Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [154]
His lordship speaks,
Our arms and legs tremble.
We’re loyal to him—to the death.
The letter writer commented, “Everybody, young and old alike, sings this, for it is part of the floating world we live in.”
While the laborers at Fushimi were not aware of these social reverberations, their songs did reflect the spirit of the times. The tunes popular when the Ashikaga shogunate was in decline had been on the whole decadent and had been sung mostly in private, but during the prosperous years of Hideyoshi’s regime, happy, cheerful songs were often heard in public. Later, with the stern hand of Ieyasu making itself felt, the melodies lost some of their rollicking spirit. As Tokugawa rule became stronger, spontaneous singing tended to give way to music composed by musicians in the shōgun’s employ.
Matahachi rested his head on his hands. It burned with fever, and the heave-ho singing buzzed indistinctly in his ears, like a swarm of bees. All alone now, he lapsed into depression.
“What’s the use,” he groaned. “Five years. Suppose I do work hard—what’ll it get me? For a whole day’s work, I make only enough to eat that day. If I take a day off, I don’t eat.”
Sensing someone standing near him, he looked up and saw a tall young man. His head was covered with a deep, coarsely woven basket hat, and at his side hung a bundle of the sort carried by shugyōsha. An emblem in the form of a half-open steel-ribbed fan adorned the front of his hat. He was gazing thoughtfully at the construction work and sizing up the terrain.
After a time he seated himself next to a flat, broad rock, which was just the right height to serve as a writing table. He blew away the sand on top, along with a line of ants marching across it, then with his elbows propped on the rock and his head on his hands, resumed his intense survey of the surroundings. Though the sun’s glare hit him full in the face, he remained motionless, seemingly impervious to the discomforting heat. He did not notice Matahachi, who was still too miserable to care whether anyone was around or not. The other man meant nothing to him. He sat with his back to the newcomer and spasmodically retched.
By and by the samurai became aware of his gagging. “You there,” he said. “What’s the matter?”
“It’s the heat,’ answered Matahachi.
“You’re in pretty bad shape, aren’t you?”
“I’m a little better than I was, but I still feel dizzy.”
“I’ll give you some medicine,” said the samurai, opening his black-lacquered pillbox and shaking some black pills into the palm of his hand. He walked over and put the medicine in Matahachi’s mouth.
“You’ll be all right in no time,” he said.
“Thanks.”
“Do you plan to rest here for a while longer?”
“Yes.”
“Then do me a favor. Let me know if anybody comes—throw a pebble or something.”
He went back to his own rock, sat down, and took a brush from his writing kit and a notebook from his kimono. He opened the pad on the rock and began to draw. Under the brim of his hat, his eyes moved back and forth from the castle to its immediate surroundings, taking in the main tower, the fortifications, the mountains in the background, the river and the smaller streams.
Just before the Battle of Sekigahara, this castle had been attacked by units of the Western Army, and two compounds, as well as part of the moat, had suffered considerable damage. Now the bastion was not only being restored but also being strengthened, so that it would outclass Hideyori’s stronghold at Osaka.
Quickly but in great detail, the student warrior sketched a bird’s-eye view of the entire castle and on a second page began making a diagram of the approaches from the rear.
“Uh-oh!” exclaimed Matahachi softly. From out of nowhere the inspector of works appeared and was standing behind the sketcher. Clad in half-armor, with straw sandals on his feet, he stood there silently, as if waiting to be noticed. Matahachi felt a pang of guilt for not having seen him in time to give warning. It was too late now.
Presently the student warrior lifted his hand to brush a