The Night Heron’s Scream
November 1635 to Fall 1636
A lightning gleam:
into darkness travels
a night heron’s scream.
—Matsuo Basho5
Castle of Date Masamune, grand governor of New Nippon,
Kodachi Machi (Santa Cruz, California),
November 1635
“Then Mitsumori stabbed me,” gasped Date Masamune.
Date Chiyo-hime’s nohkan shrilled in alarm.
“And cut off my head,” Masamune added.
His son Munesane, recently baptized as David Date, beat out a rapid tattoo on the taiko, and his daughter Chiyo lowered her flute.
“My body is now but dust. My soul has suffered two hundred forty years in Warrior Hell. Pray for me.” Masumune dropped to the floor.
Masamune rose slowly and removed his mask. “I hope that wasn’t too painful to watch.”
“It was splendid,” said Date Iroha-hime, his eldest daughter, the Audience.
Her family had just finished performing one of the great Noh dramas, The Warrior Sanemori. The ghost of Sanemori, who died at Shinowara, had appeared to a traveling priest, played by Masamune’s advisor, Katakura Shigetsuna, and was urged to make confession in order to progress. He did so, and then disappeared.
“I am sure it is the best Noh performance ever seen in California,” said Masamune drily.
Amateur theatricals were not the norm in samurai households until the middle of the eighteenth century, but the Japanese in California had been forced to improvise their own entertainments.
“So, Daughter, should I dye my hair, too?”
Sanemori had been seventy-two years old, and he had concealed his age so that the enemy champions would not decline a challenge to single combat. Date Masamune was sixty-eight, as the Japanese counted age.
“Only if you must seek death in battle to expiate some great shame, like Sanemori’s,” Iroha-hime answered, with some asperity. “But that can never be.”
Something in her father’s expression caught her attention. “Honorable Father, it is time you told us what has been troubling you since the coming and going of the Second Fleet.”
Date Masamune and Shigetsuna exchanged lightning glances; the advisor shrugged minutely.
“Yes, please tell them, Father,” said David Date.
Chiyo’s head snapped around. “You knew something and didn’t tell me?”
Date Masamune’s eyelids flickered slightly. “Oh, very well. Munesane was never good at keeping a secret from you . . . Once you knew that there was a secret to pry out of him.”
He sighed. “The Second Fleet brought me a letter . . . from the bakufu.” The government.
“Oh dear, what did it say?”
“Nothing good. The words are fixed into my memory, as if they were branded on the skin of a criminal. ‘Concern has been expressed that the cost of maintaining the colony of New Nippon has been high and that you have sent back little in the way of goods to justify this expenditure. Some have suggested that this California is not a suitable place for settlement and that the support of the colony should cease. Of course, the ban on the practice of the evil religion in the homeland would still apply.’”
Iroha’s nostrils flared. “So they would leave the kirishitan in exile, to survive or starve, whatever the case may be. What would happen to the kirishitan still in Japan?”
“I assume that they would either be shipped off to Macao, or executed outright, if they refused to recant. But please, there’s more: ‘Others suggest that it was unjust to impose so formidable a task as governing a new colony on so accomplished a personage, when he is at an age that merits the comforts of retirement.’”
Masamune snorted. “They want to put me out to pasture, neh? But I digress. ‘It is difficult to form a well-considered opinion from so great a distance. Hence, you are hereby advised that in one year’s time, commissioners will be sent to study the colony and its management. By order of the Council of Elders.’”
Chiyo frowned. “Then we have until next September or October, whenever the Third Fleet arrives, to either be producing enough of a surplus so that future immigrants will not need to carry more food than what is required for the voyage itself, or to be have some valuable commodity we can ship home to pay for our keep.”
“An excellent summation,” Shigetsuna acknowledged.
“So . . . Father . . . do I need to reveal my secret?” asked Iroha. Her secret, known to this circle and few others, was that her deceased husband’s expedition had succeeded in finding gold on the American River, although most of his party had paid for this achievement with their lives.
Date Masamune wrapped his Noh mask in silk and placed it in a storage box. “Only as a last resort. Gold is too valuable; the commissioners might decide that the governorship should be transferred to a Tokugawa crony.” Masamune forebore to point out that her husband, the shogun’s uncle, could have been considered such.
“What about the iron ore the Ieyasu Maru found on Texada?” asked his son.
“We don’t know if we can rely on it,” said Shigetsuna. “No iron ore has been shipped here. We don’t even know if the colony was established successfully. And even if it was . . . will the shogun let us mine it?”
“What about the local redwood timber?” asked David.
“Not valuable enough, at least for shipping across an ocean. But I suppose it helps a little. Better than dried fish, at least.”
Date Masamune snorted. “You sound like the stepmother in the story of the ‘Old Woman’s Skin.’ This rice is too soft. This rice is too hard.”
“I tell you exactly what I think, my lord.”
“I know, and I value your polite candor. For now, I think our best hope is the cinnabar.” Cinnabar, an ore of mercury, was used in the red lacquer of samurai armor, and in the red paint of major shrines. A little was mined in Japan, but it was mostly imported from China.
“Could we enter the sho-za?” asked David Date. In 1609, Odagiri Sukeshiro of Sakai had been given a monopoly on the cinnabar trade, the sho-za, most likely as a reward for espionage activity on behalf of Tokugawa Ieyasu, the present shogun’s grandfather.
The monopoly is only on the cinnabar itself, not the ink,” Masamune reminded him. “So at worst, we make the ink here. Or we sell the cinnabar to the Dutch, and send Dutch goods back home. We might even get a better price that way.” Recently, Date Masamune and his advisors had learned from the Dutch that the cinnabar could be roasted to liberate quicksilver, and that this could be used in the isolation of gold dust.
“Perhaps we should sell licenses to the Dutch to pan for gold, and sell them the cinnabar, too.”
“One day, I think we shall,” said Masamune. “And of course they know about the California Gold Rush. Thus far, their interest in the California gold country has only been mild, because it’s so hard to get to, and they figure it would take months if not years to actually find the gold. They have, I think, better prospects closer to home.
“Remember that words, once let loose, cannot be retrieved even by a team of four galloping horses. Once we tell them that we actually found the gold, and where to look, they will certainly come. And if we aren’t strong enough by then, they will just take the land from us.”
New Almaden, California
The arrow struck Brother Franciscus in the back as he fled. His companions paused, grabbed him under his arms, and half-carried, half-dragged him to safety. As they hid behind some rocks, they could hear the samurai lieutenant shouting orders, and the neighs of the horses as the samurai set out in pursuit of the Indians that had attacked the mining party.
The Ohlone woman First-to-Dance had told the Japanese about the Indians’ cinnabar mine in New Almaden, near the south end of San Francisco Bay. So Date Masamune had sent both soldiers and laborers there, to take control of it.
Before the coming of the Japanese, Indians traveled hundreds of miles to visit the mine and collect cinnabar for making face paint. To gain access, they had to first give presents to one of the nearby tribal groups, the Awaswas, Mutsun, or Tamyen. Now all three of those groups were shut out. And they weren’t happy about it.
* * *
Two samurai walked into the guard barracks beside the cinnabar mine; they had just come off watch. “There’s no getting around it,” said the junior soldier, Hasunuma Masayuki. “We need more leather armor. For the workmen, that is.” The Japanese had once used leather plates as part of their armor, but when firearms came into common use, they were mostly replaced with iron ones.
“The militia want it too,” his senior, Saito Nagato, reminded him. “And they have priority over miners.” The Dutch had told the Japanese about the Spanish soldados de cuera, the leather jacketed dragoons who defended New Spain’s Indian frontier. While the militia couldn’t hope to be given horses to ride—that was still a samurai prerogative—the cuera was a reasonable demand.
Leather was cheap in cattle-rich New Spain. But there were no cows in California, because they weren’t native, and the Japanese only brought a few breeding pairs. Their wagyu were used as beasts of burden, not as sources of milk or meat.
Hasunuma shrugged. “Well, then we are going to lose miners.”
“There’s nothing that can be done,” Saito told him. “It’s going to be almost a year before the Third Fleet arrives. That’s the soonest we can ask for more from home. And haven’t you read the new standing orders?”
“‘Economize!’”
Saito smiled. “That sums it up. Pass me the oil, please.” Saito carefully applied a few drops to a cloth, then commenced cleaning the blade of his katana.
“Here you go,” said Hasunuma. “Seriously, the Indian attacks are getting more frequent. It’s going to hurt cinnabar production.” The Indians were adept at crawling into bow range, and ambushing the workers. They had also stolen some of the samurai guards’ precious horses.
“I know.” Saito wiped the blade with a cloth, and held it up, letting the light glance off it. Satisfied, he sheathed it. “I will put in the request. Just don’t get your hopes up.”
Kodachi Machi (Santa Cruz)
Clickety-clack. Kobayashi Benzo froze.
The lieutenant coughed. “I believe you dropped these.” He held in his hand the three dice that had just slipped out of the sleeve of Benzo’s kataginu.
“Gambling again, Benzo?”
“Certainly not, Lieutenant.”
Then why were these dice in your possession?
“Those aren’t for gambling! They are for divination.”
“Oh, how does that work?”
“I roll the three dice. Odds count as three, evens as two. So the totals are six, seven, eight or nine, which of course are old yin, young yang, young yin, or old yang. I do it six times, and that gives me the hexagram of the I Ching.”
“Fascinating. I am quite a fortune-teller myself, in a small way. I hereby predict that you are going to go on a long journey, to a place you don’t want to go, but you will go without complaining, because otherwise something worse will happen. . . .”
Eta Village,
Estero Bluffs, Morro Bay,
Early Spring 1636
Benzo hopped off the boat. “Aren’t you coming?” he said to the fishermen who had given him passage down to Morro Bay.
“No thank you. We will camp here on the beach.” Clearly, they were intent on minimizing their exposure to the wretches who lived here.
Benzo trudged up the trail. After rounding a sharp turn, he came face-to-face with an old man. The latter quickly prostrated himself. He was clearly an eta, an outcast, as his hair wasn’t gathered into a queue.
“Tell the headman I have a message from the daikan Inawashiro Yoshimichi-sama. He is to come here to meet me, I do not wish to be defiled with the dust of your hovels.”
The old eta’s head quivered slightly. Clearly, he didn’t want to risk raising himself up to nod his head more clearly.
“I am turning my back now, so I don’t need to see you. Go!”
The old man hobbled off, and a moment later, Benzo turned back, and settled into a sitting position.
After a time, he heard rustling sounds, and stood. Benzo was not about to allow his head to be lower than of an eta, even for a moment.
A man appeared, and bowed respectfully to Benzo. “Most honorable samurai, I am Danzaemon, the headman of the kawata.” The word meant “leather worker.” The eta didn’t use the word “eta,” which meant “much filth,” to refer to themselves.
The eta were those who dealt, like their ancestors, with dead bodies, human or animal. They might be executioners, undertakers, or leather workers. In the native Shinto religion, they were considered to be defiled by this exposure. The introduction of Buddhism didn’t improve their position; the killing and eating of animals was forbidden. Before the coming of Christianity, almost all of the eta were followers of Pure Land Buddhism, as it was the only Buddhist sect that would admit them. However, in Nagasaki, the Christian missionaries had once sought to convert the eta, and there were thus still some Christian etas when Iemitsu had announced that the kirishitan could practice their religion in the new California colony.
There was more rustling, and a second, younger man appeared.
“Ah, and this is Kenji, my assistant. You must be cold after your voyage, are you sure we can’t bring you a cup of sake?” It was a barbed offer; Benzo would have to purify himself after such contact.
Benzo shook his head curtly. “I am here to inform you that production of leather manchira must be doubled.” The manchira was an armored vest. “And we also need more haidate.” Those were the thigh guards for samurai cavalrymen.
“Doubled?” cried Danzaemon. “Do you think you can get cotton from a stone?”
Benzo considered cutting Danzaemon down for his insolence. It would add a pleasant fillip to a sour day, but it would make for much trouble in the long run. Slaying an ordinary eta was one thing, but a headman’s death would necessitate paperwork. Worse, a new headman would have to be appointed, which would mean that a senior samurai, a hatomoto, would have to come to the eta-mura. He would not be happy with Benzo for making this necessary.
“What’s the problem?” Benzo gritted out.
“The problem, oh master of warfare, is that you can’t make leather without skins to tan. If we kill the wagyu we have left, our breeding pairs, we won’t have any next year.”
“What about deer? There surely are deer in the woods.”
“Indeed there are, and we have deer skins drying even as we speak. Unfortunately, the deer have proven to be quite reluctant to donate their skins to the glory of New Nippon. It takes much time to hunt them down.
“Worse, these woods are rife with great bears, who are equally interested in the deer, and not inclined to share.”
“So kill the bears!”
“It takes many arrows. A bear pierced by just one or two is an Annoyed Bear, not a Dead Bear, and an Annoyed Bear is worse than a shortage of deer.”
The assistant headman coughed. “An Annoyed Governor might be worse, in the long run, than an Annoyed Bear.”
“Ah, very true,” said Danzaemon. “So, to avoid annoyance on both counts, give us guns and powder, and we will get rid of the bears. And then the deer, and deerskins, will multiply.”
Kodachi Machi (Santa Cruz)
Shigetsuna looked up from the scroll he was reading. “Guns?”
“Guns.” Inawashiro Yoshimichi, the daikun responsible for relations with the eta, grimaced. “I’d prefer to just send a party of samurai to clean out these bears, and then move on. Nothing good can come of giving guns to eta. And the samurai on garrison duty here would normally enjoy a bit of action.”
He spat. “But the samurai would have to spend weeks in the vicinity of the eta-mura. The pollution would weigh heavily upon them.”
Shigetsuna shrugged. “‘Fifty steps, one hundred steps.’ I suppose giving the eta a few guns would be the least evil choice. Of course, they will be too defiled by the usage for a samurai to ever hold them again. Have the triggers painted white, as a warning.” White was the color of death and the supernatural.
Morro Bay,
Late Spring 1636
“Have you ever see a gun so old?” The eta huntsman held up the arquebus.
“Perhaps it belonged to Oda Nobunaga’s father.” Oda Nobunaga was the first of the Great Unifiers of Japan; his father died in 1551. The Portuguse had introduced firearms to Japan in 1542.
“It’s a very pretty club.”
“Enough joking around. Let’s see if it can still shoot.”
It did. Surprisingly well, in fact.
* * *
Gorosaku pointed at the trunk of a nearby cypress tree. There was bear hair on it, white-tipped. A grizzly had given itself a back scratch here.
Hikobei nodded, then crouched. A moment later, he found a bear print at the base of the tree. It was still fresh, perhaps hours old. He looked up at Gorosaku. “Let’s get the others.”
* * *
The local Chumash Indians ate acorns, roots, berries, elk, deer and fish. So did the grizzlies. If Indian women went out to gather acorns, they would set pickets, just as rabbits might have one of their number scanning the sky for hawks. If the men went fishing, they would avoid the spots that the bears favored.
It was rare for the Chumash to hunt grizzlies. They were brave, not suicidal.
But occasionally, the grizzlies hunted them.
* * *
“I am a deer,” White Cloud reminded himself. He wore a deer head mask, and was crouched down. He used his left hand to drag himself forward, his right carried his bow and a few arrows.
The herd noticed him, and recoiled. From a safer distance, they stopped to watch him.
White Cloud had also stopped, and watched them. “I am a deer, I am one of you.”
After a time, he resumed his movement toward the herd.
They reacted again, but this time they didn’t flee quite as far, they weren’t so sure he was a threat. “I look like a deer, sound like a deer, smell like a deer.”
At last, they let him move among them, their thoughts focused on finding the tenderest shoots.
* * *
Another hunter was present, watching the herd, picking out the weakest member. White Cloud. “He looks like a deer, sounds like a deer, smells like a deer. I think he would taste like a deer,” the grizzly perhaps thought to himself. Or perhaps the grizzly, who was well past his prime, thought that White Cloud would be easier to catch.
* * *
The wind shifted, and the herd caught the scent of grizzly. It stampeded, leaving White Cloud in its dust. A moment later and he smelled the grizzly, too, and joined them in flight.
But a grizzly can run twenty-five miles an hour for two miles without faltering.
* * *
“What the hell is that?” said Gorosaku, hearing the sound of breaking branches.
The first deer ran past them before the Japanese could react. They put an arrow into the second, however.
They gawked at White Cloud as he ran toward them. An Indian wearing a deer’s head was quite outside their experience.
Then they heard the roar of the pursuing grizzly.
Three bowmen fired, all at once, as if the arrows were released from the giant bow of some celestial warrior. The grizzly snarled, but kept coming.
Gorosaku fired his arquebus. The range was less than optimal, but the ball struck the bear in the shoulder, and checked the bear momentarily. The bowmen fired again. Gorosaku fell back to reload; the rate of fire on a muzzle loader was nothing to brag about.
Hikobei waited. The grizzly stopped for a moment, pawing in irritation at the shafts of the arrows still stuck in it, trying to dislodge them.
A third round of arrows flew through the air. One was an Indian arrow; White Cloud had turned to help his unexpected allies. Both the Japanese and Indian arrows just annoyed the beast, but its reaction bought time for the gunmen.
Hikobei still waited. The grizzly came forward, but more slowly. Twenty yards. Fifteen. Ten.
And then Hikobei fired, his shot striking the grizzly in the forehead, a bit below between the eyes. It dropped.
Gorosaku put another ball into it, for good luck.
* * *
White Cloud walked slowly toward Hikobei, hands raised. The Japanese hunters allowed this, but they kept their hands near their knife hilts, just in case.
White Cloud stood within hand’s reach of Hikobei; the Indian was a head taller. “Greetings, ‘Little Giant.’ Thank you for saving me from the bear.”
This was mostly lost on Hikobei at the time, he didn’t know the language of what scholars would call the Obispeno Chumash. But he could guess that White Cloud was happy not to be in a grizzly’s tummy, and Hikobei bowed.
White Cloud presented him with a little deer bone whistle.
Hikobei studied it, then gave it a tentative blow. White Cloud smiled again.
In the meantime, several of the Japanese had rigged up a branch so that they could carry the bear carcass back to the eta-mura.
“Let’s get this food back to the village,” said Gorasaku. “Those deer are thoroughly spooked, there’s no point in hunting them right now.”
Hikobei nodded, and motioned for White Cloud to follow them. Hesitantly, he did so.
* * *
The Japanese eta village stood on Estero Bluffs. Indians had once lived there; the Japanese had found their grinding holes. The Japanese had known that there was still an Indian village on the far side of Morro Bay, but had carefully avoided it. And as far as they knew, the Indians had avoided them, too.
One of First-to-Dance’s tribesmen, Talks-While-Walking, had been assigned to the eta to serve as their translator in dealings with other Indians. All of the Japanese settlements now had such translators, personally selected by First-to-Dance. The gifts given to these translators, while modest by Japanese standards, were of great value to the Indians. This, of course, created obligations on their part to First-to-Dance, their patroness.
This was Talks-While-Walking’s first opportunity to translate since they left the Monterey Bay area, and he addressed White Cloud with great formality.
Unfortunately, White Cloud had no idea what Talks-While-Walking was saying. And vice versa. The Ohlone language was of the Penutian language family, while Northern Chumash was Hokan. However, White Cloud could tell, from the other Indian’s body language, that he was receiving a polite greeting. That was good enough. It was hard for him to give Talks-While-Walking his full attention, anyway, when the exotic Japanese were around.
White Cloud was given a tour of the village, the Japanese goods were even stranger than the Japanese themselves. Finally, he worked up the courage to ask, by gesture, whether he could touch Hikobei’s arquebus. Hikobei held it out, two handed, for White Cloud to inspect. White Cloud reached out a finger, and held it just above the barrel, as if it were a cooking pot and he wanted to make sure it wasn’t too hot to touch. At last, he touched it, and ran his finger lightly down to the muzzle. “Boom!” he said.
That didn’t require translation.
Neither did White Cloud’s smile.
* * *
On the beach near the Japanese village, White Cloud pointed first to himself, and then across Morro Bay.
“He says that he is from the other side,” Talks-While-Walking explained.
White Cloud pointed at Hikobei and Gorasaku, then, with three fingers, toward the Sun.
“In three days, come visit him at his village.”
* * *
There was, of course, much discussion of the matter. Should Hikobei and Gorasaku go? Should they be accompanied by others, besides of course Talks-While-Walking? Should they go by land or by sea? And most important, should they bring firearms?
The firearms, of course, might create awe, causing the locals to treat the Japanese with great respect, even subservience. Or they might excite the Indians’ greed, enough so the Indians would be willing to steal, even kill, to acquire them.
Danzaemon finally decided that Hikobei and Gorasaku, and their translator, would go by boat, without the arquebuses. However, they would take with them the bear’s claws and teeth, to serve as both presents and as reminders of the fighting prowess of the Japanese.
* * *
Hikobei and Gorasaku beached their rowboat on what a modern Californian would call Morro Strand State Beach. As they pulled the boat up to high ground, a peregrine falcon screeched at them, then sped toward its nest on nearby Morro Rock.
White Cloud stood on the beach to greet them. He and Talks-While-Walking exchanged signs. While the Indians of California didn’t have a universal or comprehensive sign language, like the one that would develop on the Great Plains, some simple, concrete concepts could be communicated to other tribes. Indeed, even the few Spanish visitors to California, like Cabrillo in 1542, had been signed to.
Hikobei was surprised to find another wooden planked boat on the beach. The Indians of Monterey Bay only paddled about, close to shore, in little tule rafts. This Chumash boat was made of pine, without any internal ribs, and painted red. The planks seemed to be tied together with plant fibers, and the seams were caulked with a strange black material. Later, he learned that the boat belonged to a visitor, one of the Island Chumash of the south, and the local Chumash themselves only had tule boats.
White Cloud ceremoniously led them back to his village, which was located a short distance inland, near a small creek. As they approached the village, a dog darted out, and started barking at them. This caught the attention of White Cloud’s tribesmen, several of whom came out, weapons in hand. After a sharp exchange with White Cloud, they lowered them, and smiled at the Japanese visitors.
They were introduced to the chief. He had done much traveling in his youth, indeed, he had been to Monterey Bay, and even as far as the cinnabar mine, and he still remembered a little of Talks-While-Walking’s tongue.
This didn’t come as a complete surprise to Hikobei, since he had known that in Talks-While-Walking’s tribe, there were those who could speak the language of a neighboring tribe.
What did come as a surprise was that one of the Chumash knew a few Japanese words. At first, Hikobei thought that one of the kirishitan fishermen might have been shipwrecked here. But no, the Indians of Monterey Bay had learned a little Japanese, and as they traded with their neighbors, the new words had passed along with the goods. So the Salinans learned Japanese from the Costanoans, and the Chumash from the Salinans. Given that California Indian languages were so diverse, Hikobei couldn’t help but wonder whether Japanese might soon become the trade language for the central California coast.
The chief welcomed them. Indeed, he told them that they could stay as long as they wish. “Only, please kill more bears.”
Maruya (Carmel, California),
Summer 1636
The eta were supposed to deliver their leather goods to a storehouse constructed near Maruya. They would lock them up, and then hoist a flag to let the kirishitan in Maruya know that they had made a delivery. The eta would be allowed time to withdraw to a camp down-shore, and the Maruyans would come pick up the leather, and leave supplies for the eta. The eta would return for these, then sail home.
This time, matters were different. What the Maruyans found in the storehouse wasn’t leather, but a note. The note demanded that the eta be given the same rights as other Japanese: to dress as they did, to live in the towns, to serve in the militia, to attend prayer services, and so forth. It was signed by the “Shin-Heimin”—the “new commoners.”
Kodachi Machi (Santa Cruz)
“We have a problem,” Shigetsuna announced. “The eta have staged a chosan ikki.” It was a time-honored tactic for farmers at odds with their daimyo. They would harvest their crops, pack their things, and cross the border into the next han. Their lord, of course, could not lead soldiers into another daimyo’s domain without permission, not only from that daimyo, but from the central government. From this temporary safe haven, the farmers would send petitions to the latter, asking for it to intercede. If the dispute could not be settled quickly, the new daimyo might let them stay permanently, or the central government might get fed up with the old daimyo and dispossess him on grounds of mismanagement.
“But what lord could they take refuge with?” demanded Date Masamune. “There are no other daimyo, no other han here.”
Shigetsuna bowed. “But there are many Indian tribes. They have taken refuge, it seems, with the Chumash. According to the encyclopedia, the Chumash live on the coast from San Luis Obispo to Malibu, and on the Channel Islands, and inland as far as the western edge of San Joaquin Valley. Just the coastal section alone is, as I best I can figure it, two hundred miles long.”
“So . . . They can hide from us easily.”
“Unless you are willing to force the Chumash to give them up.”
“Is that what you advise?”
“We must resolve this crisis, peacefully or otherwise, before the commissioners arrive. Failing to keep the eta under control could be considered ‘mismanagement.’ And anyway we need the leather.”
* * *
“I don’t understand,” said First-to-Dance. “What’s wrong with skinning animals? All women of the People must do it.”
“I understand, but your people don’t follow the way of the kamis and the buddhas,” said Chiyo.
“That’s fine for you and your father. But your brother, David, and most of your people, they are following the Way of the Christ. Does the Christ say that it’s bad to skin animals?”
Chiyo thought about this. “Not so far as I know. Let’s go ask my brother.”
They found him studying an ikebana, a flower arrangement, and put the question to him.
“No-o-o . . .” he admitted. “But the kirishitan, they learned the new religion from the Jesuits and the Franciscans, and in the countries they came from, butchers and tanners were considered to be dishonorable occupations. So the padres wouldn’t have challenged the status of the eta.”
“But why did the Christians think it dishonorable?”
David Date shrugged. “Because of the contact with blood?”
“So, just like Shinto!” said Chiyo.
David reached out, repositioning one of the flowers in the vase. “Fish cannot climb trees.”
“It’s too bad, then, that these eta are Japanese, not Indian, since then you wouldn’t care if they skinned animals or not,” said First-to-Dance.
The two women were about to leave, when suddenly Chiyo stopped short. First-to-Dance almost collided into her. “Wait a moment,” said Chiyo. “Why must the eta remain Japanese?”
“You can be adopted into a new tribe,” said First-to-Dance. “Then you no longer belong to your old tribe.”
The young samurai thought about this. “I think I heard that a few years ago, a hundred kirishitan lepers were exiled to Luzon so that samurai swords would not be defiled with their blood. I am not sure whether, once in exile, they could still be considered Japanese.
“And I have heard that the Chinese Emperor has ruled that those Chinese that choose to live in foreign lands are no longer Chinese. That’s why he ignored the massacre of the Chinese in Luzon some years back.”
“You see!”
“Well, I make no promises, but I’ll see what Father thinks.”
* * *
“I must confess that David’s proposal bothers me,” said Shigetsuna. “The young of frogs should be frogs, and the children of eta should be eta.”
Date Masamune clapped him on the back. “Poor Shigetsuna. You live in interesting times. As my son said to me, when there’s need, fish must learn to climb trees.”
Eta Village,
Morro Bay
The eta gathered together around Danzaemon.
“Well, what did the message say?” asked Hinkebei.
“The message enclosed a draft proclamation. The Grand Governor Date Masamune will make it public only if he is assured that we will accept it.
“The grand governor says that he does not have the authority to alter the terms under which those Japanese who are eta must live. However, if we are adopted into an Indian tribe, we are no longer Japanese, and hence we cannot be regarded as eta.”
The crowd murmured. Danzaemon motioned for them to quiet down.
“The grand governor will give us permission to be so adopted only if we agree to meeting certain continuing obligations concerning the supply of leather to New Nippon, and that under no circumstances will we take up arms against New Nippon, even if our new tribe is at war with them.”
Danzaemon raised his arms. “My friends, I believe we can consider this a victory!”
They cheered.
“Hikobei, you must find out whether the Chumash are willing to adopt all of us on such terms.”
* * *
Date Masamune passed the reply to Shigetsuna. “See? Problem solved. Issue the proclamation that the residents of ‘Kawata Mura’ have renounced Japanese citizenship and are now to be treated as Chumash Indians.”
“I doubt that our people remember to treat them as Indians and not as eta. As the saying goes, ‘Sparrows, though they live to be a hundred, do not forget their dance.’”
“Write to this Danzaemon, remind him that his folk should dress as do the Chumash when they come among us. That will help. If that is not enough, well, the whip improves a faulty memory.”
* * *
Yamaguchi Takuma deftly pushed down the five earth beads on the third rod, away from the reckoning bar, and moved a heavenly bead down toward it. The soroban that Shigetsuna-sama had lent to him had twenty-seven rods, each with two earth beads and two heavenly beads. Not, of course, that Takuma had much occasion to express a number with that many digits—the councilor had never asked him to count the number of grains of sand on the beach!—but the extra rods made it convenient to work with several different numbers at the same time. To multiply, for example.
The soroban made arithmetic so easy, he found it hard to believe that in his grandfather’s day, merchants still used calculating rods. Of course, not every merchant was as adept as Takuma; he could even divide one number into another.
This magnificent soroban, of course, was not intended for a crass commercial use. Rather, it was for managing the accounts of a great estate. Takuma was proud to be considered worthy to help Shigetsuna-tono with those of New Nippon itself. Unfortunately, there weren’t enough hours in the day to do all of the calculations himself, together with all the other tasks he had been assigned.
“Gombei!”
That was his assistant, who hurried in. He had been engaged in what he thought was brilliant conversation with the daughter of the family who lived next door.
“Sir!”
“I need these calculations done by sunset. Remember, they are for the grand governor, so all the multiplications and divisions must be done twice, and make sure you get the same result each time.”
“Yes sir. Uh, what if a pair of calculations disagree?”
“Then redo them until you get the same number three times in a row!”
* * *
Mathematics was not Gombei’s strong point. Especially when he could hear Shima singing a risque folk song as she went about her chores.
“Oh! my darling boy!” she sang. “Though first we slept a hiro apart, by rolling we came together . . .”
Gombei’s only chaperone was Takuma’s son, Hiraku. He was playing with toys in a corner.
Shima was still singing: “Yes, we slowly came together . . .”
Gombei stuck his head out the door. “Hey, Shima, the acoustics are better in here. Why don’t you come in and keep me company?”
“Perhaps another time, Gombei dear,” said Shima. “Hurry up, and you can take a walk with me.” She paused. “If, that is, you can finish before the hour of the Ape.” That was late afternoon.
Gombei was hurrying, all right. But the saying was, “he who chases two hares will not even catch one.” Trying to do the arithmetic faster just led to more mistakes, and thus more rechecks.
Finally, Shima strode in. “How much longer are you going to be, Gombei?” No “dear” this time.
“I’ll be out as soon as these fucking beads give me the same answer three times in a row for 256 times 3473.”
“Don’t look at me,” said Shima, “I’ve never touched a soroban in my life.”
“It’s 889,008,” said Hiraku, the forgotten boy in the corner.
“Really?” said Gombei. “I got that the first time. But then I got 888,548.”
“Oh. Then you did the last part on the wrong rod,” Hiraku explained. The last part, by the Japanese method, being the multiplication of the leftmost digit of the 256 and the rightmost of the 3473.
“Hiraku, how did you know the correct number?” asked Shima. “You weren’t even looking at the soroban, let alone moving the beads.”
“I just picture the beads in my head.”
* * *
Shima mentioned Hiraku’s mathematical ability to her mother, who told Hiraku’s mother, who told his father. Takuma had not, it turned out, taught Hiraku how to use the soroban. He had apparently learned by watching and listening to the lessons that Takuma had given to the apprentice.
Takuma was shocked and pleased to discover that Hiraku was not only adept at addition, subtraction and even multiplication, but that he had figured out for himself that the soroban could be used to calculate in hexadecimal as well as in decimal. It had this ability because the soroban was copied from the Chinese Suan Pan, and in China there were sixteen liang-ounces to the jin-pound, and sixteen dou of grain to the yu.
The following week, Katakura Shigetsuna invited Takuma to the castle. It was a mark of approval, especially since the invitation included Takuma’s family.
“Your calculations have been of great assistance in the construction of the castle in a timely and accurate manner, Takuma. I am promoting you, effective immediately.”
Takuma thanked him profusely.
“Keep up the good work. Now, who’s the little fellow hiding behind you? And has he any skills yet?”
“My son. He is very skilled in mathematics.”
“Oh?”
Takuma had Hiraku do some mental calculations for the councillor’s entertainment.
“I have a copy of Jinko-ki I can lend you,” Shigetsuna declared. “Why don’t you help Hiraku study it? A talent like his should be nurtured, for the good of the realm.” Jinko meant “small-large,” and ki was a treatise, so the manuscript was a study of numbers, from smallest to largest. It was written by Yoshida Shichibei Koyu in 1627, and it taught, among other things, how to extract square and cube roots using the soroban.
* * *
Date Masamune and his son stood on a tower, watching the moon rise over the Sierras.
“It’s easy enough to say politics is politics,” Masamune grumbled, “but it’s still painful to contemplate being relieved of my grand governorship. I defy any of my peers to have done better, under such circumstances. A virtually unknown domain, populated by savages who don’t speak our language. Fractious colonists, from every part of Japan, thrown together and forced to form a community. Religious differences between the colonists and the samurai who protect them.”
“Surely your governorship is safe now,” said David Date. “The kirishitan troublemakers are mining cinnabar, God help them. First-to-Dance negotiated a truce with one of the tribes attacking our miners, and we trounced another, so cinnabar production is up. The eta, excuse me, the “Chumash” kawata, are working again, so we have leather.”
“True. But our hold on the mine remains tenuous. By the time the commissioners arrive, the truce could break down, and then matters could be . . . uncomfortable. Nor am I sure that the commissioners will place their seal of approval on the eta solution. It was . . . unorthodox.”
Maruya
Yoshimichi had a strong sense of duty. That sense extended, however reluctantly, to keeping up with paperwork. He was now down to the letter he had put off for last, as it came from Danzaemon. Having to deal with the eta—ex-eta, he reminded himself—was, he was sure, punishment for the sins committed in his last incarnation.
The letter, of course, was written on recycled paper. Back home, there were people who made a living collecting paper trash and selling it to used paper warehouses. From there, it went to the paper mill to be reduced to pulp and reborn, a little grayer and coarser, as a blank sheet of paper. Here in California, recycling was even more important, but of course it was practiced on a smaller and more informal scale.
Before he broke the seal, Yoshimichi noted that it wasn’t made of wax, but rather of a strange black material. It was the first time he had ever seen petroleum tar.
The letter was addressed to “the Honorable ex-Daikan for the ex-Eta.” Yoshimichi snorted.
“As you see, we are now above quota for leather hides,” Danzaemon had written. “Most are deer skin, but there are a few bear skins. There are plenty more bears where those come from; please send more powder and shot. Some more guns would be nice, too; the damn things take too long to reload.
“It would be very nice if the Dutch could be persuaded to bring us cattle; I think cattle would do well here. At least our cattle would, and I imagine the Dutch beasts aren’t that much different.
“I enclose a present for you, it’s a drill used to make holes in shells. The Chumash hang the shells on strings and use them as money, or trade them to the inland tribes. I think you will find the present most interesting.”
The letter was signed by the “Master” of the “Brotherhood of the Hide.” Later, Yoshimichi would learn that this was done in mimicry of the most important of the Chumash craft guilds, the “Brotherhood of the Canoe.”
The daikan grumbled. “Powder? Shot? Guns? Not a chance. I am not going to set a cat to guard dried bonito. Not twice, at least.” He called for his assistant.
“We will have an archery and gunnery competition for the samurai.” As he spoke, he unwrapped the present from Danzaemon. “The six best will have the honor of conducting a bear hunt for—” He stopped speaking, staring at the drill bit.
“Sir?”
“A hunt for the benefit of our Chumash friends. Which I will attend personally. Free my calendar.”
Morro Bay
Yoshimichi crossed his arms. “All right, Danzaemon, you got my attention.”
“Would you like some shells, Inawashiro-sama?”
“Don’t trifle with me. I am not that idiot Benzo. The drill bit was made of jade. Is there jade in Chumash territory?”
“Not as far as I know. The fellow I got the drill from, he said that he got in trade from the Tsetacol. That’s the next little tribe north of here, along the coast, around the place marked as Cambria on our map. My village sometimes trades with them, sometimes fights with them. I can find you someone who has been there before.
“Now, I hope that in view of the value of this information I have provided, that you will reconsider our request for more gunpowder . . .”
North Along the Coast
Inawashiro Yoshimichi and his six samurai worked their way north by sea, in the large fishing boat that had brought them to Morro Bay. They were accompanied by one of the Chumash, who had shown much curiosity about their vessel. His name, if they could trust their translator, was Keeps-Canoe-Off-Rocks. It sounded like a good omen, if nothing else.
The Indians of Tsetacol greeted them. More precisely, they greeted the Japanese warmly, and Keeps-Canoe-Off-Rocks and their Ohlone translator with considerably more reserve.
As Yoshimichi walked through the village, it was apparent that he was among a different group of Indians. For one thing, their huts were rectangular, while those of the Chumash were round. For another, when one of the samurai spotted a condor and aimed his bow at it, the Tsetacol tribesmen became extremely agitated, enough so that Yoshimichi ordered the bowman to stand down. Yet, in the Chumash village at Morro Bay, Yoshimichi had seen a condor sacrificed by a shaman. A twentieth-century anthropologist would have labeled the Tsetacol as Salinan.
Keeps-Canoe-Off-Rocks spoke some Salinan, which would have been more useful if Yoshimichi’s translator knew more Chumash. However, Yoshimichi felt fairly confident that the Tsetacol didn’t have any more jade, and that they got it by trading with villages farther north.
* * *
Beyond the Tsetacol were the Chaal, who lived between Cambria and San Simeon. When the Japanese boat approached the shore, the Chaal shot at them. The samurai were eager to shoot back, but Yoshimichi ordered them to hold their fire. A second and then a third volley of arrows came their way, and one struck a crewman.
“Return fire,” Yoshimichi ordered. The samurai were happy to oblige him.
They heard an Indian cry out, and Yoshimichi ordered “Desist!” His immediate purpose wasn’t to massacre the Indians, just to make sure they didn’t think the Japanese were patsies.
They tried to make contact again the next day. This time, they landed unopposed. However, when they cautiously ventured inland, they found that the Chaal had hastily abandoned their fishing camp. Clearly, if the Chaal had jade, Yoshimichi wasn’t going to find it this time around.
He decided that pursuing the Chaal with so small a force was a really bad idea, and the Japanese returned to their boat.
A turn of the weather brought fog to the coast, and they had to give a wide berth to Ragged Point, which lay a few miles north of San Simeon.
Not far north of Ragged Point, the terrain changed. The Santa Lucia Range marched beside the sea. There was mile after mile of sea cliffs, against which the waves beat furiously.
They would have to wait for better weather to make landings here, even if they were lucky enough to find a sandy cove.
Yoshimichi reluctantly gave the order to sail to Maruya. Perhaps First-to-Dance, who had been off on a mission to the Ixchenta when he had gotten Danzaemon’s message, could provide some guidance. Jade didn’t have the mystique in Japan that it had in China, but it was still valuable.
* * *
“I think this is made of the same material as your drill bit.” First-to-Dance handed over a green stone.
Yoshimichi pulled out a knife, and tried to scratch it. The knife had no effect; a good thing, since jade is harder than steel.
“Well, is it jade, Yoshimichi-san?” she demanded.
“Come outside with me.” He studied it in the harsh light of the afternoon sun, tilting it this way and that. “It is like the ocean, it has translucency, depth. I would swear that it is jade. Where did you find it?”
“One of the Ixchenta had it. They call this a warming stone; it is placed in the campfire, to heat it up, and then it’s carried along when you must go somewhere that’s cold.”
“Is it found on Ixchenta land?”
“I don’t think so. At least, this one came in trade from the Esselen. The Ixchenta say that the Esselen live on the cliffs of the coast to the south.”
“Great. I can go up and down this coast, year after year, until I am old and my teeth fall out. Unless you can show me on a map where the Esselen live.”
First-to-Dance wasn’t sure of the exact location—her tribe didn’t trade with the Esselen directly—but she thought it was the Big Sur country, somewhere between the mouth of the Carmel and the up-time town of Lucia. That narrowed the search area down a bit.
Yoshimichi swore. “All that time with the Tsetacol and the Chaal wasted.”
“I am sorry to add to your troubles, but you need to know about the Esselen. They are very shy, they are hard to find, and their language is difficult to learn.”
Yoshimichi swore again.
* * *
With some trepidation, Yoshimichi reported to Shigetsuna. The latter, fortunately for Yoshimichi, was willing to be philosophical about it: “If there’s a jade drill bit among the Chumash, and a jade warming stone among the Ixchenta, there’s certainly more jade in the Big Sur country, waiting for us to find it.”
When he in turn, reported to Date Masamune, they agreed that the best strategy was to show the finds to the commissioners and to be cautiously optimistic about the chances of finding the source.
“Emphasize that finding the jade without Indian assistance would be like trying to find a needle at the bottom of a lake,” said Masamune. “And that we have already invested two years in gaining the trust of the local Indians, and if we are persistent they will eventually lead us to the jade. Do not volunteer that our local Indians are of the wrong tribe.”
Fall 1636,
Kodachi Machi, Santa Cruz
“My lord, a messenger has come from the pilot-major of the Third Fleet, informing us that the lord commissioners will disembark as soon as appropriate preparations are in place to receive them.”
Date Masamune raised his head. “Yes, yes, we will—what was that phrase the Dutch told us?”
“Roll out the red carpet,” said Shigetsuna. Coincidentally, red was an auspicious color in Japan, associated with protection against the demons of disease.
“Did the message inform us of the names of the lord commissioners?”
“Yes. The good news is, one’s a Sakai.” In other words, a relation of Sakai Tadakatsu, the senior councillor who had persuaded Iemitsu to issue the New Nippon Edict. “Sakai Tadayoshi, to be specific. I don’t know him personally, however.
“Then there’s a Hotta.” Shigetsuna made a face. Hotta Masamori was a leader of the anti-Christian faction. It was a foregone conclusion that any Lord Hotta was here to do mischief.
“Last but definitely not least, there’s Matsudaira Nobotsuna.” The first Tokugawa shogun had formerly been known as Matsudaira Motoyasu. The shogun’s heir received the surname Tokugawa; all of his other sons took Matsudaira. Unlike the other two men, Nobotsuna was himself a senior councillor. Masamune recalled hearing the Dutch speak warmly about him. But even if he weren’t hostile to Christians, he could be expected to be wary of the possibility that New Nippon could be a springboard for a challenge to the supremacy of the Tokugawa clan. In other words, while Masamune needed to impress Lord Sakai with the potential of California, he couldn’t afford to be too persuasive. At least not in Matsudaira’s hearing.
The Tokugawa were great believers in hammering down nails that stuck out too much.
* * *
Shigetsuna took the distinguished visitors to the shores of the Monterey Bay. Shigetsuna pointed out a particular stretch of water; there, several dozen sea otters floated on their backs, holding paws so they didn’t drift apart.
Japan had started exporting sea otter fur to China back in 1483. The sea otters didn’t live in Japanese waters; the Matsumae clan bought the skins from the Ainu of Ezochi (Hokkaido), to the north of Japan. Most of the skins came from still farther north, from the Ainu of the Kuril Islands.
“So many,” said Lord Sakai.
Shigetsuna shook his head. “I have seen a ‘raft’ of two hundred of the beasts.”
“I am surprised that you haven’t killed them off already.”
“We limit our hunting in this area, for the sake of good relations with the natives. We have wooden boats, and can go further afield, they can’t.”
“What do they use?”
“It’s like the tub boats of Sado Island, but made from tule reeds. It can only be paddled with the current.”
“Why haven’t you shipped these furs back home?”
Shigetsuna looked at him with amazement. “We have! A shipment went home with the Second Fleet.”
“Hmm. My clerk reviewed the manifests from all the ships of the Second Fleet. He said nothing about furs.”
“It would no doubt be interesting to compare our copies with those your clerk saw.”
Lord Sakai nodded. They both knew that the customs inspectors in Nagasaki could be persuaded to ignore errors or omissions in manifests, for a suitable inducement. “Have your man Takuma speak to mine.”
The show-and-tell continued. “Now, here we have a treat for you,” said Shigetsuna. He pointed out a small fishing boat, with one man on board. “Watch!”
Perhaps a minute later, the fisherman picked up a long bamboo pole and thrust it into water. A young woman, wearing just a loincloth, climbed up this impromptu ladder and pulled herself into the boat.
“Watching her is indeed a treat,” said Lord Sakai with a smirk, shading his eyes so he could see her better.
“I had a different treat in mind. Can you make out what she is carrying?”
“Why—abalone!” Abalone was a luxury food in Tokugawa Japan. Only a few privileged daimyo could buy fresh abalone.
“Do you have anyone who knows how to make hoshi-awabe?” Lord Sakai asked eagerly.
That was dried abalone, which was exported to China.
“We do.” He and Lord Matsudaira exchanged looks. Lord Hotta contrived to look bored.
The party rode next to see the “Fathers of Trees,” as Shigetsuna called them: the great redwoods.
“They are most impressive,” said Lord Matsudaira.
“Lord Date comes here, when his work permits, to meditate. He values the shade of a big tree.”
Lord Matsudaira raised an eyebrow. Taking shelter in the shade of a big tree was proverbial, it meant to attach one’s self to a great house. The implication was that Date Masamune was so attached, and the implication was that he served the Tokugawa.
“Furs, and shellfish, and wood are all very well, but where’s the famous gold of California?” said Lord Hotta, lip curled.
Shigetsuna sighed. “In another few years, when our numbers and resources are greater, we will be ready to make another attempt on the gold fields.”
“No need,” said Lord Matsudaira, “other arrangements have been made.”
“Arrangements?”
“Yes. It seems that our Dutch friends have suffered setbacks lately. The barbarians of France, England and Spain have leagued against them, and destroyed much of their fleet.” This had happened in August 1633, but it took quite a few months for the news to reach East Asia. “Early this year, they petitioned the shogun for permission to found a settlement of their own in California. And to look for gold. Since your son-in-law was unsuccessful, the shogun thought that they should be given the opportunity.”
“And where is this settlement of theirs going to be?”
“It is in the place that the up-timers call San Francisco. Their colony ship accompanied the Third Fleet across the Pacific, much as Lord Tadateru’s did your own. My consolations to his widow, by the way.”
It was, of course, almost exactly the situation that Date Masamune had been trying to avoid: the Dutch deciding who could sail into San Francisco Bay. His only consolation was that since Iroha and her samurai had opened the overland route from Monterey to the South Bay, he could leapfrog the Dutch and send colonists to occupy the Sacramento-San Joaquin River delta. Not just to control access to the gold fields, but also because his advisors thought that it might be possible to grow rice there.
“Of course, the grand governor will be responsible for making sure that they account to the shogun for his share of any gold they collect.”
* * *
Lord Hotta and Councillor Shigetsuna stood in a high place, watching the moon set. When it at last vanished from sight, Lord Hotta spoke. “I will be very blunt, Councillor Shigetsuna. If it were up to me, the kirishitan would not have been allowed to found a colony at all. They believe that the obligation to obey this Jesu of theirs is higher than the one they owe to the grand governor, and through him to the shogun. They believe, I warn you, that since the grand governor is not a Christian, that they can pick a new ruler who is . . . like the king of Spain.”
Shigetsuna spread his hands. “The grand governor has addressed this problem already, Lord Hotta. His son Munesane has been baptized, as ‘David Date,’ and thus is a Christian ruler, as much as the king of Spain.”
“Your lord is clever. Perhaps too clever for his own good. Some of the kirishitan will see this as a subterfuge, at least so long as Date Masamune remains in California. They will deem the son to be merely a figurehead, and the father to be the true ruler. Does Date Masamune intend to convert?”
“No, he does not. But the reality is that he is old, and once he dies, David Date’s position as a true Christian ruler will be indisputable.”
“The other problem that I see, Councillor Shigetsuna, is that the province of New Nippon is very large. Larger, indeed than the homeland itself. To give so great a province into the rule of one person, old or young, seems . . . imprudent.”
“It is great in area, and perhaps in potential, but for now, its population and productivity are small, and so they will remain for many years to come.”
“Perhaps. I am willing to defer to my colleagues and support the continuation of the kirishitan emigration, and of Date Masamune’s governorship—on two conditions.”
Shigetsuna stared at Lord Hotta. “And what might those be?”
“First, I understand that you have plans to mine iron on this Texada Island. I want that island to be settled, and the iron controlled, by Buddhists of my choosing. That way, if worst comes to worst, the king of Spain does not gain an iron mine.”
“Your Buddhists, but still under the governorship of Date Masamune? I suppose my lord might accept that. Although I cannot make a commitment without discussing the issue with him. And provision would have to be made for any kirishitan already on Texada. What is your second condition?”
“Half the jade you find is consigned for sale to the trading house I select.”
* * *
Date Masamune eyed her speculatively. “First-to-Dance, you have been your tribe’s emissary to New Nippon for some months now. It is perhaps time to take your role as emissary to the next level.”
She cocked her head. “What does that mean, exactly?”
“The shogun, the ruler of Japan, wants to meet an Indian. Two Indians, a male and a female, actually. Think about whether you would like to be the female.”
* * *
Chiyo bowed to the lord commissioners, seated on the dais beside her father, and recited a tanka composed by Princess Nukata a thousand years earlier. When she finished, she bowed again, and they clapped politely.
“Next,” said Shigetsuna, “we have a Young Arithmetical Sage to amaze us.”
Hiraku stood up. And froze.
Shigetsuna rescued him. “If I may ask each of our esteemed guests to name a three digit number . . .” They did so. “Young Hiraku, what is their sum?”
He answered.
The demonstration proceeded from there to multiplication, division, and extraction of roots.
Finally, Shigetsuna called for a table to be brought out, and on it an assistant laid out a counting board, essentially a rectangular grid. Beside it, the assistant placed a bag of sangi, the red-positive and black-negative counting rods.
Shigetsuna posed this problem to Hiraku: “Suppose five large containers and one small container together hold three koku of rice, while one of the large and five of the small containers together hold only two koku. Show me what is the capacity of the large and small containers.”
It was one of the classic problems from the ninth chapter of the Chiu-Chang Suan Chu, written during the Han dynasty. Hiraku could not read Chinese, of course, but Shigetsuna had personally taught Hiraku the method.
Hiraku arranged the sangi on the board: one and five, five and one, and two and three. He then multiplied and subtracted several times. When he was done, he had zero and one hundred twenty, twenty-four and zero, seven and sixty-five.
“The small container holds seven twenty-fourths of a koku, and the large one, thirteen twenty-fourths.”
Shigetsuna cleared his throat. “The answer is . . . Correct! Thank you, Hiraku.”
“And now Date Iroha-hime will play for us on the koto.”
* * *
Lord Commissioner Sakai coughed. “That merchant’s boy—Hirako, is it?”
Date Masamune reluctantly corrected him. “Hiraku.”
“He is quite bright. A crane in a flock of fowls, neh?”
“I am not so sure,” said Masamune. “His father has a head for numbers, too.”
A servant shuffled by. “Some wine, my lords?” The Japanese of California didn’t have sake, because of the problems they had experienced cultivating rice, but they did have wine made from the wild grape of California.
After his cup was refilled, the lord commissioner pressed his point. “Large fish should not live in a small pond. The boy should be in Japan, where he can sit at the feet of the greatest of scholars.”
“Perhaps. But how is that possible? He is the son of a merchant, and he is a kirishitan.”
“Easily solved. I will adopt him into my own family! He will then be a samurai, and of of course he will become a Buddhist and thus can reenter Japan.”
Date Masamune, a father himself, was silent for a moment. “You do him a great honor. But please, do not speak of this publicly yet, I must make proper investigation of the boy’s genealogy, and whether he was born under auspicious stars. My astrologer will need your birth sign, too, to make sure you’re compatible.”
Lord Sakai guffawed. “You sound like an old go-between, warning the family elders that they need to find out more about the bride they’ve been offered. But do what you think necessary.”
* * *
A messenger brought Lord Sakai’s offer to Hiraku’s parents, and Takuma and Mizuchi stared at each other.
“What do we do now?” Mizuchi asked, wringing her hands. “He’s only nine years old. If we hadn’t left Nagasaki, it would be another year or two before he would start an apprenticeship.”
“We must admit that is a far better opportunity then any possible apprenticeship. And if he did start an apprenticeship, you know that he wouldn’t be allowed to visit home for five years.”
“Yes, but we could come to see him. And when his apprenticeship was done, he could return home and help you.” She held her hand to her mouth. “You realize . . . you realize that we would never see him again! We are exiles, remember.”
Takuma pondered this. “I want . . . we want . . . what’s best for Hiraku, but to never see him again, yes that would be hard to bear. But couldn’t he come to see us?”
Mizuchi picked at her kimono. “I suppose. But the journey across the Great Sea is dangerous. And would he be allowed to return here for good? To see him for a few months, a decade from now—I think it would break my heart.”
“And then there’s the religious issue,” Takuma reminded her.
“Yes, in Lord Sakai’s house, he could not be a Christian. And if he does not remain in the Faith, he is damned.”
“So . . . we refuse?” she asked hopefully. “With extreme apologies, of course?”
Takuma fidgeted. “I wish I was sure the decision is ours alone. If we displease Lord Sakai, what will happen to us? Not just our family, but to all of us?” Takuma was now a respected if junior member of Shigetsuna’s staff; he had heard the rumors that the lord commissioners had power to cut off the colonists’ umbilical cord back to the motherland. What would the grand governor do if Lord Sakai was angry? Hiraku might be taken from them, even without their consent. The three of them might be sent off to the cinnabar mine, or forced to leave and live, if they could, with the wilderness Indians. And their friends could be made to suffer on account of their refusal.
They talked about it for hours. If only they had not lost Takuma’s father. They needed his counsel now. They opened the butsudan, and burned incense before it. Even as they prayed for his guidance, they despaired. More than forty-nine days had passed, and so he was no longer merely a spirit of the dead, a shrei, he was a niisenzo, a new ancestor. But it would be thirty-three years before he was a full ancestral spirit, a sorei.
They could, in theory, pray to the sorei of earlier generations. But they were Buddhists; only Takama’s father had been a kirishitan, and thus likely to be sympathetic to their plight.
They prayed, also, for the intercession of Maruya-sama, the Virgin Mary. She had refused to marry the king of Roson, according to the stories they had heard; perhaps she would reveal to the Yamaguchis how they could safely refuse the commissioner’s offer to adopt Hiraku.
The next morning, Mizuchi told her husband, “Maruya-sama came to me in a vision, she said to speak to Iroha-hime, the grand governor’s daughter.”
* * *
Iroha heard them out, then gave them her opinion. “I will not say whether this adoption is a good thing or a bad one, only how it might be prevented without dangerous repercussions.
“By itself, the fact that your son has been raised as a Christian is not likely to be considered a strong enough objection.”
“To take him out of the Church will doom him to hell!”
Iroha-hime sighed. “That’s not how the lord commissioner will see it. You know the proverb; ‘there are many paths up the Mountain, but the view of the Moon from the top is the same.’ Lord Sakai thus would not think it consequential to ask Hiraku to change from one Buddhist sect to another. And considering that Christianity is now labeled ‘the evil religion,’ he may think he is doing your son a favor to lead him back to Buddhism, whichever temple he chooses.
“But I think it helpful that you are not a mere Christian follower, you are a baptizer. A member of the ecclesiastical hierarchy, neh? And so we can remind the lord commissioner that many of the Shinto priestly posts are hereditary.”
“What of it? I am not a priest! And the Christian priesthood is not hereditary. Why, the priests don’t even marry!”
“Those are details we need not trouble the lord commissioner with. And besides, from what I have heard, it is not unusual among the European nobility for the second son of each generation to enter the priesthood. That makes it hereditary in a practical sense, I think.
“Anyway, he cannot interfere with the normal inheritance of priestly positions without the approval of the commissioner of Temples and Shrines. Who is, alas, an ocean away.”
Takuma and Mizuki relaxed, ever so slightly.
“And I think there is a second string we can fit to this bow. There is the matter of filial piety. He is your only child, who else is there to care for you in your old age?
“Let me speak with your son; I must coach him as to exactly what to say.”
* * *
Hiraku bowed deeply. “Most Honorable Lord Commissioner,” he piped. “I have spent hours in prayer and meditation, seeking to understand whether it is the will of Heaven that I accompany you back to Japan.” He declined to mention whether he had the Christian or Buddhist Heaven in mind.
“I must consider, not only what is best for me, but what is best for my family and my community.”
The lord commissioner nodded in approval.
“Greatly though I would value the opportunity to accompany you across the Great Ocean, I must remember the teachings of Confucius: ‘If your parents are living, don’t go on a long trip.’
“Also, eager though I am to sit at the feet of the great mathematicians of the realm, I must consider it my duty to put my poor skills at work where they are most needed, in this New Nippon, an island in a sea of, of . . .”
Iroha mouthed the word he was looking for.
“. . . barbarism. Not only as a mathematician, but also as a keeper of the sacred water, like my father before me.” Shinto also had water purification rituals, and this, Iroha-hime knew, would logically call to the lord commissioner’s mind the practices of Shintoism, including priestly inheritance.
Hiraku took a breath. “Moreover, I have not accomplished any great feats of mathematics yet; I am still unworthy to be adopted by so great a lord. Instead, I ask that I be permitted the honor of incorporating a single kanji of your name into my own.” This was common enough, actually. Japanese changed their names on certain occasions; for example, when a samurai child became an adult, usually at age fifteen, he would take an adult name, which included a character from the name of his father or godfather.
Hiraku bowed again.
“Well, that was well spoken,” the lord commissioner said. “If that is truly what you want . . .”
* * *
First-to-Dance reached for another mallard feather. She hummed as she carefully inserted the feather between the stitches of the basket she was finishing. It had to stick out enough so that the colors could be seen, but not so much that it would tear out easily.
She had no need to make baskets, of course; her Japanese connections had assured her access to premium trade goods, and by Ohlone standards she was extremely prosperous. She had even been courted by the eldest son of a chief of the Uypi, who lived on Soquel Creek, near Kodachi Machi/Santa Cruz. But unfortunately for him, her aspirations had changed.
So. Japan. Should she go? The sea journey would be long and frightening, of that she was certain. But Lord Commissioner Sakai, the friendly one, had promised that if she came, he would look after her as if she were his own daughter.
Chiyo had told her that she had been described to the lord commissioner as being an “Indian princess,” and to say nothing to contradict that. The higher her assumed status, the better she would be treated.
Was it worth it? It would bring her to the very center of power, Edo Castle itself. The contacts she would make! The advantages it would give her people! The profits it could bring her! It made her head spin, just thinking about it.
But wait a minute. She knew from discussions with Chiyo and her other Japanese female friends that Japanese women were expected to be seen but not heard. In public, at least. That would make it rather difficult for her to make any deals.
Unless . . . Unless she picked the male Indian. One who was impressive to look at, easy to push around, and spoke no Japanese whatsoever. Or at least willing to pretend that he didn’t. So she would be his “translator.” She smiled. He would babble something, and she would say whatever needed to be said.
She would miss Toshiro Kanesada, of course. But it wasn’t as though there weren’t plenty of samurai in Japan!
Chiyo had warned her to expect to be exhibited to the shogun’s other guests as an exotic discovery. She didn’t mind that, either, within reason. As long as the shogun didn’t decide to make her a permanent part of his menagerie. Chiyo’s father would, of course, obliquely and delicately remind the shogun’s councillors of the diplomatic importance of permitting her to return, but the shogun’s whim was still law. So there was an irreducible risk.
Still, life was full of risks.
First-to-Dance looked at her basket. It was made in the traditional way, from woven shoots and roots, dyed in vegetable colors, but it showed a grizzly snarling at a dragon, the latter copied from one of Chiyo’s sake cups. The grizzly was brave and powerful, but she had no doubt that the dragon would prevail if the grizzly insisted on fighting.
“I will go to Japan,” she announced. “If I may choose my companion, that is.”
* * *
The lord commissioners were seated on a dais, with their herald on a mat nearby.
Date Masamune was on a second, smaller dais, facing them, with his son and Shigetsuna flanking him. His daughters, Iroha and Chiyo, were nearby, hidden beyond a screen. Other high-ranking samurai of the New Nippon colony sat in ranks behind Date Masamune, and servants stood just outside the audience room, ready to enter if summoned.
“At least I am not on the white sand,” Masamune whispered to Shigetsuna. This was a reference to the place where prisoners and witnesses knelt before a magistrate.
The commissioners’ herald rose. “Date Masamune, Echizen no Kami, Mutsu no Kami.” Those were Masamune’s formal titles, normally used only when he was presented at court.
“Grand Governor of New Nippon.”
“On behalf of the mighty shogun of Japan, Iemitsu-sama of the Tokugawa, the lord commissioners Matsudaira-sama, Sakai-sama and Hotta-sama, as faithful servants of the shogun, have reviewed your governance of New Nippon.
“Hark now to their words.” The herald bowed to the grand governor, and knelt gracefully in the formal seiza position, his buttocks resting on his heels.
Lord Matsudaira’s gaze swept the room. “According to the records provided to us, some six thousand Nihonjin, of whom five thousand were kirishitan, left Japan with the First or Second Fleet. Of these, perhaps nine in ten survived the journey. Of those, about eight in ten are still alive.
“Before leaving Nippon, we consulted with the Red Hairs as to what losses might reasonably be expected in establishing an overseas colony. Based on what we were told, you have done well in minimizing loss of life.”
Lord Matsudaira took a sip of tea from the cup placed beside him. “Questioning has revealed that there have been some religious disturbances, resulting in the internal exile of certain intransigent Christians. We expect you to remind the kirishitan that their religion was banned in the homeland because of such intransigence and that intolerance will not, ah, be tolerated. The treatment accorded to the kirishitan awaiting transport, and the continued support of this colony, depend on obedience to the Edict of Exile!
“We are pleased to note that besides extensive fishing, you have been able to plant and harvest several crops since the formation of the colony, thus reducing the amount of supplies that the colonists of the Third Fleet have had to bring with them.
“However, the failure to raise rice remains a concern.”
Masamune coughed.
“You have a comment, Governor?”
Masamune nodded. “Last year we explored the delta of the Sacramanto and San Joaquin Rivers. The ground appears suitable for rice cultivation, and according to the Indians there, the Karkin, the summers are warmer than here. My intent is to send some of the kirishitan of the Third Fleet there as soon as they fully recover from the rigors of the sea passage.”
“I will pray to Inari for your success,” said Lord Sakai.
“But will Inari care what happens to a pack of kirishitan?” Lord Hotta muttered. “In my—”
“I commend you,” said Lord Matsudaira. “This delta is far away, is it not?”
“It is some days’ journey by land. Once we have more horses—which of course we can breed, so we don’t have to keep bringing them across the sea much longer—the journey will be easier.”
Lord Matsudaira spread his hands. “I confess that until I sailed down the coast, I had no real conception of just how large this America is. Now I do.
“Masamune-san, while we may disagree with some of your decisions, we do not doubt your loyalty to the shogun, or that the colony of New Nippon has prospered under your leadership.
“But we do question whether so large a realm, with so few Nihonjin amidst many savages, can truly be governed by a single man. You are confirmed as grand governor of the province of New Nippon, but we must insist that the province itself be divided into two or more domains. We decree that the Monterey Bay area shall be one han, and we appoint your son, Date Munesane, as its daimyo. Since he is now a Christian we think this is logical.
“We leave it to your discretion to appoint a second daimyo, for the han of San Francisco Bay. This, I assume, will include the Indian’s cinnabar mine, your fishing village on the South Bay, the new Dutch settlement at San Francisco, the new copper mine near ‘Oakland,’ and the rice paddies you plan for the Sacramento-San Joaquin Delta. And the gold fields of the American River, once they are definitively located.”
Date Masamune heard a faint sound from behind the screen.
“The third han would be ‘Thousand Islands’ and would include Vancouver Island, Texada Island, and any other nearby island or coastline worth taking. Please remember our understanding that Texada Island is to be occupied by Buddhists. We will make the arrangements for suitable colonists to be sent out with the Fourth Fleet.”
“And you better start sending us iron,” added Lord Hotta.
Lord Matsudaira held up his hand. “Our information is that the Indians of the region are of a warlike nature. We think that a military commander of your experience belongs there, not here in California. Unless, of course, there is an imminent threat from the Spanish in New Spain.”
“We expect you to develop a proposal for the administration of settlements between San Francisco and Vancouver,” Lord Sakai added. “But for the moment there aren’t enough Nihonjin there to matter.”
Lord Matsudaira stood, followed an instant later by his colleagues. “Congratulations, and good luck, Grand Governor.”
“I envy you, Masamune-dono,” Lord Sakai added. “I know you would prefer not to spend the remainder of your life in idleness, and die in bed.”
“May the buddhas and kamis watch over you,” said Lord Hotta.
The lord commissioners walked out and returned to their suite.
“The world is dark, yet can I see to walk, the silver moon illuminating my path,” Date Masamune murmured.