to Holland rich and safe having gone round the world—the first Dutchmen ever. The Catholics’ll go to hell and that’s the end of it.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Vinck said. “Papists make my skin crawl. I can’t help it. That and the thought of the conquistadores. You think they’ll be here in strength, Pilot?”

  “I don’t know. I’d think yes! I wish we had all our squadron here.”

  “Poor bastards,” Vinck said. “At least we’re alive.”

  Maetsukker said, “Maybe they’re back home. Maybe they turned back at the Magellan when the storms scattered us.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Blackthorne said. “But I think they’re lost with all hands.”

  Ginsel shuddered. “At least we’re alive.”

  “With Papists here, and these heathens with their stinking tempers, I wouldn’t give an old whore’s crack for our lives.”

  “Goddamn the day I left Holland,” Pieterzoon said. “Goddamn all grog! If I hadn’t been drunker than a fiddler’s bitch I’d still be heads down in Amsterdam with my old woman.”

  “Damn what you like, Pieterzoon. But don’t damn liquor. It’s the stuff of life!”

  “I’d say we’re in the sewer, up to our chins, and the tide’s coming in fast.” Vinck rolled his eyes. “Yes, very fast.”

  “I never thought we’d reach land,” Maetsukker said. He looked like a ferret, except he had no teeth. “Never. Least of all the Japans. Lousy stinking Papists! We’ll never leave here alive! I wish we had some guns. What a rotten landfall! I didn’t mean anything, Pilot,” he said quickly as Blackthorne looked at him. “Just bad luck, that’s all.”

  Later servants brought them food again. Always the same: vegetables—cooked and raw—with a little vinegar, fish soup, and the wheat or barley porridge. They all spurned the small pieces of raw fish and asked for meat and liquor. But they were not understood and then, near sunset, Blackthorne left. He had wearied of their fears and hates and obscenities. He told them that he would return after dawn.

  The shops were busy on the narrow streets. He found his street and the gate of his house. The stains on the earth had been swept away and the body had vanished. It’s almost as though I dreamed the whole thing, he thought. The garden gate opened before he could put a hand on it.

  The old gardener, still loinclothed although there was a chill on the wind, beamed and bowed. “Konbanwa.”

  “Hello,” Blackthorne said without thinking. He walked up the steps, stopped, remembering his boots. He took them off and went barefoot onto the veranda and into the room. He crossed it into a corridor but could not find his room.

  “Onna!” he called out.

  An old woman appeared. “Hai?”

  “Where’s Onna?”

  The old woman frowned and pointed to herself. “Onna!”

  “Oh, for the love of God,” Blackthorne said irritably. “Where’s my room? Where’s Onna?” He slid open another latticed door. Four Japanese were seated on the floor around a low table, eating. He recognized one of them as the gray-haired man, the village headman, who had been with the priest. They all bowed. “Oh, sorry,” he said, and pulled the door to.

  “Onna!” he called out.

  The old woman thought a moment, then beckoned. He followed her into another corridor. She slid a door aside. He recognized his room from the crucifix. The quilts were already laid out neatly.

  “Thank you,” he said, relieved. “Now fetch Onna!”

  The old woman padded away. He sat down, his head and body aching, and wished there was a chair, wondering where they were kept. How to get aboard? How to get some guns? There must be a way. Feet padded back and there were three women now, the old woman, a young round-faced girl, and the middle-aged lady.

  The old woman pointed at the girl, who seemed a little frightened. “Onna.”

  “No.” Blackthorne got up ill-temperedly and jerked a finger at the middle-aged woman. “This is Onna, for God’s sake! Don’t you know your name? Onna! I’m h
ungry. Could I have some food?” He rubbed his stomach parodying hunger. They looked at each other. Then the middle-aged woman shrugged, said something that made the others laugh, went over to the bed, and began to undress. The other two squatted, wide-eyed and expectant.

  Blackthorne was appalled. “What are you doing?”

  “Ishimasho!” she said, setting aside her wide waistband and opening her kimono. Her breasts were flat and dried up and her belly huge.

  It was quite clear that she was going to get into the bed. He shook his head and told her to get dressed and took her arm and they all began chattering and gesticulating and the woman was becoming quite angry. She stepped out of her long underskirt and, naked, tried to get back into bed.

  Their chattering stopped and they all bowed as the headman came quietly down the corridor. “Nanda? Nanda?” he asked.

  The old woman explained what was the matter. “You want this woman?” he asked incredulously in heavily accented, barely understandable Portuguese, motioning at the naked woman.

  “No. No, of course not. I just wanted Onna to get me some food.” Blackthorne pointed impatiently at her. “Onna!”

  “Onna mean ‘woman.’” The Japanese motioned at all of them. “Onna—onna—onna. You want onna?”

  Blackthorne wearily shook his head. “No. No, thank you. I made a mistake. Sorry. What’s her name?”

  “Please?”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Ah! Namu is Haku. Haku,” he said.

  “Haku?”

  “Hai. Haku!”

  “I’m sorry, Haku-san. Thought onna your name.”

  The man explained to Haku and she was not at all pleased. But he said something and they all looked at Blackthorne and tittered behind their hands and left. Haku walked off naked, her kimono over her arm, with a vast amount of dignity.

  “Thank you,” Blackthorne said, enraged at his own stupidity.

  “This my house. My namu Mura.”

  “Mura-san. Mine’s Blackthorne.”

  “Please?”

  “My namu. Blackthorne.”

  “Ah! Berr—rakk—fon.” Mura tried to say it several times but could not. Eventually he gave up and continued to study the colossus in front of him. This was the first barbarian he had ever seen except for Father Sebastio, and the other priest, so many years ago. But anyway, he thought, the priests are dark-haired and dark-eyed and of normal height. But this man: tall and golden-haired and golden-bearded with blue eyes and a weird pallor to his skin where it is covered and redness where it is exposed. Astonishing! I thought all men had black hair and dark eyes. We all do. The Chinese do, and isn’t China the whole world, except for the land of the southern Portugee barbarians? Astonishing! And why does Father Sebastio hate this man so much? Because he’s a Satan worshiper? I wouldn’t think so, because Father Sebastio could cast out the devil if he wanted. Eeee, I’ve never seen the good Father so angry. Never. Astonishing!

  Are blue eyes and golden hair the mark of Satan?

  Mura looked up at Blackthorne and remembered how he had tried to question him aboard the ship and then, when this Captain had become unconscious, he had decided to bring him to his own house because he was the leader and should have special consideration. They had laid him on the quilt and undressed him, more than just a little curious.

  “His Peerless Parts are certainly impressive, neh?” Mura’s mother, Saiko, had said. “I wonder how large he would be when erect?”

  “Large,” he had answered and they had all laughed, his mother and wife and friends and servants, and the doctor.

  “I expect their women must be—must be as well endowed,” his wife, Niji, said.

  “Nonsense, girl,” said his mother. “Any number of our courtesans could happily make the necessary accommodation.” She shook her head in wonder. “I’ve never seen anything like him in my whole life. Very odd indeed, neh?”

  They had washed him and he had not come out of his coma. The doctor had thought it unwise to immerse him in a proper bath until he was awake. “Perhaps we should remember, Mura-san, we don’t know how the barbarian really is,” he had said with careful wisdom. “So sorry, but we might kill him by mistake. Obviously he’s at the limit of his strength. We should exercise patience.”

  “But what about the lice in his hair?” Mura had asked.

  “They will have to stay for the time being. I understand all barbarians have them. So sorry, I’d advise patience.”

  “Don’t you think we could at least shampoo his head?” his wife had said. “We’d be very careful. I’m sure the Mistress would supervise our poor efforts. That should help the barbarian and keep our house clean.”

  “I agree. You can shampoo him,” his mother had said with finality. “But I’d certainly like to know how large he is when erect.”

  Now Mura glanced down at Blackthorne involuntarily. Then he remembered what the priest had told them about these Satanists and pirates. God the Father protect us from this evil, he thought. If I’d known that he was so terrible I would never have brought him into my house. No, he told himself. You are obliged to treat him as a special guest until Omi-san says otherwise. But you were wise to send word to the priest and send word to Omi-san instantly. Very wise. You’re headman, you’ve protected the village and you, alone, are responsible.

  Yes. And Omi-san will hold you responsible for the death this morning and the dead man’s impertinence, and quite rightly.

  “Don’t be stupid, Tamazaki! You risk the good name of the village, neh?” he had warned his friend the fisherman a dozen times. “Stop your intolerance. Omi-san has no option but to sneer at Christians. Doesn’t our daimyo detest Christians? What else can Omi-san do?”

  “Nothing, I agree, Mura-san, please excuse me.” Tamazaki had always replied as formally. “But Buddhists should have more tolerance, neh? Aren’t they both Zen Buddhists?” Zen Buddhism was self-disciplining; it relied heavily on self-help and meditation to find Enlightenment. Most samurai belonged to the Zen Buddhist sect, since it suited, seemed almost to be designed for, a proud, death-seeking warrior.

  “Yes, Buddhism teaches tolerance. But how many times must you be reminded they’re samurai, and this is Izu and not Kyushu, and even if it were Kyushu, you’re still the one that’s wrong. Always. Neh?”

  “Yes. Please excuse me, I know I’m wrong. But sometimes I feel I cannot live with my inner shame when Omi-san is so insulting about the True Faith.”

  And now, Tamazaki, you are dead of your own choosing because you insulted Omi-san by not bowing simply because he said, “… this smelly priest of the foreign religion.” Even though the priest does smell and the True Faith is foreign. My poor friend. That truth will not feed your family now or remove the stain from my village.

  Oh, Madonna, bless my old friend and give him the joy of thy Heaven.

  Expect a lot of trouble from Omi-san, Mura told himself. And if that isn’t bad enough, now our daimyo is coming.

  A pervading anxiety always filled him whenever he thought of his feudal lord, Kasigi Yabu, daimyo of Izu, Omi’s uncle—the man’s cruelty and lack of honor, the way he cheated all the villages of their rightful share of their catch and their crops, and the grinding weight of his rule. When war comes, Mura asked himself, which side will Yabu declare for, Lord Ishido or Lord Toranaga? We’re trapped between the giants and in pawn to both.

  Northwards, Toranaga, the greatest general alive, Lord of the Kwanto, the Eight Provinces, the most important daimyo in the land, Chief General of the Armies of the East; to the west the domains of Ishido, Lord of Osaka Castle, conqueror of Korea, Protector of the Heir, Chief General of the Armies of the West. And to the north, the Tokaidō, the Great Coastal Road that links Yedo, Toranaga’s capital city, to Osaka, Ishido’s capital city—three hundred miles westward over which their legions must march.

  Who will win the war?

  Neither.

  Because their war will envelop the empire again, alliances will fall apart, provin
ces will fight provinces until it is village against village as it ever was. Except for the last ten years. For the last ten years, incredibly, there had been a warlessness called peace throughout the empire, for the first time in history.

  I was beginning to like peace, Mura thought.

  But the man who made the peace is dead. The peasant soldier who became a samurai and then a general and then the greatest general and finally the Taikō, the absolute Lord Protector of Japan, is dead a year and his seven-year-old son is far too young to inherit supreme power. So the boy, like us, is in pawn. Between the giants. And war inevitable. Now not even the Taikō himself can protect his beloved son, his dynasty, his inheritance, or his empire.

  Perhaps this is as it should be. The Taikō subdued the land, made the peace, forced all the daimyos in the land to grovel like peasants before him, rearranged fiefs to suit his whim—promoting some, deposing others—and then he died. He was a giant among pygmies. But perhaps it’s right that all his work and greatness should die with him. Isn’t man but a blossom taken by the wind, and only the mountains and the sea and the stars and this Land of the Gods real and everlasting?

  We’re all trapped and that is a fact; war will come soon and that is a fact; Yabu alone will decide which side we are on and that is a fact; the village will always be a village because the paddy fields are rich and the sea abundant and that is a last fact.

  Mura brought his mind back firmly to the barbarian pirate in front of him. You’re a devil sent to plague us, he thought, and you’ve caused us nothing but trouble since you arrived. Why couldn’t you have picked another village?

  “Captain-san want onna?” he asked helpfully. At his suggestion the village council made physical arrangements for the other barbarians, both as a politeness and as a simple means of keeping them occupied until the authorities came. That the village was entertained by the subsequent stories of the liaisons more than compensated for the money which had had to be invested.

  “Onna?” he repeated, naturally presuming that as the pirate was on his feet, he would be equally content to be on his belly, his Heavenly Spear warmly encased before sleeping, and anyway, all the preparations had been made.