‘What a ship!’ said Enomoto. They bowed their heads and stared at the fire. Sitting cross-legged in the presidential quarters at the Star Fort in the freezing land of Ezo, it was hard to believe any of it had happened. Even as Yozo tried to picture Dordrecht the image was beginning to fade in his mind.
‘And that storm just after we left Rio, when you nearly fell off the mast,’ said Kitaro, looking up and grinning. ‘I thought we’d lost you for sure.’
‘Lots of times I thought we’d had it, and the ship too. But we always made it through,’ said Yozo.
A hundred and fifty days it had taken, the journey back to Japan. They had had a Dutch crew, mainly Dordrecht men, to sail the ship. They had coaled up in Rio, sailed round the Cape of Good Hope and across the Indian Ocean, and coaled up again in Batavia. They had been through storms and across wild oceans and had chopped their way through waves as high as mountains, and they had never lost her.
But when they got back to Japan, nothing was as they remembered. Little by little they began to find out what had gone on in the four and a half years they’d been away – treason, murders, assassinations and finally full-scale civil war. A few months after their arrival the shogun had been toppled from power, and Yozo and Kitaro had joined Enomoto, all three determined to fight to the end for their beliefs.
The Kaiyo Maru had been their home. Every plank of wood, every creak of the hull, every swell of the sails had reminded them of the happy days in the West. And now she too was gone.
For a while they sat in silence, thinking of their beautiful ship. Yozo pictured the sweep of her bows, the power as she’d surged through the water, the luxury of the captain’s cabin, the gleaming cannons, the brasswork that they’d kept lovingly polished, the sheer size of her, large enough to house 350 sailors and 600 soldiers. Then he remembered his last sight of her, battered and broken, a lonely black hull on an ice-strewn sea, sinking under the waves as they left her behind. He brushed his hand across his eyes and swallowed hard.
Enomoto straightened his back, frowning. He was the Governor General again.
‘This is our home now,’ he said firmly. ‘The land of Ezo. I’ve been speaking to the foreign representatives here in the city of Hakodate, explaining our plans to establish a liberal republic and improve people’s living conditions. The Americans, the French and the English have all undertaken to recognize our government.’
He paused for a moment, his fine features darkening. ‘There’s something else,’ he said. ‘There’s news of the Stonewall …’
Yozo looked up sharply. He had seen the Stonewall in Yokohama Harbour. She was an ironclad, the most up-to-the-minute, powerful warship the world had ever seen, with a huge engine and walls twice as thick as a man’s thigh, covered in massive iron plates. Cannonballs simply bounced off her. Powered by steam and sail, she moved far faster than the Kaiyo Maru. She wasn’t even shaped like a ship. Sitting low in the water with her sinister black prow, she looked like some fearsome predatory fish.
The shogun’s government had ordered her from the Americans and paid most of the cost; but by the time she arrived the shogun had been deposed and his government overthrown. Before they left Edo, Enomoto had visited the American minister, Van Valkenburgh, and demanded that he hand her over; after all, the shogun had already paid for her. But Van Valkenburgh was adamant. The shogun’s government no longer existed and the new government was not yet established, he had said. All the foreign representatives had agreed to maintain strict neutrality while the country remained in a state of war. He was not at liberty to hand her over to either side.
‘You won’t be surprised to hear that when the southerners heard that the Kaiyo Maru had sunk, they set to work on Van Valkenburgh to convince him that without our flagship our government didn’t stand a chance. They gave him their word that the war was over.’
Yozo slammed his glass on the floor and clenched his fists. So the southerners had told the American minister the war was over, in order to persuade him to hand over the Stonewall. But it was all lies. The war was far from over, and the moment the southerners got their hands on the ironclad they’d be steaming north to attack them. If it was a case of the survival of the fittest, their chances were worsening by the day. The more Yozo heard of the southerners’ treachery, the more he wanted to kill them all. He would fight to the end, no matter how bloody that was, and take as many of the enemy with him as he could.
‘The southerners will be here in their tens of thousands,’ Enomoto told them sombrely. ‘They’re just waiting for spring. We have to do everything we can to make sure we’re ready. The defences are nearly in place – Captain Brunet is overseeing them – and we have some three thousand men, training night and day. But they’re an ill-matched lot. There’s the professional soldiers for a start – the French officers have trained them well and they’ve seen a lot of action. Then there’s recruits who’ve joined because they’re loyal or because they’d be executed if the southerners caught them. Some are not even military men. Some can barely shoot.’
‘Me, for example,’ said Kitaro.
‘As for Commander Yamaguchi’s Kyoto militia, they’re brilliant fighters and totally fearless, but they’re swordsmen in the main. Marlin and Cazeneuve are trying to turn them into riflemen but they’re living in another era. They leave the fort at night and pick fights with the locals and kill them, just to keep their hand in, and think that’s an acceptable way to behave. They call themselves samurai but most of them never were samurai and never will be. There’s only one person they take orders from, and that is the Commander.’ Enomoto frowned and poured another round of whisky. ‘If we can’t meld these men together into one army we’ll be in real trouble when the southerners arrive.’
13
The following morning the parade ground was bustling with activity. A squadron of soldiers in black uniforms and crested leather helmets swung out, marching crisply in tight formation with a couple of drummer boys at their head, rattling out a jaunty rhythm.
At the edge of the grounds, men were clustering around the huge wheels of a shiny cannon. It was one of the new breech-loaders Yozo and Enomoto and their colleagues had brought back with them from Prussia. As Yozo watched, the men started to run, scuttling off in all directions like startled rabbits. The next moment there was a boom like a thunderclap and the cannon leaped backwards as a shell careered through the air and smashed into the earth, throwing up an eruption of sand and gravel. Horses tied up not far away whinnied and reared in terror.
There was one thing missing. There was not a single blue-coated militiaman among them.
‘They refuse to train with our men because they think they know it all already,’ Kitaro said.
‘It’s time we saw for ourselves what kind of training they’re doing,’ said Yozo. ‘Swords won’t protect them against bullets, no matter how brilliant their technique.’
‘The Commander doesn’t trust us or Enomoto either,’ said Kitaro nervously. ‘He thinks we’re polluted because we’ve been with foreigners.’
‘From the moment we left the country we were outsiders,’ said Yozo. ‘But it’s wartime now and we’re up against overwhelming odds. If the commander has any sense he’ll save his opinions till the fight is over. Enomoto wanted me to keep an eye on him and I will.’
The Commander’s militia occupied a large wooden building a little way from the collection of barracks where the regular army was housed. As Yozo and Kitaro approached they could hear fierce yells and the thwack of wood on wood.
No one seemed remotely surprised to see them. The Commander himself was sitting on a raised platform under a banner displaying the hollyhock crest of the shogun. He was in his militia uniform of sky-blue haori jacket and striped kimono skirts, his long oiled hair swept back from his handsome face. He nodded to Yozo and Kitaro as they came in, then turned his attention back to the arena in the centre of the hall where a couple of men were duelling with practice sticks.
Other members of the
militia clustered round the arena, all in uniform. Some wore their hair in sleek ponytails, others in spiky clumps which bushed out on top of their heads, making them look like wild men. Most were familiar faces from the march across the mountains, but they looked cleaner now, more settled, more of a tight group. Yozo glanced around the lower ranks and noticed pretty soft-featured youths among them, their lips provocatively curved – pageboys, who traditionally performed the women’s roles in an all-male society like this; though it would be a mistake to underestimate their swordsmanship, he thought to himself. Often the prettiest youths were the most formidable swordsmen.
A few steely-eyed warriors stood behind, arms disdainfully crossed. Yozo could see that they were used to prowling the streets, crossing swords with the enemy, and were no doubt spoiling for a fight. There was something about them all that made him feel as if he’d strayed into a blood brotherhood. His skin prickled with the hostility as they turned to stare at the newcomers.
Prominently displayed along one wall was a noticeboard with the words ‘Code of Conduct’ brushed in muscular characters. Laid out alongside was a set of prohibitions: ‘Betraying the samurai code. Deserting the militia. Borrowing money. Fighting for personal reasons. Being struck from behind. Failing to kill your opponent.’ Following each of these was the punishment: ‘Seppuku’ – execution by ritual suicide. There was one rule which made Yozo’s blood run cold: ‘When a captain falls in battle all his men must follow him to the grave.’ He’d never come across a creed before which focused so obsessively on death. Outside he could hear the yells of the French drill sergeants barking orders. Here, as Enomoto had said, they were in another era.
At first glance the duellers seemed to be equally matched, but it soon became clear that they were teacher and student. The student dodged and darted, trying to get in blows, occasionally somersaulting his way out of trouble, while the teacher effortlessly fended off every attack, then caught the student off guard, put him into an indefensible position and forced him to concede. Another student stepped up, then another, and the teacher trounced them all, barely breaking a sweat.
Yozo recognized the teacher’s face, his sunburnt cheeks and full mouth. He had fought alongside him during the capture of the fort and had thought then how young he was to be such an accomplished warrior. Only his eyes were old and there was a deep frown mark between them. He looked at the world wearily, as if he’d seen so much he was not afraid of anything, certainly not of death, and he took on one student after the next with an air of complete indifference. But every now and then, when one of his opponents briefly gained the advantage, a look of fury crossed his face, as if he was fighting not the young man in front of him but an implacable enemy out to destroy him.
Watching him, Yozo thought with a sinking heart of the southerners and their Gatling guns which fired a continuous stream of bullets, far more lethal even than the French manually operated mitrailleuses that their own side had. Against those even this brilliant swordsman wouldn’t stand a chance. He’d be mown down long before he had time to draw his sword. All this bravado was just so much wasted effort.
The last bout came to an end and the opponents bowed to each other. The Commander pushed back strands of oiled hair with a large swordsman’s hand and looked hard at Yozo and Kitaro. There was a flame in his eyes, a dancing madness that Yozo found disconcerting.
Kitaro shuffled awkwardly as the Commander glared at them from under his brows.
‘So it’s the world travellers again,’ the Commander said with a twist of his lip, ‘come to find out how we do things in Japan and gawp at our quaint practices. Or are you keeping an eye on us, making sure everything’s just as Governor General Enomoto likes it? You’ve probably forgotten what a samurai sword looks like.’ There was a burst of laughter from the militia and his face relaxed into a grin. ‘No matter, you’re welcome. You’re brave lads, even you, Okawa.’ He nodded at Kitaro, then turned to Yozo, his eyes narrowing. ‘Tajima. You’re a fine marksman, as good as a barbarian with that rifle of yours. But I wonder … Can you still fight like a samurai or have you forgotten how, after all that time in the West?’
He gestured to the fencing master. ‘What do you think, Tatsu? Fancy a round or two with our friend here? Will you take him on?’
‘Sure,’ said Tatsu, with his habitual look of indifference.
Yozo had trained at Jinzaemon Udono’s school of swordsmanship in Edo several years earlier and had learned a few techniques, but he doubted if he stood much chance against Tatsu. But he knew that if he backed down he would shame Enomoto and all his men. He nodded his agreement.
The Commander chuckled as if he had had an amusing idea. ‘This time we’ll use swords,’ he said.
Swords. A chill ran down Yozo’s spine. Swords, razor-sharp, with a curved blade as long as a man’s leg, that could sever a limb or cut through a human body as effortlessly as a knife slicing tofu. That was a very different proposition from wooden sticks.
The militiamen leaned forward, derisive smiles on their lips. A whisper of excitement went round the hall.
Kitaro was doing his best to look indifferent, but Yozo could see his Adam’s apple bobbing in his thin throat. He grinned at him reassuringly.
‘They think there’s going to be a show,’ he said softly. ‘They think they’re going to see blood or, better still, me on my knees pleading for mercy. But I won’t give them that pleasure.’
‘Better wear this just in case,’ said the Commander cheerfully. A headband with a protective iron plate skidded across the polished wooden floor to Yozo’s feet. He bowed, picked it up and tied it in place with the guard across his forehead.
‘Tatsu-sama,’ Yozo said politely. ‘You might want one too, just in case.’
Tatsu jerked his chin dismissively.
Yozo drew his sword and held it for a moment, caressing the hilt, feeling its reassuring weight in his hand. It was a fine weapon, made in the Bizen smithies and marked with the seal of a master swordsmith. All he could do now was try to hold his own. It would be up to the Commander to call a halt if it seemed either he or Tatsu was likely to be injured.
He gripped the hilt in both hands and crouched in the centre of the arena, facing Tatsu, trying to see through his eyes to the man inside. But all he could see was darkness. In spirit Tatsu was already dead, with no fear and nothing to lose. Unlike Tatsu, Yozo had every intention of staying alive, and he knew this put him at a disadvantage.
The tips of their swords touched and Yozo felt the energy quivering in Tatsu’s blade. The world dwindled away until he was aware of nothing but Tatsu’s blank face and the sound of his breath in the silence.
They rose to their feet, swords still touching, and circled slowly, never relaxing their gaze. Yozo was wide awake, every sense alert. He was aware of the walls hung with banners and the crowds of blue-jacketed men, watching beady-eyed like vultures. He edged closer. Then Tatsu’s sword flashed and he leaped back and caught the blow on his blade, near the hilt, with a deafening clang. The force of the blow sent him staggering back. He regained his balance, raised his sword, stepped forward and swung out in a cross-cut. Tatsu parried. Steel rang on steel as they let fly a barrage of blows, lunging, feinting, dodging and parrying, yelling at the top of their voices with each stroke.
Yozo had fought in battles and single combat, but this was different. Tatsu was relentless. Nothing and no one would stop him from beating Yozo. It was a fight to the death – Yozo’s death.
The blow seemed to come out of nowhere. One moment they were crouching, eyes locked, the next Yozo staggered back, his arm tingling. His shoulder had been cut and hot blood was streaming down his arm. He was beginning to lose sensation in his fingers and he was panting and moist with sweat despite the chilly air. Tatsu was still fresh.
In the silence he heard a clink and a stifled laugh. The men were gambling on who would win and the odds on Tatsu had just increased. Again he heard the chink of coins. He caught a glimpse of the Commander’s fac
e, watching him, lips curled in disdain. For a moment Yozo was filled with rage so blinding he could hardly see, but then his anger was replaced by icy determination. He was not going to lose this fight.
Tatsu circled like a wolf preparing to spring. Yozo watched him as he prowled. He had thick, slightly wavy hair which grew straight up and a sprinkling of moles on the right-hand side of his face. He swung his sword again. He was out to finish this off as quickly as possible. Yozo parried, resisting as Tatsu tried to force down his sword arm. Tussling, they raced, blades locked, kimono skirts swirling, towards the side of the hall. Yozo kept his concentration, never losing his hold on Tatsu’s eyes.
Perhaps it was the flurry of blue as the spectators scattered or perhaps he sensed Yozo’s renewed determination, but for the space of a breath Tatsu wavered. Yozo was ready. He twisted his sword free and took a swipe at Tatsu’s calves, cutting through his kimono skirts. It was an underhand move but in war a man had to be ready for anything. Tatsu fought by the book, keeping his head and arms and chest shielded, but he hadn’t thought to guard his legs. Taken by surprise, he stumbled over the torn fabric and Yozo saw with satisfaction that he’d drawn blood.
With a yell Yozo spun on his toes and sprang towards his adversary. They locked blades but instead of releasing his grip, Yozo used his body weight to slam Tatsu against the wall. He could hear the hiss of breath from the watching militiamen. The odds had changed. He had Tatsu on the run.
Swiftly, before Tatsu had a chance to regain his balance, Yozo drew back and took up his position, right leg forward, knees loose, weight low to the ground, and raised his sword in both hands. Grimacing in concentration, he lowered it until the hilt was in front of his face, blade pointing to the ceiling.
He could hear his own breath. He was ready. He would never be readier. He knew with absolute certainty that in one more breath he’d have split Tatsu’s head and he could see the same knowledge in Tatsu’s eyes. Calmly, he swung his sword back.
The Courtesan and the Samurai Page 11
