Tokyo Bay (47 page)

s
ing positions and measuring distances in his mind; then he bowed quickly to his father and rushed from the pavilion.
The exterior entrance to the tu
n
nel which gave access to the secret underground chamber was situated a hundred yards to the rear of the ceremonial pavilion. The entrance itself and the approaches to it were all heavily screened with blue and white canvas barriers, and groups of sentinels drawn randomly from different regional clans were stationed at intervals along the narrow canvas corridors. An expectant hush had fallen over the whole beach, and the thousands of Japanese fighting men and civilians drawn up around the crescent-shaped bay seemed to strain their ears in a vain effort to detect what was going on inside the marquee.
On emerging hurriedly from the outer vestibule, Yakamochi stopped and beckoned to his chief bodyguard, who had been waiting discreetly in the shadow of the pavilion. Lifting a hand to shade his eyes, Yakamochi scanned the nearest groups of sentinels, searching for signs of Makabe emblems on their battle
-
dress.
‘What are you seeking, my lord?’ asked the bodyguard. ‘May I be of assistance?’
‘Yes hissed Yakamochi. ‘We need the correct passwords to gain immediate entry to the underground chamber! One of our samurai sentries could tell us!’
‘What is our aim, my lord?’
‘A signal to attack the foreign barbarians inside the pavilion has been ignored. We must lead the assassination force ourselves!’
Without hesitation the bodyguard ran to the nearest group of sentries and drew aside a Makabe samurai. After conferring briefly with him he returned quickly to Yakamochi’s side.
‘The password for the screened areas and the tunnel entrance, my lord, is
kurufune
-
black ships! And for the door of the chamber itself at the end of the tunnel
it
is
kamikaze
-
divine storm!’
‘Excellent! We must move quickly. Follow me!’ Yakamochi set off rapidly along the outside border of the screened zone, followed closely by the guard. When they reached the
guard post
nearest to the tunnel entrance and gave the password the sentries bowed low and allowed both men through without further questions. The narrow, low-roofed tunnel, shored up with pinewood props, was lit only feebly with a few paper lanterns, but Yakamochi led the way through
it
at a crouching run. Outside the wooden door of the chamber, two samurai sentries again bowed deferentially low on hearing the whispered code-word, and stepped aside after indicating that strict silence should be observed inside the underground chamber itself
As Yakamochi pushed open the door and stepped quietly over the threshold, the alert eyes of a dozen fully armoured warriors turned to look at him. By the light of a single, flickering lantern he could see that some of the samurai were crouching warily by the f
l
ight of wooden steps that led up to the trapdoor; others were standing or kneeling beside the earthen wails, and all without exception
carried
long killing swords, as well as shorter daggers in their sashes. It was evident from their alert postures that all were ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice and that every swordsman was listening attentively for the slightest sound from above.
‘The signal for action has already been given!’ rasped Yakamochi, looking quickly around the chamber. ‘But a treacherous official failed to carry out his orders! I’ve been sent to lead you in the attack!’
He drew his sword with a flourish and stepped towards the wooden steps.
‘Follow me, now! Death to the foreign barbarians!’
He lunged towards the steps, but as he did so Prince Tanaka Yoshio ducked silently out of the shadows beneath them to bar his way, his naked sword already raised in his hand. Behind him, Gotaro was also dimly visible and Yakamochi could see that he too was holding an unsheathed sword.
‘If you wish, to attack the foreign barbarians, you will have to kill us first!’ said Tanaka softly, positioning himself with care on the lower step. ‘We shall not let you pass.’
Looking Yakamochi in the eye, Tanaka stood very still, his sword as steady as a rock before him.
‘Why do you love the foreign barbarians so much,
O
Kami-san?’ snarled Yakamochi, moving slowly towards him. ‘What is the reason for your abject treachery?’
‘It would be madness to attack the barbarians now! With their superior weapons and ships they can invade us and make us their slaves for centuries to come.’ Tanaka paused, measuring the distance between them with his eye; then very quickly he moved two steps higher. ‘If we provoke them, they will do just that
-
and our proud nation will be ruined. . . perhaps
forever
!’
‘And if we don’t?’ demanded Yakamochi in a harsh whisper, moving slowly forward once again. ‘Do you think they won’t see us as weak and cowardly
-
and treat us even worse than slaves?’
Watching the young Makabe nobleman intently, Tanaka lowered the tip of his sword until it pointed directly at the centre of his chest. ‘With their guns and mighty ships, the foreign barbarians are the overlords of the whole world at present. But it’s the divine destiny of our great Em
p
eror to become the chief of all nations. .
‘We agree on that, so we should kill now
-
to show them our courage!’
‘No! We must deceive the foreign barbarians long enough to learn all their secrets. Then some day we shall exceed their strength
-
and
l
ead the world in their place!’
‘You’re wrong,
O
Kami-san,’ sneered Yakamochi, taking a sudden step forward and dropping into a crouch by the bottom step. ‘It’s always best to attack first
-
and by surprise! Your body will be trampled in our attack!’
Yakamochi dodged suddenly to the left and his sword flashed towards Tanaka’s head in a feint designed to throw him off balance. But, to his astonishment, Tanaka remained absolutely motionless on the higher step, watching his opponent’s blade calmly as it passed within a few inches of his face. Caught off balance himself, Yakamochi tried to lunge to the other side, slashing ferociously upwards at Tanaka’s throat. But Tanaka leaned forward with lightning speed, and in the same movement plunged his sword hilt-deep into Yakamochi’s chest. He withdrew the weapon just as swiftly and Yakamochi froze in his tracks, his eyes staring sightlessly, his arms held high in the air. His sword fell first to the sandy floor of the chamber, then he sagged down silently beside it, his mouth opened wide in a soundless scream of agony.
‘Does anybody. else favour attacking the foreign barbarians now?’ asked Tanaka softly, looking first at Yakamochi’s stunned bodyguard, then glancing round slowly at the face of each samurai warrior in turn. ‘If you do, please say so.’
Nobody moved or spoke. In the deep silence Tanaka came slowly down from the steps and wiped his sword with great care on Yakamochi’s red cloak. After one further quick glance around the shadowy chamber he returned the clean blade emphatically to its scabbard.
In the main hall of the pavilion above, there was a rustle of anticipation as Commodore Perry finished his murmured consultations and turned back to confront the two grave-faced Japanese dignitaries. Rising to his feet, he looked sternly across the room, and the silken tassels of his cockade shivered as he drew himself up to his full height.
‘It is my intention to leave the Bay of Yedo at a time of my own choosing,’ he declared sonorously. ‘My squadron of ships wi
ll
probably depart two or three days from now, when our nautical surveys of the bay are complete.’
The commodore waited while Armstrong translated his words and Haniwara Tokuma in his turn conveyed their meaning in sibilant Japanese to the governor and the two imperial delegates. An expectant hush followed, but neither the impassive First Counsellor nor Prince Ido made any comment or reply, and Commodore Perry glanced pointedly at Armstrong to indicate he should be prepared to translate further.
‘In conclusion,’ he continued in the same booming voice, ‘I hereby announce my intention to return here in the approaching spring, perhaps in April or May
-
or even sooner. This will be for the purpose of receiving what we trust will be a favourable reply to the letter from the President of the United States of America. That is all I have to say.’
The commodore resumed his seat and, after the translation had been made, a hurried conversation ensued in whispers between the governor and his interpreter, who remained on their knees in front of the lacquered chest. When they had finished, Haniwara Tokuma looked up diffidently towards Armstrong and the commodore.
‘Will the admiral return with all four of his vessels in the spring?’ he asked tentatively. ‘That is the governor’s enquiry’
‘I shall return with all of them,’ replied Perry ringingly, when he had understood the question. ‘And probably more.’ He paused and turned towards Armstrong. ‘Leave them in no doubt that the four present ships are only a small proportion of the entire squadron.’
On hearing this reply there was another brief flurry of conversation between the two Japanese; then both men bowed simultaneously from the waist in Perry’ direction, before rising slowly to their feet. The governor walked to the lacquered chest and with ostentatious care wrapped the American letters about with the scarlet cloth on which they had been laid out. Then he turned and bowed again towards the commodore, murmuring a single brief sentence in Japanese.
‘The governor says: “There is nothing more to be done here,” said Armstrong after listening caref
u
lly.

‘And he invites us to follow him out of the pavilion, since the ceremony is now concluded.’
The missionary watched the governor and Haniwara Tokuma move off together side by side, leading the way towards the outer vestibule. The interpreter was still very pale but, despite the signs of strain, his features remained composed. Armstrong tried to catch his eye but he kept his gaze focused before him on the red-carpeted floor of the pavilion, and it was with a muffled sigh of relief that Armstrong himself stepped away from the trapdoor to fall into line behind the commodore and his senior commanders. At times the soles of his feet had seemed to burn in anticipation of the floor beneath him being thrown violently open by a horde of sword-wielding warriors and, as he looked towards the sunlit beach beyond the pavilion entrance, he breathed deeply again and allowed himself to hope for the first time that all would end well.
To acknowledge the departure of the Americans, both imperial delegates rose stiffly from their stools. When the commodore paused to incline his head in their direction, they again bowed gravely in return, but otherwise their faces remained without expression and they still uttered no audible sound. In total silence the procession of American officers passed out of the main vestibule, scrutinized closely by all the watching Japanese. As the front ranks drew abreast of Lord Daizo near the outer entrance, Armstrong could see from his expression that the nobleman was seething with a barely suppressed anger. His eyes never left Haniwara Tokuma, but the interpreter did not raise his head to look at him as he passed.
As soon as the commodore and the head of the procession emerged from the pavilion onto the beach, a flurry of exuberant commands rang out as marine and naval officers ordered their waiting men to present arms in honour of their commander-in- chief. Eager, well-drilled feet stamped the sand, and a forest of carbines glittering with fixed bayonets were shifted expertly onto shoulders as the parade formed itself up quickly around its nucleus of senior officers. Within moments the ships’ bands had again launched enthusiastically into ‘Hail Columbia’ and, soon after the parade began to move, this was succeeded by the strains of ‘Yankee Doodle’ which enlivened and cheered the uniformed marchers as they stepped out gladly across the beach.
Samuel Armstrong responded with equal enthusiasm to the music and began to swing his limbs vigorously in relief. As he marched, he peered anxiously into the surrounding throng of curious Japanese, seeking a parting glimpse of Haniwara Tokuma. But he could not immediately pick out the interpreter among the dense crowds now pressing around the pavilion. The closeness of the staring faces reminded every marcher how easy it would be for the assembled Japanese force to converge suddenly in overwhelming numbers, even at that late stage in the proceedings, and, as he fell into stride at the rear of the commodore’s party; Armstrong sensed he was not alone in wrestling with his lingering feelings of unease.
The procession moved away in a slow curve, making for the temporary jetty, and Armstrong at last caught sight of the diminutive figure of Haniwara Tokuma standing beside the Governor of Uraga about a hundred yards from the pavilion. His face looked gaunt but he was scrutinizing the parade intently, and Armstrong saw his expression tighten when their eyes met. As they exchanged glances, something indefinable in the stoical demeanour of the Japanese interpreter moved the missionary suddenly to the depths of his being. Fears for the safety of his family were etched into every line of his narrow, intelligent face, but in his stance Armstrong also saw something else
-
a hint of fierce pride that, no matter what terrible consequences might follow from his actions, for the sake of a higher aim and for his country he had refused to yield to a terrible personal tyranny.
On recognizing this, Armstrong bowed his head spontaneously in the interpreter’s direction as he marched, feeling more than he had ever done before that the gesture was deserved and appropriate. Haniwara Tokuma’s expression did not change but he waited until Armstrong looked up, then lowered his own head slowly in a brief but equally emphatic bow. He straightened up again just before the Americans turned away down the beach, and as Armstrong marched on towards the jetty and the safety of the massive warships riding at anchor on the bay, he carried away with him above all else the haunting image of Haniwara Tokuma’s brave but stricken face.