Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [192]
Hoping to stay out of the fray, the passengers huddled in a corner of the boat. The mayhem among the seven on the bank was encouraging, if somewhat puzzling, but no one yet dared to speak. Then, in an instant, all heads turned with a gasp as the boat’s self-appointed pilot rammed his pole into the riverbed and vaulted, more lightly than the monkey, over the rushes to shore.
This caused even greater confusion, and without pausing to regroup, the Yoshioka men scampered toward their enemy in single file. This couldn’t have put him in a better position to defend himself.
The first man had already advanced too far to turn back when he realized the stupidity of his move. At that moment every martial skill he’d ever learned deserted him. It was all he could do to bare his teeth and wave his sword erratically in front of him.
The handsome young man, aware of his psychological advantage, seemed to grow in stature. His right hand was behind him, on his sword hilt, and his elbow protruded above his shoulder.
“So you’re from the Yoshioka School, are you? That’s good. I feel as if I know you already. One of your men was kind enough to allow me to remove his topknot. Apparently that wasn’t enough for you. Have you all come for a haircut? If you have, I’m sure I can oblige you. I’m having this blade sharpened soon anyway, so I don’t mind putting it to good use.”
As the declaration ended, the Drying Pole split first the air and then the cringing body of the nearest swordsman.
Seeing their comrade slain so easily paralyzed their brains; one by one they backed into one another in retreat, like so many colliding balls. Taking advantage of their obvious disorganization, the attacker swung his sword sideways at the next man, delivering a blow so solid it sent him tumbling with a shriek into the rushes.
The young man glared at the remaining five, who had in the meantime arranged themselves around him like flower petals. Reassuring each other that their present tactic was foolproof, they regained their confidence to the point of taunting the young man again. But this time their words had a tremulous, hollow ring.
Finally, with a loud battle cry, one of the men sprang forward and swung. He was sure he had made a cut. In fact, his sword point fell short of its target by two full feet and finished its arc by clanging loudly against a rock. The man fell forward, leaving himself wide open.
Rather than slay such easy prey, the young man leaped sideways and swung at the next man over. While the death scream still rang through the air, the other three took to their heels.
The young man, looking murderous, stood holding his sword with both hands. “Cowards!” he shouted. “Come back and fight! Is this the Yoshioka Style you boast of? To challenge a person and then run away? No wonder the House of Yoshioka’s become a laughingstock.”
To any self-respecting samurai, such insults were worse than being spat on, but the young man’s former pursuers were too busy running to care.
Just then, from the vicinity of the dike, the sound of a horse’s bells rang out. The river and the frost in the fields reflected enough light for the young man to make out a form on horseback and another running along behind. Though frosty breath steamed from their nostrils, they seemed oblivious of the cold as they sped along. The three fleeing samurai nearly collided with the horse as his rider brutally reined him up short.
Recognizing the three, Seijūrō scowled furiously. “What are you doing here?” he barked. “Where are you running to?”
“It’s … it’s the Young Master!” one of them stammered.
Ueda Ryōhei, appearing from behind the horse, lit into them. “What’s the meaning of this? You’re supposed to be escorting the Young Master, you pack of fools! I suppose you were too busy getting yourselves into another drunken brawl.”
The three, rattled but righteously indignant, spilled out the story of how, far from being in a drunken fight, they had been defending the honor of the Yoshioka School and its master and how they had come to grief at the