Tom and Nicholas swung together. The musket butts crashed into the heads of the two marines, and they dropped without a further sound. ‘You have probably killed them anyway,’ Tom pointed out. ‘In either case, we are now outlaws forever.’
‘As you just said, we were already outlaws, in the eyes of the law.’ Nicholas hugged Sumiko. ‘You have saved my life,’ he told her. ‘Now all we have to do is get out of here.’
*
‘Barrett san!’ Saigo Takamori greeted Nicholas with outstretched arms. ‘Truly must the gods be thanked.’
Nicholas looked past him at the Satsuma army. The samurai were gathered in a vast group, on the hillsides above the still burning city, glowering at the ships which now lay at anchor in Kagoshima Wan. He could sense their feeling of impotent anger. ‘For a defeat?’ he asked.
‘As you said so accurately, Barrett san, we lack the weapons to combat these barbarians. But we will get the weapons, and one day . . .’ his smile was grim. ‘We will avenge ourselves.’
‘And until then?’
Saigo shrugged. ‘The British demand an indemnity, and this we must pay. And make sure that you do not again fall into their hands.’
‘Am I of value, now that you have no guns?’
Saigo clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I have said, we will get guns. Better guns. And you will command them. Lord Shimadzu knows you fought to the best of your ability. He wishes to honour you. As soon as the British have left, and we have restored the city, you and your companion will be made samurai!’
*
The ceremony took place in the great chamber of Lord Shimadzu’s palace and was attended by a large number of the Satsuma samurai as well as the daimyo himself. The indemnity had been laboriously counted out before the eyes of the British, the Japanese hissing their anger, and the fleet had sailed away. Nariaka of Cho-Shu had come with all his power, too late, and gone home again. As Shimadzu had prophesied, the Shōgun had not come at all, neither had he sent help. But Kagoshima had been rebuilt, a simple matter given Japanese architectural methods, and the wanton British aggression remained only an angry memory.
Saigo acted as Nicholas’s sponsor, while Togo Heihachiro sponsored Tom. The two Englishmen were instructed to kneel before the assembly, and beside them on either side knelt two other young samurai, each holding a tray on which were the various accessories necessary to the coming ceremony. Saigo and Togo knelt in front of them, each having beside him a large lacquered box. From the waiting samurai there was no sound.
‘This morning,’ Saigo said, ‘we must complete a ceremony which takes place on several occasions during the life of a Japanese. To begin with, Barrett san, while we shave a child’s head up to the third year, from the fifteenth day of the eleventh month of that day his hair is permitted to grow. Your hair would seem to have been shaved within these past five years.’
In fact although he had insisted that Tom and himself shave whenever possible, Nicholas felt that they both looked decidedly shaggy. ‘We do not shave our heads at all,’ he explained. ‘But our menfolk wear their hair short. I suppose for cleanliness. We in the West do not bathe as regularly as you in Japan.’
Saigo shook his head sadly. ‘It is important for you to face the most auspicious point of the heavens for the ceremony. I have consulted the various tables, and have decided that north-east will bring you the most fortune.’ He took a pair of scissors from the waiting tray, reached forward and gave three snips at the hair on Nicholas’s left temple, then three snips on the right, then three more in the centre. Next he replaced the scissors on the tray, and took instead a large piece of cloth, which he placed on Nicholas’s head like a wig, arranging it so that while it drooped over the forehead, it also hung down behind. He then took from the tray a piece of fish and seven rice straws, and attached them to the end of the cloth, tying them into two loops with a length of string. ‘Your hair is now suitable for acceptance by the gods. You will come and kneel on my left hand, Barrett san.’
Togo had been doing the same for Tom, and now he smiled. ‘You should both sit on our knees, but I am afraid you would press us to the floor. Remember that you are three years old.’
The two Englishmen knelt beside their sponsors, while two young samurai brought forward lacquered tables to be placed in front of them, and two more placed bowls of rice on the tables. ‘This has been offered to the gods,’ Saigo explained, and carefully placed some of the rice on the corner of the table nearest Nicholas; Togo did the same for Tom. Saigo then took the foodsticks from his sash and placed three grains of rice, one after the other, in Nicholas’s mouth, as did Togo for Tom. While this was going on another very youthful warrior brought in five cakes of rice-meal, and with these Saigo and Togo also pretended to feed their protegés, without actually placing any of the food in their mouths. ‘Now you may resume your places,’ Saigo said.
Nicholas and Tom returned to face them, while two trays were brought forward, on each of which there were three wine cups, each hardly larger than a thimble. Saigo drank from each of the cups in turn, and then presented the first one to Nicholas. There was not quite sufficient liquid left to wet his lips. The second cup was also presented, and then Saigo took a new pair of foodsticks from his sash. ‘These I give to you, Barrett san.’ Togo was doing the same for Tom.
Nicholas examined the sticks, which had been exquisitely fashioned from the finest wood, and on the top of each one was carved a tiny replica of a cannon. ‘Why, Saigo san, I do not know how to thank you.’ Saigo placed his fingers on his lips. ‘Of course, I forgot, I am three years old.’
Saigo now gravely presented the third cup, and Nicholas again drank. One of the youthful samurai was hovering with a fresh tray, on which there were three more cups and a small dish of fried fish. ‘Three times,’ Togo told the Englishmen. ‘But only pretend to drink.’ Nicholas nodded, sipped from each of the cups, and passed them back to Saigo, who drank in turn; Tom did the same for Togo. Each man then broke off a piece of fish and ate it, following which Nicholas and Tom each presented a silk robe to their sponsors. ‘We have now completed the first ceremony,’ Togo said. ‘Shall we take a little walk, while the room is prepared?’
Nicholas and Tom removed the cloths from their heads, and went on to the verandah with the other samurai, amongst whom, on this special occasion, even Lord Shimadzu mixed freely and without undue protocol. But ten minutes later Togo announced that all was ready for the second stage of the ceremony, and they returned inside. Now two cloths with a chequerboard design had been placed on the mats, and on these Nicholas and Tom took their seats.
Saigo and Togo delved into their boxes. It would now be, in normal circumstances, the fifth day of the eleventh month of your fourth year,’ Saigo explained. ‘You have aged a year, and I present you with this.’ He held out, across both his arms, a most splendid outer kimono, in pale green, on which were embroidered storks and tortoises, fir trees and bamboos. ‘The stork and the tortoise are emblems of longevity; it is said the stork lives for a thousand years, and the tortoise for ten thousand. The fir trees, being evergreen, are symbols of unchanging virtue. And the bamboo is symbolic of an upright mind. And with these,’ once more Saigo opened his box. ‘I give you the hayama.’ He produced a pair of the loose trousers which the samurai wore beneath their kimonos when not in armour, to distinguish them from the bare-legged peasants. ‘And also this sword and dirk, made of wood.’
Togo was making the same presentations to Tom, following which there was another wine ceremony, and then the Englishmen presented their sponsors with two pieces of gold embroidery, again purchased for them. ‘This is a costly business,’ Nicholas remarked, as they strolled the porch.
‘Because it is an occasion of great importance in a man’s life, Barrett san,’ Togo told him. ‘Indeed, there are only two more important: the day of his marriage, which you have already celebrated, and the day of his death. But do not suppose you will escape the expense; you have to provide all this for your own sons.’
‘Now come,’ Saigo said. ‘Let us complete the ceremony.’
*
The actual shaving of the Englishmen’s heads was performed by two other samurai, who were skilled in the art and worked with great speed, removing all the hair except for three patches, one on each temple and one on the crown, and leaving also a long lock of hair attached to their foreheads. The hair on the crown was then combed out. ‘Now you have achieved the age of fifteen,’ Saigo said, ‘and are ready to enter upon a man’s estate and his responsibilities. Let us drink to your fame and fortune.’
This time each waiting tray had but a single earthenware cup, but it was a large one. Saigo drank three times, and passed the cup to Nicholas, who also took three sips. Togo and Tom did the same. ‘Now come and kneel over here,’ Saigo instructed. Nicholas obeyed, and Saigo moved behind him, for all the world like a lady’s hairdresser, and gathered the long hair falling from Nicholas’s crown to tie it on his head in a reasonable facsimile of a true top-knot. ‘Now bend forward from the waist.’ Nicholas obeyed, so that his head all but touched a willow-board held by one of the elder samurai. He watched Saigo out of the corner of his eye with some apprehension as the general drew his short sword, while with his left hand he gathered the forelock and pulled it forward so that it lay on the board. There was a quick movement of Saigo’s arm, and the sword struck the board and indeed bit into the wood. Nicholas jerked upright, and saw his hair lying in front of him. ‘By God,’ he said. ‘I had almost thought my head was on the block.’ It was even more terrifying to watch Tom undergo the same ceremony.
Saigo was carefully folding the forelock into a piece of paper decorated with black and white paintings of cannon. ‘You must keep this in a safe place, forever, Barrett san, so that it may bring eternal good fortune on you and your family. And when you die, let it be placed in your coffin, to protect you throughout the afterlife.’
Nicholas took the folded paper with due deference; it seemed to have as much significance as any of the ritual undergone in a Christian church, with the difference that in Japan a man was his own judge, bound to uphold his honour and thus his courage at all times, bound to create his own fortune.
More wine was brought, and the drinking became general, while the samurai, led by Shimadzu himself, came forward in turn to embrace the two Englishmen and wish them long life and good fortune. ‘But no man can truly be a samurai until he is properly equipped,’ Shimadzu remarked. He clapped his hands, and several young men hurried into the room, carrying between them two complete sets of superb armour. Each consisted of a shield, round and thick, and an iron helmet lined with buckskin, with a flap of articulated iron rings which would droop below the shoulders. The visor was made of thin lacquered iron, with a removable nose and mouth piece. As with all Japanese helmets there was also a false moustache, huge and bristling, and the mouth was twisted into a ghastly grimace to add to the fearsome aspect. Worked into the centre of the front piece was once again the replica of a cannon. ‘I had these made especially for you, Barrett and Ebury,’ Shimadzu said with simple pride. ‘Because I know you will wear them with honour.’
Each helmet was about three feet in height, and in the top there was a hole, into which fitted an ornament, like a pear. ‘That is what your enemies will aim for when they swing at your head,’ Saigo explained.
Nicholas examined the armour itself. Unlike the breastplate at which he had fired on board the boat, this was composed of thin scales of iron, over which there was a chainmail surcoat. The arms, legs, abdomen and thighs were protected by plates joined with woven chains, and there were great loose brassards to be worn on the shoulders. There were also greaves for the legs, but apparently one wore ordinary sandals on the feet: perhaps a samurai considered it dishonourable to aim so low. Both suits, including the helmets, were painted green, laced and bound with iron clamps and cords of silk, and decorated with gilt tassels and glittering insignia, principally the cross and bit of the Satsuma, to leave no one in any doubt whom he served.
‘Now for what you will always carry into battle,’ Saigo said, and produced a satchel which contained several layers of thick paper, with an adhesive side, which meant that each layer had to be peeled off from the rest. ‘These are for binding up your wounds; every samurai carries a supply. The paper will be laid over the wound, to which it will immediately stick. It is then wrapped around the limb, or left flat, should the wound be on a flat part of the body. If it is desired to wet the wound, then water can be added without disturbing the paper, for it will soak through.’
‘And the paper will not aggravate the injury?’ Tom asked.
‘On the contrary,’ Togo said. ‘It has healing powers of its own. Now, here are your bows.’
As Nicholas had earlier observed these were composite, and as with the armour, of superb workmanship. The oak was encased in a semi-cylinder of split bamboo, black where it had been toughened by fire. The three pieces had been bound into a whole with withes of rattan, and the result was a weapon of remarkable elasticity. The string was hemp. Nicholas realised that it would be very effective, but of course it could never compare with a rifle or revolver. ‘And your arrows.’ Togo produced two full quivers, again beautifully decorated. ‘We have given you a selection of the most useful. They all have their names. This one, for instance, is called the turnip head, from its shape.’
‘I doubt it could pierce this armour,’ Nicholas remarked.
‘It is not intended to, Barrett san,’ Saigo pointed out. ‘Its purpose is to make a singing noise as it flies through the air. A volley of these arrows is decidedly alarming to the enemy, as a warning of what will follow. No doubt this one is more to your liking.’ He showed Nicholas a bolt with a two-edged head, but a nearly blunt point. ‘This is called the willow leaf, and is intended to knock a man from his horse.’
‘This,’ Togo said, handling a similarly shaped arrow, but with sharply serrated edges, ‘is known as the bowel raker.’
‘Very apt,’ Nicholas agreed. ‘And this?’ From the quiver he drew the plainest of bolts.
‘The armour piercer,’ Saigo said. ‘That will puncture even your iron breastplate, Barrett san, if properly aimed.’
Nicholas examined the arrow; the barb was made of steel, and the shaft of cane bamboo. The string piece was horn, whipped on with silk. It was a superb piece of work.
‘And now, the swords,’ Togo said, and with great reverence laid the weapons across his left forearm, the hilts presented to the Englishmen. Each carried the name of the famous Masamune.
‘It is necessary for you to name your sword,’ Saigo said. ‘That your enemies may know of it, and fear it. Mine is called the Silken Death, because the blade is so sharp it will even separate a piece of floating silk.’
‘Then mine had best be called the Noise-Maker,’ Nicholas said. ‘For I doubt it will ever do more than whistle harmlessly through the air.’
‘Do not suppose so,’ Togo said. ‘This weapon is the guardian of everything a man can hold sacred. It took Masamune sixty days of labour to forge, and he had to pray for guidance with every inch of the blade, every design on the hilt. This is not just a weapon, Barrett san. It is your soul.’
‘Is it not said,’ Saigo remarked, ‘that one’s fate is in the hands of heaven, but that a skilful fighter does not meet with death?’
‘And also,’ Togo added, ‘that in the last days, one’s sword is the wealth of one’s posterity?’
There was no suggestion of humour in either face. Here, Nicholas realised, he was in the presence of a religion. ‘And yet,’ he could not stop himself saying, ‘is not the day of the sword, and the arrow, and the armoured coat, forever dead, now that cannon and rifles rule the world?’
‘The day of the sword can never be dead, Barrett san,’ Saigo declared. ‘Then would the day of the samurai also be dead.’
Chapter Six – The End of an Era
In the mornings, the sun rose out of the limitless ocean to the east and sent its rays b
eaming over Kagoshima Wan, bringing the huge inlet to life, glinting from the sails of the fishing boats as they hauled their nets within the shelter of the headlands, or more boldly put out into the heaving ocean. At dusk, the sun set beyond the mountains to the west, into the China Sea, disappearing into the immense Dragon Empire of the Manchus. Immensity, to either side. And in the centre, the bustling happiness that was Kagoshima, and indeed, all the lands of the Satsuma. No doubt the memory of the British bombardment, of the humiliation of paying the indemnity, lingered in the minds of Lord Shimadzu, Saigo-no-Takamori and their samurai. But they were content to watch and wait, to listen and to learn, never to endanger their ambitions by a single hasty action.
The common people, the sailors and the fishermen, the despised merchants, the labouring honin and eta were content. Down in southern Kyushu, far removed from the internicine squabbling of Honshu, where Tokugawa Iemochi still clung precariously to power, life maintained an unchanging quality in keeping with the unceasing revolutions of the sun which dominated all things. The British bombardment could be classed with the last serious earthquake, or the last eruption of Mount Aso, whose snow-clad peaks dominated the southern island in the same way as Fujiyama did Honshu. Aso gave expression to the entire ambience of Kyushu. It was an active volcano, rumbled constantly, and often smoked. Yet within its eighteen-square-mile crater there were eleven villages, and a patchwork of brilliant green fields. One day Aso would again explode, houses would be destroyed, and people would be killed. But that would be an act of the gods. Until it happened, and after it had happened, the people of Kyushu would continue to fish, and farm, and be happy in their eternal sunlight.
Bloody Sunrise Page 14
