The Pure Land

by Spence, Alan

‘Kanpai!’

  He had kept in touch the whole time he was away, but communication was slow, he needed to catch up. He poured more whisky, heard what amounted to a company report, enthusiastically delivered. The traffic in ships continued apace; they had brokered the sale of half a dozen vessels and were currently awaiting delivery of the gunboat Nankai to the Tosa clan for $75,000. Jardine’s still owed them $20,000 towards the building of three steamers. Glover would write, demanding the transfer of funds forthwith. Harrison had continued to invest in property; Groom’s adventures in foreign exchange, playing on currency fluctuations between Nagasaki and Yokohama, still turned a profit and managed to stay, if only just, within the confines of the law. The tea business now employed over a thousand people, and Glover had designed a steam-driven machine for sifting the tea, rendered the whole process more efficient. An improved version of the machine was even now being developed in England and would be shipped out as soon as it was complete. Meanwhile the company’s agency work had expanded, and they now acted for Lloyd’s as well as a number of Chinese banks.

  ‘All in all,’ said Harrison, ‘business is booming.’

  ‘And these two fellows here,’ said Groom, indicating the two Japanese clerks, ‘have kept everything absolutely shipshape in the office.’

  The two men beamed, bowed.

  ‘Another toast,’ said Glover. ‘Shibata-san! Nakajimo->>#QC::Hyphen#<<
  ‘Kanpai!’

  When the four men had gone, he sat and read the newspaper articles Walsh had left, Satow’s diatribe against the Shogun.

  The Tycoon, or Shogun as he styles himself, has arrogated the title of overall ruler, a title to which he has no legitimate claim, and assumed a dignity which does not belong to him, a piece of extraordinary assumption on the part of one whose treachery was apparent in the affair of Shimonoseki.

  If criticism like this was being widely circulated, the wind had indeed shifted.

  He yawned, stretched. The long journey from Aberdeen was beginning to make itself felt, in a general weariness, an ache in the bones. He would ask Tsuru to draw him a bath. But the thought had barely formed when, for the third time in the one night, there was a tapping at the door. This time it was Ito, accompanied by Godai.

  ‘Dear God!’ said Glover. ‘Unholy alliances right enough!’

  Once more a bottle was opened, drink taken. Glover shook himself awake, prepared to talk into the night.

  Ito grinned at him, gave a nod to Tsuru, grinned even more. It was Ito who had sent her to him in the first place, after Kagoshima. He shook Glover’s hand, looked delighted to see him.

  ‘Guraba-san! Welcome back!’

  ‘Ito-san! You rogue! It’s good to see you!’

  Godai was more circumspect, formal. He bowed.

  ‘Guraba-san.’

  ‘Godai-san. I hope you learned much from your sojourn in the West.’

  Godai bowed deeper. ‘Hai! So desu. Whole Satsuma clan most grateful.’

  Godai said in London they had been treated like dignitaries, like ambassadors from a foreign state. Laurence Oliphant, with the perspective of distance, and with his wounds quite literally healed by time, had championed the rebel cause, argued that the Shogun must be deposed if Japan were to progress. Glover saw him a moment, face livid, arm cut to the bone by a samurai sword. Now he had used his influence at Westminster to arrange for Godai to meet the Foreign Secretary, Lord Clarendon, who had shown great interest in what he had to say about the possibility of political change in Japan, the forging of stronger trade links.

  ‘This is all good news, Godai-san,’ said Glover. ‘Very good.’ Then he paused. ‘But I have a bone to pick with you!’

  Godai looked alarmed. ‘Bone?’

  ‘Satsuma have been dealing with this stupid Frenchman Montblanc. He even sold you a ship!’

  ‘Ah,’ said Godai. ‘So desu.’ And he smiled, mouth tight, a hideous rictus, the way Japanese men al ways did to cover embarrassment. ‘Furansujin, hai. Monburo.’

  ‘The very man,’ said Glover, terse.

  ‘We learn from you,’ said Godai. ‘Make competition. Good business!’

  ‘Oh, did you now?’

  ‘We buy one ship from him, but he is not good man, not honourable.’

  ‘Tell me more, and I’ll blacken the bastard’s name. Then his eye!’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I heard about the clan crest on the floor!’ said Glover.

  ‘Bad,’ said Godai. ‘Then he want to sell us more ships, but his Government say no. They support Shogun and Bakufu.’

  ‘Don’t I know it!’

  ‘So we don’t pay him full amount.’

  ‘Ha!’ Glover laughed. ‘The biter bit!’

  Again Godai looked confused.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Glover. ‘He’s getting what he deserves.’

  ‘But now Daimyo want to meet you.’

  ‘Ah.’

  He minded that ferocious intransigent face, hard set. Kagoshima in flames. Rubble and smoke.

  ‘He want to talk to your Government also, make deal. Want you to bring Sir Harry Parkes to Kagoshima.’

  ‘Is that all?’ said Glover.

  ‘Is important,’ said Ito. ‘It has to happen. Satsuma have made strong alliance with Choshu. Kido-san has made Choshu a real fighting force; Kiheitai well trained, well armed. With Satsuma can easily beat Shogun.’

  Glover breathed out a long slow sigh. ‘Christ!’ he said. ‘Welcome back to Nagasaki!’

  They talked, planned, schemed, through the small hours, and when Glover walked with them to the gate, the first faint light, a red glow, was starting to streak the sky. Ito and Godai still moved with a kind of furtiveness, a habitual stealth, looking about them, always half expecting figures to step from the shadows, the Shogun’s agents, French spies. Glover walked to the end of his garden, looked out across the sleeping town with a few lamps lit here and there, the harbour, the vague shapes of the hills. He would have to post guards again, install cannon on the hillside. He rubbed his face, exhausted, breathed in the night air, fragrant and mild.

  Back inside, Tsuru was curled in a chair, woke when he closed the door. She looked up at him, sleepy.

  ‘Now then, Tsuru lass,’ he said. ‘Where were we?’

  *

  It was the first time he’d been back to Kagoshima since the bombardment. So much had changed, so much was the same; there was the volcano, Sakurajima, the familiar contours of the bay; the air still smelled faintly of ash; there were the docks, rebuilt, and suddenly in the air was the sound of cannon-fire. But this time it was a salute, four guns, and it was for him, the honoured guest, and the ship that carried him was the Satsuma’s own steamer, the Otento Sama. For a moment he was shaken, thought he might give away his emotions but managed to hold them in check, stood to attention and saluted. Godai, beside him on deck, did the same.

  Shimada was waiting to meet him at the quay. The old man bowed, greeted him, his manner still formal and gruff, but in the crinkling of the eyes was a glint of recognition and acceptance, familiarity and warmth. Half a dozen guards lined the quayside, and Shimada led Glover to a norimon which would convey him to the Daimyo’s residence. It was the first time he’d travelled in one and he felt awkward as he clambered in, sat on the cushion, his knees jutting, angular as the carriage was lifted by two men front and back and he was bumped and jostled on the short journey.

  The Daimyo wasted no time, had Glover led to an anteroom where he took off his boots, and from there into the inner chamber where the Daimyo himself sat, cross-legged on a raised platform.

  Glover bowed low, but not so low as to undermine his own dignity. The Satsuma Daimyo, Shimazu Saburo, Prince and Regent of the clan, acknowledged him with a nod of the head. The last time he’d come here, Glover hadn’t been allowed past the anteroom, and the Daimyo had refused his gift of a pocket watch, had magnanimously allowed him to leave the place with his head still attached to his shoulders.

 
; This time Glover had again come bearing gifts, entrusted to Shimada on his arrival. Glover brought them forward, two packages, elegantly wrapped in the finest paper, tied with silk. This was important, showed respect, concern for the formalities, the aesthetics of the situation. He placed the packages in front of the Daimyo, spoke with precisely the right degree of respect. He glanced at Godai, who had coached him in precisely what to say. Godai gave a fleeting half-smile, yes, he had got it just right.

  ‘Dozo,’ said Glover, pushing the packages forward. ‘Please.’

  The Daimyo nodded to Shimada to open the packages. The first contained another pocket watch, on a gold chain. The Daimyo shook the watch, held it to his ear, grunted his acknowledgement. His mouth was still turned down, set, but in the eyes that met Glover’s gaze there was a flicker, the suggestion of acceptance.

  Shimada opened the second package, took out the gift, a pistol, the handle inlaid with ivory. This time the reaction was unmistakable; the eyes were animated, the corners of the mouth twitched, the noise he made was one of approval. He weighed the pistol in his hand, squinted along the barrel. Then, as Shimada had done so long ago, a scene replaying itself, he raised the gun, pointed it straight at Glover’s head. And although Glover knew he had not loaded the gun, there was something in the act itself, the intent, that made the sweat prickle on the hands, on the back of the neck, some primal instinct that kicked in under threat.

  The Daimyo asked for bullets. Glover said he had more, had brought a box of them, but there was a small pouch here, with half a dozen. The Daimyo asked him to load it, which he did, before handing it back. Now the threat was real, and they both knew it. The look in the eyes was predatory, and mocking. This was a test. Again he raised the gun, pointed it at Glover. This was one of the most ruthless men in the country. He had a long- standing feud with the West. His men had butchered Richardson over a matter of protocol, etiquette. He had precipitated the bombardment of his home town rather than back down and lose face. He was holding a gun to Glover’s head.

  Glover didn’t flinch, knew he couldn’t. He bowed, said ‘Dozo’, reached forward and pushed the barrel to one side so it faced the wall.

  The Daimyo actually laughed, a harsh dry bark, then he put the gun down, nodded again to Shimada, who placed two small boxes in front of Glover. The Daimyo was reciprocating, had gifts for him. Glover bowed, opened the boxes. Each contained a small porcelain vase, one black, one white, each with its characteristic glaze, a subtle lustre.

  ‘Shiromon,’ said the Daimyo, indicating the white vase. ‘Kuromon.’ He pointed to the black.

  ‘Kiwamete utsukushii desu,’ said Glover. And they were indeed exquisitely beautiful. And Glover was caught by surprise once more, in this land that endlessly surprised him, at the combination of refinement and barbarism, delicacy and brutality.

  The Daimyo motioned to Shimada to clear away the gifts, stood up and led the way through to another chamber. He was tall, even by western reckoning, as tall as Glover, a good six feet. By Japanese standards he was a giant, broad and powerfully built, an imposing presence, rendered more so by his flowing silk garments, his tunic with wide stiff shoulders.

  The room they entered had a table prepared where they would dine, a civilised way of discussing business.

  The feast was lavish, ran to some dozen courses, spread over three hours. The discussion, through Godai as interpreter, was at first circuitous, but grew more and more direct as the evening unfolded and the sake and whisky flowed. The Daimyo made it clear to Glover that the situation had changed, and would continue to change rapidly. He was anxious to impress on him, and on the British Government, that the Satsuma clan were no longer hostile to the West, even though it was only three short years since the reprisals against Kagoshima. In fact, he was anxious to expand trade with the British, and that could only come about if new alliances continued to be forged between Japanese clans, led by Satsuma and Choshu, combining to remove the Tokugawa Shogun and replace him with the country’s rightful hereditary ruler, the young Emperor, the Son of Heaven. The Daimyo would be most grateful if Glover would relay his message to the Consul, Parkes. They had once been at war, but now must establish friendship. To this end, the Satsuma would be honoured if the Consul himself would visit Kagoshima where he would be most royally welcomed. Glover said on departing here he would go directly to Edo and deliver the message in person. The Daimyo roared his approval, said Glover had the spirit of a warrior, a true samurai. They laughed, drank to each other’s health.

  *

  Next morning Glover was wakened abruptly by an attendant, ordering him politely to get up and get ready, the Daimyo wanted him to go out riding in one hour. The blood was thudding in his head from too much rich food, strong drink.

  ‘Bloody hell!’

  The attendant backed out. Two young women appeared, led him to the bathhouse, scrubbed and rinsed him, giggling. Godai was already in the hot tub, and Glover eased down into it, the water scalding. The heat made his head throb even more, thud in his skull; he felt faint, made a rueful face at Godai, who himself looked washed out.

  ‘The things we do for Japan, Godai-san!’

  The answer came, weak. ‘Hai.’

  He took the heat for ten minutes, dragged himself out, shocked himself awake with a dousing of ice-cold water from a tub, poured over his head. The thudding ache reached a peak then started to subside.

  ‘Now!’

  He dried himself, dressed. The women brought food and he made himself eat a little rice-porridge, to settle his gut. Godai couldn’t face it, still looked wan. Glover laughed, clapped him on the back. ‘Bit of horse-riding will set you straight!’

  Outside, the horses were saddled and ready. The Daimyo kept them waiting another twenty minutes then made his appearance, mounted up by placing his foot on the shoulder of a retainer, kneeling beside the horse. He gestured to Glover and Godai to ride alongside him and the little procession made its way out through the gates, an outrider up ahead, carrying the clan banner, half a dozen armed samurai following behind.

  All the way along the road out of town, people would stop, get down on their knees as the procession passed, every one of them – women, children, old men – pressing their heads in the dust. Glover was unsettled to be up here, seeing this from the inside. It felt plain wrong to have folk kowtow to him. A few of them met his gaze, curious, before bowing their heads. The Daimyo looked straight ahead, rode on.

  Further out the settlement thinned till there were only a few straggled houses, then they were in the open countryside, lush and green, surrounded by terraced hillsides, paddyfields. The Daimyo spurred his horse to a gallop, forced the others to keep up; then he slowed to a trot, stopped altogether in a clearing sheltered by cycad trees.

  As they dismounted, Godai said to Glover, ‘This is a great honour, for the Daimyo to go riding like this with gaijin, he is paying you great respect.’

  ‘Let him know I appreciate it,’ said Glover.

  The Daimyo had walked to the edge of the clearing, was looking out over an uninterrupted vista, the city far behind, bright sunlight shimmering on the bay, the bluegreen slopes of Sakurajima. He wanted to show Glover the extent of his domain, spoke of how quickly Kagoshima had risen again, been rebuilt. He said Satsuma were a powerful clan, the most powerful in the country. Allied with Choshu they would be formidable, unbeatable, would make Japan a strong ally for the West. He repeated his request for a meeting with the Consul, and Glover said he would not rest till it came about.

  The Daimyo gave a grunt of approval. This was the right answer, the only answer. He spoke then of further opportunities for Glover. Out there, he pointed, stretched Ryukyu, a chain of islands under Satsuma control, reaching as far as Okinawa, halfway to China. The silk trade flowed through here, and concessions could be made to Glover instead of to Chinese brokers. There were interests too in sugar – they had built their own factories to process, refine it. Western expertise would be welcome. And of course, there w
ould be a continuing demand for ships and machinery. Glover heard, understood.

  On their return to the residence, the Daimyo gave Glover another gift, a small cycad tree to remind him of their conversation in the shade, in the clearing, the view from Kagoshima, the open vista, the future.

  *

  Back in Nagasaki, Glover paused only long enough to sign some papers, took time to plant the cycad tree in the garden at Ipponmatsu; he dug the hole himself, took satisfaction in it, eased in the seedling, felt the warmth of the earth between his fingers as he trowelled it back in, patted it in place. Good. Then, true to his word, he headed directly to Edo, by steamer and horseback, went straight to the Legation, rode in along the same winding pathways, over the same bridge, past the same lake, the same grove of pine and bamboo. The defences had been strengthened, there were more guards around the perimeter, but he thought they still looked indolent, could still be cut to shreds by the ferocity of a ronin attack.

  Five years since the bloodbath. Takashi’s sword coming at him out of the dark. Now Richardson was dead, butchered, and Matsuo slain by his own hand. Alcock and Oliphant were long gone, driven out. Now here he was, back to plead the same case all over again. Time passed. Things changed and stayed the same. The wind still blew in the pines.

  He waited in the reception room while news of his arrival was relayed to Sir Harry Parkes. A heavy oak clock ticked the time away and Her Majesty the Queen, Empress of India, Defender of the Faith, looked down from her formal portrait, stern and regal, overseeing this furthest flung outpost of her domain, this little patch of British soil. He sensed for a moment the enormity, the sheer weight of power and responsibilty to which she was heir. It must be overwhelming, especially for a woman, and it was no wonder she appeared dyspeptic, even melancholic.

  Parkes came bustling into the room. As Glover had anticipated, he was intrigued at the message he had sent.

  ‘Glover!’ he said, shaking hands. ‘Still meddling in affairs that don’t concern you?’