1636: Seas of Fortune (55 page)

The Night Heron’s Scream

November 1635 to Fall 1636

A lightning gleam:

into darkness travels

a night heron’s scream.

—Matsuo Basho
⁵

Castle of Date Masamune, grand governor of New Nippon,

Kodachi Machi (Santa Cruz, California),

November 1635

“Then Mitsumori stabbed me,” gasped Date Masamune.

Date Chiyo-hime’s
nohkan
shrilled in alarm.

“And cut off my head,” Masamune added.

His son Munesane, recently baptized as David Date, beat out a rapid tattoo on the
taiko
, and his daughter Chiyo lowered her flute.

“My body is now but dust. My soul has suffered two hundred forty years in Warrior Hell. Pray for me.” Masumune dropped to the floor.

Masamune rose slowly and removed his mask. “I hope that wasn’t too painful to watch.”

“It was splendid,” said Date Iroha-hime, his eldest daughter, the Audience.

Her family had just finished performing one of the great Noh dramas,
The Warrior Sanemori.
The ghost of Sanemori, who died at Shinowara, had appeared to a traveling priest, played by Masamune’s advisor, Katakura Shigetsuna, and was urged to make confession in order to progress. He did so, and then disappeared.

“I am sure it is the best Noh performance ever seen in California,” said Masamune drily.

Amateur theatricals were not the norm in samurai households until the middle of the eighteenth century, but the Japanese in California had been forced to improvise their own entertainments.

“So, Daughter, should I dye my hair, too?”

Sanemori had been seventy-two years old, and he had concealed his age so that the enemy champions would not decline a challenge to single combat. Date Masamune was sixty-eight, as the Japanese counted age.

“Only if you must seek death in battle to expiate some great shame, like Sanemori’s,” Iroha-hime answered, with some asperity. “But that can never be.”

Something in her father’s expression caught her attention. “Honorable Father, it is time you told us what has been troubling you since the coming and going of the Second Fleet.”

Date Masamune and Shigetsuna exchanged lightning glances; the advisor shrugged minutely.

“Yes, please tell them, Father,” said David Date.

Chiyo’s head snapped around. “You knew something and didn’t tell me?”

Date Masamune’s eyelids flickered slightly. “Oh, very well. Munesane was never good at keeping a secret from you . . . Once you knew that there was a secret to pry out of him.”

He sighed. “The Second Fleet brought me a letter . . . from the
bakufu
.” The government.

“Oh dear, what did it say?”

“Nothing good. The words are fixed into my memory, as if they were branded on the skin of a criminal. ‘Concern has been expressed that the cost of maintaining the colony of New Nippon has been high and that you have sent back little in the way of goods to justify this expenditure. Some have suggested that this California is not a suitable place for settlement and that the support of the colony should cease. Of course, the ban on the practice of the evil religion in the homeland would still apply.’”

Iroha’s nostrils flared. “So they would leave the
kirishitan
in exile, to survive or starve, whatever the case may be. What would happen to the
kirishitan
still in Japan?”

“I assume that they would either be shipped off to Macao, or executed outright, if they refused to recant. But please, there’s more: ‘Others suggest that it was unjust to impose so formidable a task as governing a new colony on so accomplished a personage, when he is at an age that merits the comforts of retirement.’”

Masamune snorted. “They want to put me out to pasture, neh? But I digress. ‘It is difficult to form a well-considered opinion from so great a distance. Hence, you are hereby advised that in one year’s time, commissioners will be sent to study the colony and its management. By order of the Council of Elders.’”

Chiyo frowned. “Then we have until next September or October, whenever the Third Fleet arrives, to either be producing enough of a surplus so that future immigrants will not need to carry more food than what is required for the voyage itself, or to be have some valuable commodity we can ship home to pay for our keep.”

“An excellent summation,” Shigetsuna acknowledged.

“So . . . Father . . . do I need to reveal my secret?” asked Iroha. Her secret, known to this circle and few others, was that her deceased husband’s expedition had succeeded in finding gold on the American River, although most of his party had paid for this achievement with their lives.

Date Masamune wrapped his Noh mask in silk and placed it in a storage box. “Only as a last resort. Gold is too valuable; the commissioners might decide that the governorship should be transferred to a Tokugawa crony.” Masamune forebore to point out that her husband, the shogun’s uncle, could have been considered such.

“What about the iron ore the
Ieyasu Maru
found on Texada?” asked his son.

“We don’t know if we can rely on it,” said Shigetsuna. “No iron ore has been shipped here. We don’t even know if the colony was established successfully. And even if it was . . . will the shogun let us mine it?”

“What about the local redwood timber?” asked David.

“Not valuable enough, at least for shipping across an ocean. But I suppose it helps a little. Better than dried fish, at least.”

Date Masamune snorted. “You sound like the stepmother in the story of the ‘Old Woman’s Skin.’ This rice is too soft. This rice is too hard.”

“I tell you exactly what I think, my lord.”

“I know, and I value your polite candor. For now, I think our best hope is the cinnabar.” Cinnabar, an ore of mercury, was used in the red lacquer of samurai armor, and in the red paint of major shrines. A little was mined in Japan, but it was mostly imported from China.

“Could we enter the
sho-za
?” asked David Date. In 1609, Odagiri Sukeshiro of Sakai had been given a monopoly on the cinnabar trade, the
sho-za
, most likely as a reward for espionage activity on behalf of Tokugawa Ieyasu, the present shogun’s grandfather.

The monopoly is only on the cinnabar itself, not the ink,” Masamune reminded him. “So at worst, we make the ink here. Or we sell the cinnabar to the Dutch, and send Dutch goods back home. We might even get a better price that way.” Recently, Date Masamune and his advisors had learned from the Dutch that the cinnabar could be roasted to liberate quicksilver, and that this could be used in the isolation of gold dust.

“Perhaps we should sell licenses to the Dutch to pan for gold, and sell them the cinnabar, too.”

“One day, I think we shall,” said Masamune. “And of course they know about the California Gold Rush. Thus far, their interest in the California gold country has only been mild, because it’s so hard to get to, and they figure it would take months if not years to actually find the gold. They have, I think, better prospects closer to home.

“Remember that words, once let loose, cannot be retrieved even by a team of four galloping horses. Once we tell them that we actually found the gold, and where to look, they will certainly come. And if we aren’t strong enough by then, they will just take the land from us.”

New Almaden, California

The arrow struck Brother Franciscus in the back as he fled. His companions paused, grabbed him under his arms, and half-carried, half-dragged him to safety. As they hid behind some rocks, they could hear the samurai lieutenant shouting orders, and the neighs of the horses as the samurai set out in pursuit of the Indians that had attacked the mining party.

The Ohlone woman First-to-Dance had told the Japanese about the Indians’ cinnabar mine in New Almaden, near the south end of San Francisco Bay. So Date Masamune had sent both soldiers and laborers there, to take control of it.

Before the coming of the Japanese, Indians traveled hundreds of miles to visit the mine and collect cinnabar for making face paint. To gain access, they had to first give presents to one of the nearby tribal groups, the Awaswas, Mutsun, or Tamyen. Now all three of those groups were shut out. And they weren’t happy about it.

* * *

Two samurai walked into the guard barracks beside the cinnabar mine; they had just come off watch. “There’s no getting around it,” said the junior soldier, Hasunuma Masayuki. “We need more leather armor. For the workmen, that is.” The Japanese had once used leather plates as part of their armor, but when firearms came into common use, they were mostly replaced with iron ones.

“The militia want it too,” his senior, Saito Nagato, reminded him. “And they have priority over miners.” The Dutch had told the Japanese about the Spanish
soldados de cuera
, the leather jacketed dragoons who defended New Spain’s Indian frontier. While the militia couldn’t hope to be given horses to ride—that was still a samurai prerogative—the
cuera
was a reasonable demand.

Leather was cheap in cattle-rich New Spain. But there were no cows in California, because they weren’t native, and the Japanese only brought a few breeding pairs. Their
wagyu
were used as beasts of burden, not as sources of milk or meat.

Hasunuma shrugged. “Well, then we are going to lose miners.”

“There’s nothing that can be done,” Saito told him. “It’s going to be almost a year before the Third Fleet arrives. That’s the soonest we can ask for more from home. And haven’t you read the new standing orders?”

“‘Economize!’”

Saito smiled. “That sums it up. Pass me the oil, please.” Saito carefully applied a few drops to a cloth, then commenced cleaning the blade of his katana.

“Here you go,” said Hasunuma. “Seriously, the Indian attacks are getting more frequent. It’s going to hurt cinnabar production.” The Indians were adept at crawling into bow range, and ambushing the workers. They had also stolen some of the samurai guards’ precious horses.

“I know.” Saito wiped the blade with a cloth, and held it up, letting the light glance off it. Satisfied, he sheathed it. “I will put in the request. Just don’t get your hopes up.”

Kodachi Machi (Santa Cruz)

Clickety-clack
. Kobayashi Benzo froze.

The lieutenant coughed. “I believe you dropped these.” He held in his hand the three dice that had just slipped out of the sleeve of Benzo’s
kataginu
.

“Gambling again, Benzo?”

“Certainly not, Lieutenant.”

Then why were these dice in your possession?

“Those aren’t for gambling! They are for divination.”

“Oh, how does that work?”

“I roll the three dice. Odds count as three, evens as two. So the totals are six, seven, eight or nine, which of course are old yin, young yang, young yin, or old yang. I do it six times, and that gives me the hexagram of the I Ching.”

“Fascinating. I am quite a fortune-teller myself, in a small way. I hereby predict that you are going to go on a long journey, to a place you don’t want to go, but you will go without complaining, because otherwise something worse will happen. . . .”

Eta Village,

Estero Bluffs, Morro Bay,

Early Spring 1636

Benzo hopped off the boat. “Aren’t you coming?” he said to the fishermen who had given him passage down to Morro Bay.

“No thank you. We will camp here on the beach.” Clearly, they were intent on minimizing their exposure to the wretches who lived here.

Benzo trudged up the trail. After rounding a sharp turn, he came face-to-face with an old man. The latter quickly prostrated himself. He was clearly an eta, an outcast, as his hair wasn’t gathered into a queue.

“Tell the headman I have a message from the
daikan
Inawashiro Yoshimichi-sama. He is to come here to meet me, I do not wish to be defiled with the dust of your hovels.”

The old eta’s head quivered slightly. Clearly, he didn’t want to risk raising himself up to nod his head more clearly.

“I am turning my back now, so I don’t need to see you. Go!”

The old man hobbled off, and a moment later, Benzo turned back, and settled into a sitting position.

After a time, he heard rustling sounds, and stood. Benzo was not about to allow his head to be lower than of an eta, even for a moment.

A man appeared, and bowed respectfully to Benzo. “Most honorable samurai, I am Danzaemon, the headman of the
kawata
.” The word meant “leather worker.” The eta
didn’t use the word “eta,” which meant “much filth,” to refer to themselves.

The eta were those who dealt, like their ancestors, with dead bodies, human or animal. They might be executioners, undertakers, or leather workers. In the native Shinto religion, they were considered to be defiled by this exposure. The introduction of Buddhism didn’t improve their position; the killing and eating of animals was forbidden. Before the coming of Christianity, almost all of the eta were followers of Pure Land Buddhism, as it was the only Buddhist sect that would admit them. However, in Nagasaki, the Christian missionaries had once sought to convert the eta, and there were thus still some Christian etas when Iemitsu had announced that the
kirishitan
could practice their religion in the new California colony.

There was more rustling, and a second, younger man appeared.

“Ah, and this is Kenji, my assistant. You must be cold after your voyage, are you sure we can’t bring you a cup of sake?” It was a barbed offer; Benzo would have to purify himself after such contact.

Benzo shook his head curtly. “I am here to inform you that production of leather
manchira
must be doubled.” The
manchira
was an armored vest. “And we also need more
haidate
.” Those were the thigh guards for samurai cavalrymen.

“Doubled?” cried Danzaemon. “Do you think you can get cotton from a stone?”

Benzo considered cutting Danzaemon down for his insolence. It would add a pleasant fillip to a sour day, but it would make for much trouble in the long run. Slaying an ordinary eta was one thing, but a headman’s death would necessitate paperwork. Worse, a new headman would have to be appointed, which would mean that a senior samurai, a
hatomoto
, would have to come to the
eta-mura
. He would not be happy with Benzo for making this necessary.