“When Kato-sama doesn’t—doesn’t return to Lord Abe’s, surely they will investigate, and contact Jiro over the telegraph.”
“Hmmm,” said Asano. “Someone knew down to the minute when we would be heading to Chiyoda Castle. They knew Abe’s men. As accurate as those arrows were, they could not have missed us unless orders had been given to take us alive. They picked off our escort and left us free.”
“What are you saying?” Saigo demanded.
“The Shogun and his men knew when our meeting with him was, obviously. He requested it. So did he send them, to do away with us privately, out of sight, and the meeting he requested was all just a ruse to get us away from Lord Abe’s protection?”
“He could have just killed us in Chiyoda if he wanted us dead. Use a dozen of his fifty thousand soldiers to squash us.” said Tōru.
“No,” Asano said. “He cannot kill you openly in Chiyoda. Himasaki-dono, you are now famous. And your little book, Observations of Barbarian America by the Treasonous Returnee Himasaki Tōru, is an underground bestseller, thanks to Saigo’s careful note-taking, with scribes all over the country making illegal copies. The Shogun has banned it, but he cannot suppress it. Lord Abe was brilliant to have you “debrief” representatives from every daimyō in the country. Most have returned to their lords and made your case to them, for uniting to re-arm against the foreigners and opening the country for trade with other nations as equals. The Shogun knows there will be opposition raised to your execution in three weeks, as well as that of Lord Aya and Lord Tōmatsu. He is in a go match with Lord Abe, and Lord Abe has him nearly surrounded.”
“Hey, what about me?” said Saigo Takamori. “I’m due for my final haircut as well!”
“Nobody cares about you,” laughed Asano to his friend and fellow soldier of House Shimazu. “Except that yes, they do care. You are treasonous returnee Himasaki Tōru’s fellow inventor and faithful companion. You are a hero to many as well.”
“Not to mention a famous co-author,” said Takamori.
“Seriously, the Shogun knows he cannot kill you openly, not without risking the ire of many of the great daimyōs. The daimyōs don’t like to see any of their number stripped of land and title, so there is a wave of sympathy out there for Lord Aya and Lord Tōmatsu. Think about it. He cannot kill you in Chiyoda Castle, and he probably cannot execute you as scheduled in three weeks. So he wants to get rid of you quietly, out of sight, but Lord Abe has protected you like a mother bear her cubs.”
“Then why were we spared, when his men took down our escort from Lord Abe’s men?” asked Tōru.
“That’s what bothers me. It’s no mystery the Shogun’s men knew we would be out on the street then. Not killing us when they assuredly had the chance is the odd part. I’ve been wondering…”
“Wondering what?” asked Tōru.
“If the Shogun’s men have tapped our telegraph line somehow, and know our full plan. His people were in your briefing sessions as well. They would want—”
“The dirigible,” answered all three.
“And then kill us at their leisure once they have it,” finished Masuyo quietly.
Saigo looked around, the peaceful wood around them suddenly more threatening and still. He whispered, “So you think they are following us to get to it?”
“Worse. I think they are racing us to get to it. We were not careful on the telegraph last night, assuming we were the only ones using it. A clever pair of ears could guess more or less where we are meeting the dirijibi. That’s why—”
“Main road. Let’s go,” said Tōru. They saddled up. The horses, rested and fed, picked up their pace as they left the village and headed for the main road.
When they reached the highway, Asano motioned for a halt.
“If we get separated, continue north as fast as you can. Split up if we’re attacked—our best hope is reaching the dirijibi before they do. If we stop to fight, we’ve already lost. You’ll see it, up the hill behind Aomori village. Jiro was to land it in time to meet us, hiding further north until then. Follow the sign from the main road to Aomori. We’re about an hour from there, pushing a fast trot.”
“Let’s go,” said Tōru.
They raced north as the sun rose above them and beat down on them, warm even on the winter day. Masuyo was a good rider, but unused to the hard riding and the jarring gait they were taking to stretch the horses. She was hot, too, and tightly swaddled in kimono and obi, all wadded up around her under her filthy peasant cloak. But she would die before admitting discomfort. She urged her horse on, knowing her only safety lay in speed.
Tōru kept pace by her side, admiring her grit and her devotion to her father, to take such risks. The two Satsuma samurai held pace at the rear, arguing tactics should they be attacked.
The horses were tiring, even at a moderate trot. They had been pressed hard on the galloping escape from the city center. Though the pace was more comfortable now, it was no walk. They would not have another hard gallop in them if the party were attacked.
The winter sun was sinking toward the horizon, no longer overhead. With the planned horse exchanges, they would have reached the dirigible by now. Tōru worried about his friend Jiro, now exposed in the open, waiting for them. They were close, but were the Shogun’s men closer? They were not far now, perhaps twenty minutes from the village by Asano’s calculation, but that was an eternity if the Shogun’s forces were already there.
“If Jiro is attacked before we get there, is there a plan?” asked Tōru, suddenly struck by this new concern.
Asano grunted, bitten by the same worry. He replied in his usual deadpan way, “We had counted on surprise and our plans being hidden. We have no backup plan. A possibly costly error.”
Masuyo pointed to the sky. “Look!”
And there it was, Jiro’s dirigible, sailing majestically across the afternoon sky, floating gently toward them from the north. Soon they could see Jiro waving frantically at them, as his crew lowered the airship slowly, slowly down to the ground as it floated toward them. Now they could see riders racing south toward them, specks on the horizon line of the flat plain, but nearby and closing fast.
“That can’t be good,” said Takamori, indicating the riders.
The dragon dirigible was close enough for Tōru to inspect his dream for the first time, now made real by the magic of Jiro and his mighty team of engineers and craftsmen.
Masuyo had demanded they paint the underside with the image of a dragon, with a dragon’s head prow in front. “We must frighten the foreigners. We show our confidence and our power by taking time with the symbols. They will return to their country talking of nothing but our dragon airships, and their leaders will be afraid.”
Tōru had grudgingly agreed to the additional time and expense. He was glad he had, for it was an awe-inspiring sight. He could see Jiro now, bellowing orders to his pilot and engineers, the roar of the engines audible above the clatter of their horses’ hooves as they raced toward the dirigible. The enemy horsemen were close now. A dozen armed men, maybe more, raced toward them at full gallop.
Jiro threw rope ladders over the side. He was shouting and pointing at the horsemen to the north. Tōru and the others could not understand him over the roar of the engines and the panting of their horses. They urged their horses on, demanding one last sprint.
A pair of rope ladders dragged along the ground a few hundred feet away as they closed the distance.
The enemy riders were nearly upon them.
Masuyo, lightest of them, reached the ladders first. She leapt off her exhausted horse, grabbed her saddlebag and threw it over her shoulder, her naginata strapped to her back, and climbed up the swaying ladder, kicking her kimono open with each step so she could find her footing. Tōru tightened his gear and saddlebag on himself and then grabbed Masuyo’s ladder, holding it as firmly as he could for her as the airship bucked and tugged above them.
Jiro had thrown down an anchor.
The airship fough
t the anchor, longing to soar back up into the sky. Takamori was halfway up his ladder, as Asano freed the horses from rein and saddle so they could return home unencumbered.
Tōru looked up.
Jiro’s men were hauling Masuyo over the gunwale to safety. They had Takamori safe as well.
Tōru climbed, as did Asano, for the horsemen were upon them.
Jiro was shouting, pointing urgently at something, but Tōru couldn’t hear. Just in time he saw the men at the anchor raise a blade and slice down, severing the line to the anchor. He grabbed on with all his remaining strength, twisting his arms into and around the ladder as the airship bucked up suddenly, yearning for the sky, and they sailed up, up, up to the vast blue emptiness, trailing Tōru and Asano in their wake as their ladders swung free behind the airship like the trailing tentacles of some great sea creature.
The enemy horsemen circled in frustration below, their prey soaring up into the sky out of reach.
CHAPTER 15
OUTLAW
“When a man is denied the right to live the life he believes in,
he has no choice but to become an outlaw.”
– Nelson Mandela
Jiro’s crewmen pulled Tōru and Asano to safety.
Jiro grinned, bowing to one and all as he welcomed them aboard his ship. The former blacksmith looked positively elegant, if alien, in a long coat of his own design, styled upon military officer coats he found in Tōru’s newspapers from America. He sported lovingly polished high leather boots of fine black leather. Glowing goggles of green glass and shining brass hung around his neck from a leather strap. He finished his ensemble with a large and ostentatious hat, also designed around Western models and topped with an absurdly enormous feather. He was fully captain of his airship, and wore his new authority like an old and comfortable cloak.
“You made it, you skinny son-of-a-seal!” Gone was the awkward deference to Tōru, replaced by the childhood friend grown to manhood and natural leadership.
“You are a welcome sight indeed, old friend.” Tōru returned Jiro’s embrace, wincing as Jiro crushed a wound on his ribs he had taken in the fight that morning. “May we board your ship, Captain?”
Jiro grinned. “Let me give you the tour.” And so he did, showing them the cunningly crafted passenger cabin, able to hold 20 fully armed men comfortably seated and, in the adjacent stable, up to a dozen horses. Everywhere was gleaming polished wood and brass. The crew quarters boasted a sleeping area, where half the crew could rest at a time, a small fully outfitted kitchen and the belching engine room. Finally he brought them to the command deck, where Jiro and his officers ruled over their engines and the skies.
Tōru examined each detail of the ornate control system for flying the great ship. Jiro grinned, watching him note every device and instrument, each one carefully labeled with its name and purpose, to aid the crews in training.
Tōru looked up at Jiro. “You can read these?”
“Of course. A captain must know everything about his ship.”
Tōru shook his head. “The ship is a marvel, but you reading is a hundred times a marvel more.”
Jiro grinned with pride and nodded silent thanks to Masuyo. She returned his nod with a secret smile. Jiro’s sufferings with the kanji had been worth the prize.
Tōru could hardly believe he stood on the deck of his own airship. Or more accurately, Jiro’s airship, to judge by the confident command of the man and the quick leap to obey from each of his men. It would take a battle indeed to pry Jiro from his proud position behind the ship’s wheel, steering his airship. From an idea, a couple of newspaper articles, a diagram and a drawing annotated in the damnable French, Tōru was now standing on a functioning airship, flying above his homeland, soaring over neatly tended rice fields terraced up the gentle hills and valleys, free for the moment from the threat of imminent execution. Lost in the wonder of the moment, he forgot his manners for a moment, then waved over Jiro.
“Introductions! Captain, may I present Asano-san, retainer to Lord Shimazu of Satsuma? Asano-san, Captain Jiro of the airship…?”
“Hakudo-Maru. Since you taught us how to build airships, I thought it a good name for the first—”
Tōru laughed. “Well, I am no celestial being, but it’s a good name. Long may she soar.”
Asano bowed polite greetings. “Yoroshiku.”
Jiro returned the greeting with an elaborate doff of his spectacular headgear and added, “Welcome aboard. I’ve seen your messages on the telegraph. It’s an honor to have you with us, sir.”
Asano murmured a courteous “katajikenai” before continuing his thoughtful inspection of the marvelous dirigible.
“You are taking us north?” asked Asano, noting the sun sinking in the west.
“Hai. You are hunted men. And lady,” added Jiro, including Masuyo. “They will seek you in the west. We have new allies in the north who will hide you. Next stop, Asaka, in Mutsu, in the far north. You will be a fisherman again, Himasaki-sama.”
“Indeed. Maybe we will meet the Emishi people. I’ve always wanted to—my mother told me stories of their great archery feats.”
Jiro nodded, “Perhaps. They don’t raid down to Japanese territory much anymore. The important thing is you will be far from the Shogun’s men and nowhere near where they search for you. They worry me more than some hairy Emishi.”
Jiro’s cook beckoned them to the crew’s main room, where a simple but delicious hot meal of rice, dried fish and pickled vegetables awaited them, served alongside excellent saké. The cook hovered nearby, proud to have such famous diners at his table, constantly refilling their bowls with rice and roasted fish. They were hungry after their long ride and the excitement of the day.
Jiro filled them in on what he knew. He had a temporary telegraph set up at the planned meeting spot in Aomori. When Lord Abe’s few surviving men made it back to his compound, Jiro had received word of the attack and knew they were fleeing, ahead of schedule and without protection from Lord Shimazu’s men.
“We had to gamble. Would you come the back way as planned or speed up the main road? We figured the telegraph had listening ears, or you wouldn’t have been attacked. We worried there would be ambushes waiting for you at the horse exchanges.”
Asano nodded. “We feared so as well.”
“So we had to imagine what you would do, with no fresh horses and no escort. The long way made no sense, if surprise was gone. And when the Shogun’s men showed up at my anchor hurling flaming arrows at me—”
“We were afraid you would be attacked, that they wanted the airship,” broke in Tōru.
“And so they did. I cut my anchor line, headed south to look for you. Had to hope you chose speed over secrecy, because I couldn’t have seen you under the tree cover on the long route anyway. By the way, we just cut the line to my only spare anchor. Next time, someone has to jump down and tie us to a good-sized tree.”
“We appreciate your sacrifice, Captain Jiro,” Tōru bowed gravely to his childhood friend. “We’ll get you a new anchor.”
“We don’t have to lose them if we can hoist them up gently. You just have to work on getting us attacked less often.”
Tōru laughed at his friend’s protective sense of ownership over the airship. Jiro grinned and poured his friends another round, and another, and another. Even Masuyo sipped a tiny saké cup, glad of the warmth curling through her chest after the day’s hard ride.
The sun dipped over the horizon and darkness wrapped its embrace over the land. It was cold up so high, so they bundled up in spare crew coats Jiro handed out. They sailed east until they reached the coast, and then turned north. Jiro’s navigator stood at the ship’s wheel, holding a northern course by the Hokkyokusei North Star and the coastline, dark against the glistening moonlight paths traced across the sea. The stars seemed measurably closer, glowing in the absolute black of the sky. Occasionally they passed over the scattered dim lights of a fishing village along the coast.
“
It will take us all night to reach Asaka. You are safe now. Why not rest, and we’ll catch you up in the morning on all that’s been happening while you were away?” asked Jiro.
As much as he wanted to know everything, a bone-tired weariness tugged at Tōru. He nodded assent.
“Lady Aya, we’ve prepared a place for you.” Jiro led her to a tiny cabin, private and neat, furnished in polished wood and sweet-smelling fresh tatami mats. A luxurious clean o-futon mattress and coverlets lay waiting.
“Oh no, I couldn’t!” She tried to decline, recognizing this must be Jiro’s personal cabin.
“My lady, I insist. Please.”
Masuyo saw the caring warmth in Jiro’s eyes and gave in, knowing she would never convince him otherwise. “Just this once. This is the Captain’s cabin and must be reserved for him.” She bowed her thanks, slipped into the tiny room and fell asleep at once in the soft bedding.
The others bedded down in the crew quarters, smelly from their ride, but glad of the rest, lulled by the quiet hum of the engines and the wind past their cabin.
Tomorrow they could plan their next steps.
Tōru awoke to the shouts of Jiro’s crew as they lowered the airship down into a small clearing and tied off anchor lines to several trees. This far north, the air was cold, and a thin layer of early winter snow lay upon the branches of the trees and the ground below. Tōru could see the top of the ship was still visible above the treetops, the huge rigid airframe glowing dully in the early morning light like an alien whale beached on the hillside.
Jiro had assured him last night they were on safe territory, but the paranoia of the hunted man still held Tōru in its grasp. Just because you cannot see them does not mean they are not stalking you. He wished for a more sheltered spot, but figured Jiro had done the best he could. Dirigibles were not designed to hide.
Masuyo greeted him, dressed in her odd peasant trousers, boots and a hapi coat strapped around her slim frame with a ragged belt. Her hair was wound up and tucked under a small cap. She could pass for an unusually slender and attractive peasant youth, he thought. He was glad to see her smiling like her old self, a wicked gleam back in her eye.
Toru: Wayfarer Returns (Sakura Steam Series Book 1) Page 19
