Heart of a Samurai Page 3

  As the boats rounded the tip of the island, the fishermen gasped. An enormous bird with many huge, white wings sat upon the water. But, no, it was a ship, bristling with masts, slung with dozens of sails, and alive with movement. Many strange foreigners scurried about on deck or crawled up the ropes that were strung all over the vessel like spiderwebs.

  “It’s as long as seven of our boats!” Denzo gasped.

  “And as wide as eight!” Toraemon whispered.

  “Look at all those foreign devils!” Goemon choked on the words.

  “Look at all those sails!” Manjiro said. “They are like huge wings!” In a ship like that, he thought, you could go so far and so fast, you could sail clear off the edge of the earth. The thought filled him with both fear and exhilaration.

  “We must be very careful how we act,” Denzo said.

  Roused from his fever, Jusuke whispered, “As the saying goes: ‘Entering the village, obey the village.’”

  And it was like a village, they thought, as they were swept on board the John Howland and through a series of small rooms, like tiny houses, each one more ornately decorated than the last.

  “Only someone very important could own rooms like these,” Goemon whispered.

  “A lord.”

  “A daimyo.”

  “Maybe even a shogun!” Manjiro gasped.

  They found themselves standing before the man who must be the ruler of the ship. He was everything they had heard the foreign devils to be: tall, hairy-faced, with a nose like an albatross’s beak. He stood straight as a ship’s mast, wearing a stiff, deep blue jacket.

  In the brief moment that Manjiro dared to look at this ruler, he saw that the man gazed down at them with one dark eye, while squeezing the other shut. Everything about him seemed concentrated into the steely gaze of this one eye: authority, strength, sadness, and something else Manjiro couldn’t name. The fishermen, dizzy and fearful, sank to their knees.

  “Captain Whitfield,” a sailor called him, and Manjiro tucked away those words before he and the others were whisked off again.

  They found themselves seated on benches before a table, with their legs swinging under them.

  “You see,” Goemon whispered to Manjiro, “the torture has begun.”

  It wasn’t torture, exactly, but it wasn’t very comfortable, either.

  “Look at your legs hanging there,” Goemon said.

  “It is a strange way to sit!” Manjiro agreed.

  “If you were a real samurai, you would commit seppuku now, rather than wait to be humiliated by the barbarians,” Goemon said.

  “Maybe they won’t humiliate us,” Manjiro said hopefully.

  At this, Goemon simply grunted.

  As they sat in this unfamiliar position, with the boat rolling under them, a powerful memory swept over Manjiro. It was so real, it was almost as if it were happening. In the memory, he was at home. Rain tapped lightly on the roof. It must have been a special day because he could smell the sweet perfume of cooking rice. Why, he wondered, did rice have no smell when it was raw, but smelled so heavenly when it was cooking?

  He was brought back to the present moment when a bowl of steaming rice was set before him. A real bowl. Of real rice. It had not been a dream. The wonderful, unexpected smell of rice cooking had fanned the embers of memory.

  Each of them was also given a metal stick, with four prongs on one end.

  “Fork,” the sailor said—and showed them they should use it to eat the rice.

  The fishermen recited their prayer before eating. “Itadakimasu—I will humbly receive.”

  Then Goemon said, “It might be poison.”

  “If we’re eating poison,” Jusuke said, reciting an old proverb, “we might as well lick the plate.”

  Manjiro didn’t care if the rice were poisoned. He gobbled it up gratefully. And the soft, steaming sweet potato. And the warm broth. And the half cup of cool, fresh water. And, finally, a strange kind of food was placed in his hands.

  Manjiro bit off a piece. It filled his mouth and made hard work for his teeth.

  “Bread,” the sailor called it.

  • • •

  After they ate, their raggedy clothes were taken away and they were given the same strange clothing the sailors wore.

  “This will be drafty!” Goemon said, pointing to his shirt flapping open. “This opening will let in a lot of cold air.”

  One of the sailors pointed out a row of small, round disks on the shirt. He showed them how each disk slipped into a corresponding slit.

  “Buttons,” the sailor called these closures.

  “Buttons,” Manjiro repeated to himself. He had never seen buttons before. None of them had. They were accustomed to tying their clothes together with belts, sashes, or ties.

  Drawing of Denzo and Goemon in Western clothing

  The boys fumbled with their buttons. Manjiro couldn’t help but laugh.

  “How can you laugh at a time like this?” Goemon said.

  “I am sorry,” Manjiro said. He pulled a strange kind of pouch out of his trousers and frowned.

  “Pocket,” the sailor said. He scooped out the contents of his own pocket—a pebble, a button, a short length of twine—to show them how to use it.

  Manjiro wondered why the foreigners didn’t just carry their small things in separate pouches, the way it was done in Japan. But once his hands discovered his pockets, he couldn’t keep them out. His hands wanted to explore those spaces just like, when he’d lost teeth as a boy, his tongue wanted to explore the empty holes where his teeth had been.

  “Now I am sure they mean to torture us,” Goemon said, once he had crammed his feet into the stiff leather shoes he was given. “Oh, for a nice, soft pair of floppy straw sandals!”

  All Manjiro could think of were all the questions he wanted to ask. But he could not speak their strange tongue, and even if he could, he would probably be punished. Silence and obedience were the safest route to staying alive.

  • • •

  That night, lying in his bunk, Manjiro couldn’t help trying the new words. “Buttons,” he whispered. “Pockets. Shoes. Bread.” Bread was hard to say. He tried again and again. “Captain,” he said. “Whitfield.”

  “What are you doing?” Goemon said.

  “Maybe if I learn some words, I can ask questions.”

  Goemon groaned. “More questions!”

  “If we don’t learn their language, how will we know what they intend to do to us?”

  “Every time you ask questions, we get into trouble.”

  “You are right,” Manjiro said, “but don’t you wonder so many things? Why are there so many barbarians on such a big ship? Why are there so many small boats? What are those big cooking pots for?”

  “One of those pots is big enough to fit both of us!” Goemon said.

  Manjiro shivered.

  Goemon moaned, got up, and went out. He was not accustomed to the motion of such a big vessel. That, combined with his hatred of the sea and his fear of the strangers, made him sick.

  When he returned he said, “Manjiro-chan, aren’t you afraid? Don’t you worry what they will do to us?”

  Manjiro was afraid, but he said, “My father told me that a person should always put his heart in order before falling asleep. Then he will be unencumbered by fear.”

  Manjiro tried to put his heart in order. He said a sutra—a prayer—for his ancestors, his family, his friends, and for himself. Then he waited for his heart to go back where it belonged instead of jumping all over inside his chest.

  Eventually, he must have fallen asleep, for he woke sometime in the night. For a moment he thought he was back in the cave on the island. But everything was very strange. The whole earth seemed to rock beneath him, and there was such eerie creaking and tinging. And what sounded like the growling of wild animals. After a moment he remembered he was in a ship lying at anchor, among foreign men. Snoring foreign men. Smelly foreign men. “Butter stinkers” he’d heard foreigners
called. Eating butter made them stink.

  Slowly and quietly, he turned his head slightly to look at them, and gasped. A pair of eyes stared back at him from across the space—blue eyes, glittering with menace.

  Manjiro squeezed his eyes shut and tried to still his wildly pounding heart. He could not possibly be afraid, he reminded himself, for his heart was in order.

  4

  THE HUNT

  still have so many questions. Don’t you?” Manjiro said to Goemon one day. They sat near the foremast, where Manjiro was making a sketch of an anchor. “Don’t you wonder how they find their way out here in the open ocean, with no landmarks to guide them?”

  “Maybe they are just sailing around aimlessly,” Goemon answered sullenly. “It seems that way to me.”

  “Don’t you wonder what they’re doing, though?”

  “All I wonder is when we are going to go home,” Goemon said. Weeks had passed, and although they had been sailing north—toward Japan—they still had not caught sight of the lush green hills and rocky coast of their homeland. When they began sailing more westerly, still Manjiro held out hope.

  He had found his new pockets to be useful for tucking away scraps of food—a little hardtack, a bit of cheese. One of the sailors had given him a small box in which to keep his few belongings, and every night he emptied his pockets into this box. Then he slid the box under his bunk. When he got home, he planned to give these treasures to his family.

  “Why don’t you ask them when—or if—we are going home?” Goemon said. “You ask them about everything else.”

  Manjiro had not been able to keep quiet as he’d intended. Questions just seemed to pop out of him, and he had learned many things. He had learned the words for halyard, windlass, cargo hatch, and ratlines. He could name all sixteen sails, from the spanker to the jibs. But when or whether they were going home was not a question he dared ask. Denzo was the only one with enough authority to talk to the captain.

  If only he could summon the courage, Manjiro could ask someone the other question he wondered about most deeply. He nodded his head toward the man posted high on the main mast and said, “There’s always someone standing way up there on those little boards. All day, and even at night—if the moon is bright—those fellows stare out at the sea.”

  “They’re looking for something,” Goemon said.

  “Yes, but what?” Manjiro said.

  “Japanese boys,” Goemon answered.

  “All these small boats. What are they for?”

  “To go fetch the Japanese boys when they find them.”

  “And those big cooking pots on deck. What is their purpose?”

  “To cook the Japanese boys.”

  “If they were going to eat us, why didn’t they just do it and get it over with? Why waste their food and water on us?”

  “They’re fattening us up. We’re too skinny.”

  Manjiro looked Goemon up and down. “Honored friend, I am going to tell you something. You are not too skinny. Not anymore.”

  “I’m not?” Goemon cried and leaped up to examine his stomach. “Do you think they will eat me?”

  “No,” Manjiro said. “You would be too sour. Listen, Goemonchan, I am going to find out what they’re doing. I am going to ask the first person I see.” He stood up and brushed off his trousers.

  “Well, you are going to get yourself into trouble with all those questions….” Goemon’s voice trailed off and Manjiro looked up.

  Captain Whitfield loomed above him, his one squinting eye trained on Manjiro.

  Manjiro gulped. He shouldn’t bother such an important man! He bowed deeply and waited for the captain to speak.

  “What is it? Out with it—smartly, now!”

  Manjiro swallowed hard and began, “Sorry for bother you …”

  “Boy!” Captain Whitfield said sharply, and Manjiro ducked his head. Goemon had been right. He had been impertinent and would be punished.

  Captain Whitfield circa 1865

  “Stop apologizing for asking questions!” the captain said. “How are you going to learn if you don’t ask things? Ask all the questions you like whenever you like to whomever you like.” The captain tipped Manjiro’s chin up and looked him in the eye. “Do you understand?”

  Manjiro began to bow, but the captain put his hand on his shoulder.

  “One other thing,” he said. “It is good to be respectful, but it would be well if you would stop that incessant bowing!”

  Manjiro glanced at Goemon and realized Goemon had no idea what the captain had said. Manjiro hadn’t understood everything, but he did understand that the captain wanted him to ask questions. He encouraged it! Manjiro could ask all the questions he wanted, whenever he wanted, to whomever he wanted. The captain had said so.

  Manjiro felt he needed a moment to wonder at this. He ran to his favorite hiding spot—one of the small boats suspended from the side of the ship. He scrambled up and over the side and sat on the bottom of the boat, hugging himself as if he’d just been given a gift. But a gift from a barbarian! He shivered. Perhaps it would be better if he stayed away from these strangers.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a hearty shout from the sailor posted on the mainmast. The sailor pointed at something far away. Finally, Manjiro thought, he has seen what he was looking for. Land?

  John Mung’s drawings of the John Howland

  Suddenly the deck was alive with the scuffling of many feet. Everyone on deck! Everyone busy! And yet in a strangely hushed and quiet way. Orders were given in husky whispers; after that first shout, there were no more loud voices.

  Before Manjiro had time to clamber out, the boat in which he hid was lowered into the water, and sailors scrambled down the ropes and into it. As there was nowhere to hide, Manjiro was quickly discovered.

  “Eh?” said one of the mates. “What ye be doin’ here, boy?”

  “Aw, just throw him overboard,” growled another, and Manjiro recognized the sailor who had stared at him that first night—the one with the cold, blue eyes and yellow curls. The man snatched him by the back of his shirt and dangled him over the side of the boat.

  Manjiro felt water seeping into his shoes.

  “He’ll only be in the way,” the man said.

  “Avast, Jolly!” It was the captain. “Set him down gently. In the boat, if you please.” The captain had entered their small boat. He looked at Manjiro.

  “You again, is it? Well, we’re one man short since young Thomas took ill, so we’ll see what stuff you are made of. You can follow orders, can’t you?”

  Manjiro nodded. He wasn’t completely sure what the captain had asked, but thought it was best to agree with him.

  “Take up that oar, then. Jolly, to your oar.”

  Manjiro sat on a bench and, when the order came, began to row.

  “Now, listen to me, all of ye,” said the captain, who stood at the stern, holding the tiller. “Your main job is to row, and to row like vengeance. Don’t ye be losing your nerve—and no loud noises. Not a hair on your heads may tremble, yet your backs must heave to. Now, pull, me heroes—pull!”

  Three other boats had also set off from the ship, each with a six-man crew. They all rowed so hard, Manjiro wondered if they were in a race. But a race to where? Since he faced backward to row, he could not see where they were going. When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw nothing but water. He noticed long, spearlike weapons in the boat, and hoped it wasn’t Japanese boys they were going after, like Goemon said.

  The captain kept the encouragement going from the stern. Manjiro did like the others and kept his head down and rowed as hard as he could.

  Jolly, whose oar was directly behind Manjiro’s, hissed at him. “Yer a heap of trouble, ye filthy, spying Chinaman. … Eating our lobscouse, drinkin’ our water. Yer nothin’ but an ignorant pagan. … We’ll be setting you off on the first desert island we spy.”

  “That’s where he come from, Jolly,” said Edward, a boy a little older than Manjiro who sat
on the bench just ahead of him. “That won’t frighten him. Anyways, he don’t understand a word you’re saying.”

  “That right, you godless cannibal?” Jolly breathed down his neck.

  “Jolly!” the captain spoke sharply. “I don’t know what you’re grumbling about up there—but let’s have some hearty rowing, eh? Crack your backbones! Burst your hearts and liver and lungs, me lads. Pull! But merrily, merrily. Plum duff for supper if we get there first!”

  Manjiro didn’t know what a Chinaman was, or a pagan, or a plum duff, but of them all, he thought he would prefer the plum duff.

  “Harpooner, stand by your iron,” the captain said, his voice a whisper.

  Manjiro heard Jolly abandon the bench and move to the bow of the boat. Why? Manjiro wondered. Stealing a quick glance over his shoulder, he felt his heart rise to his throat.

  The water around them seemed to boil, then heave, and then, up from the sea rose a great black shape. Like a mountain rising out of the sea, a massive head appeared, looming over the boat, its enormous eye staring straight at Manjiro.

  “Kujira!” Manjiro gasped. Whale. Now he understood. He understood everything. The long, sharp, spearlike things in the boat, the tubs filled with coiled rope, the lookout on the mast—everything made sense. Except, in another way, it didn’t make any sense at all.

  Jolly stood, poised with the long harpoon, on the bow of the boat. Despite his meanness, Manjiro had to admire him, ready to hurl what looked like a pine needle at that great, hulking creature. There was something magnificent in his bravery and the courage of all these men, who rowed their tiny boat up to and not away from such a monster—more dangerous than a dragon.

  The beast’s damp breath washed over them, and the captain yelled, “Give it to him!”