The Merchant's Tale

by Simon Partner

  Chūemon’s family landholdings would not on their own have been enough to finance an affluent lifestyle. Five acres were enough to feed a family comfortably but not to produce a surplus for travel, education, and investment. That came from the family’s specialized activities in the production and trading of commercial crops. While a little more than half the family’s land was devoted to rice production, much of the rest was planted in cotton. The Shinoharas’ annual family income in 1858 was twenty-five ryō. The value of the ryō is hard to pin down in contemporary equivalents because of the disparity in available goods and services, but based on the wages of a skilled artisan then and now, the Bank of Japan equates it to three hundred thousand yen (about US$3,000) in today’s money: not wealth but enough for a family self-sufficient in food and housing to buy a few of the good things in life.5 This money could not have come from the sale of produce grown on the family land alone: the balance must have come from trade. Like many regional producers, Chūemon clearly supplemented his income by trading in local cash-based commodities such as cotton and silk. Chūemon was as much a part of the merchant as the farming community.

  In fact, Chūemon’s background was much more varied than the designation “farmer” would suggest. He was born a second son, and as a young man he had lived for several years in Edo. According to family lore, Yasutarō (Chūemon’s childhood name) came to the attention of the local shogunal superintendent—the Isawa daikan—who recommended him for a trainee position in the Edo bureaucracy. Yasutarō went to work in the Kinza, the department responsible for the minting of coinage and the management of its circulation. Yasutarō did well in his job, and he was singled out for advancement by the head of the Kinza, Gotō Sanemon. Gotō is said to have taken a special interest in Yasutarō, and he would undoubtedly have furthered Yasutarō’s career had circumstances not forced the young man to abandon his life in Edo.6

  Those circumstances point to the unpredictability of life and the strange turns it can take. In 1830 Yasutarō’s father, Kinzaemon, died, and Yasutarō’s older brother became head of the family, changing his own name to Kinzaemon. In spite of having had two wives, Yasutarō’s brother Kinzaemon had no children of his own. In the mid-1830s Kinzaemon’s own health started failing. In light of this crisis, Yasutarō was urgently recalled to Kōshū, and at the beginning of 1835 he was adopted by his older brother. Yasutarō was now heir to the Shinohara family. Six months later Kinzaemon died, and Yasutarō, who was himself recently married with a newborn son, became family head. It was at this point that he changed his name to Chūemon.

  By the time that our story opens, then, Chūemon was a man who had everything to lose. In this peaceful and abundant agricultural region, he was a member of the prosperous elite. He had a large and comfortable home; he had land and crops; he had storehouses full of produce; he had an honorable position as headman of his village; he had a wife and children (the youngest six, the oldest twenty-four); he had a dense network of friends and business associates; he was physically healthy; he was respected and liked; and he was secure in his place within a centuries-old social order. Experienced, energetic, and optimistic, he was an asset to the community in which his identity was so deeply rooted. What was it, then, that prompted him to leave all this behind?

  Perhaps his experiences in Edo, and in particular with the commercial economy, made Chūemon open in 1859 to returning to the world of business and commerce. Perhaps he was bored with farming. Perhaps he felt it was time to pass the baton to his eldest son but did not yet feel ready to fully retire. Perhaps he was stirred by a sense of adventure as he imagined the possibilities that trade with the outside world might represent. Or perhaps he went to serve his community: it is clear from their early correspondence that Chūemon, Gorōemon, and their network of local friends, relatives, and investors saw their new venture as a form of partnership—a “Kōshū Products Company” (Kōshū Sanbutsu Kaisho) that would market the produce of the Kōshū region and benefit local producers.7 Indeed, in their application for a plot of land in Yokohama, Chūemon and Gorōemon stated that “although we are farmers, we have been desiring for some time to become merchants, selling the products of our farming. Already the products of Kōshū are sold in every part of the country, and we would like to sell some of these same products [in Yokohama].”8 It is clear that Chūemon and Gorōemon wanted to portray themselves as representatives first and foremost of their home province, Kōshū.

  But if their mission was deeply embedded in a sense of loyalty to their community, it also reflected their own personalities and outlook. Chūemon’s willingness to leave behind so much that was familiar and comfortable and to sink so much of his personal and financial capital into a venture in an unknown and wholly speculative new space indicates an unusual sense of optimism and adventurousness. This entrepreneurial spirit was, perhaps, the chief factor that set Chūemon off on the Kōshū highway on that April morning. As we will see, he was a resourceful and committed businessman who was driven by a perpetual optimism that great opportunities were out there, like ripe Kōshū grapes waiting to be grasped and plucked.

  JAPAN’S RELUCTANT EMBRACE

  Chūemon’s goal on that journey of April 1859 was to apply for a license to open a shop in the new port town of Yokohama. The creation of Yokohama marked the culmination of a six-year drama, starting with the arrival of Commodore Matthew Perry off Japanese shores in July 1853. Perry’s mission was to put an end to Japan’s reclusive foreign policy, which since the seventeenth century had limited officially sanctioned trade to an enclave in Nagasaki in the far southwest of Japan, inhabited by small colonies of Dutch and Chinese merchants. Under that policy Christianity was strictly banned, the shogunate eschewed diplomatic relations beyond a few sporadic exchanges with Korea, foreign visitors except for the regulated communities in Nagasaki were prohibited, Japanese were forbidden to build ocean-going ships, and overseas travel by Japanese subjects was banned. In practice, the shogunate turned a blind eye to a considerable volume of unofficial trade: the Satsuma domain in southwestern Japan imported goods from the Ryukyu Islands; the island domain of Tsushima acted as both trading partner and informal diplomatic intermediary with Korea; and the Matsumae domain in the far north traded with Ainu and other native peoples for furs, seafood, and medicines. But from the perspective of most Western governments, Japan was a closed country that rejected the international system of trade and diplomacy and even at times flouted the basic norms of international hospitality, such as offering succor to ships in distress.

  During the first decades of the nineteenth century, Japan’s position of isolation came under threat from several directions. Russia was rapidly expanding its empire into Siberia, and by the 1830s its ships were nosing into northern regions such as Ezo (including what is now Hokkaido) that were only partially integrated into the Tokugawa power structure. There was a distinct threat that Russia might lay claim to these regions. At the same time, Great Britain and France were aggressively expanding their imperial reach into East and Southeast Asia. China’s humiliation in the Opium War of 1839–1842 launched the start of the treaty port system, by which Chinese ports became semicolonial enclaves in which the foreigners claimed special privileges beyond the reach of Chinese law. As if these developments weren’t enough, the United States was completing its western expansion with the acquisition of California from Mexico in 1848 and the gold rush of the early 1850s. From this point on, the United States saw itself as having a vital interest in Pacific affairs.

  In this environment, Commodore Perry led a U.S. naval fleet to Japan in 1853. Perry’s message was simple: all we want is a treaty of friendship and safe harbor for our whaling vessels; America is a peaceful, nonimperial power and will be a good friend to Japan; and if you don’t sign an agreement with us, you will have to reckon with the naval might of the aggressive European imperialist powers. Nevertheless, naval strength was an important part of Perry’s calculation too. Ostentatiously, he brought his fleet within firing ra
nge of the massed wooden buildings of the city of Edo. If he had wanted to, he could have burned the city down. He wanted the Japanese to know that.

  Intimidated by Perry’s naval power and persuaded in part by his arguments, the shogunal authorities decided they had no choice but to enter into treaty relations with the United States. When Perry returned to Japan in early 1854, a signing ceremony was held in a rustic location along the shoreline near Edo. Its name was Yokohama.

  As many in Japan had feared, the Treaty of Kanagawa (named for the nearest administrative center to Yokohama) turned out to be the thin end of a wedge that would ultimately force open Japan’s restricted system of international relations and trade. In 1858 America’s first ambassador to Japan, Townsend Harris, persuaded a reluctant shogunal government to sign a further agreement, a Treaty of Amity and Commerce, that would greatly expand the scope of Japan’s foreign relations. Harris persuaded the shogunal authorities that Japan’s eventual opening up to foreign trade was inevitable. He pointed to the example of China, where a second Opium War was leading toward another humiliation for the Qing dynasty. And, like Perry, he asked the Japanese authorities if they would prefer to enter into voluntary trade relations with a friendly America or involuntary trade relations with an aggressive Britain, which might foist opium on the Japanese people or even threaten them with colonial subjugation. The principal ministers of the shogunal government (the group of men known as the rōjū), led by Hotta Masayoshi, concluded that Japan had little choice in the matter since “our national strength has declined, our military preparations are inadequate, and we are in no position to eject the foreigners by means of war … not to enter into friendly relations entails war and not to wage war entails entering into friendly relations; there is no other way.”9 Indeed, Hotta argued that Japan’s only real chance of overcoming the foreign threat was “to stake everything on the present opportunity, to conclude friendly alliances, to send ships to foreign countries everywhere and conduct trade, to copy the foreigners where they are at their best and so repair our own shortcomings, to foster our national strength and complete our armaments, and so gradually subject the foreigners to our influence until in the end … our hegemony is acknowledged throughout the globe.”10

  Hotta appointed Iwase Tadanao, a highly intelligent and farsighted career official, to lead the negotiations with Harris. While he was wary of the destabilizing impact of a foreign presence in Japan, Iwase clearly recognized the potential benefits of international trade, and indeed he went against many of his colleagues in arguing that Japan should agree to open a port in or near Edo. Iwase argued that the economic stimulus of trade might help the shogunate’s finances (which were in a chronically parlous state), and technology flowing into the country from abroad would arrive first in Edo and not near the domains of potentially hostile daimyo. Iwase was particularly aware of the relative power of Osaka, which was still Japan’s major commercial center—in part because it captured the economic benefit of the Dutch and Chinese trade in Nagasaki. If Osaka were also to benefit from trade under the new treaty, then Iwase warned that “first Edo and then the rest of the country will wither, and only Osaka will prosper.”11 Iwase felt that opening a new port for trade near Edo might help shift Japan’s center of economic gravity more toward the shogun’s power base in the east.12 Iwase argued, “Only by bringing the wealth of the country to our doorsteps can we police the country and provide benefit for eternity. A rich country and a strong military must be the basis of our policy.”13

  The treaty that was finally signed on July 29, 1858, designated Kanagawa as one of three ports that would immediately open to foreign trade. The others were Hakodate at the southern tip of Hokkaido and Nagasaki in the far west. Hakodate was in fact already open as a part of the Perry treaty of 1854—though only for the resupply of foreign ships, not for trade; and Nagasaki had been a center of international trade throughout the Tokugawa era. So although all three ports would be covered by the new provisions of the treaty, the opening of Kanagawa was its most significant feature. Although the initial treaty was with the United States, the “most favored nation” clause of the treaty meant that Japan was soon forced to enter into similar treaties with Great Britain, Russia, France, and the Netherlands.

  Kanagawa was a busy post station on the Tōkaidō highway, located only fifteen miles from the center of Edo. The shogunal authorities hoped that it was close enough to Edo to satisfy the foreigners but far enough away not to pose a direct threat—particularly since foreigners other than diplomatic staff would be expressly forbidden from visiting Edo: while the treaty permitted foreigners to travel a distance of up to ten ri (about twenty-four miles) from Kanagawa in every other direction, their right was limited to the western bank of the Rokugō (now the Tama) River in the direction of Edo, a distance of only seven and a half miles.

  The new chief minister, Ii Naosuke, delegated five officials to act as commissioners of foreign affairs (gaikoku bugyō) and instructed them to come up with a detailed plan for the opening of the port. Iwase Tadanao, who had been an early proponent of locating a port near Edo, was one of these commissioners. Although Iwase was in favor of the economic benefits that foreign trade might bring to the shogunate, he shared the concerns of many government officials (including his boss, Ii Naosuke) that the foreign presence might undermine shogunal authority and destabilize Japanese society. Therefore, he favored isolating the foreigners in a controllable environment. To that end, Iwase proposed developing the farming and fishing community of Yokohama into a new port town and accommodating the foreigners there rather than in the center of Kanagawa.

  Yokohama was located on the other side of the bay from Kanagawa and surrounded by marshes. With skillful management, the Japanese would be able to keep the foreigners confined to this gilded cage. To the foreigners, the location offered some real benefits. Unlike Kanagawa, Yokohama was only thinly populated, with farming and fishing villages, and it had ample space for residential development. The water off the shore of Yokohama was also much deeper than that along the Kanagawa shoreline. Large ships would be able to dock close to the shore, making the management of cargo easier for the foreign merchants. If the foreigners complained that Kanagawa and not Yokohama was the port specified in the treaty, the commissioners could argue that Yokohama was a part of the Kanagawa administrative district, and therefore it was not at all in contravention of the treaty—after all, hadn’t the Treaty of Kanagawa actually been signed in Yokohama?

  In December 1858 and January 1859 the American envoy Townsend Harris made two trips from his base in Shimoda to Kanagawa to discuss the precise location of the port. In spite of all the commissioners’ efforts to persuade him that Yokohama was a more desirable location than central Kanagawa, Harris stubbornly opposed the idea. He was afraid that the Japanese were trying to create another Dejima—the island off Nagasaki on which the Dutch had been effectively isolated and controlled for the past two hundred fifty years. This argument was not far from the truth. Indeed, one senior councillor explicitly argued that “in the new port the Westerners would be just as isolated and tightly controlled as at Nagasaki. This would give Japan time to build up its military defenses and eventually return to sakoku no ryōhō (the good policy of isolation).”14

  In spite of Harris’s resistance, Ii Naosuke appointed five men to the newly created position of Kanagawa commissioners and charged them with implementing this expensive gamble. The commissioners aimed to build a first-class international port facility, complete with residential districts for Japanese and foreigners, entertainment facilities, and a full-scale brothel quarter. They were determined to build the port on a substantial scale, in the hope that this would mollify the foreigners and reconcile them to the isolated location. They were, in effect, planning to conjure a new city out of the marshes surrounding a cluster of fishing villages. If they succeeded in winning the foreigners over, they would score a tactical victory, achieving their policy goals and satisfying their boss. If the foreigners reje
cted the new port and insisted on relocating to Kanagawa proper, then the commissioners would have an expensive ghost town on their hands.

  The treaties called for the port to be opened on July 1, 1859. By the time the final decision was made to develop Yokohama, the commissioners had less than six months to build the town.

  Their first step was to invite Japanese merchants to apply for building lots. A call for applications was issued on January 23, 1859. The call was directed at the larger Edo merchant houses—members of the ton’ya (wholesaler) guilds, who had long been the recipients of special privileges in exchange for their willingness to work in close cooperation with the government. In spite of the promise of foreign markets, these great trading houses were reluctant to invest in this unknown and uncertain location. The Edo manager of Mitsui—Japan’s wealthiest merchant house and largest retailer—had to be summoned to Commissioner Mizuno Tadakuni’s house several times before reluctantly agreeing to take the plunge.

  The invitation was extended to the entire country on February 18, and it was to this call that Chūemon responded. The commissioners imagined a variety of merchants setting up shop in Yokohama, not all of whom would sell export products; retail shops were also needed to supply the Japanese and foreign communities with the necessities of daily life. The commissioners particularly wanted to encourage local families from the surrounding villages, some of whom had lost their fields to government requisitions.15 In all, seventy-one merchants were approved to open businesses in Yokohama. Of these, thirty-four were from Edo, eighteen from Kanagawa and other neighboring communities, and only nineteen from more distant places.16 Even assuming that the shogunate communicated the invitation only to the residents of directly administered or closely allied domains in the Edo hinterland, that represents a very small number from many significant commercial centers including Hachiōji, Odawara, Machida, and Maebashi, not to mention the great silk-producing areas of Shinshū and Ōshū. It is all the more surprising, then, that among the nineteen was an unknown farmer from Kōshū called Shinohara Chūemon.