Shogun (121 page)

“Wine?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Where are the rest of your people, Father?”

“I left them at an inn near the wharf.”

Rodrigues glanced out of the stern bay windows that overlooked Nimazu, the wharfs and the port and, just to starboard, the mouth of the Kano, where the water was darker than the rest of the sea. Many fishing boats were plying back and forth. “This servant you left, Father—you can trust him? You’re sure he’ll find us?”

“Oh, yes. They’ll certainly not move for two days at least.” Alvito had already decided not to mention what he, or more truthfully he reminded himself, what Brother Michael suspected, so he just added, “Don’t forget they’re traveling in state. With Toda Mariko’s rank, and Toranaga’s banners, they’re very much in state. Everyone within four leagues would know about them and where they’re staying.”

Rodrigues laughed. “The Ingeles in state? Who’d have believed that? Like a poxy
daimyo!”

“That’s not the half of it, Pilot. Toranaga’s made him samurai and hatamoto.”

“What?”

“Now Pilot-Major Blackthorne wears the two swords. With his
pistols. And now he’s Toranaga’s confidant, to a certain extent, and protégé.”

“
The Ingeles?”

“Yes.” Alvito let the silence hang in the cabin and went back to eating.

“Do you know the why of it?” Rodrigues asked.

“Yes, in part. All in good time, Pilot.”

“Just tell me the why. Briefly. Details later, please.”

“The Anjin-san saved Toranaga’s life for the third time. Twice during the escape from Osaka, the last in Izu during an earthquake.” Alvito chomped lustily on the thigh meat. A thread of juice ran into his black beard.

Rodrigues waited but the priest said no more. Thoughtfully his eyes dropped to the goblet cradled in his hands. The surface of the deep red wine caught the light. After a long pause, he said, “It wouldn’t be good for us, that piss-cutting Ingeles close to Toranaga. Not at all. Not him. Eh?”

“I agree.”

“Even so, I’d like to see him.” The priest said nothing. Rodrigues let him clean his plate in silence, then offered more, the joy gone out of him. The last of the carcass and the final wing were accepted, and another goblet of wine. Then, to finish, some fine French cognac that Father Alvito got from a cupboard.

“Rodrigues? Would you care for a glass?”

“Thank you.” The seaman watched Alvito pour the nut-brown liquor into the crystal glass. All the wine and cognac had come from the Father-Visitor’s private stock as a parting gift to his Jesuit friend.

“Of course, Rodrigues, you’re welcome to share it with the Father,” dell’Aqua had said. “Go with God, may He watch over you and bring you safely to port and home again.”

“Thank you, Eminence.”

Yes, thank you, Eminence, but no God-cursed thanks, Rodrigues told himself bitterly, no thanks for getting my Captain-General to order me aboard this pigboat under this Jesuit’s command and out of my Gracia’s arms, poor darling. Madonna, life’s so short, too short and too treacherous to waste being chaperone to gut-stinking priests, even Alvito who’s more of a man than any and, because of that, more dangerous. Madonna, give me some help!

“Oh! You reave, Rod-san? Reave so soon? Oh, so sorry….”

“Soon come back, my darling.”

“Oh, so sorry … we miss, ritt’e one and I.”

For a moment he had considered taking her aboard the
Santa Filipa
, but instantly dismissed the thought, knowing it to be perilous for her and for him and for the ship. “So sorry, back soon.”

“We wait, Rod-san. Please excuse my sad, so sorry.”

Always the hesitant, heavily accented Portuguese she tried so hard to speak, insisting that she be called by her baptismal name Gracia and not by the lovely-sounding Nyan-nyan, which meant Kitten and suited her so well and pleased him better.

He had sailed away from Nagasaki, hating to leave, cursing all priests and captain-generals, wanting an end to summer and autumn so he could up-anchor the Black Ship, her holds weighed now with bullion, to head for home at long last, rich and independent. But then what? The perpetual question swamped him. What about
her
—and the child? Madonna, help me to answer that with peace.

“An excellent meal, Rodrigues,” Alvito said, toying with a crumb on the table. “Thank you.”

“Good.” Rodrigues was serious now. “What’s your plan, Father? We should—” He stopped in mid-sentence and glanced out of the windows. Then, dissatisfied, he got up from the table and limped painfully over to a land side porthole and peered out.

“What is it, Rodrigues?”

“Thought I felt the tide change. Just want to check our sea room.” He opened the cover further and leaned out, but still couldn’t see the bow anchor. “Excuse me a moment, Father.”

He went on deck. Water lapped the anchor chain that angled into the muddy water. No movement. Then a thread of wake appeared and the ship began to ease off safely, to take up her new station with the ebb. He checked her lie, then the lookouts. Everything was perfect. No other boats were near. The afternoon was fine, the mist long since gone. They were a cable or so offshore, far enough out to preclude a sudden boarding, and well away from the sea lanes that fed the wharves.

His ship was a lorcha, a Japanese hull adapted to modern Portuguese sails and rigging: swift, two-masted, and sloop-rigged. It had four cannon amidships, two small bow chasers and two stern chasers. Her name was the
Santa Filipa
and she carried a crew of thirty.

His eyes went to the city, and to the hills beyond. “Pesaro!”

“Yes, senhor?”

“Get the longboat ready. I’m going ashore before dusk.”

“Good. She’ll be ready. When’re you back?”

“Dawn.”

“Even better! I’ll lead the shore party—ten men.”

“No shore leave, Pesaro. It’s
kinjiru!
Madonna, is your brain addled?” Rodrigues straddled the quarterdeck and leaned against the gunwale.

“Not right that all should suffer,” said the bosun, Pesaro, his great calloused hands flexing. “I’ll lead the party and promise there’ll be no trouble. We’ve been cooped up for two weeks now.”

“The port authorities here said
kinjiru
, so sorry, but still goddamned
kinjiru!
Remember? This isn’t Nagasaki!”

“Yes, by the blood of Christ Jesus, and more’s the pity!” The heavy-set man scowled. “It was only one Jappo that got chopped.”

“One chopped dead, two knifed badly, a lot of wounded, and a girl hurt before the samurai stopped the riot. I warned you all before you went ashore: ‘Nimazu’s not Nagasaki—so behave yourselves!’ Madonna! We were lucky to get away with just one of our seamen dead. They’d have been within the law to chop all five of you.”

“Their law, Pilot, not ours. God-cursed monkeys! It was only a whorehouse brawl.”

“Yes, but your men started it, the authorities have quarantined my ship, and you’re all benched. You included!” Rodrigues moved his leg to ease the pain. “Be patient, Pesaro. Now that the Father’s back we’ll be off.”

“On the tide? At dawn? Is that an order?”

“No, not yet. Just get the longboat ready. Gomez will come with me.”

“Let me come as well, eh?
Per favor
, Pilot. I’m sick to death of being stuck in this pox-cursed bucket.”

“No. And you’d better not go ashore tonight. You or any.”

“And if you’re not back by dawn?”

“You rot here at anchor till I do. Clear?”

The bosun’s scowl deepened. He hesitated, then backed down. “Yes, yes, that’s clear, by God.”

“Good.” Rodrigues went below.

Alvito was asleep but he awoke the moment the pilot opened the cabin door. “Ah, all’s well?” he asked, replete now in mind and body.

“Yes. It was just the turn.” Rodrigues gulped some wine to take the foul taste out of his mouth. It was always like that after a near
mutiny. If Pesaro had not yielded instantly, once again Rodrigues would have had to blow a hole in a man’s face or put him in irons or order fifty lashes or keelhaul the man or perform any one of a hundred obscenities essential by sea law to maintain discipline. Without discipline any ship was lost. “What’s the plan now, Father? We sail at dawn?”

“How are the carrier pigeons?”

“In good health. We’ve still six—four Nagasakis, two Osakas.”

The priest checked the angle of the sun. Four or five hours to sunset. Plenty of time to launch the birds with the first coded message long since planned: “Toranaga surrenders to Regents’ order. I’m going first to Yedo, then Osaka. I will accompany Toranaga to Osaka. He says we can still build the cathedral at Yedo. Detailed dispatch with Rodrigues.”

“Would you please ask the handler to prepare two Nagasakis and one Osaka immediately,” Alvito said. “Then we’ll talk. I won’t be sailing back with you. I’m going on to Yedo by road. It’ll take me most of the night and tomorrow to write a detailed dispatch which you’ll carry to the Father-Visitor, for his hands only. Will you sail as soon as I’ve finished?”

“All right. If it’s too near dusk I’ll wait till dawn. There are shoals and shifting sands for ten leagues.”

Alvito assented. The twelve extra hours would make no difference. He knew it would have been far better if he’d been able to send off the news from Yokosé, God curse the heathen devil who destroyed my birds there! Be patient, he told himself. What’s the hurry? Isn’t that a vital rule of our Order? Patience. All comes to him who waits—and works. What does twelve hours matter, or even eight days? Those won’t change the course of history. The die was cast in Yokosé.

“You’ll travel with the Ingeles?” Rodrigues was asking. “Like before?”

“Yes. From Yedo I’ll make my own way back to Osaka. I’ll accompany Toranaga. I’d like you to stop at Osaka with a copy of my dispatch, in case the Father-Visitor’s there, or has left Nagasaki before you arrive and is on the way there. You can give it to Father Soldi, his secretary—only him.”

“All right. I’ll be glad to leave. We’re hated here.”

“With God’s mercy we can change all that, Rodrigues. With God’s good grace we’ll convert all the heathens here.”

“Amen to that. Yes.” The tall man eased his leg with the throb
lessened momentarily. He stared out of the windows. Then he got up impatiently. “I’ll fetch the pigeons myself. Write your message, then We’ll talk. About the Ingeles.” He went to the deck and selected the birds from the panniers. When he returned the priest had already used the special needle-sharp quill and ink to inscribe the same coded message on the tiny slivers of paper. Alvito armed the tiny cylinders, sealed them, and launched the birds. The three circled once, then headed westward in convoy into the afternoon sun.

“Shall we talk here or below?”

“Here. It’s cooler.” Rodrigues motioned the quarterdeck watch amidships out of earshot.

Alvito sat on the seachair. “First about Toranaga.”

He told the Pilot briefly what had happened in Yokosé, omitting the incident with Brother Joseph and his suspicions about Mariko and Blackthorne. Rodrigues was as stunned by the surrender as he had been. “No war? It’s a miracle! Now we’re truly safe, our Black Ship’s safe, the Church is rich, we’re rich … thanks be to God, the saints, and the Madonna! That’s the best news you could’ve brought, Father. We’re safe!”

“If God wills it. One thing Toranaga said disturbed me. He put it this way: ‘I can order my Christian freed—the Anjin-san. With his ship, and with his cannon.’”

Rodrigues’ vast good humor left him. “
Erasmus
is still in Yedo? She’s still in Toranaga’s control?”

“Yes. Would it be serious if the Ingeles were loosed?”

“Serious? That ship would blast hell out of us if she caught our Black Ship twixt here and Macao with him aboard, armed, with a half-decent crew. We’ve only the small frigate to run interference and she’s no match for
Erasmus!
Nor are we. She could dance around us and we’d have to strike our colors.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes. Before God—she’d be a killer.” Angrily Rodrigues bunched a fist. “But wait a moment—the Ingeles said he’d arrived here with no more than twelve men, and not all seamen, many of them merchants and most sick. That few couldn’t handle her. The only place he could get a crew would be at Nagasaki—or Macao. He might get enough at Nagasaki! There’re those who’d … he’d better be kept away from there, and Macao!”

“Say he had a native crew?”

“You mean some of Toranaga’s cutthroats? Or
wako?
You mean
if Toranaga’s surrendered, all his men become
ronin, neh?
If the Ingeles had enough time he could train ’em. Easy. Christ Jesus … please excuse me, Father, but if the Ingeles got samurai or
wako…
. Can’t risk that—he’s too good. We all saw that in Osaka! Him loose in that piss-cutter in Asia with a samurai crew….”

Alvito watched him, even more concerned now. “I think I’d better send another message to the Father-Visitor. He should be informed if it’s this urgent. He’ll know what to do.”

“I know what to do!” Rodrigues’ fist smashed down on the gunwale. He got to his feet and turned his back. “Listen, Father, hear my confession: The first night—the very first time he stood alongside me on the galley out to sea, when we were going from Anjiro—my heart told me to kill him, then again during the storm. The Lord Jesus help me, that was the time I sent him for’ard and deliberately swerved into the wind without warning, him without a lifeline, to murder him, but the Ingeles didn’t go overboard like anyone else would’ve done. I thought that was the Hand of God, and knew it for certain when later he overruled me and saved my ship, and then when my ship was safe and the wave took me and I was drowning, my last thought was that that also was God’s punishment on me for an attempted murder. You don’t do that to a pilot—he’d never do that to me! I deserved it that time and then, when I found myself alive and him bending over me, helping me drink, I was so ashamed and again I begged God’s forgiveness and swore a Holy oath to try to make it up to him. Madonna!” he burst out in torment, “that man saved me though he
knew
I tried to murder him. I saw it in his eyes. He saved me and helped me live and now I’ve got to kill him.”