Shōgun (The Asian Saga Book 1)

‘What do you think, Ingeles?’

‘I think there’ll be a storm.’

‘When?’

‘Before sunset.’

It was near noon and they were standing on the quarterdeck of the galley under a gray overcast.  This was the second day out to sea.

‘If this was your ship, what would you do?’

‘How far is it to our landfall?’ Blackthorne asked.

‘After sunset.’

‘How far to the nearest land?’

‘Four or five hours, Ingeles.  But to run for cover will cost us half a day and I can’t afford that.  What would you do?’

Blackthorne thought a moment.  During the first night the galley had sped southward down the east coast of the Izu peninsula, helped by the large sail on the midships mast.  When they had come abreast of the southmost cape, Cape Ito, Rodrigues had set the course West South West and had left the safety of the coast for the open sea, heading for a landfall at Cape Shinto two hundred miles away.

‘Normally in one of these galleys we’d hug the coast—for safety,’ Rodrigues had said, ‘but that’d take too much time and time is important.  Toranaga asked me to pilot Toady to Anjiro and back.  Quickly.  There’s a bonus for me if we’re very quick.  One of their pilots’d be just as good on a short haul like this, but the poor son of a whored be frightened to death carrying so important a daimyo as Toady, particularly out of sight of land.  They’re not oceaners, Japmen.  Great pirates and fighters and coastal sailors.  But the deep frightens them.  The old Taikō even made a law that the few ocean ships Japmen possess were always to have Portuguese pilots aboard.  It’s still the law of their land today.’

‘Why did he do that?’

Rodrigues shrugged.  ‘Perhaps someone suggested it to him.’

‘Who?’

‘Your stolen rutter, Ingeles, the Portuguese one.  Whose was it?’

‘I don’t know.  There was no name on it, no signature.’

‘Where’d you get it?’

‘From the chief merchant of the Dutch East India Company.’

‘Where’d he get it from?’

Blackthorne shrugged.

Rodrigues’ laugh had no humor in it.  ‘Well, I never expected you to tell me—but whoever stole it and sold it, I hope he burns in hellfire forever!’

‘You’re employed by this Toranaga, Rodrigues?’

‘No.  I was just visiting Osaka, my Captain and I.  This was just a favor to Toranaga.  My Captain volunteered me.  I’m pilot of the—’ Rodrigues had stopped.  ‘I keep forgetting you’re the enemy, Ingeles.’

‘Portugal and England have been allies for centuries.’

‘But we’re not now.  Go below, Ingeles.  You’re tired and so am I and tired men make mistakes.  Come on deck when you’re rested.’

So Blackthorne had gone below to the pilot’s cabin and had lain on the bunk.  Rodrigues’ rutter of the voyage was on the sea desk which was pinned to the bulkhead like the pilot’s chair on the quarterdeck.  The book was leather-covered and used but Blackthorne did not open it.

‘Why leave it there?’ he had asked previously.

‘If I didn’t, you’d search for it.  But you won’t touch it there—or even look at it—uninvited.  You’re a pilot—not a pig-bellied whoring thieving merchant or soldier.’

‘I’ll read it.  You would.’

‘Not uninvited, Ingeles.  No pilot’d do that.  Even I wouldn’t!’

Blackthorne had watched the book for a moment and then he closed his eyes.  He slept deeply, all of that day and part of the night.  It was just before dawn when he awoke as always.  It took time to adjust to the untoward motion of the galley and the throb of the drum that kept the oars moving as one.  He lay comfortably on his back in the dark, his arms under his head.  He thought about his own ship and put away his worry of what would happen when they reached shore and Osaka.  One thing at a time.  Think about Felicity and Tudor and home.  No, not now.  Think that if other Portuguese are like Rodrigues, you’ve a good chance now.  You’ll get a ship home.  Pilots are not enemies and the pox on other things!  But you can’t say that, lad.  You’re English, the hated heretic and anti-Christ.  Catholics own this world.  They owned it.  Now we and the Dutch’re going to smash them.

What nonsense it all is!  Catholic and Protestant and Calvinist and Lutherist and every other shitist.  You should have been born Catholic.  It was only fate that took your father to Holland where he met a woman, Anneke van Droste, who became his wife and he saw Spanish Catholics and Spanish priests and the Inquisition for the first time.  I’m glad he had his eyes opened, Blackthorne thought.  I’m glad mine are open.

Then he had gone on deck.  Rodrigues was in his chair, his eyes red-rimmed with sleeplessness, two Japanese sailors on the helm as before.

‘Can I take this watch for you?’

‘How do you feel, Ingeles?’

‘Rested.  Can I take the watch for you?’  Blackthorne saw Rodrigues measuring him.  ‘I’ll wake you if the wind changes—anything.’

‘Thank you, Ingeles.  Yes, I’ll sleep a little.  Maintain this course.  At the turn, go four degrees more westerly and at the next, six more westerly.  You’ll have to point the new course on the compass for the helmsman.  Wakarimasu ka?‘

‘Hai!‘ Blackthorne laughed.  ‘Four points westerly it is.  Go below, Pilot, your bunk’s comfortable.’

But Vasco Rodrigues did not go below.  He merely pulled his sea cloak closer and settled deeper into the seachair.  Just before the turn of the hourglass he awoke momentarily and checked the course change without moving and immediately went back to sleep again.  Once when the wind veered he awoke and then, when he had seen there was no danger, again he slept.

Hiro-matsu and Yabu came on deck during the morning.  Blackthorne noticed their surprise that he was conning the ship and Rodrigues sleeping.  They did not talk to him, but returned to their conversation and, later, they went below again.

Near midday Rodrigues had risen from the seachair to stare northeast, sniffing the wind, all his senses concentrated.  Both men studied the sea and the sky and the encroaching clouds.

‘What would you do, Ingeles, if this was your ship?’ Rodrigues said again.

‘I’d run for the coast if I knew where it was—the nearest point.  This craft won’t take much water and there’s a storm there all right.  About four hours away.’

‘Can’t be tai-fun,‘ Rodrigues muttered.

‘What?’

‘Tai-fun.  They’re huge winds—the worst storms you’ve ever seen.  But we’re not in tai-fun season.’

‘When’s that?’

‘It’s not now, enemy.’ Rodrigues laughed.  ‘No, not now.  But it could be rotten enough so I’ll take your piss-cutting advice.  Steer North by West.’

As Blackthorne pointed the new course and the helmsman turned the ship neatly, Rodrigues went to the rail and shouted at the captain, ‘Isogi! Captain-san.  Wakarimasu ka?‘

‘Isogi, hai!‘

‘What’s that?  Hurry up?’

The corners of Rodrigues’ eyes crinkled with amusement.  ‘No harm in you knowing a little Japman talk, eh?  Sure, Ingeles, ‘isogi‘ means to hurry.  All you need here’s about ten words and then you can make the buggers shit if you want to.  If they’re the right words, of course, and if they’re in the mood.  I’ll go below now and get some food.’

‘You cook too?’

‘In Japland, every civilized man has to cook, or personally has to train one of the monkeys to cook, or you starve to death.  All they eat’s raw fish, raw vegetables in sweet pickled vinegar.  But life here can be a pisscutter if you know how.’

‘Is ‘pisscutter’ good or bad?’

‘It’s mostly very good but sometimes terribly bad.  It all depends how you feel and you ask too many questions.’

Rodrigues went below.  He barred his cabin door and carefully checked the lock on his sea chest.  The hair that he had placed so delicately was still there.  And a similar hair, equally invisible to anyone but him, that he had put on the cover of his rutter was also untouched.

You can’t be too careful in this world, Rodrigues thought.  Is there any harm in his knowing that you’re pilot of the Nao del Trato, this year’s great Black Ship from Macao?  Perhaps.  Because then you’d have to explain that she’s a leviathan, one of the richest, biggest ships in the world, more than sixteen hundred tons.  You might be tempted to tell him about her cargo, about trade and about Macao and all sorts of illuminating things that are very, very private and very, very secret.  But we are at war, us against the English and Dutch.

He opened the well-oiled lock and took out his private rutter to check some bearings for the nearest haven and his eyes saw the sealed packet the priest, Father Sebastio, had given him just before they had left Anjiro.

Does it contain the Englishman’s rutters? he asked himself again.

He weighed the package and looked at the Jesuit seals, sorely tempted to break them and see for himself.  Blackthorne had told him that the Dutch squadron had come by way of Magellan’s Pass and little else.  The Ingeles asks lots of questions and volunteers nothing, Rodrigues thought.  He’s shrewd, clever, and dangerous.

Are they his rutters or aren’t they?  If they are, what good are they to the Holy Fathers?

He shuddered, thinking of Jesuits and Franciscans and Dominicans and all monks and all priests and the Inquisition.  There are good priests and bad priests and they’re mostly bad, but they’re still priests.  The Church has to have priests and without them to intercede for us we’re lost sheep in a Satanic world.  Oh, Madonna, protect me from all evil and bad priests!

Rodrigues had been in his cabin with Blackthorne in Anjiro harbor when the door had opened and Father Sebastio had come in uninvited.  They had been eating and drinking and the remains of their food was in the wooden bowls.

‘You break bread with heretics?’ the priest had asked.  ‘It’s dangerous to eat with them.  They’re infectious.  Did he tell you he’s a pirate?’

‘It’s only Christian to be chivalrous to your enemies, Father.  When I was in their hands they were fair to me.  I only return their charity.’  He had knelt and kissed the priest’s cross.  Then he had got up and, offering wine, he said, ‘How can I help you?’

‘I want to go to Osaka.  With the ship.’

‘I’ll ask them at once.’  He had gone and had asked the captain and the request had gradually gone up to Toda Hiro-matsu, who replied that Toranaga had said nothing about bringing a foreign priest from Anjiro so he regretted he could not bring the foreign priest from Anjiro.

Father Sebastio had wanted to talk privately so he had sent the Englishman on deck and then, in the privacy of the cabin, the priest had brought out the sealed package.

‘I would like you to deliver this to the Father-Visitor.’

‘I don’t know if his Eminence’ll still be at Osaka when I get there.’  Rodrigues did not like being a carrier of Jesuit secrets.  ‘I might have to go back to Nagasaki.  My Captain-General may have left orders for me.’

‘Then give it to Father Alvito.  Make absolutely sure you put it only in his hands.’

‘Very well,’ he had said.

‘When were you last at Confession, my son?’

‘On Sunday, Father.’

‘Would you like me to confess you now?’

‘Yes, thank you.’  He was grateful that the priest had asked, for you never knew if your life depended on the sea, and, afterwards, he had felt much better as always.

Now in the cabin, Rodrigues put back the package, greatly tempted.  Why Father Alvito?  Father Martin Alvito was chief trade negotiator and had been personal interpreter for the Taikō for many years and therefore an intimate of most of the influential daimyos.  Father Alvito plied between Nagasaki and Osaka and was one of the very few men, and the only European, who had had access to the Taikō at any time—an enormously clever man who spoke perfect Japanese and knew more about them and their way of life than any man in Asia.  Now he was the Portuguese’s most influential mediator to the Council of Regents, and to Ishido and Toranaga in particular.

Trust the Jesuits to get one of their men into such a vital position, Rodrigues thought with awe.  Certainly if it hadn’t been for the Society of Jesus the flood of heresy would never have been stopped, Portugal and Spain might have gone Protestant, and we’d have lost our immortal souls forever.  Madonna!

‘Why do you think about priests all the time?’ Rodrigues asked himself aloud.  ‘You know it makes you nervous!’  Yes. Even so, why Father Alvito?  If the package contains the rutters, is the package meant for one of the Christian daimyos, or Ishido or Toranaga, or just for his Eminence, the Father-Visitor himself?  Or for my Captain-General?  Or will the rutters be sent to Rome, for the Spaniards?  Why Father Alvito?  Father Sebastio could have easily said to give it to one of the other Jesuits.

And why does Toranaga want the Ingeles?

In my heart I know I should kill Blackthorne.  He’s the enemy, he’s a heretic.  But there’s something else.  I’ve a feeling this Ingeles is a danger to all of us.  Why should I think that?  He’s a pilot—a great one.  Strong.  Intelligent.  A good man.  Nothing there to worry about.  So why am I afraid?  Is he evil?  I like him very much but I feel I should kill him quickly and the sooner the better.  Not in anger.  Just to protect ourselves.  Why?

I am afraid of him.

What to do?  Leave it to the hand of God?  The storm’s coming and it’ll be a bad one.

‘God curse me and my lack of wits!  Why don’t I know what to do easily?’

The storm came before sunset and caught them out to sea.  Land was ten miles away.  The bay they raced for was haven enough and dead ahead when they had crested the horizon.  There were no shoals or reefs to navigate between them and safety, but ten miles was ten miles and the sea was rising fast, driven by the rain-soaked wind.

The gale blew from the northeast, on the starboard quarter, and veered badly as gusts swirled easterly or northerly without pattern, the sea grim.  Their course was northwest so they were mostly broadside to the swell, rolling badly, now in the trough, now sickeningly on the crest.  The galley was shallow draft and built for speed and kind waters, and though the rowers were game and very disciplined, it was hard to keep their oars in the sea and their pull clean.

‘You’ll have to ship the oars and run before the wind,’ Blackthorne shouted.

‘Maybe, but not yet!  Where are your cojones, Ingeles?’

‘Where they should be, by God, and where I want ’em to stay!’

Both men knew that if they turned into the wind they could never make way against the storm, so the tide and the wind would take them away from sanctuary and out to sea.  And if they ran before the wind, the tide and the wind would take them away from sanctuary and out to sea as before, only faster.  Southward was the Great Deep.  There was no land southward for a thousand miles, or, if you were unlucky, for a thousand leagues.

They wore lifelines that were lashed to the binnacle and they were glad of them as the deck pitched and rolled.  They hung on to the gunwales as well, riding her.

As yet, no water had come aboard.  She was heavily ladened and rode lower in the water than either would have liked.  Rodrigues had prepared properly in the hours of waiting.  Everything had been battened down, the men forewarned.  Hiro-matsu and Yabu had said that they would stay below for a time and then come on deck.  Rodrigues had shrugged and told them clearly that it would be very dangerous.  He was sure they did not understand.

‘What’ll they do?’ Blackthorne had asked.

‘Who knows, Ingeles?  But they won’t be weeping with fear, you can be sure.’

In the well of the main deck the oarsmen were working hard.  Normally there would be two men on each oar but Rodrigues had ordered three for strength and safety and speed.  Others were waiting below decks to spell these rowers when he gave the order.  On the foredeck the captain oar-master was experienced and his beat was slow, timed to the waves.  The galley was still making way, though every moment the roll seemed more pronounced and the recovery slower.  Then the squalls became erratic and threw the captain oar-master off stroke.

‘Watch out for’ard!’ Blackthorne and Rodrigues shouted almost in the same breath.  The galley rolled sickeningly, twenty oars pulled at air instead of sea and there was chaos aboard.  The first comber had struck and the port gunwale was awash.  They were floundering.

‘Go for’ard,’ Rodrigues ordered.  ‘Get ’em to ship half the oars each side!  Madonna, hurry, hurry!’

Blackthorne knew that without his lifeline he could easily be carried overboard.  But the oars had to be shipped or they were lost.

He slipped the knot and fought along the heaving, greasy deck, down the short gangway to the main deck.  Abruptly the galley swerved and he was carried to the down side, his legs taken away by some of the rowers who had also slipped their safety lines to try to fight order into their oars.  The gunwale was under water and one man went overboard.  Blackthorne felt himself going too.  His hand caught the gunwale, his tendons stretched but his grip held, then his other hand reached the rail and, choking, he pulled himself back.  His feet found the deck and he shook himself, thanking God, and thought, there’s your seventh life gone.  Alban Caradoc had always said a good pilot had to be like a cat, except that the pilot had to have at least ten lives whereas a cat is satisfied with nine.

A man was at his feet and he dragged him from the grip of the sea, held him until he was safe, then helped him to his place.  He looked back at the quarterdeck to curse Rodrigues for letting the helm get away from him.  Rodrigues waved and pointed and shouted, the shout swallowed by a squall.  Blackthorne saw their course had changed.  Now they were almost into the wind, and he knew the swerve had been planned.  Wise, he thought.  That’ll give us a respite to get organized, but the bastard could have warned me.  I don’t like losing lives unnecessarily.

He waved back and hurled himself into the work of re-sorting the rowers.  All rowing had stopped except for the two oars most for’ard, which kept them tidily into the wind.  With signs and yelling, Blackthorne got the oars shipped, doubled up the men on the working ones, and went aft again.  The men were stoic and though some were very sick they stayed and waited for the next order.

The bay was closer but it still seemed a million leagues away.  To the northeast the sky was dark.  Rain whipped them and the gusts strengthened.  In Erasmus Blackthorne would not have been worried.  They could have made harbor easily or could have turned back carelessly onto their real course, heading for their proper landfall.  His ship was built and rigged for weather.  This galley was not.

‘What do you think, Ingeles?’

‘You’ll do what you want, whatever I think,’ he shouted against the wind.  ‘But she won’t take much water and we’ll go down like a stone, and the next time I go for’ard, tell me you’re putting her into wind.  Better still, put her to windward while I’ve my line on and then we’ll both reach port.’

‘That was the hand of God, Ingeles.  A wave slammed her rump around.’

‘That nearly put me overboard.’

‘I saw.’

Blackthorne was measuring their drift.  ‘If we stay on this course we’ll never make the bay.  We’ll be swept past the headland by a mile or more.’

‘I’m going to stay into the wind.  Then, when the time’s ripe, we’ll stab for the shore.  Can you swim?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. I never learned.  Too dangerous.  Better to drown quickly than slow, eh?’  Rodrigues shuddered involuntarily.  ‘Blessed Madonna, protect me from a water grave!  This sow-bellied whore of a ship’s going to get to harbor tonight.  Has to.  My nose says if we turn and run we’ll founder.  We’re too heavily laden.’

‘Lighten her.  Throw the cargo overboard.’

‘King Toady’d never agree.  He has to arrive with it or he might as well not arrive.’

‘Ask him.’

‘Madonna, are you deaf?  I’ve told you!  I know he won’t agree!’  Rodrigues went closer to the helmsman and made sure they understood they were to keep heading into the wind without fail.

‘Watch them, Ingeles!  You have the con.’  He untied his lifeline and went down the gangway, sure-footed.  The rowers watched him intently as he walked to the captain-san on the forepoop deck to explain with signs and with words the plan he had in mind.  Hiro-matsu and Yabu came on deck.  The captain-san explained the plan to them.  Both men were pale but they remained impassive and neither vomited.  They looked shoreward through the rain, shrugged and went below again.

Blackthorne stared at the bay to port.  He knew the plan was dangerous.  They would have to wait until they were just past the near headland, then they would have to fall off from the wind, turn northwest again and pull for their lives.  The sail wouldn’t help them.  It would have to be their strength alone.  The southern side of the bay was rock-fanged and reefed.  If they misjudged the timing they would be driven ashore there and wrecked.

‘Ingeles, lay for’ard!’

The Portuguese was beckoning him.

He went forward.

‘What about the sail?’ Rodrigues shouted.

‘No.  That’ll hurt more than help.’

‘You stay here then.  If the captain fails with the beat, or we lose him, you take it up.  All right?’

‘I’ve never sailed one of these before—I’ve never mastered oars.  But I’ll try.’

Rodrigues looked landward.  The headland appeared and disappeared in the driving rain.  Soon he would have to make the stab.  The seas were growing and already whitecaps fled from the crests.  The race between the headlands looked evil.  This one’s going to be filthy, he thought.  Then he spat and decided.

‘Go aft, Ingeles.  Take the helm.  When I signal, go West North West for that point.  You see it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t hesitate and hold that course.  Watch me closely.  This sign means hard aport, this hard astarboard, this steady as she goes.’

‘Very well.’

‘By the Virgin, you’ll wait for my orders and you’ll obey my orders?’

‘You want me to take the helm or not?’

Rodrigues knew he was trapped.  ‘I have to trust you, Ingeles, and I hate trusting you.  Go aft,’ he said.  He saw Blackthorne read what was behind his eyes and walk away.  Then he changed his mind and called after him, ‘Hey, you arrogant pirate!  Go with God!’

Blackthorne turned back gratefully.  ‘And you, Spaniard!’

‘Piss on all Spaniards and long live Portugal!’

‘Steady as she goes!’

They made harbor but without Rodrigues.  He was washed overboard when his lifeline snapped.

The ship had been on the brink of safety when the great wave came out of the north and, though they had taken much water previously and had already lost the Japanese captain, now they were awash and driven backward towards the rock-infested shore.

Blackthorne saw Rodrigues go and he watched him, gasping and struggling in the churning sea.  The storm and the tide had taken them far to the south side of the bay and they were almost on the rocks, all aboard knowing that the ship was lost.

As Rodrigues was swept alongside, Blackthorne threw him a wooden life ring.  The Portuguese flailed for the life ring but the sea swept it out of his reach.  An oar crashed into him and he grabbed for it.  The rain slashed down and the last Blackthorne saw of Rodrigues was an arm and the broken oar and, just ahead, the surf raging against the tormented shore.  He could have dived overboard and swum to him and survived, perhaps, there was time, perhaps, but his first duty was to his ship and his last duty was to his ship and his ship was in danger.

So he turned his back on Rodrigues.

The wave had taken some rowers with it and others were struggling to fill the empty places.  A mate had bravely slipped his safety line.  He jumped onto the foredeck, secured himself, and restarted the beat.  The chant leader also began again, the rowers tried to get order out of chaos.

‘Isogiiiiii!‘  Blackthorne shouted, remembering the word.  He bent his weight on the helm to help get the bow more into wind, then went to the rail and beat time, called out One-Two-One-Two, trying to encourage the crew.

‘Come on, you bastards, puuull!‘

The galley was on the rocks, at least the rocks were just astern and to port and to starboard.  The oars dipped and pulled, but still the ship made no way, the wind and the tide winning, dragging her backward perceptibly.

‘Come on, pull, you bastards!’ Blackthorne shouted again, his hand beating time.

The rowers took strength from him.

First they held their own with the sea.  Then they conquered her.

The ship moved away from the rocks.  Blackthorne held the course for the lee shore.  Soon they were in calmer waters.  There was still gale but it was overhead.  There was still tempest but it was out to sea.

‘Let go the starboard anchor!’

No one understood the words but all seamen knew what was wanted.  They rushed to do his bidding.  The anchor splashed over the side.  He let the ship fall off slightly to test the firmness of the seabed, the mate and rowers understanding his maneuver.

‘Let go the port anchor!’

When his ship was safe, he looked aft.

The cruel shore line could hardly be seen through the rain.  He gauged the sea and considered possibilities.

The Portuguese’s rutter is below, he thought, drained.  I can con the ship to Osaka.  I could con it back to Anjiro.  But were you right to disobey him?  I didn’t disobey Rodrigues.  I was on the quarterdeck.  Alone.

‘Steer south,’ Rodrigues had screamed when the wind and the tide carried them perilously near the rocks.  ‘Turn and run before the wind!’

‘No!’ he had shouted back, believing their only chance was to try for the harbor and that in the open sea they’d flounder.  ‘We can make it!’

‘God curse you, you’ll kill us all!’

But I didn’t kill anyone, Blackthorne thought.  Rodrigues, you knew and I knew that it was my responsibility to decide—if there was a time of decision.  I was right.  The ship’s safe.  Nothing else matters.

He beckoned to the mate, who hurried from the foredeck.  Both helmsmen had collapsed, their arms and legs almost torn from their sockets.  The rowers were like corpses, fallen helplessly over their oars.  Others weakly came from below to help.  Hiro-matsu and Yabu, both badly shaken, were assisted onto the deck, but once on deck both daimyos stood erect.

‘Hai, Anjin-san?’ the mate asked.  He was a middle-aged man with strong white teeth and a broad, weatherbeaten face.  A livid bruise marked his cheek where the sea had battered him against the gunwale.

‘You did very well,’ Blackthorne said, not caring that his words would not be understood.  He knew his tone would be clear and his smile.  ‘Yes, very well.  You’re Captain-san now.  Wakarimasu?  You!  Captain-san!’

The man stared at him open-mouthed, then he bowed to hide both his astonishment and his pleasure.  ‘Wakarimasu, Anjin-san.  Hai.  Arigato goziemashita.‘

‘Listen, Captain-san,’ Blackthorne said.  ‘Get the men food and drink.  Hot food.  We’ll stay here tonight.’  With signs Blackthorne made him comprehend.

Immediately the new captain turned and shouted with new authority.  Instantly seamen ran to obey him.  Filled with pride, the new captain looked back at the quarterdeck.  I wish I could speak your barbarian language, he thought happily.  Then I could thank you, Anjin-san, for saving the ship and with the ship the life of our Lord Hiro-matsu.  Your magic gave us all new strength.  Without your magic we would have floundered.  You may be a pirate but you are a great seaman, and while you are pilot I will obey you with my life.  I’m not worthy to be captain, but I will try to deserve your trust.  ‘What do you want me to do next?’ he asked.

Blackthorne was looking over the side.  The seabed was obscured.  He took mental bearings and when he was sure that the anchors had not slipped and the sea was safe, he said, ‘Launch the skiff.  And get a good sculler.’

Again with signs and with words Blackthorne made himself understood.

The skiff was launched and manned instantly.

Blackthorne went to the gunwale and would have scaled down the side but a harsh voice stopped him.  He looked around.  Hiro-matsu was there, Yabu beside him.

The old man was badly bruised about the neck and shoulders but he still carried the long sword.  Yabu was bleeding from his nose, his face bruised, his kimono blotched, and he tried to staunch the flow with a small piece of material.  Both men were impassive, seemingly unaware of their hurts or the chill of the wind.

Blackthorne bowed politely.  ‘Hai, Toda-sama?’

Again the harsh words and the old man pointed with his sword at the skiff and shook his head.

‘Rodrigu-san there!’ Blackthorne pointed to the south shore in answer.  ‘I go look!’

‘Iyé!‘  Hiro-matsu shook his head again, and spoke at length, clearly refusing him permission because of the danger.

‘I’m Anjin-san of this whore-bitch ship and if I want to go ashore I’m going ashore.’  Blackthorne kept his voice very polite but strong and it was equally obvious what he meant.  ‘I know that skiff won’t live in that sea.  Hai!  But I’m going ashore there—by that point.  You see that point, Toda Hiro-matsu-sama?  By that small rock.  I’m going to work my way around the headland, there.  I’m in no hurry to die and I’ve nowhere to run.  I want to get Rodrigu-san’s body.’  He cocked a leg over the side.  The scabbarded sword moved a fraction.  So he froze.  But his gaze was level, his face set.

Hiro-matsu was in a dilemma.  He could understand the pirate wanting to find Rodrigu-san’s body but it was dangerous to go there, even by foot, and Lord Toranaga had said to bring the barbarian back safely, so he was going to be brought safely.  It was equally clear that the man intended to go.

He had seen him during the storm, standing on the pitching deck like an evil sea kami, unafraid, in his element and part of the storm, and he had thought grimly at the time, better to get this man and all barbarians like him on the land where we can deal with them.  At sea we’re in their power.

He could see the pirate was impatient.  How insulting they are, he told himself.  Even so I should thank you.  Everyone says you alone are responsible for bringing the ship to harbor, that the Rodrigu-anjin lost his nerve and waved us away from land, but you held our course.  Yes.  If we’d gone out to sea we’d have sunk certainly and then I would have failed my Master.  Oh, Buddha, protect me from that!

All his joints were aching and his piles inflamed.  He was exhausted by the effort it took to remain stoic in front of his men, Yabu, the crew, even this barbarian.  Oh, Buddha, I’m so tired.  I wish I could lie in a bath and soak and soak and have one day of rest from pain.  Just one day.  Stop your stupid womanish thoughts!  You’ve been in pain for almost sixty years.  What is pain to a man?  A privilege!  Masking pain is the measure of a man.  Thank Buddha you are still alive to protect your Master when you should have been dead a hundred times.  I do thank Buddha.

But I hate the sea.  I hate the cold.  And I hate pain.

‘Stay where you are, Anjin-san,’ he said, pointing with his scabbard for clarity, bleakly amused by the ice-blue fire in the man’s eyes.  When he was sure the man understood he glanced at the mate.  ‘Where are we?  Whose fief is this?’

‘I don’t know, Sire.  I think we’re somewhere in Ise Province.  We could send someone ashore to the nearest village.’

‘Can you pilot us to Osaka?’

‘Providing we stay very close to shore, Sire, and go slowly, with great caution.  I don’t know these waters and I could never guarantee your safety.  I don’t have enough knowledge and there’s no one aboard, Sire, who has.  Except this pilot.  If it was left to me I would advise you to go by land.  We could get you horses or palanquins.’

Hiro-matsu shook his head irascibly.  To go overland was out of the question.  It would take far too long—the way was mountainous and there were few roads—and they would have to go through many territories controlled by allies of Ishido, the enemy.  Added to this danger were also the multitudinous bandit groups that infested the passes.  This would mean he would have to take all his men.  Certainly he could fight his way through the bandits, but he could never force a passage if Ishido or his allies decided to inhibit him.  All this would delay him further, and his orders were to deliver the cargo, the barbarian, and Yabu, quickly and safely.

‘If we follow the coast, how long would it take us?’

‘I don’t know, Sire.  Four or five days, perhaps more.  I would feel very unsure of myself—I’m not a captain, so sorry.’

Which means, Hiro-matsu thought, that I have to have the cooperation of this barbarian.  To prevent him going ashore I’ll have to tie him up.  And who knows if he’ll be cooperative tied up?

‘How long will we have to stay here?’

‘The pilot said overnight.’

‘Will the storm be gone by then?’

‘It should, Sire, but one never knows.’

Hiro-matsu studied the mountain coast, then the pilot, hesitating.

‘May I offer a suggestion, Hiro-matsu-san?’ Yabu said.

‘Yes, yes, of course,’ he said testily.

‘As we seem to need the pirate’s cooperation to get us to Osaka, why not let him go ashore but send men with him to protect him, and order them back before dark.  As to going overland, I agree it would be too dangerous for you—I would never forgive myself if anything happened to you.  Once the storm has blown itself out you’ll be safer with the ship and you’ll get to Osaka much quicker, neh?  Surely by sunset tomorrow.’

Reluctantly Hiro-matsu nodded.  ‘Very well.’  He beckoned a samurai.  ‘Takatashi-san!  You will take six men and go with the Pilot.  Bring the Portuguese’s body back if you can find it.  But if even one of this barbarian’s eyelashes is damaged, you and your men will commit seppuku instantly.’

‘Yes, Lord.’

‘And send two men to the nearest village and find out exactly where we are and in whose fief we are.’

‘Yes, Lord.’

‘With your permission, Hiro-matsu-san, I will lead the party ashore,’ Yabu said.  ‘If we arrived in Osaka without the pirate, I’d be so ashamed that I’d feel obliged to kill myself anyway.  I’d like the honor of carrying out your orders.’

Hiro-matsu nodded, inwardly surprised that Yabu would put himself in such jeopardy.  He went below.

When Blackthorne realized that Yabu was going ashore with him, his pulse quickened.  I haven’t forgotten Pieterzoon or my crew or the pit—or the screams or Omi or any part of it.  Look to your life, bastard.