The Samurai's Daughter

by Lesley Downer

  He had a wife, if not two or three, and probably some geisha mistresses. After all, he was a man, and that was the way men were. How would he feel when they suddenly arrived? Her brother Eijiro could fight alongside him in battle but Taka and her mother were useless women. Why should he be glad to see his old mistress, no matter how much he’d loved her in the past? Far from his being glad to see them, they might even have to make their own living arrangements. They would probably just be in the way.

  No news had come from Kyushu for months. No one knew what was going on down there.

  All this time Taka had fought against leaving behind everything she knew and loved in order to go to Kagoshima. It was the fate she’d feared most. And now it was happening. It was a step into the void.

  ‘Can I … Can Okatsu come too?’ she whispered, aghast at the immensity of it all.

  ‘Of course. The maids will come.’

  Taka gazed around at the spacious room with its pale tatami smelling of rice straw, at the upholstered western sofa that no one ever sat on at one end of the room, the ancient chests, the brazier with the kettle hanging over it, the low table and oil lamps and cushions, the polished wooden staircase leading to the upper floor, the smells of cooking from the kitchen. It had been home for more than half her life. She barely remembered the war-torn streets of Kyoto or the long journey from Kyoto to Tokyo. And now they were to leave, to make another journey, far longer and harder, to a place which none of them knew at all.

  And Nobu. Here in their house she’d been surrounded by memories of him. At least while she was here there’d always been a chance he might get in touch. Once they left it would be impossible to find him or for him to find her.

  Perhaps, she thought, she could send him a message. She would write a letter and Okatsu could take it to the postal office. It would be like setting a lantern on the water at the Obon festival to light the spirits of the ancestors on their way. It might reach him or it might not, but it was the only thing left for her to do. But where would she send it? The only place where he might be was the Military Academy.

  But her father was an enemy of the state, virtually an outlaw. People denounced him as a traitor.

  It was not north versus south any longer, she saw that now. The old days her mother loved to reminisce about so fondly had long since disappeared. It was her father’s own erstwhile colleagues who were against him. They’d all risen in rebellion and fought a war together but they’d had different aims. And once the government set to work on its reforms, her father had become more and more convinced that what they were doing went against everything he stood for – the samurai code, the old values. His colleagues were determined to throw away the past and move into the future and line their pockets while they were at it, or so her father said, but as far as he was concerned they were moving too fast and in the wrong direction.

  When she’d met Nobu in the garden that summer’s night, he had warned her, ‘Your family and mine are enemies.’ When he’d worked at their house, her family had been the wealthy rulers, his the impoverished defeated, struggling to survive. But now it was her father who was the rebel. And the bitterest irony of all was that Nobu, who’d been the underdog, had joined the army, whose task it would be to put down any rebellion. Everything had turned upside down but one thing had not changed. No matter what happened, they were still on opposite sides, doomed to be apart for ever.

  The servants were starting to pack up around her. Taka rested her elbows on her knees and buried her face in her hands. She had never felt so lonely in her life.

  PART IV

  No Turning Back

  22

  Kagoshima. Eleventh month, year of the rat, the ninth year of the Meiji era (December 1876)

  ‘YEEAAH!’

  A high-pitched yell rang out, so ear-shatteringly ferocious that Eijiro stumbled and nearly dropped his practice sword. Before he had time to recover, the drill instructor’s sword smashed down on his and the smack of wood on wood echoed off the hills. Eijiro’s knees buckled and he staggered, blowing out hard. He towered over the small, slender instructor, but that gave him not the slightest advantage.

  The two hilts rammed together and the instructor drove Eijiro back relentlessly step by step until he slipped and fell. Cursing, he scrambled to his feet. The sword master was waiting quietly, glossy ponytail swinging. He didn’t have a hair out of place.

  He raised his stick again and there was another nerve-rattling shriek as he swung it through the sky straight towards Eijiro’s head. Eijiro’s arms were giving way but he braced himself and managed to raise his own practice sword to parry. Stick cracked on stick but this time he fought back and managed to land a few blows of his own until the instructor drove him back against the wall again. He bowed, heaving a sigh of relief as the barrage stopped. Legs quivering, he stumbled to the nearest tree, leaned his sword against it and bent over, panting hard. His breath was like smoke in the icy air.

  He straightened up and rubbed his sleeve across his face. The rough hempen cloth snagged on his unshaven cheeks. The earth was hard and cold under his feet and a stiff wind stirred the trees and shook the wooden walls of the converted stables where the students lived and classes were held. There’d been a sprinkling of snow that day though generally winter was a lot warmer here than it had been in Tokyo; but apart from that, this place had precious little to recommend it. The worst thing was having to kowtow to this whippersnapper – he, Eijiro Kitaoka, universally acclaimed one of the best swordsmen in Tokyo. Here he’d had to learn that perfect form was not all there was to it. These fellows sparred as if they were fighting for their lives.

  If pushed, he’d have to acknowledge that in Tokyo he’d let himself go just a little. He was a lot leaner and trimmer now than he’d ever been back then and his arms were like iron from hours of daily sword practice. It was good to exercise, to feel the blood rushing through his veins, to know he’d be good and ready when the time came. Though privately he doubted if it ever would; and if it did, he was far from sure that any amount of swordsmanship was going to win out over soldiers with guns.

  ‘You’ve worked hard. Well done.’ The instructor clicked his heels and bowed politely, sinewy calves gleaming beneath his hiked-up kimono skirts.

  ‘Thanks.’ Eijiro knelt on the icy ground and made a perfunctory bow, then stood up, brushing black volcanic dust off his knees. ‘I’m off. I’m on dock duty today.’

  The snow was coming down hard as Eijiro headed through the streets of Kagoshima. It dusted the broad leaves of the palm trees and settled in the fibrous crevices of the trunks, etched the tiles on the castle roofs, frosted the tori gates in front of the shrines and lay thick in the curving eaves of the temples. It crusted the stone foxes and small Jizo images along the road and collected in tiny pyramids on the offerings of Satsuma oranges and bottles of shochu in front of them. The hills that rose behind the city, where the training camps were, glistened white. Cocks crowed and woodsmoke drifted from thousands of houses as women lit breakfast fires.

  Eijiro hurried along, head bowed and shivering, pulling his coat closer around him and rubbing his hands up and down his arms. He hadn’t realized it could snow in this tropical place. He thought back to his handsome western clothes and grimaced. He’d had to leave behind his smart woollen-worsted topcoat and expensive waistcoats, shirts, cravats and trousers. These days all he had to wear was a cheap cotton kimono with leggings, an overcoat and wooden geta clogs. He could feel the snow crunching under his toes.

  Life in Kyushu had come as a terrible shock. He hadn’t expected it to be so primitive and tough, apart from which he couldn’t understand a word anyone said; but now, four months on, he felt like an old hand. In the end most of his pals had come along with him, even that little bastard Suzuki who’d let Yamakawa down so badly. For all their Tokyo airs, they were Satsuma lads after all. Like it or not, they were from Satsuma families, they had Satsuma blood in their veins, and with the government sending hired killers after the
m they’d had precious little choice but to clear out fast.

  It had taken almost a month to get here – a miserable trek down to Yokohama, then a much more miserable ten days on board ship. None of them had ever been on a long journey by ship before and they had spent most of the time in their cabins, throwing up. It was a relief to see palm trees swaying along the seafront in Kagoshima and the spectacular hulk of Mount Sakurajima – Cherry Island – squatting over the bay, spewing out ash and smoke. Now and then there’d be a rumble and black ash would shower down on the city, so much that people put up umbrellas.

  They’d arrived in September, the eighth month by the old calendar, just in time for the typhoon season, and been separated straight away, sent off to different schools around the city or in the countryside. He hardly saw any of his Tokyo chums any more. But it was only little by little that he had begun to grasp what was really going on.

  As far as the people here were concerned, Satsuma was an independent country. Orders came from Tokyo – ‘Disarm the samurai! Take away their stipends!’ – but the governor, a fierce warrior called Tsunayoshi Oyama, paid not the slightest attention. After all, they had their own army and a damn strong one at that, well armed and well trained. There was no need to take orders from anyone, particularly not a bunch of corrupt bewhiskered bureaucrats in some distant city who were completely opposed to everything they stood for.

  Down at the port, a group of men stood gazing out to sea. Eijiro greeted them and pulled out his timepiece, the one thing of all his possessions he’d managed to salvage. The thick gold chain and big round face marked with foreign characters sparked a rush of memories and for a moment he was back in Tokyo, in the Yoshiwara pleasure quarters, sinking into the lavish bedding of Tsukasa’s magnificent chambers. Tsukasa, the most desired courtesan in the whole country. He could smell her scented hair, feel her soft flesh … Of all that distant, almost unimaginable life, it was her he missed the most. She sent him letters every now and then, on paper drenched in perfume, going on about tears and eternal love. But he was no fool, he knew what courtesans got up to. No doubt she already had plenty of lovers to console her. He could barely restrain a groan.

  He came back to the present with a start. Hoving round the headland was a small triangular speck. It grew larger and larger until Eijiro could see sails, white on the horizon. Steam poured from the funnels, echoing the huge plume of smoke that lay ominously above the volcano. The men peered through their telescopes. They always kept a watch out to make sure the approaching vessel was not a warship loaded with troops.

  Eijiro was on the reception committee who vetted new arrivals. There’d been a big influx a few months after he arrived, after the summer break, when the army cadets were due to go back to the Military Academy in Tokyo. As one, the Satsuma lads had upped sticks and headed for home instead.

  They all had to be interviewed to find out their allegiance, their reasons for coming, what their skills were and to check their height, health and strength. Once everyone was satisfied there were no bad eggs in their midst, they were packed off to one of the military schools and training camps in the area. There were over a hundred schools and several thousand men, all fighting fit and ready for action.

  Since then refugees had continued to arrive. Eijiro had been on duty when his mother and sister had turned up a month ago. He’d had to put up with a lot of ribbing from his colleagues as they’d climbed out of the launch in their fancy clothes, with a bevy of servants with suitcases on their heads straggling behind them. He’d scolded them. ‘What are you doing here? This is no place for women,’ he’d said. But in fact he’d been mortifyingly pleased to see his mother’s plump face and reassuring bulk and hear her voice and be reminded of home. He’d had to wipe his nose on his sleeve and blink back tears as he’d bowed.

  The committee had packed them off to the farming village at Yoshino, which his father had founded. The people there were supposed to live a simple, pure life according to samurai ideals, working the land, growing rice, millet and yams, studying Confucian texts and practising martial arts. Quite how his pampered mother and sister were going to get on in a place like that he didn’t know.

  The ship that was approaching was the regular mail steamer from Yokohama. Eijiro watched as a group of men climbed into the launches and headed for the quay. The committee counted them in. Besides the crew and shoremen there were some fifty others, including a few police officers and cadets, straight-backed in their western-style uniforms, knee-high boots, greatcoats and caps. As everyone knew, half the Tokyo police force was Satsuma men. The policy was to use men from distant clans so no one would be put in the position of having to arrest their own clansmen. Quite a few police deserters had already shown up.

  They shepherded the new arrivals into a holding area they’d set up in an empty warehouse and the men lined up, shivering, in front of the officers’ desks. Eijiro and his colleagues deliberately made the process as harsh and long-drawn-out as possible so as to weed out from the very beginning anyone who was less than wholeheartedly committed to the cause.

  Eijiro enjoyed interviewing new recruits. It was a pleasure to meet men fresh from Tokyo, hear their Tokyo accents and catch up on the news. All too soon they’d become stiff and self-righteous like everyone else round here.

  The last man to end up in front of Eijiro’s desk was Corporal Hisao Nakahara of the Tokyo Police Department. He seemed a pleasant enough fellow. He had hair cropped in the fashionable jangiri cut and a pointed beard which made him look a bit like a fox. He bowed deferentially. Eijiro responded with a haughty jerk of the chin. In normal times a corporal would never be able to come anywhere near the son of General Kitaoka.

  Nakahara was a Satsuma man, though he’d been in Tokyo so long he seemed more comfortable speaking Tokyo dialect. Eijiro interrogated him about his origins and work and how he’d ended up in Tokyo, then quizzed him about what people were saying there and what the government was up to. Satisfied, he closed his ledger.

  ‘Welcome. Glad to have you with us.’ He glanced over his shoulder and checked that his fellow committee members were all busy barking questions and out of earshot, then leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘So … What other news?’

  ‘Let me see now.’ Nakahara stared at the ground respectfully. ‘Kitaoka-sama no doubt heard about the revolts in Hagi and Kumamoto? Maybe you heard that Maebara and the others were executed? Terrible business.’ He frowned and shook his head. ‘The government is cracking down on the samurai and anyone else who dares stand up to them. We’ve been ordered to round up anyone breaking the new laws. I could see they’d be sending us down here next to kill our own people. That’s when I decided it was time to come home.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Eijiro impatiently. The fellow didn’t have to keep proving he was on the right side. ‘What about real news? How’s Umegatani getting on? When I was there he hadn’t lost a bout.’

  One of the things Eijiro missed most about Tokyo was the regular sumo wrestling tournaments at Eko-in Temple, in the East End. Umegatani was a phenomenon, a hulking fellow yet light on his feet. He easily toppled giants a lot heavier than he was. He ranked low still but anyone could see he had the makings of a grand champion.

  Nakahara grinned. ‘Still unbeaten. He took on Makuuchi the other day. It was over before you could count to ten.’

  ‘Makuuchi, huh? He wouldn’t have a chance; anyone could tell you that. Umegatani’s much the better man for weight and skill. No one put any money on that one, I shouldn’t think.’

  Nakahara started plying him with bouts, scores and form, but Eijiro had something else on his mind. ‘What about the Yoshiwara? How’re things there? You’re a policeman, you must get around a bit.’

  ‘Got called to take in a foreign sailor a few days ago. He’d found his way over there, got a bellyful of sake, barged into the Matsubaya and demanded a woman. The Matsubaya, imagine that!’ Eijiro nodded knowledgeably. The Matsubaya was one of the grandest houses in the Yoshiwara a
nd never accepted foreigners. Nakahara waved his hand in contempt. ‘You know what happened? The madam showed him the door and he stabbed her – right in the face. Not a pretty sight. Blood all over the place. We took him off to Kodenmacho and locked him up. These foreigners think they own the world.’

  ‘He’ll get tried in one of those foreigners’ courts and they’ll dismiss the case, fine him a yen or two and that’ll be the last we hear of it.’

  ‘And there’s the government cosying up to foreigners. So tell me, what’s going on down here?’

  ‘You’ll find out soon enough.’ Eijiro had taken a liking to the man. ‘I’ll have a word with the captain at our school. I’m sure there’s a spare tatami mat for a fellow like you.’

  ‘I’m a bit old for school,’ said Nakahara. He had an open, easy smile.

  ‘We call them schools but they’re more like private military academies, training camps,’ said Eijiro. ‘But you’ll recognize the sleeping arrangements from your schooldays – one man, one mat.’

  23

  IN FACT THE men had less than half a mat each. With upwards of eight hundred students, the school was hard pressed to fit them all into the rickety old stable buildings and they spent the nights squashed together or curled up on the wooden floors of the corridors. But comfort was the last thing they were worried about. Some were youngsters, others battle-hardened veterans who’d proved themselves in the campaigns to bring down the shogun and smash the resistance up north. Young or old, they loathed the corrupt bureaucrats up in Tokyo who were out to destroy the entire samurai class. They couldn’t wait to take up arms and teach them a lesson.

  Nakahara settled in quickly enough. He shaved off his beard and started growing his hair, though it would be months before it was long enough to tie back in a samurai ponytail, and took to wearing a rough cotton kimono and leggings like everyone else. Handy with a sword, staff or rifle, he chipped in cheerily with kitchen and cleaning duties and was soon a popular figure around the school. He was a good-humoured fellow, always ready with a joke.