The old monk closed his eyes, prayed, and cried himself to sleep.
Much as he wished it, Blackthorne could not sleep though night had come. His flesh crawled from the lice bites. His head swarmed with terror.
He knew, with terrible clarity, there was no way to break out. He was overwhelmed with futility and sensed he was on the brink of death. In the darkest part of the night terror swamped him, and, for the first time in his life, he gave up and wept.
“Yes, my son?” the monk murmured. “What is it?”
“Nothing, nothing,” Blackthorne said, his heart thundering. “Go back to sleep.”
“There’s no need to fear. We are all in God’s hands,” the monk said and slept again.
The great terror left Blackthorne. In its place was a terror that could be lived with. I’ll get out of here somehow, he told himself, trying to believe the lie.
At dawn came food and water. Blackthorne was stronger now. Stupid to let go like that, he cautioned himself. Stupid and weak and dangerous. Don’t do that again or you’ll break and go mad and surely die. They’ll put you in the third row and you’ll die. Be careful and be patient and guard yourself.
“How are you today, señor?”
“Fine, thank you, Father. And you?”
“Quite well, thank you.”
“How do I say that in Japanese?”
“Domo, genki desu.”
“Domo, genki desu. You were saying yesterday, Father, about the Portuguese Black Ships—what are they like? Have you seen one?”
“Oh, yes, señor. They’re the greatest ships in the world, almost two thousand tons. As many as two hundred men and boys are necessary to sail one, señor, and with crew and passengers her complement would be almost a thousand souls. I’m told these carracks sail well before the wind but lumber when the wind’s abeam.”
“How many guns do they carry?”
“Sometimes twenty or thirty on three decks.”
Father Domingo was glad to answer questions and talk and teach, and Blackthorne was equally glad to listen and learn. The monk’s rambling knowledge was priceless and far reaching.
“No, señor,” he was saying now. “Domo is thank you and dozo is please. Water is mizu. Always remember that Japaners put a great price on manners and courtesy. Once when I was in Nagasaki—Oh, if I only had ink and a quill and paper! Ah, I know—here, trace the words in the dirt, that will help you to remember them . . .”
“Domo,” Blackthorne said. Then, after memorizing a few more words, he asked, “How long’ve Portuguese been here?”
“Oh, the land was discovered in 1542, señor, the year I was born. There were three men, da Mota, Peixoto, and I can’t remember the other name. They were all Portuguese traders, trading the China coasts in a China junk from a port in Siam. Has the señor been to Siam?”
“No.”
“Ah, there is much to see in Asia. These three men were trading but they were caught in a great storm, a typhoon, and blown off their course to land safely at Tanegashima at Kyushu. That was the first time a European set foot on Japan’s soil, and at once trade began. A few years later, Francis Xavier, one of the founding members of the Jesuits, arrived here. That was in 1549 . . . a bad year for Japan, señor. One of our Brethren should have been first, then we would have inherited this realm, not the Portuguese. Francis Xavier died three years later in China, alone and forsaken. . . . Did I tell the señor there’s a Jesuit already at the court of the Emperor of China, in a place called Peking? . . . Oh, you should see Manila, señor, and the Philippines! We have four cathedrals and almost three thousand conquistadores and nearly six thousand Japaner soldiers spread through the islands and three hundred Brethren. . . .”
Blackthorne’s mind filled with facts and Japanese words and phrases. He asked about life in Japan and daimyos and samurai and trade and Nagasaki and war and peace and Jesuits and Franciscans and Portuguese in Asia and about Spanish Manila, and always more about the Black Ship that plied annually from Macao. For three days and three nights Blackthorne sat with Father Domingo and questioned and listened and learned and slept in nightmare, to awaken and ask more questions and gain more knowledge.
Then, on the fourth day, they called out his name.
“Anjin-san!”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
In the utter silence, Blackthorne got to his feet.
“Thy confession, my son, say it quickly.”
“I—I don’t think—I—” Blackthorne realized through his dulled mind that he was speaking English, so he pressed his lips together and began to walk away. The monk scrambled up, presuming his words to be Dutch or German, and grabbed his wrist and hobbled with him.
“Quickly, señor. I will give the absolution. Be quick, for thine immortal soul. Say it quickly, just that the señor confesses before God all things past and present—”
They were nearing the iron gate now, the monk holding on to Blackthorne with surprising strength.
“Say it now! The Blessed Virgin will watch over you!”
Blackthorne tore his arm away, and said hoarsely in Spanish, “Go with God, Father.”
The door slammed behind him.
The day was incredibly cool and sweet, the clouds meandering before a fine southeasterly wind.
He inhaled deep draughts of the clean, glorious air and blood surged through his veins. The joy of life possessed him.
Several naked prisoners were in the courtyard along with an official, jailers with spears, eta, and a group of samurai. The official was dressed in a somber kimono and an overmantle with starched, winglike shoulders and he wore a small dark hat. This man stood in front of the first prisoner and read from a delicate scroll and, as he finished, each man began to plod after his party of jailers toward the great doors of the courtyard. Blackthorne was last. Unlike the others he was given a loincloth, cotton kimono, and thonged clogs for his feet. And his guards were samurai.
He had decided to run for it the moment he had passed the gate, but as he approached the threshold, the samurai surrounded him more closely and locked him in. They reached the gateway together. A large crowd looked on, clean and spruce, with crimson and yellow and golden sunshades. One man was already roped to his cross and the cross was lifted into the sky. And beside each cross two eta waited, their long lances sparkling in the sun.
Blackthorne’s pace slowed. The samurai jostled closer, hurrying him. He thought numbly that it would be the better to die now, quickly, so he steadied his hand to lunge for the nearest sword. But he never took the opportunity because the samurai turned away from the arena and walked toward the perimeter, heading for the streets that led to the city and toward the castle.
Blackthorne waited, scarcely breathing, wanting to be sure. They walked through the crowd, who backed away and bowed, and then they were in a street and now there was no mistake.
Blackthorne felt reborn.
When he could speak, he said, “Where are we going?” not caring that the words would not be understood or that they were in English. Blackthorne was quite light-headed. His step hardly touched the ground, the thongs of his clogs were not uncomfortable, the untoward touch of the kimono was not unpleasing. Actually, it feels quite good, he thought. A little draughty perhaps, but on a fine day like this—just the sort of thing to wear on the quarterdeck!