Shōgun

by James Clavell

  “Of course,” Mariko said, the name and face branded forever into her mind.

  “My wife speaks some Portuguese, nowhere near as perfectly as you. You’re Christian, of course?”

  “Yes.”

  “My wife’s a convert. Her father’s samurai, though a minor one. His liege lord is Lord Kiyama.”

  “She is lucky to have such a husband,” Mariko said politely, but she asked herself, staggered, how could one marry and live with a barbarian? In spite of her inherent manners, she asked, “Does the lady, your wife, eat meat, like—like that in the cabin?”

  “No,” Rodrigues replied with a laugh, his teeth white and fine and strong. “And in my house at Nagasaki I don’t eat meat either. At sea I do and in Europe. It’s our custom. A thousand years ago before the Buddha came it was your custom too, neh? Before Buddha lived to point the Tao, the Way, all people ate meat. Even here, senhora. Even here. Now of course, we know better, some of us, neh?”

  Mariko thought about that. Then she said, “Do all Portuguese call us monkeys? And Jappos? Behind our backs?”

  Rodrigues pulled at the earring he wore. “Don’t you call us barbarians? Even to our face? We’re civilized, at least we think so, senhora. In India, the land of Buddha, they call Japanese ‘Eastern Devils’ and won’t allow any to land if they’re armed. You call Indians ‘Blacks’ and nonhuman. What do the Chinese call Japanese? What do you call the Chinese? What do you call the Koreans? Garlic Eaters, neh?”

  “I don’t think Lord Toranaga would be pleased. Or Lord Hiro-matsu, or even the father of your wife.”

  “The Blessed Jesus said, ‘First cast the mote out of your own eye before you cast the beam out of mine.’”

  She thought about that again now as she watched the first mate whispering urgently to the Portuguese pilot. It’s true: we sneer at other people. But then, we’re citizens of the Land of the Gods, and therefore especially chosen by the gods. We alone, of all peoples, are protected by a divine Emperor. Aren’t we, therefore, completely unique and superior to all others? And if you are Japanese and Christian? I don’t know. Oh, Madonna, give me thy understanding. This Rodrigues pilot is as strange as the English pilot. Why are they very special? Is it their training? It’s unbelievable what they do, neh? How can they sail around the earth and walk the sea as easily as we do the land? Would Rodrigues’ wife know the answer? I’d like to meet her, and talk to her.

  The mate lowered his voice even more.

  “He said what?” Rodrigues exclaimed with an involuntary curse and in spite of herself Mariko tried to listen. But she could not hear what the mate repeated. Then she saw them both look at Blackthorne and she followed their glance, perturbed by their concern.

  “What else happened, Santiago?” Rodrigues asked guardedly, conscious of Mariko.

  The mate told him in a whisper behind a cupped mouth. “How long’ll they stay below?”

  “They were toasting each other. And the bargain.”

  “Bastards!” Rodrigues caught the mate’s shirt. “No word of this, by God. On your life!”

  “No need to say that, Pilot.”

  “There’s always a need to say it.” Rodrigues glanced across at Blackthorne. “Wake him up!”

  The mate went over and shook him roughly.

  “Whatsamatter, eh?”

  “Hit him!”

  Santiago slapped him.

  “Jesus Christ, I’ll …” Blackthorne was on his feet, his face on fire, but he swayed and fell.

  “God damn you, wake up, Ingeles!” Furiously Rodrigues stabbed a finger at the two helmsmen. “Throw him overboard!”

  “Eh?”

  “Now, by God!”

  As the two men hurriedly picked him up, Mariko said, “Pilot Rodrigues, you mustn’t—” but before she or Kana could interfere the two men had hurled Blackthorne over the side. He fell the twenty feet and belly-flopped in a cloud of spray and disappeared. In a moment he surfaced, choking and spluttering, flailing at the water, the ice-cold clearing his head.

  Rodrigues was struggling out of his seachair. “Madonna, give me a hand!”

  One of the helmsmen rah to help as the first mate got a hand under his armpit. “Christ Jesus, be careful, mind my foot, you clumsy dunghead!”

  They helped him to the side. Blackthorne was still coughing and spluttering, but now as he swam for the side of the ship he was shouting curses at those who had cast him overboard.

  “Two points starboard!” Rodrigues ordered. The ship fell off the wind slightly and eased away from Blackthorne. He shouted down, “Stay to hell off my ship!” Then urgently to his first mate, “Take the longboat, pick up the Ingeles, and put him aboard the galley. Fast. Tell him …” He dropped his voice.

  Mariko was grateful that Blackthorne was not drowning. “Pilot! The Anjin-san’s under Lord Toranaga’s protection. I demand he be picked up at once!”

  “Just a moment, Mariko-san!” Rodrigues continued to whisper to Santiago, who nodded, then scampered away. “I’m sorry, Mariko-san, gomen kudasai, but it was urgent. The Ingeles had to be woken up. I knew he could swim. He has to be alert and fast!”

  “Why?”

  “I’m his friend. Did he ever tell you that?”

  “Yes. But England and Portugal are at war. Also Spain.”

  “Yes. But pilots should be above war.”

  “Then to whom do you owe duty?”

  “To the flag.”

  “Isn’t that to your king?”

  “Yes and no, senhora. I owed the Ingeles a life.” Rodrigues was watching the longboat. “Steady as she goes—now put her into the wind,” he ordered the helmsman.

  “Yes, senhor.”

  He waited, checking and rechecking the wind and the shoals and the far shore. The leadsman called out the fathoms. “Sorry, senhora, you were saying?” Rodrigues looked at her momentarily, then went back once more to check the lie of his ship and the longboat. She watched the longboat too. The men had hauled Blackthorne out of the sea and were pulling hard for the galley, sitting instead of standing and pushing the oars. She could no longer see their faces clearly. Now the Anjin-san was blurred with the other man close beside him, the man that Rodrigues had whispered to. “What did you say to him, senhor?”

  “Who?”

  “Him. The senhor you sent after the Anjin-san.”

  “Just to wish the Ingeles well and Godspeed.” The reply was flat and noncommittal.

  She translated to Kana what had been said.

  When Rodrigues saw the longboat alongside the galley he began to breathe again. “Hail Mary, Mother of God …”

  The Captain-General and the Jesuits came up from below. Toranaga and his guards followed.

  “Rodrigues! Launch the longboat! The Fathers are going ashore,” Ferriera said.

  “And then?”

  “And then we put to sea. For Yedo.”

  “Why there? We were sailing for Macao,” Rodrigues replied, the picture of innocence.

  “We’re taking Toranaga home to Yedo. First.”

  “We’re what? But what about the galley?”

  “She stays or she fights her way out.”

  Rodrigues seemed to be even more surprised and looked at the galley, then at Mariko. He saw the accusation written in her eyes.

  “Matsu,” the pilot told her quietly.

  “What?” Father Alvito asked. “Patience? Why patience, Rodrigues?”

  “Saying Hail Marys, Father. I was saying to the lady it teaches you patience.”

  Ferriera was staring at the galley. “What’s our longboat doing there?”

  “I sent the heretic back aboard.”

  “You what?”

  “I sent the Ingeles back aboard. What’s the problem, Captain-General? The Ingeles offended me so I threw the bugger overboard. I’d have let him drown but he could swim so I sent the mate to pick him up and put him back aboard his ship as he seemed to be in Lord Toranaga’s favor. What’s wrong?”

  “Fetch him back aboard.”


  “I’ll have to send an armed boarding party, Captain-General. Is that what you want? He was cursing and heaping hellfire on us. He won’t come back willingly this time.”

  “I want him back aboard.”

  “What’s the problem? Didn’t you say the galley’s to stay and fight or whatever? So what? So the Ingeles is hip-deep in shit. Good. Who needs the bugger, anyway? Surely the Fathers’d prefer him out of their sight. Eh, Father?”

  Dell’Aqua did not reply. Nor did Alvito. This disrupted the plan that Ferriera had formulated and had been accepted by them and by Toranaga: that the priests would go ashore at once to smooth over Ishido, Kiyama, and Onoshi, professing that they had believed Toranaga’s story about the pirates and did not know that he had “escaped” from the castle. Meanwhile the frigate would charge for the harbor mouth, leaving the galley to draw off the fishing boats. If there was an overt attack on the frigate, it would be beaten off with cannon, and the die cast.

  “But the boats shouldn’t attack us,” Ferriera had reasoned. “They have the galley to catch. It will be your responsibility, Eminence, to persuade Ishido that we had no other choice. After all, Toranaga is President of the Regents. Finally, the heretic stays aboard.”

  Neither of the priests had asked why. Nor had Ferriera volunteered his reason.

  The Visitor put a gentle hand on the Captain-General and turned his back on the galley. “Perhaps it’s just as well the heretic’s there,” he said, and he thought, how strange are the ways of God.

  No, Ferriera wanted to scream. I wanted to see him drown. A man overboard in the early dawn at sea—no trace, no witnesses, so easy. Toranaga would never be the wiser; a tragic accident, as far as he was concerned. And it was the fate Blackthorne deserved. The Captain-General also knew the horror of sea death to a pilot.

  “Nan ja?” Toranaga asked.

  Father Alvito explained that the pilot was on the galley and why. Toranaga turned to Mariko, who nodded and added what Rodrigues had said previously.

  Toranaga went to the side of the ship and gazed into the darkness. More fishing boats were being launched from the north shore and the others would soon be in place. He knew that the Anjin-san was a political embarrassment and this was a simple way the gods had given him if he desired to be rid of the Anjin-san. Do I want that? Certainly the Christian priests will be vastly happier if the Anjin-san vanishes, he thought. And also Onoshi and Kiyama, who feared the man so much that either or both had mounted the assassination attempts. Why such fear?

  It’s karma that the Anjin-san is on the galley now and not safely here. Neh? So the Anjin-san will drown with the ship, along with Yabu and the others and the guns, and that is also karma. The guns I can lose, Yabu I can lose. But the Anjin-san?

  Yes.

  Because I still have eight more of these strange barbarians in reserve. Perhaps their collective knowledge will equal or exceed that of this single man. The important thing is to be back in Yedo as quickly as possible to prepare for the war, which cannot be avoided. Kiyama and Onoshi? Who knows if they’ll support me. Perhaps they will, perhaps not. But a plot of land and some promises are nothing in the balance if the Christian weight is on my side in forty days.

  “It’s karma, Tsukku-san. Neh?”

  “Yes, Sire.” Alvito glanced at the Captain-General, very satisfied. “Lord Toranaga suggests that nothing is done. It’s the will of God.”

  “Is it?”

  The drum on the galley began abruptly. The oars bit into the water with great strength.

  “What, in the name of Christ, is he doing?” Ferriera bellowed.

  And then, as they watched the galley pulling away from them, Toranaga’s pennant came fluttering down from the masthead.

  Rodrigues said, “Looks like they’re telling every God-cursed fishing boat in the harbor that Lord Toranaga’s no longer aboard.”

  “What’s he going to do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t you?” Ferriera asked.

  “No. But if I was him I’d head for sea and leave us in the cesspit—or try to. The Ingeles has put the finger on us now. What’s it to be?”

  “You’re ordered to Yedo.” The Captain-General wanted to add, if you ram the galley all the better, but he didn’t. Because Mariko was listening.

  The priests thankfully went ashore in the longboat.

  “All sails ho!” Rodrigues shouted, his leg paining and throbbing. “Sou’ by sou’west! All hands lay to!”

  “Senhora, please tell Lord Toranaga he’d best go below. It’ll be safer,” Ferriera said.

  “He thanks you and says he will stay here.”

  Ferriera shrugged, went to the edge of the quarterdeck. “Prime all cannon. Load grape! Action stations!”

  CHAPTER 28

  “Isogi!” Blackthorne shouted, urging the oarsmaster to increase the beat. He looked aft at the frigate that was bearing down on them, close-hauled now under full sail, then for’ard again, estimating the next tack that she must use. He wondered if he had judged right, for there was very little sea room here near the cliffs, barely a few yards between disaster and success. Because of the wind, the frigate had to tack to make the harbor mouth, while the galley could maneuver at its whim. But the frigate had the advantage of speed. And on the last tack Rodrigues had made it clear that the galley had better stay out of the way when the Santa Theresa needed sea room.

  Yabu was chattering at him again but he paid no heed. “Don’t understand—wakarimasen, Yabu-san! Listen, Toranaga-sama said, me, Anjin-san, ichi-ban ima! I’m chief Captain-san now! Wakarimasu ka, Yabu-san?” He pointed the course on the compass to the Japanese captain, who gesticulated at the frigate, barely fifty yards aft now, overtaking them rapidly on another collision path.

  “Hold your course, by God!” Blackthorne said, the breeze cooling his seasodden clothes, which chilled him but helped to clear his head. He checked the sky. No clouds were near the bright moon and the wind was fair. No danger there, he thought. God keep the moon bright till we’re through.

  “Hey, Captain!” he called out in English, knowing it made no difference if he spoke English or Portuguese or Dutch or Latin because he was alone. “Send someone for saké! Saké! Wakarimasu ka?”

  “Hai, Anjin-san.”

  A seaman was sent scurrying. As the man ran he looked over his shoulder, frightened by the size of the approaching frigate and her speed. Blackthorne held their course, trying to force the frigate to turn before she had gained all space to windward. But she never wavered and came directly at him. At the last second he swung out of her way and then, when her bowsprit was almost over their aft deck, he heard Rodrigues’ order, “Bear on the larboard tack! Let go staysails, and steady as she goes!” Then a shout at him in Spanish, “Thy mouth in the devil’s arse, Ingeles!”

  “Thy mother was there first, Rodrigues!”

  Then the frigate peeled off the wind to scud now for the far shore, where she would have to turn again to reach into the wind and tack for this side once more before she could turn a last time again and make for the harbor mouth.

  For an instant the ships were so close that he could almost touch her, Rodrigues, Toranaga, Mariko, and the Captain-General swaying on the quarterdeck. Then the frigate was away and they were twisting in her wash.

  “Isogi, isogi, by God!”

  The rowers redoubled their efforts and with signs Blackthorne ordered more men on the oars until there were no reserves. He had to get to the mouth before the frigate or they were lost.

  The galley was eating up the distance. But so was the frigate. At the far side of the harbor she spun like a dancer and he saw that Rodrigues had added topsails and topgallants.

  “He’s as canny a bastard as any Portuguese born!”

  The saké arrived but it was taken out of the seaman’s hands by the young woman who had helped Mariko and offered precariously to him. She had stayed gamely on deck, even though clearly out of her element. Her hands were strong, her hair w
ell groomed, and her kimono rich, in good taste and neat. The galley lurched in the chop. The girl reeled and dropped the cup. Her face did not change but he saw the flush of shame.

  “Por nada,” he said as she groped for it. “It doesn’t matter. Namae ka?”

  “Usagi Fujiko, Anjin-san.”

  “Fujiko-san. Here, give it to me. Dozo.” He held out his hand and took the flask and drank directly from it, gulping the wine, eager to have its heat inside his body. He concentrated on the new course, skirting the shoals that Santiago, on Rodrigues’ orders, had told him about. He rechecked the bearing from the headland that gave them a clean, hazardless run to the mouth while he finished the warmed wine, wondering in passing how it had been warmed, and why they always served it warm and in small quantities.

  His head was clear now, and he felt strong enough, if he was careful. But he knew he had no reserves to draw upon, just as the ship had no reserves.

  “Saké dozo, Fujiko-san.” He handed her the flask and forgot her.

  On the windward tack the frigate made way too well and she passed a hundred yards ahead of them, bearing for the shore. He heard obscenities coming down on the wind and did not bother to reply, conserving his energy.

  “Isogi, by God! We’re losing!”

  The excitement of the race and of being alone again and in command—more by the strength of his will than by position—added to the rare privilege of having Yabu in his power, filled him with unholy glee. “If it wasn’t that the ship’d go down and me with her, I’d put her on the rocks just to see you drown, shit-face Yabu! For old Pieterzoon!”

  But didn’t Yabu save Rodrigues when you couldn’t? Didn’t he charge the bandits when you were ambushed? And he was brave tonight. Yes, he’s a shit-face, but even so he’s a brave shit-face and that’s the truth.

  The flask of saké was offered again. “Domo,” he said.

  The frigate was keeled over, close-hauled and greatly pleasing to him. “I couldn’t do better,” he said aloud to the wind. “But if I had her, I’d go through the boats and out to sea and never come back. I’d sail her home, somehow, and leave the Japans to the Japanese and to the pestilential Portuguese.” He saw Yabu and the captain staring at him. “I wouldn’t really, not yet. There’s a Black Ship to catch and plunder to be had. And revenge, eh, Yabu-san?”