by Anthony Grey
‘I don’t know,’ rasped Tanaka without turning his head. ‘Until this mist clears and we can see what’s happening below, we must be patient.’
The samurai’s bare right shoulder, like Tanaka’s, was already rubbed raw from the unfamiliar friction of the norimono’s thick carrying-pole, and he was grunting loudly with exertion as he struggled to keep his footing on a steep slope above a gully. Under the rear section of the pole two other samurai were grimacing and grunting too as they strove to manhandle the cumbersome conveyance as quickly as possible down the sharp inclines, watched anxiously by the mounted bodyguards and reserve samurai carriers who were following closely behind.
‘Do you think, O Kami-san, it means the foreign barbarians have begun to attack?’ persisted the young man. ‘Are we too late?’
Tanaka waved his arm to indicate they should stop, and lifted his head for a moment to listen. ‘The guns are firing in a regular rhythm,’ he said uncertainly. ‘It could be a signal of some kind.’
As he finished speaking, the guns also ceased to roar, and an unnatural hush descended over the wooded hillsides, as though every tree and every living creature moving among them had paused to listen in terror.
‘Perhaps the barbarians have just left their ships to advance to the shore,’ whispered the young samurai. ‘Which would mean our time is running short.’
‘Perhaps you’re right agreed Tanaka. ‘So we must carry on as fast as we can!’
He raised his arm to give the command and they started downward once more, picking their way carefully over gnarled and knotted tree roots which jutted from the sloping ground. Ahead they could see that the mounted samurai who was guiding them had halted on the brink of a ravine too steep for a horse to negotiate. Mist still swirled in the bottom of the ravine, and he had dismounted in order to peer down its steep sides.
‘I believe this is the lower part of the last track into Kurihama, O Kami-san,’ he said quietly when the norimono reached him. ‘Soon it forks and there are two ways down to the village, which is not far now. Although you can barely see it, the track runs through the bottom of this ravine.’
‘Where did you encounter the armed column?’ asked Tanaka quickly.
‘We took our prisoner about four ri above this point, O Kami-san.’
Tanaka thought for a moment, then signalled for the norimono to be lowered to the ground. Standing absolutely still he stared down into the mist, listening carefully; but no sound came from below and he shook his head in a gesture of uncertainty.
‘Perhaps they’ve already passed. They may be in Kurihama by this time.’
‘We could run fast along the top of the ravine, O Kami-san, and see if we can overtake them,’ said the young samurai eagerly. ‘It may not be too late. .
Tanaka closed his eyes, focusing all his senses on the natural stillness of the forested hills around him. He knew that every second he delayed might be vital, if the armed column had passed and was already approaching the beach at Kurihama; but, equally, if he raced away down the hilt and the armed column was still above them, he would lose his last opportunity to intervene by surprise in the concealing mist.
He knew intuitively that events must now be rushing towards a climax at the beach, but he still felt unable to move. Something held him rooted to the spot and he stood motionless with his eyes closed in an agony of indecision. Then in the deep silence he heard a faint and distant clink of metal; a few moments later the muffled sound of horses’ hoofs moving through grass reached his ears. After another long wait he heard more quiet jingling of harness, more rustling from the foot of the ravine, and eventually the occasional murmur of men’s voices. He knew then why he had not been able to stir himself before and, as the faint noises became continuous, he opened his eyes and saw that all his samurai were listening tensely.
They looked at one another but nobody spoke, and they obeyed instantly when Tanaka motioned for them to stretch themselves soundlessly on the ground. Looking round, he gestured urgently for Gotaro and the mounted guards to remain still and silent on their horses; then crawling forward to the lip of the ravine, he looked over in time to see the unmistakable figure of Daizo Yakamochi emerge from the mist below, riding slowly at the head of a large troop of Makabe samurai.
Tanaka counted thirty warriors moving in close attendance on their leader, then after a gap of twenty yards an ordinary black norimono emerged silently from the mist, carried by four turbaned bearers. Tanaka drew in his breath silently as he watched the norimono pass directly beneath their hiding place. It was closed and gave no hint of who might be journeying inside, but there was no doubt in his mind that he had at long last tracked down his quarry. A further thirty-yard gap separated the enclosed chair from another seemingly endless column of guards, and Tanaka measured the intervening distance carefully with his eye before drawing back suddenly from the edge of the ravine and gesturing to the samurai who had led them there.
‘How far from here is the fork in the track?’ he whispered urgently.
‘Perhaps one ri, O Kami-san,’ murmured the samurai in reply.
‘And are both ways down the same?’
‘No. To the right, the track passes over a broad stream that flows on to the sea. But to the left the track goes directly to the village and the beach.’
Tanaka’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully, then he turned quickly to his chief bodyguard. ‘Send a man immediately to our own Kago guard-boats that are standing by at the beach. Have one boat rowed upstream as far as possible!’
‘Yes, O Kami-san!’
The chief bodyguard murmured orders to one of his subordinates, who dismounted and led his horse stealthily away from the edge of the ravine before remounting and riding swiftly off into the trees.
‘Does the track between here and the fork run straight?’ demanded Tanaka, turning back to their guide.
‘No, it twists and winds all the way!’
‘Then we must move fast now! If we can get to the fork ahead of them, we’ll have one last chance of averting disaster!’
Rising cautiously to his feet and bending double to ensure he was not seen from below, Tanaka signalled silently to the three loin-clothed samurai who had been held in reserve, and between them they lifted the norimono to their shoulders. As before, he took the leading position at the front end of the pole and when they had all settled themselves, he gestured silently to the mounted bodyguards to follow quietly, making sure that they never became visible to the riders below. When everybody was ready, he waved his arm in a forward direction and they set off along the sloping borders of the ravine, carrying the norimono downward through the trees at a fast pace.
‘The mist is beginning to clear, my lord. Look! I believe we can see the foreign barbarians making their way ashore!’
Yakamochi’s new samurai guard captain, who was riding down the ravine at his master’s shoulder, lifted one gloved hand from his reins and gesticulated ahead. Through patchy holes that the onshore breeze was beginning to tear in the mist ahead of them, the flotilla of American boats was becoming visible as it neared the shore.
‘They will land in another five minutes, my lord,’ said the guard captain anxiously. ‘Shouldn’t we begin moving faster?’
Through narrowed eyes Yakamochi peered down towards the bay for a moment; then he slowly shook his head. ‘No, Sawara-san, there is no need. My father’s orders are that we should appear suddenly towards the end of the ceremony. Then everybody’s attention will be on what is happening. It is important not to show ourselves too soon.’
‘But it will take at least another fifteen minutes to reach the ceremonial pavilion from here, my lord,’ exclaimed Sawara.
‘That’s precisely right: replied Yakamochi calmly. ‘And we shall arrive in accordance with the plan I laid.’
He turned in his saddle to glance back past his bodyguards to where the black norimono was bobbing into view around a bend in the track. Its bearers were grunting rhythmically in time with their steps as they j
ogged - ‘yo-ho, yo-ho, yo-ho, yo-ho’ - and he could see the tops of their turbaned heads as they bent forward, concentrating hard on their physical task. Looking up at either side of the ravine he saw that mist still clung to the slopes above, enveloping the track in a shroud of silence.
‘And this morning the kami of these hills are helping to protect their sacred homeland from the foreign barbarians added Yakamochi, allowing himself a rare smile. ‘Instead of the kamikaze “divine wind” that destroyed the Mongols, the weather gods have sent a “divine mist”. So the approach of our barbarian prisoner will remain concealed from all prying eyes until the very last moment. .
‘Yes, my lord, you’re right replied Sawara dutifully. ‘The kami of the hills have indeed favoured us
Yakamochi nodded slowly, peering down towards the bay again. The haze below was continuing to disperse and he was able to see that the line of American boats was nearing the beach.
‘What is more, the foreign barbarians are also cooperating perfectly,’ he said smugly to himself. ‘They are about to walk right into our trap...’
46
AS THE LEADING barge of the American flotilla touched the makeshift jetty of rice-straw and sand, the commander of the Susquehanna stood up. Many thousands of eyes stared fixedly at him as he scanned the beach, and from his seat amidships in the barge Samuel Armstrong was struck anew by the silence and utter stillness of the massed Japanese forces. The nearest ranks consisted of helmeted foot soldiers garbed in ribbed armour of iron and leather, and they clutched pikes and lances in their hands. At close range Armstrong could see that their dark faces were scowling and hostile, and twin-sworded officers positioned in front of them at intervals also glowered menacingly towards the jetty from beneath horned helmets.
After pausing for a moment, the commander of the Susquehanna stepped lightly and confidently over the gunwale. Seconds later Major Pearsall drew his sword and leapt ashore. As the booted feet of the two American officers sank into the soft sand of the beach, a slow growl of anger rumbled from the throats of the watching Japanese warriors - but still none of them moved.
‘You’d best be quick, Mr. Armstrong: called the major. ‘And try to keep your head high as you alight.’
The missionary, who had remained pale-faced in his seat until that moment, stood up abruptly and strode forward with an outward confidence not matched by his inner feelings. He realized suddenly that the massed ranks of Japanese were watching the first foreigners they had ever seen step down officially onto their soil, and he took care to ensure that his sword did not entangle his legs as he jumped down from the barge.
‘Christopher Columbus must have felt something like this when he landed in Jamaica four hundred years ago,’ murmured Armstrong, nervously glancing up at the tall medieval pennants and banners which swept fluttering to the ground amidst the dense concentrations of soldiery
‘Maybe,’ replied Major Pearsall dryly. ‘But unlike the cacique chieftains, I don’t think these particular natives will be much impressed with a handful of glass beads.’
With his hand held tentatively on his sword-hilt, Armstrong moved to take up position between the two ramrod-straight officers. Glancing seawards, he was glad to see the reassuring black hulk of the two towering steam frigates anchored broadside across the mouth of the bay. Because they were ready for action, thick smoke spiralled skyward from their tall stacks, and the gaping black eyes of their cannon kept an unblinking watch on the shore. Although he felt comforted by their presence, Armstrong also realized, as he stood defenceless on the sand, just how ominous and fearsome the ships must look to all those Japanese at his back who were armed only with puny bows, spears and ancient flintlock muskets.
He felt suddenly ashamed, too, of his confident assertion, made a few days earlier on the flagship, that good would certainly flow from the venture if it led to the further spreading of the Christian gospel in this new region. From the beach, he could see for himself just how malevolent the American threat of force seemed and, although he was directly endangered by them, he realized that he sympathized strongly with the Japanese in making such emphatic preparations for war.
‘We shall wait here, Mr. Armstrong, until the commodore has landed,’ said Major Pearsall as he glanced appraisingly around the beach. ‘Then we shall fall in behind him to march in procession to the pavilion.’
The missionary nodded, and began to breathe a little easier as he watched the hundred-strong contingent of marines spring nimbly ashore. They shouldered their carbines, fell quickly into their allotted ranks and marched briskly over the jetty to form up into two lines on either side of it. They were followed by a similar number of armed sailors and two bands who advanced jauntily along the jetty, carrying only their musical instruments. Some two dozen officers had taken up their places on either side of Major Pearsall and ‘the commander of the Susquehanna, and a complete hush fell over the Americans and Japanese alike as all eyes turned to watch the approach of the barge occupied by the US Navy squadron’s commander-in-chief.
The Governor of Uraga and his entourage were standing apart on the beach, waiting to lead the parade to the reception pavilion, and Armstrong saw the governor crane his neck to stare intently towards the barge as it neared the jetty The fact that, during several visits to the warships, neither he nor his staff had ever caught a single glimpse of the American first described to them as the ‘Most High Lord of the Interior’ was evident in the undisguised curiosity of his usually impassive face. Around him most of his extravagantly robed aides were also raising themselves on their toes to catch sight of the man who, as far as they were concerned, had previously surrounded himself with an emperor-like screen of secrecy. But, with a start, Armstrong saw that again Haniwara Tokuma was not among them. Standing slightly apart, the interpreter was not looking towards the jetty His shoulders still sagged” in what looked like dejection, his head was lowered and he appeared to be staring listlessly at the sand in front of his feet. Glancing round, Armstrong realized that the interpreter was the only man on the beach whose eyes were averted from the momentous landing of the foreign barbarian chieftain, and in that instant he felt his unease turn to a deeper and more certain foreboding. Something in Haniwara Tokuma’s manner spoke silently of his utter despair, and the missionary felt a cold shiver of fear crawl up his spine.
But the next moment a voice yelled, ‘Present arms!’ and hundreds of American hands slapped in unison against the stocks of their loaded carbines. Armstrong turned back towards the jetty; in time to see the oarsmen of the commander-in-chief’s barge sweep their blades erect and allow their craft to glide accurately to rest. A flurry of drums and brass instruments then crashed out the familiar opening strains of ‘Hail Columbia’, and Commodore Matthew Calbraith Perry rose to his feet to step majestically ashore.
The breeze fluttered the gold tassels of his cocked hat as he strode along the jetty; followed by his flag lieutenant and the commander of the Mississippi. He paused with his head held proudly erect while Major Pearsall and the Susquehanna’s commander saluted and offered the customary honours; then his officers fell into place behind him and his two towering black bodyguards moved to flank him protectively on either side. The two young sailors clutching the scarlet-covered letters of the President were already waiting in position behind the bearers of the United States flag and the commodore’s blue pennant. They watched expectantly while the Marine Corps major paced to the front of the leading contingent of blue- jackets with his sword drawn; then, when a loud command was given and the two bands in the rear of the parade struck’ up a boisterous march, they swung briskly forward, taking great care to keep strictly in step with the other three hundred uniformed Americans, as they bore the official letters proudly towards the reception pavilion.
Marching a few paces behind Commodore Perry, Samuel Armstrong watched the Governor of Uraga and the other Japanese officials closely. Their role was to guide the parade towards the pavilion but, as they walked on ahead of the marines, h
e could see that Haniwara Tokuma’s mind was elsewhere. Remote and distracted, the interpreter looked about himself constantly, giving Armstrong a strong impression that he anticipated some unscheduled interruption to the proceedings, and every so often he glanced up nervously towards the ‘hills rising behind the bay.
‘Don’t be surprised, Mr. Armstrong, if we don’t follow precisely in the governor’s guiding footsteps,’ murmured the commander of the Susquehanna at the missionary’s side. ‘Major Pearsall has orders to lead us to the pavilion by a broad, circular route. So, for a few minutes, our weapons and our discipline will be clearly exhibited for the benefit of the watching natives - and it won’t be lost on them that our men are manoeuvring just as if they were marching into enemy territory.’
As the well-ordered column of three hundred armed Americans curved away across the beach beneath their fluttering national flag, Armstrong tried to memorize every detail of the extraordinary scene around him, realizing he was living through unique moments. Close up, he could see that the watching Japanese fighting units were drawn up in battle brigades, each composed of units of infantrymen armed with ancient muskets, pikemen, archers and cavalry On the tall, multicoloured banners and pennants that curled overhead in the breeze he could see a variety of heraldic designs - rings of stars, castles, emblematic leaves and flowers - which confirmed that the troops had been drawn from armies of several different daimyo. Ranged on either side of the reception pavilion itself he could see contingents of sentinels garbed very differently in white turbans, broad sashes of yellow silk and flowing grey tunics and trousers drawn in tight below the knee. Evidently the personal guards of the imperial dignitaries, they were armed with antique matchlock muskets, and the missionary could see that they carried fuses for these old-fashioned weapons coiled on their right arms. On either side of the entrance to the pavilion, which was flanked by long, funnelling screens, equally ancient four-pound cannon of apparent Spanish design had been set up; nothing within the shadowy interior was visible and, with the sun shimmering on the two brass cannon at its mouth, the pavilion to Armstrong seemed suddenly as inviting as the gaping, gold-fanged jaws of a dragon.
