CHAPTER XXIX
MAIDO’S PENALTY

As the time passed and no word came from his father Shibusawa began to realise the full force of his presentiments. He had not the power to go to his parent’s relief, and his only hope lay in his ability to guard against still further and greater disaster to the family. He fully realised his responsibility, and undertook to acquit himself with due respect to the inevitable and a proper regard for truth.

The aged daimyo had stood patiently the journey and borne up well under the charge until reaching the Tokyo dungeon, into which he was thrust without even a chance to meet his accusers, much less any opportunity to hear or explain.

The foul place which held him prisoner lay in a damp, dark hole in the cellar, underneath the very building in which his son-in-law swayed the sceptre of his vast power; and though many of these gruesome cells, each holding its captive, they were so constructed, with huge walls and peephole grates, that no person could be seen or a voice heard from one to the other. Not a rat or uncanny thing could get in there, nor was there room to lie down on the cold, hard tramped floor. As Maido entered his last hope vanished; he knew too well his doom. He could not eat the miserable food each day silently pushed in at the bare opening high up in the narrow door, nor could he sleep, but sank down and prayed. He asked his god only that his son escape.

With Maido thus caged below, Ikamon busied himself above; he believed in doing the thing once he had made up his mind. The consequences could and would better adjust themselves afterwards. He had made his way by bold and unflinching strokes, and he reasoned that a change of policy now would certainly bring, if it did not merit, disaster; therefore he hastened the trial, and concluded the testimony after the first ordeal.

The morning came on gloomy, and a murky atmosphere hung over the city like a pall. Ikamon rose early and hurried to his great seat in the hall of state; then hastily donned the gown of justice and took up the cudgel of vengeance. There was no one to dispute his right, no one to stay the hand which had now turned to fiend, and he fiercely called out:

“Jigokumon!”

“Sayo, most honourable high minister,” answered the doughty keeper as he came trudging forward, bowing and attesting.

“Have the prisoners confessed?” asked the mighty, speaking purposely in the plural.

“No; your most honourable perfectness, they have not had—they have not.”

“Then proceed with the ordeal; the court cannot be so trifled with.”

The tormentor withdrew. He knew where to begin his awful work, for Ikamon had long before told him that, and cautioned him about the victims. He groped his way below and fumbled at the keyhole. The great iron lock creaked as he threw back the rusty bolt. He hauled and shoved at the grimy door, and the filthy den belched its nasty air. Two vile lubbers fell upon the faint and helpless daimyo, roughly dragging him out. He made no resistance, nor did he cry aloud. They hurried him through the long, dark, narrow passage to a muffled exit. The door closed behind them, and Jigokumon thrust a lighted torch in Maido’s face, and snarled:

“What now, you hinin?”[19]

Having raised him a trifle from the ground, the monsters slid beneath his bare feet a pot of burning coals from which the lid was stripped. The sulphur pots were lit, and the red light flashed—the fiends disappeared, and the fumes rose, enveloping the suffering patriot. He uttered no sound, but looked upon the hellish scene with stoic indifference. Perhaps he thought of man’s sphere as compared with God’s. Possibly he contrasted the good with the evil of life, as lived on earth; and he may have glimpsed at a truer way, the one that heaven foretells.

He had hung there only a few minutes—it seemed to him an age—before his feet shrivelled and blackened, while the fire crackled and sizzled around them. As his contorted body dangled in the air, his face upturned, he momentarily saw, peering through a glass-covered peephole, his trusted son-in-law, Ikamon; then a smile crossed his face and he lost all consciousness.

While Maido was being pushed into the cellar of torture, Ikamon had seated himself in the judge’s cubby-hole, which adjoined the chamber of testimony, permitting a close watch of the victim and a taking of the confession, if such were made, without suffering the annoyance of the fiery fumes within. He looked only once, and fate revealed the sickly smile, whereat he quickly drew the curtain, and turning, shouted:

“Jigokumon; Jigokumon; relieve the victim; the confession is made!”

Suddenly the fires were extinguished, and Maido, more dead than alive, was restored to the damp cell from which he had been taken. He did not recover consciousness for a long time, but when he had done so he suffered such intense pain that he begged the dumb walls for death.

He had, however, long to wait, for he had been left there to suffer all but that. Ikamon, though, gauged well the time, and before too late pronounced the sentence: Maido, together with all the rest, was led forth into the wilderness of Musashijamoku, where they were scattered about and permitted, one after another, the right of harakiri. There overhung the marsh land a mist, and the murky wet clung to the smooth, round bamboos, echoing a grave-like sound as each pronounced the parting word. All excepting Maido had gone, and it now came his turn. He sat there in the cold wet with his snarled and decaying limbs crossed under him. His face was upturned and in his right hand he held the sharpened steel. He had thanked his accusers for respecting his right to die as became his rank, and now thought only of his own, his son. Out of the gloom of the swamp there arose the sound of the executioner’s voice; it said only:

“Maido.”

The blow was struck, and his head dropped forward. Then there came from the still forest a silent, anxious step, and trembling voice, saying:

“It is too late! He is gone!”

She bent over him and whispered:

“It is I.”

He raised his face to hers and answered:

“Takara!”

Then she cried:

“It was not I! Oh, honourable father, it was not I that did it!”

Maido said:

“I understand. It was he who stole it. You are my deliverer. You have brought me news.”

“And he knows not your fate, but is not deceived. He lives and I am still his wife. Shibusawa will vindicate his father’s name. I swear it!”

Takara straightened up and the fire flashed from her eyes, as her words pierced the dull air around her.

“It is well.”

These were the words with which Maido bade the world a last farewell, with which he forgave his traducers, and with which he welcomed death. He knew Takara’s power and believed in her sincerity. He was ready to die.

Maido fell face downward, and Takara bathed her handkerchief in the blood that flowed from the wound at his waist; then wrapping up the stained symbol, hid it in the folds of her obi;[20] she had taken the oath that is—until avenged.

Divining the clue to Ikamon’s source of information the mikado’s daughter had set out post-haste to frustrate his designs. She first called upon Kido, but he proved to be powerless, in fact was only too glad to have escaped. Then she went to Kanazawa, and there was horrified to learn that her beloved father-in-law too had been snatched away. She did not stop to right herself with Shibusawa, who now charged her with being the accomplice of Daikomitsu—the one person more than any other interested in the downfall of the house of Maido—and when he finally dismissed her, saying:

“There is now nothing to merit even our friendship,” she stooped with sorrow and answered:

“It is true. I am justly served.”

Though their meeting had been a pitiful one, Takara did not break down under the weight of his accusation nor did she weaken in her purpose. She had discovered still greater reason for her activities, and incidentally learned that Shibusawa was fully prepared to withstand any further assault upon his stronghold. She, therefore, left him and resumed her journeying toward Tokyo.

At her arrival there the whole populace seemed in an uproar, the excited mobs everywhere crying:

“To the swamp! to the wilderness! The yamabushi![21] the vile! the disloyal! Asano! Kurano! Maido! Let their bodies be ripped!”

Takara shuddered when she heard the fierce rabble, and her heart poured out its measure. Divining Maido’s last thought, she hastened forward in the hope of reaching him before too late to deliver the word that would give him peace before death. Leaving her carriers at the wood side, she clambered through the mire and under the big trees. Time and again the weird, painful sound grated upon her ears as one after another of the victims said his last:

“Sayonari.”

She struggled on, not knowing which way to go, until she had come within hearing of the mysterious voice of the hidden executioner, who called in rotation the names of those that were performing the honoured rite. She stole after him, and upon calling the name of her lord and master’s father she rushed ahead in time to greet him with the assurance that was to him a recompense for all his trials and sorrow.

Fortunately Takara did not see the sickening evidence of his prolonged and terrible suffering; his abused limbs had sunken into the mire, and she saw only that he had died the death of honour. And she felt happy that she had reached him in time, though Shibusawa knew not that she carried the message. Maido’s joy rewarded her.

The luckless woman’s captor rudely hurried her through the woods, and departing the scene she did not look back. She made no resistance, but obeyed the eager fellow’s command; nor did she think much of the consequences. She tramped along, and as they went the air grew more stifling. The hot breath of the forest rose and choked them, and upon reaching the open they found it there, too, suffocating.

Continuing toward the city, they presently reached the outskirts exhausted—the keeper more than his prisoner—and climbing to the top of a low hill halted for the night. Here there stood a temple, and near by a small tea house in which he undertook, because of his inability to go farther, to hold her captive; proposing to rest until morning, proceeding then to Ikamon’s dungeon, the intended place of her imprisonment. Having securely lodged the hopeful woman in a small detached room, the ponderous captor refreshed himself and lay down in front to keep guard.

The humbled daughter of a proud royalty had failed in her mission, yet in that failure fate had revealed to her the sweetest rite, the consoling of a dying friend. Maido’s lips had been sealed, but in that there arose a fresh desire, and had Takara been privileged to meet the living as she had parted with the dead, she would gladly have resigned herself to her doom. The new responsibility made imperative to her the seemingly hopeless task of again reaching Shibusawa.

CHAPTER XXX
THE EARTHQUAKE

Takara did not give much thought to her imprisonment or the disposition that might be made of her; she felt too tired for that, and had no sooner been left alone than she fell fast asleep. It was quite different though with Bansuro her keeper. He rested hardly any, and could think of nothing but the reward surely to be had for bringing to the high court a spy of so great consequence; for had he not, he reasoned, captured her while in the very act of conversing with the condemned? And would not Ikamon rejoice?

Bansuro had not seen Hontone, Takara’s head carrier and only protector, as he shadowed and watched them like a sleuth. Not satisfied with his mistress’ having gone into the woods alone, he followed and watched from a distance her every movement, and when caged alone in the room at the tea house he felt her safe for the night. Hontone then ran away and brought his fellows, and in the dark and without discovery they planned her rescue.

They lay in the bushes growing about the old, neglected temple, with its crumbling beams and weather-cracked siding, and were within easy reach of the cosey place where Takara slept a prisoner. Now and then Hontone would steal near and listen, then return with the assurance that she yet rested safely. Presently, as the night darkened, the air grew murky and difficult of breathing. It had been intensely sultry all day, but now there came from everywhere hollow soundings, and a hushed silence spread over the earth.

The carriers crouched down and stared blankly; not one of them ventured to speak. The suspense was dreadful and Hontone whispered:

“It is an earthquake!”

Presently they were thrown straight up from the ground, and then down and up, while a mad rumbling sounded in their ears. Their senses seemed suddenly to depart, and they felt as if no certainty of anything remained. A short, breathless lull followed, and then there came another great pounding, as if from beneath, some monster drove at the earth’s crust with a huge hammer. The beams split, the walls cracked, and the tiles rattled down from the roofs. Everywhere the people ran frantic, with dishevelled hair and glaring eyes. They groped at nothing, and cried pitifully. The earth rumbled on, and again they were shocked and thrown from their feet. The ground gaped, and frightened men tumbled headlong or balanced at the edge of dark, bottomless crevices. Thousands fell and their pitiful cries arose from the mysterious deep or died away with a faint echoing of its awful uncertainty. The fire flashed up and burned fiercely among the débris of falling walls and thatched roofs. The cries of the penned-in victims tore their hearts, and they ran hither and thither, bewildered and uncertain. And when the cruel, heartless earthquake had done its frightful work, and there seemed no chance for greater havoc, there came a roaring and crashing as if the sea were rolling onward, crushing and tossing and mangling in its terrible track the half-living who had escaped the lesser, if more frightful, danger. As the tidal wave came on, grinding and swallowing the earth with gluttonous fury, they huddled and waited. There was nothing to do, no hope to cherish, for they knew not a Home beyond. Their god dwelt where the reason finds its sway, and faith is but a factor in what we know.

The mighty wave, rolling inland, tossed upon its crest the treasures of the deep and threw them high upon the mountain side. There were whales of the ocean and ships of the sea hurled a hundred feet above its level and carried miles from its shore. And when the waters receded, carrying likewise the things of the earth, much of the consequences of the terrible disaster went with them. Nor was it satisfied to wash away its own rubbish, but it had carried off, forever, secrets not its own. The dead bodies of Ikamon’s vengeful thirst, too, had gone; they were no more, and the tale of their passing lived only in the memory of the few. The many had a multitude of their own to mourn.

It was an awful catastrophe, and its victims were legion. Still Takara had escaped; at the first warning of the earthquake her keeper had flown—there was no prisoner penned in Ikamon’s dungeon on the morrow, nor any report made of the attempt. After the first shock had passed, Hontone sprang from his hiding-place and seizing Takara, with his strong arms threw her upon his back and ran back into the bushes, where they all clung fast to the roots and lay prone for their lives. Takara knew her men, and happily resigned herself to their protection. Nor did she surrender amiss, for they not only saved her from the fury of the elements, but on the morrow carried her forth from the city unmolested and unnoticed.

Several days had passed before they again reached Kyoto, where Takara rewarded her faithful men, and sought retirement and that rest which soon restored her peace of mind, though the great sorrow continued to weigh heavily upon her heart.

While Takara had failed of her purpose she felt that she had done some good, since she had brought at death some peace to the one who—more than any other, not excepting her own husband—had in some measure come to understand her. She knew that she had done in the past what she believed to be her part, and now that a new purpose and a larger life had dawned she resolved to make herself worthy the trial. Holding her counsel, thenceforth she began the work with an earnestness and faithfulness that bespoke her true character.

CHAPTER XXXI
THE CHILD’S FATE

Though the earthquake had spared no part of the capital, and devastated equally among the high and the lowly, the tidal wave did not rise to the top of the numerous hills spreading over the city. Thus many were saved, and by some unknown freak of fate Ikamon remained among them.

Nor did he suffer much regret; for it had been the certain means of destroying the unsightly evidence of his dastardly act, as well as an occasion for the distraction of the public mind. He had been anxious enough to get rid of his accounted enemies, but did not much relish the talk about it; and now that the nation had been inflicted with a great calamity that would distract their minds, he appeared really glad at heart. The dead daimyos’ succession engaged his attention first, and hastening to bury the official notification beneath the excitement of the moment he began on the very next day to forward letters of advice and condolence.

The prime minister’s expressions of sorrow, especially to Shibusawa, were more than profuse; they were prodigal, and ended by admonishing this young daimyo to repose in him that implicit confidence which “it had been the good fortune of his happy father before him to possess.” He cautioned him to look well to the shogun’s procedures, and speed the day of his coming to Tokyo to prostrate his person at the feet of his august highness.

While Ikamon had been so fortunate in escaping disaster, the same did not prove entirely so with Tetsutaisho. At his house the first shock occasioned much excitement, and dire disaster followed in the wake of the phenomenon. Kinsan had not retired for the night, but sat trilling and musing in her chamber. The child in its kimono lay sleeping on the floor near by, while the warm, sultry air floated in at the house sides, where the slides had not yet been closed. The tall trees overhanging her veranda seemed more shadowless than ever before, and she peered, as she so often did, into the dark solitude outside.

At the first tremor she ran and clasped Sodachinojoi in her arms; then crouched upon the floor, waiting with breathless expectation. In a moment—it seemed an age—Nehachibana flew into the room, with her hair dishevelled and eyes wild and furtive. Shrieking and wailing she implored Ninigi, now god of earth, to forego his quarrel with Sosanoo, and cease tormenting the good people of Jimmu. Kinsan parleyed with her to be calm, and come and sit by her side; but this she would not do, for she now bitterly hated her whom she thought to be her only rival. She would not be consoled, and when the second shock rent the earth beneath them and the house timbers parted and the heavy tiling fell upon their heads a ghastly smile crossed her face, and she played and snapped her fingers, and stole toward the deep, hollow crater opening beneath the rent in the floor.

A falling tile had struck Kinsan a blow on the head and she lay helpless at the edge of the gap in the floor, held only by her clothing from sliding into the yawning crevice below. The child was unhurt; it played upon the tilted mat, and cooed without a sense of its own peril. Nehachibana leaned over it, anxious and breathless. Her eyes flashed and she spoke incoherently, saying;

“Shall I end this wicked sorrow?”

Suddenly the mat slipped and the child slid into the gaping earth, and not a sound arose to tell of its terrible fate. Nehachibana made no effort to stay death’s angry claim, but recoiled from it and charged herself with remorse at having lost the chance to take revenge with her own hand. Then she braced herself and with set teeth said:

“It is not too late!”

Plunging forward and grappling the listless, helpless form that lay heavily upon the brink, she tugged and pushed it almost over, then stopped and weirdly looked around. There was no one there, but the thought startled her, and she said:

“No. I can take a better revenge.”

Pulling her intended victim away from the dangerous place, Nehachibana brought water in a dish, and showered it in her face; then went away, and by the time she had revived she returned, offering assistance and nourishment. Many weeks passed before Kinsan fully recovered, and not until then had she been told of the fate of Tetsutaisho’s son.

No one had witnessed the sad scene except Nehachibana, and she took care to remain silent and undiscovered. Kinsan took the blame all upon herself and sorrowed deeply and pined much over the loss. Tetsutaisho was grief stricken, and for a long time unable to reconcile himself to his only son’s destruction, hence became more kindly disposed toward Kinsan and solicitous for her love. She, however, remained steadfast and true to herself, seeking in every right way to serve her master and atone for the great sorrow that she charged herself with having brought upon him. The disappointed wife in the meantime resorted to every artifice within her weakened range to win Tetsutaisho for herself, and no material change took place among them until she had fully resolved that no hope remained.

Takara had not heard of the disappearance of the child. In fact, having little means of gaining any knowledge of him without too great danger to all concerned, she had long ago ceased to worry about his fortunes. The past was now more than ever a blank to her. She devoted herself to the day at hand, untrammelled by that which had gone before.

Kido, her friend and counsellor, had called a new meeting of the daimyos, confining his invitations to the south and only such others as he knew to be safe. They had been warned against Daikomitsu by Takara, and wisely heeded her advice: the mikado’s cause was a sacred right, and its supporters knew no such thing as disloyalty; their claims were founded upon principle and their measures smacked not of the charlatan. Kido, the recognised “head and pen,” Saigo, the accredited “heart and sword”—they planned nobly and stood ready to fight honourably.

As they had been anxious to secure Maido’s friendship before, they were hopeful of claiming Shibusawa’s after the succession, and Takara, bending all her energies to that end, would gladly have sacrificed home, position, everything, to secure and advance him at the mikado’s court. No one knew better than she that his sympathies were more in accord with their ideals than with the shogunate’s; and could they but enlist him they would be in a position to withstand, if not overwhelm, the enemy. It became a duty with Takara, and Shibusawa rose to be her god.

He on the other hand, knowing himself, and cognisant of his strength, dared not act so quickly. True, his faith in the shogunate was rapidly being shattered—not alone because of his father’s wanton destruction—nor did bitterness poison him; he could see beyond vicious revenge. There were at stake the destinies of a nation, the survival of a civilisation, and the maintenance of a principle that gave or took the liberties of mankind. He must first see the right, then succeed even at the cost of life.

He still doubted Takara, even, in a measure, after learning something of her heroic sacrifices. In serving Maido, she had also served him, told him that his father had died by an honourable rite, to Shibusawa not the chiefest, but a high aim. He thanked her from his heart and promised a blessing, though Daikomitsu he dismissed as unworthy a hearing. He had less desire to avenge an act than to right a wrong, and when the would-be-trickster sought his aid in setting the ronin to move on what he professed to be a common enemy, Shibusawa frowned him away, saying:

“Please do not encourage the thought, much less the act.”

Daikomitsu, however, not so easily frustrated, had a purpose of his own, and sought in other ways to further his schemes, though a tangle ensued where he least desired. The ronin were his fit instruments, and knowing their readiness he sought and before the winter had passed set them well in motion. He not only had done this, but knew better than others just how the forces of state were scattered; and carrying his knowledge with him went to Tokyo and there posed as the wise man from the south, and incidentally, among the prime minister’s enemies, as a most likely successor to Ikamon.

The malcontents offered the means, Ikamon’s removal the place, and the ronin the instrument, through which Daikomitsu was to rise and prepare the way to reach Takara’s heart. Keeping well out of the way of Shibusawa, who, therefore, gave his movements no further concern, the apparent dullard proved equal to the occasion, and along these lines made the advance.

CHAPTER XXXII
RONIN RAIDS

Owing to unsettled conditions the ensuing winter proved most opportune for Daikomitsu to further his schemes and advance his prospects. Much dissatisfaction had grown out of Ikamon’s cold-blooded work, and even his friends were shocked at his audacity. While he still maintained control of the shogun’s party, he held them together only with considerable difficulty, and long before the final blow came found himself in dire straits for sufficient support, even the protection of Tetsutaisho.

Outside of Tokyo his doings were looked upon as the voice of the shogunate and his acts charged thereto, while at home a feeling gained ground that the power must be wrested from his hands and the party restored to its former status. Many realised that they could not long stand before the inroads of the foreigners on the one hand and the cry of the populace on the other. Ikamon’s friendly concession had ceased to satisfy the one, and his daring blow failed to crush the other; his enemies were eager for his downfall, and Daikomitsu offered the most potent, if not reasonable solution. Therefore they welcomed him and winked at his questionable doings.

After placing himself on friendly terms with the ronin, Daikomitsu began urging them to greater activity, and as they had already become eager for some chance again to make themselves felt they were only too easily inflamed. Although these strange bands of marauders held many grievances they advanced no definite policy, and allied themselves with no particular party or faction; they had come into existence through an infraction of the law and lived and thrived best on disorder. The friendship of one so high in the councils of state as Daikomitsu they considered a license as well as an honour; and, listening earnestly to his counsel, advanced, before spring had come, afresh upon their terrible raids.

Daikomitsu kept himself well informed as to their movements, and long before they had concentrated upon Tokyo had gone there and begun the rebuilding of his popularity. Managing to elude his acquaintances at Kyoto and get away without arousing suspicion as to his intentions and aspirations even Takara did not divine his real purposes, and Kido knew nothing of them and cared less about him. Nor did his friends, professed or otherwise, in Tokyo know anything about his connection with the ronin, but (when they thought of him at all) considered him a statesman and a patriot, without any direct connection with any party or faction at either place. They knew he was of the literati and a kuge by birth, but counted him equally a friend to the true shogunate.

All the major wrongs complained of by the ronin were directly chargeable, as they thought, to the shogunate, and in consequence their activities began in that direction. Assuming the disguise of various occupations many of them gathered at Tokyo, marking their victims and preparing to make good their own escape. Regular meetings were held and all movements directed orderly and with despatch, so that as a whole they made no mistakes, while each member bound himself by an inviolable oath. They had been worked up to the belief that Ikamon was responsible for everything, and lest he should escape, early marked him as their first victim and awaited only the word of Daikomitsu, who in due time said:

“Take the principal first. You can better right the wrong after the instigator is gone.”

Ikamon, with all his spies, remained ignorant of the plot against him, probably because he considered Daikomitsu his friend and believed in the crude contrivances advanced to throw him off his guard; possibly because of his being beset with a multiplicity of dangers, for these were to him hard and trying times. He could trust no one now except Yasuko, his wife, who had remained loyal to him and proud of his achievements. She knew not the reason, nor did she question his motives; she trusted him, and that was to her enough.

“I shall be home early to-day, Yasuko,” said Ikamon as he parted, bowing politely to his wife, and started off on a blustering morning in March to attend to some official duties which called him outside.

“Then Yasuko is happy, and will abide here and look until you come,” said she in answer.

She did look, for he had never deceived her, as she knew; and she saw the most frightful thing, and fell to the floor weeping bitterly. Her husband did not return; but in passing the Sakurado gate had been set upon by the ronin, and, without any chance of defence or escape, beheaded; and his head placed upon a long pole, carried high in the air, was planted at his door.

This gruesome sight greeted Yasuko when she looked out along the roadway where she had so often watched her husband’s coming and welcomed his entrance. So swift had been the work of his assailants that none could offer resistance or interfere until the deed had been accomplished and the warning carried into the midst of his own household. There they staked their trophy high in the air, and departing made so good their escape that no one knew until a later day who had done the hideous work.

The removal of Ikamon proved an effective blow to his policy, and brought about a speedy reorganisation of the party. Hitotsubashi’s regency was made certain, and Daikomitsu with little opposition chosen prime minister; in fact, the latter had been decided upon by the former incumbent’s enemies before the butchery occurred.

The main opposition, however, came from Tetsutaisho, though Ikamon’s absence left him illy prepared to cope with the opposition in the council chamber or at the lobby. Still he developed sufficient strength to maintain his own position and wrest from them, finally, his promotion to commander-in-chief of all the shogun’s forces. In this he was considered fortunate; and even he, himself, deemed his place more secure under the new régime than under the old. He reasoned that it could not have been long before Ikamon’s downfall would have come from another source, and in that event he would himself, perhaps, have been less able to force recognition as a result of his own strength. He had grown wiser with experience, and no longer desired particularly to fly at the tail of another man’s kite. Daikomitsu had early learned that Tetsutaisho was a friend of the army and they his main supporters, and of late made every endeavour to cultivate the popular general’s friendship. He had always taken pains not to give Tetsutaisho the impression that he himself rivalled the latter’s brother-in-law; but on the contrary had assumed such a plausible friendship to both that the liberal-minded commander never really knew the secret of the wise man’s success.

Yet, with all his tolerance, he did not care to trust the new prime minister too much. He lacked confidence in his ability and remained not at all sanguine as to his motives; still he would not let any man’s preferment stand between him and his shogun’s government. Loyalty was his watchword, and honour, as measured by feudal standards, his virtue; neither of which, from his way of thinking, could possibly be attained outside of the shogunate.

Position he had; for wealth he cared not. His friends he worshipped; to his enemies he gave no quarter. He lived for the love of living, and believed the mode made right the result. So far as he knew his own advancement had come more as a matter of consequence than as a reward for effort. He considered himself amenable to established law, and such a thing as a shogun’s wrong-doing had no place in the mind of Tetsutaisho.

CHAPTER XXXIII
THE RISE OF SHIBUSAWA

The untimely death of Ikamon caused little regret, even at Tokyo; no attempt was made to apprehend his murderers, and Daikomitsu settled down, satisfied in the enjoyment of his emoluments. Shibusawa remained without his sphere and Takara soon ceased to supersede the ease and comfort flowing from official complaisance. The new policy encouraged quietude, but lacked stability, and only, perhaps, Shibusawa fathomed the true cause for unrest.

Yet, being unprepared, he could take no part in its effective solution. Like his father before him he had held himself aloof as much as possible from the turmoils of state, devoting his energies to internal security and improvement; not because of seeking to shirk his duties, but that he might better prepare himself for the responsibilities. He knew in his own heart that from the day Perry’s guns first sounded in the harbour the foreigner had secured a permanent foothold, and that with him he had brought a new life, the introduction of which meant more to them than all the family quarrels and local measures of all the centuries that had gone before.

Not only this, but he saw that in adapting themselves to the new relations feudalism must go, and with it there would and should fall some of the evil tendencies of the day; none disapproved by him more than that of class limitation upon marriage. He had come to believe the home the foundation of all organised society, and held that as it harmonised the affinities of life so government should make possible the highest beauties consistent with universality; and as time went on repeated confirmations of his views so strengthened his belief that he began to search for a means of absorbing as much of the new civilisation as might be forced upon them, or as should seem beneficial, without losing in any measure their own autonomy. Finally he had abandoned all hope in the shogunate and, in consequence, begun to look toward the mikadate. It seemed his only natural alternative; possibly the most logical one.

Daikomitsu on the other hand found himself more completely submerged in the shogunate than he at first anticipated. He had intended to rid himself of the ronin, but not until their attack upon the foreign legation at Tokyo did he succeed, emerging with a complete vindication of his true diplomatic qualities. He had not only effectually cleared the country of these desperadoes, but placed himself upon a high pedestal, and even Tetsutaisho began to admire him, though he could not fully respect him.

During the transition stage, lasting from Daikomitsu’s accession to the death of Komei, Shibusawa had ample time to prepare for the work himself planned or by others thrust upon him. These were trying times; this a patient, energetic, and ambitious people, and not alone fate, but fortune proved a moving force behind their destiny. From the first Takara’s hand had been felt, though Shibusawa knew it not. She developed among the adherents of the south a strength that gave her voice in the councils shadowing the court at Kyoto, and she used it to advance a single purpose—the only one, as she thought, consistent with her duties as a wife and her position as a kuge—furthering the cause of her husband and building the fortunes of the mikado.

Gradually though unconsciously this influence began to be felt by Shibusawa, and before he knew it he had gone so far into national affairs that he needs must play an important part. Nor did he give himself solely to political matters, for Kinsan remained ever before him; and though without possible communication he loved her constantly and truly. He saw in her more and more the ideal of existence, the soul of the universe, the crowning glory of all that is. He longed for her and had he the power would have sought her and claimed her and taken her, even though his former convictions had been true or remained uncontradicted. Without knowing her sacrifices, something told him that her heart was true, and he asked of himself:

“After all, of what consequence is the flesh?”

Taking advantage of a measure enacted early under Daikomitsu’s incumbency, authorising the daimyos and princes of the blood to remove their families and lawful kin from the capital, Shibusawa asked his sister Yasuko to come to him, and though still mourning the loss of her husband she accepted the invitation and proved to be a great consolation to her brother, they becoming fast and true friends and she a liberal adviser. In her he found a companionship that helped him through the many events leading up to his call to the front, though in no measure did it deter him from shaping a course toward his high ideal.

The mikado had taken it upon himself to send an embassy to Europe and America to examine and report conditions, while the shogun had in person conferred with his highness at Kyoto. The latter event resolved itself into a proposal by the mikado that the shogun accompany him on a pilgrimage to the temple Hachiman at Yamashiro, that he might deliver his own sword to the mighty war god Ojin, thus inducing his celestial mightiness to drive out the “barbarian foreigners”; at which the shogun somewhat reluctantly expressed his indisposition to join in such a hazardous undertaking, thereupon retiring to his own stronghold; never again proposing or sanctioning a conference with his “heavenly brother-in-power.”

Shortly after this, possibly for the purpose of encouraging a breach between the two courts, several of the southern daimyos, together with Saigo, Iwakura, and some other kuge attempted to carry off to the southward the person of the mikado, and were prevented in their daring scheme only by the timely interference of Shibusawa. He had been urged into taking the step by Takara through the auspices of Kido, and for the heroism displayed gained high esteem at Kyoto; the schemers themselves coming gradually to respect him and Saigo to believe in him. Henceforth Shibusawa attended their councils and his voice rose to be felt, while Takara began to worship him, and used all her energies and influence to further his friendship with the mikado and raise his standing in the south.

Soon after, the Shimonoseki affair once more roused the country; and the report of the foreign embassy maddened them. They had returned and said in substance:

“We are the barbarians!”

In consequence of this, as the mikado remarked, “foolish report,” the embassy were forthwith reprimanded and deprived of office; the mikado declaring:

“Diabolical spirits rule in this land of the gods, intending to do away with customs dear to us. They must forthwith be driven out.”

Nor was he alone in his belief, for before the close of the season his rabid adherents rallied and defeated a detachment of the shogun’s army sent against them; encouraging the mikado to issue the famous edict against the Christians, whereby more than three thousand converts fell victims to its bane and were distributed among the daimyos as slaves at common labour. Nor were they protected by the shogun nor greatly mourned by their friends; the dislike of the foreigners had become so rooted that even the shogunate seemed a crumbling structure ready to fall at the first organised assault. The revolt spread; but, at the call of a new leader, who raised the banner of right shorn of weakness and purged of the last taint of bigotry and dark mysticism.

Shibusawa proved the man of the hour, and he brought honesty and intelligence to the rally of courage and patriotism. He arose in his power, put a check upon blind impulse, and set in motion the forces that were to start the wheels of progress, to open the way to a place in the sisterhood of nations. Addressing a letter to the mikado he said:

“The western foreigners of to-day are different from those of a former day. They are much more advanced and powerful; the conflict is an unequal one, and Japan will be shattered like roofing tile. The cry that reaches you comes from those who do not understand; it is a misfortune longer to attempt to close our doors. Instead let us devote ourselves to house-building, husbandry, forestry, jurisprudence, and science, and the benefits derived will more than offset the loss sustained at the hands of the foreigners. There is a better way to meet their aggression than by resort to force, and if your majesty will so permit we pledge ourselves to serve you, the divine and rightful ruler of this land.”

The letter had its effect, and thenceforth there were but two parties, both of which tolerated the foreigner, and with one of which every loyal citizen must sooner or later cast his fortunes. In the following autumn Iyemochi died, and Hitotsubashi proclaimed his successor, began to discharge the offices of shogun, as the vacillating tool of the strongest triumvirate that had yet undertaken to rehabilitate the waning powers of a rapidly fading court.

Hitotsubashi proved an easy dupe and ready listener by turns to Daikomitsu, Okotsuba, and Tetsutaisho, the three ministers who were destined to guide the fortunes of the tottering shogunate till the last faint quiver told of its final collapse, while Mutsuhito, succeeding the deceased mikado, Komie, in the following spring, began that series of brilliant moves which welded together the hearts of his people and secured to him his rightful position as supreme and undivided ruler of his country. From this time forth the mikadate were united upon one thing—the downfall of the shogunate. They had had enough of dual government, with its intrigues and dangers—if glorious—and the liberal Mutsuhito pledged himself to the constitution, by which Shibusawa had proposed the people’s rights, and for which he gave his undivided support.

The time had come to strike, and when Shibusawa proposed in open council that Kido be instructed to address a letter to Hitotsubashi as shogun, Saigo rose and asked its purport. Shibusawa answered:

“Advise the shogun to abdicate in favour of the mikado.”

A stillness settled over the chamber, then a roar of applause burst forth such as had never before been heard. The giant Saigo thundered his approval, white-haired men leaped in the air, and everybody shouted:

“Long live the mikado!”

The letter, demanding an immediate answer, forthwith reached the hands of Daikomitsu, who, startled with the warning, repaired to the temple of Shiba, and there prayed to Omikami for light, that he might not “stumble in the darkness.” Acting upon the advice of this good goddess he laid the matter before his associates in the triumvirate, resulting in a division of opinion.

Tetsutaisho was a samurai, and none such ever dreamed of defeat. A thousand years of feudalism had well taught them their profession. Continued success made them believe themselves invincible. The shogun was their idol and war their deliverance. Thus the commander-in-chief urged the shogun’s defence, and would not agree to any other means than force. He was overruled and a more diplomatic course proposed, yet he sulked and withheld approval. Tetsutaisho had assented to Hitotsubashi’s assumption of the functions of shogun because he believed it necessary; and he was perfectly willing that he should be held and used as a dupe, but this letter from the south appeared to be a direct attack upon the shogunate, and no matter who was shogun he believed it high time to strike rather than quibble. Daikomitsu answered:

“A resignation from Hitotsubashi, an incumbent, can in no manner affect the shogunate, an established institution. If the people want to continue the one they will restore the other, besides such an act would forever put the question out of our way. It would also confuse and baffle the opposition, thus giving us time to prepare an effective defence.”

“But we are prepared,” answered Tetsutaisho.

“I doubt it.”

“Then you distrust the samurai?”

“No.”

“What then?”

“Hitotsubashi.”

“He has no following.”

“He has friends, and we can best insure their support and the enemies’ confusion by advising this resignation. They dread us more than him.”

“The opposition has given us a splendid chance,” interposed Okotsuba.

“And we are wasting our opportunities,” answered Tetsutaisho.

“We have no cause to move; we do not recognise the combination,” said Daikomitsu.

“The resignation will test their purpose. I say let us send it forthwith,” said Okotsuba, recognising the force of Daikomitsu’s argument.

“I recommend it,” said Daikomitsu, earnestly.

“I do not approve of it,” answered Tetsutaisho resolutely.

Upon the theory that his resignation would not in fact be accepted, Hitotsubashi finally signed the letter of resignation; whereupon, without any serious dissension, it was forwarded to Kyoto, and Daikomitsu felt relieved, though puzzled as to what the next move would be.

CHAPTER XXXIV
NEHACHIBANA’S REVENGE

Tetsutaisho, not at all pleased with the result of the conference nor convinced of the wisdom of Daikomitsu’s diplomacy, had been persuaded quietly to acquiesce, at least for the time being; and going home settled down, probably for the first time in his life, to a calm and deliberate consideration for the future. Presently he became uneasy and, with unsettled thoughts, said to himself:

“Pshaw! Why this worry? Let others stew and fuss: I am a soldier, and have a better business at hand. I shall seek Kinsan and let her sing to me—it is soothing, and more to the purpose of a gentleman.”

He did so, and she impressed him more than ever with the melody of her song. Probably it was because of the clear, crisp air of a winter’s night’s inspiration; more likely it had been a consciousness of her master’s growing gentleness, or the hope within that some day her heart would soften and her mind cease its vigil. Whatever it may have been, she poured out that lofty sentiment that ever eases a lonely, earnest soul. She sang sweetly, and the rising notes wafted out upon the still air, reaching and piercing another who had grown to hate with the vengeance and covet with the fury of a maddened fiend.

Nehachibana listened. She could bear it no longer, and with bated breath and snapping fingers stole upon them. There in the bright light she saw them, and stopped as if drunk with envy. He sat with his face upturned; Kinsan stood at one side, looking far, far away, and her voice trembled with a pathos that stayed even her destroyer. Nehachibana crouched, then sprang at her, shrieking:

“Geisha! Adulteress! Murderer!”

The sudden fright overcame Kinsan; she ceased singing, then choked for breath and stood trembling, with her head drooping; she coloured, then turned ashen.

Tetsutaisho arose and advancing toward his wife said in a calm voice:

“What do you mean, Nehachibana?”

“That joro is the murderer of your child, Sodachinojoi! I saw it with my own eyes.”

Turning upon Kinsan, but without advancing, Tetsutaisho said harshly:

“Is this true?”

Kinsan made no answer, nor did she raise her eyes, but stood nervously toying with the folds of her obie. Perhaps she did not hear him, heeded only his neglect. Why did he not turn to her as he had so often done, and soothe her with his kind words and shield her from her accuser? The question burned at her already aching heart, and no one answered.

Tetsutaisho, turning around politely, said to Nehachibana:

“Please retire to your own apartment and there wait my coming. I shall want further to converse with you this evening. Obey me and go now, will you?”

Nehachibana made no protest, but departed as bidden, glancing sidewise at Kinsan; her eyes sparkled, her lip curled, and she smiled the secret of her heart. Kinsan neither spoke to her nor pleaded with her, but looked at Nehachibana with softened eyes, and a great pity welled up from the bottom of her heart.

After Nehachibana had left the room Tetsutaisho approached Kinsan and said with low emphasis:

“And this is how you have served your master?”

Again she did not answer; it was because she could not. She only sobbed with a broken heart. Tetsutaisho clapped his hands and a servant came quickly toward him.

“The guards!” said he; then calmly stood surveying his victim.

He had but a short time to wait until they came, though it served Tetsutaisho to cover well in his heated memory the last few years. Likely Kinsan did the same, but hers was a different mood. He did not ask himself the reason, and consulted only impulse; he may have let hatred enter his heart, for he now began to suspect as well as doubt his once upon a time passing friend, Daikomitsu.

From the time Daikomitsu first came into official position at Tokyo he had been a constant if not wholly welcome guest at Tetsutaisho’s house. From the beginning he had divined Nehachibana’s master passion, and always tried as best he could to relieve her hard distress. He had also observed Kinsan and cultivated her friendship, not that he loved her, but because he admired her wonderful gift. He, a patron of art and lover of the beautiful, quickly appreciated Kinsan’s powers, and instinctively knew and respected her virtue. That Nehachibana was entirely wrong in her attitude toward Kinsan he had been fully convinced, and long hoped sometime to advise the one of her false impressions and relieve the other of her natural predicament. Thus he had become a familiar visitor, and his attentions were bestowed no less upon the one than the other. Tetsutaisho had never frowned upon any of these courtesies, in fact rather encouraged them, feeling honoured by the prime minister’s warm attentions. He had, consequently, upon more than one occasion, freely given Daikomitsu the loan of Kinsan to sing at entertainments of high degree; and however vulgar the southern prince may have been in other ways, and whatever may have been Tetsutaisho’s conclusions at this late day, the former’s intercourse with the latter’s family certainly had been of the purest and most honourable kind.

By the time the guards had arrived Tetsutaisho had worked himself up to the proper degree of feeling, however, and without further ado pointed to Kinsan, saying in a commanding tone of voice:

“To the dungeon!”

As she was being hurried from the house Tetsutaisho turned his back upon the one he had so long coveted, and hastened to his wife, nervously listening to her clear and unequivocal denunciation. She told him without a blush how she had come upon Kinsan while in the act of flinging the sleeping child into the dark crevice, and how she had suffered through all these years with fear, and how she had hesitated to disclose to him her knowledge of the awful deed because she believed his love for Kinsan would bring a punishment upon herself.

“You will forgive me, my most honourable husband, will you not?” said she, calmly and invitingly.

He did not deign to answer her, though his strong frame trembled as an ungoverned rage leaped to the fore and grew within him. For Nehachibana he had no compassion; nothing but regret. He mourned his lost son, and waxed hot with anger.

“She shall die, and that by the saw!” said he, in a half-crazed undertone.

“No, no; give me the chance; I’ll devise a torment!” said Nehachibana, quickly.

“You? And why you?”

Nehachibana stared blankly. She did not comprehend. She had no answer. He looked at her and for the first time realised the truth. He knew in a moment the awful consequences of his life. He would then have recalled Kinsan, but the loss of his only son was more than he could bear; without a thought of further inquiry he believed her guilty; if not of murder then of unfaithfulness, and according to his code either gave sufficient cause; her punishment must follow as the only lawful consequence.

Thus he parted with Nehachibana without further denial or assurance, and she felt happy and satisfied with her revenge; and when Daikomitsu called the next evening, she made haste to express her delight, offering no pretence of shielding Kinsan’s wicked fate. The prime minister was shocked at her lack of feeling, and listened to her with astonishment; she did not stop with revelling at Kinsan’s sorrow, but lauded the infant of whom she knew her husband to be the father, and flattered herself at the thought of its highborn mother.

Daikomitsu sat dumfoundered and full of pity until his informant volunteered to disclose the name of Sodachinojoi’s mother, then he started and with frightened voice said:

“Nehachibana! You must cease gabbling.”

“A-h-!” said she, with a drawled accent.

“Promise me that you will never again mention Takara’s name. Will you do this much for me?” said he nervously.

She snapped her fingers fiercely, and without taking her eyes away said, slowly:

“I shall not speak her name again.”

Daikomitsu knew that her promise would never be broken, and went his way somewhat relieved, yet overwhelmed; for he also knew that what she related as a fact must likewise be true—such an one never mistaking a truth or breaking a promise, when made or known. Nor was he alone shocked at the revelation of Takara’s dreadful secret; he felt equally pained at Kinsan’s misfortune. The former he would take time to consider, but the latter he should right at once; else suffer a great wrong to befall not only her, but Nehachibana and Tetsutaisho as well.

On the following day the prime minister sent post-haste for Tetsutaisho, asking him to come at once to his house, then approaching him kindly, advised that he forego so severe a punishment, at least until time should make its justice certain.

“And you would also interfere with our private affairs? What next may not a gentleman expect? Pray tell me,” said Tetsutaisho rather sarcastically.

“No. I thought possibly the motherhood of this child might sometime be questioned by a higher power, and in that case my friend Tetsutaisho might have serious need for this Kinsan whom he has so lightly condemned,” said Daikomitsu, in answer.

“Then you know as much?”

“I would rather that you should be the judge.”

“Very well; I shall place her in the stocks. It will answer my purpose quite as well and, now that I come to think, it may be a more befitting punishment—and, also, a convenience to you. You can better visit her in my back yard, Daikomitsu.”

“I may do so—to see that Tetsutaisho is as faithful in granting her that liberty as he has been punctual in making me the promise.”

“Tetsutaisho is a man of honour.”

“I believe it, else I should have sought another means.”

Tetsutaisho was not so much mystified at Daikomitsu’s request as overawed with the apparent threat, for he knew the prime minister to be a favourite with the shogun and did not wish just yet to put to a test their respective strength before that tribunal; and could easily infer from his words a determination to go even so far. Nor did he court the idea of exposure, particularly at Kyoto; by this time knowing Takara to be quite as anxious as he, and feeling that he must shield her at any cost. Thus he had hastily concluded to delay Kinsan’s destruction, and gratify the law’s permit by meting out a meaner penalty.

On the next day, therefore, the frail Kinsan with downcast eyes and haggard appearance was turned loose in the back grounds of her master’s dwelling, there to carry, day and night, through rain or sunshine, the heavy stocks, clasped about her neck and weighted upon her tender shoulders.

And there, taunted and alone, she bore her punishment without a murmur, and sinking exhausted at night always offered prayers for the one she loved, and for those whom she believed she had wronged and who had in charity granted her the privilege of even such an existence. Having already suffered in her own heart far more than death, now that the day’s penalty had been imposed, she felt better able to bear her part; and was glad for life, though bitter it be, that she might atone for the wickedness with which she unknowingly held herself charged.

Nor did she suffer only from the weight of the stocks, but often felt that she must starve for want of food, and her mouth parched and tongue swelled, for by reason of the wide board she could neither feed herself nor raise water to her lips, though a crystal stream sparkled and flowed at her feet, where she would often stand and look until she fell faint, and almost envied the little birds that came and drank, then perched upon the plank at her neck and sang songs to her and hopped about with glee. The sun shone hot or the storm beat hard upon her; the flies and gnats pestered her, and often when she could no longer resist sleep the rats and vermin climbed upon the wide board, and she would take fright and arouse to prevent their gnawing at her face. And once, while exhausted with hunger and faint with thirst, Nehachibana came up to her and mocked her and gave her red peppers to eat and threw water at her feet, then ran away.

All this Kinsan suffered until about to despair, when a little friend came to her,—it was the daughter of Mrs. Lindley the missionary,—after which she had regular food and drink, and felt thankful, though it was scant and strangely prepared. The jeers of the children did not provoke her and she bore all the cruelties without a protest; and at night the doleful sound of the massagist’s whistle kept her company—stealing along the streets, plying his blind, nocturnal trade. And then she would sleep and dream of the cave up yonder on the hillside not far away and of the days when she gave her heart in truth and builded her faith upon hope alone.