Heart of a Samurai

by Margi Preus

  “As am I,” the captain said.

  “I know how it got there, in that whale,” Manjiro said.

  “Do you now?” The smoke from Captain Whitfield’s pipe ascended like burning incense.

  “I had it aloft,” Manjiro said. “I look at it in the topgallant when I look for whales.”

  The captain turned to regard the boy. “How was it that you had it way up there? And why were you looking at it when you were supposed to be looking for whales?”

  Manjiro hung his head. “Please excuse. I should be punished. I … I dropped it … into the sea.”

  The captain remained silent, puffing on his pipe. And everything rushed out of Manjiro—the story as best he could tell it: the attack by Jolly and the gang of thieves, the theft, and the fight. “I don’t think you can believe,” he finished. “Now it is my fault for Jolly not being here. I am sorry you lose your best harpooner and get me, only a greenhand.”

  The captain sighed and tapped his pipe against his hand. Then he did something Manjiro never would have expected: He laughed.

  “Those fellows are clever, aren’t they? They had us both fooled. You really thought that whale swallowed the watch, and I figured they filched my watch purely to play an elaborate joke on me.” He shook his head but, glancing at Manjiro, frowned.

  “Jolly was a troublemaker. Dishonest, too. I don’t care for dishonesty on board my vessel … or anywhere.” He looked pointedly at Manjiro. “I had already discharged him when he saw you. Perhaps he thought you were to blame. But you did nothing wrong … except looking at my watch when you were supposed to be watching for whales! I hope I don’t hear of any further such slacking of your duties.”

  “No, sir,” Manjiro said. “I look for whales.”

  “Now,” the captain said, “here we’ve been together all this time and you haven’t asked a single question. Surely you must have some question on your mind.”

  “Well …,” Manjiro said. “If watch not swallowed by whale, how did it get there?”

  “Mr. Cooper,” the captain shouted, and Biscuit dashed to his side. “Now tell us, where exactly did you find the watch? Let’s have a straight answer, please. We’ll keep your secret.”

  Biscuit leaned in toward them and whispered, “‘Twas nestled like a diamond in the coils of a cobra, it was.” He stood back, regarding them with an arched eyebrow and a knowing smirk.

  Captain Whitfield thought. “A riddle now, is it?” he said. “Let’s see … the diamond is the watch and the cobra would be a line … a line coiled in a tub, perhaps?” He looked up at the crosstrees, then down at the whaleboat they’d taken that morning. The captain slapped his thigh. “So that’s it! The watch fell from the crosstrees into a whaleboat, and landed in a tub of line, which must have saved it. That was the line let out to tow the blasted whale, wasn’t it?”

  Drawing of a sailor on the ship’s bow

  Biscuit tipped his hat. “Aye, Captain. Yer wits be as sharp as a marlinspike.”

  He returned to his post, and Manjiro turned to the captain. “One other question, please,” Manjiro said. “Is it a charm, the watch? What is it do?”

  The captain explained to Manjiro how to tell time the Western way.

  Manjiro explained that in his country people didn’t carry watches. The passage of time was marked by the ringing of the temple bell at certain times of the day. At least, that was how it was done in his village. “The day,” he said, “is divided into two pieces: sunrise to sunset and sunset to sunrise. Those are divided into six smaller pieces, like ‘hours,’ but instead of twenty-four, we have twelve. Each ‘hour’ has the name of an animal: tiger, rabbit, dragon, snake, horse, monkey, rooster. Now, I think, is the hour of the dog.”

  “That is interesting,” Captain Whitfield said, “because we call this two-hour period of time the ‘dog watch.’” He nodded to the sky, where the first stars were appearing. “Maybe we call it that because of that star.” He pointed to a brilliant star and said, “That’s Sirius, the dog star. Do you call it that?”

  “No,” said Manjiro. “We call that Aoboshi, blue star.”

  “‘Tis blue, indeed,” Captain Whitfield said, filling his pipe once more.

  Manjiro smiled, for when the captain filled his pipe, it meant he intended to stay awhile longer. And that meant more conversation.

  As each trembling star appeared, the captain and Manjiro found more to talk about, and the wind pushed them ever closer to their destination.

  PART THREE

  THE NEW WORLD

  When one’s own courage is fixed in his heart, and when his resolution is devoid of doubt, then when the time comes he will of necessity be able to choose the right move.

  —from Hagakure: The Book of the Samurai

  A drawing of New Bedford’s waterfront by a Japanese artist. As the artist had never been to America, the landscape and buildings have a very Japanese sensibility.

  15

  NEW BEDFORD AND FAIRHAVEN

  May 7, 1843 (14th Year of Temp, Year of the Hare)

  fter three-and-a-half years away, the John Howland pranced along the white foam of the sea toward home. All of her decks had been scrubbed to a shine, every brass knob buffed, every rail polished, and every flag on board fluttered from her rigging. She carried 2,761 barrels of whale oil and nineteen crew members, including one Japanese boy, for all anyone knew the first ever to come to America.

  Manjiro was sixteen years old; he had been away from Japan for over two years, three-fourths of it spent on the sea. He had scrubbed himself shiny, trimmed his hair, and polished his boots. Then he stood at the foremast, waiting for the first glimpse of the shores of his new home.

  But as the John Howland entered the mouth of the Acushnet River, the wind died and the ship was swallowed by a bank of white fog. Whaleboats were lowered and tow lines attached from the boats to the ship. For a while the only sound was the creaking and splashing of oars as the whaleboat crews towed the great vessel into the mist.

  With the fog blotting out everything but the closest mast and shrouds, Manjiro felt as if he and his shipmates were adrift in the sky, surrounded by clouds—with no land anywhere and no other people on earth. His deck mates stood rigid and silent, straining their eyes for the dark shapes of land or the sudden, looming presence of another vessel.

  Every few minutes, the ship’s bell rang out, a lonely cry.

  And then, as if in answer, came the solemn calling of the soundings: “Fifteen fathoms … eighteen fathoms …”

  Presently, Manjiro became aware of a low buzzing hum, so low that he thought he imagined it. But the buzz grew more insistent, and then, one by one, distinct sounds began to jump out: Metallic rattling. Banging, followed by an echoing ring. Hollow clopping. The sudden shriek of a seagull. The shout of a human voice, then laughter. All these sounds drifted out over the water. As did the stench.

  “What’s that stink?” he said.

  “‘Tis the smell of an ocean’s worth of whale oil, all tucked under a seaweed blanket,” Captain Whitfield added, as he came to stand next to Manjiro. “You’ll see.”

  Just then, the fog parted ahead of them, as if the John Howland herself had sliced it in two, revealing a strange and exotic world, swirling with color and motion.

  Dozens of vessels crowded the harbor—whale ships, sloops, and schooners. Sail riggers crawled along the hundreds of masts and yards, tarring lines, bending on and hoisting sails. All along the wharf, painters slapped paint on boats, buildings, boards. Coopers shaped staves for oil casks, and packers packed barrels with hardtack. Horses pulled rattling carts past the thousands and thousands of seaweed-smothered oil casks that lined the wharf and snaked up the streets into the town. That explained the stench.

  Manjiro had thought the port of Honolulu was a busy, crowded place, full of curious sights, but it was nothing but a couple of dusty streets compared to New Bedford.

  He tried to gulp it in with his eyes. He felt as if he had flown over oceans and traveled t
hrough veils of fog and mist to arrive in a magical land of enchantment.

  Tidy houses glittered up the hillside, punctuated by tall spires—tall as ships’ masts.

  People swarmed down the hills and through the streets. Boys skipped along, pushing hoops ahead of them with sticks. Women spun their parasols and lifted their skirts to avoid puddles. Some of them called out the names of loved ones—husbands, sons, fathers, brothers—who’d been away for years.

  There is no one waiting for me, Manjiro thought, then stole a glance at Captain Whitfield. The captain’s gaze seemed to go out beyond the farthest house, the farthest hill. There was no one waiting for him, either.

  “You miss your wife,” Manjiro said.

  Captain Whitfield nodded. “And you miss your mother. But you and I, we are a family now.”

  After the barrels had been unloaded and the owners of the John Howland had proclaimed themselves satisfied with its impressive cargo, Manjiro and Captain Whitfield walked down the gangplank and stepped onto American soil. This was a moment Manjiro had long imagined. He’d imagined himself striding confidently into his new life, but his legs were now so unsteady from the many months at sea that he wove about like a drunken man.

  As Captain Whitfield stopped to speak to someone, Manjiro clung to a railing and gazed out at the town. Women swished by, with skirts so full they could have hidden a giant sea turtle under them. The men’s long-tailed coats made them look like elegant birds as they picked their way among the barrels in the streets. Manjiro was thrilled. It was a beautiful place, America, even if it did stink of whale oil. It was a land filled with lovely people and truly full of wonders! He could not look at enough things at once.

  Then he had the distinct feeling that someone was looking at him. He turned to see a row of boys about his own age slouched against the wall of a building, staring at him. One of the boys said something behind his hand and the others snickered. Manjiro’s heart sank a little; he could tell they were laughing at him. It wouldn’t all be wondrous, he supposed, and he was grateful when the captain whisked him away down the street.

  Everywhere they went, they stopped to chat with people. Captain Whitfield introduced Manjiro to so many people that his head spun. With each new person he had to resist the impulse to bow and remember instead to extend his right hand in greeting.

  While Captain Whitfield made some purchases, Manjiro marveled at the goods displayed in each of the shops’ big windows. On display were harpoons, hammocks, candles, lanterns … everything a whaling ship might need.

  As he ogled the fancy cakes in the baker’s window, he was startled by his reflection in the glass. How odd he looked, in his Western clothes! A movement, also reflected in the glass, caught his eye, and his gaze shifted behind him to a handful of boys—the same boys he’d seen earlier. He watched quietly as the boys made faces and rude gestures behind his back. One pulled at his eyelids, making his eyes into ugly slits in his face. Another bowed and bobbed. The other boys doubled over laughing.

  Is this how he looked to people—strange and grotesque? Did everyone see him this way?

  As he was contemplating this, the boys abruptly stopped and looked at something. Manjiro followed their gazes and noticed a finely dressed man shaking his gold-handled walking stick at them.

  “You scoundrels should be ashamed of yourselves!” he snapped. “Haven’t you anything better to do? Off with you, or I shall have your hides!”

  The boys scattered and the man winked at Manjiro. Then he continued up the hill, whistling and casually swinging his walking stick.

  Captain Whitfield reappeared and Manjiro said, “Do you know that man?”

  The captain squinted at the receding figure. “No,” he said.

  “Why would he do a kindness to me?” Manjiro asked.

  “Why shouldn’t he?”

  “Because I am just a boy and he is a grown person. I am a poor nobody and he is a rich important person.”

  “And why can’t a rich man be kind to a poor ‘nobody’?”

  Manjiro didn’t have an answer. He was as puzzled by the man’s kindness as by the boys’ cruelty.

  “Well!” Captain Whitfield said, clapping his hands together. “Let’s go home, shall we? First thing we’ll do is get a little fire going to take the chill off the place and then fix ourselves some supper.” He patted the packages he carried under his arm and steered Manjiro toward the long bridge that led to Fairhaven, the town on the other side of the Acushnet River. Manjiro had noticed this bridge from the John Howland—it broke in two so that vessels could pass through, then closed shut again, so that people could pass over it. He planned to draw a picture of it as soon as he got the chance.

  Dusk had fallen and a cold drizzle was falling by the time they rounded the corner to the captain’s house. Still, Captain Whitfield whistled the final few blocks. “Soon there!” he said. Manjiro felt his heart drumming in his chest—partly from the long walk, but mostly in anticipation. Soon he would see his new home.

  Suddenly the whistling stopped, and coming up behind the captain, Manjiro saw the reason. The house before them was shuttered, the windows covered over with wide boards. Weeds and vines clung to its walls and cobwebs to the downspout.

  “No one has cared for your house!” Manjiro blurted out.

  After the fatigue of the day and now without prospect of a bed, Manjiro felt a wave of loneliness wash over him. He wondered if his home in Japan was similarly empty and unkempt. The gray clouds and mist that shrouded the roofs of the town seemed to settle on his shoulders.

  The captain lowered himself slowly to sit on the front step, and Manjiro sat down next to him. They picked at the tall grass that grew up around the steps, tearing off little bits and tossing them in the yard. Finally, Captain Whitfield sighed and said, “This was not the homecoming I envisioned for you.”

  “It’s all right,” Manjiro said. “You and me, we family now.”

  Captain Whitfield’s dark look blew away like a squall’s black clouds. He smiled. “That’s exactly right,” he said. “We’ve got each other now. We may have had our sails knocked back, but only for a moment, for there’s Mr. and Mrs. Aken’s house—you know their son Isaachar, who you called Itchy. Why, and there’s Eben himself.”

  A man had come out on the stoop of the house. He looked their way and shouted, “Is that my good friend William Whitfield sitting there looking so forlorn? Please come out of the damp and the cold. There’s supper and a bed here!”

  Mrs. Aken dished up bowls of steaming chowder. Later, Manjiro climbed a number of creaking stairs to go to bed. In spite of the many novelties of the day, he hadn’t been able to shake the dark gloom he’d felt earlier, seeing the captain’s empty house and thinking of those boys who’d made fun of him—snickering and pulling at the edges of their eyes to make their faces into grotesque masks. Now, listening to the rain slashing against the windows and the wind whistling through the sashes, he wondered if Goemon had been right. What if his decision had been a horrible mistake?

  But soon the rain and wind began to take on the rhythm of the sea, and pulling up the warm quilt and sinking into the soft bed, he fell asleep and dreamed he was once again aboard ship, surging toward a splotch of brilliant sunshine.

  The next morning, Manjiro crept down the creaking wooden stairs, trying not to disturb anyone who might be sleeping. He heard soft voices in the kitchen, which he recognized as Captain Whitfield’s and Mr. and Mrs. Aken’s.

  He paused, not wanting to disturb them, and heard the captain say, “I had resigned myself to a life at sea, with a small house in Fairhaven for my few months between ships. But now, with a bright young ward, I’ve begun to think of a farm again. A boy should have land to roam, work for his hands to do, a pond to fish, and a horse to ride.”

  Who was this boy they were talking about? Was it him? Was the captain suggesting that he should have a horse to ride?

  “And a mother?” Mrs. Aken said.

  “Aye,” Captain Whitfi
eld said. “A boy needs a mother.”

  “And a man needs a wife,” said Mr. Aken.

  Manjiro did not feel he needed another mother, but it might not be so bad to have an American one. He glanced out the small window on the landing where he stood. The tiny spring leaves were polished bright with sunlight. His dark mood of the previous night had dissolved.

  “If I’m not mistaken,” Mrs. Aken went on, “there is someone that you care for, isn’t there?”

  Captain Whitfield mumbled into his cup of coffee.

  “Well …?” Mr. Aken said.

  “I thought it all out on the journey home,” the captain said, “and I have a plan.”

  Soon after, Captain Whitfield told Manjiro he was going to New York on business. Manjiro would stay with Mr. and Mrs. Aken.

  “Is New York where you go to get a wife or a mother?” Manjiro said.

  Captain Whitfield looked at him with one quizzical eye and burst out laughing.

  “So you overheard our conversation, did you? I hope you know that it is impolite to eavesdrop.”

  Manjiro hung his head. “I am sorry to eaves drip.”

  “Eavesdrop,” the captain corrected. “There’s no harm done. And it is true that there is a lady of whom I am quite fond. She’s as fine and prudent a woman as any in all of the eastern seaboard, or anywhere, and I tell you, I am resolved to have her for a wife.”

  “If you like her, then I like her, too,” Manjiro said, determined to make it true.

  “You deserve a proper upbringing, John, and you shall have it.” Captain Whitfield adjusted his cap on his head, touched his fingers to the brim as if in a salute, and was gone.

  16

  SAMURAI FARM BOY

  aptain Whitfield returned from his trip to New York with his new wife, Albertina. Her face crinkled up so much when she smiled that her twinkly blue eyes almost disappeared in her round cheeks. She smiled a lot, and Manjiro liked her right away.