The Courtesan and the Samurai

by Lesley Downer

  ‘Have a seat,’ he said, gesturing towards a chair with curved lion-claw legs, upholstered in red velvet. Yozo glanced around the room. With its rosewood writing desk, paintings of Dutch scenes, polished bookcase, plush red carpet, the dining table where Enomoto dined alone or with his officers and the shrine on the wall, it seemed palatial, particularly after the rigours of the long march across the snowbound pass to the fort. It was also more than a little disconcerting to find himself in this grand Dutch drawing room, this small corner of Holland, rocking gently on the water under the grey skies of Ezo.

  As far as everyone else was concerned, Enomoto lived above and apart from his men. He was responsible for the lives and welfare of his crew and demanded of them total obedience and loyalty. It was only when he and Yozo were alone together that he could relax. Now he brought out a cut-glass decanter.

  ‘You remember that cognac I brought back from France?’ he said.

  Yozo grinned. He knew the ritual.

  ‘You’ve been eking it out.’

  ‘I save it for special occasions.’

  With a flourish Enomoto pulled out the stopper from the decanter and poured out a couple of glasses. Next he brought out a box of cigars and offered Yozo one, then lit one for himself. They sat for a while in companionable silence, wreaths of smoke wafting above their heads. The fragrance took Yozo back to the elegant drawing rooms of Europe, to men’s clubs furnished with leather armchairs and large red-nosed men with coarse pale skin and booming voices.

  ‘So you acquitted yourself well,’ Enomoto said at last.

  ‘I did my best,’ said Yozo.

  ‘And the Star Fort is ours.’ Enomoto looked hard at Yozo, steely determination in his eyes. ‘Tell me what happened. Give me the true story. I’ll get the official version soon enough.’

  ‘It’s easy to tell,’ said Yozo. ‘They were nowhere near as well armed and well trained as us. More to the point, they were not prepared to die. They didn’t hold out for long; in fact a lot of them ran away. If the garrisons at Matsumae and Esashi are anything like as half-hearted, we’ll be able to walk straight in.’

  Enomoto nodded, puffing at his cigar. ‘Good man,’ he said. ‘And the Commander?’

  Yozo knew that this was the question Enomoto really wanted to ask. He stared at the plush red carpet. ‘It’s not my place to judge the Commander,’ he said at last.

  ‘We’ve known each other a long time, Yozo, and there’s no one else around,’ said Enomoto. ‘Tell me, is he good at strategy or only at swinging his sword? Can we trust him?’

  ‘He’s a formidable warrior,’ said Yozo. ‘What worries me is whether he’ll accept your authority once we’ve taken the island.’

  Ten days after they arrived in Hakodate, Yozo and Kitaro were back on board the Kaiyo Maru as she set off around the headland for the town of Esashi. The Commander had already taken Matsumae – the other city loyal to the southerners – with the help of another ship in the northern fleet.

  Yozo was on deck as Matsumae Castle came into view. It was a ruin. The massive stone ramparts were battered and smashed like a mouthful of broken teeth, the walls blistered and pocked with cannon fire and the roof tiles broken loose. Jagged timbers poked through the snow. Flapping at the top of the citadel was the five-pointed star of the Northern Alliance. The city itself had been destroyed by fire and threads of smoke still rose from the blackened buildings.

  ‘The Demon Commander certainly made a thorough job of it,’ Yozo observed. ‘Looks like he laid into it with everything he had. He treats every battle like a personal vendetta. That castle was built so long ago, it wouldn’t have withstood cannon and rifle fire for long. I shouldn’t think we took too many casualties either.’

  ‘With any luck the southerners will be packing their bags at Esashi,’ said Kitaro. ‘They’ll want to be gone before the Commander arrives.’

  The ruins of Matsumae faded into the distance as the Kaiyo Maru rounded the headland and turned due north, following the western edge of the island. But as she swept through the water, a wind blew up, whipping the waves and threatening to batter the ship against the rocks that littered the coastline.

  Quickly Enomoto sent down the order, ‘Up funnel and down screw.’ The seamen furled the sails and the stokers fired the boilers to full capacity, but it was all the quartermasters could do to hold the ship steady.

  Snow was falling heavily as Esashi came in view. It was a bleak, wind-beaten place, a scattering of meagre houses huddled in the lea of the hills, smothered in snow. The men loaded and primed the cannons and set the city walls in their sights, but the place was strangely silent. It looked like a ghost town.

  Yozo and Kitaro were on the bridge with Enomoto, telescopes to their eyes.

  ‘You were right,’ Yozo said to Kitaro. ‘The garrison’s fled.’

  ‘So it’s ours without a fight,’ said Kitaro, his face brightening.

  ‘Looks like the land forces haven’t arrived yet either,’ said Enomoto, who was standing next to them. ‘We’ll send an occupation force to hold the town. With this weather we’re better off getting as many men to shore as possible. Check the soundings. We’ll drop anchor a safe distance from the coast.’

  The seamen stowed the sails and battened down the hatches, while a launch set off for the town, bobbing precariously up and down across the waves. It sent back the all-clear and most of the three hundred and fifty seamen disembarked, together with the troops, shuttling across to the town on launches. Enomoto stayed on board along with Yozo, Kitaro and a small crew of some fifty men to man the ship.

  Night fell early. Yozo strung up a hammock on the gun deck and closed his eyes and in a moment was fast asleep, lulled by the rocking and creaking of the great ship. Suddenly he woke with a start. His hammock was swinging so hard it seemed about to fling him to the ground. The ship was pitching wildly.

  He scrambled up a ladder to the upper deck, where the eight quartermasters had lashed themselves to the wheel. Above the roar of the gale, he could hear the groaning of the chains that held the anchors as the ship bucked and reared. Sheets of lightning lit the sky, clouds scudded furiously and huge waves crashed across the deck, soaking Yozo in freezing water. The great ship bobbed like a toy, the wind tearing into her so violently it seemed that any moment she would rip from her moorings and slam into the shore.

  Enomoto appeared from his cabin and gave the order to raise the anchors and put on more steam. Soon Yozo and Kitaro were taking their turn on the wheel, fighting to keep the ship steady as they tried to manoeuvre her further out to sea, away from the perilous coastline. The wind screamed across the deck, lashing their faces with ice and snow.

  When the next watch came to relieve them, Yozo clambered down to the gun deck, frozen to the core. It was pitch dark; Enomoto had ordered the lanterns extinguished for fear of fire. Lighting a single lantern, Yozo had started doing the rounds, making sure the gunports were sealed and the cannons roped in place, when a shock sent him flying across the deck. He shot forward and slammed into one of the cannons, sending his lantern crashing to the ground. He sprawled in pitch blackness, winded and dazed, then scrambled to his feet with more speed than he’d known he was capable of, shaking his head to clear the ringing in his ears. One thought rang in his mind with dreadful certainty: they had foundered.

  He headed for the stokehold, feeling his way towards the hatch, staggering from side to side as the ship lurched and the deck rose crazily. He knew the oak hull was a solid fourteen inches thick; it would take a mighty crack to pierce it. The ship was made up of eight separate compartments and even if one was breached, it would take time for water to seep into the next. With any luck the break could be found and plugged before too much damage was done. But something about the way the ship was lurching made Yozo suspect that there was not much hope of that. He stumbled against the hatch and in his haste nearly fell down the ladder. Then a lantern bobbed towards him. It was Enomoto.

  For a moment their eyes met.


  ‘Looks like we hit a rock,’ Enomoto yelled above the clank and roar of the ship. ‘I’ve sent the order out to up anchor and reverse engines. One of the men’s gone over the side to try and find the break and a couple more are below decks, assessing the damage.’

  Yozo nodded grimly. In this weather it was a hopeless task to dive over the side – a death sentence, in fact; but they had to do whatever they could.

  In the stokehold, ballast crashed from side to side as the stokers crowded towards the sturdy door that separated it off from the hull, their faces set and grim in the lantern light. Working frantically, they had located the damaged section of the hull and sealed off the first of the compartments. Yozo heard the crash as they slammed the next set of doors to seal off the adjoining compartment too and shoved the bolts into place. Some men had been trapped inside and he could hear their screams as the water level rose. But there was no time to waste. They had to save the ship.

  Enomoto knelt and ran his fingers across the floor. Yozo too put his hand to the floor and his heart gave a lurch. There was no mistaking it. Water – seeping out from under the massive doors with their hefty iron bolts.

  Yozo caught a glimpse of Enomoto’s face in the lantern light. It was contorted, drawn and haggard, his eyes starting out of his head and beads of sweat glinting on his brow. Yozo knew he must look just as crazed himself.

  There was a long silence. When Enomoto looked up, he had erased all trace of concern from his face.

  ‘We’ll ride out the storm,’ he shouted over the roar of the engines. He was completely composed. Everyone calmed down at the sound of his voice. ‘Then we’ll get her into harbour.’

  But Yozo knew – they all knew – that the odds on getting her into harbour in time to fix the damage were heavily against them. The storm was blowing so fiercely that they couldn’t get off the ship at all. It was obvious she was doomed.

  All night the men worked, manning the pumps and baling out the water that continued to seep under the great doors until finally they had to seal off another compartment. Yozo kept an eye on the water level in the stokehold, but despite all their efforts it continued to rise. The ship was listing alarmingly.

  When daylight broke the storm was still raging. Waves lashed the ship, sending icy water sweeping across the decks, threatening to wash the men into the sea. The wind howled and screamed, picking up the ship and hurling her down again, and Yozo could see she was starting to break up under the violence of the wind and the waves.

  The men staggered around the decks, gathering together equipment and arms. They unroped the thirty cannons and the Gatling gun and heaved them overboard, jettisoning cannonballs, arms and ammunition, doing all they could to lighten the ship.

  Finally they lashed themselves down and sat, sometimes talking, mainly in grim silence. Even the most experienced seaman had no stomach for food. There was nothing more to be done, nothing but watch the ship break up before their eyes and try not to think about their own imminent deaths. They’d been too busy to be afraid but now they sat on the deck and waited for the end.

  Yozo stared straight in front of him. If he had been confronted by an army of thousands at least he could have fought, he thought. That was a way for a man to die. But to sink into the ocean and be swallowed up by the waters, disappear into the freezing depths and leave nothing behind …

  Beside him, Kitaro’s Adam’s apple bobbed convulsively in his throat. He was staring at the floor, running his prayer beads through his fingers, invoking the name of Amida Buddha again and again.

  ‘You think too much,’ said Yozo.

  ‘Just as we’d made it,’ groaned Kitaro. ‘We’re masters of Ezo and now …’

  ‘We made it across the Atlantic,’ said Yozo firmly. ‘We can’t die now; not when we’re so close to home.’

  It was four days before the wind died down. The men left on board were starved, frozen and numb. As the fourth day dawned they picked up whatever they could carry and crawled down the icy deck, which sloped like a snow-covered mountain. Weak and trembling, they managed to lower the launches. Yozo watched helplessly as one man slipped on the ice-encrusted rungs on the hull, clung to the ropes for a moment then lost his grip and tumbled into the black water. The others stood silently on deck watching him thrash in the waves for a few moments, then disappear. The water was so cold they knew he would freeze to death and as likely as not they would be the next to go.

  Yozo and Kitaro were in the last launch. As Kitaro scrambled down the rungs he slipped and just managed to grab hold of the rope. He dangled for a moment, his thin legs scrabbling desperately at the hull before one quivering foot, then the other, found the rungs. The launch was so crowded it seemed it would surely sink if one more person climbed in.

  Yozo was still on deck. When he looked around, Enomoto was on the captain’s bridge, his face drawn and haggard, staring at the broken ship as if he couldn’t bear to say goodbye. Yozo gestured wildly but Enomoto stood as if he was in a trance, gazing at the ship. Yozo raced up to the bridge, grabbed Enomoto’s arm and pulled.

  ‘Hurry,’ he shouted. The ship was listing more and more. He almost had to push Enomoto over the side and down the rungs.

  They cast off the ropes and left the Kaiyo Maru to her fate. As they lurched away across the waves Yozo turned for a last look at the ship he loved being broken to pieces on the ice-strewn sea. It felt as if all his hopes were going down with her.

  9

  Hana woke to the boom of a temple bell reverberating through the icy air. Crows were circling, their raucous caws fading into the distance, and feet pattered along the street outside.

  For a moment she didn’t know where she was; then, as the events of the previous day came flooding back, she shuddered with horror. Cautiously she opened her eyes. Brilliantly coloured kimonos hung around the walls and piles of bedding were strewn across the floor with heads, arms and legs poking out. Tama, the woman she’d met the previous night, lay near by, her huge oiled coiffure perched on a wooden pillow and her mouth open, snoring softly. In the harsh dawn light she didn’t look like a mysterious beauty at all but a round-faced country girl.

  Hana sat up. She had to escape, and quickly. She was sure there must be places in the Yoshiwara where she could find work, real work. She could sew, she could write, she could teach – she could do something.

  Softly she picked up her bundle and stepped across the snoring bodies. She tripped over one and drew a sharp breath, afraid she must have woken her, but the woman just grunted and rolled over. Stepping between overturned sake bottles, ash-filled tobacco boxes and heaps of crumpled paper tissues, Hana crept through the next room, then another smaller room. The corridor outside was littered with spilt food and used chopsticks and stank of sake and tobacco. Loud male snores rumbled from behind closed doors. There were voices and noises in the distance and Hana realized the whole house was astir. She hurried across the polished floor, starting and glancing around as the boards creaked, then reached a staircase and step by step crept down the steep stairs.

  Her tattered straw sandals were on a shelf by the outer door, where she’d left them the previous night. She was stepping into them when footsteps came up behind her and she was engulfed in a cloud of stale perfume. A hand fastened on to her arm.

  ‘Leaving us already, my dear?’ enquired a throaty voice. ‘But you’ve hardly had a chance to get to know us yet.’

  Without her make-up the old woman’s skin was as grey and withered as a paddy field in autumn and her hair, shockingly white, bushed out like a squirrel’s tail.

  ‘How dare you,’ shouted Hana. ‘Take your hands off me. You can’t keep me here.’

  She pushed the woman off with all her might and fled for the door. But feet came running and, before she could open it, strong hands had grabbed her and pinioned her arms to her sides. She struggled and kicked but she couldn’t free herself. The next thing she knew, she was lifted off her feet and dumped in front of the old woman. Gasping, she scrambled to
her knees.

  ‘Let me go!’ she shrieked.

  ‘Don’t play around with us, my dear,’ said the woman. ‘It doesn’t work. Isn’t that right, Father?’

  The man from the previous night had come panting up, his broad face flushed and his cheeks mottled. His topknot was askew and he held his sleeping robe together with a thick-fingered hand. In the other he had a large stick. Without stopping to speak he raised it above his head. Hana caught a glimpse of a pale wobbling belly before he brought the stick down on her thigh. She leaped back, tears springing to her eyes. Above the commotion she could hear the woman’s voice, speaking quietly, in level tones.

  ‘Careful! Not her face. Don’t mark her face.’

  Hana flinched as he raised the stick again.

  ‘You’ve no right to keep me here,’ she shouted.

  ‘Don’t cause us trouble,’ he growled, bringing the stick down on her back. Hana curled into a ball, trying to protect herself from the blows, crying as he hit her.

  ‘Enough noise,’ muttered the old woman. ‘The customers will be out any moment now. We don’t want her causing a scene.’

  As the man and his young accomplices dragged Hana away from the entrance hall, she lashed out, kicking at the men’s legs and grabbing at anything she could find, trying to scratch and bite, but they were far stronger than her. Somewhere along the way her bundle was ripped out of her hands. Half pulling, half carrying her, they ran along corridors and through rooms littered with sleeping bodies till they came to the back of the house. They pulled open the door of a storehouse and flung her down on the earthen floor.

  One of the young men shoved her on to her back, ripped her kimono open and straddled her, fumbling with his clothes. Hana caught a glimpse of a veined erect penis and squirmed and kicked in horror. Then the old man appeared and pushed the youth aside.

  ‘Not this one,’ he snapped. ‘You, stay here till you cool off.’ He turned to the young men. ‘Tie her up.’