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Wild Geese

September 1634 to Fall 1635

A line of calligraphy:

wild geese above the foothills—

and a red moon for the seal.

—Taniguchi Buson (1716–1783)³

Early September 1634

Like a dog waiting impatiently for scraps from the master’s table, Lord Matsudaira Tadateru’s ship, the Sado Maru, marked time in central California waters, waiting for the heavy fog that blanketed the coast to dissipate.

For the moment, Tadateru had company in his misery. The First Fleet, carrying the first wave of Japanese Christians to California, had passed between Point Reyes and the Farralones, and descended to a little below thirty-eight degrees north. It then headed east, hoping to at least catch a glimpse of the Golden Gate, the narrow opening to San Francisco Bay. Lord Matsudaira Tadateru expected to do more than that; he thought of it as his gateway to restored honor and fortune.

The weather, however, had been disappointing. For several days, the First Fleet had languished in the waters between the Farallones and the presumed location of the Golden Gate, without ever sighting the latter. The east was a featureless gray mass.

Tadateru reached up and, self-consciously, fingered his topknot, one of the marks of his samurai status. When he was disgraced and forced to become a Buddhist monk, his old one had been cut off and thrown onto a fire. When Tadateru accepted the shogun’s invitation to sail for the Golden Gate, and seek out the gold fields of California, he was given permission to grow it back. The shortness of his topknot was indicative of how recently he had been rehabilitated.

While Tadateru insisted on being addressed as “Lord Matsudaira,” he was unpleasantly aware of the emptiness of the title. He had been “provisionally” awarded a ten-thousand-koku fief, the minimum for daimyo status. However, the fief had been depopulated when its Christians came out of hiding and accepted exile to America. Hence, at least in the short term, it was virtually worthless.

It was quite a come down for a man who had once held a fief that annually produced over four hundred fifty thousand koku.

But it was better than being a monk. And at least his wife, Iroha-hime, was with him once more.

* * *

Belowdecks, in Iroha’s cabin, the floor was covered with clamshells. One hundred and eighty pairs take up a fair amount of room.

Iroha, sitting seiza style—buttocks on heels, knees together—had her eyes half-closed. She opened them, reached forward, and turned over two of the shells, a left and a right. Her action revealed that the insides of both were painted with the same image: Prince Genji visiting the holy man in his cave.

“Awase!” she called out. Match!

Iroha and her maid Koya were playing Kai-awase, a game centuries old. The set had been part of her trousseau.

Iroha put the matched pair in her pile. It was much larger than Koya’s.

“I think you never forget a shell, Iroha-hime,” Koya said ruefully.

“Winning is all about remembering. And I don’t like to lose,” said Iroha. “Your turn.”

Koya gave her a sly look. “Do you think the real Prince Genji looked much like his picture, mistress?”

“Oh, yes. Almost as handsome as my husband.”

Iroha was just two years younger than Tadateru. Their marriage was, of course, political. Tadateru was the sixth son of Tokugawa Ieyasu, the then-ruler of Japan, and Iroha the eldest daughter of Date Masamune, one of the most powerful daimyo, who had sworn allegiance to Ieyasu after the Battle of Sekigahara in 1600.

Iroha smiled as she remembered how, shortly before their wedding, Tadateru had shyly handed her a letter, which she had tucked into a fold of her kimono, and opened as soon as she had a moment’s privacy.

It read: “My esteemed father has written, ‘patience is the source of eternal peace, treat anger as an enemy.’ Unfortunately, my temper is easily aroused, and this has gotten me into trouble on several occasions. I can assure you that my anger is usually a fleeting thing and I am almost always sorry afterward.

“I promise not to scold you without just cause. If I violate this promise, please show me this letter.”

Iroha still had the letter, despite all that had happened since. During the years of their marriage, he did get angry with her from time to time—once he had even thrown a sake cup at her—but he had always apologized. Sometimes just minutes later.

In 1612, she and her husband had met Luis Sotelo, the Franciscan, who was then living in Sendai under her father’s protection. Christianity had already been banned in the Tokugawa domains, but not in the rest of Japan. He had secretly converted them both to the Catholic faith. This forged another bond between them.

All was well until the spring of 1615, when Tadateru was summoned to lead his troops to war, the final struggle between the Tokugawa and the Toyotomi for control of Japan.

She shuddered involuntarily, as she remembered what followed.

“Iroha-hime, are you all right?” Koya said anxiously.

“So, sorry, Koya, I am tired all of a sudden. I think I will rest now. Please put the game away.”

* * *

At last, Date Masamune, the grand governor of “New Nippon,” decided that the First Fleet couldn’t linger any longer; it would have to leave Lord Matsudaira Tadateru, and the “Golden Gate,” behind. Iroha came to Masamune’s flagship to say goodbye.

As he watched her boat approach, Date Masamune brooded over her future. As a wedding gift, the shogun had given Tadateru the rich fief of Takada. But then he had squandered his good fortune by acting quite imprudently. In 1613, he was implicated in the Okubo conspiracy, to overthrow the shogun with Christian assistance. In 1615, during the summer campaign against the Toyotomi, he permitted Sanada Yokimura to retreat into Osaka Castle. The final straw was when he refused to join his older brother Hidetada on a visit to the imperial palace, pleading illness, and went hunting instead.

Tadateru had been forced to shave his head and become a Buddhist monk, exiled to the monastery at Kodasan. He had, under orders, divorced his wife Iroha. Rather than become a Buddhist nun, or commit jigai—cutting her own throat—she had endured the ultimate embarrassment for a woman of the samurai class: returning to her father’s home. And she had refused to even consider the possibility of remarriage.

Iroha had been overjoyed to hear of Tadateru’s “rehabilitation,” however provisional, and eagerly agreed to join him for the journey to the New World, even though they had not lived as husband and wife for nearly two decades. They had set sail for California less than a month after their reunion.

Date Masamune respected Iroha’s sense of duty. But he couldn’t help but think that her obligations to Tadateru were severed long ago, and were best left that way. Was he coming to the New World so that he and Iroha could enjoy life together? So that they could worship the Christian God?

No! Lord Matsudaira was here to restore his honor. That was fine . . . commendable . . . for him. But it was doubtful, very doubtful, that he saw Iroha’s presence as more than evidence that his shame was finally expiated.

Date Masamune resolved to make one more attempt to dissuade her from continuing on a course that he was sure would lead to more suffering.

Fathers have duties, too.

* * *

“Iroha-chan, life will be difficult enough for you in a colony of several thousand Nihonjin.” Date Masamune grimaced. “But assuming that Tadateru finds this Golden Gate, and enters San Francisco Bay, to remain in his company you will eventually have to trust yourself to a small boat making its way up the American River. You and your maid would be the only women on board, and you wouldn’t have private quarters. Even in the captain’s launch, his largest boat.”

“I am prepared for the . . . inconvenience.”

“It is not mere inconvenience that you face. Please, Daughter, look here.” He gestured at a map that was fastened to the wall of his cabin. “You will be traveling through San Francisco Bay, San Pablo Bay, the Carquinez Strait, and Suisun Bay, just to reach the Delta where the Sacramento and San Joaquin rivers meet. Then you must go about seventy miles upriver to the vicinity of the up-time town of Sacramento, and look for the mouth of the American River.

“And then Tadateru has no clear idea where to go! The river labeled as the American River is this one.” Her father pointed to the North Fork of the American. “But the encyclopedia said that Sutter’s mill, where the gold was found, was at Coloma.” His finger moved down two rivers, to the South Fork of the American. “Which is the unnamed river over here.

“And if that isn’t bad enough, the economic map in that same encyclopedia says that the nearest gold and silver is up here.” Masamune pointed to the California-Nevada border, near Reno. “In the high mountains.”

“Neither Tadateru nor any of his companions have any knowledge of the rivers, or of the savages that live on their banks. And none of you has experience in looking for gold, so it may be many months, or even years, before he finds what he is looking for.”

“My husband was given miners from Sado to help him.” Sado was the fabulous Japanese gold and silver mine that had been discovered in 1601.

“My advisers tell me that the gold of Sado is in hard rock, in quartz veins, while the Sutter’s Mill gold is probably kawakin.” Placer gold, the gold found in rivers and streams. “The encyclopedia says that it was found in a river, while building a sawmill. And those miners from Sado were extracting ore from a known vein, not looking for gold in the wilderness.”

“It doesn’t matter. I am his wife and it is my duty to follow him,” said Iroha.

“He did not take you with him to war, when he marched to Osaka, and neither should he take you with him on this chancy voyage of exploration.”

“If it is chancy,” Iroha said, “then that is all the more reason for me to come with him, as it may be my last chance on earth to see him.”

Masamune’s lips tightened. “If he truly cared for your well-being he would order you to remain with me.”

“It is because he cares for me so much that he permits me to come. And he knows that I do not care to live if he is dead.”

Masamune studied her expression. His own became stern. He was prepared to cause her a little pain now, if it would save her great hardship later. “You are not his wife. You were divorced by orders of the shogun.”

Iroha fought back tears, and Masamune in turn fought to remain impassive. She retorted, “The shogun had no power to divorce us. We were secretly baptized, and as secretly given the sacrament of matrimony according to the Holy Catholic Church.”

Masamune had long suspected this. Why else would she not have committed suicide? But in the Japan of Hidetada and Iemitsu, he had not dared to ask her, even in private. Walls have ears, and stones tell tales, his grandmother had told him.

“The shogun could break the bond formed by the public ceremony, the Buddhist one,” Iroha admitted. “But not the Christian one. We were not, we are not, divorced in the eyes of God, or in our hearts.

“Please, Father. When you gave him my hand in marriage, it became my duty under Japanese law to follow him, even if it meant disobeying you. But while I do not need your permission to go, I would like your blessing.”

“A blessing from a pagan?”

Iroha smiled faintly.

Masamune smiled briefly in turn. “I do not know whether you are in fact his wife, but you are most certainly my daughter. Stubbornness is what our family is known for. Yes, you have my blessing.”

“Thank you, Father. And I have a long day ahead of me, so please have me returned to my ship. And to my husband.”

* * *

Despite her brave words, Iroha was worried. She and Tadateru had lived apart for longer than they had lived together. At their reunion, Tadateru had been ebullient. But in the days that followed, as they made their preparations for departure, and then in the long sea voyage, she had caught unsettling glimpses of changes in him. The moments of happiness were fewer and shorter; those of anger or despair were more common and longer, than in the days before the siege of Osaka. Clearly, his long exile had darkened his soul. He seemed more, more—she searched for the word. Brittle.

Had it been up to her, they would just have declared themselves to be Christian, and accepted exile to New Nippon. Made a new life there, one free of the demands of rank.

But Tadateru had refused. For him, he said, it would just be another kind of exile. It would not erase the stain on his honor. Only his discovery of the gold fields, and his appointment as, oh, “Daimyo of Sacramento-han,” would do that.

Iroha had accepted his decision, of course. Her tutors had drummed into her, “be loyal to your husband, be brave in defense of his honor.”

But she worried that his decision might have repercussions, not just for her and Tadateru, but for her family. Her father had told her earlier in the voyage, “Iemitsu could have ordered me to go to San Francisco Bay. Or sent a faithful Tokugawa retainer. Why send Tadateru?” The likeliest explanation, in his opinion, was founded on Tadateru having one foot in the Tokugawa family, by blood, and the other amidst the Date, by marriage—the latter association being renewed now that Iroha had returned to him. Her father had concluded, “Clearly, if Tadateru succeeded, it would be proclaimed a Tokugawa success. And if he failed, it would be portrayed as a Date failure.”

Imachizuki, the Sleeping and Waiting Moon (Three Days After Full)

One day, at last, in the mid-afternoon, the fog began to lift, but there was no sign of any break in the coastline. The Japanese didn’t realize it, but the outline of the Berkeley Hills, on the opposite side of the Bay, and of Angel Island, merged into those of the northern and southern headlands framing the Golden Gate, thus concealing the presence of the Bay.

“May the makers of the American encyclopedia burn in Avichi, the lowest of the Hells, if they misdrew this San Francisco Bay,” Lord Matsudaira shouted, at no one in particular. The captain nodded in polite agreement.

Still, Lord Matsudaira had come too far to just give up. He ordered the captain to trust to the up-time map, and the captain’s latitude calculations, and take the ship closer to shore. The fog vanished, but it was not until they were perhaps six miles from the Golden Gate that they could see the water between the headlands.

“That’s it?” asked Lord Matsudaira.

“It must be,” said the captain.

“I thought it was a bay large enough to hold all the ships in the world. I can barely see any water at all.”

“It’s like the gate of a castle, my lord,” said Daidoji Shigehisa, Lord Matsudaira’s lieutenant. He had been masterless, a ronin, during Lord Matsudaira’s exile, but had returned to his service when Lord Matsudaira accepted Iemitsu’s offer and was given permission to recruit warriors. “We can only see a bit of the courtyard now.”

The captain inclined his head. “If you’re in doubt, Lord Matsudaira, we can zigzag a bit, so you can see more of the bay.”

Lord Matsudaira thought about this for a moment, then shook his head. “No, take us straight in, before the damned fog returns.”

The captain ordered the Sado Maru forward, but under courses, its lower sails, only. The Japanese sailors, accustomed to the battened sail of the Asian junk, had taken several weeks to learn how to set and unset the European style sails of the Dutch-designed Sado Maru, but after crossing the Pacific with them, it had become second nature.

Leadsmen called out the soundings as they inched forward. Almost immediately, they reported that the water was rapidly getting shallower. They were clearly coming over some kind of shoal.

“Can’t we go faster, Captain?”

“We can, but we don’t know this harbor at all. If we go too fast, we could find ourselves run aground on rocks. We have to go slowly enough so that if the bottom reaches up for us, we can steer clear.”

“I suppose you know your own business,” said Lord Matsudaira. His tone suggested that he was still reserving judgment, even though the captain had gotten them across the Pacific.

The shallowest parts of the shoal were revealed by the breaking of the waves, and the ship picked out a safe path. It was slow-going, however, and Lord Matsudaira was practically dancing with impatience by the time they made it into deeper water beyond.

The ship was now feeling the beginning of the ebb tide. Under gravitational orders from the moon and sun, over half a trillion gallons of water were streaming out of San Francisco Bay, and on the double. Their only way out was through the Golden Gate, barely a mile wide.

As the Sado Maru approached the Golden Gate, the wind continued to fall off, while the ebb tide became even more energetic, running perhaps five knots. Whereas before the Sado Maru was deliberately creeping forward, so it could avoid any dangerous rocks, now it was fighting for every yard made good, even though it had raised its topsails to capture more wind.

“Is it my imagination or are we fucking moving backward?” snapped Lord Matsudaira.

“I am sorry, my lord, the outgoing current is very strong. But I am sure it will abate in an hour or two.”

“Do you notice how low the sun is in the sky? By that time it will have set.”

The captain quickly glanced west. “Yes, you’re right, my lord. We need the light in order to see our way clear of hazard, so I recommend we turn around now, and try again tomorrow.”

Lord Matsudaira glared at him. “Turn back now? After we have waited a week—a week—for the fog to lift? And with the Golden Gate almost in our grasp? I’ll have your head.” The hilt of his katana, visible above the line of his shoulder, reminded the captain that this was not an idle threat. “Can you guarantee that the fog won’t be back tomorrow?”

“It’s a pity, I’m really very sorry—”

Lord Matsudaira pressed him further. “Can this tub go any faster? So we can get into the bay before sunset?”

“We can add bonnet and drabbler to the courses, to catch more wind.” This was European terminology; courses were the lowest sails, and bonnets and drabblers were extra pieces of canvas that were laced onto them. “But the ship will be harder to control, and the channel looks dangerous. . . . Rocks on either side of us . . .”

Lord Matsudaira interrupted the captain’s warnings: “Those who cling to life, die, and those who defy death, live.” He was quoting the daimyo Uesugi Kenshin, the “Dragon of Echigo,” who had died, in bed, almost half a century earlier. “Full speed ahead, and damn the rocks! Keep your eyes forward!”

The captain ordered that the extra canvas be added. And added a quick prayer, barely audible, to Kwannon the Merciful. The Sado Maru picked up a little speed, and Lord Matsudaira noted this with a smile of approval. The Golden Gate proper, the narrowest part of the strait, was getting ever nearer.

Offshore, the swells, like the wind, had come from the northwest. However, as they passed Point Boneta, the inshore edge was slowed by the shallows, causing the waves to sweep around and approach the Golden Gate from the west.

As the tide swept outward, it collided with the wind-driven waves heading eastward, the two crashing together like great armies meeting on some battlefield. The incoming waves were squeezed together and steepened. The Sado Maru bucked, like a horse trying to unseat its rider.

The helmsman of the Sado Maru stood on the quarterdeck, his hands on the whipstaff and his eyes on the compass. The whipstaff, a European innovation, was a long lever, hitched belowdecks to the tiller, so that the helmsman on a large ship could steer and also see where the ship was going. Or at least see the feet of the sails. The whipstaff could only move the tiller a little bit and some steering had to be done by appropriately setting the sails.

The whipstaff vibrated violently. “Someone, help me!” cried the helmsman. Another sailor ran over, and grabbed the whipstaff from the other side. Together, they brought the rudder under control. But only for a time.

The seas were at their most vigorous and confused in the narrow throat of the Gate, between Lime Point and Fort Point. It was there that the first disaster struck. They were heading east-northeast, and they buried their bow into the wave before them. The sails were braced to take best advantage of the northwest wind, and that meant that the wind not only pushed the ship forward, it also tried to force it leeward. This side force was normally resisted by the keel. With the bow buried, the resistance was greater forward than aft, and the stern surfed, pivoting the ship around to face northeast. The wind was now striking the sails more obliquely, enough to shiver the sails but not fill them. The ship was rapidly losing headway, and that in turn was making it more difficult to steer.

“All hands to braces!” the captain yelled. The braces were the lines that turned the yards, the horizontal spars that carried the sails. “Slack Windward Brace and Sheet! Haul Lee Brace and Sheet! Make All!” The captain was trying to regain control of the ship, by turning the yards to face the wind more directly.

But the Sea Hag of the Golden Gate still had the Sado Maru in its talons. Like a cat batting a mouse to-and-fro for its amusement, the waves buffeted the ship, which the swerve had left at a forty-five-degree angle to the waves. When the bow was on a crest and the stern in a trough, the ship turned to port. When the crest came amidships, it turned back to starboard. The first movement was stronger, so the ship progressively turned more and more counterclockwise. This brought the bow closer and closer to the wind.

Like a piece of driftwood, the ship gradually turned until its keel was parallel to the incoming waves. With its bow pointed northward, it was too close to the wind for the sails, even with the yards turned as far as the standing rigging would allow, to be effectual.

* * *

The waves were now violently rocking the Sado Maru. Belowdecks, Iroha-hime’s maid, Koya, was whimpering in terror.

Iroha-hime wrapped her arms around her. “Easy, Koya. Don’t be afraid. Join me, we will pray to Deusu.” Koya nodded, tears streaking her face. “Repeat after me. Eternal and Almighty God, creator of the heavens, the earth and the sea, have mercy upon us. Be our Pilot in this, our time of need. Subdue the waves and the winds . . .”

They finished the prayer that Iroha-hime had composed. “Feel better, Koya?”

She nodded. At that moment they were thrown by a sudden movement against the side of their cabin.

When they recovered their footing. Iroha pointed upward. “Come with me.” She didn’t explain, but she had decided that if she were to die, she would rather be flung off the deck, than drowned like a rat in the darkness below.

When they came above, the second mate saw them. He hurried over, cursing, and quickly had them sit down on the deck. “It will be wetter, but you are less likely to be washed away.” He lashed them to a deck projection, but left their hands free so they could hold on as well. “Do you have knives?” he asked.

Iroha nodded.

“Good. Then you can cut yourself free if you must. I must get back to my men.”

The next big wave broke over the Sado Maru’s beam, and tilted the ship to port until its deck was nearly vertical. The men on deck screamed and grabbed for whatever hold they could.

With an awful cracking sound, much of the port bulwark was carried away by the weight of the water. And several sailors, who had grabbed it for safety, were carried away with it, howling in terror as they tumbled into the churning sea.

However, the loss of the bulwark allowed the water on deck to escape, and the ship ever so slowly righted itself. But not back to an upright position; it had a pronounced list to port. The helmsman fought to bring the ship back to a safer heading, without success; the tilt kept the rudder from biting properly, and the loss of forward movement meant that the rudder, even if fully immersed, couldn’t turn the ship.

“Why are we still leaning?” Lord Matsudaira yelled to whoever could and would answer.

“Cargo or ballast shifted,” one of the sailors called out. “Need to throw the deck cargo overboard, or—”

He didn’t get to finish his explanation. Another wave struck the broached ship and hammered it back onto its side. The rest of the port bulwark vanished, along with Lord Matsudaira’s informant. The heel-over was more pronounced, this time. The violent movements had parted some of the standing rigging, and as a result the affected masts were apt to fail if the ship were righted, and its sails exposed to the wind, without first replacing the missing lines.

The men still alive were hanging from the starboard bulwark, or from the base of a mast, or some chance protrusion from the deck. They were in no position to fiddle with the rigging or the cargo at this point.

The Sado Maru was well within the grip of the tidal current, which was still running west south-west, if not as rapidly as before, carrying it away from the Golden Gate and toward the open sea. However, the wind was also pressing on the great exposed part of the hull, pushing the hulk southeast. This first took the Sado Maru out of the strongest part of the tidal current, and then into an eddy that carried it in a counter-clockwise arc until it was heading east. At last, it ran aground on Baker Beach between Mile Rocks and Fort Point, dismasting itself in the process.

Soon thereafter, the moon, a few days past full, rose above the Berkeley Hills and glinted down at the exhausted survivors. They had mustered barely enough energy to crawl above the high-water mark.

* * *

In the morning sun, the Sado Maru lay in uneasy repose between the high and low water marks. It was completely dismasted, and, driven against the rocks at the shoreline, there were great gashes across its bottom, like the claw marks of some prehistoric sea monster. Fortunately, those same rocks pinned it in the shallows, and it couldn’t sink farther than it already had. Until, at least, the waves broke it completely to pieces.

“So how soon will you have her afloat?” Lord Matsudaira asked the captain.

The captain stood gape-jawed. He finally managed to say, “Afloat? Even with a shipyard close at hand, it would be difficult to make her seaworthy again. Here in the wilderness, it’s impossible.”

“I will not accept defeat,” Lord Matsudaira announced flatly. “If you cannot get me to the other shore, I will appoint a captain who will.”

Guard Commander Shigehisa coughed. “Milord, can we not walk around the Bay?”

“Let me see our maps.” The maps, fortunately, had been rolled up inside bamboo tubes, plugged at both ends with tar, and thus were still dry.

Lord Matsudaira laid a string as best he could around the outline of the South Bay, then compared it to the scale. “I make it out to be a hundred miles. We will have only the provisions that we can carry, so we will have to hunt or fish periodically. On foot, we might make five miles a day. Certainly not more than ten. And we will encounter Indians along the way that we would avoid if we went by water.”

Shigehisa was also looking at the map. “It’s a pity; the northern route is shorter. By as much as two-thirds.”

Lord Matsudaira’s laugh was abrupt and bitter, a bark. “But we would have to cross the furious waters of the Golden Gate to get there.”

The captain had also been studying the map. “Lord Matsudaira, two of the ship’s boats survived the shipwreck, so perhaps we can row across. We can look on the bay side of this peninsula for a safe launching spot.” He traced a path with his forefinger. “Here—between the map’s ‘San Francisco’ and its ‘Oakland’—the crossing is less than three miles. Closer to two, in fact. Even rowing we could do it in an hour. And there’s this Yerba Buena Island here, at the halfway point, if we run into trouble.”

Lord Matsudaira raised his eyebrows. “Won’t the Bay be too dangerous for small boats? Look what it did to the Sado Maru.”

“The ebb current was very strong in the Golden Gate, because there was so much water rushing through so narrow an opening. The San Francisco-Oakland gap is perhaps three times as wide, and only the waters of the South Bay will ebb through it. Anyway, we can observe the tides for several days and launch when the waters are slack.”

Lord Matsudaira rolled up the map, and placed it back in its storage cylinder. “So. We have two choices. Start walking, but if we do, we must walk the whole way, mining gear and all. Or trust ourselves to the water once again.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Lord Matsudaira turned to his lieutenant. “Do you have a recommendation?”

“My lord, I do. Let us remember that it does us no good to reach the gold fields, and dig up a bag full of nuggets, if we cannot bring word of our victory back to the shogun. For that we need a ship that can cross the Pacific, and I doubt that this boat the captain has in mind will do. Will it?” The captain waved his hand in front of his face, a sign of negation.

“What I propose is that we send a party overland to Monterey—”

“Enough! I will not go begging to my father-in-law to come and rescue me. That would be a most ignominious end to this adventure; I would sooner commit seppuku here and now!”

The lieutenant kowtowed. “Forgive me for being unclear. I meant that we should split our forces. The miners should be sent by water to the gold fields, as the boat will make it easier to transport the equipment there and the gold back. In the meantime, a land party should be sent to the colony at Monterey, to demand that a new ship be put at your disposal. Didn’t your nephew, the shogun, decree that the grand governor was to give you his full cooperation? You are not begging, you are merely receiving your due.”

“Well.” Lord Matsudaira paused. “Since you put it that way. . . . Yes, that’s reasonable. It will save time if the new ship can be summoned while the miners are en route. How long do you think it will take for the land party to reach Monterey?”

Shigehisa shrugged. “A month? Two months? Three?”

“My lord,” said the captain, “we need to act quickly if we are to salvage as much of the ship’s cargo and timber as we can.”

“Yes, yes, proceed.” The captain hurried off to give orders to the remaining sailors, and Shigehisa summoned the samurai to help with the task.

Lord Matsudaira watched them go. He then went looking for his wife.

* * *

“Iroha-hime, we must talk.”

Iroha and Koya were above the high water mark, collecting wood that was dry enough to burn for the campfires. Some distance above them, two samurai stood guard. So far, no native had been sighted.

“Of course, Husband. How are you feeling? Have you rested at all?”

“My feelings are what you might expect, and I will rest when there is time to do so. Leave us, Koya.” The maid hurried downslope.

“Our party is splitting up. Some to go north to seek out the gold for the shogun, and my true redemption, and some to go south, to Monterey.

“When I invited you to join me on this voyage, I thought that you would have the comforts, albeit limited, of our ship at least until we reached the mouth of the Sacramento, and most likely to where it meets the American River. But now we have no ship, and our largest boat was crushed beyond repair by a falling spar.

“All that the party going to the gold field will have are two small boats. Not even a captain’s launch. There will be no privacy worth mentioning. It is unthinkable for me to permit a woman of your station to travel that way—and my promise to the shogun requires me to lead the party going upriver.”

“But . . . But Tadateru . . . We were separated so long. Are we to be forced apart again? Surely, we have sailcloth to spare; a curtain can be rigged to give Koya and myself what little privacy we need.”

“Privacy is not the only issue . . .” He closed his eyes for a moment. “I am well aware that your father considers my mission to be a challenge to his own authority in New Nippon. I am not confident that your father will send a ship to aid us if you are not present to insist he does. So you must go to Monterey.”

Iroha stood in silence, head downcast. “If I must . . .”

“Iroha-hime, I know I have not always chosen wisely. But a man does not find a place in history by being cautious.

“The wind and wave were not mine to command, and so matters cannot be as either of us would have liked. As your husband, and the commander of this expedition, I could insist you go, but I prefer that you go willingly.”

“I will go. Not willingly, but the padres have taught us that some things are destined to be.”

* * *

Iroha waited until Matsuoka Nagatoki was alone. “Matsuoka-san, may we speak in private, please?”

Iroha had two personal guardsmen; Nagatoki was the older of the two, and thirty years her senior. Seventy years old, he was a veteran of the Wars of Unification. His family had long served the Date clan. When Iroha married Matsudaira Tadateru, he joined that lord’s service. And when Tadateru was disgraced, Nagatoki returned to Date Masamune. He was on board the Sado Maru by Date Masamune’s command.

“I am just a poor woman, unschooled in matters of command, but I wonder how, without any beasts of burden, we are to carry all that we will need to reach Monterey safely. Food, water, clothing, weapons, ammunition, and many things I am sure I have not thought of.”

Nagatoki glanced quickly at the dismembered carcass of the Sado Maru, then met her gaze. “I do wish we had horses aboard, it would make everything much easier now. But in a ship as small as the Sado Maru, it was not possible. And we’d probably have lost them in the shipwreck, anyway.

“Fortunately, this seems to be a bountiful land, and it is not yet winter. With weapons, we can catch fish, and birds, and beasts. And thanks to the advice of our Dutch friends, we have glass beads. They are light and small, and can be traded to the Indians for food.

“But I confess that I am worried about how you and your maid will fare on the journey that faces us. I think we should find a place near here to set up a permanent camp, and just send messengers to Monterey. Perhaps a samurai and a sailor by the coastal route, and two samurai inland.”

Iroha’s eyes widened slightly. “But that would mean splitting our forces further, when we are already weak!”

“Ah, Iroha-hime, you are truly your father’s daughter. Your husband has assigned four of his samurai to stay with us, for your protection; that brings our core fighting force to six. Sending out the messengers would cut our samurai contingent in half. But what else is to be done?”

Iroha brushed back an errant strand of hair. “You know, when I was first married, Lord Matsudaira was named the daimyo of Takada, in Echigo. From time to time, we would visit Niigata, the home of our neighors to the north, the Mizoguchi clan. There, on the great river Shinano, I saw lumbermen steering rafts downstream.”

“I remember the rafts, Iroha-hime.”

“Nagatoki-san, there is plenty of lumber here, at the wreck. Could we build rafts, and pole, or row, or sail them down to the place the map called ‘Alviso,’ at the south end of this San Francisco Bay? It would be warmer there, the messengers going the inland route would only have to travel half as far to reach Monterey, and it would still be accessible by sea. Surely it would be a better place for a permanent camp.”

“That’s . . . that’s an interesting idea. But it was tricky enough getting a small boat around Fort Point. A raft, I fear, would be very difficult to control; even at slack water there could be strong eddies.”

“But if my husband would delay his departure a few days, his boats could be used to ferry the timber and other goods to the shelving beach on the far side of Fort Point, and we could build the rafts there. It is a short distance, perhaps two-tenths of a mile.”

“Yes, I think that’s a good idea. With rafts, we could transport more food, and more goods that could be used for trade, and we would be less tired, too. You should speak to Lord Matsudaira.”

“I was hoping that you would do that. I think he is more likely to accept advice from a warrior of your experience.”

Yerba Buena Cove,

San Francisco Peninsula

Iroha waved goodbye until the two boats carrying Lord Matsudaira Tadateru, his lieutenant Daidoji Shigehisa, Tadateru’s remaining samurai guardsmen, the captain and the first mate of the Sado Maru, several sailors, and the miners into the haze that concealed the far shore. Buena Vista Island was visible, at least, and they would keep it on their left side if they could.

She would have been happier if her husband had left her party one of the two surviving ship’s boats. However, he would need to ascend the Sacramento and American rivers to reach the gold fields, and having two boats instead of one might mean the difference between life and death. At least he had allowed those two boats to spend a week ferrying timber and supplies around Fort Point, for use by Iroha’s party, despite his eagerness to head north.

Tadateru had promised to leave a cairn on the Oakland side, to make it clear that he had made the crossing safely. There were several other “checkpoints” where he agreed to leave additional markers, to show his progress. Unless he left a message to the contrary at these sites, Iroha was to ask her father to have a ship waiting for Tadateru at modern Antioch, on Suisun Bay, next summer.

Iroha worried about him. Not just about his body, but his soul. She had heard about his threat to decapitate the captain on the very deck of his ship. And she had seen and heard him threaten others in the days since the shipwreck. A samurai had the right to kill a commoner, of course, but the right was not exercised often.

Iroha had hoped that once they arrived in the New World, the psychic scars of his exile would heal, like a pond thawing out in the spring after being frozen all winter. But now, it seemed that the damage was irreversible, like the charring of a stick of firewood. Iroha prayed that Deusu would relieve his troubled spirit, since he was now beyond Iroha’s reach.

At last, Nagatoki spoke. “I am very sorry, Iroha-hime, but it is time we boarded the rafts.”

South Bay, near modern Alviso, California

There had only been two Dutch-made spyglasses on the Sado Maru, Lord Matsudaira’s, and the captain’s. Since the captain had gone with Lord Matsudaira northward, he had—rather grudgingly—given his scope to Hachizaemon, the leader of the sailors who had remained with Iroha-hime.

In due course, Hachizaemon made a discovery. “Matsuoka-san, I think I can see the end of the bay. And there’s an Indian on the shore.”

“Just one?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Armed?”

“He has some kind of bow. But he appears to be watching something. He is not looking our way.”

“He is a hunter perhaps,” Matsuoka suggested. “He waits for some animal to emerge from its burrow. Or to return to it.”

“I will question him!” one of the samurai, Sanada Saburo, announced. “He can tell us where to find food and water.”

How? Hachizaemon thought. It’s not as though the Indians speak Japanese. But since he also thought his head belonged on his shoulders, and not bobbing about in the South Bay, he kept this opinion to himself.

Saburo stepped off the raft and onto what looked like land. It wasn’t land, it wasn’t water; it was something in-between, a mud flat. There were mud flats along much of the shore of San Francisco Bay, but they were especially extensive here. Indeed, the tide was at slack low water, so the real shore was quite far off.

Matsuoka ordered the rafts to hold their position until the samurai reported. Seeing one Indian didn’t mean that in fact there was only one Indian, he told Iroha.

Saburo had made it halfway to shore when he ran into real difficulty. He stepped on a softer patch and suddenly sank several feet. The mud was at waist level and he started flailing about, trying to climb out of this unexpected hole.

That was a bad idea. He found himself several inches deeper in the mud than he had been previously. The mud, in fact, was doing a good imitation of quicksand. The quick movements of his legs and arms created a vacuum in the viscous mud, and the vacuum sucked him down.

Hachizaemon ordered his men to pole the lead raft forward, but they couldn’t move it far enough to reach the encumbered samurai; after a point, given how low the tide was currently, there wasn’t enough water to float the raft.

When the tide rose, that would change, but that would create its own problems. Like drowning Saburo.

From time to time, Hachizaemon looked through his spyglass at the same rocks and trees. Yes, he thought, the water was rising. The question was now whether that rising water would carry the raft within rescue range before it drowned the samurai.

“What is that Indian doing now?” asked Iroha. “Is it some kind of dance?”

Hachizaemon trained the telescope on the native. “I don’t know. He points toward us, he points toward himself, he throws himself flat on his back, and then he moves his arms and legs very slowly.”

“Could he be telling Saburo-san how to save himself from the mud?” She started shouting instructions to the endangered samurai. Whether because her voice was too soft, or because he didn’t trust survival advice from a woman, he ignored her. And sank a few more inches.

Matsuoka had been thinking about Iroha-hime’s interpretation of the Indian’s actions, and at last he decided that she was right. He repeated her advice, but as an order. A stentorian one.

Saburo obeyed, and stopped sinking. Soon, the lead raft was able to draw up to him, and he was pulled on board by his older brother, Jiro.

The sailors, being commoners, did their best to look everywhere except at the bedraggled Saburo. Saburo’s fellow samurai felt no such compunction, and started joking about catching the largest mudfish they had ever seen, a five footer at least.

Oakland, California, and Points North

The crossing of the Bay was uneventful, but when Lord Matsudaira’s party reached the opposite shore, by modern Oakland, they found a vast marsh. They had to proceed some distance inland to find rocks for building the message cairn.

Making their way northward also had its difficulties. Each of the boats carried a single sail, but with the wind coming mostly from the northwest, raising it was fruitless. They had to paddle, and the paddling had to be timed for slack water, or when the tidal currents were in their favor.

Once they entered San Pablo Bay, the northern extension of San Francisco Bay, they turned eastward, and with relief they laid their paddles aside and let the wind carry them. And it was by wind power that they passed through the Carquinez Strait and into Suisun Bay. The Delta, where the Sacramento and San Joaquin Rivers came together, lay ahead of them.

They spent several days scouting the delta, and then threaded through it, after a few false turns, to the main channel of the Sacramento.

Their progress was now hindered by the river current. With the wind once again powerless to aid them, it was “five steps forward, four steps backward.”

It was with great relief that they found the place where, they thought, the American River fed into the Sacramento. They made camp below a lone oak.

That night, as Lord Matsudaira lay back on his sleeping mat, he saw a meteor cross over Heaven’s River, the Milky Way. He took it to be a favorable omen. Didn’t gold glitter like the stars in the sky? A meteor, a fallen star, was a promise of treasure to come.

* * *

There was a grinding sound, and the Ichi-Ban, the “Number One” boat, shook.

“Back water, back water!” the former captain of the Sado Maru shouted.

The Ichi-Ban held for a moment, then the riverbed released it, and the boat was back in deeper water. The “Number Two Boat,” the Ni-Ban, came up close behind, so that its prow almost touched the Ichi-Ban’s stern.

“Find a deeper channel,” Lord Matsudaira ordered.

The captain bowed his head deeply. “Forgive me, my lord, but I think this is the deepest channel. The river is just too low, even for a ship-boat.”

Lord Matsudaira stared for a time at the water. “If I recall correctly, the encyclopedia said that the gold was discovered while a sawmill was built on the American River. According to the Dutch barbarians, a sawmill requires several feet of water for operation. So how can this be the American River?”

Shigehisa thought about this. “If this is the American River, then according to the map, Folsom Lake should be about ten miles upriver. A pair of samurai could run that far in a day.”

“Pick our best runners,” said the Lord Matsudaira.

* * *

The two samurai returned four days later. They bowed deeply.

“We are very sorry, my lord, we went two days travel upriver—at least twenty miles—and did not find a lake of any kind. The river did fork, however.”

“Ah! I was right! This is not the American River! The captain has failed me again! I should take off his head right now!” The captain’s face blanched, but it was impossible for him to flee.

“Please refrain, milord,” Shigehisa whispered urgently. “We need him to handle the boat if we are to search further up the Sacramento.”

“Very well. We need him. At least until we find this confounded American River. But there will be a reckoning . . .”

The next day, they were once again fighting the strong currents of the Sacramento, and moving farther and farther away from, not closer to, the mouth of the American River. None of the Japanese knew that “Folsom Lake” had been created by the Folsom Dam, built in 1955, and thus not in fact part of the California landscape in 1634.

South Bay, near Alviso, California

“Welcome to ‘Sadomaru Palace,’” said Iroja-hime. “Please come in and dine with me.”

The palace in question was a lean-to, made of salvaged ship timbers and sailcloth. It was, perhaps, the nicest lean-to that the shipwrecked Japanese had made on the site of Alviso, but it was still merely a lean-to. Dinner, however, was more promising, as the South Bay was rich in fish, shellfish and waterfowl.

“To what do I owe the honor of this invitation?” Matsuoka asked gravely.

“To my being bored out of my mind,” she replied archly. “Have you been able to make contact with the Indians?”

“I’m afraid not,” the elderly samurai admitted. “They see us, and if we approach closer than half a li, they flee. If we had horses, we could overtake them, but on foot, pursuing them in their own lands is hopeless . . . even dangerous.”

“What does Hachizaemon think?”

“Hachizaemon?” His tone suggested that he was at a loss to come up with any reason that the second mate could possibly provide useful advice on any nonnautical matter.

“He told me that he had sailed once on a Red Seal ship to Manila and other exotic ports. So he has, perhaps, traded with people that didn’t speak Japanese.”

Matsuoka called for Hachizaemon.

“Yes, Matsuoka-san, how may I help you?”

Matsuoka explained.

“Well, I haven’t done it myself. But I have heard that the Spanish in Manila have a ‘silent trade’ with the Apoyno of Luzon.”

“Silent trade?”

“Yes, you leave goods out, and withdraw, and make a smoke signal or a drum beat or something of the sort. And then the second side comes and puts down something in exchange. And if the first side thinks this a good offer, they take it away, and leave their goods behind. And if they don’t, they wait for the second side to either add to what they put down, or take away what they last offered and thus end the bargaining.”

Matsuoka stroked his chin. “Now that you mention it, I think I have heard that the Ainu do such a thing with the even more savage barbarians of the islands to their north. But the problem is, we have no way to tell the Indians what we are interested in. They could put something out that is of great value to them, but worthless to us.”

“Forgive my impertinence in making this suggestion,” said Iroha, “but perhaps it doesn’t really matter what we receive, if we just set out a few goods that even we can spare. What we are really bargaining for is their trust.”

* * *

Matsuoka gave his final instructions to the chosen messengers, Saburo and his older brother, Jiro. “A great valley extends southeastward from the Bay. You should come, eventually, to a stream that flows from the northeast to the southwest. Or perhaps, you will find just a dry river bed, I can’t say for sure.” The stream that he had in mind was what the eighteenth-century Spanish called the San Benito River.

“It is perhaps eighty miles from where we stand. Count your paces.” Samurai were expected to be able to estimate marching distances.

“Turn down that river, it should pass through a low spot in the hills, and join another river.” That was the Pajaro. “Head southwest until you reach the sea.

“You should be on a great ocean bay, between two rocky points. Search between them until you find the Japanese colony. Then ask for the grand governor, Date Masamune.”

Hachizaemon gave them the spare ship’s compass. “You’ll have more use for this than we will.”

Matsuoka had some parting advice. “Oh, and Saburo-san—stay out of the mud, if you can.”

Late September 1634,

Monterey Bay, California

Monterey Bay is in the shape of a fishhook. The eye is at the northern end, at Point Año Nuevo, where elephant seals bellow at their rivals during the mating season. The Santa Cruz Mountains are the shank, their slopes a home for fog-loving redwoods. A nearly continuous stretch of white sandy beach forms the broad bend, with the mouth of the Salinas near the middle, and the rockier shore from the old time line city of Monterey to Point Piños, where the pine trees stand guard, is the barb.

A fair wind, blowing from the northwest, allowed the First Fleet, the motley collection of Dutch, Japanese and even hired Chinese ships carrying Japanese Christians into exile, to run almost downwind toward Monterey. The wary skippers gave a wide berth to the rocks of Point Piños, and slowly entered the bay.

Abel Tasman, commanding the Dutch jacht Mocha, was in the lead. When the waters shallowed out to thirty fathoms, the First Fleet naval commander ordered the fleet to reduce sail to just enough for headway, and Tasman was instructed to choose the anchorage.

When Tasman’s ship came within half a mile or so of the base of the barb, where it was partially sheltered by both Point Piños and Point Cabrillo, the wind slackened and the swell of the sea was broken. He sampled the bottom, finding it to be sand and yellowish mud, and likely to be good holding ground. He anchored in seven fathoms, and signaled for the fleet to join him.

Several parties of samurai were landed on the flat ground behind the anchorage. One went west, toward a hill covered by pine and oak. A second went southeast, finding an estuary fed by streams. The third stayed behind, to make sure that loose-fingered natives didn’t liberate the boats.

In the evening, their commander reported to Date Masamune.

“Our priorities are clear,” he said. “Fresh water. Food. Shelter. Not just from the elements, but also from unfriendly Indians. What have you found so far?”

“There is no good site for a fortress here,” said the scout leader. “The land near the anchorage is too low and flat. As for the hill to the west, it will take much time and labor to clear away the forest, and there is no good flat land at the top so we would have to build a foundation, too.”

“Nonetheless, we must have some kind of fort to protect the anchorage. Captain Tasman says that the rest of the bay is completely exposed. Tell me more about this estuary.”

The scout leader shrugged. “There is not much more to tell. It is shaped like the head and horns of a water buffalo—” he drew a “U” in the air—“with the horns pointing away from the sea. Streams run into each horn. The base is separated from the sea by very low ground, and at high tide the sea comes in.”

“And what is the ground like between those horns?”

“There is something of a rise.”

Masamune decided that he would establish a lightly fortified fishing village within the horns of the lake, which would serve as a moat on three sides. The walls and watchtower of the village in turn would provide some protection for the anchorage. The fisherman would use the anchorage for their boats, and they could start bring in fresh fish for the colonists. It would be several months before the farmers could harvest a crop.

One of Masamune’s scholars coughed.

“You have a suggestion?”

“Yes, my lord. Depending on the height of the water at high tide, we could perhaps dam the lower edge of the estuary so the saltwater can’t come in any more. It will then become a freshwater lake.”

“Speak to the masons, and see if they agree that it is possible with the earth and rock available nearby.”

He told the scout leader to take several Japanese woodsmen and Dutch artillerists with him to the hill to the west, and try to find a place where a battery that commanded both the harbor and the ridges near the estuary might be constructed without too much trouble.

Some of the fishing folk among the colonists were disembarked, and their new village was given the name of Andoryu, after Saint Andrew the Apostle, the patron saint of fishermen.

* * *

Date Masamune summoned his herald, and handed him a scroll. “Read it so all may hear and obey.”

The obugyô cleared his throat. “Black Seal Edict, given under the hand of the shogun of Nippon, Tokugawa Iemitsu, court noble of the upper first rank.

“(1) It shall be unlawful for barbarians, or people from outside provinces, to enter or exit New Nippon to trade with the Indians without the consent of the taishu of New Nippon, or the shogun.

“(2) Within the province of New Nippon, freedom of worship is permitted, provided that it does not disturb public harmony.

“(3) It shall be unlawful for residents of New Nippon who are of the Christian faith to return to their former provinces without the consent of the shogun or his duly appointed representatives.

“(4) It is strictly prohibited to inflict injustices or crimes upon the Indians of New Nippon.”

The herald paused for effect. “This edict is to be rigorously enforced by the authorities in New Nippon.” The edict was similar to the one given a few decades earlier to the Matsumae clan, which held the monopoly on trade with the Ainu, the aborigines of Hokkaido.

Date Masamune ordered that this black seal edict was to be read aloud at every later settlement, too.

October 1634

The First Fleet worked its way up the coast to the mouth of the Salinas. More precisely, where the mouth of the Salinas was supposed to be. From the crow’s nest of the Date Maru, they could see some kind of body of water behind the beach. Beyond that, there was a low hill, and far in the distance, a mountain range.

A launch was lowered into the water, and the sailors rowed a party of samurai to the beach. They spread out into a V-formation and moved cautiously east.

The body of water turned out to be a part of a river. The Salinas, without a doubt. However, the river mouth wasn’t here. Rather, a short distance south of the hill, the river made a sharp turn northward, and the area around the bend was fairly marshy.

South of the marsh, running parallel to the shore, there was long line of mammoth sand dunes. This was a mixed blessing; it screened that part of the beach from any Indians further inland, but it also meant that Indians could be close by yet undetected.

A second party of samurai was sent out to climb the dunes. This was not a terrain they were accustomed to; there were dunes near Tottori, on the west coast of Honshu, and also in Hamamatsu on the east coast, but none worth mentioning in Date Masamune’s fief of Rikuzen. With every step, sand was dislodged, increasing the effort required to make progress upward. Lizards scurried out of their way.

As they neared the crest of the dunes, they crouched, and at last they crawled to the top. From this excellent vantage point, they could see that the Salinas wound its way through a great valley stretching out to the southeast. They didn’t see any Indians, or even any habitations.

The question, then, was whether to land the colonists here—based on the map in the encyclopedia—or to head north, to the present mouth of the Salinas. However far north that might lie.

Tasman was sent northward, to see if the mouth could be spotted from the sea, and in due course he returned with the report that it was perhaps four miles up the coast . . . and that the land around the mouth was completely flat, and equally marshy.

Masamune decided that the southern site, with that hill, was marginally more defensible, and so the second settlement was made there. The “all clear” signal was given and the second contingent of colonists was brought ashore. Boats shuttled between the ships to the beach, disgorging men and women, as well as supplies, and returning for more. Haste was called for, because this site was unprotected from the wind.

A crude field fortification was erected on the low but steep-sided hill the scouts had spotted. By odd coincidence, this was Mulligan Hill, where, in the old time line, the Portola expedition of 1769 first sighted Monterey Bay. The new settlement was named Kawa Machi—“River City.”

The samurai’s horses were landed, and a dozen of the samurai swung themselves into the saddle and headed upriver.

* * *

Spirits are everywhere, according to the Ohlone Indians. The greater spirits are those of the sun, the moon, the sky, the sea, the mountains. But there are spirits in every bird, every mammal, every fish. Each of these spirits can help or harm.

And then there are the spirits of the dead. They may not be the most powerful of spirits, but they know our strengths and weaknesses. When they leave the body, they flee west, following the Path of the Wind to the Village of the Dead, across the sea. But they will return, and trouble the living, if they are not properly propitiated.

When a man of the Ohlone, the people living on Monterey Bay, died, he was buried that very day, and most of his belongings were buried with him. His widow cut off her hair, and smeared her face with ashes or asphalt. His name would not be spoken until it was formally given to one of his descendants, after the mourning ceremony, lest he be summoned back inadvertently.

If the death was of an unmarried man, or of a woman, her nearest female kin would perform the widow’s duties.

Each year, the mourning ceremony was held. The whole village gathered in the ceremonial house. It stood upon a rise in the land, and the area around it had been cleared with brush. In this way, if an enemy chose to take advantage of the distracting nature of the ritual, and attack at that time, they would see their foes approach.

As the sun set on the first day of the mourning ceremony for 1634, the leaders of the mourners, seated on the west side, the spirit side, began to wail. The village chief slowly circled the central fire, chanting.

“Don’t fail to hear me!

“Don’t fail to hear me!

“Make ready for the mourning.

“Make ready your offerings,

“Your offerings to the dead.

“Be generous, be generous,

“So the dead need not return to beg;

“So the dead need not trouble the living.”

The fire flickered, and the smoke rising from it seemed, now and then, to form the faces of the departed.

The leaders rose and followed the chief, and they were now followed by other women, perhaps half a dozen. Around and around they went. Sometimes the chief gave an order, and they faced in one direction and gesticulated, or turned about and circled in the opposite direction.

But they never rested.

Occasionally, one of the onlookers would scuttle forward and cast an offering into the fire.

At last, three more women, each with blackened faces, came out of the darkness of the spectator circle, and each grabbed one of the walkers. Each pair sat, holding each other’s shoulders, at the foot of one of the roof posts, and swayed back and forth, crying as they did so.

At last, the remaining marchers retreated into the outer circle, leaving only the chief as the center of attention. He spoke of the history of their tribelet, its triumphs and tragedies, and at last he sat down himself.

The next night, the mourning ceremony continued. Old men and women partnered up and cried together, then danced one by one about the fire. They were followed by the three widows, each of whom did the same and then was led away, crying, by another woman.

On the morning of the third day, the chief harangued the mourners before sunrise, and then some of the women filled a basket with water. They fished hot stones out of the fire and tossed them into the water. The chief and the eldest of the woman, each holding a cloth, sat facing each other, on either side of the basket.

The three widows were led up to them. The first woman leaned over, and waited expectantly. The two cloth-holders dipped their cloths in the hot water and wiped her face, taking care that the water would drip only outside the basket. She was now free of mourning restrictions.

The next woman came up, but her lean was perfunctory. She quickly straightened and backed away. This was expected, her husband had died only a moon before. She would mourn until the “cry” of the next year.

The third woman, First-to-Dance, came up. She leaned and waited. The washers exchanged troubled glances. This woman had been a widow for only three moons. It was a little too soon for her to be at liberty. But the choice was not theirs to make. With slow, reluctant movements, they cleaned her face. If they were rougher than usual, to show their irritation, it didn’t provoke any complaint on her part. The onlookers murmured. Only time would tell whether they would tolerate her infraction, or ostracize her for it.

Minutes later, a villager started screaming. “The dead! The dead have returned from the sea! We are doomed!”

There was a mass exodus from the place of assembly, and all eyes were turned west. There, the men and women of the First Fleet were being disgorged, and the masts of more than a score of ships were dark against the morning sky.

The vessels used by the Indians of Central California were little rafts woven of tule reeds. A few had seen the plank canoes of the Chumash of the Santa Barbara Islands, farther south, but you might as well compare a minnow to a whale. The great ships of the First Fleet were beyond their experience.

One Indian pointed at the ships. “Those—those are the very islands of the dead, with dead trees standing upon them,” he urged, his voice quavering.

First-to-Dance’s expression was more curious than frightened. “They wear clothes that are nothing like ours, so how can they be our dead?” she asked.

“Who knows what the dead choose to wear, fool woman!” said one of her tribesmen.

The chief was anxious for the well-being of his people, and very conscious of their inability to fight so many strangers—be they living or undead. He welcomed the opportunity to act. “This is your fault, First-to-Dance! You dishonored the dead!” And he struck her senseless.

The Indians looked at each other, and voiced the thought that had come to all of them.

“Run!” They fled upriver, leaving First-to-Dance behind them.

* * *

“So how is our patient?” asked Date Masamune.

“Alive, at least. Her pupils are the same size, so she is not concussed. She will have an extremely picturesque bruise for several weeks, I am sure. She has been able to take water, and I am switching her to soup, soon. I think the brown seaweed will be the most efficacious, but—”

“But you can spare me the medical details, just do what you think best. And have me informed once she is speaking.”

* * *

First-to-Dance had been awake for several hours. As soon as she was awake enough to appreciate the alien character of the words spoken in her presence, she had schooled herself to remain still. When the voices receded, she had ever so slightly opened her eyes, hoping that her long eyelashes would hide them.

It was annoying not be able to move her head, but her only advantage right now was that her . . . rescuers? captors? . . . didn’t know that she was awake. Alone among enemies, she must be as brave as Duck Huck, the monster-killer, and as clever as Coyote his grandfather.

She couldn’t help but wonder whether they were in fact the Dead returned, as her fellow tribesmen had assumed. They certainly were not dressed like the People. At this time of year, Ohlone men would be naked, and women would just wear an apron, unless there was bad weather, or a ceremonial need for extra garments. Was it cold in the Land of the Dead? Well, cold breezes came off the sea, so perhaps that explained it.

One of the men spoke. Of course, she had no idea what he was saying, but the speaker made it clear that he knew she was feigning sleep: He put his forefingers on his own eyelids, and lifted them up.

First-to-Dance opened her eyes and tried to sit up. She immediately felt light-headed. The man was beside her in an instant and steadied her. He spoke again in his incomprehensible language.

First-to-Dance had no idea why she couldn’t understand him. Wouldn’t the Dead still remember the speech of the People? She didn’t resist, what was the point? Dead or alive, he was stronger than her, and she didn’t know where she was, how many friends he had, or where her tribesmen had fled.

They were in a hut of some kind, made of an unfamiliar wood. It didn’t seem to have any openings, but then he slid away a part of a wall and stepped out, beckoning to her to follow.

She blinked her eyes as they emerged into the daylight. They were on a high place, looking down at the bay. There were giant huts, with trees growing out of them, floating on the water.

So it was true! The Dead had returned!

With great daring, First-to-Dance asked, “Who were you in life? How long ago did you die? Why have you returned? Were our offerings too small?” In a smaller voice, she added, “Is my dead husband among you?”

The man spread his hands, bowed to her, and left the room.

* * *

The third colony site for the passengers of the First Fleet was at the mouth of the Pajaro River, not far from the twentieth-century town of Watsonville. Perhaps a mile from the coast, and a third of a mile from the near bank of the Pajaro, the Japanese found a large hill, perhaps a quarter mile square, with good defensive potential. It had steep sides, and it was connected to the next hill by a narrow ridge that could easily be blocked. A castle might one day be built here, overlooking the village at the riverside. For the moment, though, the settlement was just as crude as the others.

The colonists of the Pajaro River settlement were primarily farmers, but they found themselves doing a lot of fishing. The steelhead trout were running that month, and the colonists were quick to improvise nets and string them across the river.

The colonists had been astonished and pleased to see the steelheads, because they looked almost identical to a fish found in some rivers back home: the Niji Masu. The colonists decided to name their settlement after the fish. It sounded better, at least, than the first name that Date Masamune’s explorers had come up with: sawa-be, the edge of a swamp.

* * *

“We weren’t sure that we should disturb you, milord—” The speaker was the headman for the final Japanese settlement, by the San Lorenzo River, near modern Santa Cruz.

Date Masamune took a deep breath. “Be at ease. You did the right thing.”

“Should we—”

“Please. I thank you, but I would prefer to contemplate this sight in silence.”

The headman bowed, and backed away.

Date Masamune walked forward slowly, like a man in a trance. He turned to the scholar that accompanied him.

“Do you remember your first moon-viewing, Shigetsuna? Your first tea-ceremony? That is how I feel today. Call back the headman.”

The headman returned. “How may I help you, my lord?”

“Summon the colonists.” With a fearful glance over his shoulder at the Taishu, the grand governor of New Nippon, the headman hurried off.

Date Masamune gazed solemnly at his subjects. “In our ancient homeland, we have many beautiful or useful trees. The mulberry and the fig; the paper and lacquer trees; the cherry and the plum; the pine and the cedar. But the trees that stand across the river, ah, they put all the trees of Nippon to shame.”

Masamune, whose city of Sendai became known in Japan as the City of Trees because of the plantings he encouraged, had seen his first grove of redwood.

“Henceforth, this village is to be known as Kodachi Machi.” This mouthful meant, “Tree Grove City.” Masamune slowly turned his head, staring at each of the colonists. “I will appoint a forest officer, as I did for Rikuzen. No tree is to be cut except with his permission, and without planting a new tree in its stead.”

He motioned to the headman, who yelled, “Dismissed!”

Masamune turned to Shigetsuna. “I think we will also do as we did in Sendai; set up tree nurseries, for both the trees from home and the new ones we find here.”

“We have already done so in Andoryu, with the seeds, cuttings and tub trees we took across the sea.”

“I want it done in all of the settlements of New Nippon. Who knows where, in this strange land, a Japanese tree will grow well? Consider which useful trees we still need seeds or cuttings for, and send for them. They may be brought over by the Second Fleet.”

* * *

The ships returned to the anchorage of Monterey/Andoryu, where they were best protected from the vagaries of the weather. They would wait there until the sailors were fully recovered from their voyaging, and then return to Japan. Some, no doubt, would be part of the Second Fleet, carrying the next batch of kirishitan to the New World, in 1635.

* * *

The Ieyasu Maru had worked its way south down the Pacific Northwest Coast, making note of the lay of the coast; in particular, possible harbors for future settlements. It had not made any further native contacts, but that didn’t mean that the Indians hadn’t been watching.

Under what western sailors called a “mackerel sky,” but the Japanese termed iwaishigimu—sardine clouds—the Ieyasu Maru rounded Point Año Nuevo. The rocks at the northern end of Monterey Bay had been so named by Sebastian Vizcaino in 1603, as it had been spotted on New Year’s Day.

As Monterey Bay opened up before it, a guard ship ventured out from Kodachi Machi to greet it. Despite the Ieyasu Maru’s European lines, its “rising sun” emblem left no doubt as to its origin.

What did surprise the guardsmen was that the Ieyasu Maru was not a straggler from the First Fleet, but rather had voyaged across the Pacific independently.

“Where do you come from?” their commander asked.

“Japan,” answered Captain Haruno.

“Where have you been?”

“Many places.”

“Who are the natives I see on board your ship?”

“Indians.”

It soon became apparent to the guards that Captain Haruno was not going to regale them with an epic story. Indeed, after a few more polite deflections, he insisted that a messenger be sent to the grand governor, and he didn’t even allow his people to spend the night in the village.

The next morning, a small squadron of samurai rode up, and Captain Haruno and the rest of his company were guided to Date Masamune’s present camp. The grand governor greeted them warmly, then had them divided up to be debriefed by various advisors.

Katakura Shigetsuna, the grand governor’s chief advisor, did spare a moment to promise Haruno and Tokubei that the grand governor would honor them for their rescue of the castaways, and the discovery of iron on Texada. Indeed, he assured them that the grand governor would mention their discovery prominently in his report to the shogun. But he also warned them to be patient; there were many more immediate demands on the grand governor’s attention. “Rest while you can,” he added.

* * *

Captain Tasman was amazed by how quickly the village of Monterey/Andoryu was assembled. Assembled, not built; many of the kirishitan had simply packed up their homes, which were made of cedar or pine, and shipped them to the New World. Katakura Shigetsuna had told the captain that back in Japan, whole towns had been disassembled and reassembled in a new location.

Likewise, some of the kirishitan fishermen had taken their boats along. Masamune had encouraged this; the sooner the boats were in the water, catching fish, the sooner the colonists could stop living off the dried provisions they had taken along for the voyage. The waters of Monterey Bay proved to be extremely rich, although all the Japanese colonists, even the fishermen, were looking forward to their first rice harvest. Rice, however, was planted in the spring. What they could plant now was mugi: wheat, barley and rye.

Masamune had started across the Pacific with two thousand colonists and five hundred retainers. One in ten of the colonists, and one in twenty of the better-nourished retainers, had died at sea. The remainder was still a good many mouths to feed.

* * *

The rest of First-to-Dance’s tribelet, the Kalenta Ruk, had fled upriver, and no other Indians had yet been encountered by the Japanese of the “River City” settlement.

Date Masamune met there with his advisers. “That the natives avoided us was convenient when we were most vulnerable, while we were landing and before we had built up defenses. But now it would be good to speak to them, have them tell us what is good to eat and what isn’t.”

The Japanese had been mainly eating fish since landing. The farmers were planting wheat on the high ground, but it would be awhile before it could be harvested, and they were none too sure how well their wheat would do in this soil and climate.

“I am sure that girl we picked up could tell us, if only we could speak to her,” said his son, the newly christened David Date.

Several of the Japanese had attempted to communicate with First-to-Dance, both by sign language and by trying to teach her Japanese and learn her own language. Progress was slow. Hold up a finger, and say a word. Do you mean “finger”? “One”? The direction “up”? It took time for each side to see what the different things that a particular word applied to had in common.

One word that they were quite interested in learning the name for was the one for the creature from which First-to-Dance’s robe was made. This robe was the skin of a sea otter. When the physician had first examined her, he had commented on how marvelous the material was, warm and waterproof. He was from the yukiguni, the “snow country” of Japan, and he was sure that this might be something that could be sold back home. Masamune had emphasized the importance of finding such products, to assure that the motherland would continue to supply them with the goods they couldn’t make themselves.

“Let’s put her on a looser leash,” said Masamune. “Let her wander around a bit, observe what she eats and drinks. Perhaps she would be more comfortable with some female company?”

* * *

Masamune decided that escorting First-to-Dance was exactly what was needed to distract Chiyo from archery practice.

Instead, of course, Chiyo insisted that her brother teach First-to-Dance, too.

First-to-Dance was somewhat nonplused by this development. Her people used the bow-and-arrow, but hunting was a male occupation. She absolutely refused to handle the bow, but was willing to watch Chiyo. And David Date, his aide Nobuyasu, and their friends.

In turn, Chiyo and Mika watched First-to-Dance. They discovered that she was perfectly happy to eat not only the fish caught by the Japanese fishermen, but also grasshoppers, caterpillars, and lizards. Frogs and toads, she ignored.

First-to-Dance collected acorns, too, knocking them from the limbs of the oaks that grew here and there, and putting them in the bag Chiyo had given her. She gave them to Chiyo, who had absolutely no idea what to do with them. Even after First-to-Dance engaged in an elaborate pantomime.

It was Mika, Chiyo’s maid, who discovered the answer. She had, apparently, found that stories about the Indian woman were in great demand among the Japanese. One night, she described First-to-Dance’s antics to a family that came from the Goto Islands.

“Acorns? I love acorns,” said the mother. “We ground them up and put them in a pot, and boiled them until the water turned brown. Then we threw out the brown water and did it again and again, until the water was clear.” That was done, she explained, to remove whatever gave raw acorns a bitter taste.

“Oh! That’s what First-to-Dance was doing! Or something like it, at least.” The word was spread and the Japanese colonists began gathering acorns in earnest. Fortunately, the acorn crop was bountiful in 1634.

Sacramento River Valley

Lord Matsudaira’s party turned onto the Feather River, hoping that it was the American. The water level, at least, was much greater, a better fit for Matsudaira’s preconception of what the American River should look like. Shigehisa had his doubts, however. The map showed the American meeting the Sacramento River from the east, whereas this tributary came in from the north. When Shigehisa pointed this out to Lord Matsudaira, he dismissed it abruptly.

“So? I wouldn’t expect the map to show every little twist and turn. It will turn east eventually.”

But days passed, and by Shigehisa’s reckoning, they were still heading north as they progressed slowly upriver. It wasn’t until they reached the confluence of the Feather and the Yuba that Shigehisa decided that he had to speak up again. By his recollection, the up-time map hadn’t shown any significant branching of the American until above Folsom Lake.

“Lord Matsudaira, may I please see the American map again?”

The map was a copy, of course, of the one in the American encyclopedia, but the Japanese artist who prepared it had duplicated every stroke. A short line was drawn, perpendicular to the river, immediately below “Folsom Lake.” This, according to the map’s translator, was a seki: a dam.

The Japanese had dug ditches and dammed rivers for irrigation purposes for centuries, perhaps millenia. Neither Matsudaira nor the shogunate officials who had sent him had thought to question the presence of a dam, in California. Even the red-haired barbarians, the Dutch, had said they had dams, after all, so why not the California Indians?

But the Japanese had seen no trace of native agriculture. And if there was no agriculture, there would be no need for irrigation . . . or for dams. Shigehisa hurriedly explained his reasoning to Lord Matsudaira.

Lord Matsudaira tried to stand, lost his balance, and nearly fell out of the boat. When he regained his seating, and his dignity, he stated the logical implication: “And so the lake doesn’t exist either. We were on the American River after all, and we didn’t realize it!”

His expression changed from thunderous to uncertain. “But wait. What about the water level for Sutter’s sawmill?”

Shigehisa shrugged. “Perhaps it is still the dry season for this region.”

“All right. First thing tomorrow morning, we head back downstream. At least it should be easier paddling back down the Sacramento than paddling up.”

Lower American River

What wasn’t easier than before was paddling up the American River; the water levels were still low. Only the seagulls, walking along the edges of the gravel bars, were happy; the salmon had spawned and lay dying, practically at their feet.

Lord Matsudaira looked like he had swallowed something unpleasant, but was too polite to spit it out. “Shigehisa! What is your advice?”

“Let’s leave the boats under guard here, and escort the miners upstream until they find the gold. When the water level rises we can bring up the boats.”

Lord Matsudaira agreed, and assigned Shigehisa to command the boat guard—the captain, the first mate, the sailors, and another samurai. Lord Matsudaira and the remaining four samurai left with the miners the next day.

* * *

Kiyoshi, the foreman of Lord Matsudaira’s miners, wondered once again what horrible crime he could have committed in his last incarnation in order to find himself on the American River, looking for gold.

Kiyoshi and his crew came from the great gold and silver mine at Aikawa, on the western coast of Sado Island, which lay off the coast of the province of Echigo. The gold was discovered in 1601 by a local merchant. The miners of Aikiwa were accustomed to digging through andesite tuff with chisels and hammers, following the great Torigoye vein several hundred feet underground.

Confronted with the American River, meandering across its flood plain, they had not the slightest idea where to start looking for gold.

But having observed how Lord Matsudaira treated the captain, Kiyoshi was quite certain it would not be wise to admit this.

Monterey Bay

At Masamune’s request, several boats of fishermen had gone looking for sea otters. They found them, floating on their backs in the waters off Kodachi Machi/Santa Cruz, and also on the wild side of the Monterey Peninsula between Monterey and Carmel.

At first, the Japanese fishermen hunted the sea otters more or less the way they hunted dolphins back home; their boats spread out in an arc and drove them, with nets strung between the boats, toward the shore. This didn’t work quite as well with sea otters as it did with dolphins, because sea otters could run away on land. Hence, they found it was necessary to first set some men down on the beach, armed with spears and clubs, before starting the otter drive.

Only a few hunts were carried out, because the Japanese had no special fondness for otter meat, and they had no idea how well the furs would sell in China or Japan. Some sample furs would be sent back home, and, well, the Second Fleet would come in 1635 and tell the colonists whether to harvest more.

* * *

“Next,” said Inawashiro Yoshimichi. He took a moment to smooth out his formal kami-shimo.

One of the kirishitan waiting patiently in line came forward.

“Name?”

“Yamaguchi Takuma.”

“Can you write?”

“Yes, sir.”

Inawashiro handed him three sheets of mulberry bark paper, a brush, a pot of ink, and an ink-stone.

“Write your letters to home today, the ships are leaving this week. Tell your kirishitan relatives and acquaintances how wonderful it is to be a kirishitan in New Nippon. It is wonderful, neh?”

“Yes, but—”

“Next!”

November 1634,

Monterey Bay

Winter had come, and with it, increased fog and rain. The rains swelled the Salinas, and at last the river broke through the sand bar that had puzzled Masamune’s advisers, forming the southern mouth of the river. They knew from the encyclopedia entry on California that summers would be dry; they surmised that in the summer, the ocean would reform the sand bar.

They had asked First-to-Dance about the river, and she had told them “water come, water go.” At first, they thought that she meant that the river was a place of flowing water. But now, they feared that she meant that the river actually dried up during the summer. That didn’t happen in Japan, but the scholars knew that it was a problem in western China.

Orders were given for irrigation ditches to be dug, and streamlets dammed to catch the rain and hold it for future use.

Between modern Gilroy and Hollister

“I think that’s the river channel we want,” said Saburo.

“You said that the last two times, too,” said Jiro. “They were both dead ends.”

“Well, I have to be right sooner or later. If only I could see through the mountains, right to the sea.”

Jiro looked at Saburo. “The mountains, younger brother, are a manifestation of the Illusion we call the World. To see through it, you must—fuck!” Jiro had just tripped over Saburo’s outstretched foot.

“The foot, elder brother, is also Illusion,” Saburo said airily. “Perhaps we can pretend that the mountains are at least as real as my foot?”

* * *

Jiro and Saburo had gained some hope when the channel they were following joined another, larger one. Still, they had yet to see Monterey Bay. It was already late in the day, so they started to make camp.

“Jiro, wait, I think I saw a horseman crest that hill.”

“That’s preposterous—Hey, I saw him, too!”

“Indians?”

With the air of superiority that is genetically incorporated into older brothers, Jiro told Saburo, “The Indians don’t have horses.”

“So those must be Japanese! Fellow samurai!”

“Or Spanish,” Jiro cautioned.

But Saburo was already running forward, shouting and gesticulating.

Jiro ran after him.

The party of horsemen spotted them, and headed their way. It was soon apparent that they were, indeed, Japanese. When they came within hailing distance, Jiro and Saburo discovered that they were Date Masamune’s men, exploring the upper reaches of the Pajaro River. The Japanese settlement of Niji Masu/Watsonville was only a dozen miles away, downriver. Jiro and Saburo doubled up behind two of the riders, and the scouting party took them home.

The following morning, Jiro and Saburo were loaned horses by the commander at Niji Masu. They rode south along the coast, and by dinner time they were in the presence of Date Masamune at Kawa Machi/Salinas.

They were the first to carry word to the grand governor of the debacle at the Golden Gate; the other pair of messengers, the ones who were to follow the coast to Monterey, hadn’t made it. They were presumed dead.

* * *

Captain Haruno and “Tenjiko” Tokubei, still recuperating from their exploration of the Vancouver area, received an urgent summons to Date Masamnune’s still ramshackle fort.

“Success brings rewards, but also punishments,” he told them.

They smiled uncertainly.

“Those who achieve great things are expected to move on to even greater accomplishments,” he explained.

That sounded even more ominous.

“In this case, I need you to sail at once to San Francisco Bay. You are to go first to the south end, where my daughter Iroha-hime and her companions are encamped. They were shipwrecked by the Golden Gate last September. You will then head north, exploring as you think best, but you must be at the mouth of the Sacramento River by July, to meet her husband, Lord Matsudaira Tadateru. If he does not show up by the end of August, you will return here. Iroha-hime is to come back here with you, with or without him. Even if she protests.”

Tokubei and Haruno exchanged glances.

“Great Lord,” Haruno replied, “we will of course act as best serves you and your daughter’s interests. However, it will not help your daughter if we are lost at sea. The encyclopedia revealed that in northern California, the rainy season is October to April.

“And it is not just the rainy season, it is the season of great storms, with high winds and therefore powerful waves. As we experienced on our passage south to Monterey. Hence, I would recommend that we not leave until April or even May.”

“That’s a long time to wait,” said Masamune. “Is it truly hopeless to leave any sooner?”

“Hopeless, no,” said Haruno. “Dangerous, yes. And with the First Fleet departed, this is the only ship you have. If it’s lost, you will have to wait until the Second Fleet comes, next fall, to have another chance.”

“I think it is perhaps a mistake to place too much faith in what the encyclopedia says. For all we know, the climate has changed over the years. Please take your ship up to the Golden Gate this month. Judge firsthand whether it is safe to proceed through the strait. If it isn’t, return and try again in April.

“I must trust your judgment, as you have already proven your ability by your exploration of the northlands.” He paused. “But if you succeed in passing the Golden Gate this year, you may expect additional rewards, befitting the risks you have taken.”

* * *

After Haruno and Tokubei left, Masamune summoned Jiro and Saburo.

“The rescue mission is being prepared. Missions, I should say. I am so sorry, but I must split you up. Jiro-san, you will go by sea, with Captain Haruno and Tokubei-san, as soon as their ship is refitted.

“Saburo-san, you will go by land, and you will leave this week. You will guide a troop of samurai, and they will bring extra horses, enough for all of Iroha-hime’s party.

Each of you may wait up to a week for the other to arrive, but no more. Iroha-hime’s safety is paramount.”

South Bay, near Alviso, California

The local Indians had become friendly with Iroha’s party, and had brought them food: acorn mush, berries, fish, and so forth. However, she had been running out of small gifts to reward them with, and she and Matsuoka were worried as to what would happen once they were no longer able to reciprocate. There were hundreds, if not thousands, of Indians in the area. If they became hostile, they could make short shrift of the small Japanese party, despite the superior skills and equipment of the two Japanese samurai who had remained with her. Quantity has a quality all its own.

Banks of the American River

“Dispose of the body,” said Lord Matsudaira, who then cleaned and sheathed his katana. He walked away from the corpse without a backward glance.

The victim of the samurai lord’s rage was not the former captain of the Sado Maru, but one of the miners. The unfortunate man had been executed for insolence. His crime had been to say that their search for gold was a waste of time just as Lord Matsudaira passed within earshot.

Kiyoshi reflected that if the man had only had the wits to hold his tongue, he would probably have lived longer in America than if he had remained in Japan. He was not a real miner; he was a convict who had been sentenced to a life term working in the mine, draining the lowest levels one bucket at a time.

His death presented Kiyoshi with a problem. That being, what to do about the body? In Japan, in the Shinto religion, contact with the dead was ritually polluting, and was left to the eta, the Japanese “untouchables.” But there were no eta on the Sado Maru. Nor were Japanese Christians any more enthusiastic about handling the dead, as their European instructors considered gravedigging to be a dishonorable occupation. If Kiyoshi could speak to the local Indians, he could perhaps persuade them to deal with the body, but they had seen no Indians recently. In any event, they didn’t know their language.

Kiyoshi picked out the two lowest-ranking of the remaining miners and ordered them to bury the corpse. After much argument, they did so.

* * *

Kiyoshi rose groggily. The sun had only just cleared the horizon, and scattered trees cast long shadows that in his half-awake state led Kiyoshi to imagine them the fingers of oni, Japanese demons.

He quickly made a Christian sign of aversion, followed by a Buddhist one, just to be safe.

As his head cleared, he became more and more sure that something was wrong. But what? Then he realized the answer: two men were missing from the mining camp. The very men who had conducted the burial the day before.

He shivered involuntarily. Had their state of impurity rendered them vulnerable to some American demon?

He called out, but they didn’t answer.

Kiyoshi quickly woke the others. They grabbed weapons and searched the area, spiraling outward.

They didn’t find the two missing men. But they did find footprints leading to the water, and then disappearing in the muck.

With some reluctance—as headman he could be held accountable for the actions of his men—he informed the samurai on duty that the men were missing. A samurai joined the search, to no avail.

Kiyoshi suggested that the men had been taken by the Indians, or perhaps by some water beast.

The samurai was skeptical. “I see no sign of a struggle. . . . And didn’t you have a man posted on guard? Why didn’t he call out?”

“The man who disappeared was the watchman on the last shift. He was taken by surprise, perhaps while relieving himself,” Kiyoshi suggested.

The samurai snorted. “There aren’t enough of us to conduct a proper search, especially since we don’t have horses. But I will have to report this to Lord Matsudaira.”

Kiyoshi shivered once again. There were more fearful beings than hypothetical American demons.

The samurai returned, this time with several of his fellows. “By order of Lord Matsudaira, we are taking over the night watches. And you and your men are to be roped together, night and day. So there are no more mysterious disappearances.”

December 1634,

Off the Coast of California

It had taken several weeks to refit the Ieyasu Maru to return to sea, and Captain Haruno had practically danced with impatience until they pulled out of the little harbor at Andoryu/Monterey.

To reach the Golden Gate, the Ieyasu Maru found it expedient to take a circuitous route. Monterey Bay lay to the south, but the prevailing winds of the California coast come from the northwest, and the California current sets south along the shore.

The rescue ship sailed directly away from land until it crossed the 125th meridian. It then encountered more variable winds, and made northing whenever it could. Eventually, it clawed its way up to the 38th parallel, and turned eastward. This process took perhaps two weeks, even though, when it had come south from British Columbia, the passage from the 38th parallel to that of Monterey had taken a single day.

South Bay, near modern Alviso, California

Led by Saburo, the samurai scout troop at long last reached Iroha-hime’s refuge. Each scout had an extra horse on a lead, so all of Iroha’s party would be able to ride back. Saburo proudly advised Iroha that he had come to rescue her, and that soon she would be safe with her father in the Monterey Bay colony. She had thanked him, and neither agreed nor disagreed with his statement that she would need to be ready to leave in a week’s time.

The week passed.

* * *

“I am sorry, Saburo, but I cannot go with you,” said Iroha. “I will wait for Captain Haruno to arrive, and go with him to rescue my husband. Then, and only then, will I go to Monterey Bay.”

“But . . . But, Iroha-hime, your father was most insistent that we wait no more than a week for Captain Haruno, and if he had not arrived by then, we were to take you with us.”

“My husband commanded me to remain here, and of course his authority overrides that of my father.”

“Actually,” said Matsuoka, “his command was that you go to your father in Monterey.”

“Yes, but that was because he thought that I might need to plead with my father in person to assist Lord Matsudaira. But Captain Haruno was sent to aid him, not just to rescue me, yes?”

Saburo admitted that this was the case.

“So there is no immediate need for my presence in Monterey, after all. Indeed, it would be best that we can report to my father that Captain Haruno has succeeded in entering the Bay. Otherwise a third ship will need to be sent out, to look for him, too.”

Saburo looked at the troop commander, who looked at Matsuoka.

“All right, one more week,” said Matsuoka. “But after that, if there’s no sign of the Ieyasu Maru, you will ride with us to Monterey if I have to tie you onto the saddle.”

Near the Farallone Islands, outside San Francisco Bay

“What great luck, Captain Haruno!” Jiro exclaimed. “No fog today!” He paused. “Why are we slowing down? Shouldn’t we hurry through while we can?”

“We must check for hidden dangers, honorable samurai. I am lowering a boat to take soundings, I don’t like the look of the water ahead. If you want a better view of what it’s doing, you may go forward.”

When Jiro walked out of earshot, Haruno snorted, and whispered to Tokubei, “The grand governor expects us to be bold. He does not desire that we be stupid.”

Kinzo, the Ieyasu Maru’s coxwain, reported back a few hours later. “There seems to be a very large bar in the shape of a folding fan, in front of the strait. I wouldn’t want to cross it during a storm, but it won’t be a problem with the seas as they are now.”

“What was the current like?” asked Haruno.

“When I started, the waters were a bit confused; the swells were from the northwest, and they seemed to be meeting a tidal ebb. But I think the tide has nearly slacked off by now.”

“We’ll go a bit deeper in, and anchor,” Haruno announced, “and then you’ll take the boat in all the way in and find an anchorage. I’ll not trust my ship to the word of a landsman as to where we can pass the night safely.”

* * *

Kinzo and his men raised a sail and, under both sail and oar, steered their longboat toward the mouth of San Francisco Bay. Jiro had insisted on joining them, saying, “For the honor of Lord Matsudaira, at least one member of his party should be on the boat that is the first to enter San Francisco Bay by the sea.” Apparently, he felt that the shuttling of supplies around Fort Point by the surviving boats of the Sado Maru was best left out of the chronicles.

They rounded Fort Point and continued east, passing cautiously between Clark’s Point and Yerba Buena Island. The peninsular coast pulled inward here, forming a cove overlooked by Telegraph Hill.

This seemed an eminently satisfactory anchorage, and they tried to return to the Ieyasu Maru. That proved easier said than done. The tide had turned, and the waters of the Pacific were now pouring into the Bay.

With the wind against them, and the current too strong to fight with oar power, they returned to the cove and beached their boat.

* * *

In the meantime, the Ieyasu Maru was having trouble holding its position. The wind had picked up, and the inward tidal current had strengthened. Its anchor lost its grip on the bottom and the Ieyasu Maru lurched forward.

“Up anchor!” Captain Haruno ordered. “Make sail!” His junior officers shouted out the step-by-step instructions to get the ship under way.

“Better to go in now, under control, then be carried willy-nilly by wind and tide,” he told Tokubei.

Riding the flood tide, and with the wind at their back, the Ieyasu Maru sped eastward, like a traveler running to reach the gate of a city before it closed for the night. Iwakashu’s miners were stationed all along the railing, as extra lookouts. Iwakashu, at least, was glad to be on this rescue mission to San Francisco Bay. Which, he hoped, would give him the opportunity to see the fabled American River—and perhaps its gold.

* * *

At last, the Ieyasu Maru passed between Lime Point and Fort Point. For the first time in history, a sailing ship had entered San Francisco Bay.

Off to port, Haruno could see Horseshoe Bay, and beyond it, the stretch of open water leading to Angel Island. Richardson Bay and Raccoon Strait were hidden by the northern headlands, but shown on his copy of the encyclopedia map of San Francisco.

Alcatraz Island was directly ahead, and, on starboard, the coast of what would become the modern city of San Francisco. It didn’t look much like what was shown on the map.

Studying the color of the water, and the behavior of the waves, Haruno was leery of the narrow passage between Alcatraz Island and the San Francisco peninsula. “Reduce sail!” he ordered. He wanted more time to decide how to proceed.

“Any sign of the longboat?” he called up to the lookout in the crow’s nest.

“No sign, Captain!”

Tokubei tapped his shoulder, and pointed at Richardson Bay, which had come into view on the port side.

“Looks lovely,” Haruno acknowledged, “but I can’t sail closely enough into the wind to take advantage of it.”

“We could set out the other boat and warp ourselves in,” Tokubei suggested.

“True. But unless you see our longboat hiding there, I think it best to look for an anchorage downwind. We have to head southeast to rescue Iroha-hime, anyway.”

The captain ordered a course set to take them between Angel Island and Alcatraz. This required that they sail close-hauled, but they were still enjoying the assist of the flood tide.

As they sailed deeper into the Bay, Captain Haruno ordered that the ship be brought around, first to an easterly heading, then southeast, then south. It was now the Ieyasu’s Maru’s turn to pass between Yerba Buena and Clark’s Point, and when they did so, a cry went up. “The boat, the boat!”

“A fair anchorage,” said Tokubei.

Captain Haruno nodded. “We’ll pass the night here, and greet her ladyship tomorrow.”

* * *

The next day, they were ready to sail out of Yerba Buena cove and proceed south. Unfortunately, Susanoo the Wind God had other ideas. Over the course of the night, the wind had veered, from northwest to northeast to southeast. It was impossible to sail out of their anchorage.

Kinzo and Jiro requested permission to take the longboat south, to bring word to Iroha-Hime that help was on the way. The longboat, after all, could be rowed.

Captain Haruno refused. “I need the longboat to scout ahead and take soundings.”

In the evening, the wind died down altogether, but by the second day after their entry into the Bay, it had picked up again, and blew once more from the northwest. By noon, they were at the southern tip, and the longboat was winding its way through the sloughs toward Iroha-Hime’s camp.

South Bay

Much to both Iroha and Matsuoka’s relief, the Ieyasu Maru had sailed into sight before the deadline Matsuoka had set had passed.

But its arrival sparked a new debate. Who was to board the Ieyasu Maru, and who would be escorted back by the land route? Iroha of course wanted to rejoin her husband, and she pointed out that the Ieyasu Maru could afford her and her maid the privacy she would have lacked on Tadateru’s little boats. Matsuoka thought that she would be safer on the Ieyasu Maru, than on an overland route exposed to Indian attack, and hence was no longer willing to insist on her immediate return. Of course, if she went, so would he, and her other personal guardsman.

Jiro and Saburo, reunited, thought that it might be their duty to their lord to rejoin him, even though they would much rather be on horseback than on a ship again. Matsuoka sensed their discomfort, and eased their conscience by ordering them back to Monterey.

Hachizaemon was anxious to be back on a ship again, even with a strange new captain. The other shipwrecked sailors had decided that San Francisco Bay was unlucky, and they wanted no more of it. . . . Even if the alternative was getting on top of a horse.

Hence, it was just Iroha, Koya, Matsuoka, his junior samurai, and Hachizaemon who boarded the Ieyasu Maru, and the rest rode, whether happily or painfully, for Monterey Bay. They would bring word to Date Masamune that his daughter was safe on board the Ieyasu Maru.

Near modern Oakland, California

Captain Haruno lowered his spyglass. “I saw no sign of this supposed cairn.”

“It isn’t easy to find stones to pile up if you land on a marsh,” Tokubei pointed out. “And even if you find them, the pile would probably sink.”

“I suppose we had best send out search parties,” said Haruno. “We want to make sure that Lord Matsudaira made a successful crossing.”

“If he didn’t he might be stranded on Angel Island. Or even on Alcatraz.”

“That is so. Tokubei, you take one boat; have Hachizaemon take another. Explore a half-day’s march inland, and return. In the meantime, I will take the Ieyasu Maru around Angel Island and see if any stranded Nihonjin put in an appearance.”

“You are sure you want to split our forces in three?”

“I think it is an acceptable risk. The Monterey Bay colony has not had any violent confrontations with the local Indians, and Iroha-hime found the South Bay Indians to be helpful. In any event, we aren’t moving far apart. If you need help, fire a gun. The sound should carry well enough over the water.”

* * *

Each of the two search parties included several of the Ieyasu Maru’s miners; Haruno had figured that since they had to search the countryside anyway, they might as well keep their eyes open for something useful. Iwakashu was with Tokubei’s contingent. Tokubei had allowed his men to spread out, provided they stayed within hailing distance.

After about an hour of wandering, Iwakashu approached Tokubei. “Sir, you need to see this.”

Tokubei followed the mining engineer, who led him to a large patch of exposed rock.

“What am I looking at?”

“The cap of Daikoku,” said Iwakashu mysteriously. Daikoku was, Tokubei knew, a Buddhist God of Wealth. He was usually depicted as a fat, happy man with a sack of treasure slung over one shoulder, and holding a magic mallet aloft with his free hand.

“Please, explain what you mean. I don’t see any gold here . . .”

“Gold? No, not likely. Possible, but not likely. But this is a place strong in yin, where treasures are hidden beneath the surface.

“This rock is well weathered. Here is sekitekkou, the red earth of iron, and there is kattekkou, the brown earth of the same metal.” A modern geologist would call them hematite and limonite. “You see how different they are from the dull rock nearby?

“I call them the caps of Daikoku, because they often lie above a deposit of metal ore. Most often, outtekou or oudoukou.” Those were pyrite and chalcopyrite. “What miners call ‘fool’s gold.’”

“Okay, you’ve had your little joke,” said Tokubei. “Let’s go back now.”

“You don’t understand, do you?” said the miner.

“Understand what?”

“That we can make sulfur from them. The Chinese roast outtekou over charcoal; the breath of Huchi, the goddess of the volcano, emerges from it, and cools to make sulfur.”

Sulfur. Tokubei knew that to Lord Masamune, sulfur might be more valuable than gold. The shogunate restricted the supply of gunpowder to the colonists, perhaps fearing that they would one day try to force their way back into Japan. The Dutch would sell more, but they tried to “catch a sea bream with a shrimp”; charge a lot for a small amount.

Gunpowder had three ingredients; charcoal, saltpeter, and sulfur. Charcoal was easy, in Japan it was made by charring a hardwood, hannoki. There were surely American woods that would work well enough. Saltpeter could be collected in certain desert regions, or made from night soil.

But sulfur, Tokubei had thought, was only available as the yellow crystals found near certain hot springs. Hot springs the Japanese explorers had yet to find in America, although some of the mountains Tokubei had seen in his journey down the coast were surely volcanoes, and where there were volcanoes one might hope to find hot springs.

“Say nothing of this to anyone, and I will make it worth your while.”

* * *

Four men met that night in the captain’s cabin of the Ieyasu Maru, with a guard posted outside the door.

“So, this sulfur you speak of will enable the grand governor to make his own gunpowder,” said Hosoya Yoritaki. He was the commander of the Ieyasu Maru’s samurai marines. “I think that he will find that a most attractive prospect. It is best that we not be dependent on gunpowder from home. It is merely a matter of prudence; we don’t know when we might need it to fend off the Indians, the Spanish, or even the Dutch, and our supply line is very long and frail.”

“I am a big believer in prudence,” said Tokubei. “It is interesting, is it not, that this sulfur deposit is not shown in our maps from Grantville?”

“Most interesting,” Iwakashu agreed. “The up-timers do not know everything. Do you think that the grand governor will communicate this discovery to the shogun?”

There was a silence.

“I think . . . I think,” said Yoritaki, “that the grand governor will be of the opinion that the shogun’s interest is primarily in precious metals, as evidenced by Lord Matsudaira’s mission. There is no lack of sulfur in Nippon, the Land of Fire. There will, I daresay, be no need to speak of so inconsequential a matter.”

“And surely,” said Iwakashu, “if the presence of pyrites in California was information that the shogun should be aware of, the buddhas and kamis would have seen to it that they were shown on those very maps that he was given by the Dutch barbarians.”

A rather foxy expression passed briefly over his face. “So we are, perhaps, obligated by the mandate of Heaven to maintain secrecy, lest this information become known in Japan before the buddhas and kamis are ready to reveal it.”

“If we leave the miners here, the sailors will talk about it once we return to Monterey,” said Captain Haruno. “Even if they don’t realize that we are mining sulfur, or iron, they will think that we are mining gold. And that will attract undesirable attention to this place.”

Tokubei shrugged. “What of it? The colonists of Monterey are kirishitan, they are forbidden to return to Japan.”

“But our sailors are not kirishitan,” said Yoritaki, “and they can speak of our find once we sail back to Sendai. And the shogun has spies in Sendai, of that I can assure you. For that matter, there is probably at least one spy among our sailors, since they have license to return.

“So we need an excuse for leaving the miners and some samurai here. An excuse that will not excite undue curiosity.”

The others fidgeted.

At last, Iwakashu made a proposal. “In Go, it is wise to sacrifice the smaller group to save the greater one. Let us say that we have found copper. It may even be true, as oudoukou is a copper ore. Copper is valuable enough that we would want to mine it, but it is not worth shipping back to Japan, where it is plentiful. And it is not a metal that the shogun would mind us controlling. By the time his spies report otherwise, New Nippon will be able to survive on its own.”

“We hope,” Yoritaki muttered.

Lower American River

Kiyoshi, as foreman, did not suffer the indignity of being roped, and hence could scout ahead. He was walking on a large sand bar on the south bank of the American River, near the site of the modern town of Folsom, when he tripped. He started to lever himself up, and then stopped suddenly—he had caught sight of an intriguing glint from a rock a few yards away. He approached it, half-crouched, and, grunting, turned it to better expose the surface of interest. He saw what appeared to be small gold scales.

He proudly showed his discovery to Lord Matsudaira.

Lord Matsudaira, of course, was overjoyed, and insisted that Kiyoshi accept, as a gift, the Lord’s own smoking pipe. It had a bamboo shaft, and a silver mouthpiece and bowl, the latter engraved with the Matsudaira mon—three hollyhock leaves in a circle, the same as that of the Tokugawa.

It might have been more useful if they still had any tobacco left, but Kiyoshi appreciated the gesture.

He requested permission to have the miners untied so that they could better search for more gold, and Lord Matsudaira agreed, provided they were tied up again each night.

As Kiyoshi assigned his men to work different sections of the sand bar, he gestured with his new pipe, as if it was a scepter.

* * *

After a week of searching, Kiyoshi’s men had found a few more gold flecks and, in a crevice, a small gold nugget. Unfortunately, as lode mining men, they knew nothing of panning for gold. That was something done in Japan, not by honest miners, but by yamashi. Literally, it meant “mountain expert,” but in common usage, a yamashi could be a “prospector” or a “swindler.”

Still, Kiyoshi wished he had some yamashi with him. But at least Lord Matsudaira was in good humor . . . at least for the moment.

* * *

“Hatomoto Shigehisa.”

“My lord, how may I serve you?”

“Walk with me.” They walked out of sight and hearing of the crewmen of the Sado Maru.

“Look at this!” Lord Matsudaira held out his hand, the nugget resting on his outstretched palm.

Shigehisa bowed. “I am overwhelmed, my lord. You have found the gold field.”

Lord Matsudaira lifted his hand in thanks. “Your words are most welcome. But the real gold field must lie further upstream. Above the fork our scouts found previously, the streams run through gorges. The real gold mines must be there, I think, where we can see the very bones of the earth.”

“Will you be taking a boat, milord? The river is at least a foot higher than it was when we first came here.”

“No, I think not. There are two rapids just in the stretch of water we have been working, and I expect that once we enter the gorges, we will find much whitewater. A boat will be too much trouble.”

“Is there room to walk beside the river? Or is the gorge too steep-walled?”

“At least on the lower stretch we have spied out, there is room. Further up, who knows? But I have tired of sitting in camp watching the miners turn over rocks and sift their fingers through the sand and gravel.”

“May I accompany you, my lord?”

“No, I need you to hold this nugget for me. It would not be good if I tumbled into the water, and lost it.”

“It will be my honor and pleasure, Lord Matsudaira.”

* * *

Modern weather forecasters call it a “Pineapple Express.” The Polar jet stream forks, and the southern branch guides a tropical air mass northward and eastward, bringing warm air and torrential rainfall to the western coast of North America.

On the shores of San Francisco Bay, there was a bit of flooding, but this only inconvenienced the passengers and crew of the Ieyasu Maru. The miners sought temporary refuge on board the ship, and the ship took shelter from the wind on the lee side of Angel’s Island.

The rain was heavy at times, leading Iroha-hime to compare the Ieyasu Maru to Noah’s Ark. Tokubei, from the time he spent on Dutch ships, understood the reference, and expressed his earnest hope that the rain would not last forty days and forty nights.

In the Central Valley to the north, a much more dangerous situation developed. The waters of the Sacramento rose, then subsided a little as the storm system continued eastward.

But it was a temporary reprieve. The storm bombarded the Sierras with warm rain. The rain permeated the snowpack. Within a matter of hours, it had melted much of the snow at intermediate elevations. The melt water hurtled down the narrow canyons of the upper reaches of the Feather and American Rivers, turning them into maelstroms of white water. The flood front descended to what was normally the more placid lower sections of these rivers. Here, the water rapidly overflowed the banks, and spread out, forming a temporary lake that stretched out as far as the eye could see.

Storms of this nature struck the Central Valley at least once a generation, perhaps more often, and the elders of the Indian tribes were quick to spot the signs and chivvy their people to safe ground. The two Japanese deserters, who had taken refuge with those Indians, followed their lead.

The Japanese strung along the American River were caught by surprise.

* * *

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Captain Haruno.

“Nor I,” Tokubei agreed.

“What is the matter?” asked Commander Yoritaki.

“The tide . . . It’s been a full day and it hasn’t changed direction,” said Haruno.

Iroha and Senior Guardsman Matsuoka Nagatoki stood nearby, and they overheard this exchange. “Excuse me, Captain Haruno, what do you mean?” she asked.

“Usually, the tide comes in and out twice each day. But we have been fighting a nonstop ebb tide since we left our harbor yesterday morning. We’ve barely made any northing at all.”

“If we hadn’t had the benefit of a southwest wind, we’d have been moving backward,” Tokubei added.

Iroha pondered this for a while. “The Almighty acts in mysterious ways. Excuse me, please.” She went below, calling for her maid, with Nagatoki leading the way as a bodyguard should.

Tokubei looked at Captain Haruno. “Her Almighty has apparently dumped a heck of a lot of water on the lands to the north, and it’s running south now. Enough to overwhelm the normal tides. That’s the only explanation I can come up with.”

“Well, it’s better than that the Dragon God has misplaced his magic tide-flow jewel.”

North Fork, American River

“Milord, I don’t like how fast the water is rising,” said one of the two samurai accompanying Lord Matsudaira’s samurai.

“Neither do I,” said Lord Matsudaira. “But we can’t climb these cliffs. At least, not quickly enough to save ourselves. Our only hope is to get back out of the gorge, to where the slope is gentler, and then climb to high ground.”

Naturally, they were scrambling downstream as they spoke. The gap between the river’s edge and the gorge wall had been narrow when they began their exploration, and now it was getting ever narrower.

It was not flat land, but scree; broken rocks that had tumbled downhill. It was difficult terrain to cross both safely and quickly, but speed was of the essence.

One of the samurai took an incautious step, lost his balance, and fell into the water.

“He’s down!” yelled another samurai. “No, his head’s above water.” He passed out of sight as the river curved.

“We must catch up to him!” Lord Matsudaira commanded.

They found that the fallen samurai had managed to swim to the water on the inside of the bend, where the current was slower, but seemed to be unable to free himself completely from the water’s grip.

“Hold my swords,” said Lord Matsudaira.

The samurai took them, protesting, “My lord, you cannot risk yourself, we are sworn to protect you.”

“And two of you can protect me better than one, neh?” he said as he stripped down to his loincloth. “I am a master of suei-jutsu.” That was swimming as a martial art. “Can you say the same?”

The samurai could only bow his head. He could hardly claim to be superior to his lord in that skill, after such a boast.

Lord Matsudaira jumped into the water. It was bitter cold, draining away his life-force. He had to force his limbs to move; his arms and legs were as stiff as the puppets of ningyo-joruri. At last, he reached his target, and took hold of the fallen samurai. Slowly, very slowly, they inched toward the bank.

“My lord, watch out!” The samurai that Lord Matsudaira had left on dry land was pointing upstream, his features contorted.

A fallen tree swept down the river, and it spun in the eddy of the inside bend, striking Lord Matsudaira in the head. He went under, as did the man he had been trying to save.

The remaining samurai then dived in after them.

Lower American River

Downstream, where the miners were active, the rise of the river was more gradual, but the samurai guard refused to untie the men, or let them leave the riverbank, without orders.

Kiyoshi bowed. “Then run down to Shigehisa-san, ask him to bring up the boats.”

“My orders say that I am to stay here.”

“Then let me go!”

“My orders say that you are to remain here and supervise the miners.”

“Supervise them doing what? Drowning?”

“Orders are to be obeyed, not questioned.”

Kiyoshi bowed even more deeply. “You are right, of course, I will go back to mining.”

The samurai didn’t answer.

Kiyoshi picked up his shovel. “Cave in!” he shouted.

The samurai looked at him, perplexed.

The miners, still roped together, ran up the bank, toward Kiyoshi. The rope, strung taut, caught the samurai’s legs behind the knees, and he fell backwards into the water.

Kiyoshi slammed the shovel down upon him.

The samurai fumbled for his katana, but it was trapped underneath.

Kiyoshi struck again. The samurai was dead.

The miners stood silent.

“He fell in the water. He was dashed against the rocks.”

The miners nodded.

Kiyoshi pushed the dead samurai’s body into the river. The miners had pulled out their belt knives and were already cutting themselves free.

By now, the water had lapped over the riverbank, and was swirling about their ankles.

Kiyoshi pointed northward. “Run for the hills!” They ran.

Unfortunately, they were still far from high ground. When the water came up to their calves they despaired of reaching it in time, instead seeking out the nearest of the oak trees that dotted the lowland. Soon, they were huddled precariously in the branches.

And then, one by one, the trees toppled into the water.

* * *

“Row, damn you, row!” yelled Shigehisa. The sailors labored at the oars of the Ni-Ban, the first mate handling the tiller. Even Shigehisa was rowing. “Our comrades are depending on you!”

The captain, in the Ichi-Ban, didn’t bother appealing to the crew’s finer sentiments. “You sluggards! You good-for-nothings! Put your backs to it, you cockroaches!”

But neither approach was particularly successful. The American River had, within hours, gone from a trickle to a torrent, and they couldn’t make any headway against it.

At last, exhausted, they turned the boats westward and let the current carry them back downstream.

January 1635,

Carquinez Strait

“You are the only survivors?” Iroha’s voice was matter-of-fact, but her gaze seemed haunted.

“Yes, milady,” said Shigehisa. “Only those of us who were in the boats, or very close to them, at the time of the flood. The others wrestled with the kappa . . . and lost.” Kappa were the malicious river-spirits of Shinto mythology, who often drowned travelers attempting to cross the swift, dangerous mountain streams of Japan.

Iroha-hime frowned at the pagan reference but didn’t object to it directly. “I will pray to São Vicente for my lord’s soul.” Saint Vincent of Saragossa was the patron saint of Lisbon, and the Romans had thrown his body into the sea.

“After the disaster,” Shigehisa continued, “I thought it best that we make our way down to the South Bay, to reinforce you. But of course you intercepted us here, while we were still on our way.”

Shigehisa lowered his voice. “There is one more thing, Iroha-hime. He gave this to me.” He handed her the nugget.

“Why haven’t you shown this to Captain Haruno, or Commander Yoritaki, or Mr. Tokubei?”

He looked away from her. “Because they are in the service of your father, the Grand Governor Date Masamune, and your husband was in that of the shogun, Tokugawa Iemitsu.”

“And you weren’t sure that the two were, ah, quite the same thing?”

“I thought that perhaps it was best that you decide who should know about this discovery.”

“Thank you, Shigehisa-san. What will you do now?”

“Now? I am masterless, a ronin, once more. An old ronin. Perhaps I should join my lord in death.”

“Serve me instead, and live.”

“You? Forgive me, but women have not commanded men since the time of Sengoku, and then only rarely.”

“My father has only one son, and two daughters, in this land. I do not think he can afford to treat us like ornamental plants for his garden. And even if it has not been ‘official,’ in the Time of Troubles, a wife sometimes had to hold a castle against an enemy while her lord was in the field.

“I intend to suggest to my father that I lead settlers from the Second Fleet back to the South Bay. I already know the Indians to be friendly, after all. Why lose the benefit of the work I have done with them already?”

“I will think upon it.”

* * *

Iroha held the gold nugget up. It sparkled in the sunlight. It had a cold beauty, she thought, a beauty without mercy, a beauty that had brought her husband to his death.

Once he had found the nugget, he had accomplished the task set by the shogun: He had found the gold fields. He could have rejoined her, and together they could have journeyed to Monterey.

Instead, he stayed. Why? What allure did the gold possess, that she did not?

If her husband had been less concerned with status and wealth, and more with love and faith, he would still be alive.

Had he ever cared for her? As Iroha? Or only as the daughter of the great and powerful Date Masamune? Would he have invited her to rejoin him if her father did not command the First Fleet?

She knew that as a samurai woman, she should not care. Marriage was an alliance between families, it had nothing to do with love.

But she cared.

And she cared about the colonists, too. Once the shogun was given tangible proof that the gold of California was not a fantasy, he might think twice about allowing the kirishitan to live there. The Tokugawa had taken control of all the gold mines throughout Japan, heedless of the claims of the local daimyos.

The Dutch were allies now, but they were also a potential threat. Japan didn’t have enough ships to transport all the kirishitan by the shogun’s deadline without their aid. And if the Japanese sent a large number of miners to the Bay, the Dutch might well learn of it. If they knew that those miners knew exactly where to go to find gold, the Dutch would be sorely tempted to wrest San Francisco Bay, and perhaps all California, away from the Japanese. And the Japanese in California were still too few to stop them.

A seagull swooped low across the water, and rose with a small fish gleaming in its mouth. The bird, at least, had no fears as to the consequences of finding a treasure.

Iroha tossed the nugget into the still-muddy waters of the Carquinez Strait. It made a soft “plop,” as if a frog had jumped in.

February 1635,

Kodachi Machi/Santa Cruz

“Sanada Jiro and Sanada Saburo, please come forward,” said Date Masamune.

The two samurai, wearing their formal attire, complied, then bowed deeply.

“Your feat in crossing the wilds of California, first to bring word of the plight of Iroha-hime and her party, and then to lead a rescue party to her, reminds me of the deeds of Hi no Omi no Mikoto the days of the Emperor Jimmu. It was that great samurai that led the imperial party to Yamato, earning himself the epithet, Michi no Omi, the Opener of the Way. You have opened the land road to San Francisco Bay.

“Since your service to Lord Matsudaira Tadateru was released by his death, you are offered positions as members of the grand governor’s personal guard, with suitable stipends.”

Saburo and Jiro exchanged quick glances, and bowed again.

“My brother and I thank you deeply,” said Jiro. “May we respectfully request that we be assigned to the protection of Iroha-hime?”

“That is indeed her wish, and I am pleased to make it my command.”

“Next. Captain Haruno. Please rise.”

The captain did so haltingly.

“It would be remiss of me not to assure that you did not suffer an economic loss as a result of your spending your time on missions of exploration and rescue rather than trade. So, besides the payments you have already received from me, I have decided to give you the exclusive right to sell sea otter pelts in Japan. You will pay our house the standard commission. This exclusivity will last for two years, after which we will review how well you have done.”

“I do not know the words to thank you, my lord.”

“Thank me through more fine deeds, Captain. And Captain—I think the time will come when we will need you to captain a warship, not a merchant ship. So learn what you can of such matters from our Dutch allies.”

“Last but not least, Mr. Tokubei.”

“Y-yes, my lord?”

“You go by the nickame ‘Tenjiku,’ do you not? Because you once visited the fabled land of India, where the Buddha was born?”

“Yes, Grand Governor.”

“Well then, I give you the right to use Tenjiku as your kamei.” The kamei was the house name, and only a samurai could have one. “You have a wakizashi already, but you must now have a katana. Now, where will we find one in this wild land of California?”

Masamune snapped his fingers. “Hosoya Yoritaki!”

The commander of the Ieyasu Maru’s samurai came to attention. “Sir!”

“My daughter Iroha-hime has requested that her husband’s katana be given to Daidoji Shigehisa, his lieutenant, and he in turn has asked me to offer his own long sword to you, in gratitude for your own role in the rescue of Iroha-hime and his party. Is that agreeable to you?”

“Of course, my lord,” said Yoritaki.

“And would you be willing to give your katana, in turn, to your comrade at arms Tenjiku Tokubei?”

Yoritaki nodded. “With great pride.” The exchanges had, of course, already been proposed and agreed to in private. The only one to whom it came as a suprise was Date Masamune’s newest samurai, Tenjiku Tokubei.

Spring 1635,

Kawa Machi/Salinas

It had become quite apparent to First-to-Dance that, despite initial impressions, the visitors were not her ancestral dead. They acted as if they were alive; eating, drinking, pissing, shitting, and fornicating. Her people had never been very clear as to exactly what happened in the Land of the Dead and she supposed that it was possible that the dead mimicked the living. But if that were the case, wouldn’t they also speak the language and preserve the dress and customs of the People?

The Japanese had made clear to her from their gestures that they came from across the sea. And she had seen their ships, floating in the water. Her own people weren’t seafarers; they built little rafts of tule, the marsh reeds, and they used them only in quiet waters. But she couldn’t deny the evidence of her own eyes; the Japanese had come over the Great Water. So she supposed that the Land of the Dead was simply farther away.

Even if the visitors were living folk, they were nonetheless very powerful. So powerful that she had sometimes wondered whether she would be better off joining their community than remaining with her own people. She had been quick to notice that there were more men than women among the Japanese. Well, that was something she didn’t have to decide right now. Especially since they were shooing her off. Date Masamune had decided that there was more to be gained by returning First-to-Dance to her people than by keeping her in Chiyo’s company. She was to be given presents and sent on her way.

First-to-Dance resolved that she would find her tribesmen and then, somehow, turn the arrival of the Japanese to her advantage . . .

* * *

The Ohlone people did not live in just one place. Each tribelet, consisting of a couple hundred Indians, had a reasonably permanent winter settlement, and several summer camps. And every once in a while, they would decide that a particular site was unprofitable, or unlucky, and replace it with a new one.

Still, First-to-Dance had a fairly good idea of where her people would have gone after abandoning the coast to the Japanese.

When she strode into the clearing, conversation stopped abruptly. She understood why; to them she was one who had been touched by the spirits, and survived. The supernatural was now wreathed about her like the fog that waxed and waned along the California coast.

“You’re in big trouble,” she announced. “You have made them angry.”

“Who?” asked the chief, his voice quavering. “The Dead?”

First-to-Dance had already considered and rejected the idea of insisting that the Japanese were ancestral ghosts. Close and prolonged observation would reveal otherwise.

“Worse than that,” she said, her voice a stage whisper. “They are the Guardians of the Lands of the Dead. They are alive, but they have great power. They decide whether the dead are treated well or poorly in that land. And our people have failed to make any offerings to them, all these years. So they will punish us, unless . . .”

“Unless what?”

“Unless someone persuades them that we didn’t know any better, and are ready to make amends.”

“I will send our speaker to them.” The speaker was second-in-rank to the chief, and had served as an envoy to other Ohlone tribelets.

“But . . . Ah, well. He is already an old man, with few summers left to him. He has little to lose . . .”

“What do you mean by that?” asked the speaker, somewhat sharply.

“The Guardians are so very angry. They might kill our envoy. . . .”

The speaker’s wife gave the speaker a nudge. “Send her in your place. They have already let her live once.”

The speaker cleared his throat. “Since First-to-Dance has already, um, begun negotiations, perhaps it is best that she should continue . . .”

The chief grunted. “Where’s the shaman? Let’s find out what he thinks. . . .” The shaman’s nephew was sent to look for him, and the chief stalked into his hut. Hence, he didn’t see First-to-Dance run after the boy.

* * *

The chief frowned. He didn’t much like First-to-Dance. She had been married when she reached puberty to his uncle, and he was pretty sure she had cheated on him. She certainly hadn’t shown him the respect that he deserved. He had been a great warrior in his youth . . .

A high-pitched voice intruded on his thoughts. It was the boy he had sent out earlier that day. “The shaman has come.”

The chief emerged from his hut, and greeted the shaman. First-to-Dance stood a little behind him.

The shaman spoke up. “You will all recall that I spoke of a dream which foretold that this would happen.”

“I don’t remember . . .” said the chief, rather doubtfully.

“Oh, I do,” said First-to-Dance brightly. “We are fortunate to have so farseeing a medicine man.”

The chief had the feeling he was being conned. And that somehow, that little minx First-to-Dance had managed to form an alliance with his shaman. But he remembered how frightening the samurai on their horses seemed at the Time of Mourning. Even now, he wasn’t convinced that they were entirely human. Perhaps they were the Guardians of the Land of the Dead. And if not, well, First-to-Dance would regret that she had trifled with him.

“All right, First-to-Dance, tell us exactly what these Guardians want from us. . . .”

She did. And she also told them what they needed to do for her, so that she could properly serve as their speaker to the guardians.

Niji Masu (Watsonville)

Konishi Hyonai had been an important man in his village before he confessed to being a kirishitan. His grandfather had been a ji-samurai, who farmed in times of peace and fought in times of war. In 1591, then-Shogun Hideyoshi issued the Edict on Changing Status, which forced the “country samurai” to choose whether to forfeit samurai privileges and give up their weapons and other special privileges, or to become full-time retainers and live in castle towns. Hyonai’s grandfather was one of the many who decided to surrender the sword and pick up a hoe.

Still, his fellow villagers did not forget his former status, and at village gatherings he was always given the seat of honor. Naturally, he was chosen as the village headman, the shoya, the only villager who could legally present a petition to the daimyo’s district officer, the daikan. When he died, his son took his place, and in his turn, Hyonai did the same.

Since many of the farmers of Niji Masu came from his district, Hyonai found himself chosen as the headman of the new colony. And as headman, he found himself forced to deal with the farmers’ outrage when they were told that they would be planting vegetables, not rice, in the spring.

Hyonai walked slowly toward the quarters of Moniwa Motonori, Date Masamune’s daikan for Niji Masu. As he walked, he turned over in his mind the words that he must speak, polishing them until they were as smooth as the pebbles in the bed of a swift mountain stream.

* * *

“A thousand pardons for this intrusion on your time, daikan.”

“Ah, Hyonai. Your family is well?”

“Quite well. Daikan, the farmers of this village are very grateful that by the grace of our shogun, Lord Iemitsu, and his grand governor, Masamune of the Date, their miserable lives were spared, and they were permitted to practice the Christian religion in this new land.

“Honorable daikan, I am sure you are familiar with the age-old saying, ‘who can ever weary of moonlit nights and well-cooked rice?’ The moon rises and falls just as often as it did in the old country. But what of rice? We took rice across the Great Ocean with us, and we eat it when we are homesick. Every week, we have less of it than we did before. If we are not allowed to plant it here, then one day soon, we will run out. We did not mind planting wheat and barley last autumn, those are winter crops. But it is now spring, and if we cannot see the cherry trees blossom, or hear the skylark sing, then at least let us prepare the paddies and sow the uneaten rice. Until we eat rice that we have grown in this land, we cannot call it New Nippon, we cannot call it home.”

“Hyonai, I thank you for sharing your concerns with me. Our lord’s scholars knew about this land before we boarded a single ship. They told him that this would be a great place for growing vegetables, but that they were doubtful that rice would grow here. You must trust to their judgment.”

“Most worthy daikan, I have another saying to remind you of: ‘You will never behold the rising sun by looking toward the west.’ We will of course grow vegetables as the lord commands. Last month, we sowed maize and beans, and in summer, we will plant the sweet potatoes and the onions. But if we do not plant any rice, how will we know for sure that rice cannot grow here? Here in Niji Masu, it rains more than in Andoryu, but less than in the mountains that loom over Kodachi Machi. Walk around this land, and it is colder in some places, warmer in others. Perhaps we can find a good place for a rice paddy.”

* * *

Moniwa Motonori bowed respectfully to the grand governor’s chief advisor, Katakura Shigetsuna. The latter gestured for him to sit. Motonori gracefully knelt, folding his legs beneath him. He waited in silence for Shigetsuna to speak.

“My lord has instructed me to explain our agricultural policy to you, that you may better reassure the farmers under your jurisdiction that their petition has received a fair hearing.” Shigetsuna paused a moment to collect his thoughts. “As perhaps you know, by act of Heaven”—he declined to specify whether this was the Buddhist, Shinto or Christian Heaven—“a town of the future was brought into our world. This town, Grantville, was part of a great kingdom that stretched from this coast to the one far to our east. The town had books of great learning, called ‘encyclopedias,’ and several of these were delivered as gifts to the shogun. These books provided information on how hot and how rainy this land, which they call California, is. And they provided similar information for Japan. Even though we do not know how they measure ‘temperature’ and ‘precipitation,’ we can compare the numbers for California to those for Japan. It was clear that this ‘Monterey Bay’ that we have colonized is much drier than Japan, save for eastern Ezochi, and also has cooler summers.”

Motonori was no farmer, but he knew the rhythms of rural life, and understood the significance of these teachings. Rice was called “the child of Water.” If the land around Monterey Bay was dry, then it would have to be irrigated in order for a rice crop to be possible. But that wasn’t all. Even in Japan, the rice crop would fail if the summer was too cool. That was why there had been little effort to grow rice in Ezochi, the land of the Ainu.

“So, will rice become something that is just remembered and not eaten?”

“No, no,” said Shigetsuna. “At worst, we can pay for Japanese or Chinese rice with goods from New Nippon. But we know rice was grown in Grantville’s California, in the valleys of the Sacramento and San Joaquin rivers.”

“So why did we come to Monterey Bay?”

“Military considerations. The rice growing areas are well inland, we would have to deal with more Indian tribes. And those lands have gold, and thus will soon attract the Spanish.”

“Ah. I must bow in reverence to your superior knowledge of this land. However . . . I do know a bit about how our peasants think. . . . Could we perhaps authorize them to construct a small rice paddy? One near a river or marsh, so irrigating it is not a lot of work? ‘Experience is the best teacher.’”

The adviser snorted. “‘Experience is a comb which nature gives to men when they are bald,’” he quoted. “But I will pass on your suggestion.”

May 1635,

Kawa Machi/Salinas

“One should never ponder the purpose of an order,” said Hosoya Jinbei, “merely obey.” He was one of the older samurai in the settlement, and had once guarded Date Chiyo-Hime and her wet nurse. He had fought at Sekigahara.

Watari Yoshitsune, a samarai of the younger generation, scowled. “But this order . . . It is one thing to order us to attack an enemy, even if it means certain death. It is another to treat us as if we were commoners.” The samurai in Salinas had been ordered to help with the wheat harvest.

“Requiring us to help with the farming isn’t treating us as commoners. Ji-samurai did it, in the old days.”

“These are not the days of our grandfathers.”

“Happy are the samurai who have long been in service to a lord,” said Toshiro Kanesada. “In time of peace, they can study the classics and practice in the dojo. If you were a ronin, as I was until this voyage, you could have found yourself a bodyguard to a fat merchant, or worse. I have known ronin who worked as carpenters or plasterers, ronin who made lanterns and umbrellas. Even ronin who were merely bandits. A ronin would not be so quick to complain about fishing or farming . . . especially in a foreign land where one may be attacked at any time.”

“But if we help the farmers, when will we have time to practice our martial arts? When I practice iaijutsu, I make a thousand draws in a single session,” Yoshitsune protested.

“Enough talk,” said Jinbei. “It is time to help with the harvest. Yoshitsune-san, as you swing your scythe, pretend that you are cleaving a foe. Or several foes at once, if you like.”

But Hosoya Jinbei was himself more troubled than he let on. He was a senior retainer, and despite what he had said to the others, he had questioned Date Masamune about the orders.

Respecting Jinbei’s many years of faithful service, Masamune had explained his reasoning. In Japan, one in twenty Japanese was samurai. Here, in New Nippon, thanks to Date Masamune’s contingent of retainers, it was about one in five.

The colonists and the retainers had brought food with them, of course, but they had used up several months worth while on board the ships, and more after arrival. They had started fishing, hunting, and gathering of fruits, berries and nuts, soon after coming ashore, but farming was a more drawn-out process. They were still eating more than they were producing . . . And as far as food was concerned, the samurai weren’t producing at all. Date Masamune had finally decided that they had to pitch in more than just shooting the occasional deer.

Jinbei had expressed his appreciation for Date Masamune’s wisdom. But he objected to the shattering of social order. First, Masamune had decided to train a militia, to let peasants parade as if they were warriors. And now he was forcing samurai to work in the fields, as if they were peasants. Under these circumstances, Jinbei warned, how long would it be before the peasants decided that they didn’t need samurai at all?

Masamune had smiled and reminded him that during the sixteenth century, the Age of War, many peasants had become ashigaru, infantrymen, and yet samurai still ruled Japan. And that in the same period, ji-samurai had done exactly what Masamune was asking his retainers to do now. He thanked Jinbei for his advice.

So Jinbei understood his lord’s reasoning. Still, understanding a decision and accepting its consequences were two different things.

Niji Masu/Watsonville

Churoku’s eyes widened in amazement, then narrowed with anger. “Murata! Togu! What do you think you’re doing?”

His fellow farmers Murata and Togu were carrying a stone statue down the hill from their house. “What does it look like we’re doing?” said Murata. “We’re carrying the ta no kami to the paddy, so he can become the yama no kami.” In Shinto belief, the ta no kami was the spirit of the field, and the yama no kami, the spirit of the wild lands, the wooded slope above the village. “Otherwise, the rice will not grow. Now, step off the path, so we can get by.”

“The Forest god? The Field god? There is only one God, the Christian God. How can you call yourselves kirishitan and curry the favor of demons?”

Murata’s face reddened, and it was the red of anger, not exertion. “Demons? The kami aren’t demons. They are angels. Please do not insult me, I am no demon worshiper.”

“Or perhaps the kami are avatars of the Christian God,” said Togu. “Does not the Tenchi, the Tale of the Creation, say that Deusu has forty-two forms?”

“That is nonsense. You must not do this.” Churoku set himself squarely in their path, and crossed his arms to form an “X.” The gesture meant “closed” or “forbidden.”

He glared at the two brothers. “It was one thing to carry out these pagan rituals when we were still in Old Nippon, and were compelled to do so lest we be revealed as kirishitan. It is quite another to do so here, in New Nippon, where we may openly follow the Faith.”

Murata eased down his end of the idol, and Togu followed suit. Both grunted with relief at the easing of their load. “You have your opinion, and we have ours,” said Murata, his voice rising. “Now, let us pass!”

“I’m telling you, Murata, this is a Christian paddy. I’ll not have you desecrate it by erecting the image of a false god! If you want to grow rice the heathen way, then make your own paddy somewhere else!”

“You’re not our padre or our lord, Churoku! I helped dig the ditches to water the seedlings, and this is my paddy as much as yours. This is your last chance.”

Churoku waved his hand back and forth in front of his face. And then stuck out his tongue at them.

They charged him. It was two-against-one, but Churoku was a precocious member of the new militia, and he had his walking stick. He sliced at Murata’s feet, forcing him to leap backward, then jabbed Togu in the belly. “For the Holy Spirit!” Churoku shouted. Togu bent over, holding his tummy, and groaning loudly.

Murata advanced, and Churoku feinted at his face, then rapped him on the knees. “And the Holy Christian Church!” Murata fell, but Togu was now back on his feet and ready for a second round.

By now the commotion had attracted attention. Other villagers had rushed outside. Some just gaped at the fight; others laughed and placed bets. Finally, two of the samurai assigned to Niji Masu appeared on the scene.

The senior samurai commanded them to stop fighting. “Churoku! Murata! Togu! On your knees, this instant, or your heads will roll.” The three commoners quickly complied. “Hands behind your backs.” The junior samurai tied them up. They were chivvied down the path, and confined in a hut.

“The magistrate will deal with you in the morning,” the senior samurai said. “In the meantime, enjoy the view.”

“And the company,” added the other samurai. He laughed.

The next day, the three men were brought before the daikan Moniwa Motonori in his capacity as magistrate of Niji Masu/Watsonville. Motonori heard their stories, and wrinkled his nose. “To cultivate rice, we must work together. But the three of you have disturbed the harmony of this village.

“You are each sentenced to one hundred lashes.”

Once they were led away, he had Hyonai summoned.

* * *

“Hyonai, Hyonai. I am sure you have heard about the quarrel yesterday. I thought that by permitting your farmers to plant rice, it would lead to an increase in harmony, not in discord.”

Hyonai kowtowed. “I apologize, on behalf of all of the farmers, and not just those three fools, for the disturbance.”

“So what do you suggest I do, Hyonai? Forbid the rice cultivation after all? Allow it, but without the old rite? Require that tradition be followed, too? Divide the paddy lands in two, Christian and non-Christian?”

Hyonai pondered the question. “The culture of Japan is a culture of rice,” he said, his words as slow as a river in summer. “We do not merely eat the grains, we make clothing out of the wara, the dried straw of the rice plant. The rice is our mother and our father. We celebrate the first work in the rice field, the sowing, the planting-out, and the harvesting.

“The people know, deep in their hearts, that as kirishitan, they should not continue the old rituals, but they need new ones to take their place. Otherwise they will lapse into bad habits.

“Let those who best know the words of the Lord In Heaven devise new rituals, rituals that are similar, where possible, to those we have done since time out of mind, yet pleasing to Deusu.”

* * *

And so Imamiro Yojiro, who, as a lay catechist, was the First Fleet’s highest-ranking religious leader, found himself at a field altar near the mouth of the Pajaro River, asking that Saint Isidore the Farmer, canonized in 1622, bless the rice paddy of Niji Masu.

There was, of course, no torii, the red-painted gate that marked a Shinto shrine. But Yojiro thought it most convenient that the kanji character “ta,” meaning a rice paddy, was a square divided by a cross in the middle. He had a sign erected with the cross painted in red and the square in black. The spectators could see “ta,” or just the cross, as they pleased.

Girls carried the seedlings from the nearby nursery to the paddy, for transplanting. They were dressed in special costumes: red pants, green shirts, and hats festooned with greenery and flowers. They walked clockwise around the paddy, singing the rice-planting song, as their fathers and brothers played flutes, beat on drums, rang bells, or banged wooden blocks together. They were followed by the samurai, dressed in full armor.

At the end of his prayer, Yojiro thanked “God in Heaven, He Who Blesses the Growing Rice.” The words “growing rice,” in Japanese, were ine-nari. Yojiro was well aware that this would evoke remembrance of Inari, the Great Kami of Fertility.

Kawa Machi/Salinas,

Summer 1635

David Date coughed to get his sister’s attention, and pointed down, toward the outer gate of the little castle of Kawa Machi. “Well, it appears that your Indian friend First-to-Dance has come up in the world.”

Date Chiyo-Hime saw that the figure down below was indeed First-to-Dance. Chiyo summoned Mito and they walked briskly—running would have been undignified—down to the gate to greet her.

As before, First-to-Dance was wearing a double apron, braided tule in front, buckskin in back. The same otter skin robe she had before covered her shoulders, but it was only loosely clasped, allowing glimpses as she walked of the large, ornate necklace she now wore. The sunlight glinted off her new earrings. The two men following her were carrying baskets, and their manner was ever-so-slighty subservient.

* * *

Date Masamune had been surprised to learn that among First-to-Dance’s people, a woman could be a chief. It wasn’t common, because the office usually passed from father to son, but if no son were available, the old chief’s sister or daughter was considered the next best choice. Likewise, a woman could serve as a “speaker,” dealing with neighboring tribes.

Before, First-to-Dance was of interest primarily as a source of information, and, secondarily, as an intriguing companion who might distract Chiyo-Hime from other mischief.

Now, she was a diplomatic envoy of a tribelet of perhaps a hundred people. While her people were certainly no match for the Japanese militarily, Masamune was anxious to avoid unnecessary conflicts. There was no telling when a Spanish ship would spot the Japanese settlements.

First-to-Dance bowed in the manner that Chiyo-Hime had taught her. “Noble Guardian, I offer the greetings of my people to yours. I bring you gifts.” These included tobacco, shell beads, feather headdresses, and strips of rabbit skin. Masamune didn’t know it, but these were all traditional offerings to the spirits. There were also a few small stone mortars, containing red and white pigments.

“And I have gifts for you,” Masamune said. These included a steel knife, a bolt of silk, and a mirror. The mirror had a bronze back, with a chrysanthemum blossom design upon it, and a reflective surface that was a tin-mercury amalgam.

“My people hope that you have enjoyed your visit.” First-to-Dance’s clear implication was, and they are looking forward to your departure. “We wish you a safe return to the Island of the Uttermost West.” In case he had missed the implication.

“Alas, those who are still here cannot return. But we look forward to helping the Ohlone, our younger brothers.” There were, in fact, some among the Ohlone who could pass, appearance-wise, for Japanese.

“Will you help us kill our enemies?” asked First-to-Dance. The Indians of central California were not especially warlike, but they did have disputes over access to hunting and fishing grounds, and there were tit-for-tat killings, too.

“If you are attacked without provocation on your part,” Masamune replied, “we will come to your aid. But if you make unprovoked war on others, we will be very angry. But have no fear, our thunder sticks will frighten away your enemies.”

First-to-Dance was silent for a time. Then she said, “Will you teach us how to make the trees that run on water?”

Masamune waved his hand in front of his nose, as if he was trying to waft away an unpleasant odor. “The time for that will come.” The Japanese ships gave them the advantage of interior lines if any of the coastal settlements were attacked by the Indians. Masamune was in no hurry to make it possible for the local Indians to conduct raids by sea. It was bad enough that the Chumash to the south and the warlike tribes of the Pacific Northwest had canoes. “But we will be happy to share with you the fish of the deep waters. And the fruits of our fields.”

“The Ohlone come to the Great Sea each year to collect mussels, abalone and snails, and fish for surfperch, and rockfish and cabezon.” She used the Indian names for these, of course; she had taught the words to Chiyo-Hime and Masamune’s scholars. “But they have not been able to do so for many moons, as they are afraid of offending the Guardians.”

“They are welcome to come; there are enough for all. Let them come to the beaches and rocks in good spirit. But they should come in twos and threes, lest they frighten away the fish and offend Ebisu, the God—excuse me, the Patron Saint—of Fishermen.” Masamune didn’t want large groups of Indians near the Japanese settlements.

First-to-Dance inclined her head. “And we will show you the hidden woods, where acorns are bounteous. And you may come there to collect them. In twos and threes, so as not to displease the Spirit of the Forest.”

Fall 1635,

Niji Masu/Watsonville

The wheat and the barley, the rye and the millet, all had grown well. The rice, well, that was another matter. The milder summer of Monterey Bay had seemed a blessing, at first; it meant that the rice plants didn’t drink as greedily as they did back home. Which was just as well, as it barely rained during the summer. They irrigated the paddies with water ponded during the wet season, but that wasn’t enough; they had to mix in some of the bay water.

There was much argument as to the reason for the failure. Some blamed the saltiness of the bay water. Others complained that it never became hot enough for the grain to ripen properly. Hyonai, in fact, feared that this was the case. Feared it because, while the peasants could find more fresh water in the mountains, and build aqueducts to carry the water to the field, they couldn’t make the sun any warmer.

There were also arguments of a more theological nature. Some loudly and repeatedly insisted that it was a mistake to deviate in the slightest from the old Shinto rituals. Perhaps, they said, Deusu delegated rice growing to the kami. If Deusu minded the kirishitan following tradition during the decades of hiding, why wouldn’t he have blighted their crop, again and again, until they learned their lesson?

Others decried every one Yojiro’s ritual concessions. They thought that the villagers should have asked for the blessing of the saint and left it at that.

The only point on which everyone agreed was that they were unhappy not to have any New Nippon-grown rice.

Kawa Machi/Salinas

The morning sun had not yet dried out the blood when Date Masamune came over to inspect the body. Hosoya Jinbei still gripped, even in death, the kozuka, the disemboweling blade.

Seppuku—ritual suicide—could be committed for many reasons. Jun-shi was following one’s lord into death; it was forbidden by law but still happened from time to time. Gisei-shi was self-sacrifice, perhaps a defeated lord killing himself as part of a peace settlement. Sokotsu-shi was to win forgiveness for a mistake. Fun-shi was a general expression of indignation with the vagaries of fate. Kan-shi was more specific; it was to reprove one’s lord.

Another samurai, young Watari Yoshitsune, sat quietly beside Hosoya’s corpse. After a moment of quietly studying the grim tableaux, Date Masamune spoke to him.

“You were his kaikatsu?” The kaikatsu was the “second,” who delivered the killing stroke that put the principal out of his misery. It was in theory an honor to be named as kaikatsu, but samurai were not eager for this honor. Not out of squeamishness, but because if they botched the beheading stroke, it was extremely embarrassing.

“Yes. I was privileged to be a student at Muso Shinden-ryu.” That was the school, founded by Hayashizaki Jinsuke Shigenobu, at which iaijitsu, the art of sword-drawing, was taught.

“Thank you for serving him so well,” said Masamune. The praise was honest; Yoshitsune had halted the beheading stroke just short of completion; the strip of skin tethered Jinbei’s head to his body, keeping it from flying off and rolling about in an unseemly manner.

Masamune picked up Jinbei’s jisei, his death poem, which lay beside his last cup of sake.

Old warriors dream

of battles of youth.

Grasses sway

over comrades’ graves.

The winds still.

Jinbei had also left behind a letter, which revealed Jinbei’s purpose in committing suicide. It was not kan-shi, because Jinbei acknowledged the logic of Masamune’s orders. It was fun-shi; Jinbei’s resolution of his unhappiness over what he saw as the unavoidable degradation of the samurai by common labor. The last straw was the failure of the rice harvests at both Niji Masu and Salinas; to him, it meant that the sacrifice they had made was purposeless.

Masamune folded the two papers into a fold of his hakama. “Kindly summon all of the samurai at this settlement. I wish to address them about Jinbei’s death.”

* * *

Date Masamune didn’t seem to be shouting, but his voice could be heard across the assembly ground. “Jinbei was like a forest giant, whose great canopy long sheltered the Date clan. But what happens to a forest giant when the typhoon blows? Its virtue becomes a vice, as its many leaves and branches catch and multiply the force of the wind. The tree tries to stand fast against the onslaught. It stands unbending, because the girth of its trunk gives it no other choice. When the sky clears, either the tree still stands, or it lies on the ground, dead.

“New Nippon is a new land, and in it we must emulate the saplings, not the ancients. We must bend with the wind when the alternative is ruin.”

* * *

Chiyo told First-to-Dance about the ritual suicide of Hosoya Jinbei, whom she had known since she was a little child.

“But why would he kill himself?” asked First-to-Dance.

“The way of the samurai is found in death,” Chiyo told her.

First-to-Dance would have questioned her further, but they were interrupted by a summons from Chiyo’s father.

As they walked to his receiving room, First-to-Dance thought about what Chiyo had said. The way of the samurai is found in death. First-to-Dance had told her people that the Japanese were the Guardians of the Land of the Dead to serve her own purposes, not because she had believed it herself. But perhaps the spirits had spoken through her, and revealed a truth. Perhaps the samurai, the bearers of the two swords, were indeed the Guardians.

* * *

A week later, Masamune addressed his samurai once again. “I have thought about the duties of retainers to their lord, and of the lord to his retainers. To prosper in this new land we must change some of our ways, but perhaps I tried to change too many ways too quickly.

“So, for the time being, my samurai are not required to help with the farming and fishing. However . . .” He let them wait for the completion of his thought.

“However, only those samurai who volunteer to help in that way will be permitted to join in the expeditions I will be sending out. Perhaps to enjoy the glory of finding a place where rice will flourish.

“Dismissed.”

* * *

The guardsman standing on the watchtower at the Kawa Machi castlelet saw smoke rising from Point Piños. It faded, then a second column rose into the sky. This was clearly a signal, from a lookout on the point, and not a forest fire.

The Kawa Machi soldier grabbed the conch shell that hung nearby, and blew. An officer clambered up the ladder to see for himself. He looked, and said, “Beat the Great Gong.”

By the third beat, samurai were already pouring out of the barracks, bows or arquebuses in hand, and swords in their scabbards.

By the time they had reached the battlements, Kawa Machi had sent up a smoke signal of its own. Soon, there were black clouds of warning above Andoryu/Monterey, and Niji Masu/Watsonville, and Kodachi Machi/Santa Cruz, too. Signal guns boomed repeatedly.

The alarm subsided when the ships came at last into view. While some were of barbarian design, others were clearly junks, and all were flying a flag with a red sun disk, the hinomaru, on a field of white.

The Second Fleet had arrived.

* * *

First-to-Dance had persuaded some of her kinfolk to come to Kawa Machi for a Japanese celebration. It began with the Lord’s Prayer, led by Imamiro Yojiro and David Date, and joined in by all of the kirishitan of Kawa Machi, both the old California hands who had arrived a year earlier, and those who had just arrived on the Second Fleet.

Flanking the Christian altar, there were two daises, the kamiza for the Shinto deities, and the goza for the emperor of Japan. Date Masamune, in his capacity as a court noble of the Upper First Rank, made obeisance to the kami on the emperor’s behalf, arranging an offering of sake, rice porridge and steamed rice on a reed mat. The rice, of course, had come from the stores of the Second Fleet. Some of the newcomers looked unhappy about the coupling of this pagan ritual with the Christian rite, but they didn’t object openly.

The fact that the spectators nearest the front were all pagan samurai, several hundred of them, and of course wearing their swords, probably had something to do with this reticence.

“Please translate what I say for your friends,” Chiyo told First-to-Dance. “This ceremony is Niinamesai,” she told them. “Back home, we would celebrate this on the Day of the Rabbit of the Eleventh Month, the Dutch December. But here we have decided to hold it in the month that we arrived in Monterey Bay and met your people.

“The name means, ‘new-taste-ritual.’ Today we offer a taste of the harvest to Heaven, to thank it for providing the rain and sun so that our crops will grow, and protecting the crops from vermin of all kinds.”

In California, only the Indians of the southeast grew crops. First-to-Dance told her tribesmen that the Japanese had made a powerful magic which caused plants to multiply.

“We are sad that our favorite plants, our rice, would not grow here. But our kinfolk on the ships that have just arrived have brought rice to share with us, and in turn we are giving them, and you, fresh vegetables and fruit.”

There was sweet potato and white potato, brought to Japan by the Portuguese in the sixteenth century, and initially deprecated as bareisho—“horse fodder.” They were grown in the uplands. There were artichokes, cucumbers, and melons, sown in the summer. There were deer, brought down by samurai archers, and rabbits, caught in farmers’ snares. There were wild birds, too. And fish of course.

The kirishitan of the Second Fleet tore greedily into this repast, such a refreshing change from their shipboard diet. And the Indians were amazed by all the strange new foods—but this didn’t stop them from eating them.

And so the Ohlone Indians of California enjoyed their first Japanese thanksgiving.

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