The Pure Land (28 page)

In the drawing room, Parkes took his time, had tea and cakes served to Kinsaburo, who then read out the formal invitation inscribed on the scroll, offering the full unstinting hospitality of the Daimyo if the Consul would do him the honour of paying an official visit to Kagoshima.

The Consul replied graciously that the honour would be all his, he would be delighted, indeed he would have visited Kagoshima sooner had he not been obstructed by protocol and procedure – what the Japanese termed
yaku-bio
, or ‘official sickness’. Further, in the light of current changes in the political situation, he now deemed such a visit essential.

It was a masterly piece of diplomacy and tact, and impressed Glover greatly. He saw the Consul in a new light, heightened by his treatment of Roches and the Shogun’s agent after Kinsaburo had gone. He addressed them both, told them the diplomatic negotiations of Her Majesty’s Government were none of their business, that Satsuma, as well as Choshu, had a right to be heard, that there was a strong move towards recognising the young Mikado, regarded by many as the rightful hereditary ruler of Japan, and including him in any further negotiations concerning the country’s future. If they did not take cognizance of the new situation, the loss would be theirs and history would pass them by.

Roches listened to the tirade, gave Parkes a weary smile, a look full of
ennui
and condescension, but not without a certain sympathy for someone whose ideas he clearly regarded as simply, unfortunately, wrong-headed. He told Sir Harry that history would indeed have the final say. Then he turned to Glover, addressed him directly.

‘Monsieur Glover.’ It was a statement, not a query. He knew who Glover was.

‘Monsieur Roches,’ said Glover.

‘I have reports of you from my countryman, Charles de Montblanc.’

‘Give him my regards,’ said Glover. ‘Although I hope to pass them on in person before too long. And no doubt you’ve had reports of me from your lackey.’ He indicated the other man, the figure in black. ‘I’m honoured at the French Government’s concern for my welfare, but your man here should be aware of the danger to himself in wandering these streets unaccompanied.’ Roches chuckled, said he would pass on the advice. Then he drew himself up, bowed to Glover and Parkes before excusing himself with a wave of the hand that was almost languid, turned and swept out the door with the other in tow.

The next visit to Kagoshima was a triumph. Parkes had accepted the Daimyo’s invitation, was accompanied by his wife. They stood on the deck of the battleship
Princess Royal
, Glover by their side; two more warships,
Serpent
and
Salamis
, made up the convoy steaming into port past
Sakurajima
. This time the salute was fifteen guns, each report booming over the harbour, leaving a plume of smoke in the air. One of the officers on deck, who had been on the
Euryalus
during the bombardment, spoke to Parkes.

‘Last time we were here, those guns were fired in anger. And by God, we gave them what for!’

‘I mind it fine,’ said Glover. ‘I had an excellent vantage point at the top of yon hill.’

‘It was regrettable,’ said Parkes. ‘But the incident is history.’

The guns boomed their salute. Flags lined the waterfront. Crowds had gathered to greet them.

History.

The Daimyo himself, Shimazu Saburo, a magnificent presence in full ceremonial robes, standing even taller in thick-soled wooden geta, was at the quayside waiting to meet the party as they stepped ashore, and they were led in procession, carried in norimon, preceded by banners, thudding drums, shrill flutes, all the way to the residence, the streets lined with people.

At the palace they were received by servants assigned to them, settled in their quarters, served tea and sweetmeats; then the Daimyo walked with them in the surrounding gardens, which even Glover hadn’t seen on his previous visit. There were miles of shady walkways, stone paths covered with moss, trees and ferns all around. A clear stream ran through it, at one point cascading down to a little lake, from there into tributaries and fish-ponds brimming with open-mouthed carp. Here and there wooden bridges crossed the stream, leading to pavilions, pagodas, shrines, and the air was filled with birdsong, the cries of insects.

Lady Parkes was quite overwhelmed, said she had never seen anything quite so beautiful, and the place was very Heaven.

‘
Jodo
,’ said the Daimyo.

‘Pure Land,’ said Glover.

‘One can see,’ said Parkes, quietly to his wife, ‘why they regard
us
as unrefined barbarians.’

If Glover thought he had been fêted on his previous visit, it paled by comparison with the evening feast, an extravagant lavishness. This time the dinner ran to forty courses and lasted for five hours. They ate entire spit-roasted hogs, stuffed quails, endless variations on vegetables and fish, everything pickled and spiced. They drank not only sake and whisky, but English beer and French champagne. The women retired and the menfolk talked on into the night. Sir Harry explained, through his interpreter, that he had been eager for some time to speak to the esteemed leadership of the Satsuma clan, and would have done so had it not been for the intransigence, prevarication and downright obstructiveness of the Tokugawa Shogunate. The Daimyo
proposed a toast to the Great British Empress, the Queen across the ocean. Sir Harry reciprocated, drinking the health of His Majesty the Mikado, the Emperor. They pledged closer relations between their two countries, said let the past be dust.

‘To the future!’ said Sir Harry. ‘The past is dust!’

Once again Glover was wakened in what seemed like the small hours of the morning, a dull drumbeat thudding in his skull. Once again the Daimyo wanted to take his guests to the countryside. Once again Glover shocked himself awake with a dousing of cold water after soaking in a hot tub. This time he couldn’t even face the rice gruel, made do with a flask of water to slake his drouth.

The morning was fresh, bright. Parkes looked bleary, stunned, his face drawn and wan. The Daimyo was wide awake, eager, ready for more than a canter in the hills. They would go hunting.

Deep in the forest a gang of beaters waded through the undergrowth, kept up a rhythmic chant; some banged clappers, some swept the area ahead of them with bamboo staffs, drove the wild boar in a panic into a clearing. The Daimyo, on horseback, felled the first beast with a blast from a musket. The horse reared, an attendant held its reins, restrained it. Parkes was next, dismounted, took steady aim as a boar was driven straight towards him, squealing and snorting in panic. He held his rifle steady, fired, stopped it dead. Glover did the same, shot from a standing position, brought down his prey. The Daimyo laughed, motioned to them to remount, nudged his horse forward along a path, deeper into the woods. Parkes still looked queasy, rueful, asked Glover if this was their idea of a cure for a hangover. Glover said perhaps they were hunting down breakfast. Parkes quailed, wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.

Up ahead the Daimyo called something out to his attendants. One of them ran to him, handed him a hunting bow, a quiver full of arrows.

He sat upright in the saddle, bent the bow to get the measure of it, the tension. The quiver was at his hip, ready. He called out a command, urged the horse on at a trot.

Two dogs, mongrel gundogs, had been held in check, nervous and twitching, halters at their necks, straining; now they were set loose, ran straight into the undergrowth, yelping, frisky. They’d be scared of the boar, and that was good, meant they wouldn’t be gored on those vicious tusks.

The Daimyo bent the bow, flexed it.

The beaters started up their cacophony again, banged clappers and drums, shouted, swept the cover with their bamboo staffs; the dogs barked, scurried.

Then they heard it, crashing after the dogs, and the dogs turning tail and scampering, and the beast running after them, chasing them down, bursting into the clearing, charging towards the group of onlookers.

The Daimyo bent the bow.

The boar was still some distance away, but picking up speed, getting closer. Glover and Parkes had reloaded their weapons, stood braced. The guards assigned to them stepped forward, their own rifles at the ready.

The Daimyo goaded his horse to a canter, then a gallop, pursued his quarry.

The dogs were in a panic, tongues out, panting. The boar was getting closer.

Glover’s eyes were on the Daimyo, and it was as if time itself had slowed. The horse’s hooves thundered on the path, its nostrils flared, mane streaming back, flanks in a lather of sweat. The Daimyo drove him on, bent his bow, reached to pull an arrow from the quiver, fitted it to the string, drew back. And every action was fit, right, sure; there was no hesitation, no thought; each movement flowed into the next. He had all the time in the world, levelled the arrow, let fly, and time accelerated again, the arrow whooshed through the air, struck the boar at the back of
the neck, made it stumble, and before it had rolled over, tumbled to the ground, the Daimyo had shot another arrow, pierced the hide, and a third, hit the throat, then he pulled up, dismounted, pulled out his dagger and finished the beast off, stabbed it hard in the chest, deep into the heart, watched the lifeblood gush out of it, stain the forest floor dark red.

Glover had never seen the like, spontaneously applauded the Daimyo, who stood grinning, blood on his hands and spattered on the front of his tunic. Some of the retainers also clapped, in unison and looking uncomfortable, those tight smiles not quite masking the awkwardness. Then the Daimyo gave a roar, releasing them, and they cheered, and two of them moved forward to pull out the arrows from the dead animal, drag it to the side of the path.

The Daimyo remounted his horse, led the way to the residence; the day’s kill was gathered up, carcasses hogtied, slung on poles and carried back.

‘Remind me,’ said Parkes quietly, an aside, ‘not to cross this fellow!’

‘Or at least,’ said Glover, ‘not until you’re out of range!’

Roches had been in Nagasaki while they were away.

‘He was spitting fire!’ said Walsh. ‘Wanted to know what was going on with you and Sir Harry making overtures to the Satsuma.’

‘They approached us,’ said Glover. ‘I’m afraid Monsieur Roches has burned his boats there. If anyone was making overtures it was his man – I use the term loosely – Montblanc. And for that, I believe, he was in danger of being guillotined!’

‘I assume he’s redeemed himself,’ said Walsh. ‘He was scurrying around after Roches like a little poodle.’

The same evening, Glover saw Montblanc at the Foreigners’ Club. The Frenchman was holding court about his dealings with
the Satsuma, explaining how he had used his good offices to help them establish contact with the forthcoming Inter national Exhibition in Paris, where he promised they would be treated as a separate nation state. His plans had been scuppered by Roches’s intervention, and the Satsuma had turned on Montblanc, accused him of behaving dishonourably, reneging on his word. ‘They behaved like vicious little dogs,’ he said to his coterie of listeners, ‘like the savages they really are.’ He swirled the wine in his glass, sipped it. ‘Worst of all are the ones who went to the West. They want to become European gentlemen, and even ape the way we dress. And I do mean ape! They look like little monkeys! Some of them even tried to wear these.’ He indicated the eyeglasses perched on his nose. ‘But where can they put them? They have these little flat faces and no noses! How can they wear
pince-nez
?’

The group around him laughed appreciatively. Montblanc basked in the laughter, saw Glover glaring at him, waved a hand in the air.

‘Monsieur Glover! We were just discussing your little friends!’

‘I heard,’ said Glover.

‘In fact,’ said Montblanc, ‘since you are their agent, I must ask you to address their disgraceful refusal to pay me what I am owed.’

‘This is neither the time nor the place,’ said Glover.

The man had clearly imbibed a little too much wine, was flushed in the face, preposterously confrontational. Otherwise Glover would have invited him to step out-side and settle the matter. A straight left to the jaw should suffice.

‘So,’ said Montblanc, slurring a little, ‘you too have no honour. I insist on receiving my payment!’

Glover met his gaze. ‘You, sir, can stick your payment up your arse.’

Montblanc spat abuse at him in French, in some crude argot he didn’t understand, so the insult was wasted.

‘As far as the Satsuma are concerned,’ said Glover, ‘you have been paid exactly what you deserve and are lucky you still have a head on your shoulders. Now, I bid you goodnight.’

Parkes wasted no time, began negotiating with the Mikado’s advisers in Kyoto. Glover found himself summoned, because of his good relations with the clans in question, to a meeting in Osaka. Ito would be there with Kido, representing Choshu, and Godai would speak for Satsuma. Ryomo Sakamoto would also attend, from the Tosa clan. Glover remembered his calm presence when he’d visited Ipponmatsu, spoken words of moderation to Ito. Glover knew he had worked quietly to persuade Satsuma and Choshu to reconcile their differences.

On the due date a squadron of western gunships, British, French, American, Dutch, steamed into Osaka harbour and dropped anchor. Delegates of the four nations, Parkes for Britain, Roches for France among them, came ashore and were met by dignitaries from the Mikado’s court and representatives of the Shogun.

Satow was there, fell in with Glover as they walked up from the harbour to the residence where negotiations would take place.

‘A more disparate group it’s hard to imagine,’ he said.

‘You think some good will come of this?’ asked Glover.

‘If not,’ said Satow, ‘it won’t be for want of trying. Those ships out there are laden down with vast quantities of foolscap paper, silk tape, quill pens and bottles of ink, more than sufficient for the purpose. I feel Sir Harry intends to see this through, no matter how long it takes!’