Shogun_ A Novel of Japan Part 105

"It was my pleasure," she answered, as noncommittal.

They started down the staircase again. Then, after a flight of stairs, she said, "Your simple way of talking is strange though quite understandable, Anjin-san."

"I was lost too many times. Knowing you were there helped me tremendously."

"I did nothing."

In the silence they walked on, Mariko behind him slightly as was correct custom. At each level they pa.s.sed through a samurai cordon, then, rounding a bend in the stairs, the trailing hem of her kimono caught in the railings and she stumbled. He caught her, steadying her, and the sudden close touch pleased both of them. "Thank you," she said, fl.u.s.tered, as he put her down again.

They continued on, much closer than they had been tonight.

Outside in the torchlit forecourt, samurai were everywhere. Once more their pa.s.ses were checked and now they were escorted with their flare-carrying porters through the donjon main gate, along a pa.s.sage that meandered, mazelike, between high, battlemented stone walls to the next gate that led to the moat and the innermost wooden bridge. In all, there were seven rings of moats within the castle complex. Some were man-made, some adapted from the streams and rivers that abounded. While they headed for the main gate, the south gate, Mariko told him that, when the fortress was completed the year after next, it would house a hundred thousand samurai and twenty thousand horses, with all necessary provisions for one year.

"Then it will be the biggest in the world," Blackthorne said.

"That was Lord Toranaga's plan." Her voice was grave. "Shigata ga nai, neh?" At last they came to the final bridge. "There, Anjin-san, you can see the castle's the hub of Yedo, At last they came to the final bridge. "There, Anjin-san, you can see the castle's the hub of Yedo, neh? neh? The center of a web of streets that angle out to become the city. Ten years ago there was only a little fishing village here. Now, who knows? Three hundred thousand? Two? Four? Lord Toranaga hasn't counted his people yet. But they're all here for one purpose only: to serve the castle that protects the port and the plains that feed the armies." The center of a web of streets that angle out to become the city. Ten years ago there was only a little fishing village here. Now, who knows? Three hundred thousand? Two? Four? Lord Toranaga hasn't counted his people yet. But they're all here for one purpose only: to serve the castle that protects the port and the plains that feed the armies."

"Nothing else?" he asked.

"No."

There's no need to be worried, Mariko, and look so solemn, he thought happily. I've solved all that. Toranaga will grant all my requests.

At the far side of the flare-lit Ichi-bashi-First Bridge-that led to the city proper, she stopped. "I must leave you now, Anjin-san."

"When can I see you?"

"Tomorrow. At the Hour of the Goat. I'll wait in the forecourt for you."

"I can't see you tonight? If I'm back early?"

"No, so sorry, please excuse me. Not tonight." Then she bowed formally. "Konbanwa, Anjin-san."

He bowed. As a samurai. He watched her going back across the bridge, some of the flare-carriers going with her, insects milling the stationary flares that were stuck in holders on stanchions. Soon she was swallowed up by the crowds and the night.

Then, his excitement increasing, he put his back to the castle and set off after the guide.

CHAPTER 48.

"The barbarians live there, Anjin-san." The samurai motioned ahead.

Ill at ease, Blackthorne squinted into the darkness, the air breathless and sultry. "Where? That house? There?"

"Yes. That's right, so sorry. You see it?"

Another nest of hovels and alleys was a hundred paces ahead, beyond this bare patch of marshy ground, and dominating them was a large house etched vaguely against the jet sky.

Blackthorne looked around for a moment to get his approximate bearings, using his fan against the encroaching bugs. Very soon, once they had left First Bridge, he had become lost in the maze.

Their way had led through innumerable streets and alleys, initially toward the sh.o.r.e, skirting it eastward for a time, over bridges and lesser bridges, then northward again along the bank of another stream which meandered through the outskirts, the land low-lying and moist. The farther from the castle, the meaner were the roads, the poorer the dwellings. The people were more obsequious, and fewer glimmers of light came from the shojis. Yedo was a sprawling ma.s.s which seemed to him to be made up of hamlets separated merely by roads or streams.

Here on the southeastern edge of the city it was quite marshy and the road oozed putridly. For some time the stench had been thickening perceptibly, a miasma of seaweed and feces and mud flats, and overlying these an acrid sweet smell he could not place, but that seemed familiar.

"Stinks like Billingsgate at low tide," he muttered, killing another night pest that had landed on his cheek. His whole body was clammy with sweat.

Then he heard the faintest s.n.a.t.c.h of a rollicking sea shanty in Dutch and all discomfort was forgotten. "Is that Vinck?"

Elated, he hurried toward the sound, porters lighting his way carefully, samurai following.

Now, nearer, he saw that the single-story building was part j.a.panese, part European. It was raised on pilings and surrounded by a high rickety bamboo fence in a plot of its own, and much newer than the hovels that cl.u.s.tered near. There was no gate in the fence, just a hole. The roof was thatch, the front door stout, the walls rough-boarded, and the windows covered with Dutch-style shutters. Here and there were flecks of light from the cracks. The singing and banter increased but he could not recognize any voices yet. Flagstones led straight to the steps of the veranda through an unkempt garden. A short flagpole was roped to the gateway. He stopped and stared up at it. A limp, makeshift Dutch flag hung there listlessly and his pulse quickened at the sight of it.

The front door was thrown open. A shaft of light spilled onto the veranda. Baccus van Nekk stumbled drunkenly to the edge, eyes half shut, pulled his codpiece aside, and urinated in a high, curving jet.

"Ahhhhh," he murmured with a groaning ecstasy. "Nothing like a p.i.s.s."

"Isn't there?" Blackthorne called out in Dutch from the gateway. "Why don't you use a bucket?"

"Eh?" Van Nekk blinked myopically into the darkness at Blackthorne, who stood with the samurai under the flares. "JesusG.o.d-inheavensamurai!" He gathered himself with a grunt and bowed awkwardly from the waist. "Gomen nasai, samurai-sama. Ichibon gomen nasai Ichibon gomen nasai to all monkey-samas." He straightened, forced a painful smile, and muttered half to himself, "I'm drunker'n I thought. Thought the b.a.s.t.a.r.d sonofawh.o.r.e spoke Dutch! to all monkey-samas." He straightened, forced a painful smile, and muttered half to himself, "I'm drunker'n I thought. Thought the b.a.s.t.a.r.d sonofawh.o.r.e spoke Dutch! Gomen nasai, neh?" Gomen nasai, neh?" he called out again, reeling off toward the back of the house, scratching and groping at the codpiece. he called out again, reeling off toward the back of the house, scratching and groping at the codpiece.

"Hey, Baccus, don't you know better than to foul your own nest?"

"What?" Van Nekk jerked around and stared blindly toward the flares, desperately trying to see clearly. "Pilot?" he choked out. "Is that you, Pilot? G.o.d d.a.m.n my eyes, I can't see. Pilot, for the love of G.o.d, is that you?"

Blackthorne laughed. His old friend looked so naked there, so foolish, his p.e.n.i.s hanging out. "Yes, it's me!" Then to the samurai who watched with thinly covered contempt, "Matte kurasai." Wait for me, please. Wait for me, please.

"Hai, Anjin-san."

Blackthorne came forward and now in the shaft of light he could see the litter of garbage everywhere in the garden. Distastefully he stepped out of the dogs and ran up the steps. "h.e.l.lo, Baccus, you're fatter than when we left Rotterdam, neh?" neh?" He clapped him warmly on the shoulders. He clapped him warmly on the shoulders.

"Lord Jesus Christ, is that truly you?"

"Yes, of course it's me."

"We'd given you up for dead, long ago." Van Nekk reached out and touched Blackthorne to make sure he was not dreaming. "Lord Jesus, my prayers are answered. Pilot, what happened to you, where've you come from? It's a miracle! Is it truly you?"

"Yes. Now please put your cod in place and let's go inside," Blackthorne told him, conscious of his samurai.

"What? Oh! Oh sorry, I ..." Van Nekk hastily complied and tears began to run down his cheeks. "Oh Jesus, Pilot ... I thought the gin devils were playing me tricks again. Come on, but let me announce you, hey?"

He led the way back, weaving a little, much of his drunkenness evaporated with his joy. Blackthorne followed. Van Nekk held the door open for him, then shouted over the raucous singing, "Lads! Look what Father Christmas's brought us!" He slammed the door shut after Blackthorne for added effect.

Silence was instantaneous.

It took a moment for Blackthorne's eyes to adjust to the light. The fetid air was almost choking him. He saw them all gaping at him as though he were a devil-wraith. Then the spell broke and there were shouts of welcome and joy and everyone was squeezing and punching him on the back, all talking at the same time. "Pilot, where've you come from-Have a drink-Christ, is it possible-p.i.s.s in my hat, it's great to see you-We'd given you up for dead-No, we're all right at least mostly all right-Get out of the chair, you wh.o.r.e, the Pilot-sama's to sit in the best sodding chair-Hey, grog, neh neh, quick G.o.dcursed quick! G.o.dd.a.m.n my eyes get out of the way I want to shake his hand...."

Finally Vinck hollered, "One at a time, lads! Give him a chance! Give the Pilot the chair and a drink, for G.o.d's sake! Yes, I thought he was samurai too...."

Someone shoved a wooden goblet into Blackthorne's hand. He sat in the rickety chair and they all raised their cups and the flood of questions began again.

Blackthorne looked around. The room was furnished with benches and a few crude chairs and tables and illuminated by candles and oil lamps. A huge sake keg stood on the filthy floor. One of the tables was covered with dirty plates and a haunch of half-roasted meat, crusted with flies.

Six bedraggled women cowered on their knees, bowing to him, backed against a wall.

His men, all beaming, waited for him to start: Sonk the cook, Johann Vinck bosun's mate and chief gunner, Salamon the mute, Croocq the boy, Ginsel sailmaker, Baccus van Nekk chief merchant and treasurer, and last Jan Roper, the other merchant, who sat apart as always, with the same sour smile on his thin, taut face.

"Where's the Captain-General?" Blackthorne asked.

"Dead, Pilot, he's dead...." Six voices answered and overrode each other, jumbling the tale until Blackthorne held up his hand. "Baccus?"

"He's dead, Pilot. He never came out of the pit. Remember he was sick, eh? After they took you away, well, that night we heard him choking in the darkness. Isn't that right, lads?"

A chorus of yesses, and van Nekk added, "I was sitting beside him, Pilot. He was trying to get the water but there wasn't any and he was choking and moaning. I'm not too clear about the time-we were all frightened to death-but eventually he choked and then, well, the death rattle. It was bad, Pilot."

Jan Roper added, "It was terrible, yes. But it was G.o.d's punishment."

Blackthorne looked from face to face. "Anybody hit him? To quieten him?"

"No-no, oh no," van Nekk answered. "He just croaked. He was left in the pit with the other one-the j.a.pper, you remember him, the one who tried to drown himself in the bucket of p.i.s.s? Then the Lord Omi had them bring Spillbergen's body out and they burned it. But that other poor b.u.g.g.e.r got left below. Lord Omi just gave him a knife and he slit his own G.o.d-cursed belly and they filled in the pit. You remember him, Pilot?"

"Yes. What about Maetsukker?"

"Best you tell that, Vinck."

"Little Rat Face rotted. Pilot," Vinck began, and the others started shouting details and telling the tale until Vinck bellowed, "Baccus asked me, for Chrissake! You'll all get your turn!"

The voices died down and Sonk said helpfully, "You tell it, Johann."

"Pilot, it was his arm started rotting. He got nicked in the fight-you remember the fight when you got knocked out? Christ Jesus, that seems so long ago! Anyway, his arm festered. I bled him the next day and the next, then it started going black. I told him I'd better lance it or the whole arm'd have to come off-told him a dozen times, we all did, but he wouldn't. On the fifth day the wound was stinking. We held him down and I sliced off most of the rot but it weren't no good. I knew it wasn't no good but some of us thought it worth a try. The yellow b.a.s.t.a.r.d doctor came a few times but he couldn't do nothing either. Rat Face lasted a day or two, but the rot was too deep and he raved a lot. We had to tie him up toward the end."

"That's right, Pilot," Sonk said, scratching comfortably. "We had to tie him up."

"What happened to his body?" Blackthorne asked.

"They took it up the hill and burned it, too. We wanted to give him and the Captain-General a proper Christian burial but they wouldn't let us. They just burned them."

A silence gathered. "You haven't touched your drink, Pilot!"

Blackthorne raised it to his lips and tasted. The cup was filthy and he almost retched. The raw spirit seared his throat. The stench of unbathed bodies and rancid, unwashed clothing almost overpowered him.

"How's the grog, Pilot?" van Nekk asked.

"Fine, fine."

"Tell him about it, Baccus, go on!"

"Hey! I made a still, Pilot." Van Nekk was very proud and the others were beaming too. "We make it by the barrel now. Rice and fruit and water and let it ferment, wait a week or so and then, with the help of a little magic...." The rotund man laughed and scratched happily. "'Course it'd be better to keep it a year or so to mellow, but we drink it faster than ..." His words trailed off. "You don't like it?"

"Oh, sorry, it's fine-fine." Blackthorne saw lice in van Nekk's spa.r.s.e hair.

Jan Roper said challengingly, "And you, Pilot? You're fine, aren't you? What about you?"

Another flood of questions which died as Vinck shouted, "Give him a chance!" Then the leathery-faced man burst out happily, "Christ, when I saw you standing at the door I thought you was one of the monkeys, honest-honest!"

Another chorus of agreement and van Nekk broke in, "That's right. d.a.m.ned silly kimonos-you look like a woman, Pilot-or one of those half-men! G.o.d-cursed f.a.gs, eh! Lot of j.a.ppers are f.a.gs, by G.o.d! One was after Croocq ..." There was much shouting and obscene banter, then van Nekk continued, "You'll want your proper clothes, Pilot. Listen, we've got yours here. We came to Yedo with Erasmus Erasmus. They towed her here and we were allowed to bring our clothes ash.o.r.e with us, nothing else. We brought yours-they allowed us to do that, to keep for you. We brought a kit bag-all your sea clothes. Sonk, fetch 'em, hey?"

"Sure I'll fetch them, but later, eh, Baccus? I don't want to miss nothing."

"All right."

Jan Roper's thin smile was taunting. "Swords and kimonos-like a real heathen! Perhaps you prefer heathen ways now, Pilot?"

"The clothes are cool, better than ours," Blackthorne replied uneasily. "I'd forgotten I was dressed differently. So much has happened. These were all I had so I got used to wearing them. I never thought much about it. They're certainly more comfortable."

"Are those real swords?"

"Yes, of course, why?"

"We're not allowed weapons. Any weapons!" Jan Roper scowled. "Why do they allow you to have 'em? Just like any heathen samurai?"

Blackthorne laughed shortly. "You haven't changed, Jan Roper, have you? Still holier than thou? Well, all in good time about my swords, but first the best news of all. Listen, in a month or so we'll be on the high seas again."

"Jesus G.o.d, you mean it, Pilot?" Vinck said.

"Yes."

There was a great roaring cheer and another welter of questions and answers. "I told you we'd get away-I told you G.o.d was on our side! Let him talk-let the Pilot talk ..." Finally Blackthorne held up his hand.

He motioned at the women, who still knelt motionless, more abject now under his attention. "Who're they?"

Sonk laughed. "Them's our doxies, Pilot. Our wh.o.r.es, and cheap, Christ Jesus, they hardly cost a b.u.t.ton a week. We got a whole house of 'em next door-and mere's plenty more in the village-"

"They rattle like stoats," Croocq b.u.t.ted in, and Sonk said, "That's right, Pilot. 'Course they're squat and bandy but they've lots of vigor and no pox. You want one, Pilot? We've our own bunks, we're not like the monkeys, we've all our own bunks and rooms-"

"You try Big-a.r.s.e Mary, Pilot, she's the one for you," Croocq said.

Jan Roper's voice overrode them. "The Pilot doesn't want one of our harlots. He's got his own. Eh, Pilot?"

Their faces glowed. "Is that true, Pilot? You got women? Hey, tell us, eh? These monkeys're the best that's ever been, eh?"

"Tell us about your doxies, Pilot!" Sonk scratched at his lice again.

"There's a lot to tell," Blackthorne said. "But it should be private. Less ears the better, neh? neh? Send the women away, then we can talk privately." Send the women away, then we can talk privately."