The Pure Land (15 page)

‘Straight left,’ said Glover, and he motioned to Ito to hit back, parried each jab.

‘Good!’ said Glover. ‘Now.’ And he feinted with the left, cut under Ito’s guard with a right to the solar plexus, knocked the wind out of him.

Ito straightened up, bowed, resumed his position, guard up. He managed to block the next uppercut, after two or three attempts succeeded in retaliating, landing a punch to Glover’s head.

‘Grand!’ said Glover. ‘You have the makings of a pugilist! Maybe some day we’ll fight with the gloves off, bareknuckle.’

Ito nodded, understood the challenge. ‘Maybe some day we fight with real swords, cold steel.’

And Glover saw in an instant the coldness, the steeliness, in Ito’s gaze, knew if it ever did come to such a fight, Ito would fillet him. For all the apparent depth of their friendship and trust, it was still there, that otherness, that distance. Ito lived by a code that was absolute, overrode everything, and Glover, like the rest of the barbarians, would always have to keep up his guard. 

The incident, as it happened, featured two of Glover’s acquaintances as its principal players. The sheer brutality of it, the sudden barbarism, ensured the tale was told and retold.

Glover heard it first as a rumour, then as a newspaper report, later by word-of-mouth from an eyewitness to its initiation.

Charles Richardson, whom Glover had met on his arrival in Dejima, and again at the Legation, had gone out riding along the Tokkaido from Yokohama with two companions, a young diplomat named Dawes, and his fiancée Miss Clemence, recently arrived from England. By their account, Richardson had been in a boisterous mood, revelling in his role as their guide to this land of savages.

Unfortunately, as fate would have it, they encountered, coming in the opposite direction, the Satsuma Daimyo with his entourage. Glover remembered vividly his brief meeting with the Daimyo, the power of the man, the intensity and ferocity of his gaze from inside the norimon. The Daimyo was on his way from Edo where
he had been summoned for an audience with the Shogun. Glover could imagine the scenario all too vividly, a drama shaping itself with a kind of implacable inevitability, given the characters involved.

Richardson was ahead of his two companions, nudging his horse along the narrow roadway. The Daimyo’s advance guard, two formidable warriors, fully armed, ran ahead of the norimon, ordered Richardson and his party to get out of the way.

Richardson, foolhardy, shouted back at them, refusing to budge, told them to stop yabbering their bloody gibberish, he was a British citizen and refused to kowtow.

Dawes realised the danger, called out to him to back down. But it was too late. Four more guards rushed forward, drawing their swords, followed by four more on horseback. A single cut sliced Richardson’s arm and he was dragged from his horse, shouting at the others to save themselves for God’s sake. Dawes felt a blow to his shoulder as he managed to turn his horse. Miss Clemence screamed as a sword was swung at her head and she somehow, miraculously, turned away, the blade taking off her hat and cutting through her hair.

The young couple managed to spur their horses clear, ride at a gallop back to Yokohama and raise the alarm before collapsing, exhausted and bloodstained.

Word spread and the reaction was outrage. That westerners should be attacked in this way was bad enough, but that a woman should be involved was unforgivable. Fifty men armed themselves, saddled up and rode along the Tokkaido – British sailors, French troopers, Dutch and American merchants, all ready to do battle.

The precise scene of the attack was not hard to find; there were dark bloodstains on the road, flies buzzing around it, a few scavenging dogs. Some distance away they found the remains of Richardson, dragged under a tree and left there, covered by straw mats, disembowelled, the throat cut, the head and face hacked and slashed, the right hand severed where he’d tried to ward off a blow.

Glover learned these gruesome details from Dawes himself some months later. Dawes was passing through Nagasaki, en route to Shanghai and thence to England. His fiancée had already gone home, much shaken by her experience. Dawes would follow her, take up a posting in London. He had recovered from his wounds, apart from a continuing ache to the shoulder where the swordblade had struck.

‘I fear that’ll be with me the rest of my days,’ he said, seated in an armchair at the Foreigners’ Club, peering into his glass of whisky as if reading his future there. ‘That and the deeper scars.’

‘Console yourself,’ said Mackenzie, ‘that it could have been much worse, for yourself and your fiancée. The fate of Mr Richardson could have been your own.’

‘Indeed,’ said Dawes.

‘What in the name of God possessed him?’ asked Mackenzie.

‘Bravado,’ said Dawes, ‘pure and simple.’

‘And entirely inappropriate,’ said Glover. ‘The man was a fool.’

‘Well then,’ said Dawes, bristling slightly, ‘he certainly paid for it.’

‘My fear,’ said Glover, ‘is that many more may yet have to pay the price. The consequences may yet be far-reaching.’

‘It was only by the grace of sweet reason,’ said Dawes, ‘that there were no further consequences on the night of the attack. The band of men who rode out of Yokohama that night quickly became a mob.’

‘The urge to revenge is strong,’ said Mackenzie.

‘There was a faction eager to pursue the Daimyo and his party, settle the matter there and then.’

‘It would have been a bloodbath,’ said Glover.

‘The Consul preached restraint,’ said Dawes. ‘He argued that it was a diplomatic affair and must be settled through the proper channels.’

‘I bet the mob loved that!’ said Glover.

‘There were indeed rumblings, about lily-livered appeasement. But sanity prevailed. The pursuit was called off, thank God.’

‘Amen,’ said Mackenzie.

‘Aye,’ said Glover. ‘But it’s not over yet. Not by a long way.’ 

In the drawing room of Ipponmatsu the atmosphere was solemn and formal. Five young samurai, Ito and four others, sat straightbacked round the table. Matsuo came into the room, bowed to Glover and to Ito, took his short
wakizashi
sword from its sheath. He stood behind Ito, who braced himself, sat upright, breathed deep. Matsuo took Ito’s topknot of hair, symbol of his status as a samurai, tugged and held it in his left hand, cut through it with the sword, let the clump of hair drop to the floor. Ito bowed, and Matsuo went to each of the young men in turn, repeated the action, ritually and ceremonially, cut off the topknot, and each of them bowed.

When it was done, Ito looked at the others, shorn and slightly bedraggled. He ruffled his own hair, threw back his head and laughed, and the others did the same. Glover produced a pair of scissors.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘They just need tidied up a bit and they’ll pass for perfect English gentlemen!’ 

Initially it had been Ito’s idea, and Glover had dismissed it as a pipe dream, thought it impossible, too dangerous by far. Now he saw it as the only way forward, for Ito, for all of them, for Japan itself. Ito had to go to the West.

He would take with him four companions, young samurai from his own Choshu clan. Glover would make the arrangements, smuggle them out.

Mackenzie had been appalled. ‘It’s madness, Tom! Think of the risks!’

‘We have. We know what we’re taking on.’

‘What if it all goes wrong? You’ll be expelled from the country. Your assets will be forfeit. You’ll be ruined.’

‘Then so be it. Ito and the others are risking so much more.’

‘If they’re caught they’ll be summarily executed.’

‘They know that. They accept it. It would be cowardly not to help them.’

Mackenzie had shaken his head. ‘It’s a step too far, Tom. Even for you.’

‘So you won’t help?’

‘I can’t.’

Glover had nodded. ‘Fine.’ 

He had to admit there was something comical in their appearance, their hair still ragged, roughly trimmed. They had discarded their samurai robes, put on western suits that Glover had acquired for them, and even the smallest suit was long in the sleeves, the trouser-legs, lent an aspect that was almost clownish.

But then Ito lined them up, a general inspecting his troops. They stood in front of Glover, looking for his approval, stiff and selfconscious, like a family group in a photographer’s studio, posing for a formal portrait. And something in the sheer dignity of their bearing, an inherent pride, shone through. Glover found himself quite moved by it, bowed low to them.

He fetched a bottle of his best whisky, poured each of them a dram in a small sake cup, proposed a toast.

‘To the Choshu Five!’

They raised their cups, drank.

Ito cleared his throat. ‘Is tradition, when we go on journey
like this, to make haiku poem. May be last journey. I make for all of us.’

He drew himself up, recited in Japanese, the words slow and incantatory. The others made noises of approval, bowed.

Then he turned to Glover. ‘I make translation.

‘Good,’ said Glover, and they all bowed once more. ‘Now, it’s time.’

The night was warm and close. Glover led them down a narrow lane towards the harbour, their collars turned up, hat-brims pulled down, Matsuo following behind, alert to any threat. Their bags had been loaded, earlier in the day, onto a company clipper, at anchor out in the bay. A longboat waited at the harbour, ready to ferry them out. The hope was that in the dark, from a distance, the five might pass for a group of young Europeans. If challenged they were to keep silent, turn their faces away, let Glover do the talking.

It was all going well till they reached the quay and a lantern suddenly flared at them out of the dark and a voice roared at them to stop, stay where they were.

‘Christ!’ said Glover, under his breath.

The guard was one of the Shogun’s men, patrolling the docks. The fear was that there were more of them, that they’d been alerted, were ready to attack.

Glover stepped forward, said these men were English traders. ‘
Igirisu no shounin desu
.’ They were leaving for Shanghai. ‘
Shanhai
e iku tokoro desu
.’

The guard held up the lantern, shone it in their faces. His own face in the harsh light was hard, unconvinced. He said they would have to wait, barked it out. ‘
Koko de matte ore!
’

Ito and the others tensed, braced themselves. Matsuo positioned himself between Glover and the guard, right hand resting easy on the handle of his sword. Then from behind them came another voice, booming out, authoritative, taking the guard to task.

It was Mackenzie, saying the men were his responsibility, they were on Jardine’s business. ‘
Jardine to akinai o shite oru no desu
.’

The guard looked reluctantly placated, turned to go.

‘Good timing, Ken!’ said Glover.

Mackenzie nodded, laconic. ‘Aye.’

‘Now we go to England!’ said Ito.

Relief spread through the group, and one of the younger samurai laughed, said ‘Hello. Good morning. Good afternoon. Good evening. How are you? I am very well, thank you.’

Another of them shoved him, playful, but a little too hard and he stumbled and fell, his hat coming off and rolling some distance.

The guard stopped and turned, shone his lantern again, lit up the figure lying on the ground, the young man clearly Japanese. He drew his sword, opened his mouth to call the alarm, but Matsuo was already on him, had drawn his own sword, sliced the man’s throat and he pitched forward, dead.

‘Dear God!’ said Mackenzie.

‘Go!’ said Glover, urging Ito and the others into the boat.

Matsuo lugged the guard’s body to the quayside, shoved it into the water with a deep dull hollow splash, the water imploding then closing over it. The boat moved off and there were shouts in the distance, voices raised, more guards running from the other side of the docks.

‘
Hayaku!
’ said Matsuo. ‘Quick!’ And he set off running down a side street, Mackenzie and Glover following.

‘Christ Almighty!’ said Mackenzie, wheezing, out of breath. ‘I can’t keep this up!’

There were guards coming after them; they could hear them getting nearer. They turned off down a narrow lane, into an alleyway. As they passed a doorway, Matsuo stopped, pushed both of them inside, put a finger to his mouth to indicate they keep silent, and carried on running.

They waited, tense and strained, nerves taut, conscious of the sound of their own breathing. There were more footsteps along the alley but they kept on going, past the doorway, on out of their hearing. Then it was quiet again, and Glover was aware of the thud of his own heartbeat, heard it gradually slow down, back to its normal rate.

It was dark, but he could just make out they were in the courtyard of a small temple, a wayside shrine. The thick woody scent of incense hung in the air, faintly musty. Mackenzie had slumped, was sitting on the ground, his back to the wall, his face in his hands.

‘What in the name of God are we doing?’

Glover motioned him to be silent again. He had heard something, the low drone of a voice. Carefully, slowly, placing one foot, the other, he made his way across the courtyard, trying to move quietly, but crunching gravel underfoot with every step. He was stopped dead by another sound, the clang of a gong, a struck iron bell. Then he realised the voice was of a monk, chanting, inside the shrine. He took two more steps and peered in. By the faintest glow of a lamp burned almost out, he could see the silhouette of the monk, an old man, sitting cross-legged at his night-watch, his devotions. The monk turned and looked at Glover, looked through him and beyond him to some other place, as if his presence or absence were a matter of supreme indifference. His concentration fierce, he resumed his chanting.
Namu Amida
Butsu
. And he struck the iron bell once more, and the sound reverberated, rang in Glover’s skull, drove everything else out.