Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [446]
Counting the corpses bolstered the villagers’ confidence.
“They’re not so strong after all,” gloated one man.
“Wait! Here comes another one.”
“Get him!”
“No, don’t attack. It’s the rōnin.”
With a minimum of confusion, they lined up along the road like soldiers being reviewed by their general. All eyes were fixed on Musashi’s bloody clothing and dripping sword, whose blade was chipped in a dozen places. He threw it away and picked up a lance.
“Our work’s not done,” he said. “Get yourselves some weapons and follow me. By combining your strength, you can drive the marauders out of the village and rescue your families.”
Not one man hesitated. The women and children also found weapons and followed along.
The damage to the village was not as extensive as they had feared, because the dwellings were set well apart. But the terrified farm animals were raising a great ruckus, and somewhere a baby was crying its lungs out. Loud popping noises came from the roadside, where the fire had spread to a grove of green bamboo.
The bandits were nowhere in sight.
“Where are they?” asked Musashi. “I seem to smell sake. Where would there be a lot of sake in one place?”
The villagers were so absorbed in gaping at the fires that nobody had noticed the smell, but one of them said, “Must be the village headman’s house. He’s got barrels of sake.”
“Then that’s where we’ll find them,” said Musashi.
As they advanced, more men came out of hiding and joined their ranks. Musashi was gratified by the growing spirit of unity.
“That’s it, there,” said one man, pointing out a large house surrounded by an earthen wall.
While the peasants were getting themselves organized, Musashi scaled the wall and invaded the bandits’ stronghold. The leader and his chief lieutenants were ensconced in a large dirt-floored room, swilling sake and forcing their attentions on young girls they were holding captive.
“Don’t get excited!” the leader shouted angrily in a rough, mountain dialect. “He’s only one man. I shouldn’t have to do anything myself. The rest of you take care of him.” He was upbraiding an underling who had rushed in with the news of the defeat outside the village.
As their chief fell silent, the others became aware of the hum of angry voices beyond the wall and stirred uneasily. Dropping half-eaten chickens and sake cups, they jumped to their feet and instinctively reached for their weapons. Then they stood there, staring at the entrance to the room.
Musashi, using his lance as a pole, vaulted through a high side window, landing directly behind the chief. The man whirled around, only to be impaled on the lance. Letting out a fearsome “A-w-r-g,” he grabbed with both hands the lance lodged in his chest. Musashi calmly let go of the lance, and the man toppled face down on the ground, the blade and most of the shaft projecting from his back.
The second man to attack Musashi was relieved of his sword. Musashi sliced him through, brought the blade down on the head of a third man, and thrust it into the chest of a fourth. The others made helter-skelter for the door. Musashi hurled the sword at them and in a continuation of the same motion extricated the lance from the chief’s body.
“Don’t move!” he bellowed. He charged with the lance held horizontally, parting the bandits like water struck with a pole. This gave him enough room to make effective use of the long weapon, which he now swung with a deftness that tested the very resiliency of its black oak shaft, striking sideways, slicing downward, thrusting viciously forward.
The bandits attempting to get out the gate found their way blocked by the armed villagers. Some climbed the wall. When they hit the ground, most were slaughtered on the spot. Of the few who succeeded in escaping, nearly all received crippling wounds.
For a time the air was filled with shouts of triumph from young and old, male and female, and as the first flush of victory subsided, man and