1636: Seas of Fortune (45 page)

Masamune decided that the southern site, with that hill, was marginally more defensible, and so the second settlement was made there. The “all clear” signal was given and the second contingent of colonists was brought ashore. Boats shuttled between the ships to the beach, disgorging men and women, as well as supplies, and returning for more. Haste was called for, because this site was unprotected from the wind.

A crude field fortification was erected on the low but steep-sided hill the scouts had spotted. By odd coincidence, this was Mulligan Hill, where, in the old time line, the Portola expedition of 1769 first sighted Monterey Bay. The new settlement was named
Kawa Machi
—“River City.”

The samurai’s horses were landed, and a dozen of the samurai swung themselves into the saddle and headed upriver.

* * *

Spirits are everywhere, according to the Ohlone Indians. The greater spirits are those of the sun, the moon, the sky, the sea, the mountains. But there are spirits in every bird, every mammal, every fish. Each of these spirits can help or harm.

And then there are the spirits of the dead. They may not be the most powerful of spirits, but they know our strengths and weaknesses. When they leave the body, they flee west, following the Path of the Wind to the Village of the Dead, across the sea. But they will return, and trouble the living, if they are not properly propitiated.

When a man of the
Ohlone, the people living on Monterey Bay, died, he was buried that very day, and most of his belongings were buried with him. His widow cut off her hair, and smeared her face with ashes or asphalt. His name would not be spoken until it was formally given to one of his descendants, after the mourning ceremony, lest he be summoned back inadvertently.

If the death was of an unmarried man, or of a woman, her nearest female kin would perform the widow’s duties.

Each year, the mourning ceremony was held. The whole village gathered in the ceremonial house. It stood upon a rise in the land, and the area around it had been cleared with brush. In this way, if an enemy chose to take advantage of the distracting nature of the ritual, and attack at that time, they would see their foes approach.

As the sun set on the first day of the mourning ceremony for 1634, the leaders of the mourners, seated on the west side, the spirit side, began to wail. The village chief slowly circled the central fire, chanting.

“Don’t fail to hear me!

“Don’t fail to hear me!

“Make ready for the mourning.

“Make ready your offerings,

“Your offerings to the dead.

“Be generous, be generous,

“So the dead need not return to beg;

“So the dead need not trouble the living.”

The fire flickered, and the smoke rising from it seemed, now and then, to form the faces of the departed.

The leaders rose and followed the chief, and they were now followed by other women, perhaps half a dozen. Around and around they went. Sometimes the chief gave an order, and they faced in one direction and gesticulated, or turned about and circled in the opposite direction.

But they never rested.

Occasionally, one of the onlookers would scuttle forward and cast an offering into the fire.

At last, three more women, each with blackened faces, came out of the darkness of the spectator circle, and each grabbed one of the walkers. Each pair sat, holding each other’s shoulders, at the foot of one of the roof posts, and swayed back and forth, crying as they did so.

At last, the remaining marchers retreated into the outer circle, leaving only the chief as the center of attention. He spoke of the history of their tribelet, its triumphs and tragedies, and at last he sat down himself.

The next night, the mourning ceremony continued. Old men and women partnered up and cried together, then danced one by one about the fire. They were followed by the three widows, each of whom did the same and then was led away, crying, by another woman.

On the morning of the third day, the chief harangued the mourners before sunrise, and then some of the women filled a basket with water. They fished hot stones out of the fire and tossed them into the water. The chief and the eldest of the woman, each holding a cloth, sat facing each other, on either side of the basket.

The three widows were led up to them. The first woman leaned over, and waited expectantly. The two cloth-holders dipped their cloths in the hot water and wiped her face, taking care that the water would drip only outside the basket. She was now free of mourning restrictions.

The next woman came up, but her lean was perfunctory. She quickly straightened and backed away. This was expected, her husband had died only a moon before. She would mourn until the “cry” of the next year.

The third woman, First-to-Dance, came up. She leaned and waited. The washers exchanged troubled glances. This woman had been a widow for only three moons. It was a little too soon for her to be at liberty. But the choice was not theirs to make. With slow, reluctant movements, they cleaned her face. If they were rougher than usual, to show their irritation, it didn’t provoke any complaint on her part. The onlookers murmured. Only time would tell whether they would tolerate her infraction, or ostracize her for it.

Minutes later, a villager started screaming. “The dead! The dead have returned from the sea! We are doomed!”

There was a mass exodus from the place of assembly, and all eyes were turned west. There, the men and women of the First Fleet were being disgorged, and the masts of more than a score of ships were dark against the morning sky.

The vessels used by the Indians of Central California were little rafts woven of tule reeds. A few had seen the plank canoes of the
Chumash of the Santa Barbara Islands, farther south, but you might as well compare a minnow to a whale. The great ships of the First Fleet were beyond their experience.

One Indian pointed at the ships. “Those—those are the very islands of the dead, with dead trees standing upon them,” he urged, his voice quavering.

First-to-Dance’s expression was more curious than frightened. “They wear clothes that are nothing like ours, so how can they be our dead?” she asked.

“Who knows what the dead choose to wear, fool woman!” said one of her tribesmen.

The chief was anxious for the well-being of his people, and very conscious of their inability to fight so many strangers—be they living or undead. He welcomed the opportunity to act. “This is your fault, First-to-Dance! You dishonored the dead!” And he struck her senseless.

The Indians looked at each other, and voiced the thought that had come to all of them.

“Run!” They fled upriver, leaving First-to-Dance behind them.

* * *

“So how is our patient?” asked Date Masamune.

“Alive, at least. Her pupils are the same size, so she is not concussed. She will have an extremely picturesque bruise for several weeks, I am sure. She has been able to take water, and I am switching her to soup, soon. I think the brown seaweed will be the most efficacious, but—”

“But you can spare me the medical details, just do what you think best. And have me informed once she is speaking.”

* * *

First-to-Dance had been awake for several hours. As soon as she was awake enough to appreciate the alien character of the words spoken in her presence, she had schooled herself to remain still. When the voices receded, she had ever so slightly opened her eyes, hoping that her long eyelashes would hide them.

It was annoying not be able to move her head, but her only advantage right now was that her . . . rescuers? captors? . . . didn’t know that she was awake. Alone among enemies, she must be as brave as Duck Huck, the monster-killer, and as clever as Coyote his grandfather.

She couldn’t help but wonder whether they were in fact the Dead returned, as her fellow tribesmen had assumed. They certainly were not dressed like the People. At this time of year, Ohlone men would be naked, and women would just wear an apron, unless there was bad weather, or a ceremonial need for extra garments. Was it cold in the Land of the Dead? Well, cold breezes came off the sea, so perhaps that explained it.

One of the men spoke. Of course, she had no idea what he was saying, but the speaker made it clear that he knew she was feigning sleep: He put his forefingers on his own eyelids, and lifted them up.

First-to-Dance opened her eyes and tried to sit up. She immediately felt light-headed. The man was beside her in an instant and steadied her. He spoke again in his incomprehensible language.

First-to-Dance had no idea why she couldn’t understand him. Wouldn’t the Dead still remember the speech of the People? She didn’t resist, what was the point? Dead or alive, he was stronger than her, and she didn’t know where she was, how many friends he had, or where her tribesmen had fled.

They were in a hut of some kind, made of an unfamiliar wood. It didn’t seem to have any openings, but then he slid away a part of a wall and stepped out, beckoning to her to follow.

She blinked her eyes as they emerged into the daylight. They were on a high place, looking down at the bay. There were giant huts, with trees growing out of them, floating on the water.

So it was true! The Dead had returned!

With great daring, First-to-Dance asked, “Who were you in life? How long ago did you die? Why have you returned? Were our offerings too small?” In a smaller voice, she added, “Is my dead husband among you?”

The man spread his hands, bowed to her, and left the room.

* * *

The third colony site for the passengers of the First Fleet was at the mouth of the Pajaro River, not far from the twentieth-century town of Watsonville. Perhaps a mile from the coast, and a third of a mile from the near bank of the Pajaro, the Japanese found a large hill, perhaps a quarter mile square, with good defensive potential. It had steep sides, and it was connected to the next hill by a narrow ridge that could easily be blocked. A castle might one day be built here, overlooking the village at the riverside. For the moment, though, the settlement was just as crude as the others.

The colonists of the Pajaro River settlement were primarily farmers, but they found themselves doing a lot of fishing. The steelhead trout were running that month, and the colonists were quick to improvise nets and string them across the river.

The colonists had been astonished and pleased to see the steelheads, because they looked almost identical to a fish found in some rivers back home: the
Niji Masu
. The colonists decided to name their settlement after the fish. It sounded better, at least, than the first name that Date Masamune’s explorers had come up with:
sawa-be
, the edge of a swamp.

* * *

“We weren’t sure that we should disturb you, milord—” The speaker was the headman for the final Japanese settlement, by the San Lorenzo River, near modern Santa Cruz.

Date Masamune took a deep breath. “Be at ease. You did the right thing.”

“Should we—”

“Please. I thank you, but I would prefer to contemplate this sight in silence.”

The headman bowed, and backed away.

Date Masamune walked forward slowly, like a man in a trance. He turned to the scholar that accompanied him.

“Do you remember your first moon-viewing, Shigetsuna? Your first tea-ceremony? That is how I feel today. Call back the headman.”

The headman returned. “How may I help you, my lord?”

“Summon the colonists.” With a fearful glance over his shoulder at the Taishu, the grand governor of New Nippon, the headman hurried off.

Date Masamune gazed solemnly at his subjects. “In our ancient homeland, we have many beautiful or useful trees. The mulberry and the fig; the paper and lacquer trees; the cherry and the plum; the pine and the cedar. But the trees that stand across the river, ah, they put all the trees of Nippon to shame.”

Masamune, whose city of Sendai became known in Japan as the City of Trees because of the plantings he encouraged, had seen his first grove of redwood.

“Henceforth, this village is to be known as Kodachi Machi.” This mouthful meant, “Tree Grove City.” Masamune slowly turned his head, staring at each of the colonists. “I will appoint a forest officer, as I did for Rikuzen. No tree is to be cut except with his permission, and without planting a new tree in its stead.”

He motioned to the headman, who yelled, “Dismissed!”

Masamune turned to Shigetsuna. “I think we will also do as we did in Sendai; set up tree nurseries, for both the trees from home and the new ones we find here.”

“We have already done so in Andoryu, with the seeds, cuttings and tub trees we took across the sea.”

“I want it done in all of the settlements of New Nippon. Who knows where, in this strange land, a Japanese tree will grow well? Consider which useful trees we still need seeds or cuttings for, and send for them. They may be brought over by the Second Fleet.”

* * *

The ships returned to the anchorage of Monterey/Andoryu, where they were best protected from the vagaries of the weather. They would wait there until the sailors were fully recovered from their voyaging, and then return to Japan. Some, no doubt, would be part of the Second Fleet, carrying the next batch of
kirishitan
to the New World, in 1635.

* * *

The
Ieyasu Maru
had worked its way south down the Pacific Northwest Coast, making note of the lay of the coast; in particular, possible harbors for future settlements. It had not made any further native contacts, but that didn’t mean that the Indians hadn’t been watching.

Under what western sailors called a “mackerel sky,” but the Japanese termed
iwaishigimu
—sardine clouds—the
Ieyasu Maru
rounded Point Año Nuevo. The rocks at the northern end of Monterey Bay had been so named by Sebastian Vizcaino in 1603, as it had been spotted on New Year’s Day.

As Monterey Bay opened up before it, a guard ship ventured out from Kodachi Machi to greet it. Despite the
Ieyasu Maru
’s European lines, its “rising sun” emblem left no doubt as to its origin.