The Pure Land (27 page)

‘
Dozo
,’ said Glover, pushing the packages forward. ‘Please.’

The Daimyo nodded to Shimada to open the packages. The first contained another pocket watch, on a gold chain. The Daimyo shook the watch, held it to his ear, grunted his acknowledgement. His mouth was still turned down, set, but in the eyes that met Glover’s gaze there was a flicker, the suggestion of acceptance.

Shimada opened the second package, took out the gift, a pistol, the handle inlaid with ivory. This time the reaction was unmistakable; the eyes were animated, the corners of the mouth twitched, the noise he made was one of approval. He weighed the pistol in his hand, squinted along the barrel. Then, as Shimada had done so long ago, a scene replaying itself, he raised the gun, pointed it straight at Glover’s head. And although Glover knew he had not loaded the gun, there was something in the act itself, the intent, that made the sweat prickle on the hands, on the back of the neck, some primal instinct that kicked in under threat.

The Daimyo asked for bullets. Glover said he had more, had brought a box of them, but there was a small pouch here, with half a dozen. The Daimyo asked him to load it, which he did, before handing it back. Now the threat was real, and they both knew it. The look in the eyes was predatory, and mocking. This was a test. Again he raised the gun, pointed it at Glover. This was one of the most ruthless men in the country. He had a long- standing feud with the West. His men had butchered Richardson over a matter of protocol, etiquette. He had precipitated the
bombardment of his home town rather than back down and lose face. He was holding a gun to Glover’s head.

Glover didn’t flinch, knew he couldn’t. He bowed, said ‘
Dozo
’, reached forward and pushed the barrel to one side so it faced the wall.

The Daimyo actually laughed, a harsh dry bark, then he put the gun down, nodded again to Shimada, who placed two small boxes in front of Glover. The Daimyo was reciprocating, had gifts for him. Glover bowed, opened the boxes. Each contained a small porcelain vase, one black, one white, each with its characteristic glaze, a subtle lustre.

‘
Shiromon
,’ said the Daimyo, indicating the white vase. ‘
Kuromon
.’ He pointed to the black.

‘
Kiwamete utsukushii desu
,’ said Glover. And they were indeed exquisitely beautiful. And Glover was caught by surprise once more, in this land that endlessly surprised him, at the combination of refinement and barbarism, delicacy and brutality.

The Daimyo motioned to Shimada to clear away the gifts, stood up and led the way through to another chamber. He was tall, even by western reckoning, as tall as Glover, a good six feet. By Japanese standards he was a giant, broad and powerfully built, an imposing presence, rendered more so by his flowing silk garments, his tunic with wide stiff shoulders.

The room they entered had a table prepared where they would dine, a civilised way of discussing business.

The feast was lavish, ran to some dozen courses, spread over three hours. The discussion, through Godai as interpreter, was at first circuitous, but grew more and more direct as the evening unfolded and the sake and whisky flowed. The Daimyo made it clear to Glover that the situation had changed, and would continue to change rapidly. He was anxious to impress on him, and on the British Government, that the Satsuma clan were no longer hostile to the West, even though it was only three short years since the reprisals against Kagoshima. In fact, he was
anxious to expand trade with the British, and that could only come about if new alliances continued to be forged between Japanese clans, led by Satsuma and Choshu, combining to remove the Tokugawa Shogun and replace him with the country’s rightful hereditary ruler, the young Emperor, the Son of Heaven. The Daimyo would be most grateful if Glover would relay his message to the Consul, Parkes. They had once been at war, but now must establish friendship. To this end, the Satsuma would be honoured if the Consul himself would visit Kagoshima where he would be most royally welcomed. Glover said on departing here he would go directly to Edo and deliver the message in person. The Daimyo roared his approval, said Glover had the spirit of a warrior, a true samurai. They laughed, drank to each other’s health.

Next morning Glover was wakened abruptly by an attendant, ordering him politely to get up and get ready, the Daimyo wanted him to go out riding in one hour. The blood was thudding in his head from too much rich food, strong drink.

‘Bloody hell!’

The attendant backed out. Two young women appeared, led him to the bathhouse, scrubbed and rinsed him, giggling. Godai was already in the hot tub, and Glover eased down into it, the water scalding. The heat made his head throb even more, thud in his skull; he felt faint, made a rueful face at Godai, who himself looked washed out.

‘The things we do for Japan, Godai-san!’

The answer came, weak. ‘
Hai
.’

He took the heat for ten minutes, dragged himself out, shocked himself awake with a dousing of ice-cold water from a tub, poured over his head. The thudding ache reached a peak then started to subside.

‘Now!’

He dried himself, dressed. The women brought food and he made himself eat a little rice-porridge, to settle his gut. Godai couldn’t face it, still looked wan. Glover laughed, clapped him on the back. ‘Bit of horse-riding will set you straight!’

Outside, the horses were saddled and ready. The Daimyo kept them waiting another twenty minutes then made his appearance, mounted up by placing his foot on the shoulder of a retainer, kneeling beside the horse. He gestured to Glover and Godai to ride alongside him and the little procession made its way out through the gates, an outrider up ahead, carrying the clan banner, half a dozen armed samurai following behind.

All the way along the road out of town, people would stop, get down on their knees as the procession passed, every one of them – women, children, old men – pressing their heads in the dust. Glover was unsettled to be up here, seeing this from the inside. It felt plain wrong to have folk kowtow to him. A few of them met his gaze, curious, before bowing their heads. The Daimyo looked straight ahead, rode on.

Further out the settlement thinned till there were only a few straggled houses, then they were in the open countryside, lush and green, surrounded by terraced hillsides, paddyfields. The Daimyo spurred his horse to a gallop, forced the others to keep up; then he slowed to a trot, stopped altogether in a clearing sheltered by cycad trees.

As they dismounted, Godai said to Glover, ‘This is a great honour, for the Daimyo to go riding like this with gaijin, he is paying you great respect.’

‘Let him know I appreciate it,’ said Glover.

The Daimyo had walked to the edge of the clearing, was looking out over an uninterrupted vista, the city far behind, bright sunlight shimmering on the bay, the bluegreen slopes of
Sakurajima
. He wanted to show Glover the extent of his domain, spoke of how quickly Kagoshima had risen again, been rebuilt.
He said Satsuma were a powerful clan, the most powerful in the country. Allied with Choshu they would be formidable, unbeatable, would make Japan a strong ally for the West. He repeated his request for a meeting with the Consul, and Glover said he would not rest till it came about.

The Daimyo gave a grunt of approval. This was the right answer, the only answer. He spoke then of further opportunities for Glover. Out there, he pointed, stretched Ryukyu, a chain of islands under Satsuma control, reaching as far as Okinawa, halfway to China. The silk trade flowed through here, and concessions could be made to Glover instead of to Chinese brokers. There were interests too in sugar – they had built their own factories to process, refine it. Western expertise would be welcome. And of course, there would be a continuing demand for ships and machinery. Glover heard, understood.

On their return to the residence, the Daimyo gave Glover another gift, a small cycad tree to remind him of their conversation in the shade, in the clearing, the view from Kagoshima, the open vista, the future.

Back in Nagasaki, Glover paused only long enough to sign some papers, took time to plant the cycad tree in the garden at Ipponmatsu; he dug the hole himself, took satisfaction in it, eased in the seedling, felt the warmth of the earth between his fingers as he trowelled it back in, patted it in place. Good. Then, true to his word, he headed directly to Edo, by steamer and horseback, went straight to the Legation, rode in along the same winding pathways, over the same bridge, past the same lake, the same grove of pine and bamboo. The defences had been strengthened, there were more guards around the perimeter, but he thought they still looked indolent, could still be cut to shreds by the ferocity of a ronin attack.

Five years since the bloodbath. Takashi’s sword coming at him out of the dark. Now Richardson was dead, butchered, and Matsuo slain by his own hand. Alcock and Oliphant were long gone, driven out. Now here he was, back to plead the same case all over again. Time passed. Things changed and stayed the same. The wind still blew in the pines.

He waited in the reception room while news of his arrival was relayed to Sir Harry Parkes. A heavy oak clock ticked the time away and Her Majesty the Queen, Empress of India, Defender of the Faith, looked down from her formal portrait, stern and regal, overseeing this furthest flung outpost of her domain, this little patch of British soil. He sensed for a moment the enormity, the sheer weight of power and responsibilty to which she was heir. It must be overwhelming, especially for a woman, and it was no wonder she appeared dyspeptic, even melancholic.

Parkes came bustling into the room. As Glover had anticipated, he was intrigued at the message he had sent.

‘Glover!’ he said, shaking hands. ‘Still meddling in affairs that don’t concern you?’

‘But they do concern me, Sir Harry. More than that, they consume me.’

‘You’re a battler, Glover, I’ll say that for you.’

Glover took it as a compliment, nodded.

‘But tell me,’ said Parkes, ‘have I got this straight? Are you telling me the Satsuma Daimyo wants to receive me in Kagoshima, with full honours?’

‘He’s most anxious to meet you,’ said Glover. ‘I’ve just come from there, and he treated me like royalty.’ He glanced at the portrait of the Queen, gazing down at them. ‘With all due respect!’

‘The man who had Richardson slaughtered on a whim, who brought retribution on his own city rather than back down, this ruthless warlord now wants to negotiate?’

Glover noticed, on the lintel above the door, a deep gouge in the woodwork, probably hacked there on the night of the attack by a flashing samurai blade.

‘They live by their own code,’ he said, ‘and it’s a code we don’t always understand. But it’s grounded in ideas of honour, and duty, and that much we
can
understand. They’re also nothing if not resilient. They adapt readily to change, and this is a time of tremendous change. We have to seize the moment.’

Parkes left a silence as he pondered. The clock ticked. Her Majesty looked down. Cicada and uguisu chirped and croaked in the gardens.

Parkes rang a little brass bell.

‘Let us discuss this further,’ he said, ‘over tea. And let’s make it proper tea, with milk and white sugar, not the bitter green muck they serve here.’

‘I admit it’s an acquired taste,’ said Glover, ‘and I’m happy to say I’ve acquired it in my time here. But I’ll be glad to sup some of your best Darjeeling.’

‘Excellent,’ said Parkes, and he rang the bell again.

Next morning Glover rose early, remonstrated with the guards who tried to dissuade him from heading into the city alone. He insisted, said he had his wits about him and knew fine what he was doing. They stood back to let him past and he rode straight to the Satsuma
yashiki
, the clan’s residence in Edo. At one point he thought he was being followed by someone on foot, hurrying to keep up; he fancied he caught sight of a figure darting into an alleyway when he turned his head. He dug his heels into his horse’s flanks, urged it forward through the narrow streets, folk glancing at him, curious, getting out of his way.

At the residence he talked his way in, saying he was here at the express command of the Daimyo himself, Prince Shimazu
Saburo, who had received him in Kagoshima this very week and entrusted him with a special mission in Edo.

The Daimyo’s representative, Kinsaburo-san, came hurrying out to meet him, in spite of the early hour, welcomed him with green tea and sweet
mochi
beancakes. Glover told him of his meeting with the Daimyo, the pressing need to arrange for Parkes to go to Kagoshima.

Kinsaburo said with great earnestness, and a certain self-importance, that he would visit the Consul as soon as possible, the next day, and deliver an official invitation on behalf of the Daimyo. He thanked Glover for his visit, warned him, as the Legation guards had done, that he should not travel through the city alone and he would delegate a bodyguard to escort him.

Glover thanked him, said once more he would be fine, could look out for himself, and he took his leave. But again, on his way back to the Legation, he had a sense of being followed, observed, sensed that figure, half glimpsed out the corner of his eye.

Kinsaburo arrived at the Legation the following afternoon, borne in a norimon, with four guards in attendance. He wore a yellow silk robe, an elaborate winged headpiece, carried a scroll. Parkes had been alerted by Glover and was expecting the visit, dressed formally in his gold-embroidered ambassadorial coat. Seemingly by chance, an agent of the Shogun arrived at the same time and was curtly instructed to wait in the reception area while the Consul was engaged in official business. To complicate matters further, the French Consul Roches also, miraculously, by chance, made an appearance, accompanied by another man, clearly a French agent. Something in the agent’s appearance, the furtive way he moved, seemed familiar to Glover; then he realised, this must be the man who had shadowed him the day before. So
both the Shogunate and the French were spying on him; he was flattered and outraged in equal measure. Roches and his henchman, under protest, were also instructed to wait.