There were a hundred samurai naked to their loincloths hauling lustily on each rope. It was afternoon now and low tide, and Blackthorne hoped to be able to shift the wreck and drag her ashore to salvage everything. He had adapted his first plan when he had found to his glee that all the cannon had been fished out of the sea the day after the holocaust and were almost as perfect as the day they had left their foundry near Chatham in his home county of Kent. As well, almost a thousand cannonballs, some grape and chain and many metal things had been recovered. Most were twisted and scored but he had the makings of a ship, better than he had dreamed possible.
“Marvelous, Naga-san! Marvelous!” he had congratulated him when he had discovered the true extent of the salvage.
“Oh, thank you, Anjin-san. Try hard, so sorry.”
“Never mind so sorry. All good now!”
Yes, he had rejoiced. Now The Lady can be just a mite longer and a mite more abeam, but she’ll still have her greyhound look and she’ll be a piss-cutter to end all piss-cutters.
Ah, Rodrigues, he had thought without rancor, I’m glad you’re safe and away this year and there’ll be another man to sink next year. If Ferriera’s Captain-General again, that would be a gift from heaven, but I won’t count on it and I’m glad you’re safe away. I owe you my life and you were a great pilot.
“Hipparuuuuuuu!” he shouted again and hawsers jerked, the sea dripping off them like sweat, but the wreck did not budge.
Since that dawn on the beach with Toranaga, Mariko’s letter in his hands, the cannon discovered so soon afterward, there had not been enough hours in the day. He had drawn beginning plans and made and remade lists and changed plans and very carefully offered up lists of men and materials needed, not wanting any mistakes. And after the day, he worked at the dictionary long into the night to learn the new words he would need to tell the craftsmen what he wanted, to find out what they had already and could do already. Many times, in desperation, he had wanted to ask the priest to help but he knew there was no help there now, that their enmity was inexorably fixed.
Karma, he had told himself without pain, pitying the priest for his misbegotten fanaticism.
“Hipparuuuuuuuu!”
Again the samurai strained against the hold of the sand and the sea, then a chant sprang up and they tugged in unison. The wreck shifted a fraction and they redoubled their efforts, then it jerked loose and they sprawled in the sand. They picked themselves up, laughing, congratulating themselves, and leaned on the ropes again. But now the wreck was stuck firm once more.
Blackthorne showed them how to take the ropes to one side, then to the other, trying to ease the wreck to port or starboard but it was as fixed as though anchored.
“I’ll have to buoy it, then the tide’ll do the work and lift it,” he said aloud in English.
“Dozo?” Naga said, puzzled.
“Ah, gomen nasai, Naga-san.” With signs and pictures in the sand he explained, damning his lack of words, how to make a raft and tie it to the spines at low tide; then the next high tide would float the wreck and they could pull it ashore and beach it. At the next low tide it would be easy to manage because they would have laid rollers for it to rest on.
“Ah so desu!” Naga said, impressed. When he explained to the other officers, they also were filled with admiration and Blackthorne’s own vassals were puffed with implied importance.
Blackthorne noticed this and he pointed a finger at one. “Where are your manners?”
“What? Oh, so sorry, Sire, please excuse me for offending you.”
“Today I will, tomorrow no. Swim out to ship—untie this rope.”
The ronin-samurai quailed and rolled his eyes. “So sorry, Sire, I can’t swim.”
Now it was silent on the beach and Blackthorne knew all were waiting to see what would happen. He was furious with himself, for an order was an order and involuntarily he had given a death sentence that was not merited this time. He thought a moment. “Toranaga-sama’s orders, all men learn swim. Neh? All my vassals swim within thirty days. Better swim in thirty days. You, in water—get first lesson now.”
Fearfully the samurai began to walk into the sea, knowing he was a dead man. Blackthorne joined him and when the man’s head went under he pulled him up, none too kindly, and made him swim, letting him flounder but never dangerously all the way out to the wreck, the man coughing and retching and holding on. Then he pulled him ashore again and twenty yards from the shallows he shoved him off. “Swim!”
The man made it like a half-drowned cat. Never again would he act self-important in front of his master. His fellows cheered and the men on the beach were rolling in the sand with laughter, those who could swim.
“Very good, Anjin-san,” Naga said. “Very wise.” He laughed again, then said, “Please, I send men for bamboo. For raft, neh? Tomorrow try to get all here.”
“Thank you.”
“More pull today?”
“No, no thank—” Blackthorne stopped and shaded his eyes. Father Alvito was standing on a dune, watching them.
“No, thank you, Naga-san,” Blackthorne said. “All finish here today. Please excuse me a moment.” He went to get his clothes and swords but his men brought them to him quickly. Unhurriedly, he dressed and stuck his swords in his sash.
“Good afternoon,” Blackthorne said, going over to Alvito. The priest looked drawn but there was friendliness in his face, as there had been before their violent quarrel outside Mishima. Blackthorne’s caution increased.
“And to you, Captain-Pilot. I’m leaving this morning. I just wanted to talk a moment. Do you mind?”
“No, not at all.”
“What are you going to do, try to float the hulk?”
“Yes.”
“It won’t help you, I’m afraid.”
“Never mind. I’m going to try.”
“You really believe you can build another ship?”
“Oh, yes,” Blackthorne said patiently, wondering what was in Alvito’s mind.
“Are you going to bring the rest of your crew here to help you?”
“No,” Blackthorne said, after a moment. “They’d rather be in Yedo. When the ship’s near completion . . . there’s plenty of time to bring them here.”
“They live with eta, don’t they?”
“Yes.”
“Is that the reason you don’t want them here?”
“One reason.”
“I don’t blame you. I heard they’re all very quarrelsome now and drunk most of the time. Did you know a week or so ago there was a small riot among them and their house burned down, so the story goes?”
“No. Was anyone hurt?”
“No. But that was only through the Grace of God. Next time . . . It seems one of them has made a still. Terrible what drink does to a man.”
“Yes. Pity about their house. They’ll build another.”
Alvito nodded and looked back at the spines washed by the waves. “I wanted to tell you before I go, I know what the loss of Mariko-san means to you. I was greatly saddened by your story about Osaka, but in a way uplifted. I understand what her sacrifice means . . . Did she tell you about her father, all that other tragedy?”
“Yes. Some of it.”
“Ah. Then you understand also. I knew Ju-san Kubo quite well.”
“What? You mean Akechi Jinsai?”
“Oh, sorry, yes. That’s the name he’s known by now. Didn’t Mariko-sama tell you?”
“No.”
“The Taikō sneeringly dubbed him that: Ju-san Kubo, Shōgun of the Thirteen Days. His rebellion—from mustering his men to the great seppuku—lasted only thirteen days. He was a fine man but he hated us, not because we were Christians but because we were foreigners. I often wondered if Mariko became Christian just to learn our ways, to destroy us. He often said I poisoned Goroda against him.”