by Margi Preus
Another wave curled over the side of the boat.
“There’s more sea in the boat than out of it,” Goemon said.
“Then bail!” Manjiro tossed Goemon a bucket.
Goemon whimpered as he scooped out icy water. “‘I have bought a fine boat that will take us home,’ you said. ‘If we can just get close enough to the islands, it will get us there.’ Another one of your fine ideas. Like going to America. If America was so wonderful, why didn’t you stay there, among your friends?”
“Look!” Denzo shouted. “Land!”
Manjiro, facing backward in order to row, could only imagine the jagged rocks and wind-twisted trees, the rounded hills rising from the sea.
“We’re really there, aren’t we?” Goemon said with growing excitement. “We’re really home.”
“Home,” Manjiro said. He rolled the word around on his tongue as if it were a sweet plum. Home. Would it be home?
Of the ten years he’d been away from Japan, he’d spent almost six of them on the sea. Would life always be like this for him—in a storm-tossed boat, madly trying to steer toward one shore or the other? He had already begun to miss America, just as, when he’d been away, he missed Japan. As the hull of their boat scraped the beach, he knew he would long for his family in America as much as he had longed for his family here.
“I hope you will never forget me,” he had written to Captain Whitfield before he left Honolulu, “for I have thought about you day after day; you are my best friend on the earth, besides the great God.”
The men jumped out of the boat and dragged it out of the surf. Then they fell to their knees in gratitude.
“Ah—the soft sand of our country,” Denzo said.
“And the sweet air,” Goemon said, inhaling deeply.
“And the fragrant pines,” Manjiro sighed.
“And the …,” Goemon paused and the others followed his gaze into the trees. “… men who have come to arrest us,” he finished.
37
SPIES!
irst a face. Then a hand. Then a swish of a robe. Figures appeared in the shadows of the trees.
“Get the gun,” Goemon said.
“No,” Manjiro said. “It will seem like we intend to hurt them.”
“What if they intend to hurt us?!”
“If they do, then they will,” Manjiro said, “because there are going to be a lot more of them than us.”
“What do they have in their hands?” Goemon cried.
They were carrying something. Knives? Daggers?
Manjiro laughed. “It’s sweet potatoes! They’re bringing us food!”
A village of curious onlookers stood timidly at the fringes of the trees, staring at them. A few brave souls approached and offered them steaming sweet potatoes and bowls of rice.
When Denzo showed them his empty flask, the villagers rushed to take it and fill it with water.
“You see, Goemon?” Manjiro said. “These people don’t want to harm us.”
Manjiro turned back just in time to see the crowd part, all of them bowing deeply from the waist. Several official-looking men wearing grave expressions walked through the crowd toward the fishermen.
Portraits of the surviving members, in traditional garb, upon returning to Japan
“Maybe not,” Goemon said, “but these people might.”
Long after dark, they trudged on. The officials who accompanied them lit torches and they staggered forward. Rain had turned the pathways to mud, and Manjiro’s feet sank into the cold muck with each step. Exhausted from lack of sleep and the long night of marching, he felt he could not take another step. Denzo struggled ahead of him and Goemon moaned behind.
Finally, the entourage stopped under a large pine tree. Someone started a fire and got a pot of gruel cooking. Manjiro sat on the cold, damp ground and fingered the tattered tenugui his mother had given him so long ago. He rubbed the soft cloth of the headband that had once been rough and stiff but had been worn so smooth as to be almost like silk. He felt as torn and tattered as that old cloth, and worn so thin he wondered if people could see right through him.
“What will happen to us?” Denzo whispered. “They say we are spies!”
“Just do as they say,” Manjiro mumbled. “Perhaps then they will see we mean no harm, and they will let us go home to our families.”
38
THE DAIMYO
Fall 1851 (5th Year of Kaei, Year of the Rat)
anjiro pushed up the sleeve of his kimono so it wouldn’t drag in the ink. He sat on the floor in front of a low table, brush in hand. He was practicing the character for “garden,” which, he thought, might as well be the same as the characters for “prison.” Since there was so often nothing else to do, he was using the time to learn to read and write his own language.
He paused to stare out at the courtyard. In the small garden, three trees surrounded a tiny pond. In spring, the cherry blossoms had burst into bloom, covering the tree in mounds of pale blossoms. The blossoms fell, the leaves unfurled, and summer came. A humid silence had settled on the garden, broken only by the splash of a frog.
It was a tranquil prison, but it was still a prison.
Many moons had waxed and waned, and they still had not been allowed to see their families, or even to send messages to them. Why had he ever thought he could help bring change to Japan? He could not convince anyone of anything! He was not able even to convince the authorities of his and his friends’ innocence and their simple desire to go home.
Officials came and went. Sometimes they wanted to talk to the fishermen. Some wanted just to look at them; some wanted to interrogate them, as if they were spies. Manjiro, Denzo, and Goemon told the story of the shipwreck over and over. They explained that thunderstorms occurred in other parts of the world, not just Japan, and that the Milky Way could be seen everywhere. They were asked to eat with chopsticks, to prove they were Japanese.
Now the courtyard was gray and colorless, shrouded in mist. Manjiro sat at the low table, brush in hand. He was just pushing up the sleeve of his kimono when the officials came and asked for him. Just Manjiro. Alone.
“Manjiro!” Goemon clasped Manjiro’s hands in his. “Be careful of what you say. You can’t just say anything you like. It’s not like America!”
“I’ll be careful,” Manjiro said.
On the far side of the courtyard, Manjiro was ushered into a large room. Compared to American rooms crowded with tables, chairs, rugs, cupboards, and bric-a-brac, the rooms in Japanese houses—even houses used as prisons such as this—were open, airy, and uncluttered.
Even so, Manjiro found it a little hard to breathe. Across the room a daimyo, Lord Nariakira, sat on his knees on a raised platform. His silk kimono rustled elegantly as he waved to dismiss the other officials in the room. Manjiro immediately sank onto his knees and pressed his forehead to the floor.
“Tell me about this country you have been to—America,” the daimyo said.
Manjiro looked up to see the great lord’s eyes flash. Was it with interest? Or malevolence? Manjiro knew the way he answered Lord Nariakira’s questions could determine his fate. His heart pounded; he heard the familiar roar of fear in his head.
He remembered his determination to change how the Japanese thought of foreigners. But he so desperately wanted to go home to his family. Perhaps if he gave simple answers, they would let him go.
He said, “In America, women put holes in their ears and string thread with beads through the holes.” He paused, then went on. “American toilets are placed over holes in the ground. It is customary to read books while using them.”
The daimyo’s stare was piercing. “Is this all you have to tell me?”
This man would not be impressed with little novelties, Manjiro saw. He wanted to know things. Important things. So Manjiro said, “America is an open country and learning is constantly becoming greater,” he said. “It has made many inventions. Like … a telegraph. A telegraph is a wire stretched high above the road,
and a letter goes from one station to another without the aid of a messenger.”
The daimyo listened quietly.
Drawing of a train
“I think the letter is drawn by a magnet iron,” Manjiro continued.
“Go on,” Lord Nariakira said.
“They have also something called a railroad. It consists of twenty-three or -four iron boxes chained together. The cargo is placed on top and the passengers sit inside. These boxes have two or three windows with glass panes. When one looks through them when the train is in motion, its swiftness is so great that objects are seen only for an instant. This land ship runs on iron rails.”
When Lord Nariakira asked about ships, Manjiro talked at length about whaling vessels, how swift they were—and they were not the swiftest! He told of their many sails and how superior they were in weathering storms, and how they could carry thousands of barrels of oil and dozens of men. Westerners, he said, had mastered the art of navigation, and now they built vessels that did not need wind, for they were powered by steam! “In the hold of the vessel they make a fire. Steam is given off from a boiling cauldron, and this turns a motor, which causes wheels on both sides of the ship to revolve. The ship then runs on the sea as fast as flying. This is called a steamship. I can find nothing to compare with it.”
The lord offered Manjiro a cup of sake and asked him to tell him about the American government and the country’s military strength.
“The American government is said to be the best in the world,” Manjiro said. “There is no hereditary king. Instead, a man of great knowledge and ability is elected king. He sits on the throne for four years. This king is known as the President of the United States. He lives very simply and goes about on horseback, followed by a single retainer. There is no distinction between classes. Even a man of low rank may become an official. Birth and family are of little consequence; individuals earn positions according to their abilities. Respect for personal rights is a basic principle of that society.”
He raised his head to glance at his inquisitor. The daimyo nodded thoughtfully, his face placid and serene. “What about weapons?” he said. “Firepower? Guns?”
Manjiro drew a picture of the battlements he had seen in Boston Harbor. “Even the small port of the town where I lived is fortified with guns,” he said. “The shells are about ten inches in diameter. The guns measure some twelve feet. Ships are supplied with cannons, and the sailors armed with rifles. There is hardly any weapon that can frighten Americans out of their wits.”
Then he quickly added, “But America is working to develop its own country. It has no time to attack other countries.”
The daimyo glanced out at the garden. Sunlight had begun to pierce the mist. Then he unrolled a large scroll on the floor in front of him. Manjiro recognized the world map he had brought with him, one of many things that had been confiscated. Manjiro crept forward and gazed at the map, losing himself once again in the cool blue of the oceans. The first time he had seen a map like this, everything had seemed unworldly, impossible, unreachable. Now he had been to many of these places. He knew the white sand beaches on this coast and the mountains that seemed to erupt from these islands. Here there were peacocks, and here snow piled up as high as houses. Here cold winds blew, but here the air was soft as the breath of babies.
“This is the world,” he said. “Here is America.” He took a deep breath and rushed on. No matter what happened, this might be the only chance he had to have his say. “When a whaleship or a trading vessel is delayed by a storm,” he said, pointing to the waters off the coast of Japan, “there is a shortage of water and fuel. The Japanese government drives all vessels away, whether the crew is suffering or not. The Americans would like to get permission to get these things at Japanese ports. Americans do not want to conquer Japan, only to be able to find a harbor here where whalers and other ships may resupply.”
Lord Nariakira stood facing the courtyard. He was silent. Manjiro wondered if he had said too much, if he had angered the powerful lord. A gust of wind blew into the room, lifting the edge of the map. “The weather is changing,” the daimyo said.
Manjiro nodded. “As is the world,” he said.
The lord turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised.
“But I believe good will come out of this changing world,” Manjiro said.
39
NAGASAKI
agasaki!” Goemon cried. “But that is even farther away from our homes! Why do we have to go there?”
“Lord Nariakira says it is just a formality,” Manjiro said. “He has written a letter encouraging our release. I think, after this one last official visit, we will be allowed to go home.”
But as soon as they arrived in Nagasaki, they were put in prison. This time the interrogators were not friendly, like Lord Nariakira, but cruel. Every few days they were dragged to a courtyard and forced to kneel in the hot, white sand. The three men were pounded with questions, then dragged from their beds to answer yet more. Manjiro told the interrogators everything he’d told Lord Nariakira and then some.
Finally, exhausted and weary, they were escorted into a courtyard and shown an image engraved on a copper plate. Manjiro recognized the image of the Madonna and child. They were told to stamp on the image. Fumi-e, it was called; it meant they had rejected the foreign religion.
“Just do it,” Manjiro said, “then they’ll have to let us go.”
The men stamped on it as instructed.
“Now we will be allowed to go home,” Manjiro said.
But instead they were taken to a cell so small it was like a cage, and so low that they couldn’t stand up in it.
As they entered, Manjiro heard whispers and scuffling feet, and when his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw they were not alone. Several forlorn-looking souls sat along the wall with their knees drawn up to their chests. They were castaways, too.
“What will happen to us?” Goemon said.
“This is just a formality,” said one. “They always do this just before they release you.”
“So we have heard,” grumbled another.
“Have you heard the news?” someone whispered.
“The shogunate is disintegrating,” said another in hushed tones.
“Did you know,” said a hoarse voice in the far corner, “that China is falling to the West?”
No, they said, they didn’t know. They had been so isolated these last many months, they had not heard anything.
“Rival daimyo are trying to grab power from one another,” said a prisoner.
“The Dutch have been warning the shogun about the West,” said another. “They tell of their guns and firepower, about the might and strength of the West, and that America is like a big, angry giant waiting to attack! Do you know? Is that so?”
Manjiro thought of the ramparts he’d seen in Boston Harbor, and ships bristling with cannons. “America is strong, yes,” he said. “It has many weapons. But it isn’t angry! America doesn’t want to attack Japan!” He hoped he was right.
“It’s whispered there will be civil war here. And perhaps war with the West,” said the voice in the corner.
Manjiro, Denzo, and Goemon glanced at one another. To what kind of world had they returned? If they survived imprisonment, would they survive the country’s turmoil?
40
THE ROAD HOME
June 1852 (5th Year of Kaei, Year of the Rat)
rom his resting place on the road that would take him home, Manjiro drank in the air, crystal clear, smelling faintly of salt and feeling very much like freedom. He had walked with his friends to their own hometown, and now he was on his own. They had been given some money, along with most of their belongings, and had been released with the admonishment not to talk about their experiences in the West. Manjiro had talked about it so much these past two years, he felt empty of words.
Shielding his eyes with his hand, he gazed out at the glittering expanse of sea. Except for a few small fishing boats bobbing close to sh
ore, it was as vast, blue, and empty as the sky.
The road, however, was busy. Commoners traveled by foot, carrying bundles on their heads, or rice baskets over their shoulders. Samurai rode on horseback and in kagos, platforms carried by their servants. When samurai went by, everyone along the road bowed. When mighty daimyos with their long processions passed by, the commoners dropped to their knees, heedless of dirt or mud, and pressed their foreheads to the ground. Manjiro often had the urge to ignore this custom, but he would be back in prison—or worse—if he did.
At the moment, Manjiro paid no attention to the bustle. His thoughts raced across the water toward distant shores.
An old man had paused at the top of the hill to catch his breath. “What do you see out there?” he said.
Manjiro turned to him and bowed. “Ships, Ojiisan,” he said. “Big ships, sailing this way.”
The man squinted out at the blue sea. He turned to others passing by. “Do you see ships coming? Big ships? I cannot see them, but perhaps we should alert the authorities!”
Others stopped to peer out at the ocean.
“Nothing,” said one.
“Just fishing boats,” said another. “What was it you said you saw?”
“Worlds,” Manjiro said. “Whole worlds sailing this way.”
“Ach,” the old man spat, “he is crazy.” He moved past Manjiro, waving his arm dismissively.
The others shook their heads and continued on. Manjiro, with two more days of walking ahead of him, struck off toward home.
• • •
Outside his village, he stopped. He had left the village a fourteen-year-old boy in a ragged tunic and straw sandals and was returning as a grown man dressed in a formal hakama and haori. What if no one recognized him?
