by Jina Bacarr
I shall write no more today of my samurai and his beguiling tongue, for I heard you gossiping about me to Baroness——, as you often do about such things as your friends’ jewels (something you know more about than your own children, or so I’ve heard), whispering that I serve you falsehoods about my training as samurai. ’Tis true in olden days, Shintaro would never have allowed me to reside in his village and train to become samurai. But these times are different and a lord such as Shintaro not only found a place for me in his soul, but he knew I needed such skills to protect myself against the wrath of my husband, James. In years to come, I’ve no doubt novels will fancy the telling of such tales, never knowing that such a story did take place in this year of 1874.
I must therefore ask you to show respect, something I give to you in spite of your rudeness and audacity toward me at the Viscount Aubrey’s soiree. Sneering, whispering about me sleeping with a man of a different race. Calling me base, vile. I shall not toss similar vulgarities at you. I mention the incident again to ask you to show compassion and respect toward everyone, even your enemies, as is the way of the samurai. Without it, you shall become embittered, restless, dispassionate in the ways of love and cast off to a solitary place of your own making, living your life with a haunted, grim demeanor. I’d not wish that on you, dear lady reader, for I believe you can change. ’Tis my hope when you finish reading this chapter, you take the lessons of the way of the warrior with you.
As I have.
I also embraced the wisdom Nami passed on to me, her charm and practicality guiding me through the nuances of this seductive and duty-bound culture. I found her advice fascinating (“If you wash your face with water that is too hot,” she said, “wrinkles will appear,” adding the importance of smoothing out wet towels hanging on the rack to also avoid face wrinkles). Humorous (“If your ears are ticklish, ’tis a sign you will soon have a lucky event”). And, I hoped, practical (“To hasten the onset of your menses, stick a needle with red thread onto the wall of the necessary place”).
Worrying about the monthlies would be the grief of me as the crimson foliage made its autumnal appearance in our valley. They did not come, sending me to search for red thread among scraps of cloth and needles. I found none. Don’t look at me, dear lady reader, with that hard and calculating stare as my blessed mother used to do when she caught me reading novels. I’m not ashamed of anything I did, but I beg your patience, for the scenes about to play out are not only of a sensitive nature, but a turning point in my life.
Nami and I spent several days bleaching then fulling newly woven cloth, pounding it with wooden mallets, dipping, wringing the heavy cotton, then spreading it out on the banks of the stream. I was at peace here in the early morning with the gurgling water and the mist glistening on the ferns and slick, mossy rocks, the fresh air intoxicating. Sleeves tied back, my blond hair covered by a white-and-blue scarf, I labored over the work with an Irish ditty upon my lips, humming a tune. By late afternoon, that peace dissipated as the grueling work took its toll on me, nausea rising within me, and I could no longer work on my knees. Feeling as if the gods willed me to slumber, I lay down by the stream on the soft grass, my back aching, so tired was I, which surprised me. I rarely felt the strain of hard work and prided myself on my endurance both with the sword and in the futon with Shintaro. And Akira. I had to smile. The young samurai often confided in me how he prayed to the gods he’d find a woman like me someday. I’d laugh and tell him then I would be jealous…yet as I said the words, I wondered how long I could remain with Shintaro as his…consort. Nami was still his wife, though divorce was not uncommon among samurai if a woman did not bear him a son that lived. Nami insisted I must take her place with Shintaro, but the lord himself had made no such request of me.
Which was why I found myself staring up at the sky wrapped in blue silk, peeking through the tall trees, rubbing my flat belly with my reddened fingers, wondering what would happen if I was with child.
Days later the thought continued to pervade my mind, charging my emotions because I refused to answer this bewildering question concerning my fate as Nami and I rushed about cleaning straw mats, gathering fresh blossoms for the alcove and cooking rice for rice balls with pickled plums at the center, everything we needed to do to prepare for the thanksgiving harvests. A time to view the moon, according to tradition, compose verses and drink sake. And share my futon with my samurai.
And in a moment of candor I shall admit to you that I experienced deep pangs of missing my family, wondering what they would think if they knew their girl Katie was celebrating a thanksgiving harvest similar to the spirited holiday back in America. I believed that Da and Mother believed me well and in good health, for I was of the persuasion that my dear husband James, would have avoided telling them anything that would jeopardize his financial position.
All these thoughts came to mind that day, dear lady reader, for I knew the paradisaical existence I had been living couldn’t last. I saw the signs everywhere. Shintaro off for long periods of time with Akira and his samurai. Swordsmiths hammering then hand forging each blade, readying strong cutting edges. And Nami. Where her steps were usually lighter than a breeze, she seemed heavy with worry, as if she were watching a fallen blossom caught up on the fast current of a stream, knowing she couldn’t stop its ebb and flow.
To assuage my fears, I nibbled constantly on cooked rice as we worked, my hunger overwhelming me day and night, yet the smell of the vinegar Nami used to pickle the plums made me retch. I caught her watching me when I sneaked off with a porcelain bowl to give my nauseous stomach a place to empty its woes, a sly smile coming over her face that she attempted to conceal but couldn’t. I knew she would never say anything, hint perhaps, but never ask. She kept so many secrets behind that smile, would I ever know her true thoughts? Yet I wasn’t ready to confide in her, for I had been late with the courses before and then came my flow. Would it come again this time?
“Are you writing a new verse to seduce the moon to your futon, my lord? Or me?” I asked, swaying my hips when I saw Shintaro back from the field, sitting in the garden, pen and ink in hand, his quick brushstrokes sweeping up and down the paper like a north wind. Tonight the moon would be full and perfect for viewing.
“My blonde samurai speaks boldly about the art of pleasuring a woman,” he said, never looking up.
“Does that displease you?” I couldn’t resist asking him, placing the white chrysanthemums I had gathered at his feet, though I continued standing.
“No.”
A long silence. As if I were intruding into a world where I didn’t belong.
“You write poetry, Shintaro, yet from what I’ve seen, you prepare for war.”
“You think like a woman, not a warrior.” His tone was gruff, not forgiving.
“I am a woman first, my lord, or have you forgotten?” I blurted out. Why was I speaking to him like this? We had not quarreled, but Shintaro hadn’t come to my quarters since he had returned. Why?
“Soon the snows of winter will cover our valley, and the steep mountain path will be impassable.” He waved his brush about in the air and in the blinking of an eye sent me into the depths of melancholy. “You are free to leave before then.”
Was this a command disguised as a request?
“I wish to stay here with you,” I insisted.
He grunted loudly, startling me. The emotion I saw on his face surprised me since he was a man who hid his feelings well. Still, no word from him as to when I would take my place in his futon. Was I to be discarded like a dull sword no longer useful?
I decided not to persist in my pursuit of an answer, though this was one time, dear lady reader, I tired of the subtleties that permeated this culture. Grumbling to myself in my own tongue about the futility of trying to understand this stubborn samurai, I returned to my quarters and found Nami removing kimonos from a cedar chest for washing. I made an effort to hide my emotions from her, but she could see I was upset.
“Lord Shin
taro is a man at war with himself,” she told me, running her hands over blue silk, pensive she was, as though she was looking at her own lonely soul. “You can change that.”
I was struck by the sadness in her eyes and the lingering hope in her voice. “How, Nami? He wants me to go.”
“No, he wishes you to stay, but fears he will lose you if you do.”
“I don’t understand.”
“My lord knows the day will come when the way of the warrior will meet the same fate as the cherry blossom. A glorious death in the end.” Her face was like the dewy mist, moist with tears one moment then they were gone. “He doesn’t wish you to see that.”
“I love him, Nami,” I said with fervor in my heart. “What can I do? Help me, please.”
She turned and looked at me with truth in her eyes. “Stay and give him the gift you carry.”
I took a breath. “How long have you known?”
“I see it in your eyes…so does Shintaro.” She held out the blue kimono to me. “He fears you will return to your people and forget about everything you have learned. Including him.”
I took the kimono and draped the silky blue garment around me. The scent of my desire lingered, mixed with his, making me yearn for the familiar warmth of my samurai’s body, his hands finding his way beneath my kimono, his lips tantalizing the nape of my neck with his hot tongue…
“Tell him about the child tonight when the moon is full,” Nami whispered in my ear, her cheek flush with mine. “And I promise you, all will be well.”
With a lighter heart, I begged Nami to allow me to accompany her to her favorite spot over the hill to pick succulent beautyberries, all fat and sassy in their vibrant purple skin. I wanted to use their glorious color to brighten the festival arrangement and renew my spirit of this blessed autumn. Bursting with energy and youthful excitement, I was eager to share my news with Shintaro, to feel his strong hands rub my belly when I told him I carried his child.
Wearing large straw hats and long veils hiding our faces, we hiked up the hidden mountain trail and over the ravine to a thickly wooded area dark and dense with pine and fir and thick-leaved evergreen oak, beyond the gorge and washed in a sweep of gold and amber. It was a bold and daring thing to do since we had gone beyond where the samurai outposts could see us, but the beautyberries only grew here beyond the curved bridge crossing a stream. I danced with delight, picking berries and gathering fallen maple leaves, the colors changing as I twirled around and around, reflecting and absorbing the light from the late-afternoon orange sun. Gold then red then dark vermilion. Dusk was at hand. Nami called out to me that we must hurry back, but an unholy fatigue made my legs give way. I lay down on a bed of crimson leaves while she went on ahead, my face hot and perspiring under the heavy veil, but my eyes enchanted by the last of the setting sun’s rays, the intense gold light shooting through the small openings overhead in the thick evergreen woods—
I heard a woman scream, followed by a shot.
Gunfire.
Nami.
I jumped up, tripping over my baskets filled with berries, and ran and ran, my heart pumping so hard in my chest I could barely breathe. Who, why? It was no secret samurai women were often harassed by imperial soldiers when they passed through inspection posts, but we were nowhere near there.
What could have happened?
Over the hill I saw three British soldiers on horseback, the officer among them shouting orders to a native soldier who had Nami in a tight grip, her hat and veil gone, her black hair unloosened and hanging down past her waist as she struggled to free herself.
“Ask her again if she’s seen an Englishwoman in these mountains,” said the British officer, his voice stern, unbending. The soldier restraining Nami repeated his words in the native language, tightening his hold on her arm and making her cry out, but she merely shook her head and said nothing.
They’re looking for me. Why now after all these months?
I had my answer when I saw another rider approaching on horseback. James. Sitting tall in the saddle, his riding clothes out of place along with his pompous attitude. I cannot describe the morose feelings gutting my insides with such nausea I had to hold on to my stomach to keep from spewing its contents. I was completely unnerved at the sight of his lordship, as if something altogether intolerable and repugnant to my soul had been thrust at me and I couldn’t grasp it.
“She’s nothing but a peasant,” James said with disdain, not giving her a second glance. His hard words aroused such deep feelings in me I had to hold myself back from acting foolishly.
“She is samurai, your lordship,” said the native soldier, his hand fumbling between her breasts and drawing her dirk from her obi.
“Samurai?” James said, astonished. “Do you mean those bastards could attack us?”
“Rumors have abounded for months about the rebel samurai, Shintaro, being holed up in these mountains, but I didn’t believe it,” said the British officer, an uneasiness creeping into his voice. Ever since the Richardson affair a few years ago when an Englishman was murdered by samurai, and his wife barely escaped, the British had been on edge, made more so by a recent attack on two French soldiers. The officer said, “We’ll take her along as a hostage. If she’s from Shintaro’s clan, we’ll make her talk.”
I crept closer, sweat pouring down my neck, my back. I couldn’t let them take her. I knew she’d die at their hands rather than reveal what she knew. I was but a few feet away, hidden in the dusk of bamboo thickets when the native soldier slackened his hold on her and tossed her dirk to the British officer.
Nami made a run for it.
“Stop her!” the officer yelled out, and the soldiers raised their rifles, firing off two shots as she disappeared into the thick woods. Was she hit? I clasped my hand over my mouth to keep from screaming. No, no. I had to do something. Fast.
Ripping off my veil and straw hat, I raced into the small clearing and stood there wild-eyed and savage before they could fire again, my blond hair blowing about my face, my stance straight and unflinching. I locked glances with my husband with an unswerving steadiness. I imagine I presented an ominous threat he’d never expected, but he didn’t look away. A cruel smile turned up the corners of his mouth. I ignored him. I was samurai. I knew what I had to do.
I turned to the British officer and said in an even voice, “I am the Englishwoman you’re looking for.”
16
I hear you whispering, see your nose twitching, your finger wagging at me, accusing me of disappointing you with this twist in my tale. Yes, I did return to Kobé with James, yes, I resumed my position as Lady Carlton, yes, I was just as distressed as you are about leaving my samurai and dear Nami.
I would prefer to skip this next part of my story instead of wasting endless pages on James and his boorish games, but so I shall not be dutifully punished by fate, not to mention the critics, I shall raise the curtain on this act, letting your overworked libido rest, since I have no doubt that despite your protests, you are curious about what happened to me after I returned to the foreign settlement. Be mindful, several important events took place during this time. ’Tis that part of my memoir I shall recount next and the events that led up to that spring morn in 1875 (are you counting the months since my child was conceived?) when from my belly came a child, a curious sun peeping down at me through the thick bamboo, the scent of pine easing my birthing pain, the stream gurgling with delight at the sound of a baby’s first cry as I lingered in the blessed godliness of it all.
A late-November day in 1874 and light rain. A chill in the air cut through my thickly lined kimono, keeping me indoors, along with the vicious gossip about me circulating around the foreign settlement. A frenzied mood went on in the parlors and shops, where everyone chattered on about my unexpected reappearance, like a flock of crows on new potatoes. A wayward wife gone mad with the travails of duty in a foreign post, was what my detractors said. Not surprising, according to the British Legation, since how else could an Am
erican woman not accustomed to the fortitude expected of the wife of an aristocrat be expected to act?
Harsh? Yes, but writing here about my own emotional state, I can pass judgment, evaluate, criticize, accept. I imagine you’re asking yourself if you would have had the courage to return to the domicile of a man who hated you and wished you dead. I believe in my heart you would have, for I perceive you have aligned yourself with the samurai spirit even if you don’t know it.
I learned upon my return to Kobé that James had told the local British consul I’d run off with another man, a Hungarian count of dubious reputation. When that couldn’t be proven, he insisted I’d entered a Buddhist convent. When I asked James why he didn’t accuse me of running off with Mr. Mallory, he admitted that Mallory had penned me a note telling me he was returning to America to propose to the young woman he had left behind. (That made me smile and assuaged my ego, knowing Mr. Mallory’s affections had been otherwise engaged when I flirted with him.) James continued to insist I’d left him of my own accord, but when no sighting of my person could be substantiated by facts, rumors abounded that I’d been taken captive by samurai and was being held against my will. James maintained the story was ridiculous, but even a British lord was not looked upon too kindly if he showed no concern about the alleged compromised virtue of his wife. I’ve no doubt he realized he had to produce me or proof of my demise to save his own skin and disprove any innuendos of foul play since stories about his drunkenness and womanizing were well-known in the settlement.
