Daikomitsu took pains to see for himself that Tetsutaisho had kept his word with reference to Kinsan’s punishment, then without further attention devoted himself to the arduous duties rapidly crowding around him. He felt that Takara’s secret rested safe for the present, therefore did not worry much about her, although the knowledge of her failure had been a severe blow to him. There were other things needing his attention more than a private affair, and as he had never been an extremely ardent lover it did not entail any great sacrifice on his part to put thoughts of Takara aside and busy himself with matters more urgent.
Rumours coming in daily from the south made it more and more apparent that sooner or later a determined resistance would be offered to the mandates of the shogun, no matter who the incumbent or what the purport of their recent letter might be. Yet the shogunate had in no wise prepared to meet it, and the delay hoped for as a result of the frank and unequivocal resignation of Hitotsubashi was much needed by Daikomitsu and Okotsuba in making a last heroic effort to gather and utilise the fragments of their strength. Tetsutaisho took no active part in these endeavours, neither did he offer any strong resistance or disencouragement; nor was his failure at that time so much felt. He was a fighter, not an organiser; still his actions had a bad influence upon the samurai (which constituted the shogun’s army), as it also embarrassed the remaining members of the triumvirate in the use of a free hand and undisturbed purpose. The feeling of uncertainty arising from his indifference caused more hindrance than any other, and Daikomitsu grew puzzled to know just what Tetsutaisho would do when it came to the final test.
Both Daikomitsu and Okotsuba knew very well that the commander-in-chief’s influence with the army rose above that of any other man, and that without his leadership the samurai would be hard to hold intact. Yet they could not think of surrendering entirely to his careless if not boastful ideas, so they undertook to make their preparation for war harmonise with his notions, in so far as it became necessary in order to hold his support.
The letter containing the resignation, upon its arrival at Kyoto, so surprised the leaders of the southern combination that they forthwith began the reorganisation of the government upon the lines laid down at a previous assembly of the daimyos. They felt that the first step toward a complete rehabilitation had been successfully effected, though not entirely secured without having gained the sole and unqualified possession of the person of the mikado. It had been a universal custom for the shogun to keep a body of samurai posted at the gate of the Kyoto palace as a safeguard to the security of the mikado, and now that the combination looked upon the latter as their sole supreme ruler they no longer deemed it safe or desirable to intrust in any measure his protection to a guard of the enemy, nor to allow them access to the palace.
Hence on the third of January Saigo seized the gates and dismissed the detachment of samurai there stationed, while the council issued in the name of the mikado, an edict abolishing the office of shogun, forbidding the bakufu entrance to the palace enclosure, and warning all against interfering in any way with the royal court or council.
It came as an unexpected blow to the shogun and his advisers, thoroughly convincing them that, contrary to their expectations, Hitotsubashi’s resignation had been promptly accepted and positively acted upon. It also disabused the minds of the triumvirate of any hope of their being recognised by the combination at Kyoto, and Daikomitsu was forced to acknowlege that Hitotsubashi’s resignation had been considered the act of the shogunate: that he as well as the adherents of the Tokyo court would be compelled to defend with arms their time-honoured institution. The last hope of conciliation had been swept away, and Daikomitsu, if not his associates, realised that it had come to a battle to the death, not for the expulsion of the foreigner, but for the very life of the shogunate itself.
Immediately upon the mikadate’s closing of the gates at Kyoto and declaring the shogunate at an end, the princes Owara and Kii had been despatched to the shogun with a request that he come to Kyoto, join the new government, and receive suitable recognition and position thereunder. The shogun was weak and unable to decide; he hesitated and wavered between two counsels, for there now developed a test of strength between Daikomitsu and Tetsutaisho.
As usual, however, it again fell to the lot of the army to determine. Whatever may have been Daikomitsu’s reasons—whether a recognition of the inevitable or a desire to obtain the best terms possible, or whether to rid themselves of the cumbersome Hitotsubashi—he continued to urge the shogun to comply with the mikado’s request and go forthwith, peaceably and unattended by military display, and submit himself and his friends to the reasonable disposition of the Kyoto court. Okotsuba, in command of all the shogun’s navy, gave his hearty support to Daikomitsu’s proposals, and Hitotsubashi reluctantly consented, forthwith communicating his intention to the mikado’s envoy, sending back to Kyoto his best respects and hearty assurances.
Hitotsubashi had not gone though, nor was he to do so until Tetsutaisho’s recommendations had wrought their influence. This proud samurai had not been so easily convinced of the wisdom of Daikomitsu’s policy, and now that he had come to questioning the latter’s motives he began quietly to break faith with the triumvirate and to approach the vacillating shogun directly, urging secretly a counter plan—one more to his own liking and carrying with it a greater enthusiasm. He argued:
“Would you give this splendid army, the fleet, their arms and equipments, into the hands of a weaker force? Sacrifice all these, the building of centuries, at the first cry of danger? Surrender your birthright and defame the gods? They tell you they are your friends, but I believe them to be foes. They say they are strong, yet I know they are weak. They cry the samurai are for peace, though I grant they are for war. Then why not let this talk of peace be crowned with war? I say, marshall the hosts of Shishi-Fukinjin, and enter the gates of Kyoto with a force that will sound the warning of Raiden and spread the havoc of Hoorie.”
“Can you convince me of the samurai?” asked Hitotsubashi, with growing enthusiasm.
“You have only to make the call,” answered the roused-up commander.
“To-morrow I will hear them at the palace gate, and if Tetsutaisho be vindicated then Hitotsubashi shall turn his face toward Bishamon and hearken to the voice of Ojin. Let it be as it may, and go hence now, that you fail not then, for the hour is to be nine; then the march shall begin.”
“I serve you, my most honourable shogun and august ruler.”
Tetsutaisho made short his audience, and went away with a light heart and glowing purpose. He had met with his first victory, and now almost regretted having ever listened to the counsels of Daikomitsu or having pledged himself to any other or further understanding than the valiant defence of his shogun. All this happened on a clear, bright morning while the air was crisp and frosty. The sun had barely risen, and Tetsutaisho’s drill served him well in getting the attention of the shogun long before the brainy prime minister had thought of quitting his needed slumbers. Leaving the shogun Tetsutaisho hastened along with vigorous step and rising purpose to army headquarters, and there gave the command that was to send a thrill to the heart of every loyal Japanese—whatever banner, the shogun’s or the mikado’s, might be the emblem of his fortunes. To his subordinates he said:
“You will mobilise and report at the inner palace gate to-morrow not later than nine o’clock in the morning.”
No intimation was given of what he expected—they knew their commander had spoken and that if any should be delinquent it would be they and not he. Tetsutaisho gave himself no further concern, but on the following day took his place at the gate promptly on time, as did also Hitotsubashi, Okotsuba, and strangely enough, Daikomitsu.
Nor were the samurai late in coming, for discipline had been their life’s teaching and they knew no such thing as failure. They lined up, the left and right divisions in double rank on either side of the roadway, their front resting on the inner gate and their rear stretching through the outer gate afar into the city beyond. The soft, light uniforms of the swordsmen wound round their waists and fell on one side well down toward the ground. At the other side hung their black sheaths and polished hilts, while their bared arms and quick eyes told of their great skill at the business of war. The spearsmen with their brown breasts and short skirts, resting lightly upon their spear handles, lined up at the rear on either side, their spear points glistening away and beyond the reach of human eyes. These were men of muscle, and their bared limbs bespoke a wonderful endurance.
All together, Tetsutaisho might be proud and Hitotsubashi enthused with the splendid army of their valorous defenders. The sun peeped out from behind a passing cloud, and its rays dazzled and reflected from a hundred thousand bright sides as the long lines broke and faced about in double file and their commander stepped forward to greet them. Bowing low to his shogun he arose and leaned forward from the battlement. He spoke in a clear, ringing voice, his words being echoed and handed on from man to man, squad to squad, and host to host to the last one in line:
“Comrades and samurai: Our shogun has been assailed, and your commander’s honour is at stake. Do you follow me?”
The answer came thundering back:
“Until death!”
There was not a dissenting voice, and even Daikomitsu marvelled at their unison of purpose and offered not a breath of protest. The shogun mounted his war chair, and Tetsutaisho marched out at the head of the heart and flower of feudalistic Japan. The war god had whispered sweetly the glories of victory, and Hitotsubashi had listened. He drank of the poisoned waters, and became drunk with desire. He had again changed his mind, and Daikomitsu’s counsel was of no avail; he must go, and his friends suffer the consequences of his folly.
They marched out of the city and on toward the enemy, nothing of importance interrupting their progress until they had reached Fushima, not far distant from Kyoto. Here the gates were closed against them, and Tetsutaisho met face to face his older rival, Shibusawa.
Shibusawa, the young daimyo, was there with a goodly share of the forces of Kanazawa intrenched behind formidable walls, and the voice of the cannon warned Tetsutaisho of the former’s determination to stand, even at the cost of defeat.
When the mikado’s envoy returned with Hitotsubashi’s promise all Kyoto had gone wild. Every preparation had been made for his gala entrance into the capital and for his welcome at the mikado’s palace. A million yens had been set aside to defray the cost and Saigo sent into the south to marshall a force wherewithal to meet the shogun’s coming in the height of gorgeous display. The day had been fixed upon for Hitotsubashi’s friendly arrival, and no thought of war entered their minds.
Thus they found themselves relaxed and unprepared upon receipt of advance news that the shogun hastily approached with a powerful army under the command of the invincible Tetsutaisho, and in consequence their very existence seemed threatened. There was no time now to reach Saigo; he had gone far away into the southland. The force left in front of the gates at Kyoto formed scarcely a bodyguard, and at last the combination had been brought face to face with the perils of active warfare.
Yet there appeared an alternative, and it was Takara who advanced its proposal. The council had met in closed session, and had now become no less than a storm of indecision. Shibusawa chanced to be absent, and Kido, alone and unsupported, was unable to quell the tumult in a disorganised and frantic chamber. Amidst this frenzy the doors opened and the mikado’s daughter entered. A hush came over them, for never before had a woman dared enter there. It had been the business of men, and since the days of Jingo their council remained barred to the presence of women. They ceased quarrelling and stared intently. She hastened forward, first addressing Kido, then the assembly:
“Honourable chairman, and men of the council, hold your tongues! There is need of a better work.”
Not a voice was raised against her; she had gained their attention. Kido, only, ventured to speak, asking her to proceed.
“Would you sit here inert, while the enemy beat down your doors? Falter in the hour of need? Ignore the help that is within reach?”
“No, no, no!” came from everywhere around her.
“Then I implore you to act,” said she, resolutely.
“But who is there? Where is our defence?” said a voice in front.
“Shibusawa!”
A stillness came over them. They had not thought of him—their minds did not go beyond their own little sphere. Possibly Kido had thought as deeply, but the time had not come for him to speak. Takara had now robbed him of the privilege, and every man there shouted himself hoarse with applause. It was thenceforth Shibusawa who could and would save them; drafting a formal request Takara in the absence of a dissenting voice was chosen the trusted messenger.
She lost no time in reaching Shibusawa, nor he in accepting the responsibilities; and while it may have taken him longer than Tetsutaisho to mobilise his forces the distance was short and, once on the ground, his defences were more quickly intrenched. True, his force at hand numbered less than one to every ten of the antagonists’, but they were trained to the use of a more deadly weapon. Shibusawa had learned while abroad of the utility of powder and shot, and from the day of his accession had drilled his men in the use of modern arms. He had thrown away the sword and spear, substituting the rifle and bayonet. Close-fitting breeches replaced the loose and cumbersome garments of the soldiery, and his men had been recruited from the masses. They were well fed and enthusiastic, while their steady nerves and acute sight enabled them to fire rapidly and accurately. Nor had he equipped solely with infantry, but laid in a supply of light artillery—the best of modern make—and this, as he soon discovered, stood him well in hand.
Upon his arrival at Kyoto, Shibusawa learned from news conveyed by runners that owing to Tetsutaisho’s rapid approach he did not have time to move his army as far as Osaka, the intended place of resistance; therefore he selected Fushima, a walled suburb of the capital proper, as being the most available place to make a stand and throw up temporary defences.
Here he took possession of the outer gates, through which the enemy must pass on their march along the Tokaido[22] toward the palace in the city above. Seizing upon a long, sloping hillside that lay just inside the great gate, Shibusawa scattered his infantry throughout its length from the wall below to the hilltop at the bend above; placing them in hollow squares the better to pick and fell the advancing swordsmen as they clambered upon the walls, or to fire upon the straggling spearsmen who chanced to escape the artillery and gain the gates. The artillery had been intrenched also on the hillside, sweeping at a convenient range either the gate or the Tokaido; still a small reserve was held behind all, out of sight and within easy reach.
All in all Shibusawa could have found no more advantageous place to pit a modern army against a large force of samurai. Both he and his men realised his superior position, and it gave them confidence in their ability to cope with Tetsutaisho’s overwhelming numbers. They had no time to wait, though they were fully prepared when the charge began.
The infantry stood hidden behind the great wall which crossed the samurai’s line of march, and the artillery lay low behind their own breastworks. Only Shibusawa and his small staff stood in the open above—they were in no danger—and with field-glass and time-piece carefully watched and noted the last proud march of the heart and soul of feudal Japan. He could not help admiring them; and a feeling of sadness crept over him as he measured their helpless destruction.
Yet he stood there, and on they came. Shibusawa gave the command, and the roar and boom of the cannon warned the mighty shogun to halt his march. Again and again the destructive thing belched its angry fire in the face of an unfaltering foe: they came on, and Tetsutaisho’s voice rang out on the still cool air of morning:
“Down with the gates; on with the march!”
The blunt sound of the battering ram bespoke the hopeless force which lingered in their hands. The proud commander, with giant stride and thundering voice, ran down the lines, urging the last onward rush of a hitherto victorious host. The samurai broke file and quickly ranked in line after; Tetsutaisho had presaged the havoc awaiting a close formation, and scattering his men sought to scale the walls as well as batter down the gates.
Within the huge walls all was silence; after the first notes of warning had been sounded Shibusawa ceased firing, and did not again give the order until the gates had been driven loose and begun to fall. Then a hundred guns poured shot and shell into the face of the onrushing spearsmen, and the carnage wrought at that gate was frightful. The dead piled high in the roadway, though again and again dragged from the path of the undaunted oncomers. Nor were the swordsmen less valiant, for everywhere they scaled the ramparts and rushed upon the infantry. Thus before long, Shibusawa had called out his last reserve, and more feebly repulsed the terrible onsets that came swifter and faster. Column after column of his advance had been wiped out, and one position after another yielded to the enraged enemy; yet his rear lines and the artillery kept up an incessant fire. Tetsutaisho’s men fell thick and fast about the gate and around the walls; the defender’s fire was deadly, and the cost of each advance appalling.
Thus the battle raged and as yet neither had gained a victory. The ranks on the mikado’s side were thinning, and Shibusawa could not determine the reserve strength of the enemy. The shogun’s advance had become maddened at the sight of such havoc, while the rear grew eager with expectation. Everywhere they scaled the walls, and a constant stream, though thinned and scarred, now poured through the battered gates. Tetsutaisho shouted a last advance, and the valley below swarmed with his mighty reserve. They did not halt, nor did they rush; but came determined and invincible.
Shibusawa groaned as the tremendous odds revealed themselves. He looked at his scattering few, then concentrated them, and cheered them for a last heroic stand. He had withstood a terrific advance, and now would resist a final onslaught, even to the last man. They were there to fight, and did not know the meaning of surrender; nor would they deign to retreat.
The solid columns advanced upon them,—shot and shell could not check those swarming veterans,—and the walls no longer offered much resistance. Tetsutaisho rushed forward; Shibusawa grasped his sword hilt; his men redoubled the fire and hurried into line. The crack of the rifle, the roar of the cannon, mingled to make the scene a cruel, sickening slaughter. Shibusawa’s little fragment seemed doomed, and he pressed forward to sacrifice himself on the altar of courage. Then a hand stretched forth from out the mists to save him; a shell burst and Tetsutaisho fell wounded in the distance.
The fallen hero, however, was quickly snatched up and carried to the rear, while the fight waxed hotter, and no sign of disorder appeared. Yet there was one who sat outside the gate, well shielded behind the walls; he felt sick with the sights everywhere greeting him, and as the stricken commander was carried into his presence he weakened and again changed his mind: when the victory rested within his grasp Hitotsubashi gave the order to retreat, and the remnant of Tetsutaisho’s splendid army ran pell-mell toward the place whence they came.
Nor did the hesitating shogun stop his flight until he had again reached Tokyo and securely locked himself within the gates at the palace. Shibusawa had been too much surprised and his force too greatly weakened to cut off the enemy’s retreat or follow up his own victory; a few straggling remnants were driven beyond the gory walls and begrimed gates, and there the successful commander halted, content.
For the first time in the history of their country the power of the machine over the individual had been fairly tried and fully demonstrated. A vastly greater force of valiant men had been held in check for hours by the quick and accurate firing of a few painless, heartless, soulless guns; though at a frightful cost and the most heroic trial they had ever known.
After the battle Shibusawa remained at Fushima until the dead were buried, the wounded cared for, and the enemy had gone well out of the country. Then, after directing some further defences, upon plans suggested during the engagement, he busied himself with making preparations for the return march; which, however, did not begin until Saigo had arrived with a relief force.
Receiving the congratulations of the veteran commander, and bidding each other good-bye, Shibusawa withdrew and began the march back along the Tokaido toward the gates of Kyoto. His small army had been sadly reduced, but they came proudly, as the heroes of a victorious struggle; and when they had arrived they met with a scene which they had not expected. The decorations and festivities intended for the shogun had been put to quite another use; the crown of welcome had been turned into an arch of triumph, and the victorious general passed under, the hero of the hour. Nor was that all; for upon reaching the gates he there met face to face the mikado himself. Such a thing had never been known, and for the first time in the history of the nation their divine sovereign, on the 7th day of February, had appeared in public.
Shibusawa, mindful of time-honoured custom, prostrated himself at the mikado’s feet, and there received a blessing and his own promotion. Mutsuhito spoke in a clear and kindly voice, saying:
“I declare myself, Mutsuhito, the sole ruler of this land; and I appoint you, Shibusawa, the commander-in-chief of all the forces in the nation’s service; and I promise the constitution at the fall of Tokyo.”
Thereupon he handed to Shibusawa a roll bearing the inscription of a letter, embodying the foregoing and the written signature of the mikado, the first to appear in public. After this there were presented to the newly made commander-in-chief the emblems of his office, consisting of a brocaded banner and the sword of justice. These he accepted at the hands of Kido, whereupon the mikado retired and Shibusawa proceeded to the discharge of his duties.
The public appearance of the mikado and the announcement of his patriotic intentions, though sudden and unexpected, had not been made without careful deliberation and a full consciousness of its ultimate effect. Mutsuhito, fully advised of the situation, had pledged his whole heart, hand, and life for the good of his country. From the time of his accession to the throne he had been a keen observer, and now that the greatest clash of arms since the destruction of the Chinese armada, six hundred years before, had resulted in a complete victory for their side, he understood the patriotic outburst of approval that centred around Shibusawa, the supporter of his cause; and he proposed to strike, like the man that he was, where he knew the blow would tell most for what he, too, believed to be right.
Shibusawa had not anticipated such applause nor had he expected so great a recognition; he had gone forth at the first opportunity to do only what he believed to be an honour and a privilege. He had acted as his heart told him to act, and the results seemed but the incidents of fortune. He accepted the responsibility with dignity and no further ambition than to serve his country and honour the name his fathers gave.
Nor was he unmindful of the part Takara had played in moulding his purpose and building his fortune, even to winning the crown of success. Yet he could not return her that love which completes life and makes it worth the living; he had given it to another and it was not his to recall. He set himself to work at a lighter task, and presently the force of his great ability made itself felt in the complete reorganisation and equipment of the grandest army that had ever marched or fought in the flowery kingdom of Japan.
The news of the victory had spread rapidly, and by the time Shibusawa reached Kyoto the whole south was in a state of unrestrained enthusiasm. From the first days of the shogunate, the south had never at any time yielded complete submission. They had always believed in the divine right of the mikado, and still cherished the hope of his complete restoration. They had fought many battles before, but somehow this one sounded a deeper note. A new leader had risen, and they rallied to his support with a better heart and bolder purpose.
While the force of the great success had been thus encouraging in the south it worked a radically different effect in the north. The news had travelled faster than the terrified shogun, and long before he reached Tokyo they had heard of Tetsutaisho’s misfortune and of the crushing defeat Hitotsubashi had suffered to befall the brave samurai.
On the return march he was openly jeered, and nowhere did the retreat meet with even respectful consideration. Everywhere throughout the north the people bowed down with sorrow; but in their hearts there arose a feeling of contempt for the halting, fleeing shogun.
“Had Tetsutaisho but escaped disablement!” became the suppressed cry on every hand.
Hitotsubashi re-entered his palace a broken-hearted man, and there shut himself in, a prisoner and a failure. It wanted only the bidding of the first comer to startle and frighten him into a weak and puerile submission: he waited and the time quickly came.
In the readjustment of the army, Shibusawa not only took advantage of the strong public sentiment greatly to augment and newly equip the force at hand, but introduced an entirely new system of arrangement and discipline. He made of the army three great divisions: the Central or Home division, over which he himself retained the immediate command; the Right or South division, the command of which he intrusted to Saigo; the Left or North division, which, strange to say, Tetsutaisho, his most bitter enemy, was named to command.
Shibusawa alone was responsible for the arrangement, which, not at first entirely understood, soon became generally known and proved most effective in its workings. Without in any manner weakening his effective forces he had placed his strongest enemy in the light of a rebel—than which there is none more odious in the eyes of his countrymen—and rather than bear the stigma of being so called many withdrew their support from the shogunate or came over entirely to the side of the mikadate.
While these sweeping changes were in progress, an expedition was also being planned that should carry the seat of warfare far to the northward, and even to the very door of the shogun’s palace itself. Such a thing had never before been thought possible, and now, when the most unheard of changes were the regular order, it was looked upon with wonder. Still the people, though amazed, had confidence in Shibusawa, who carried on his work with a full understanding of its probable effect at home, as well as its possibilities in the north. Nor was he unappreciative of the advisability of following up his first victory while its consequences were yet fresh in the minds of all. Hastening his movements as much as seemed consistent with good judgment, he began mobilising a vast army near the seashore at Owara, and there rendezvoused all the ships at his disposal or that he could buy or build in the meantime.
So rapidly did Shibusawa move that by the middle of April he held in readiness a fleet of two thousand craft of all sorts and an army fully one-half the size of that which Tetsutaisho had three months before marched against them. Thereupon he notified Tokyo that the mikado had proclaimed the shogun a rebel, demanding his immediate surrender; also advised Tetsutaisho that if he longer refused to submit to orders from Kyoto he did so at his peril.
The young commander did not wait for an answer, but set the day upon which to sail. When the time came he bid all on land a hearty good-bye, and under the promise of warm skies and a calm sea spread canvas; and the southern armada sailed away, toward its heroic mission and enlarged purpose.
Shibusawa’s ship had been the last to leave its moorings, and as it slowly backed off a shout went up from the throngs who crowded the shore, bringing the young hero on deck where he bade them all farewell. Blushing maidens waved their handkerchiefs, while young men shouted themselves hoarse. Old men bowed, and white-haired women prophesied. Some moaned a murmuring fear, for they had heard the voice of Kammon and seen visions of the mighty dragon of the sea. Nor were those on board the ships afterwards less apprehensive, for the warm skies of the early morning had changed to sultry, murky heat. At midday the sun barely showed its great, fiery face, and when it had sunk toward the western horizon the winds ceased and the spangled fleet lay still on the glassy waters or lolled on the lazy, deep rolling seas.
Thus they drifted and wandered far out on the blue expanse, like tiny specks on the line betwixt heaven and earth, while their thoughts roamed tauntingly through weird vagaries of legionary mysticism. Then suddenly the heavens darkened, the winds blew, and the seas angered.
Even Shibusawa became not without a reverence for the ancestral gods. The cracking of the timbers, the cries of the drowning, the fear of destruction, these had certainly been enough to inspire feelings of respect if not reverence for that which had once been all and all to him. He came upon deck and there witnessed the power of religion over men. His oldest veterans, tried and found true on many a battle-field, were there lying prostrate before their chosen gods. He too may have reverenced Bishamon, for he knelt and remained silent in the momentary calm.
And as he there bowed a woman arose from the hatchway before him. He started, and for the nonce lost his reason, appealing to Kwannon to save them. His whole soul had returned at the call of the source whence it came; the body gave what the mind failed. He felt her presence, and all the reason of all the enlightened ages could not have shown him that Takara had not invoked their calamity; for had not the sages of all time said that the presence of a woman on board a man-of-war would bring upon it the wrath of Oni? And was it not said there could be no escaping his fury? These early accounted truths overwhelmed Shibusawa, and for the moment he crouched in startled submission. The hobgoblins of his youth had at last become a stern reality, for there stood before him his own wife in the flesh and form. He would have risen and appealed to her, but she checked him; and coming near, beckoned him be silent, then said:
“You would believe me a witch, some demon who has risen from the deep to do you harm. It is not true; I came to save you.”
Then she drew from her sleeve a blood-stained handkerchief, which she bade him take from her hand. Impulse moved him to do so, and as he touched the crumpled cloth his own consciousness discerned the awful message therein revealed. He held it and listened, half bewildered, half determined. She continued, saying:
“Take it, and promise me that you will avenge the wrong, that you will sacrifice your own for your father’s blood?”
He started, then hesitated; and looking all around, asked:
“The storm?”
She answered:
“Do you promise?”
He said:
“I do.”
Then the storm broke afresh upon them; her face brightened, and she leaped over the side of the ship and into the angry sea; and as she sank beneath the foam-tossed waves she smiled sweetly, and he felt and knew her message to be a token of peace.
As she disappeared from sight Shibusawa rushed to the ship’s rail, and calling loudly to those about him threw off his garment and would have leaped after her had they not seized hold and implored him not to let them die while he saved only a woman. He threw them from him and turned to make the leap; but instead started back and stared in front, for there arose before him out of the waters a vision of beauty, a goddess of truth.
Her beautiful form seemed wound round with a mist, and her upturned face looked toward the heavens. The storm ceased and the waters calmed. The dark clouds parted and a sunburst shone through, enshrouding her; she soared upward, disappearing within the sun’s circle; the clouds closed after her, and she was seen no more; Shibusawa alone knew the haven of her rest.
Thence they sailed away toward Hakone, the intended port of landing. The typhoon which had passed them did no great damage to the fleet—only destroying some of the smaller craft and a few thousand men—and the repairs were soon made, while they progressed without further interruption.
After the weather had settled and they were again under full sail Shibusawa retired to his cabin, and there pondered deeply the strange scene he had witnessed. He knew that he had always acted in accordance with the dictates of his own conscience, and felt that he could not hold himself accountable for the sad misfortunes of fate. Yet he remained conscious of Takara’s new love, and, after having again brushed aside all trace of returning mysticism, felt a deep sorrow overspreading his life.
She, too, had passed through this same consciousness, and had grown to love Shibusawa better than he knew; and when the time had come for him to set sail a great fear had taken hold of her, and she could not bear to see him go beyond her reach. She had reasoned well that his duty called him hence and that at his post there was no place for a woman. Yet she longed to be near him, to share his sorrows and comfort his distress.
All this Takara felt in her heart, though she knew that he could not return her love; that another held in secret the trust which God had given, and that she herself at best must be but a slave. As such, she stole on board his ship and hid herself away. The storm came upon them, and she too may have fallen at the shrine of Mystery, listened to the sweet voice of Tradition. And she reasoned that if the one be true, the other must suffice; that if her presence had disturbed the gods, her sacrifice must appease their wrath. Hence she sought her god, and intrusted to him the keeping of her sworn duty. He accepted the obligation, and she answered to the will of her Maker. It is asked:
“Is the beautiful goddess of truth a certain star? Is Takara in heaven?”
The armada arrived at Hakone early in the morning, and the myriad sails stretched for miles along the low, sand-skirted beach, while the eager men plunged and waded to the shore. The waters lay calm—scarcely a ripple stirring their glassy surface—and long before midnight the soldiers had bivouacked upon the sloping banks far up toward the surrounding hills. They slumbered, and only the slow tramp of the sentinel told of the visitation there encamped.
Shibusawa alone lingered; he could not sleep. A new responsibility had taken hold of him, and his mind wandered into the mystic land of infinitude. At his back lay the majestic Fujiyama, whose silent cone and sloping sides seemed encircled with a thousand magic tales, and whose lofty peak had inspired with awe the millions born of departed ages; while before him spread the plains of Sagami, studded with its historic legend, sacred temples, mammoth statues, palaces of the kings, and caves of the gods.
The restless man thought of all these, and of how he had rambled amidst its historic fields; climbed up and into the very heart and head of the great Buddha, with its eyes of gold and tons of bronze, measuring fifty feet in height and seventeen across from ear to ear; stolen on the rock-hewn steps around the jagged cliffs at Enoshima, where juts the rock and beats the surf, to the cave, in which dwells the lovely goddess Benten; pilgrimaged to the lofty golden-lacquered statue of Kwannon, the beautiful image, over sixty feet in height, of the time-honoured goddess of mercy, recalling that he, too, had stood at her feet, in the darkened chamber, behind the shrine, bowing with reverence, while the priests in their sombre gowns repeated holy incantations: that he had admired the beautiful handiwork of man as they raised and lowered the sliding candles from foot to head on either side, and that he had gone away again feeling better in heart and stronger of purpose—more fitted to do his part in the mighty empire of life. These things crowded upon his memory, and a whole world of beauty opened up as of the past and he marvelled at its vastness and shuddered at the thought of its crumbling before the march of progress. He asked himself if he were in the right in hastening its downfall; if all those who had gone before, those millions of tireless, worshipping souls, had lived in vain. Then a broader conception dawned, and he answered:
“Yes.”
He had looked beyond all this to the God who knows no image, who counts within His fold all the suns and moons and stars and lands within a world of worlds. He then slept, and upon arising despatched a message to Kyoto with the news of Takara’s death, and began the march toward Tokyo, much refreshed and more confident of his mission. He had overcome the last temptation to cling to the old, and pressed forward with a better courage and lighter heart toward the new. He too had loved and lost, though his God bade him have faith: Takara’s did not.
A slow march of nearly three weeks brought Shibusawa and his great army to the outskirts of the shogun’s capital city, Tokyo; little resistance having been offered on the way, and no considerable inconvenience suffered.
The assaulting general had taken his time, partly because of the difficulty experienced in moving artillery without a sufficient supply of horses or cattle, but chiefly in view of expected hostilities and the uncertainty of the country through which they passed. However, he was agreeably disappointed in finding his passage practically uninterrupted, and the inhabitants not extremely unfriendly. The news had gone far in advance of his coming, and the very audacity of his movements had won for him admiration if not respect.
Upon arriving at his destination, Shibusawa halted well outside the city, seized upon the most advantageous points and fortified them with artillery and troops, preparatory to the great siege which he had planned.
In his investment of the place he took particular pains to make his stand at some considerable distance from the densely built sections. He had realised the danger of setting fire to the thatched roofs and wooden structures, should any heavy engagement take place near them, and however anxious he may have been to crush the shogunate he did not wish to do so at the cost of a conflagration or the needless destruction of life or property. He went at the business of conquering the foe with a just and full appreciation of the rights and conveniences of the people; and, upon extending his lines around the city, purposely left a weak place to the northward, giving the enemy a chance to break through, if he so desired, thus avoiding the necessity of fighting the final engagement at or near the great capital, with its large population, its splendid buildings, and vast stores of wealth.
In this Shibusawa reasoned well and, under existing conditions, lost nothing in position or opportunity. While the loophole came to nothing so far as the shogun himself was concerned, it did afterwards accomplish good results by letting at least a portion of the samurai out, thus avoiding a last stand or any large engagement within the city. Nor would it have been any the less operative in the case of Hitotsubashi, had he not weakened at the first appearance of danger and run like the weakling he had shown himself to be. The scared shogun had long since withdrawn from anything like a hostile attitude, hiding himself within the secret confines of a bulwark builded by other hands than his.
In fact, upon the receipt of Shibusawa’s letter, despatched from Owara, advising him of the mikado’s edict demanding his resignation, Hitotsubashi fainted away and was revived only by means of much sorcery and many assurances. Tetsutaisho had by this time fully recovered—having suffered more from the concussion than from the wound—and become anxious to retrieve his fallen prowess. Before his disablement at Fushima he had presaged the inevitable outcome of the battle, had he been spared to lead on to victory his overwhelming numbers, and now keenly felt the disgrace rightly attributed to his idolised shogun, who had so promptly and properly taken up the ill-fated command. Therefore, urging Hitotsubashi to stand firm, he advised that they all fall together like men, if fall they must.
“True, your most august highness, I advised war from the beginning,” said he. “I do no less now. And when the last has deserted, Tetsutaisho will stand face to face with the enemy. You have my judgment; I have the army. Do as you will, but I shall defend these walls, which enclose the last that is dear to a samurai. Loyalty is my due, and honour my right. May the gods deal lightly with you; with me there is a more serious issue: the shogunate must live!”
Though the commander-in-chief of the shogun’s forces held positive in his stand, and was now strongly supported by both Daikomitsu and Okotsuba, and several other of the daimyos, he could no longer bolster up and encourage the waning Hitotsubashi. On the contrary the latter grew more cowardly and anxious, and long before Shibusawa had arrived, he, together with some twenty daimyos and a large number of retainers and hangers-on, withdrew from the walled palace, retiring to the castle of Mito in everlasting disgrace. Their withdrawal necessarily weakened the triumvirate, but it did still more: it again divided them in their policy, and scattered them in their last defence.
Daikomitsu had in the first place advised Hitotsubashi to go to Kyoto in compliance with the mikado’s request, but he had never considered the surrendering of the shogunate or the abandonment of its cause; and when the shogun had so flagrantly disregarded his advice and marched against Kyoto, he realised more than ever the necessity of ignoring him, and of establishing a more harmonious relation among the triumvirate. This he undertook to do, and had the shogun remained quietly in the palace at Tokyo they might yet have succeeded in saving their idolised institution.
Tetsutaisho not only was thus sorely tried with public duties and loss of prestige, but had been overwhelmed with sorrow at home. He had there met with new and bitter experiences and, in place of that consolation and comfort which a man in any position can ill afford to forego, was burdened with a deep and abiding grief.
Not until the night before the shogun’s departure had Nehachibana relented; then she came to her husband and in a confused manner confessed that Kinsan had not taken the life of Sodachinojoi. She told him of how the child of itself had slipped into the crevice; and without making any excuse for her own falsehood or expressing sympathy for the wronged one, she left him there, and the next day went out of the city, following the train of the shogun into seclusion.
Nehachibana had become a convert to the new religion, and believing herself a martyr now sought to relieve her conscience by a confession of the facts; thus preparing herself to ask His forgiveness and receive salvation. Tetsutaisho’s wife had been an easy convert and ready worker among her kind; it had been easy for her to become a Christian, offering a ready road to happiness; her own religion was not so easily adjusted or so well suited to like achievement. And while the missionary, Mrs. Lindley, escaped along with the shogun’s retinue, and took her convert with her, she had done a great good in the years she had been at Tokyo; for not only had she saved Nehachibana’s soul, but her little daughter had given much succour and some comfort to poor Kinsan while suffering the cruel revenge of her fiendish tormentor.
Tetsutaisho’s heart sickened upon hearing the confession; and hastening to rectify the awful mistake, he found Kinsan suffering all but the last pangs of starvation; for the attention even of the missionary’s little daughter had in the excitement of the hour failed her. The strong man fell upon his knees at her side, and with his own hands broke the lock which held the vile instrument at her neck. Gathering the frail form in his arms he carried her to her former lodge, and there summoned the best aid and nourishment at his command. Nor was he satisfied with this alone, but would have condemned Nehachibana even to a severer punishment had not Kinsan pleaded for her deliverance, saying feebly:
“She is but a woman; and no more accountable for her way than I am for my misfortune. It is not the deed, but the necessity that makes the wrong. In such an one there can be no crime—please do not inflict a punishment.”
Tetsutaisho yielded to Kinsan’s persuasion, for he now understood her, and appreciated the force of her intent, though not her logic. He remained a child of feudalism, and outside its tenets was a suckling, not knowing that there opened another way. To him woman seemed but an instrument, the better used to gratify man’s desire; and when he allowed Nehachibana to escape it had been only to encourage an eager, selfish hope.
Kinsan recovered rapidly; thus Tetsutaisho became relieved, and devoted himself more than ever to the strengthening of his defences and the preparations for a final combat. In his mind there was only one course to pursue, and that the heroic. It mattered not that a city be destroyed, that countless lives be sacrificed. He was as bold and intrepid as he was loyal and courageous; knowing neither the power of deception, nor the force of heartless mechanism. He marshalled not their cowardly virtues, but called to hand an humbler host, the glorious heroics of a dying age. He proposed to make a last triumphant stand, and dazzle mankind with the splendour of his achievement; but in this, too, he was doomed to disappointment.
Both Daikomitsu and Okotsuba reasoned patiently against the dangers of his policy. They knew too well the futility of matching valour against cunning, the human against the inhuman. They argued well that they had best make good their escape, holding the enemy in check and preserving their own forces until, in time, they could substitute a more effective warfare. But Tetsutaisho remained resolute and when the final day came, faced a hopeless attempt, realising only at the last moment the inevitable consequence of his folly.
It was a dark, gloomy, and hopeless day. All the morning the rain had poured, and the thatched roofs and wooden structures were soaked with water. The time was July—the fourth day—and after the long rain a rising vapour enveloped the city with a low, hazy fog. The clouds overhead ran low, and Shibusawa ordered the advance. Twice before he had planned to move upon them, but each time refrained from doing so at the earnest appeal of Daikomitsu, who had sent messengers protesting against the destruction of the city. This time there must be no halting; the heavens had cleared the way.
Column after column of the mikado’s splendid army, with fixed bayonet and steady march, advanced from the south upon the walled enclosure at the palace grounds. Hardly had they sounded the approach, the moats were destroyed and the big cannon hurled their easy missiles against the yielding gates and weakening walls. The waters emptied, and the stones loosened and fell; they pressed on, some levelling, others scaling, until the last obstruction had fallen—thus thrice proving the certainty of the new and the futility of the old, as time and progress ever repeat.
As the last wall fell Shibusawa brandished high his sword and commanded the charge. Quickly they ran, and the hillside swarmed with oncoming hordes of sturdy, determined men. Reaching the summit the broad expanse of the shogun’s gardens spread out before them, and they ranked in double line, listening, with breathless expectation. And as they waited the clouds parted, revealing a scattering enemy in the background; only a small formation stood aligned in front of the palace buildings. Like a flash came the order:
“Fire!”
A blaze, and the crack of musketry dulled against the heavy atmosphere. The line fell to their knees and began reloading. The rear had risen, and stood ready to repeat. The smoke rose, and a woman was seen running toward them. She had gained the centre of the field, yet without heed of her presence or time to observe an order a second volley poured its deadly shot into the foreground. Shibusawa had seen her and cried:
“Cease your firing!”
But the warning had come too late, and turning to his troops he said:
“Would you so little respect the helpless, and that a woman? I thought better of my command. Hold you here with compassion, and let me advance.”
Nor had he checked their progress unknowingly; for before the smoke again shut out the view he had levelled his glasses at the approaching form, and to his horror discovered that it was Kinsan who with the white cloth in hand had reeled and fallen before the wicked report had time to die away.
Shibusawa at the head of his staff sprang forward, and before the smoke had again fairly cleared away came well-nigh upon the fallen woman who lay in a swoon, though breathing lightly and not mortally wounded. But not he alone had gone to her rescue, for Tetsutaisho also had observed her danger, and from the opposite side ran to save her. At the beginning of the engagement Kinsan and others had been carefully sheltered at the rear, from which situation she overheard a heated discussion between Tetsutaisho and Daikomitsu, resulting in the latter’s withdrawal at the last moment of the major portion of the samurai, leaving scarcely more than Tetsutaisho’s bodyguard with which to defend himself and the palace. Fearing his fate, Kinsan had without bidding or warning evaded them all, seeking to stay her master’s destruction by throwing herself in front. She knew that Tetsutaisho, reduced to a handful of patriots, could not withstand the terrible onslaught of a mighty army, and offered to sacrifice herself in the hope of saving him in some way from ruthless destruction, if not ignominious defeat. Her heart had gone out to him and to the few others who had remained steadfast to principle, and her life seemed to her of slight importance as compared with theirs, or in prolonging, even momentarily, the institution which had given them place.
Tetsutaisho, too, had run out in advance of his guard, and coming up felt relieved to know that Kinsan had not been fatally shot. Halting near by, as did Shibusawa, the two met face to face, measuring the inevitable.
Shibusawa, the conqueror, spoke first; it became not him to humble the vanquished. Speaking kindly yet firmly, he said:
“What would you, Tetsutaisho?”
“I am a samurai, Shibusawa.”
“You have answered well, Tetsutaisho, and Shibusawa is none the less a man.”
They drew their swords—Tetsutaisho, the one that Munechika had died in the forging; Shibusawa, the Murakumo which had not once failed the illustrious Maidos. The guards stood umpire in the background. The clouds parted and the sun shone forth a pale red. Their steels rang with the perfection of their making. Kinsan rose upon one arm and humbly raised the other in silent deprecation. Then she turned her face and sank back upon the cool, damp ground. The two giants did not heed her; they were facing death, and the test already quickened.