by Spence, Alan
I’m minded of that old song, ‘Will ye no come back again?’, and if I’m not careful I’ll be blubbering like a bairn!
Mother and Father are both well, though not getting any younger. In fact, Father will be retiring soon, and that will necessitate some upheaval in that we will have to find a new house in the neighbourhood, our tenancy of this one being tied to Father’s position. So, unless you hurry up and pay us a visit, we’ll likely have moved from your childhood home by the time you get back!
I hadn’t intended this to be a long letter, Tom – I sent you one of those not so long ago, full of news and gossip! But I couldn’t miss the opportunity of sending you a message by special delivery, directly via the hand of Mister Ito, or Prince Ito as he styles himself! (Is he really a Prince? Does the word mean something else in his part of the world? I didn’t like to inquire too closely, for fear of appearing rude.) In fact the gentleman in question departs tomorrow morning, and he is downstairs at this very moment, awaiting delivery of this missive.
I shall therefore end forthwith.
Your loving sister,
Martha
He read the letter, re-read it, read it again, smelled the fading perfume, redolent of home. She had written it in April; he could picture her sitting at the window looking out towards the sea; the air would still be chilly but with that first faint promise of spring.
He went outside to the garden. The night was heavy and warm, humid. The task ahead weighed down on him, oppressive. He went back inside, read the letter one more time, folded it carefully and put it away in his desk drawer.
*
As he disembarked at Kagoshima, he felt it wrench at his guts, the sense, all at once, of familiarity and strangeness, a waking dream. There was the volcano, Sakurajima, with its plume of smoke, casting its pale grey pall, leaving a faint trace in the air, the acridness of ash. There was the road through town, past the gardens and temples, the pottery. He had come here with Sono; it seemed so very long ago. They had walked by a stream, looked at the bamboo in the water, filling and emptying itself. Shishi-odoshi. Sono had bowed to a statue of Jizo, prayed for their baby. He had drunk sake with his father-in-law, Shimada, come face to face with Shimazu Saburo, the Daimyo, seen at close quarters that ferocious intransigence that would yet bring destruction on the whole town. He felt suddenly, profoundly, wearied, saw himself useless and helpless in the face of events. He had replied to Parkes, begged him to use his influence to call off the attack, or at least delay it. Parkes had replied that it was impossible, matters had gone too far and were beyond his control. Unless the Daimyo could be persuaded to change his mind, retri bution would be stayed no longer.
Did he really think he could deflect a warlord from his grand gesture of defiance? The Daimyo would probably refuse to see him at all; or worse, he might have him taken prisoner, executed for his insolence, for the crime of being western, alien, a barbarian invader plundering his country. It was madness. And yet.
He steadied himself, felt a sudden sense of purpose. Like an actor in a drama, he had to play his part, see this through. And he knew that even if he were not to succeed with this larger plan, this impossible task, he might at least speak to Sono, persuade her to leave with him. He might save one life, and hers was worth the saving.
*
He knew Shimada-san would be putting his own life at risk by bringing him to the Daimyo’s residence, and he was grateful. He had brought a gift for the Daimyo, a fob-watch, elaborately wrapped. Shimada had taken the gift, given it to one of the Daimyo’s attendants. Glover’s pistol was confiscated; he was instructed to remove his shoes, wait in an anteroom. He waited an hour that felt like a day. The room was bare, austere; no chairs, no cushions; dark wood, a hard polished floor. He sat upright, his legs crossed, till his back and knees ached, his calf muscles cramped. Then he kneeled, till that too became intolerable and he crouched, at last had to stand up, pace the floor in his stockinged soles.
When he had gone beyond boredom, through agitation, to contained rage, then beyond even that to a kind of numb acceptance, the screen to the inner apartments opened and Shimada stepped out. He was carrying Glover’s gift, not even unwrapped. Shimada gave him a look that said there was no hope. Behind him came the attendant who told him the Daimyo had no time to speak to him and he should go.
Glover held himself in check, from somewhere found a form of words that indicated the utmost obeisance, humility and respect. But his voice was firm, commanding, as he suggested the Daimyo would demonstrate his wisdom by agreeing to pay the recompense. By delaying longer than the Shogun, he had already shown himself stronger. By forcing the West into this show of strength, he had further demonstrated his power. And now he could avoid destruction and loss of life by his tactical awareness in making an honourable retreat.
There was a silence. Shimada stood with his head bowed. Then the Daimyo himself emerged from his chambers, stood glaring at Glover, and Glover knew this man would never, ever back down. His face was a fierce mask, mouth set, eyebrows gathered, nostrils flared. He muttered something to the attendant, who bent almost double, relayed the message to Glover.
‘The Daimyo does not accept your gift, or your advice. Instead he gives you a gift. He allows you to keep your head.’
The screen was closed.
The attendant motioned to Glover. ‘Now you go.’
Shimada shuffled out backwards, kowtowing. Glover followed him, pulled on his shoes. His pistol was returned to him. Shimada led him out of the compound, watched all the way by armed guards.
In Shimada’s home, the atmosphere was heavy, tense. Glover had offered the old man the watch, he had refused. They drank sake, as they had so long ago, and Glover repeated the toast that had made Shimada laugh. Shogun nanka kuso kurae! The Shogun. To hell with him. But this time he didn’t even smile.
Glover tried replacing Shogun with Daimyo.
‘Daimyo nanka kuso kurae!’
The old man slammed the floor.
‘Ie!’
No! This was a breach of protocol, disloyalty to the clan, and could not be countenanced.
Glover apologised, humbly.
The silence lay even heavier between them.
After a while, Glover tentatively broached the subject of Sono, asked how she was. The old man grunted, said something he didn’t understand, got up and left the room.
Glover held his head in his hands. What in God’s name was he doing here? Probably making matters worse, blundering around. A Scottish bull in a Japanese china shop. He heard the shoji screen open, stood up ready to make a final apology, take his leave. But it was not Shimada standing there, it was Sono.
Although he had hoped to meet her, seek her out, he was completely taken aback at seeing her, suddenly there.
Shaken, he blurted out her name, all he could say. ‘Sono!’
She stepped into the room, kneeled in front of him, bowed her head to the floor. ‘Guraba-san.’
‘Tom!’ he said, taking her arm and raising her to her feet. ‘For God’s sake, Tom!’
‘Hai,’ she said, a sad little smile flicking briefly across her face. ‘Tomu.’
‘Look at you!’ he said, stroking her face, her hair. She looked thinner, more haggard, dressed in simple, almost dowdy robes. That sadness in the eyes had deepened, taken hold. But she was still beautiful; it shone through.
She turned away a moment, fetched a tray she had set down outside the room, placed it on a low table in the corner of the room, motioned him to sit.
‘Dozo.’
Please.
She had made food for him, laid it out. He was moved, choked back the emotion, sat down cross-legged.
Only when he started to eat did he realise he was hungry, and he wolfed it down, slurped the noodles noisily, munched through the rest, the stewed terrapin, the boiled rockfish, tough and chewy, the bitter pickled radish; plain fare but good.
‘Oishi-desu!’ he said, and he meant it. It was delicious.
A
gain he saw that faint half-smile, fleeting, a memory of better times.
‘Arigato,’ she said, bowing.
The moment of simple domesticity, something shared, touched him again. This woman had been, was, his wife. He had to make her understand the danger of her situation, the necessity of leaving this place. But he found himself suddenly dumbstruck, tonguetied. The language deserted him. And she, in all likelihood, had spoken no English since she’d left him. She’d had little enough anyway, and now even that little would have atrophied, dried up. They had no words.
*
He spent the night in the same ryokan where they’d stayed on that first visit, but this time alone. The old inn-keeper was gruff, grudging, reluctant to rent him the room; but he payed in advance, a little extra, slammed the money down on the counter; the man relented, let him in. He kicked off his boots, carried them with him up the wooden stairs.
He was weary, unrolled the futon in the middle of the floor, slumped down on it fully clothed except for his jacket which he pulled off, threw in the corner. But for all his exhaustion, he couldn’t sleep. The night was warm, his mind was agitated, the sense of impending disaster like lead in his belly. When he did sleep it was fitful and riven by dreams. Faces loomed at him, Shimada looking grim, Sono melancholy, the Daimyo ferocious. They were here in the room with him and the whole place was on fire; it was going up in flames and he couldn’t stop it, lay paralysed, unable to move.
He woke in terror and panic, drenched in sweat, sat up, his breathing shallow and quick. The dream faded but left him with a sense of threat, alert to any sound. He reached for his pistol, tensed, but the noises he heard were only the wind in the pines, the harsh rasping cry of cicada. He lay down again and he was in Bridge of Don, trying to get back to the house, to alert his family, warn them of some nameless danger, evacuate them to safety; but he couldn’t run, sank knee-deep in mud.
Again he woke, took his bearings, sat up. The night-watch, the wee small hours, time of demons. He lay back, eyes wide open, staring into the dark. Not quite awake, not quite asleep, he felt himself strapped into some vast mechanism, knew that if he even flinched, moved one muscle, he would set off a conflagration that would engulf everything around him. But in order to stop this he had to move. He couldn’t move, he must move. He prayed, Dear God, wrenched himself upright and sat, waiting. But nothing happened. The world did not end. He was alive, and alone, in this shabby inn, in a small town in the far south of Japan, in a life far stranger than any dream; but it was real, it was actual; he was here.
This time he resolved to stay awake. He sat up, his back against a wooden pillar. His head nodded once, twice, and the first grey light of day was filtering in to the room.
*
He walked down to the docks, felt even more the hostility directed at him, the threat. It was there in every glance in his direction, every muttered malediction. He had come early to check on the times the boats might be departing for Nagasaki, but everything was in disarray; nothing was entering or leaving the harbour, the invading fleet had dropped anchor out in the bay.
So events were moving swiftly at last, after the long months of delay. He had seen a dispatch before leaving for Kago shima, listing the ships that would make up the squadron; the flagship HMS Euryalus, a pair of corvettes, the Perseus and the Pearl, a paddle sloop, the Argus, a dispatch vessel and two gunboats, the Racehorse and the appropriately named Havoc. He could see the shapes out there, sinister in the mist just starting to disperse. If he were to borrow a telescope he would be able to make out the figures on deck, moving about their predatory business.
He hurried back to Shimada’s home. The old man received him dressed as for battle, his swords at his waist, a pistol in his belt, his samurai helmet under his arm. Glover asked if he could see Sono again, Shimada indicated she had gone to the temple, to pray.
He made his way through the crowded streets, past the shrine to Jizo, the gardens, through a red Shinto torii gate, but she was nowhere to be seen. Further out there was another temple, Buddhist, and he thought she might have gone there, might be praying to anyone who would listen. But no, there was still no sign of her; he had the feeling he was just missing her at every turn, sensed she was always just a little way ahead of him, just out of reach.
He looked back across the town, towards the harbour, shielded his eyes, saw there was a longboat approaching from the flagship riding at anchor. He hurried back, had to shove his way through the crowds near the dock. A deputation was disembarking, a naval captain, a civilian who looked English, an armed guard of four blue-jackets. Shimada was there to meet them, and the civilian greeted him in Japanese more fluent than Glover’s. He relayed the Captain’s commands to Shimada, insisted on being taken to the Daimyo to deliver one final ultimatum. Shimada refused, stood resolute, explained that the Daimyo did not deign to see them, but that the message would be passed on and a reply might, or might not, be forthcoming.
‘That’s as good an answer as you’ll get,’ said Glover.
‘I’d feared as much,’ said the Englishman. ‘You must be Tom Glover.’
‘Aye,’ said Glover, surprised.
‘Sir Harry told us you might be here, making one last effort at diplomacy. I’m Ernest Satow, and this is Captain Josling.’
Glover nodded. He had heard of Satow, a linguist based at the Legation, who had made himself indispensable as a translator.
‘A rum do, this,’ said Satow.
He was thin, and to Glover’s eye looked weak, effete, had lank dark hair and a wispy moustache.
‘That’s one way of putting it,’ said Glover.
‘Not exactly the way I imagined it when I first came here,’ said Satow. ‘I’d pictured a land of perpetual sunshine and endless blue skies, where the whole duty of a man might consist in reclining on a matted floor, looking out through an open window at an exquisite miniature garden in the company of attentive red-lipped black-eyed damsels!’
Glover stared at him; the man’s tone, his languidness, seemed inappropriate in the present situation.
‘And of course,’ said Satow, continuing, ‘the place un doubtedly has its charms, its enchantments. Unfortunately, the reality is complex.’
‘Aye,’ said Glover.
‘It can be harsh to the point of being brutal.’
‘We can match them in terms of brutality,’ said Glover. ‘As we seem hell-bent on demonstrating.’
‘If I may quote you,’ said Satow. ‘That is one way of putting it.’
The naval officer spoke up. ‘I take it our business here is done?’
‘Indeed,’ said Satow. ‘Insofar as it can be.’
‘Then let us return to the ship forthwith.’
Satow turned to Glover. ‘Will you dine with us on board the Euryalus? I am sure the Admiral would be delighted to welcome you as his guest, and under the circumstances you might be safer offshore.’
‘Under the circumstances,’ said Glover, ‘I have to decline. The food would stick in my craw.’
Satow looked at him with something like admiration. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘I really do.’
‘Come, sir!’ said the Captain, anxious to be away.
Satow bowed to Shimada, took his leave graciously with just the right degree of formality; then he turned to Glover, said, ‘Perhaps sweet reason will prevail.’
‘I fear it has gone beyond reason,’ said Glover, ‘on both sides.’
Satow nodded, followed the Captain and the four guards down the gangplank onto the longboat. Shimada grunted to Glover that he should have gone with them, then turned away, strode off with his own contingent of guards in the direction of the Daimyo’s residence.
*
Early next morning, tired after another restless night at the ryokan, more troubled dreams of desolation and panic and loss, Glover headed for Shimada’s home. This time he was stopped at the gate by two of the guards, armed with pikes. He explained his business and one of them went inside, the other kept Glo
ver at bay with his barbed blade. After some time, Shimada came out, and Glover asked once more about Sono.
At first Glover thought the old man was speaking to him in Japanese, saying something he didn’t understand. Shisei yugo. Then he realised he was making the effort, speaking in English.
‘She say you go.’
‘It’s not safe,’ said Glover, struggling for the words. ‘Anzen de wa nai.’
‘She say, her place here, you go.’
The old man bowed, the look in his eyes regret, resolve. No more to be said.
An hour later, Glover was at the dock again and the British delegation had returned to receive their reply. Captain Josling looked on, his expression one of disdain, as Satow repeated the British Government’s demands and Shimada read the Daimyo’s reply, refusing to pay the indemnity, in fact insisting that the barbarian invaders depart from Kagoshima and from Japan forthwith.
Satow expressed his regrets, bowed, then turned to Glover and suggested it might not be a good time to be stranded here, and he should perhaps accompany them back to the ship.
‘You may join me on the deck of the Argus,’ he said, ‘a suitable vantage point from which we can observe the proceedings.’
‘The proceedings?’ said Glover. ‘I find myself unable to contemplate the bombardment of a town and consequent loss of life with such a degree of equanimity and detachment.’
Satow bristled. ‘The offer was made in good faith, sir, and with your own safety in mind.’
