by Margi Preus
“Maybe he shares it with you!” Shozo exclaimed. “You’re looking a little chubby!”
All the boys laughed.
Yoshi stalked into the first stall he came to: a new colt’s. He busied himself checking the young horse’s hooves.
If he had gone along with their teasing, he would have some friends now, he thought. Why didn’t he just go along with them? Everything they said he had thought himself! And this rumor that Manjiro took his leftovers home when he ate at restaurants—what was to be made of that?
Sometimes Manjiro seemed too unsophisticated and too common for the court of the shogun, where elegance, good breeding, family name, and careful behavior were all-important.
“Why don’t I just go along with those boys, since I agree with everything they say?” Yoshi mumbled while he picked bits of straw from the colt’s fetlocks.
He heard the boys talking and laughing out there, and he listened as their voices drifted away when they left the stables for their evening meal at the barracks.
The light had grown dim while he’d been in the colt’s stall. He puttered around a while longer, making sure the boys were gone before he stole out into the dark evening.
24
EVENING
As he came out into the courtyard, Yoshi noticed a small group of men walking out of the gate and into the street. There was a burst of laughter that he recognized as Manjiro’s, and Yoshi instantly realized the men were on their way to have a meal at a restaurant.
Well, Yoshi thought, I’ll follow and watch and see that Manjiro does not take his leftovers, and settle that rumor once and for all!
Staying far enough behind to not draw suspicion, but close enough to keep track of the group, Yoshi slipped from one shadow to the next. He wouldn’t want to have to explain to Manjiro why he was following him.
Manjiro and his friends entered a restaurant, and Yoshi slid into the dark space between two buildings across the street. That way he wouldn’t miss seeing Manjiro when he left. From his spot, he had a broad view of the whole street as well as the entrance to the restaurant. He was also quite sure that he himself could not be seen.
He shifted his weight from one foot to the next, trying to stay warm in the crisp winter evening. The air was heavy with the smell of steaming soup and thick strips of eel sizzling on a grill. And . . . hair oil?
The back of his neck prickled. Now he heard voices speaking in low tones, not far away. Some men were conversing secretively in the next entryway!
“How long do we wait?” said one of them.
“Until he comes out,” said another.
Were they waiting for Manjiro? Yoshi wondered. Why?
Yoshi pressed himself a little closer to the wall. He didn’t dare move, because even the slightest rustle would be enough to alert the men to his presence.
The restaurant door opened and Manjiro’s companions stepped out, chattering and laughing. Warm lantern light and the sounds of laughter poured out after them, and then came Manjiro himself. And yes, he was carrying something: a small paper-wrapped package. It must be true what the boys had said.
The noise from across the street prevented Yoshi from hearing all of what the nearby men were saying, but he caught some of their conversation.
“Shall we follow him?” one of them asked.
Yoshi had to work hard to resist the temptation to peek around the corner.
“No. He is with friends,” said another voice. “We’ll do it another time.”
Do what another time? Yoshi wondered.
“Meet at the dojo tomorrow—on the other side of the Umaya Bridge—at the hour of the monkey. We can go from there to get something to eat and discuss our plan.”
Plan? Yoshi wondered. What sort of plan?
As soon as he heard their retreating footsteps, Yoshi peeked out from around the corner and saw three young samurai of low rank walking away. He was staring after them when one of them glanced back. He quickly ducked into the shadows, but he wasn’t sure it had been soon enough. He might have been seen.
When he was sure they were gone, Yoshi followed Manjiro and his friends through snowy streets glowing from the light of the teahouse lanterns.
Near the Ryogoku Bridge, Manjiro stopped when a man approached him.
“It’s only a beggar,” one of his companions said.
“Why, it is my friend, Baku-san!” Manjiro exclaimed.
Manjiro held out his package from the restaurant and gave it to the man, who bowed and murmured his thanks.
“I am sorry it isn’t more,” Manjiro said, bowing back.
His companions looked away, embarrassed.
So, Yoshi thought, that’s what he does with the food! He doesn’t take it home and eat it—he gives it away to beggars.
Ryogoku Bridge. (Ando Hiroshige)
He didn’t know quite what to think. It was not proper to take food from a restaurant. It was even less so to give it away to beggars on the street. If the other boys found out, would they tease Yoshi and his master even more? Or would they see that Manjiro had a kind heart, and that he cared about others?
Yoshi knew what it was like to be hungry. There had been times when he would’ve been grateful to get anything—the skin of a trout, the dregs from a bowl of soup, an orange peel, or most certainly the leftovers of someone’s restaurant meal. Manjiro had been a peasant once, and he’d probably been hungry in his lifetime. He hadn’t forgotten what it was like.
So, should Yoshi tell the other stableboys what he knew about the restaurant food? Or not? He struggled with the question for a few moments before realizing that it hardly mattered. There were more important things to think about: Who were those men outside the restaurant, why had they been spying on Manjiro, and what kind of plan were they meeting to discuss?
25
AT THE SOBA SHOP
It was easy to find the dojo near the Umaya Bridge Yoshi arrived early, sneaked quietly through the gate, and found a shadowy corner in the small front garden from which to watch the samurai arriving. The doors of the dojo were open, and he watched as one of the young men laced on his protective vest and donned his face shield. The student glided onto the smooth wooden floor and took his stance. His hair flowed loosely from behind the mask, and as soon as he and his sparring partner began to fight, Yoshi knew he would not be able to leave. The young samurai was quick. He was graceful. He was relaxed. He moved the way Yoshi wanted to but knew he didn’t.
Yoshi watched until the class was over and the group of young swordsmen stepped outside, talking and laughing together. A couple of the voices sounded familiar—were they the men from the previous evening? Although a bit ragged, their clothing was clean, and in spite of their low status, their daisho were well cared for, Yoshi noticed approvingly.
They strode away, the loose-haired one with them, and Yoshi followed, listening as bits of their conversation drifted back to him.
Kendo practice. (Katsushika Hokusai)
“Our divine land is situated at the top of the earth,” said one of them. “So says our learned teacher, Aizawa-sensei. The Americans occupy the hindmost region of the earth. Thus its people are stupid and simple.”
Yoshi thought that was a fair assessment. He had glimpsed a map of the world in the shogun’s palace, and it was true that Japan was right in the center. Its islands were large and, on the map, a deep red color, while other countries took places of lower importance. The place called America was located in an insignificant corner and was an unattractive shade of blue.
“As Aizawa-sensei has told us,” the man continued, “all Western countries are like the feet of the world, which trample on other countries.”
The young men mumbled their agreement as they entered a soba shop. Yoshi wasn’t sure what to do. He wanted to keep listening, but he had no money, so he could hardly go inside and order a bowl of soup. Plus, the man who might have seen him the previous night would likely recognize him, and what would happen then?
He crept alongside the building until
he came near a window.
“We must not allow the foreign dogs to defile our country,” a deep voice rumbled from within.
“We must resist with the last of our strength,” said another voice.
Yoshi felt his heart swell. He was proud there were passionate young samurai who were ready to fight and die to protect their country. He wished he was one of them and not a lowly stableboy. He would join them! He would fight side by side with them!
“If we don’t act now, it will be too late,” said an authoritative voice. “If we let them in, where will it stop? Not until they have conquered us and taken control of our sacred land. Our country will be overrun with the offal-eating demons!”
An old Japanese world map showing Japan in the center. (artist unknown)
“I didn’t know we were going to talk politics,” another voice said. “Can’t we just relax?”
Yoshi peeked in the window. It was the loose-haired one who’d said that.
“How can you talk of relaxing,” a tall, lean one said, “when the barbarians are set to return and either the Bakufu will give in to their demands or there will be war?” The speaker glanced toward the window, and Yoshi ducked.
“The latest edict from the Bakufu . . . ,” he heard, then lost the thread of the conversation, picking it up again at “their policy will be to ‘evade any definite answer to the barbarian requests, while maintaining a peaceful demeanor.’ What good is that supposed to do?”
“So much for our Sei-i Tai-Shogun—Barbarian-Suppressing Great General!” said another voice. “What irony to have a leader so named!”
Yoshi wondered who dared to slander the shogun. He peeked in through the window again.
“Can you suggest another strategy?” It was a rough-looking samurai, definitely in need of a shave, who said this. “Everyone understands that we have no navy and that our coasts are undefended. How do you propose to fight against their warships?”
“We need ships like they have,” said the lean one.
“Let’s steal one of theirs,” the loose-haired samurai said.
“Quit joking,” Needs-a-Shave said. “This is a serious matter. Even if you could steal one, who would even know what to do with it? How to sail or navigate it?”
Yoshi remembered Manjiro saying that if he had a ship, he could sail it anywhere in the world. He had to bite his tongue to prevent himself from squeaking out the name. Shh, he told himself. You don’t know what they’ll do if they find you. He slowly lowered his head.
“Are you suggesting we yield to the demands of the barbarians?” said a soft-voiced bushi. “That is a coward’s way, not the way of a true samurai.”
“Perhaps we need to think radically about the situation.” Yoshi raised his head high enough to see that it was a handsome, serious-faced one who said this. “The country is bound to change. It has to change, whether we allow the foreigners in or not. But we must be the ones to make the changes. We must think differently about how we are governed.”
“Maybe we should consider the government of the barbarians,” the loose-haired samurai suggested.
“Always the jokester,” the lean one said.
“That might not be such a far-fetched idea.” The serious one’s face softened. He even smiled. “I know something about their government. They have something called ‘democracy.’ Instead of an emperor or shogun, they have a president who is elected by the people. The people also elect the ruling body they call Congress.”
“What do you mean ‘elect’?”
“The people vote.”
“What people vote?”
“Every man gets one vote. You don’t have to be a member of a particular family or even to have acquired wealth in order to vote.”
“So everyone votes?”
“Well, not everyone. But it is said that anyone who can vote can even become the president!”
“Is this an invention of your imagination?”
“No. I heard all this from Kawada Shoryo. He wrote a book about the man who was a castaway, who went to America and came back.”
“Manjiro?” The name slipped off Yoshi’s tongue before he had time to think.
All eyes turned toward the window. Yoshi ducked, but not fast enough.
A head leaned out the window. “Who is this little rascal?” the samurai cried, while a big, burly one flew out the door and grabbed Yoshi.
“An eavesdropper! A spy!” the burly one exclaimed, eyeing him up and down. “Let’s get rid of him now.” The bushi grasped the hilt of his katana but stopped short of drawing it.
“Hold on,” said the man in the window. “Bring the boy in here.”
The big, bear-like bushi led Yoshi into the restaurant and plunked him down by the low table. Yoshi took a furtive glance at the group before lowering his head. There was the lean one who coughed often, and the one who needed a shave. Another, the one with the soft voice, had a face that reminded him of a catfish, with two long whiskers to match. One stood out as the leader: the serious one, with fire in his eyes. And there was the loose-haired one he’d watched admiringly at his sword practice. Many of them were without crests on their sleeves. That meant they were ronin—masterless samurai.
“Who are you?” the leader demanded to know.
“He smells like a stableboy,” the bear-like one said, sniffing.
“And is dressed like one,” the lean one said.
A pair of hands pushed a bowl of soup and a set of chopsticks toward Yoshi. “Dozo!” a voice said. “Please!” Yoshi bowed to the hands and to the offered soup.
He stared at the bowl, wondering whether he should or shouldn’t eat and what he should or shouldn’t say. It was beginning to dawn on him that he might have gotten himself into a terrible predicament.
The serious leader asked, “Is that who you are? A stableboy?”
“Yes,” Yoshi said. “But it’s not who I really am.” As soon as he said it, it felt true. It felt right. He wasn’t just a stableboy. He wasn’t just a sandal bearer. He was more than that. He was a bodyguard, after all. That was his real job, and that was a samurai’s job. Therefore, he must be a samurai. Right? “It’s a disguise,” he added. “I am . . . I am bushi, like you.” He knew he would have to look them in the face to be convincing. At the thought of it, his insides turned as quivery as bean jelly.
The bear-like one stared at him. “I recognize the little gutter rat,” he said. “He works for that man some of us have been watching—the American spy, Nakahama Manjiro.”
“He’s not American!” Yoshi blurted out, realizing that he’d just confirmed their suspicions.
“And last night he was spying on us,” the man continued.
“I wasn’t spying on you; I was spying on Manjiro!”
“Well, which is it?” the leader asked. “Do you work for him or were you spying on him?”
“Both,” Yoshi said. “Yes, I work for him. And yes, I was spying on him.” He filled his chopsticks full of noodles. One might as well have a last meal, he thought, before one is executed.
“Why were you spying on him?” the leader asked him.
Yoshi was glad his mouth was full. It gave him time to think before speaking. He could hardly tell them that he had been following Manjiro to find out what he did with his restaurant leftovers. That would just make Yoshi seem foolish. He swallowed, slowly thinking through his words, trying to remember the arguments he’d heard at the public bath on the Tokaido. Finally he said, “There are some who believe he is directly responsible for bringing the foreign ships to our shores.”
The lean one nodded. “How else can it be explained that the Black Ships came so soon after he returned from the West?”
“The Americans most likely educated him to further their own purpose,” the catfish-whiskered one added. “And then sent him in advance of the invading barbarians.”
Yoshi nodded and slurped up another big mouthful of buckwheat noodles.
“Obviously,” the unshaven one said, “the man who knew all
about Western ways, who had lived in America, been educated there, and spoke the language would be called upon to advise the shogun and the Bakufu.”
“Ah, but instead of an adviser, what they gain is a spy! A spy for the Americans. Right in the shogun’s palace!” The bear-like one slammed his fist on the table.
They all looked at Yoshi, who, not wanting to have to say anything else, lifted the bowl to his lips and took a big mouthful of soup.
“You seem to be of similar mind to us,” the leader said to him.
Yoshi nodded, hoping to seem serious and older than he was, which was difficult with his mouth full of noodles.
“Do you agree that the barbarians must be expelled?”
Yoshi nodded wholeheartedly.
“Do you revere the emperor?”
Yoshi nodded enthusiastically.
“Why not join us? Though you are young, you can still serve the country and our cause.”
Yoshi wanted to join the cause. To keep the foreigners out and preserve the purity and sacredness of his country. He wanted to be like these men: filled with passion and energy. Men of action! Not like the shogun’s advisers, who sat about gnawing their fingernails and endlessly discussing things in hushed voices.
“Would you like an assignment?” the leader of the group asked.
Yoshi could barely murmur, “Yes.” Perhaps he would really be considered a samurai. It wasn’t so far-fetched. Or maybe he would even be made a samurai. That wasn’t impossible, either. After all, Manjiro had been made a samurai. At the thought of Manjiro, Yoshi felt a little pang. Was he betraying his employer?
“You may have a very important role to play in saving our country from the barbarians,” the leader said.
The soup in Yoshi’s belly seemed to tremble. What would they assign him to do? he wondered. Maybe it would involve carrying a sword. If he had even a short sword, he could help protect the country—and, he reminded himself, he would be a better bodyguard for Manjiro.
“If you do a good job,” the man said, “you will be rewarded.”
