Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [33]
“Thanks. If I’d known it’d be like this, I’d have come sooner. I was sure you’d have it in for me!” He spoke two or three more times, but his voice was drowned out by the sound of the water and Osugi didn’t answer.
Before long, the daughter-in-law reappeared at the gate, all out of breath. She was followed by a band of samurai and vigilantes. Osugi came out of the house and addressed them in a whisper.
“Ah, you got him to take a bath. Very clever,” said one of the men admiringly. “Yes, that’s fine! We’ve got him for sure this time!”
Splitting into two groups, the men crouched and moved cautiously, like so many toads, toward the fire blazing brightly under the bath. Something—something indefinable—pricked Takezō’s instincts, and he peeped out through a crack in the door. His hair stood on end.
“I’ve been trapped!” he screamed.
He was stark naked, the bathhouse was tiny, and there was no time to think. Beyond the door he’d spotted what seemed like hordes of men armed with staffs, lances and truncheons.
Still, he wasn’t really afraid. Any fear he might have had was blotted out by his anger toward Osugi.
“All right, you bastards, watch this,” he growled.
He was well beyond caring how many of them there were. In this situation, as in others, the only thing he knew how to do was to attack rather than be attacked. As his would-be captors made way for each other outside, he abruptly kicked open the door and jumped out and into the air, bellowing a fearsome war whoop. Still naked, his wet hair flying in every direction, he seized and wrenched loose the shaft of the first lance thrust at him, sending its owner flying into the bushes. Taking a firm grip on the weapon, he thrashed about like a whirling dervish, swinging with complete abandon and hitting anyone who came near. He’d learned at Sekigahara that this method was startlingly effective when a man was outnumbered, and that the shaft of a lance could often be used more tellingly than the blade.
The attackers, realizing too late what a blunder they’d made by not sending three or four men charging into the bathhouse in the first place, shouted encouragement to one another. It was clear, however, they’d been outmaneuvered.
About the tenth time Takezō’s weapon came in contact with the ground, it broke. He then seized a large rock and threw it at the men, who were already showing signs of backing down.
“Look, he’s run inside the house!” shouted one of them, as simultaneously Osugi and her daughter-in-law scrambled out into the back garden.
Making a tremendous clatter as he stormed through the house, Takezō was yelling, “Where are my clothes? Give me back my clothes!”
There were work clothes lying about, not to speak of an elaborate kimono chest, but Takezō paid them no attention. He was straining his eyes in the dim light to find his own ragged garment. Finally spotting it in the corner of the kitchen, he seized it in one hand and finding a foothold atop a large earthenware oven, crawled out of a small high window. While he made his way onto the roof, his pursuers, now totally confused, cursed and made excuses to each other for their failure to ensnare him.
Standing in the middle of the roof, Takezō unhurriedly donned his kimono. With his teeth, he tore off a strip of cloth from his sash, and gathering his damp hair behind, tied it near the roots so tightly that his eyebrows and the corners of his eyes were stretched.
The spring sky was full of stars.
The Art of War
The daily search in the mountains continued, and farm work languished; the villagers could neither cultivate their fields nor tend to their silkworms. Large signs posted in front of the village headman’s house and at every crossroads announced a substantial reward for anyone who captured or killed Takezō, as well as suitable recompense for any information leading to his arrest. The notices bore the authoritative signature of Ikeda Terumasa, lord of Himeji Castle.
At the Hon’iden residence, panic prevailed. Osugi and her family, trembling