Heart of a Samurai

by Margi Preus

  Jolly yowled with pain and ran toward the sea, flames leaping out behind him. With a whoop, his friends chased after him, screaming like gulls following a fishing boat.

  The boys wasted no time. They grabbed their packages and set off running, after Manjiro had stopped to pick something out of the sand: a shiny silver disk.

  Finally, far down the beach, they dropped into the sand.

  “Thank you for saving my life,” Goemon panted.

  “Oh, I don’t think they were going to kill us!” Manjiro said.

  “They are barbarians,” Goemon spat. “You cannot trust them.”

  Manjiro didn’t say anything.

  “Surely you can see now why it would have been foolish to go with them.”

  “Put out your hand,” Manjiro said, and when Goemon did, Manjiro slipped five coins into Goemon’s palm.

  Goemon exclaimed, “How—? Ah, the trick you learned from the first mate.” He smiled. “But no! Those are yours! You keep them.”

  “I won’t need money.”

  “Why not?”

  “What am I going to do with money on board a ship?” Manjiro said. “I’ll be a crew member and will earn my lay when the journey ends: one one-hundred-fortieth of the profits!”

  “You’re really going to go with them, aren’t you?” Goemon said. “With that crazy man, that Jolly. He wants to kill you!”

  “He was drunk,” Manjiro said. “He’ll probably forget about it.”

  “I don’t think so!” Goemon said. “They’ll never accept you, Manjiro. If they were to come to our country, they would be killed! And that’s what they will do to you. As soon as you set foot in America, if you ever get that far, they’ll cut your head off and put it on a pole, warning other Japanese people to stay away. They’re all like that crazy man—that Jolly. They all hate us! You’ll see.”

  “There’s always going to be someone like Jolly, anywhere we go,” Manjiro said. “At least I know this one.”

  Goemon brushed the sand from his Western-style trousers as if he were smoothing a silk kimono. “Go ahead.” he said. “Turn your back on us! Turn your back on me! But you are wrong, Manjiro, and someday you will see that you are wrong. You will find out that, like Jusuke says, ‘the nail that sticks up gets hammered down.’”

  Manjiro pointed to the sky. “Look,” he said. Pink light rimmed the eastern horizon and ran down onto the sea. “Doesn’t it look like the light from another world, spilling through a slightly open door?”

  “No,” Goemon said. “It looks like the sun is about to rise.”

  “It’s like how I feel about America,” Manjiro said. “It’s as if I see this little bit of light from an open door. It promises … I don’t know what! But I want to go through that door and find out what is there.”

  “You, my friend, are crazy,” Goemon sighed. “And late. You’d better hurry if you want to get to the ship before she sails.”

  Manjiro turned to Goemon and bowed. “Friend,” he said, “I won’t forget you. We will see each other again. I am sure of it.”

  12

  SAILING AWAY

  rom his post at the stern rail of the John Howland, Manjiro watched as Goemon grew smaller and smaller, shrinking to just a spot of color and then disappearing altogether into the island. At last, even the island itself disappeared.

  Once, back in Japan, Manjiro had watched a boy flying a kite. The string snapped and the kite soared off into the blue sky and out across the ocean. The boy cried to see his kite disappear, but Manjiro had felt his imagination soar. What might that kite have seen, if it had eyes? What might it have heard if it had ears? Oh, to be a kite, cut loose from its string, Manjiro had thought.

  And now he was just like that kite, sailing away into a sea as vast and blue as the sky. Was it wrong to feel exhilarated and alive? Was he wrong to be happy, sailing even farther away from his ancestors and his family?

  The sails snapped taut in the wind, and Manjiro—John Mung, whaler—was flying over the ocean, carried along by the ship’s great white wings. He had left everything behind. Even his name.

  He took a deep breath of salt air and froze. A flame of fear raced through him. Jolly. He had not yet encountered Jolly.

  A gruff voice from behind him made him jump. “You, boy! Up in the rigging with you—tar the netting of the mainstay sail. If I have to speak to you again, your hide will pay!”

  Manjiro glanced over his shoulder to see Davis, the first mate, glowering at him.

  Not pausing to wonder why Mr. Davis was so unhappy with him, Manjiro scrambled up the rigging and got to work right away. At least up here, he could keep an eye out for Jolly.

  But soon, he began to mull on another problem. The tick tick tick of the halyards against the spars reminded him of the captain’s watch. He wanted to give the watch back to the captain, but he couldn’t think of how to do it without appearing to be the thief. How could he explain with his broken English how it had come about that he was in possession of the watch, especially against whatever well-crafted story Jolly had made up? Would the captain punish him? He might be so angry that he would set him off at the next island they came to.

  As he was considering all the miserable possibilities, he saw Captain Whitfield striding across the deck with those big, sure steps he took. Manjiro was just wondering if he should run farther up the rigging when he heard the captain’s voice calling up to him.

  “Is that John Mung up there?” The captain squinted up at him like a one-eyed Hitotsume-kozo creature.

  “Aye, sir,” Manjiro called down to him.

  “Glad to have you aboard.”

  “Glad to be aboard, sir.” Manjiro gulped. What should he do? Should he say something now? He opened his mouth, then closed it. He couldn’t think of what to say. No doubt there would be a better time.

  The captain squinted at him expectantly and finally said, “Well?”

  “Well?” Manjiro echoed.

  “No questions? You don’t have a list of questions as long as your arm? Nothing you’ve been puzzling over?”

  Manjiro felt sweat trickle down his back. “I’m to be tarring the netting, sir,” he said, glancing at Davis.

  “Ah,” Captain Whitfield said. “Has Mr. Davis barked at you already? Hmm. Now that you are a crew member, he’ll treat you same as the others, I suspect.”

  He paused and Manjiro, not knowing what to say, kept quietly at his task.

  “Well,” the captain said, touching his cap, “I’m sure we’ll have many opportunities for pleasant talk. I’m glad to see you aboard. I hope …” He trailed off and looked out to sea. “I hope it is a good journey.”

  Over the next few days, in his effort to avoid Jolly, Manjiro quickly learned every good hiding place onboard a ship. At every change of watch, he slipped into the galley, down the forecastle companionway, inside the trypots, or under a whaleboat, until he was sure it was safe to be seen.

  But Jolly did not appear. Not at night and not during the day. This, it turned out, was more nerve-wracking than knowing where he was, and Manjiro’s stomach worked itself into a tight knot.

  After so many days of never seeing him, Manjiro started to relax. There were times that were a pleasure of wind and open water. He trimmed sails, coiled line, scrubbed the deck, and served the captain and the chief mates their meals.

  He was taking a meal to the first mate one day when he overheard his shipmates talking.

  “Where’s Jolly, anyhow?” said one. “Why isn’t he onboard?”

  Manjiro set down his tray quietly.

  “The night afore we was to ship out,” Biscuit began conspiratorially, “Jolly took a dickey run and met his oppos. He was already half seas over by the time he hooked up with them and very shortly they was all three sheets in the wind.”

  What are they talking about? Manjiro wondered.

  “That Jolly, he used to bleed the monkey, all right.”

  Isaiah nodded. “He was a shonkey, too.”

  Manjiro sigh
ed. He would never understand English!

  “Though I’m not entirely sure what all transpired,” Biscuit went on. “Jolly had the devil to pay and no pitch hot.”

  What were they saying? Manjiro wondered. English was such a difficult language!

  “Well, what happened?” Josiah said.

  “I guess you can see which way the wind is blowin’,” Biscuit said. “He either swallowed the anchor or slipped his cable!”

  “Not so!” the mates cried, along with “Nay! You can’t mean it!”

  The clucking of tongues from the mates didn’t help Manjiro to know what had happened to Jolly. Only that it wasn’t good.

  “Well, John Mung shouldn’t miss him. Eh, Mung?” Suddenly, all eyes turned to look at him. “He used to cross yer bows enough.”

  But Manjiro was not happy. He was cold with remorse and guilt. Whatever had happened to Jolly, he knew he was responsible.

  Later, in his bunk, he lay for a long time listening to the steady ticking of the captain’s disk, like a chant, in his pocket. It told him he must, must, must go to the captain the next day, return the watch, and confess everything.

  • • •

  But the next morning he was sent straight from his bed to the masthead to “keep a weather eye out for whales.”

  He scrambled up the rigging and took his place high on the mainmast, standing on the two boards they called the “topgallant crosstrees” and secured only by an iron hoop around his waist. After a time of gazing out at the glittering sea, he began to think about the silver disk weighing heavily in his pocket. He thought about how alone he was up there, and that perhaps he could take a good look at it, and try to figure out what it did. He might never again have such a chance.

  With one arm looped around the mast to steady himself, Manjiro slid the watch from his pocket. He turned it over and over. He flipped open the cover. Was it a kind of charm? Did it give some kind of information, the way he had learned a compass did? There was only one thing to do: He would throw himself on the captain’s mercy, take whatever punishment he deserved, and beg him to explain this curious device.

  He was just shutting the lid when the ship lurched and the watch flew from his hand. He watched it sail out and down, turning and glinting in the bright sun. When he could no longer see it, Manjiro could only imagine the watch flipping and spinning, becoming just another bright fleck on the surface of the sea until, at last, it disappeared.

  13

  TREASURE

  or several days, Manjiro went about his business deep in thought. On watch at night, he could barely look at the sky, for every star was like an eye, staring at him. Every wave tapping the boat nudged him; every groan of the ship was a reprimand. He knew he must go to the captain and confess everything, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Once the captain knew how deceitful he’d been, and how incompetent—how by his own clumsiness he’d lost the captain’s silver watch—the captain certainly wouldn’t want anything to do with him!

  One morning, Manjiro opened an eye to see the first mate, Mr. Davis, staring down at him. Manjiro jumped. In addition to his renowned temper, Manjiro’s shipmates whispered that Mr. Davis was bit of a “Jack Nastyface.”

  “You’re a lucky charm,” Davis said.

  “I’m a what?” Manjiro said.

  “Since you’ve been aboard, we’ve been catching whales hand over fist.”

  “I don’t think I—” Manjiro started to say, but Davis interrupted him.

  Drawings of a sperm whale, finback whale, and right whale by John Mung

  “You know what treasure is?” he said.

  Manjiro nodded. His shipmates told stories of pirates and their treasure. “Gold dubloons,” he said.

  “Aye, that’s a certain kind of treasure,” said Davis. “But that’s not the kind I’m talking about.”

  “What kind, then?” Manjiro asked.

  “Come along and find out,” Davis said.

  On deck, he saw that a whaleboat had been lowered and Biscuit stood in the boat, coiling a tow line. Davis and Manjiro scrambled into the boat, and each of them took up an oar.

  The sea was still and silent except for the click and splash of oars. A pale mist rose off the water, and a curious smell permeated the air. The two men were perfectly quiet. There was none of the running banter or any of the urgency of the usual whale chase.

  Manjiro wondered where they were going. Perhaps they were rowing to an island where pirates had buried gold and silver. Or to a cave stuffed with jewels. Wherever they were going, it stunk! The stench had grown so heavy, he began rowing with one hand so he could hold the other over his nose.

  “Why is stink?” he said.

  “Stink, you say?” Davis said. “Why, that’s the heavenly smell of treasure.”

  It was a smell, all right. Manjiro felt as if he had to pull his oars against it, not just against the water.

  “There she be!” Davis clapped his hands together. “And splendid to look upon, eh, Biscuit?”

  “Aye,” Biscuit replied, uncharacteristically quiet.

  Emerging out of the mist was the sorriest looking whale Manjiro could imagine, so thin its ribs showed through its withered skin. Dead and rotting. That’s what they’d been smelling.

  “But,” Manjiro said, “it so …” He couldn’t think of the right word. “Dead.”

  “That is convenient indeed, for then we shan’t need to kill her. Hook her up, Biscuit.”

  Biscuit hooked a tow line to the beast. “A right beauty,” he said.

  These men had lost their minds, Manjiro thought. He began to worry about being alone in this small boat with a couple of lunatics.

  They rowed back to the ship, pulling the beast behind them. A group of hooting and laughing sailors gathered along the bulwark of the John Howland.

  “Look here,” one called out. “Mr. Davis and his crew has gone out and catched this leviathan by theirselves.”

  “Must have been a mighty struggle, was it, Mr. Davis?”

  “Ye may make merry, ye lubbers,” the first mate called to them, “but ye won’t be laughin’ long.”

  Biscuit stood by like a surgeon’s assistant as Davis plunged his boat spade into the ruined whale’s carcass. Mr. Davis shoveled away as if expecting to come upon a chest full of pirate gold. His face contorted into a red grimace; he grunted as he twisted the spade inside the beast. He’s lost his wits, Manjiro thought.

  The sailors along the bulwark grew quiet. A few of them shouted encouragement and even advice. Captain Whitfield appeared among the men and squinted down at the scene, a small smile playing on his lips.

  Manjiro held his nose and wondered at this strangeness. It hardly seemed possible, but the smell seemed to get even worse, and everyone standing along the rail had grown silent and tense.

  Then, like a freshening breeze, an entirely different and distinctly more pleasant smell wafted through the stench. Or at least, Manjiro thought, it was less unpleasant. At the same time, Mr. Davis held up a yellowish-gray glob. A cheer went up from the crew. They were all crazy, Manjiro thought.

  “Treasure, lad!” Davis shouted.

  “That does not look like treasure. It look like … like soybean paste!”

  “That it may,” Davis said, “but what matters more is what it does, for it’s ambergris! What the druggist uses to make the finest of perfumes!”

  “Worth a guinea an ounce, what say you to that?” Biscuit said, wiggling his furry eyebrows at Manjiro.

  Manjiro had no idea what that meant, so he just wiggled his eyebrows in reply.

  “I see you don’t comprehend my meaning,” Biscuit said. “A handful of that stuff will buy you a new wardrobe of fine suits and silk top hats.”

  “It’ll buy you a nice house with glass windows,” called out another mate.

  “Buy you a whaleboat of your own,” said another.

  “Buy you a seat in Congress!” Biscuit cried, causing the crowd to roar.

  Manjiro shook his head. So
Davis hadn’t been crazy after all. Surely, there was enough strangeness on this earth to last a lifetime. Already he’d seen huge floating mountains of ice, some with ships wrecked on them. He’d seen tusked bulls that swam in the ocean, dark red seals with horns at the tips of their muzzles, a huge star with a tail that filled the western sky, and rotted whales that gave up treasure. He supposed someday he’d see silk top hats, glass windows, and Congress seats, whatever those might be.

  The sailors were turning away to get back to their business when Biscuit announced, “Say, mates, this must be what made old Mocha Dick so sick. Wouldn’t you get a bellyache if you swallered this?”

  Manjiro, along with the rest of the crew, turned to see what he had found.

  Biscuit reached into the whale’s belly and tugged at something. Then he held his arm out at full length and slowly opened his clenched fist. There, dangling from its slender chain, was the captain’s silver watch.

  14

  THE HOUR OF THE DOG

  uring the first dog watch, most of the crew gathered on deck. The mood was merry. Enjoying a fair wind, the ship had moved away from the stench of the dead whale, and the setting sun filled the sky with red and purple streamers.

  The captain stood near the mainmast, puffing on his pipe.

  Manjiro put his head down and marched up to him. He’d resolved to tell the captain everything.

  “John!” the captain greeted him enthusiastically. “You’re so quiet these days. Do you regret your decision to come along?”

  “No, sir!” Manjiro said. “No.” He hung his head. Now was the time, he knew. He had to confess. “I am happy you get your watch back,” Manjiro said quietly.