by Margi Preus
Manjiro flew up and over her head, mercifully landing in a heap of strewn hay, somersaulted, and sat up. He laughed.
The other boys did not think it was funny. “You keep falling off!” they cried.
“Fall down seven times, get up eight,” Manjiro said. “So my mother used to say.”
22
THE RACE
here were no earthquakes. There were no broken legs. There were no emergencies of any kind. The day of the race arrived, as days generally did on the farm, with the barnyard rooster incessantly announcing its arrival.
Manjiro climbed out of bed like an old man. Today was the day of his humiliation.
Captain Whitfield squinted up at him from his coffee when he came into the dining room. “Rough night?” he asked.
Manjiro shook his head, trying not to let his gloom show. He had taken great pains to keep this contest secret from Captain Whitfield. He poured himself a cup of coffee, muttering to himself, “I’m not going to let the cat jump in the bag now.”
“Pardon me?” the captain said.
Manjiro shook his head and sipped his coffee, the bitterness of it like a rebuke. His relationship with Captain Whitfield had been changing. Now that Manjiro was growing up—he was seventeen now—he regarded the captain more as a friend than a father. There were times, though, like now, when the feeling of being the naughty child of a possibly disapproving father was overwhelming. He should have confided in Captain Whitfield; the captain might have been able to help him out of his predicament. Well, it was too late now. He chewed his bread and jam without tasting it, while the captain’s squinting eye burned a hole in him.
“Look here, John,” Captain Whitfield began. “I can see that something’s been troubling you.”
Oh oh, Manjiro thought, he must know about the race.
“And I wonder if maybe you’ve heard something, and so I think I should tell you myself.”
What? Manjiro wondered. What did Captain Whitfield have to tell him?
The captain cleared his throat. “The farm is operating well,” he said, “and you have been doing a fine job with your studies.”
Manjiro waited. Clearly that wasn’t all he had to say.
“The hired hands are doing well, wouldn’t you agree?”
Manjiro agreed that they were.
“Mrs. Whitfield has some help now, too,” he added. He stood up and looked out the window, then turned back and began again. “Now, listen, John, it would be well for you to learn a trade. I have secured an apprenticeship for you with Mr. Hussey.”
“The cooper—the barrel maker?” Manjiro said slowly. So … Captain Whitfield had found out about the race, knew that Manjiro had made trouble, and now he would have to stop going to school altogether.
“Not right away,” Captain Whitfield said. “Not until next spring.”
“Oh …,” Manjiro said, “so I keep going to school until then?”
Captain Whitfield chuckled. “Don’t look so alarmed! You’ll finish at Bartlett. You can keep going to school while learning the trade.”
Manjiro heaved a sigh of relief and decided to make a clean breast of it and tell Captain Whitfield everything.
But the captain wasn’t finished. “I know …,” he began, then hesitated. “I know that you will not stay with us forever. I want to know that you can always make a living—and cooperage is an honest trade. There will always be a need for coopers, I expect.”
Manjiro nodded. Captain Whitfield stood up and paced around the table. He still hadn’t finished, Manjiro realized. What was it he wanted to say?
“Now, here’s the other thing….” He paused, then blurted out, “I’ve accepted the offer to be master of the William and Eliza, departing in some few months.”
“Oh!” Manjiro was so surprised, he didn’t know what else to say. That was something he hadn’t expected at all—Captain Whitfield going back to sea. Of course he would—why wouldn’t he? He loved the sea.
“The farm is doing well enough, but it doesn’t really pay all the bills!” Captain Whitfield said, laughing. “And what with … well …” He trailed off.
Manjiro didn’t dare open his mouth. He was feeling such a mix of relief, melancholy, dread, and excitement, too, that he couldn’t have put two coherent words together. All the feelings condensed into one strange, strong longing that he couldn’t put words to, either. He missed life on board a ship. However hard it was, however bad or meager the food, however fierce the storms blew, there was the salt spray, the wind in your hair, the dark night, the stars glittering overhead, the foaming waves, the lovely sound of the ship “talking,” and the feeling of both owning the world and being but a tiny speck upon it at the same time. He missed all that, and in a way he longed for it. Most of all, he knew, he would miss the captain, his friend. Finally, that was all he could say.
“I’ll miss you,” he said.
Captain Whitfield’s eyes twinkled in the lamplight. “Ah,” he said. “You’ll soon have someone else to keep you company.”
By the time Manjiro arrived for the race, a large crowd of boys and girls had already gathered along the country road. Someone was passing out cones of sweetened shaved ice—for a nickel apiece—and dozens of little handmade pennants fluttered in the air.
Tom rode up on a lean and well-muscled horse, several hands bigger than Duffy. The horse pranced and sashayed to the “oohs” and “aahs” of the crowd.
“Look at Tom,” Job said. “Look at that black eye. He’s been fighting again!”
Manjiro’s head was so full of everything Captain Whitfield had said, he barely noticed.
Someone in the crowd yelled, “Nice horse, Tom.”
Tom acknowledged this by pulling back on the reins to make the big muscled horse prance.
“What’s his name?” someone called.
“That’s Lightning!” several voices shouted. “He’s famous!”
“Nice shiner, Tom,” someone else yelled.
“You should see the other fellow!” Tom shouted. He dismounted and led his horse over to the start area. Manjiro watched as he gently stroked Lightning’s legs and checked his hooves, speaking to him in a soft voice.
Tom glanced at Manjiro out of the corner of his black eye. He hawked and spat in the dust near Manjiro’s feet and said, “Hope for a miracle.”
Manjiro’s mouth was too dry to answer.
Job and Terry stood nearby, coaching him: “Remember to squeeze with your knees.” “Hunker down.” “Hang on.” “Don’t look around to see where Tom is—never mind about that.”
“Just try not to fall off for once!” Job said.
Then it was time. The boys brought their mounts to the starting line. Lightning zigzagged back and forth across the line while Duffy stood placidly behind it, unmoving.
“Hold your horses!” shouted Roger, the self-appointed starting official. The crowd laughed.
Tom reined in Lightning. Duffy casually twisted her head around to nip at a fly on her flank.
Roger reminded the riders that the race course would follow the dirt road to the fence line, then follow the wagon path through the fallow field, which wound back to the dirt road, to finish at the start line.
“On your marks!” Roger said.
The two competitors jammed their feet into the stirrups.
“Get set!”
The boys crouched low in the saddles, leaned forward over the withers, their mouths as close to their horses’ ears as they could manage.
The shout of “Go!” set the horses running. Even Duffy seemed to get the message and burst across the start line, dancing a bit before charging off.
Manjiro tried to think of nothing but his coaches’ advice. He kept his head down and didn’t look around to see where Tom might be.
The crowd’s cheers receded behind him, and soon all he heard was Duffy’s thudding hooves, her hard breath, and his own short exhalations as he jounced up and down on her back—something he knew he wasn’t supposed to be doing.
Now he was alone and he could finally think. He ran through everything Captain Whitfield had said. He was going back to the sea. Manjiro would be starting an apprenticeship. And what else had the captain said—that soon Manjiro would have someone else to keep him company? Who could that be?
He felt sad and a little lost to think the man who had been his one constant friend in all that had happened for the last three years would be leaving. Manjiro supposed that was why Captain Whitfield had arranged for him to learn a trade, so he could be truly independent.
“In—de—pen—dent!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. What was this feeling? This out-in-the-open, wind-in-the-hair, whooping-and-hollering, rip-roaring feeling? It was something he’d felt often in America, this land of whoopers and hollerers, of people who laughed whenever they felt like it, sang as they strolled down the country roads, and whistled inside the house, if so moved. They went here and there, traveling to faraway places in fast-moving machines, and nobody troubled them about who they were or where they were going or what business they had in that place. This feeling, he realized as the road raced beneath him, and the bright green spring forest rushed by, and the sky was a moving ocean of blue—this was the feeling of freedom.
What are your hopes and dreams? Captain Whitfield had once asked. A person could have ambitions for the future in this country. There was room for hopes and dreams, and he was going to put his mind to it. Right now, Manjiro’s hope was that he would win. It seemed possible. Duffy was going so fast, he couldn’t imagine anything could outrun her. And he had not fallen off—so far.
He was still in the saddle as he crossed the finish line; then he sprang off Duffy to wave in victory to the crowd. Nothing could have run faster than Duffy—no horse alive. Therefore, he must have won.
But then he saw Tom, dismounted, and Lightning prancing about. Had they never started? he wondered. But no, of course, his heart sank when he realized that they had started, raced, and won. And that was why Tom was proudly waving to the crowd.
Manjiro and Duffy were greeted with a smattering of polite applause, a few whistles, and a couple of catcalls. Terry and Job were there. They held Duffy while Manjiro slid off her back, none too gracefully. Manjiro looked at the crowd. Was Catherine there? he wondered, his eyes flickering over the faces. But as he was looking, he noticed that everyone had become silent. And then, when the crowd turned their heads in unison, Manjiro turned to look, too. A big, red-faced man stalked toward them, his hands at his sides balled into tight fists.
“Blast you!” the man shouted, his eyes settling on Tom. “What do you think you’re doing?”
The crowd grew ever more still.
Tom answered in a low voice, “I … we’re … it’s just a little fun. It’s nothing. Really.”
“Did I say you could take Lightning?” the man shouted. “Did I?”
“Pa.” Tom tried to keep his voice calm, the way you’d talk to a dog with bared teeth. “I tried to ask you last night….” His father walloped him across the face.
The crowd took in its breath in one collective gasp.
Tom’s father took hold of Lightning’s bridle with one hand and Tom’s collar with the other and led them away, one on each side of him. He aimed a stream of curses at Tom and every so often delivered a kick to his backside. Every time another kick or blow was administered, Tom hopped or cringed, his swagger gone.
The crowd broke up, with people walking home in small groups, talking quietly. Manjiro and his friends stood around not knowing what to say to one another. Manjiro caught sight of Catherine out of the corner of his eye, leaving with a group of her friends. He would have liked to talk to her, although he didn’t know what he could have said. She glanced at him and gave a little wave. He waved back, and then she was gone.
Manjiro walked Duffy back toward the farm, clucking and humming a bit to her, sometimes talking a little to her in Japanese, which it seemed to him she liked, and thinking. There was so much to think about! He reviewed all the things Captain Whitfield had said this morning, but he couldn’t help thinking about the race, too, and how strangely everything had turned out.
It was odd that Tom was so gentle with his horse, he thought, yet could be so mean to people. He supposed, too, that although everyone had thought the black and blue marks he always wore had come from fighting, they probably were given to him by his own father. “It seems we didn’t really know Tom at all,” he said to Duffy, then stopped.
“Tom!” Manjiro exclaimed. “What are you doing there?”
Tom sat in the ditch, his dusty face streaked with blood and tears. He glanced up at Manjiro, his expression transforming from a pout to a scowl.
“I fell,” he said. “So what?”
“Fall down seven times,” Manjiro said, reaching out to give him a hand, “get up eight.”
23
LOVE
efore he left, Captain Whitfield placed both hands on Manjiro’s shoulders and said, “You are the man of the house now.” Manjiro took it to heart, attending to the farm with earnest effort.
At first, everything had seemed hollow, quiet, empty. Manjiro missed hearing the captain whistling as he strolled from barn to house, and his large laugh—nothing polite about it—ringing out from one of the fields. Mostly, he missed their evening talks on the porch.
And then he discovered The New American Practical Navigator, and from the moment he read the title page, he was hooked.
All the secrets of navigation were here, and if he could understand them, he would possess knowledge that no one else in his country yet possessed. “The epitome of navigation!” the title page proclaimed. “All the tables necessary … in determining the latitude and the longitude by lunar observation and keeping a complete reckoning at sea!” Holding this book in his hands made Manjiro feel like he had discovered a treasure; he felt like the most powerful man on earth.
The title page for The New American Practical Navigator
His desire fueled an interest in earning enough money to purchase his own copy. The odd jobs he did—running errands, painting fences, cleaning chicken coops, splitting wood, and filling wood boxes—kept him so busy, he didn’t have time to think of being lonely.
And then William Henry, the Whitfields’ first child, was born.
The first time Manjiro bent his head to kiss William Henry on his fuzzy head, he inhaled a smell so sweet and familiar, it made him ache inside.
He was suddenly inside his family’s hut in Japan, holding his baby sister—years and years before, right after his father had died. He heard the leaves scraping the thatched roof, the swish of his mother’s garment, and the soft sound of her crying, while in his arms, the baby cooed. He inhaled the sweet, grassy smell of the woven mats on the floor, upon which sunlight lay in bright, trembling squares.
Manjiro could gaze and gaze at William Henry and never grow weary of it. And no matter where Manjiro was in a room, the baby’s eyes would drift there and rest on his face. He had beautiful eyes, a liquid blue—the color of the sea.
“I used to be afraid of blue eyes,” Manjiro whispered to William. “But how could anyone be afraid of you?”
The baby gazed up at him, his face like a polished jewel.
“Someday, when you are grown, you will come and visit me in Japan,” Manjiro said. “You will be the captain of a big, three-masted barque and you will sail proudly into Urado Bay. You will walk the road to my home and no one will run away, afraid you are a devil. Everyone will greet you as my brother.” Even though he knew it was impossible, still the thought sent a little shiver of excitement down his spine.
Manjiro had to admit: He was smitten with a baby.
That wasn’t all. There was also a girl.
24
THE MAY BASKET
he evening of April 30, Manjiro worked at composing a poem. The next day was May Day. The custom was to fill a little basket with flowers along with a handwritten note, then drop it at the door of a girl whom you liked. Up
on hearing your knock at the door, she was supposed to chase and catch you and—most unbelievably—kiss you!
“Is she really going to chase me?” he asked Terry.
“Yes, of course, that’s the whole point!” Terry said.
Manjiro chewed on his pen, scratched out line after line, and started over for what seemed the one hundredth time.
“What should I say?” he said.
“What do you like about her?” Terry said.
“I … just like her!”
“Is she pretty?”
“Oh yes!” Manjiro said. “Very beautiful.”
“Then compare her to the most beautiful thing you can think of,” Terry said.
Manjiro thought a moment and then wrote that she was as beautiful as a right whale. He read it to Terry.
Terry screwed up his face. “I’m not sure she would like to be compared to a whale.”
No, Manjiro thought, he supposed she wouldn’t. He struck that out. “A stormy sea is a beautiful sight.”
“Forget about beauty,” Terry groaned. “What else can you say about her?”
“She has the nicest smell in all the world. She smells as good as rice cooking.”
“Yuck!” Terry said. “Who wants to smell like that?”
Manjiro sighed. No one could understand how, when he had smelled rice cooking after starving for five months, he had thought it was the most heavenly smell in the world. “I guess she doesn’t really smell like rice,” he said.
“Write about her beautiful voice,” Terry said. “Does she have a beautiful voice?”
“Yes, of course,” Manjiro said. Her voice was like … He tried to think of the loveliest sound he knew. “In a stiff wind the ship timbers groan and creak.”
Terry laughed. “I don’t think you’re in love with this girl. I think you’re in love with ships and whales and the sea. Listen, don’t write about her at all, just make up a little rhyme: ‘Roses are red, violets are blue; I hope you will catch me so I can kiss you.’ How’s that?” Terry asked. “I’m going home to write that, right now!”
