The Pure Land (22 page)

‘What exactly did you have in mind?’ asked Mackenzie, half afraid to ask.

‘A railway line!’ said Glover. ‘The first in Japan!’

‘Fine,’ said Mackenzie, shaking his head. ‘Whatever takes your fancy.’

There was a flat stretch of waterfront below his house, along the Oura coast road. He had the track laid there, two hundred
yards of narrow-gauge rail. He imported the locomotive, the British-built
Iron Duke
, from Shanghai, stood watching, eager as a schoolboy, as the engine was swung ashore on the jib of a massive crane, chains creaking and straining. It was loaded on a specially built trolley, dragged slowly by a team of horses to the end of the rails, heaved and manoeuvred into place.

The engine would be fired by Japanese coal, mined locally at Takashima island. The Nagasaki Railway was set to make its maiden journey.

‘All of two hundred yards!’ said Mackenzie.

‘It’s a start!’ said Glover.

‘Your friend Professor Risley would be impressed.’

And he was right; it was a carnival, a fair. Streamers and banners lined the route, crowds had come out to gawp. Glover himself rode in the driver’s cabin, fired his pistol in the air, sounded the train’s whistle. The furnace was stoked, the wheels cranked and turned, the train rolled forward, gained momentum, ground and clanked along the track in clouds of steam and smoke. Horses reared, children ran and hid, women covered their ears. Glover waved at Tsuru, who stood with her hand covering her mouth, at Maki, who stood giggling with the other butterflies from the teahouse, at Walsh, who gave him a congratulatory salute. When the train hit the buffers at the far end, it reversed, chugged and shunted back to the start. Glover jumped down, face blackened with soot, eyes shining.

‘Yes!’ he shouted to Mackenzie who laughed with him, caught up in it. ‘Yes!’ 

He lay beside Maki, her head on his shoulder, his face buried in her hair. He breathed in her fragrance, the scent of her perfume and behind it the actual smell of her, herself, her warm woman-smell. She nestled against him and he held her there, skin to
skin, shared sweat and body heat. It was always like this afterwards. She had worked her magic, played him with her hands, her mouth; she’d teased and roused, awakened him, wrapped herself round him, taken him into her; with perfect timing like a dancer, she knew just when to ease back, when to let go, let it all build to that last thrust and surge, that burst of sheer joy, losing all sense of everything but this.

Then to lie a while quiet and sated and utterly content, the wellbeing spreading from his groin, the peacefulness radiating through him, narcotic. There was nothing better, nothing more important.

He must have drifted into sleep, woke in the night, saw Maki sitting at the edge of the mattress. Her hair was dishevelled from their lovemaking, she had pulled a cotton yukata round her shoulders, and she just sat looking at him in a way he hadn’t seen before, just looking, her eyes faraway and sad.

‘Maki,’ he said, overcome with a kind of tenderness. ‘What?’

‘Is nothing,’ she said.

‘Nothing?’

‘Feeling,’ she said. ‘No English word for it.
Chotto monoganashii
.’

‘Chotto is little?’

‘
Hai
,’ she said. ‘
Monoganashii
is … hard to say. Mean a kind of sadness that time pass, things change.’

‘Everything’s fleeting,’ he said.

‘Don’t know this word,’ she said. ‘But sound right.’

‘A sadness that everything’s fleeting.’

‘Little bit sad feeling.’

‘
Chotto monoganashii
?’

‘
Hai
.’

Chotto monoganashii
. 

Ito and Inoue approached him with a clear declaration of intent. They had conferred once more with Kido, now com pletely won
round to their way of thinking, had embarked on rebuilding Choshu as a strong military power, capable of challenging the Shogun. To this end they asked Glover to supply 1000 long Minie rifles in the short term; their reconnaissance had indicated this was the entire number available in the Nagasaki area. In the longer term they ordered 7000 of the rifles, in addition to a quantity of cannon and shells – as many as he could obtain. To further underline the scale of their ambition, they wanted a battleship to be built for them in Europe and shipped to Nagasaki. What they were planning was nothing less than full-scale revolution, and Glover was eager to throw in his lot with them.

All of this still had to be negotiated by stealth. In spite of Ito’s increasing influence, Choshu were still regarded with hostility and suspicion, not only by the Shogun and the Satsuma, but by the British Government. Ito and Inoue came to Glover’s house after dark, fearful of their lives, disguised as Satsuma merchants. They talked through the night, drew up plans over a glass or three of sake, blessed the venture further by opening a bottle of Glover’s special reserve of malt whisky. Ito sang his rebel songs; they dreamed of the new Japan.

The battleship would have to be built overseas, brought back. As yet there was no yard in Japan capable of building such a vessel, no workforce with the expertise. Glover had long argued that Japan had to mine its own coal, forge its own steel, build its own ships, bring in specialists to teach the skills.

A first step was to furnish the existing, small, Nagasaki yard with a dry dock, a slipdock, so the bigger ships could be built and launched.

By the time the sky began to lighten, Ito had pledged to gain support for the building of the dock, to raise the money and buy the land. In a moment of absolute clarity, lucidity, Glover saw that the dock, and the battleship, would be built in Aberdeen, at the Hall Russell yard, and that he himself would make a journey home to supervise the work. The thought had a rightness
about it, a certainty. He could see himself there, breathing the air, bracing himself against the cold blast off the North Sea. 

Ito came to the house again, a few days later, after dark as usual, not wanting to draw attention to himself. He also brought with him another young samurai Glover hadn’t met, introduced him as Ryono Sakamoto.

‘From Tosa clan,’ said Sakamoto, bowing.

Glover bowed deep in response. He sensed a strength about him, a clarity. Sakamoto said little, deferring to Ito; he had come to listen, observe.

Ito wanted to discuss the progress of the arms deal, make sure it was all going ahead.

‘Kido very serious,’ he said. ‘Bring in military adviser, organise Choshu as powerful force.’

There was a knock at the door, and Glover tensed, alert; unexpected visitors were rare. The knocking was repeated, three firm, hard raps. Glover nodded to Tsuru, who answered it, told him there were two young men who wanted to see him. He told her to show them in.

One of the men was Glover’s age, the other was only a boy, looked no more than fourteen.

Ito stood up, looked uncomfortable, said he should go. Sakamoto made to follow him but looked regretful about it.

‘Wait,’ said Glover. ‘Please.’

Ito bowed. ‘They are from Satsuma clan. They don’t want me here.’

‘Well, this is my home, and I want you here!’ He couldn’t conceal his impatience. ‘God, and I thought the Scots were bad. Bloody clans!’

The young man bowed to Glover. ‘I am Toamatsu Godai. This is Nagasawa Kanae. And yes, we are Satsuma.’

‘And do you object to Ito-san being here?’

Godai hesitated, but only for a moment. ‘No.’ He left a pause. ‘In fact, may be good thing.’

Glover let this sink in. ‘Ito-san?’

Sakamoto said something quietly to Ito.

Ito nodded, made a gruff noise Glover recognised as reluctant agreement.

‘Good!’ said Glover. ‘
Dozo
. Please.’ He motioned to the visitors to sit down, asked Tsuru to bring tea.

‘Now.’

The boy sat, straightbacked. Godai took a deep breath. ‘We are from Kagoshima.’

The very name was like a punch to the stomach, the desolation, destruction; the dead. Sono. A wisp of smoke.

‘Yes,’ he said, simply.

‘What happened there,’ said Godai, ‘must not happen again. Not anywhere.’

‘No.’

‘Shimonoseki also was very bad.’ He shot a glance at Ito. ‘Choshu leaders, like Satsuma leaders, get things wrong. Stuck in old ways. Have to change.’

Ito addressed Glover, but for Godai’s benefit. ‘Satsuma attack Choshu. Do Shogun’s dirty work.’

‘I know,’ said Godai. ‘This was very bad. Tell Ito-san I apologise on behalf of my clan.’

He bowed deeply to Ito, who acknowledged the gesture with a nod of the head.

‘Only way forward,’ continued Godai, ‘is to make strong Japan. Have much to learn.’

‘You’re sounding like Ito-san!’ said Glover.

Ito grunted.

‘I know Ito and other Choshu go to the West,’ said Godai. ‘I know you help.’

‘I did my bit,’ said Glover.

‘Now I want to go,’ said Godai, ‘with others from Satsuma.’

Ito took a sharp in-breath, shifted in his seat.

‘How many?’ said Glover.

Godai looked thoughtful. ‘Maybe twenty.’

Ito coughed, almost choked. Glover laughed.

‘The Satsuma Twenty!’ He turned to Ito. ‘Well, Ito-san. What do you think?’

Ito was silent; the matter was weighty, required thought.

Again Sakamoto spoke to him quietly.

Finally Ito breathed out, a long slow exhalation, said, ‘Maybe is time.’ 

Glover had placed armed guards all around the house, by the gates, in the garden.

‘If anyone asks,’ he said, ‘say you’re a shooting party, hunting ducks.’

‘At night?’ said Mackenzie.

‘They’ll just put it down to our strange western ways,’ said Glover. ‘And if not, a loaded rifle carries a certain eloquent authority, an invitation to mind your own business and leave well alone.’

Inside the house, the contingent of Satsuma had assembled, crowding into the front room. Like the Choshu Five before them, they had cut their hair, wore ill-fitting western clothes, dark suits, shirts with over-large collars. The young boy Nagasawa in particular looked uncomfortable, like an overgrown ventriloquist’s dummy in some music-hall routine. And yet, once more there was that dignity, the samurai bearing, so that Glover found himself absurdly moved.

The boy had already seen a bloody battle, stood beside Godai loading Satsuma cannon as Kagoshima was bom barded. And what motivated him, as well as the others, was not revenge, it
was the need to emulate, to be as strong as the conqueror. Nagasawa’s parents had visited Glover a few days before, travelled especially from Kagoshima. They were proud of their son but anxious for him, setting off into the unknown, beyond the edge of the world.

Using Godai as an interpreter, Glover had done his best to reassure them, said when the group arrived in Scotland, young Nagasawa would stay in Glover’s family home in Aberdeen, and Glover’s own mother would look after him.

The boy’s mother was overwhelmed at this, sobbed. The father stood stern, taciturn, straightened his back even more, nodded a gruff, curt acknowledgement, the very picture of restraint. And because he had been talking about them, Glover was minded vividly of his own parents, his mother’s blubbing, his father’s few words.
Aye
, he would say, if the fiend himself were to stand in front of him at the Day of Judgement,
Aye, well
.

Nagasawa’s father had thanked Glover, shaken his hand, entrusting him with his son’s life.

Now the boy was here, with the rest of them, ready for their momentous journey. Glover did a headcount, ending with the boy, patting him on the shoulder.

‘Nineteen?’ said Glover, counting again. ‘I thought there were twenty?’

‘One got sick,’ explained Godai.

‘Sick at the thought?’ said Glover. ‘Oh well.’ He poured drinks for all of them, in small sake cups, poured for himself and Mackenzie, and for Ito and Sakamoto, who had come along at Glover’s specific request. Glover had the strong sense that Sakamoto’s influence was good, and the fact that he was from the smaller Tosa clan meant he was not bedevilled by the Choshu–Satsuma feud.

‘A toast,’ said Glover, raising his glass. ‘To the Satsuma Nineteen!’

They all drank.

Mackenzie looked ill-at-ease, half-expecting trouble, braced for a sudden invasion by the Shogun’s guard. Ito was stonefaced, there under sufferance, but Glover thanked him, said his very presence argued commitment, a statesmanlike maturity, said he was an example to the others, a pathfinder, and many would follow in his footsteps. He grunted at that, pleased, and when Glover said there were no poets among the Satsuma Nineteen, asked him to compose a haiku for the occasion, he said he would see what he could do.

A few more cups of sake, a little more encouragement and he got to his feet, cleared his throat, said he had a poem.

‘Is tanka,’ he said, ‘not haiku. Five lines, not three. But spirit is the same.’

And he read his poem, intoned it, sonorous, translated for Glover and Mackenzie.

Glover nodded, put down his glass. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘the West awaits!’

They left in groups of three or four to arouse less suspicion. Ito, giving truth to his poem, led out the first group. Godai and Nagasawa went last, accompanied by Glover and Mackenzie. This time there was no trouble, no encounters with the Shogun’s militia. Their ship left at first light, at the turning of the tide. 

Mackenzie had decided to retire, go home to Scotland.

‘Christ, Ken!’ said Glover. ‘Why?’

‘Och,’ said Mackenzie. ‘I’m just getting too old for all this. I can’t keep up wi’ you young fellows any more! And I aye said I’d see out my days in Edinburgh.’

‘I owe you a hell of a lot,’ said Glover.

‘Aye, well, a cheque paid into my bank account will do just fine!’

‘You know,’ said Glover, ‘there is a job you could be doing for me back home.’

‘Oh aye?’ Mackenzie’s wariness was only half feigned.