The Pure Land (14 page)

‘I am beginning to take it rather personally!’ said Glover.

‘Definitely,’ said Ito. ‘He want to kill you. He made promise.’

They were seated in the front room at Ipponmatsu, Matsuo on guard outside on the lawn. Glover was suddenly serious. ‘Ito-san, there is something I want to ask you.’

‘
Hai
.’ Ito nodded, braced himself.

‘After the attack on the Legation, I was defending you. They were talking about other attacks.’ He was finding this difficult, looked hard at Ito. ‘They said you were involved.’

Ito set down the copy of the newspaper, met Glover’s gaze. ‘One time I was like Takashi-san. I hate all foreigners. But you have to know it was a matter of honour. I love my country. I don’t want Japan to be colonised, like India, like China.’

‘
So desu
,’ said Glover.

‘When I was very young man,’ said Ito, ‘I knew great teacher called Yoshida Shoin. He taught at academy when I was there. Not only great teacher, but great man, great hero. He taught importance of old ways, love of Japan, loyalty to the Emperor.’

‘He also hated all foreigners?’ asked Glover.

‘Saw them as threat,’ said Ito

‘So what became of him?’

‘Bakufu arrested him. He was executed.’

‘So.’

‘Now past is dust. I still love Emperor, love Japan, want rid of Bakufu and Shogun. But I want Japan to become strong, like your country, like America. We have to open to the West. Take what we need and learn.’

Glover nodded. ‘
Hai
.’ 

A few weeks later, Glover received a letter from Oliphant.

For a moment Glover was back at the Legation, cowering in the dark, waiting for the blow to fall. He shook himself, put the letter aside. The ronin had achieved some small part of their aim. One barbarian invader had been driven out. But Glover had no intention of being beaten back, steeled himself all the more.

F
or months after the attack on the Legation, the settlement in Nagasaki, like the enclave in Yokohama, was on the alert, fearful of an uprising. The Shogun announced that the perpetrators of the attack would be tracked down and punished. But nothing more was heard. There were no further incidents. Trade and commerce continued as before.

Glover and Ito had another consignment to pick up, from Shanghai. Again Wang-Li would accompany them. Walsh came to the dock to see them off, wish them
bon voyage
.

Glover called out to him, from the deck.

‘You’re sure you don’t want to come with us this time?’

‘Not my style, Tom. You know me. I prefer to delegate.’

‘Keep your hands clean!’

‘Exactly! Wang-Li’s going to pick up a few things for me. I hope you don’t mind.’

‘As long as it doesn’t stink to high heaven. Or blow up in our faces!’

Walsh laughed. ‘Them’s the chances you take, partner!’ He waved. ‘
Adios!
’

Glover waved back. Ito stared at Walsh, impassive. The ship cast off, headed out of the harbour.

Everything, it appeared, was proceeding according to plan. The arrangements were exactly as they had been on every previous trip; they disembarked from the clipper, went straight to the warehouse, led by Wang-Li; they passed the same disreputable establishments where the same young girls plied their trade behind ragged curtains; they sidestepped what looked like a continuation of the same street brawl; they followed Wang-Li into the same narrow lane, across the same courtyard, through the same warehouse to the same back room, and only then did they feel something was different. There was a change, not for the better, in the atmosphere. Glover felt it, a tension in the air, and glancing across, he saw Ito sensed it too. Wang-Li looked particularly agitated, fanned himself, dabbed sweat from his brow.

Behind the desk was not Chan, the affable businessman who had overseen their previous dealings, but a younger man, altogether tougher-looking, his whole demeanour actively hostile. Behind him stood two guards, massive and implacable.

Wang-Li explained, Chan had been replaced. This was the new boss.

There was no tea on offer, no invitation to share a pipe. It was straight to business. The consignment was already being loaded onto the wagons; they could hear the boxes being quickly, briskly stacked. Ito heaved a battered leather bag onto the desk, set it down with a thud. It was bulging with gold, a mix of dollars and bullion, to the exact amount agreed.

The new man did not waste time. Glover produced the list of what they had ordered, ten cases of breech-load rifles, as many again of ammunition. The man glanced at the list, nodded, handed over a list of his own. Wang-Li read it, looked even more alarmed.

‘Is there a problem?’ asked Glover.

Wang-Li cleared his throat. ‘He say money not enough. Price go up.’

‘How much?’

‘Two times,’ said Wang-Li. ‘He want twice as much.’

Glover snorted, laughed, but kept his eyes, hard and cold, on the trader. ‘Impossible.’ He jabbed at the list, the paper scroll. ‘That’s what we agreed. Now, I’ll bid you good day.’

He stood up, the discussion over.

The trader banged the table, shouted at Wang-Li, who was stammering now.

‘He say you pay more.’

‘More!’ said the trader.

‘I brought the amount we agreed,’ said Glover.

Wang-Li translated again. The trader yelled at him.

‘He say you pay this amount, you only take half the guns.’

‘We made a deal,’ said Glover. ‘He has to stick to it.’

He nodded to Ito, moved towards the door.

The trader stood up, screamed, ‘No!’

As if the moves had been choreographed, several things happened in the same instant: one of the guards blocked the exit, drew a pistol and pointed it at Glover, who raised his hands in the air; the second guard grabbed Wang-Li by the scruff and slammed him against the wall; Ito moved swiftly, light on his feet, across the room and behind the trader, in one movement held his unsheathed sword to the man’s throat; the second guard also drew a pistol and pointed it at Ito. They stood frozen in a tableau, a stalemate.

Glover nodded to Ito, shrugged at the guard in front of him. Then everything seemed to slow down, and he saw the guard reach forward to take Glover’s own pistol from his belt; as the man leaned forward, Glover butted him in the face with his head, and the other guard half-turned, was caught broadside by the trader, shoved across the room by Ito. Glover’s guard dropped his pistol and Glover hit him again, this time with a classic straight left that felled him, dropped him to the floor. Once again
Ito was across the room, held his sword to the throat of the second guard, its point piercing the skin.

For a moment there was a silence, a stillness, their breathing loud, the sounds from the courtyard far away.

‘Now,’ said Glover. ‘We’ll be going.’

Almost as an afterthought, he reached into the leather bag, took out two gold bars and tucked them into the pockets of his coat.

‘For the inconvenience,’ he said, and raised his hat.

The trader could barely contain his rage, looked like a caricature, eyes bulging, neck sinews stretched and taut.

Wang-Li was shaking as he led the way out the door, Glover following, Ito covering their retreat. As Ito turned his head a moment, the second guard made one last effort to stop them, threw himself at Ito. Not flinching, Ito cut him down calmly with a single stroke, stepped over him, hurried down the stairs.

In the courtyard, they moved quickly, took over from the labourers loading the carts. There were three carts and they took the reins of one apiece, nudged the horses out of the yard.

At the dock they moved quickly. Wang-Li haggled with another Chinese over the crate he was picking up for Walsh. Glover organised the crew to load the consignment of arms on board. Ito stood on guard, sword at the ready.

By the time the trader arrived in pursuit, an entourage of armed men at his back, the clipper was already heading for the open sea. 

On deck, Ito sat cross-legged, his sword, in its scabbard, laid in front of him.

‘You were very useful with that,’ said Glover.

‘Sorry?’ said Ito, not understanding.

‘The sword,’ said Glover, and he mimed cutting with it, swiping the air. ‘Very good.’

‘Ha!’ said Ito, and he smiled, nodded.

‘You could teach me,’ said Glover, miming again.

Ito laughed. ‘You want to be samurai?’

‘A Scottish samurai!’ said Glover.

The Japanese sense of humour still took Glover by surprise. Ito threw his head back and roared with laughter. When he’d recovered, Glover continued. ‘I could teach you how to box.’

Ito looked confused. ‘Box?’ He pointed at a wooden crate.

‘Boxing!’ said Glover, jabbing with his fists.

Ito understood, laughed again. ‘And this!’ He mimed butting with his head.

‘Ha!’ said Glover. ‘It’s an old Scottish move!’

Ito butted again, mimicked Glover’s expression, made him laugh just as loud.

As they began the run in to Nagasaki harbour, Wang-Li called out, handed Glover a telescope. He peered through it, brought a ship into focus.

‘Damn!’ he said. ‘It’s not one of the Shogun’s junks this time. It’s the bloody Royal Navy. There’s no way we can outrun them.’

‘So,’ said Ito, picking up his sword. ‘We fight them.’

‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,’ said Glover, raising the telescope again.

The frigate ran them down easily. A boarding party clambered on deck, held Glover and Ito at gunpoint.

‘This is an outrage!’ said Glover. ‘I’m a respectable merchant on legitimate business!’

The cargo was dragged from the hold. An officer jemmied open a crate, took out a rifle, a box of ammunition. ‘Respectable?’ He held up the rifle. ‘Legitimate?’

Glover stayed calm, but raised his voice. ‘I insist on speaking to your Captain.’

Another voice, authoritative, spoke behind him. ‘Mister Glover.’

Glover turned, recognised the man, thank God. It was
Mackenzie’s friend Barstow, the one who had presided over Glover’s initiation in the First Degree. Hele, conceal never reveal.

‘Captain Barstow,’ said Glover. ‘You know me. You know my intentions are honourable.’

‘Indeed?’ said the Captain with a slight raise of the eyebrow, a faint smile behind the bristling full-set beard.

‘This consignment of guns is for the protection of the foreign settlement in Nagasaki. You know the situation as well as anyone. It is unpredictable, volatile. The place is a powder-keg, especially since last year’s attack on the Legation in Edo.’

‘I understand you experienced that first-hand,’ said the Captain.

‘I was lucky to escape with my life, sir.’

The Captain nodded. ‘Quite.’

‘The need for security is paramount. We have to be ready to defend ourselves.’

‘And the danger lies with these rebel clans, the Satsuma, the Choshu?’

He stared directly at Ito, who stood rigid, met his gaze.

‘There are certain elements within those clans,’ said Glover, ‘who pose a serious threat to our very presence here.’

The Captain nodded to the boarding party, who lowered their guns. ‘Very well, Mister Glover. I shall accept your explan ation. A report will be entered in the log and no further action will be taken, on this occasion. But take heed. Some of my fellow officers may not be so accommodating.’

He turned away, prepared to descend the rope ladder back to his own vessel. ‘We shall escort you safely into the harbour. As you are no doubt aware, these waters are infested with pirates, and it would be unfortunate if your cargo were to fall into the wrong hands.’ He saluted. ‘I bid you good day.’ 

Back on shore, in their favourite drinking den, Glover proposed a toast.

‘To British fair play.’

Ito remained sullen, grunted.

‘He insulted Choshu clan, and you agreed with him.’

‘I said elements of both clans were dangerous. Your friend and mine, Takashi – remind me to which clan he belongs. Ah, yes, Choshu!’

‘He say we are same as Satsuma. But Satsuma are much worse. Cause all this trouble.’

‘God, give me strength!’

‘Now Satsuma buy a ship from your country.’

‘A very smart piece of business, which I was happy to broker.’

‘Ship is called the
England
.’

‘So,’ said Glover. ‘Japan is buying England!’

Ito let the words sink in, caught the joke, threw back his head and roared again his great throaty laugh.

‘One day!’ he said.

‘To Japan!’ said Glover, proposing another toast.

‘
Nippon
!’

Together they said, ‘
Kanpai!
’, knocked back their drinks, banged their cups down on the table, ordered more. 

They were on the lawn at Ipponmatsu, Glover in shirtsleeves, Ito in his usual loose-fitting Japanese clothes. Matsuo was in attendance, carrying two full-size wooden swords. He bowed, handed them both to Ito, who passed one to Glover.

‘
Hai!
’

He showed Glover how to stand, weight evenly balanced, light on his feet, demonstrated how to hold the sword, the grip firm but light.

Glover tried to copy, felt cumbersome and awkward.

Ito showed him again, emphasised the importance of the stance, the readiness, told him to breathe deep, feel his own strength, the fire in his belly an energy he could tap.

‘So.’ He demonstrated a few cuts and sweeps with the sword, his movements graceful and dynamic, fierce but controlled. ‘Now, you.’

Once more Glover tried, mimicked the moves with great gusto but a certain lack of finesse.

‘It’s harder than it looks,’ he said, laughing. ‘Still. A bit of work and I’ll get the hang of it.’

‘Much work,’ said Ito, straightfaced. ‘Again.’

Again Glover swiped and hacked the air. The evening was warm. He was working up a sweat.

‘Again.’

Stand firm but relaxed, feel the grip, raise the sword. Strike and step forward. Again. Again.

‘Again.’

‘Christ!’

‘Again.’

‘Bloody taskmaster!’

‘Again!’

Glover was ready to crack the wooden blade down on Ito’s skull. He was breathing heavily; the sweat prickled his scalp, the back of his neck; his shirt stuck to him.

‘Now,’ said Ito. ‘You get your breath back, you attack. Hit me.’

‘Gladly!’ said Glover.

‘Remember,’ said Ito. ‘Breathe deep.’ He patted his stomach. ‘Feel it here.’

Glover tried to calm himself, concentrate.

‘Good,’ said Ito. ‘Now.’

He stood, balanced, poised, the sword held out in front of him, nodded to Glover to come at him.

Glover raised his own sword, charged, brought the blade down with real force.

Casually, almost disdainfully, Ito deflected the blow, sent Glover staggering.

‘You see?’ he said. ‘I use your own strength against you.’

‘Aye,’ said Glover. The impact had jarred his arms, his wrists. ‘I see!’

‘Now,’ said Ito. ‘Again.’ 

It was late afternoon, a faint coolness in the breeze. Matsuo had helped them lace up their gloves. Glover had bought them on a whim – two pairs – from a market stall at the docks, part of a job-lot that included a cricket bat and a leather football, probably brought out by some missionary full of zeal to convert the natives to the way of sport.

Now it was Ito’s turn to look uncomfortable.

‘A return bout,’ said Glover. ‘The noble art!’

Ito looked, flummoxed, at cumbersome wads of padding on his hands. ‘Noble art,’ he repeated.

‘Fisticuffs,’ said Glover. ‘Queensberry Rules.’

Ito looked even more confused.

‘Seconds out!’ said Glover, and he took up position, left foot forward, hands in front of his face. Ito did the same, but with his right foot forward.

‘A southpaw,’ said Glover. ‘Makes it interesting.’

Ito gave up even trying to comprehend, did his best to follow Glover’s movements, ducking and weaving, weight on the balls of his feet. Glover showed him how to keep his guard up, jabbed once or twice, let the blows land on Ito’s gloves.