Shogun_ A Novel of Japan - James Clavell [86]
Why should they want me safe? Because of Tora—What was his name? Toranaga? Because of him? Yes, but also perhaps because there’s no one else aboard to pilot us. Is that why they let me come ashore, gave me my way? Yes, it must be. So now I have power over the ship, over the old daimyo, and over this bastard. How can I use it?
He relaxed and thanked them and let his eyes roam below. “We’ve got to get him, Yabu-san. Hai! The only way’s that way. Over the cliff. I’ll bring him up, me, Anjin-san!” Again he moved forward as though he was going to climb down and again they restrained him and he said with feigned anxiety, “We’ve got to get Rodrigu-san. Look! There’s not much time, light’s going.”
“Iyé, Anjin-san,” Yabu said.
He stood towering over Yabu. “If you won’t let me go, Yabu-san, then send one of your men. Or go yourself. You!”
The wind tore around them, whining off the cliff face. He saw Yabu look down, weighing the climb and the falling light, and he knew Yabu was hooked. You’re trapped, bastard, your vanity’s trapped you. If you start down there you’ll get hurt. But don’t kill yourself, please, just shatter your legs or ankles. Then drown.
A samurai began to climb down but Yabu ordered him back.
“Return to the ship. Fetch some ropes immediately,” Yabu said. The man ran off.
Yabu kicked off his thong slippers. He took his swords out of his belt and put them safely under cover. “Watch them and watch the barbarian. If anything happens to either, I’ll sit you on your own swords.”
“Please let me go down there, Yabu-sama,” Takatashi said. “If you’re hurt or lost I’ll—”
“You think that you can succeed where I will fail?”
“No, Sire, of course not.”
“Good.”
“Please wait for the ropes then. I’ll never forgive myself if anything happens to you.” Takatashi was short and stocky with a heavy beard.
Why not wait for the ropes? Yabu asked himself. It would be sensible, yes. But not clever. He glanced up at the barbarian and nodded briefly. He knew that he had been challenged. He had expected it. And hoped for it. That’s why I volunteered for this mission, Anjin-san, he said to himself, silently amused. You’re really very simple. Omi was right.
Yabu took off his soaking kimono and, clad only in his loincloth, went to the cliff edge and tested it through the soles of his cotton tabi—his sock-shoes. Better to keep them on, he thought, his will and his body, forged by a lifetime of training all samurai had to undergo, dominating the cold that cut into him. The tabi will give you a firmer grip—for a time. You’ll need all your strength and skill to get down there alive. Is it worth it?
During the storm and the stab for the bay he had come on deck and, unnoticed by Blackthorne, had taken a place at the oars. Gladly he had used his strength with the rowers, detesting the miasma below and the sickness he had felt. He had decided that it was better to die in the air than suffocate below.
As he worked with the others in the driving cold, he began watching the pilots. He saw very clearly that, at sea, the ship and all aboard were in the power of these two men. The pilots were in their element, riding the pitching decks as carelessly as he himself rode a galloping horse. No Japanese aboard could match them. For skill or courage or knowledge. And gradually this awareness had spawned a majestic concept: modern barbarian ships filled with samurai, piloted by samurai, captained by samurai, sailed by samurai. His samurai.
If I had three barbarian ships initially, I could easily control the sea lanes between Yedo and Osaka. Based in Izu, I could strangle all shipping or let it pass. So nearly all the rice and all the silk. Wouldn’t I then be arbiter between Toranaga and Ishido? At the very least, a balance between them?
No daimyo has ever yet taken to the sea.
No daimyo has ships or