They were quickly on land. Blackthorne intended to lead but Yabu usurped that position and set a strong pace, which he was hard put to keep up with. The other six samurai were watching him carefully. I’ve nowhere to run, you fools, he thought, misunderstanding their concern, as his eyes automatically quartered the bay, looking for shoals or hidden reefs, measuring bearings, his mind docketing the important things for future transcription.
Their way led first along the pebbled shore, then a short climb over sea-smoothed rocks up onto a path that skirted the cliff and crept precariously around the headland southward. The rain had stopped but the gale had not. The closer they came to the exposed tongue of land, the higher the surf—hurled against the rocks below—sprayed into the air. Soon they were soaked.
Although Blackthorne felt chilled, Yabu and the others, who had their light kimonos carelessly tucked into their belts, did not seem to be affected by the wet or the cold. It must be as Rodrigues had said, he thought, his fear returning. Japmen just aren’t built like us. They don’t feel cold or hunger or privations or wounds as we do. They are more like animals, their nerves dulled, compared to us.
Above them the cliff soared two hundred feet. The shore was fifty feet below. Beyond and all around were mountains and not a house or hut in the whole bay area. This was not surprising for there was no room for fields, the shore pebbles quickly becoming foreshore rocks and then granite mountain with trees on the upper slopes.
The path dipped and rose along the cliff face, very unsafe, the surface loose. Blackthorne plodded along, leaning against the wind, and noticed that Yabu’s legs were strong and muscular. Slip, you whore-bastard, he thought. Slip—splatter yourself on the rocks below. Would that make you scream? What would make you scream?
With an effort he took his eyes off Yabu and went back to searching the foreshore. Each crevice and cleft and gulley. The spume wind was gusting and tore the tears from him. Sea spilled back and forth, swirled and eddied. He knew there was a minimal hope of finding Rodrigues, there would be too many caves and hidden places that could never be investigated. But he had had to come ashore to try. H e owed Rodrigues the try. All pilots prayed helplessly for death ashore and burial ashore. All had seen too many sea-bloated corpses and half-eaten corpses and crab-mutilated corpses.
They rounded the headland and stopped gratefully in the lee. There was no need to go further. If the body wasn’t to windward then it was hidden or swallowed up or already carried out to sea, into the deep. Half a mile away a small fishing village nestled on the whitefrothed shore. Yabu motioned to two of the samurai. Immediately they bowed and loped off toward it. A last look, then Yabu wiped the rain out of his face, glanced up at Blackthorne, motioning their return. Blackthorne nodded and they set off again, Yabu leading, the other samurai still watching him so carefully, and again he thought how stupid they were.
Then, when they were halfway back, they saw Rodrigues.
The body was caught in a cleft between two great rocks, above the surf but washed by part of it. One arm was sprawled in front. The other was still locked to the broken oar which moved slightly with the ebb and flow. It was this movement that had attracted Blackthorne’s attention as he bent into the wind, trudging in Yabu’s wake.
The only way down was over the short cliff. The climb would only be fifty or sixty feet but it was a sheer drop and there were almost no footholds.
What about the tide? Blackthorne asked himself. It’s flowing, not ebbing. That’ll take him out to sea again. Jesus, it looks foul down there. What’s it to be?
He went closer to the edge and immediately Yabu moved in his way, shaking his head, and the other samurai surrounded him.
‘I’m only trying to get a better look, for the love of Christ,’ he said. ‘I’m not trying to escape! Where the hell can I run to?’
He backed off a little and peered down. They followed his look and chatted among themselves, Yabu doing most of the talking.
There’s no chance, he decided. It’s too dangerous. We’ll come back at dawn with ropes. If he’s here, he’s here, and I’ll bury him ashore. Reluctantly he turned and, as he did, the edge of the cliff crumbled and he began to slip. Immediately Yabu and the others grabbed him and pulled him back, and all at once he realized that they were concerned only for his safety. They’re only trying to protect me!
Why should they want me safe? Because of Tora— What was his name? Toranaga? Because of him? Yes, but also perhaps because there’s no one else aboard to pilot us. Is that why they let me come ashore, gave me my way? Yes, it must be. So now I have power over the ship, over the old daimyo, and over this bastard. How can I use it?
He relaxed and thanked them and let his eyes roam below. ‘We’ve got to get him, Yabu-san. Hai! The only way’s that way. Over the cliff. I’ll bring him up, me, Anjin-san!’ Again he moved forward as though he was going to climb down and again they restrained him and he said with feigned anxiety, ‘We’ve got to get Rodrigu-san. Look! There’s not much time, light’s going.’
‘Iyé, Anjin-san,’ Yabu said.
He stood towering over Yabu. ‘If you won’t let me go, Yabu-san, then send one of your men. Or go yourself. You!’
The wind tore around them, whining off the cliff face. He saw Yabu look down, weighing the climb and the falling light, and he knew Yabu was hooked. You’re trapped, bastard, your vanity’s trapped you. If you start down there you’ll get hurt. But don’t kill yourself, please, just shatter your legs or ankles. Then drown.
A samurai began to climb down but Yabu ordered him back.
‘Return to the ship. Fetch some ropes immediately,’ Yabu said. The man ran off.
Yabu kicked off his thong slippers. He took his swords out of his belt and put them safely under cover. ‘Watch them and watch the barbarian. If anything happens to either, I’ll sit you on your own swords.’
‘Please let me go down there, Yabu-sama,’ Takatashi said. ‘If you’re hurt or lost I’ll—’
‘You think that you can succeed where I will fail?’
‘No, Sire, of course not.’
‘Good.’
‘Please wait for the ropes then. I’ll never forgive myself if anything happens to you.’ Takatashi was short and stocky with a heavy beard.
Why not wait for the ropes? Yabu asked himself. It would be sensible, yes. But not clever. He glanced up at the barbarian and nodded briefly. He knew that he had been challenged. He had expected it. And hoped for it. That’s why I volunteered for this mission, Anjin-san, he said to himself, silently amused. You’re really very simple. Omi was right.
Yabu took off his soaking kimono and, clad only in his loincloth, went to the cliff edge and tested it through the soles of his cotton tabi—his sock-shoes. Better to keep them on, he thought, his will and his body, forged by a lifetime of training all samurai had to undergo, dominating the cold that cut into him. The tabi will give you a firmer grip—for a time. You’ll need all your strength and skill to get down there alive. Is it worth it?
During the storm and the stab for the bay he had come on deck and, unnoticed by Blackthorne, had taken a place at the oars. Gladly he had used his strength with the rowers, detesting the miasma below and the sickness he had felt. He had decided that it was better to die in the air than suffocate below.
As he worked with the others in the driving cold, he began watching the pilots. He saw very clearly that, at sea, the ship and all aboard were in the power of these two men. The pilots were in their element, riding the pitching decks as carelessly as he himself rode a galloping horse. No Japanese aboard could match them. For skill or courage or knowledge. And gradually this awareness had spawned a majestic concept: modern barbarian ships filled with samurai, piloted by samurai, captained by samurai, sailed by samurai. His samurai.
If I had three barbarian ships initially, I could easily control the sea lanes between Yedo and Osaka. Based in Izu, I could strangle all shipping or let it pass. So nearly all the rice and all the silk. Wouldn’t I then be arbiter between Toranaga and lshido? At the very least, a balance between them?
No daimyo has ever yet taken to the sea.
No daimyo has ships or pilots.
Except me.
I have a ship—had a ship—and now I might have my ship back if I’m clever. I have a pilot and therefore a trainer of pilots, if I can get him away from Toranaga. If I can dominate him.
Once he is my vassal of his own accord, he will train my men. And build ships.
But how to make him a true vassal? The pit did not break his spirit.
First get him alone and keep him alone—isn’t that what Omi said? Then this pilot could be persuaded to manners and taught to speak Japanese. Yes. Omi’s very clever. Too clever perhaps—I’ll think about Omi later. Concentrate on the pilot. How to dominate a barbarian—a Christian filth eater?
What was it Omi said? ‘They value life. Their chief deity, Jesus the Christ, teaches them to love one another and to value life.’ Could I give him back his life? Save it, yes, that would be very good. How to bend him?
Yabu had been so swept by his excitement he had hardly noticed the motion of the ship or the seas. A wave cascaded over him. He saw it envelop the pilot. But there was no fear in the man at all. Yabu was astounded. How could someone who had meekly allowed an enemy to piss on his back to save the life of an insignificant vassal, how could this man have the strength to forget such eternal dishonor and stand there on the quarterdeck calling the gods of the sea to battle like any legendary hero—to save the same enemies? And then, when the great wave had taken the Portuguese away and they were floundering, the Anjin-san had miraculously laughed at death and given them the strength to pull away from the rocks.
I’ll never understand them, he thought.
On the cliff edge, Yabu looked back a last time. Ah, Anjin-san, I know you think I go to my death, that you’ve trapped me. I know you wouldn’t go down there yourself. I was watching you closely. But I grew up in the mountains and here in Japan we climb for pride and for pleasure. So I pit myself now on my terms, not on yours. I will try, and if I die it is nothing. But if I succeed then you, as a man, you’ll know I’m better than you, on your terms. You’ll be in my debt, too, if I bring the body back.
You will be my vassal, Anjin-san!
He went down the side of the cliff with great skill. When he was halfway down he slipped. His left hand held onto an outcrop. This stopped his fall, and he swung between life and death. His fingers dug deeply as he felt his grip failing and he ground his toes into a crevice, fighting for another hold. As his left hand ripped away, his toes found a cleft and they held and he hugged the cliff desperately, still off-balance, pressing against it, seeking holds. Then his toehold gave way. Though he managed to catch another outcrop with both hands, ten feet below, and hang on momentarily, this outcrop gave way too. He fell the last twenty feet.
He had prepared as best he could and landed on his feet like a cat, tumbled the sloping rock face to break the shock, and came to rest in a wheezing ball. He clutched his lacerated arms around his head, protecting himself against the stone avalanche that could follow. But none did. He shook his head to clear it and got up. One ankle was twisted. A searing pain shot up his leg into his bowels and the sweat started. His toes and fingernails were bleeding but that was to be expected.
There’s no pain. You will not feel pain. Stand upright. The barbarian is watching.
A column of spray doused him and the cold helped to ease the hurt. With care, he slid over the seaweeded boulders, and eased himself across the crevices and then he was at the body.
Abruptly Yabu realized that the man was still alive. He made sure, then sat back for a moment. Do I want him alive or dead? Which is better?
A crab scuttled from under a rock and plopped into the sea. Waves rushed in. He felt the salt rip his wounds. Which is better, alive or dead?
He got up precariously and shouted, ‘Takatashi-san! This pilot’s still alive! Go to the ship, bring a stretcher and a doctor, if there’s one on the ship!’
Takatashi’s words came back faintly against the wind, ‘Yes, Lord,’ and to his men as he ran off, ‘Watch the barbarian, don’t let anything happen to him!’
Yabu peered at the galley, riding her anchors gently. The other samurai he had sent back for ropes was already beside the skiffs. He watched while the man jumped into one and it was launched. He smiled to himself, glanced back. Blackthorne had come to the edge of the cliff and was shouting urgently at him.
What is he trying to say? Yabu asked himself. He saw the pilot pointing to the sea but that didn’t mean anything to him. The sea was rough and strong but it was no different from before.
Eventually Yabu gave up trying to understand and turned his attention to Rodrigues. With difficulty he eased the man up onto the rocks, out of the surf. The Portuguese’s breathing was halting, but his heart seemed strong. There were many bruises. A splintered bone jutted through the skin of the left calf. His right shoulder seemed dislocated. Yabu looked for blood seepage from any openings but there was none. If he’s not hurt inside, then perhaps he will live, he thought.
The daimyo had been wounded too many times and had seen too many dying and wounded not to have gained some measure of diagnostic skill. If Rodrigu can be kept warm, he decided, given saké and strong herbs, plenty of warm baths, he’ll live. He may not walk again but he’ll live. Yes. I want this man to live. If he can’t walk, no matter. Perhaps that would be better. I’ll have a spare pilot—this man certainly owes me his life. If the pirate won’t cooperate, perhaps I can use this man. Would it be worthwhile to pretend to become a Christian? Would that bring them both around to me?
What would Omi do?
That one’s clever—Omi. Yes. Too clever? Omi sees too much too fast. If he can see that far, he must perceive that his father would lead the clan if I vanish—my son’s too inexperienced yet to survive by himself—and after the father, Omi himself. Neh?
What to do about Omi?
Say I gave Omi to the barbarian? As a toy.
What about that?
There were anxious shouts from above. Then he realized what the barbarian had been pointing at. The tide! The tide was coming in fast. Already it was encroaching on this rock. He scrambled up and winced at a shaft of pain from his ankle. All other escape along the shore was blocked by the sea. He saw that the tide mark on the cliff was over a man’s full height above the base.
He looked at the skiff. It was near the ship now. On the foreshore Takatashi was still running well. The ropes won’t arrive in time, he told himself.
His eyes searched the area diligently. There was no way up the cliff. No rocks offered sanctuary. No caves. Out to sea there were outcrops but he could never reach them. He could not swim and there was nothing to use as a raft.
The men above were watching him. The barbarian pointed to the outcrops seaward and made motions of swimming, but he shook his head. He searched carefully again. Nothing.
There’s no escape, he thought. Now you are committed to death. Prepare yourself.
Karma, he told himself, and turned away from them, settling himself more comfortably, enjoying the vast clarity that had come to him. Last day, last sea, last light, last joy, last everything. How beautiful the sea and the sky and the cold and salt. He began to think of the final poem-song that he should now, by custom, compose. He felt fortunate. He had time to think clearly.
Blackthorne was shouting, ‘Listen, you whore-bastard! Find a ledge—there’s got to be a ledge somewhere!’
The samurai were standing in his way, gazing at him as though he were a madman. It was clear to them there was no escape and that Yabu was simply preparing for a sweet death, as they would be doing if they had been he. And they resented these ravings as they knew Yabu would.
‘Look down there, all of you. Maybe there’s a ledge!’
One of them went to the edge and peered down, shrugged, and talked to his comrades and they shrugged too. Each time Blackthorne tried to go closer to the edge to search for an escape they stopped him. He could have easily shoved one of them to his death and he was tempted to. But he understood them and their problems. Think of a way to help that bastard. You’ve got to save him to save Rodrigues.
‘Hey, you rotten, no good, piss-cutting, shit-tailed Japman! Hey, Kasigi Yabu! Where are your cojones? Don’t give up! Only cowards give up! Are you a man or a sheep!’ But Yabu paid no attention. He was as still as the rock upon which he sat.
Blackthorne picked up a stone and hurled it at him. It fell unnoticed into the water and the samurai shouted at Blackthorne angrily. He knew that at any moment they were going to fall on him and bind him up. But how could they? They’ve no rope—
Rope! Get some rope! Can you make some?
His eyes fell on Yabu’s kimono. He started tearing it into strips, testing them for strength. The silk was very strong. ‘Come on!’ he ordered the samurai, taking off his own shirt. ‘Make a rope. Hai?‘
They understood. Rapidly they untied their sashes, took off their kimonos, and copied him. He began knotting the ends, sashes as well.
While they completed the rope, Blackthorne carefully lay down and inched for the edge, making two of them hold onto his ankles for safety. He didn’t need their help but he wanted to reassure them.
He stuck his head out as far as he dared, conscious of their anxiety. Then he began to search as you would search at sea. Quarter by quarter. Using every part of his vision but mostly the sides.
A complete sweep. Nothing
Once more.
Nothing.
Again.
What’s that? Just above the tide line? Is it a crack in the cliff? Or a shadow?
Blackthorne shifted position, keenly aware that the sea had almost covered the rock that Yabu sat on, and almost all of the rocks between him and the base of the cliff. Now he could see better and he pointed.
‘There! What’s that?’
One of the samurai was on his hands and knees and he followed Blackthorne’s outstretched finger but saw nothing.
‘There! Isn’t that a ledge?’
With his hands he formed the ledge and with two fingers made a man and stood the man on the ledge and, with another finger, made a long bundle over the shoulder of the man, so now a man stood on a ledge—that ledge—with another over his shoulder.
‘Quick! Isogi! Make him understand—Kasigi Yabu-sama! Wakarimasu ka?‘
The man scrambled up and talked rapidly to the others and they looked too. Now they all saw the ledge. And they began to shout. Still no movement from Yabu. He seemed like a stone. They went on and Blackthorne added his shouts but it was as if they made no sound at all.
One of them spoke to the others briefly and they all nodded and bowed. He bowed back. Then, with a sudden screaming shout of ‘Bansaiiiiiii!‘ he cast himself off the cliff and fell to his death. Yabu came violently out of his trance, whirled around and scrambled up.
The other samurai shouted and pointed but Blackthorne heard nothing and saw nothing but the broken corpse that lay below, already being taken by the sea. What kind of men are these? he thought helplessly. Was that courage or just insanity? That man deliberately committed suicide on the off-chance he’d attract the attention of another man who had given up. It doesn’t make sense! They don’t make sense.
He saw Yabu stagger up. He expected him to scramble for safety, leaving Rodrigues. That’s what I would have done. Is it? I don’t know. But Yabu half crawled, half slid, dragging the unconscious man with him through the surf-disturbed shallows to the bottom of the cliff. He found the ledge. It was barely a foot wide. Painfully he shoved Rodrigues onto it, almost losing him once, then hauled himself up.
The rope was twenty feet short. Quickly the samurai added their loincloths. Now, if Yabu stood, he could just reach the end.
They shouted encouragement and began to wait.
In spite of Blackthorne’s hatred he had to admire Yabu’s courage. Half a dozen times waves almost engulfed him. Twice Rodrigues was lost but each time Yabu dragged him back, and held his head out of the grasping sea, long after Blackthorne knew that he himself would have given up. Where do you get the courage, Yabu? Are you just devil-born? All of you?
To climb down in the first place had taken courage. At first Blackthorne had thought that Yabu had acted out of bravado. But soon he had seen that the man was pitting his skill against the cliff and almost winning. Then he had broken his fall as deftly as any tumbler. And he had given up with dignity.
Christ Jesus, I admire that bastard, and detest him.
For almost an hour Yabu set himself against the sea and against his failing body, and then, in the dusk, Takatashi came back with the ropes. They made a cradle and shinned down the cliff with a skill that Blackthorne had never seen ashore.
Quickly Rodrigues was brought aloft. Blackthorne would have tried to succor him but a Japanese with close-cropped hair was already on his knees beside him. He watched as this man, obviously a doctor, examined the broken leg. Then a samurai held Rodrigues’ shoulders as the doctor leaned his weight on the foot and the bone slid back under the flesh. His fingers probed and shoved and reset it and tied it to the splint. He began to wrap noxious-looking herbs around the angry wound and then Yabu was brought up.
The daimyo shook off any help, waved the doctor back to Rodrigues, sat down and began to wait.
Blackthorne looked at him. Yabu felt his eyes. The two men stared at each other.
‘Thank you,’ Blackthorne said finally, pointing at Rodrigues. ‘Thank you for saving his life. Thank you, Yabu-san.’ Deliberately he bowed. That’s for your courage, you black-eyed son of a shit-festered whore.
Yabu bowed back as stiffly. But inside, he smiled.
