by Margi Preus
Manjiro wondered if that was so. Had he changed? Perhaps it would be better to remain with Denzo and the others and stay in his rightful place. But if he sailed with the captain, he would have the chance to learn many things, to see the world, and to have, at last, a father.
But then he thought of his mother and how worried she must be. Perhaps she thought he was dead. Had she heard what had happened to him? Maybe she thought he had run away with no intention of ever returning! If only he had told his mother where he was going—and that he planned to return! Perhaps it would be best to try to get back to his family as fast as possible.
Then he thought of the times he’d spent with Captain Whitfield, asking question after question in his halting English, the captain patiently answering every one. The day they had sailed into this harbor, they had stood together early in the morning, breathing in the fragrance of the island before watching it emerge out of the mist. Manjiro told the captain how two gods, Izanami and Izanagi, had created an island—his home—out of sweet-smelling mist and fog. Something like that was happening with their friendship, he thought. It was like a tranquil island in a stormy sea.
9
SEVEN BREATHS
wo days before the John Howland was to leave Honolulu, Manjiro still hadn’t made a decision. Then, Captain Whitfield told Manjiro that he and the others had an “invitation.”
“I have invitation?” Manjiro said. “Is that bad?”
Captain Whitfield chuckled. “No, not usually. An invitation is when someone invites you to come and visit. In this case, an acquaintance of mine, Dr. Gerritt Judd, wants to meet you and your friends. He has some coins and small items he wonders if you can identify.”
The next day, at Dr. Judd’s home, the fishermen examined the coins and a smoking pipe.
“But where do you come by these things?” Manjiro asked their host.
Dr. Judd told them about some other shipwrecked sailors. The captain and a couple of crew members had died, but the others had been rescued and made their way to Honolulu, like Manjiro and his friends.
Manjiro thought of the graves on Bird Island. “Where are they now?” he asked.
“They have tried to go back to Japan by way of China,” Dr. Judd said. “We don’t know how they fared. But tell us, are you from the same country?”
“Yes! Yes!” The fishermen nodded.
The captain unrolled a large scroll of paper. The five friends stared down at it.
“What is …?” Manjiro said.
“Why, it’s a chart!” Captain Whitfield said. “A map! Look here. It’s a picture that shows the world.”
The fishermen wondered over the strangeness of it, while Manjiro translated the captain’s words.
“This is where we are.” Captain Whitfield pointed to a little necklace of green spots on an ocean of blue. “These are the Sandwich Islands, governed by King Kamehameha. Since he is friendly with the United States, there are now many Americans here, doing business and serving as missionaries and doctors.”
Captain Whitfield pointed to the small island where the fishermen had been found, and then to another group of islands that lay to the northwest of that island. “Your home,” he said.
“No!” The fishermen shook their heads.
“Our country is much, much bigger than that!” Denzo said.
Captain Whitfield smiled. “Perhaps since your country does not allow anyone in or out, they do not know the true size or shape of the world—even of their own country.”
Manjiro did not translate that for the others, fearing it might anger them.
Behind him, his friends whispered to one another in Japanese.
“What crazy ideas they have!” Toraemon said.
The others agreed that their country could not be so insignificant.
Manjiro said, “Just because it is small, that doesn’t mean it is insignificant.” He wanted to add, “Surely you have seen enough ocean by now to understand that the world is bigger than you could have imagined. Surely you must realize that these whaling men, who have sailed to all its corners, must know more of the world than our countrymen—who never go anywhere!” But he bit his tongue. He did not want to offend them, and he knew they still clung to the ideas they had learned at home, that their country was best and biggest and all others were filled with barbarians.
It was true the Americans were somewhat uncivilized. They were loud and dirty and let their hair grow in unruly knots and tangles. They swore and cussed and spat. They often ate with their hands, and rather like animals. They didn’t smell too good! And their whaling practice was a very bloody business indeed.
But they knew a lot of things about which Manjiro knew nothing, and the thing they knew the most was the thing he knew the least: the size and shape and scope of the world. How could you not want to understand the world in which you lived?
His friends had turned away from the map, but Manjiro continued to stare at it, marveling at the many places and countries about which he knew nothing. His heart pounded as if his chest were a hollow drum. Look at this world! So vast! So wide! Huge masses of land spread across it; multitudes of green and brown islands dotted the blue expanse of the oceans. He felt like a bird contemplating the sky.
He turned to see Captain Whitfield standing over him. “That,” the captain said, pointing to a large landmass on the map, “is America. This is the United States.” He pointed to a small spot on the northeast coast of the United States and said, “This is Fairhaven, Massachusetts, where I live.”
“The chart is like … invitation,” Manjiro said, staring at the unfamiliar letters that he knew formed words. “I cannot read the words, but I imagine they say, ‘Come and see!’”
The captain patted him on the back. “That isn’t what the words say,” he said, “but I think that is always what a chart means. When I see a place on a chart where I haven’t been, I wonder, ‘What is that place like?’ I look at that place again and again, wondering if something more might be revealed. But there’s nothing to be done but to go and see it for myself.”
Manjiro nodded, staring at the spot on the map Captain Whitfield said was his home in America.
“In the words of the ancients,” his mother had told him, “one should make one’s decisions within the space of seven breaths.”
Manjiro took seven deep, long breaths. By the last breath, he had made his decision: He would go to America and see it for himself.
10
DANGER!
he captain gave each of the five fishermen a new jacket, a new pair of trousers, and a new overcoat. They were also each presented with five half-dollars to help them get a start in their new lives on the island. Manjiro’s eyes grew big as the coins were pressed into his hands. So much money! The only time he’d ever held money like this was when Itch had taught him a magic trick with coins.
Finally, the captain told them the John Howland would set sail the next morning.
“I hope I will see you aboard, my lad,” he said to Manjiro. “You are a bright boy, bursting with questions.” The sadness Manjiro had once seen in his eyes had melted away.
Half-dollar coins drawn by John Mung
Manjiro felt tears spring to his eyes. He wanted to tell Captain Whitfield, “Yes! Yes, I will come along,” but he did not. He simply hung his head and murmured his thanks. First, he must try to explain his decision to Goemon.
He and Goemon tried on their new jackets and tucked the paper-wrapped packages of trousers and overcoats under their arms.
“Come down to the beach with me?” he asked Goemon as they stepped out of the house into the silken dusk.
At first the boys jingled the coins in their pockets and chattered about their fine new clothes. Goemon said the money would help them get a start on the island. They would be able to buy seeds for planting and maybe get some chickens, too. But soon they fell into silence as they walked, each immersed in his own thoughts.
Through the trees and far down the beach, Manjiro could hea
r the native people singing. Mele and hula, their music and dancing was called. They weren’t supposed to do it; the missionaries said it was wrong. Manjiro thought the music was lovely; it had a motion like the sea—it rolled over you and through you like water. Western missionaries had come to Japan, too, a couple of hundred years earlier, and they were one reason Japan had closed its doors to foreigners. Seeing how the native islanders here were expected to change almost everything about their lives for the missionaries, Manjiro could understand why Japan had expelled them.
The boys came to the main street, where music poured from every door. From a church came solemn, stately music and many voices singing together. Out of the doors of taverns came the sounds of pennywhistles and sailors’ hearty drinking songs.
So many different voices, here on one island. Manjiro’s eyes and ears, all his senses, had been filled with new experiences, new ways of doing things. He had, in fact, found a new way of seeing the world. Not with fear, but with wonder.
“You’re not really going to go with those barbarians, are you?” Goemon said, suddenly.
“How can you still call them barbarians,” Manjiro said, “after all they’ve done for us?”
“How can I call them barbarians?” Goemon said. “The food is terrible; the sleeping quarters are cramped and smelly. They stink like pigs. They hardly ever bathe. All that whaling with the choking black smoke and filth and grease! These whaling men are cruel. You can see for yourself how cruel they are!”
Were the men cruel? Yes, and then again, no. Manjiro knew how cruel they could be in their whaling moments, and yet he saw another side of them, too. They were good-hearted, generous, and something else, too. He didn’t have a name for it, but it seemed so natural, like second nature, for them to be kind to others while expecting nothing in return. Captain Whitfield, for instance. He was the very most important person on the ship, and he managed the John Howland with authority, and yet he treated everyone with kindness and respect, no matter what the person’s rank.
“There’s hardly anything they do that makes sense,” Goemon went on, “like the way they eat with those awkward utensils.”
“Forks?”
“Yes, whatever they’re called.”
“If you’d bother to learn English,” Manjiro said, “things would go better for you.”
“It wouldn’t help me to eat with those stupid … sticks!”
“We’re the ones who eat with sticks,” Manjiro said. “What’s so smart about that?”
“It’s easier! It just makes more sense.”
“It’s only easier because we’re used to it. The same way they’re used to eating with forks and knives.”
“When they bother to use them!” Goemon said, then pointed to a couple walking in the street. “Look how that woman walks with her arm on that man’s arm. Don’t they know that they shouldn’t touch in public—that’s just wrong! And, besides, women should always walk behind men.”
“Why should women walk behind men?”
“Why? Because it’s the way it should be. You’re blind to their faults. You’ve been seduced by them. They give you two names and suddenly you think you’re a samurai! I’ll tell you what will happen to you. That captain, he will take you home with him and make you his slave! That’s what they do in that country, you know—they have slaves.”
Manjiro did not think the captain would make him a slave. He really didn’t think so. But he was quiet as he and Goemon walked through the trees toward the beach.
Under the trees it was dark, and the boys felt their way along the path that led to the ocean. Seedpods crackled under their feet; the palms hissed overhead. Except for those soft sounds and the surf pounding in the distance, everything seemed quiet and tranquil.
Manjiro wondered how he was ever going to explain to Goemon why he wanted to go to America. He was so immersed in these thoughts that he didn’t notice the shadows growing closer, or the crunching footsteps, or even Goemon tugging at his sleeve.
Then Goemon whispered, “It seems as if the shadows have shadows.”
Manjiro stared into the darkness, listening. “Yes, and our footsteps have footsteps,” he said.
“Maybe they are oni!” Goemon whispered. “Evil demons!”
The shadows had become more real and tangible as Manjiro and Goemon walked, and grew so close that Manjiro could smell them. “They might be oni,” he said, “but they stink like whaling men.”
“Run!” Goemon cried and darted away.
Manjiro started to follow but felt himself snatched by the throat. A big hand, strong as iron, gripped him by the neck.
11
THIEVES AND MURDERERS
n Japan it was considered impolite to breathe on another person. People held their hands in front of their mouths to avoid it. The man breathing down Manjiro’s neck made no such effort. Rum, sweat, and whale oil—the stench of a whaling man.
“Haul ’em to the fire,” said a voice from the darkness. Manjiro was dragged across the sand and into a circle of firelight. Four or five greasy faces appeared, disappeared, and reappeared in the flickering light. A pair of glimmering spectacles, a gleaming gold hoop, an empty grin of a few silver teeth, and the flash of a knife—the kind whale men used to trim bits of flesh from blubber—glinted in the firelight. Goemon was there, too, pale and shivering.
“Look what fine fellows we have here,” said the man with silver teeth, whose every S came out as a whistle. “Wif new suits and something a-singin’ in their pockets.”
“Never did I know how many heathens there were loose in the world,” said a familiar voice, “till I started to ship out on whalers. And never did I think I’d have to abide them on my own vessel!”
Jolly stepped into the light and spat in the sand in front of Manjiro. “Everywhere I go, I see them, naked cannibals.”
“They ain’t naked,” said Gold Hoop. “They be as finely dressed as young gentlemen, they be.”
Jolly snatched the jug from him and held it to his mouth. The liquid gurgled onto his already glistening beard. “That’s because they steal their clothes. They’re all thieves and murderers. Like this one,” Jolly grabbed Manjiro’s ear. “Stealin’ food from the John Howland, he was. I found it all stashed away neat in a box under his bunk, didn’t I?”
“That was my food!” Manjiro cried. “You are the one that st—”
“Now he’s stealin’ the captain’s fine woolen clothing,” Jolly interrupted, plucking the paper-wrapped packages from their arms and tossing them on the ground. He breathed down into Manjiro’s face. “The captain won’t think so kindly on you when he finds you even snitched this!” He pulled on a chain that glinted from his pocket. At the end of the little chain dangled a silver disk.
Manjiro had seen the captain pull this thing out of his pocket on many occasions, flip open the silver cover, and consult it.
“Aye, I see you know it,” Jolly sneered. “‘Tis the captain’s watch.”
Manjiro felt anger rise in his throat. “You stole it!” he cried, and snatched the watch out of Jolly’s hands.
“See?” Jolly said. “Just like a monkey trained to snitch things, that’s what he does. Can’t hardly help himself. Now give it back.”
“It belongs to Captain. Not you. I will give it back, tell that you steal.”
“Oh, will ye now? But he already knows that ye stole it. How does he know that? Because I told him. Now, who is he going to believe? His favorite harpooner, choosed by him to ride in his own whaleboat, and with seventeen years’ experience on the high seas? Or an illiterated savage boy, green as seaweed? But I’ll strike a bargain with ye. Be good little heathens and hand over the silver I knows is in yer pockets, and I’ll keep hush about the watch. Also, it would be best if I never sees yer squinty eyes aboard ship again.”
“Avast with yer yammering, Jolly,” said Gold Hoop. “Let’s get the silver and get out of here.”
Goemon’s face glowed white in the darkness. Manjiro knew that Goemon
was trying to keep his face from betraying emotion, but fear played across it—and hatred.
“No.” Manjiro tried to speak firmly, but his voice squeaked a little.
The man with the knife spun around suddenly and pointed it at Goemon’s pockets. “We can cut the silver out,” he growled.
“No!” Goemon cried. He slowly pulled the coins out of his pocket and handed them to the man.
“Now you,” the man said, turning to Manjiro.
Manjiro felt anger rise in his throat and tried to choke it down.
“Turn out yer pockets or I’ll turn ’em out,” the man said.
Manjiro pulled his hands from his pockets and held them out. In the palm of his hands he held one smooth pebble, a bit of hardtack, and two small pink shells. But no coins.
Silver Teeth growled, and despite his many missing teeth, snapped like a dog. “That’s a child’s trick!” he said, slapping the things out of Manjiro’s hands. “We’ll have none of it. Turn yer pockets out. Now!”
Manjiro turned the pockets of his trousers inside out. They were empty.
Goemon’s eyes flew open, but he quickly smoothed his face into an emotionless mask.
“I thought ye said that one had money, too,” the one wearing the gold hoop said, turning to Jolly.
“He does!” Jolly hissed. “Shake him! Shake him like a apple tree!” He lunged, but Manjiro ducked.
Everything became a blur of fists and flashing teeth and glinting knives and sweat-glistening skin. Several different faces flickered by: a shock of red whiskers, a toothless grin, a dark-skinned face, and Jolly’s coinlike curls.
Manjiro’s legs went—or were kicked—out from under him, and he fell heavily into the sand. His hand knocked against something smooth and solid as a sword handle, and he grabbed it, leaped up, and, using it as a weapon, lunged wildly. But it was on fire! He had pulled a burning piece of driftwood from the bonfire. The flames leaped from the burning stick onto Jolly’s rum-soaked beard.
