reconnaissance.
The old couple looked at each other for a long moment and then came to the kind of unspoken agreement only possible to those long married.
“We will do as you say, Yo-kun. You are a good son and we know you are wise to the ways of the world. We will join our daughter downriver.”
Yoriaki let out a long puff of relief, not realizing he had been holding it in. “Good, that is good! But please hurry, don’t bother packing anything, there may be very little time! Just put on your shoes and go to the river! Please, I implore you to go to safety right away!”
Momo’s parents nodded, then dutifully began to put on their shoes. Satisfied, Yoriaki gave them a deep bow and started to leave.
“My son!” Momo’s father said before he could break into a run again. “Please come back to us safely. We need you.” Behind him his wife burst into tears.
“I will, Father. I promise!”
Somewhat relieved that his small family was on their way to reasonable safety, Yoriaki slowed his pace somewhat. It would not be good to arrive all out of breath. As he came to the docks, he saw that the crowd had swollen to a very large size, mostly Japanese men but also many of Nihonmachi’s women. These hung farther back, talking amongst themselves nervously in a patois of languages. Beyond the crowd Yoriaki could see two groups in a face-off around the gangplank, which was guarded by the mixed race crew of the ship loyal to Nagamasa along with a party of Japanese samurai who had remained in Nihonmachi for their own reasons when Nagamasa left with his troops. A few of these had become Christians much as Yoriaki had, but those now stood in solid ranks with their Buddhist and Shinto countrymen. In front of their line stood a cadre of enraged Siamese soldiers and officials. Both sides continued to shout threateningly at each other and it showed no sign of letting up.
Yoriaki arrived near the back of the crowd and found a familiar face, a man named Hiranaka, a retired samurai he had served in the guard with, now turned ceramic maker. Hiranaka was not a Christian, but choice of religion was usually of small import among the Japanese of Ayutthaya in their dealings with each other. Ayutthaya was remarkably a very free and tolerant society and these concepts had soon been embraced by the Japanese who came here, nearly all of whom had been persecuted in some way by the stifling social constrictions they had left behind in Japan. Here they could do any job, marry any person and worship any god they wished. Unfortunately, Yoriaki thought such freedoms might be coming to an end.
“Hiranaka-san! What’s going on?” Yoriaki asked him.
“Ah, Nishioka-san! Well, it’s quite a kerfuffle. That ship is Nagamasa’s and it came here thinking to find him. Now that they have learned he’s not here anymore they want to take their cargo to him down in Ligor. The problem is, King Prasat Thong has other ideas. He has sent this group of Siamese soldiers to claim it for himself, but our fellows aren’t letting them on board. Right now it’s a standoff, they are all just yelling at each other but I fear it may come to blows. A while ago several of the Siamese were sent running back to the city, and it is likely they will return with reinforcements.” Hiranaka pulled back his yukata to expose a katana tucked beneath. Yoriaki did the same and they both shared a grim smile.
“Looks like I’m not the only ex-samurai who had a bad feeling this evening,” Hiranaka said wryly. “We may have left the warrior’s life behind but it seems we retain our instincts. I sent my wife and children to the river and told them to board whatever boats might be available…” His eyes raised the question to Yoriaki.
“I have done the same for my family. I do hope we are wrong.”
The confrontation at the dock was reaching a climax. Yoriaki and Hiranaka began to push their way past the women in the crowd, ordering them as they passed by to leave the docks for the safety of the shore farther downriver. Some did as they were told but others stayed anyway, entranced by the excitement. Just as they reached the front of the crowd the situation arrived at its boiling point. The thirty or so Siamese soldiers gathered there made a lunge at the ship’s guard, who were outnumbered but ready to defend their prize with their lives. The battle had begun. Swords clashed in an angry din.
Now that fighting had begun most of the crowd fled to a safer distance, but there were many such as Yoriaki and Mori who were ready to join the action. These latecomers quickly closed ranks with the men guarding the ship so that now it was the Siamese who were outnumbered, facing well over a hundred men. Their officers bawled at them to fall back, which they did, reluctantly. The Japanese held their position, the clash ceasing for the moment.
“Go tell that child-killing king of yours that he may not have that which is Nagamasa’s!” the Chinese captain of the ship bellowed in accented Siamese.
The city official leading the Siamese contingent shrieked back, “How dare you speak disrespectfully of our blessed ruler! Remember that you are but guests in our land. The welcome you had under dead Song Tham has come to an end. Just wait, you shall see!” And with that the silk-clad and bejeweled man laughed shrilly, his heart as black as the ursurper he served. Just then a bell began to toll, the bell of the Buddhist temple of Nihonmachi, a plain structure compared to the great gleaming towers of the Siamese wats. The official laughed even louder, joined by his men. This made the Japanese take a step forward, more than ready to put an end to their impious gaiety, but now shouts came from the road that ran north to south along the east side of their enclave. A handsome male youth of mixed race, one of the many children of unions between the Nihonmachi men with local women, came running from the road yelling in Japanese.
“Soldiers with torches are coming from the north, hundreds of them!”
There was a brief silence while the men of Nihonmachi looked at each other, their faces full of dread. The Siamese they had briefly clashed with began to laugh again, which turned out to be a mistake on their part, their last such on this earthly plane. The Japanese moved through them like an avalanche through pines, cutting down their tormentors long before their reinforcements could arrive. Yoriaki slew two himself; he hadn’t intended to come fight but Hiranaka had been right, the instincts were still there. He saw the boy, a lad of no more than thirteen, still standing there, staring at the carnage.
“You, boy!” Yoriaki called to him, “Run through town and shout your warning to all, tell everyone to flee to the river, then do so yourself. Go!” he commanded. The boy bowed quickly and did as he was told, shouting the alarm at the top of his lungs. Doors opened and lantern light fell across his path as he made his way down Nihonmachi’s narrow streets. Yoriaki turned to where the men were making a quick battle plan. A man called Ishida, one of the town’s highest ranking samurai, an officer recently retired from the palace guard, had stepped up to take charge due to his experience and the respect they all held for him. He was in his late fifties but there was no doubt his sword arms were still strong. No one knew where their town’s current leader was and no one asked.
“You, Captain, sir.” Ishida turned to the ship’s master. “Untie your ship and be ready to push off, but first I ask you to take on as many of our people as you can until you must go,” he said in Chinese. Yoriaki understood that language fairly well and was impressed by Ishida’s fluency, no doubt the result of years of trading.
The captain agreed to this request. “I will do as you ask, sir, we would save as many as we can. We will take the refugees with us to Ligor.” He then spat on the ground and said in heavily accented Japanese. “That stinking bastard king has ruined the peace of this great city, may he burn in Hell forever!” In answer came a murmur of agreement and darkly muttered oaths.
Many of the noncombatants who had made up the crowd were already hurrying onto the great red seal ship, looking over their shoulders with mounting fear as they climbed aboard.
“The rest of you men, listen now.” Ishida’s voice was calm and full of confident authority, the voice of a man who had commanded troops before in his long career. “They are coming to burn the town, there can be no doubt. We can’t possibly win against such numbers. I say we let them have Nihonmachi and live to fight again, I have no doubt Yamada Nagamasa will want revenge for this treachery and I plan to march on Ayutthaya with him!”
That brought a round of cheers from the gathered men.
“So, here’s what we must do. We will make a stand at the road until we can’t hold there any longer. From there a fighting retreat, slowing them down long enough to be sure that all our women and children can get to the river. Once they have got clear we fall back to the shore ourselves and make our own escape. Let those two-faced sons of dogs burn this town, we care not-one day it will be we who live in those pretty palaces on that island! I say ‘Death to Prasat Thong!’ What say you?”
As one, the men of Nihonmachi made their battlecry, “Death to Prasat Thong!” Following Ishida they sprinted to the road, forming a line across it at the north edge of town. The Siamese were close now, marching confidently, carrying a single edged daab sword in one hand, a torch in the other. Most Siamese fought wielding a daab in each
