1636: Seas of Fortune (51 page)

“But if we help the farmers, when will we have time to practice our martial arts? When I practice
iaijutsu
, I make a thousand draws in a single session,” Yoshitsune protested.

“Enough talk,” said Jinbei. “It is time to help with the harvest. Yoshitsune-san, as you swing your scythe, pretend that you are cleaving a foe. Or several foes at once, if you like.”

But Hosoya Jinbei was himself more troubled than he let on. He was a senior retainer, and despite what he had said to the others, he had questioned Date Masamune about the orders.

Respecting Jinbei’s many years of faithful service, Masamune had explained his reasoning. In Japan, one in twenty Japanese was samurai. Here, in New Nippon, thanks to Date Masamune’s contingent of retainers, it was about one in five.

The colonists and the retainers had brought food with them, of course, but they had used up several months worth while on board the ships, and more after arrival. They had started fishing, hunting, and gathering of fruits, berries and nuts, soon after coming ashore, but farming was a more drawn-out process. They were still eating more than they were producing . . . And as far as food was concerned, the samurai weren’t producing at all. Date Masamune had finally decided that they had to pitch in more than just shooting the occasional deer.

Jinbei had expressed his appreciation for Date Masamune’s wisdom. But he objected to the shattering of social order. First, Masamune had decided to train a militia, to let peasants parade as if they were warriors. And now he was forcing samurai to work in the fields, as if they were peasants. Under these circumstances, Jinbei warned, how long would it be before the peasants decided that they didn’t need samurai at all?

Masamune had smiled and reminded him that during the sixteenth century, the Age of War, many peasants had become ashigaru, infantrymen, and yet samurai still ruled Japan. And that in the same period,
ji-samurai
had done exactly what Masamune was asking his retainers to do now. He thanked Jinbei for his advice.

So Jinbei understood his lord’s reasoning. Still, understanding a decision and accepting its consequences were two different things.

Niji Masu/Watsonville

Churoku’s eyes widened in amazement, then narrowed with anger. “Murata! Togu! What do you think you’re doing?”

His fellow farmers Murata and Togu were carrying a stone statue down the hill from their house. “What does it look like we’re doing?” said Murata. “We’re carrying the
ta no kami
to the paddy, so he can become the
yama no kami
.” In Shinto belief, the
ta no kami
was the spirit of the field, and the
yama no kami
, the spirit of the wild lands, the wooded slope above the village. “Otherwise, the rice will not grow. Now, step off the path, so we can get by.”

“The Forest god? The Field god? There is only one God, the Christian God. How can you call yourselves
kirishitan
and curry the favor of demons?”

Murata’s face reddened, and it was the red of anger, not exertion. “Demons? The
kami aren’t demons. They are angels. Please do not insult me, I am no demon worshiper.”

“Or perhaps the kami are avatars of the Christian God,” said Togu. “Does not the
Tenchi
, the Tale of the Creation, say that
Deusu
has forty-two forms?”

“That is nonsense. You must not do this.” Churoku set himself squarely in their path, and crossed his arms to form an “X.” The gesture meant “closed” or “forbidden.”

He glared at the two brothers. “It was one thing to carry out these pagan rituals when we were still in Old Nippon, and were compelled to do so lest we be revealed as
kirishitan
. It is quite another to do so here, in New Nippon, where we may openly follow the Faith.”

Murata eased down his end of the idol, and Togu followed suit. Both grunted with relief at the easing of their load. “You have your opinion, and we have ours,” said Murata, his voice rising. “Now, let us pass!”

“I’m telling you, Murata, this is a Christian paddy. I’ll not have you desecrate it by erecting the image of a false god! If you want to grow rice the heathen way, then make your own paddy somewhere else!”

“You’re not our padre or our lord, Churoku! I helped dig the ditches to water the seedlings, and this is my paddy as much as yours. This is your last chance.”

Churoku waved his hand back and forth in front of his face. And then stuck out his tongue at them.

They charged him. It was two-against-one, but Churoku was a precocious member of the new militia, and he had his walking stick. He sliced at Murata’s feet, forcing him to leap backward, then jabbed Togu in the belly. “For the Holy Spirit!” Churoku shouted. Togu bent over, holding his tummy, and groaning loudly.

Murata advanced, and Churoku feinted at his face, then rapped him on the knees. “And the Holy Christian Church!” Murata fell, but Togu was now back on his feet and ready for a second round.

By now the commotion had attracted attention. Other villagers had rushed outside. Some just gaped at the fight; others laughed and placed bets. Finally, two of the samurai assigned to Niji Masu appeared on the scene.

The senior samurai commanded them to stop fighting. “Churoku! Murata! Togu! On your knees, this instant, or your heads will roll.” The three commoners quickly complied. “Hands behind your backs.” The junior samurai tied them up. They were chivvied down the path, and confined in a hut.

“The magistrate will deal with you in the morning,” the senior samurai said. “In the meantime, enjoy the view.”

“And the company,” added the other samurai. He laughed.

The next day, the three men were brought before the
daikan
Moniwa Motonori in his capacity as magistrate of Niji Masu/Watsonville. Motonori heard their stories, and wrinkled his nose. “To cultivate rice, we must work together. But the three of you have disturbed the harmony of this village.

“You are each sentenced to one hundred lashes.”

Once they were led away, he had Hyonai summoned.

* * *

“Hyonai, Hyonai. I am sure you have heard about the quarrel yesterday. I thought that by permitting your farmers to plant rice, it would lead to an increase in harmony, not in discord.”

Hyonai kowtowed. “I apologize, on behalf of all of the farmers, and not just those three fools, for the disturbance.”

“So what do you suggest I do, Hyonai? Forbid the rice cultivation after all? Allow it, but without the old rite? Require that tradition be followed, too? Divide the paddy lands in two, Christian and non-Christian?”

Hyonai pondered the question. “The culture of Japan is a culture of rice,” he said, his words as slow as a river in summer. “We do not merely eat the grains, we make clothing out of the
wara
, the dried straw of the rice plant. The rice is our mother and our father. We celebrate the first work in the rice field, the sowing, the planting-out, and the harvesting.

“The people know, deep in their hearts, that as
kirishitan
, they should not continue the old rituals, but they need new ones to take their place. Otherwise they will lapse into bad habits.

“Let those who best know the words of the Lord In Heaven devise new rituals, rituals that are similar, where possible, to those we have done since time out of mind, yet pleasing to Deusu.”

* * *

And so Imamiro Yojiro, who, as a lay catechist, was the First Fleet’s highest-ranking religious leader, found himself at a field altar near the mouth of the Pajaro River, asking that Saint Isidore the Farmer, canonized in 1622, bless the rice paddy of Niji Masu.

There was, of course, no
torii
, the red-painted gate that marked a Shinto shrine. But Yojiro thought it most convenient that the kanji character “ta,” meaning a rice paddy, was a square divided by a cross in the middle. He had a sign erected with the cross painted in red and the square in black. The spectators could see “ta,” or just the cross, as they pleased.

Girls carried the seedlings from the nearby nursery to the paddy, for transplanting. They were dressed in special costumes: red pants, green shirts, and hats festooned with greenery and flowers. They walked clockwise around the paddy, singing the rice-planting song, as their fathers and brothers played flutes, beat on drums, rang bells, or banged wooden blocks together. They were followed by the samurai, dressed in full armor.

At the end of his prayer, Yojiro thanked “God in Heaven, He Who Blesses the Growing Rice.” The words “growing rice,” in Japanese, were
ine-nari
. Yojiro was well aware that this would evoke remembrance of
Inari
, the Great Kami of Fertility.

Kawa Machi/Salinas,

Summer 1635

David Date coughed to get his sister’s attention, and pointed down, toward the outer gate of the little castle of Kawa Machi. “Well, it appears that your Indian friend First-to-Dance has come up in the world.”

Date Chiyo-Hime saw that the figure down below was indeed First-to-Dance. Chiyo summoned Mito and they walked briskly—running would have been undignified—down to the gate to greet her.

As before, First-to-Dance was wearing a double apron, braided tule in front, buckskin in back. The same otter skin robe she had before covered her shoulders, but it was only loosely clasped, allowing glimpses as she walked of the large, ornate necklace she now wore. The sunlight glinted off her new earrings. The two men following her were carrying baskets, and their manner was ever-so-slighty subservient.

* * *

Date Masamune had been surprised to learn that among First-to-Dance’s people, a woman could be a chief. It wasn’t common, because the office usually passed from father to son, but if no son were available, the old chief’s sister or daughter was considered the next best choice. Likewise, a woman could serve as a “speaker,” dealing with neighboring tribes.

Before, First-to-Dance was of interest primarily as a source of information, and, secondarily, as an intriguing companion who might distract Chiyo-Hime from other mischief.

Now, she was a diplomatic envoy of a tribelet of perhaps a hundred people. While her people were certainly no match for the Japanese militarily, Masamune was anxious to avoid unnecessary conflicts. There was no telling when a Spanish ship would spot the Japanese settlements.

First-to-Dance bowed in the manner that Chiyo-Hime had taught her. “Noble Guardian, I offer the greetings of my people to yours. I bring you gifts.” These included tobacco, shell beads, feather headdresses, and strips of rabbit skin. Masamune didn’t know it, but these were all traditional offerings to the spirits. There were also a few small stone mortars, containing red and white pigments.

“And I have gifts for you,” Masamune said. These included a steel knife, a bolt of silk, and a mirror. The mirror had a bronze back, with a chrysanthemum blossom design upon it, and a reflective surface that was a tin-mercury amalgam.

“My people hope that you have enjoyed your visit.” First-to-Dance’s clear implication was,
and they are looking forward to your departure
. “We wish you a safe return to the Island of the Uttermost West.” In case he had missed the implication.

“Alas, those who are still here cannot return. But we look forward to helping the Ohlone, our younger brothers.” There were, in fact, some among the Ohlone who could pass, appearance-wise, for Japanese.

“Will you help us kill our enemies?” asked First-to-Dance. The Indians of central California were not especially warlike, but they did have disputes over access to hunting and fishing grounds, and there were tit-for-tat killings, too.

“If you are attacked without provocation on your part,” Masamune replied, “we will come to your aid. But if you make unprovoked war on others, we will be very angry. But have no fear, our thunder sticks will frighten away your enemies.”

First-to-Dance was silent for a time. Then she said, “Will you teach us how to make the trees that run on water?”

Masamune waved his hand in front of his nose, as if he was trying to waft away an unpleasant odor. “The time for that will come.” The Japanese ships gave them the advantage of interior lines if any of the coastal settlements were attacked by the Indians. Masamune was in no hurry to make it possible for the local Indians to conduct raids by sea. It was bad enough that the Chumash to the south and the warlike tribes of the Pacific Northwest had canoes. “But we will be happy to share with you the fish of the deep waters. And the fruits of our fields.”

“The Ohlone come to the Great Sea each year to collect mussels, abalone and snails, and fish for surfperch, and rockfish and cabezon.” She used the Indian names for these, of course; she had taught the words to Chiyo-Hime and Masamune’s scholars. “But they have not been able to do so for many moons, as they are afraid of offending the Guardians.”

“They are welcome to come; there are enough for all. Let them come to the beaches and rocks in good spirit. But they should come in twos and threes, lest they frighten away the fish and offend Ebisu, the God—excuse me, the Patron Saint—of Fishermen.” Masamune didn’t want large groups of Indians near the Japanese settlements.

First-to-Dance inclined her head. “And we will show you the hidden woods, where acorns are bounteous. And you may come there to collect them. In twos and threes, so as not to displease the Spirit of the Forest.”

Fall 1635,

Niji Masu/Watsonville

The wheat and the barley, the rye and the millet, all had grown well. The rice, well, that was another matter. The milder summer of Monterey Bay had seemed a blessing, at first; it meant that the rice plants didn’t drink as greedily as they did back home. Which was just as well, as it barely rained during the summer. They irrigated the paddies with water ponded during the wet season, but that wasn’t enough; they had to mix in some of the bay water.

There was much argument as to the reason for the failure. Some blamed the saltiness of the bay water. Others complained that it never became hot enough for the grain to ripen properly. Hyonai, in fact, feared that this was the case. Feared it because, while the peasants could find more fresh water in the mountains, and build aqueducts to carry the water to the field, they couldn’t make the sun any warmer.