The Pure Land

by Spence, Alan

  He lay down again, but the dog became more agitated, started barking.

  ‘Fucking animal!’ he said out loud, tetchy and tired, irritated.

  He got up, pulled on his clothes, stubbed his toe against the table beside his bed, cursed again, pulled on his boots. Now the dog’s bark seemed more insistent, a yelp, and in behind it there was some kind of commotion, outside in the compound, then he was aware of Matsuo yelling out, and the noise of a struggle, and the paper screen burst inwards as two figures, one of them Matsuo, came crashing through into the room.

  Glover wondered for a moment if he might actually still be asleep and dreaming, the whole scene a nightmare, so unreal did it seem, as Matsuo was struck to the ground, his attacker towering over him, an assassin dressed in black, head covered, a scarf over his face, turning now towards Glover and raising his sword in the air, swinging it forward, delivering what would surely be a terminal blow. In that instant, time seemed to slow, and Glover observed it all unfolding, felt a curious detachment, himself watching, a player in some exotic melodrama. On instinct, he stepped back, raised his arms to ward off the blow; but the blow never fell, the sword stopped in mid-arc.

  Again the sword swung, again Glover tensed, his scalp tingling in anticipation of the blade cleaving his skull. But again the sword stopped short. A third time the sword was raised, and once more the blow did not fall, was blocked. Then Matsuo picked himself up, threw himself at the assailant and barged him to the ground, held him there and dispatched him with the quick brutal slash of a knife-blade across the throat. The man gurgled and twitched and lay still. Matsuo slumped then, crumpled to the floor. Glover went to tend to him but he motioned him away, indicated he was all right. Glover found his pistol, checked it was cocked and loaded, stepped out into the corridor.

  Now the noise from the compound was a cacophony, the din of a full-scale battle, shouting men, the crack of gunfire, harsh clash of swords. The building itself shook from the onslaught. Lanterns flared, were doused again, gunshots flashed, the whole thing an infernal flickering shadow-play. In one burst of light, Glover saw Oliphant’s dog, teeth bared, chasing itself in circles, whimpering. Then from Oliphant’s room came an almighty crash, the shattering of wood and glass, followed by an all too human cry of pain. Glover pulled open the screen, stepped in, pistol at the ready. In the dimness, he made out Oliphant, back against the wall, and another black-clad figure, staggering in the centre of the room, choking out little gasps at every lurch and stumble. Then the figure straightened up, steadied, swiftly raised a sword and let out a battle-cry. Glover levelled his pistol and fired straight at the intruder, felled him, but not before the man could hack at Oliphant, take him down.

  There was sudden light from a lantern in the doorway – Alcock was shining it into the room and, like Glover, carrying a pistol.

  ‘Good God!’ said Alcock when he saw the mess. The ronin had clearly launched himself into the room, through the window from outside. But he’d landed on the glass case housing Oliphant’s insect specimens, shattered it and cut his bare feet on the shards. The accident had given Glover time to get into the room. But had he been too late? Oliphant lay on the floor, drenched in his own blood pouring from a gash in his arm.

  Alcock set down the lantern and his pistol, looked at the wound while Glover stood guard. Oliphant’s arm was sliced to the bone, laid open, a cut of meat on a butcher’s slab. Hands shaking, the Consul tore a kerchief into ragged strips, tied it tight round Oliphant’s arm as a makeshift tourniquet.

  Outside, the fighting grew even louder, a volley of gunshots ripped the air, men screamed. Glover and Alcock did their best to barricade themselves into a corner of the room, overturned a table and hunkered down behind it, propping up Oliphant with a bolster behind his back. He flinched as they moved him, his face in the lamplight eerily white, all colour drained. Glover blew out the lamp and they waited.

  Time passed, God knew how long. The noise subsided, rose again in surges and waves then faded again to a strange calm. Oliphant was moaning, drifting in and out of consciousness. Alcock spoke to Glover in not much more than a whisper. ‘I wonder if the bastards will torture us before they kill us.’

  ‘For God’s sake, man!’ said Glover. ‘We’ll get out of this!’

  But he felt his heart thud in his ribcage, the chill of sweat trickle down his back as he stood up, tentative, made his way across to the doorway, broken glass crunching under his feet. He stepped over the inert bulk, the body of the man he’d shot.

  Out in the corridor the darkness was deeper. From his left came a voice he recognised, Matsuo. ‘Guraba-san?’

  ‘Hai, Matsuo, so desu.’

  Matsuo lit a lantern, held it up. The light flickered, and there, to the right, just two yards away, his face suddenly lit, stood Takashi, motionless, sword in hand, ready to strike. Again there was the sense of unreality, of vivid, waking dream, as Glover raised his pistol, suddenly heavy in his hand. Then Takashi raised his sword, Glover levelled his pistol, then there was chaos, dark-clad figures crashing in from every direction, no way of telling who were ronin, who were militia, and the lantern was suddenly extinguished, knocked to the floor. Glover braced himself once more for a blow that would split him in two, and again it never came. Another light appeared in the doorway and Takashi was gone, had leapt through the open window and made his escape. The guards were crowding the corridor, checking the rooms, terrified of what they might find.

  *

  The scene was one of horror, utter carnage, Alcock’s worst imaginings made real. The corridors and the compound were strewn with dead bodies, some dismembered, beheaded, disembowelled. One severed head lay where it had rolled, in the entrance to the building, the face a startled grimace, the headless body yards away, bloated and grotesque.

  The Consul’s first concern was for his guests. Glover he knew was fine. Oliphant needed urgent medical attention. Nobody had seen Richardson.

  There was a British frigate, HMS Ringdove, anchored in Edo bay. They would transport Oliphant on board, let the ship’s surgeon do his best.

  Richardson appeared towards morning, dressed in a Japanese robe and covered in mud. He had initially gone out to the compound, drawn by the first sounds of commotion, and been horrified to see battle joined, hand-to-hand fighting, medieval in its brutality. One of the guards, concerned for his safety, had thrown him the robe to disguise himself for fear of attack.

  ‘Not much of a disguise,’ he said, his arms protruding from the short sleeves. ‘So I threw myself to the ground, crawled under the building into the gap below the foundations, and there I stayed till I deemed it safe to come out of my hiding-place.’

  Glover stared at the man, knew he was prattling with a kind of nervous agitation out of sheer relief at being alive, not skewered or hacked to pieces. Glover’s immediate response was to retreat into silence, try to tap into some core of strength at the centre of himself. But he too had been shaken, knew how close they had all come to a brutal, bloody death.

  The full story began to emerge. Some fifteen ronin had banded together and mounted the attack, and through sheer determination, allied to the general torpor and ineptitude of the guards, had quickly wrought havoc before being beaten by sheer weight of numbers. There were scores of dead, and the building itself had been ravaged – doors and windows, screens, walls, floorboards, furnishing, smashed asunder with intense one-pointed ferocity.

  Alcock turned to Glover. ‘And these are the rebels you want us to arm to the teeth?’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Glover. ‘These are the very people who want to keep Japan in the Dark Ages. The progressives want an end to this. They want to work with us.’

  ‘As long as it suits their purpose. When it doesn’t, it’s the knife-blade at your throat. They’re all the bloody same, including your friend Ito.’

  ‘Ito is a man of honour.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Alcock. ‘They are all honourable men!’

  ‘He’s an idealist, a re
former.’

  ‘He is a fanatic. We can’t support him.’

  ‘He’s the future of Japan. We must support him.’

  Glover bowed curtly, aggressively, took his leave, went back to the wreckage of his room. Matsuo was once again stationed in the corridor, on guard. The side of his face was bruised, he moved stiffly as if aching in the neck and shoulder, but he was otherwise unhurt.

  The shoji screen wall was destroyed. The body of Glover’s ronin attacker had been dragged out, dumped in the compound with the rest. The bloodstains on the tatami had turned black, smelled sickly and rank.

  Just inside the room, where the ronin had raised his sword, was a low beam, not much above head-height. It was gashed and hacked by the cuts of the sword. The man hadn’t seen the beam in the dark and that was what had impeded the blade, saved Glover’s life. That close. There but for the grace.

  *

  Glover was packed and saddled up, ready to depart. He went to bid farewell to Alcock, who looked defeated, a ghost of himself.

  ‘The Minister of Foreign Affairs,’ he said, ‘has sent a basket of ducks and a jar of sugar as a gesture of amity! You see what I mean about this place, sir? It is a lunatic asylum!’

  ‘As a gesture,’ said Glover, ‘it does seem a wee bit … inadequate.’

  Alcock looked at him, managed a wry half-smile.

  ‘Godspeed on your journey, Mister Glover. I would offer you a contingent of the Legation guards to protect you on your way, at least as far as Yokohama. But you have seen how effective they are. I wish you well in your endeavours, and pray you have a speedy escape from this hell-hole.’

  On his way across the compound, Glover heard Alcock’s voice raised, yelling at some unfortunate messenger. ‘I want justice and redress, not ducks and bloody sugar!’

  As they rode back out along the Tokkaido, Glover subdued, Matsuo even more wary than before, they saw Mount Fuji again, above the pine trees, above the clouds. Then the mist closed over it, hid it once more from view.

  *

  There was extensive coverage of the incident in the Nagasaki Shipping List and Advertiser. It seemed one of the dead ronin had been carrying a paper scroll, a declaration signed by all fifteen of the attackers. They called themselves Shishi – men of high principle. A translation of the document was appended to the newspaper article.

  We have not the patience to stand by and see the Sacred Empire defiled by foreigners. With faith and the power of warriors we will drive the barbarians from our shore.

  For a moment, Glover was back at the Legation, in the dark, waiting for the sword to fall. He showed the article to Ito, explained what it was saying.

  Ito had been grim since Glover’s return. The attack on the Legation had stung him, particularly Takashi’s involvement.

  ‘Long way to Edo,’ he said.

  ‘I am beginning to take it rather personally!’ said Glover.

  ‘Definitely,’ said Ito. ‘He want to kill you. He made promise.’

  They were seated in the front room at Ipponmatsu, Matsuo on guard outside on the lawn. Glover was suddenly serious. ‘Ito-san, there is something I want to ask you.’

  ‘Hai.’ Ito nodded, braced himself.

  ‘After the attack on the Legation, I was defending you. They were talking about other attacks.’ He was finding this difficult, looked hard at Ito. ‘They said you were involved.’

  Ito set down the copy of the newspaper, met Glover’s gaze. ‘One time I was like Takashi-san. I hate all foreigners. But you have to know it was a matter of honour. I love my country. I don’t want Japan to be colonised, like India, like China.’

  ‘So desu,’ said Glover.

  ‘When I was very young man,’ said Ito, ‘I knew great teacher called Yoshida Shoin. He taught at academy when I was there. Not only great teacher, but great man, great hero. He taught importance of old ways, love of Japan, loyalty to the Emperor.’

  ‘He also hated all foreigners?’ asked Glover.

  ‘Saw them as threat,’ said Ito

  ‘So what became of him?’

  ‘Bakufu arrested him. He was executed.’

  ‘So.’

  ‘Now past is dust. I still love Emperor, love Japan, want rid of Bakufu and Shogun. But I want Japan to become strong, like your country, like America. We have to open to the West. Take what we need and learn.’

  Glover nodded. ‘Hai.’

  *

  A few weeks later, Glover received a letter from Oliphant.

  Dear Glover,

  I was happy to meet you in Edo, though in the end the circumstances could not have been less fortunate. I hear you escaped from the whole vile business unscathed and am glad to hear it. I owe you a debt of gratitude for discharging your pistol when you did, and fear that otherwise my own fate would have been even worse. As it is, I have endured torment these past weeks.

  On board the Ringdove, I was given a berth in the Captain’s own cabin, but there was no comfort to me there, rather unremitting agony. My wounds were severe and the ship’s doctor had to strap my arms to my sides, necessitating my being fed like a baby. I lost such a quantity of blood that I broke out in boils all over my body. Then, my defences being down, I fell prey to an eye infection – ophthalmia – which was rife among the crew. The doctor bandaged my eyes and poured in silver nitrate which stung like daggers. All of this I endured in ninety-five degree heat in a cabin swarming with flies and mosquitoes, my body all the time swelling and aching.

  It is for such emergencies that a beneficent providence has especially provided the consolation of tobacco! By some miracle, I survived, and just yesterday, with some assistance, I was able to climb on deck and breathe the fresh evening air. I am, however, in need of further medical treatment, followed by a lengthy period of convalescence. Sir Rutherford has informed me that, as soon as I am well enough, I shall be returning to England.

  I trust this letter finds you well, and wish you every success in your own endeavours to come to terms with this glorious infuriating country.

  Yours most sincerely,

  Laurence Oliphant.

  For a moment Glover was back at the Legation, cowering in the dark, waiting for the blow to fall. He shook himself, put the letter aside. The ronin had achieved some small part of their aim. One barbarian invader had been driven out. But Glover had no intention of being beaten back, steeled himself all the more.

  7

  NIGHT JOURNEY

  Nagasaki, 1862

  For months after the attack on the Legation, the settlement in Nagasaki, like the enclave in Yokohama, was on the alert, fearful of an uprising. The Shogun announced that the perpetrators of the attack would be tracked down and punished. But nothing more was heard. There were no further incidents. Trade and commerce continued as before.

  Glover and Ito had another consignment to pick up, from Shanghai. Again Wang-Li would accompany them. Walsh came to the dock to see them off, wish them bon voyage.

  Glover called out to him, from the deck.

  ‘You’re sure you don’t want to come with us this time?’

  ‘Not my style, Tom. You know me. I prefer to delegate.’

  ‘Keep your hands clean!’

  ‘Exactly! Wang-Li’s going to pick up a few things for me. I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘As long as it doesn’t stink to high heaven. Or blow up in our faces!’

  Walsh laughed. ‘Them’s the chances you take, partner!’ He waved. ‘Adios!’

  Glover waved back. Ito stared at Walsh, impassive. The ship cast off, headed out of the harbour.

  *

  Everything, it appeared, was proceeding according to plan. The arrangements were exactly as they had been on every previous trip; they disembarked from the clipper, went straight to the warehouse, led by Wang-Li; they passed the same disreputable establishments where the same young girls plied their trade behind ragged curtains; they sidestepped what looked like a continuation of the same street brawl; they followed Wang-Li
into the same narrow lane, across the same courtyard, through the same warehouse to the same back room, and only then did they feel something was different. There was a change, not for the better, in the atmosphere. Glover felt it, a tension in the air, and glancing across, he saw Ito sensed it too. Wang-Li looked particularly agitated, fanned himself, dabbed sweat from his brow.

  Behind the desk was not Chan, the affable businessman who had overseen their previous dealings, but a younger man, altogether tougher-looking, his whole demeanour actively hostile. Behind him stood two guards, massive and implacable.

  Wang-Li explained, Chan had been replaced. This was the new boss.

  There was no tea on offer, no invitation to share a pipe. It was straight to business. The consignment was already being loaded onto the wagons; they could hear the boxes being quickly, briskly stacked. Ito heaved a battered leather bag onto the desk, set it down with a thud. It was bulging with gold, a mix of dollars and bullion, to the exact amount agreed.

  The new man did not waste time. Glover produced the list of what they had ordered, ten cases of breech-load rifles, as many again of ammunition. The man glanced at the list, nodded, handed over a list of his own. Wang-Li read it, looked even more alarmed.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ asked Glover.

  Wang-Li cleared his throat. ‘He say money not enough. Price go up.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Two times,’ said Wang-Li. ‘He want twice as much.’

  Glover snorted, laughed, but kept his eyes, hard and cold, on the trader. ‘Impossible.’ He jabbed at the list, the paper scroll. ‘That’s what we agreed. Now, I’ll bid you good day.’

  He stood up, the discussion over.

  The trader banged the table, shouted at Wang-Li, who was stammering now.

  ‘He say you pay more.’

  ‘More!’ said the trader.

  ‘I brought the amount we agreed,’ said Glover.

  Wang-Li translated again. The trader yelled at him.