Shogun

“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.

CHAPTER NINE

They were quickly on land. Blackthorne intended to lead but Yabu usurped that position and set a strong pace, which he was hard put to keep up with. The other six samurai were watching him carefully. I’ve nowhere to run, you fools, he thought, misunderstanding their concern, as his eyes automatically quartered the bay, looking for shoals or hidden reefs, measuring bearings, his mind docketing the important things for future transcription.

Their way led first along the pebbled shore, then a short climb over sea-smoothed rocks up onto a path that skirted the cliff and crept precariously around the headland southward. The rain had stopped but the gale had not. The closer they came to the exposed tongue of land, the higher the surf—hurled against the rocks below—sprayed into the air. Soon they were soaked.

Although Blackthorne felt chilled, Yabu and the others, who had their light kimonos carelessly tucked into their belts, did not seem to be affected by the wet or the cold. It must be as Rodrigues had said, he thought, his fear returning. Japmen just aren’t built like us. They don’t feel cold or hunger or privations or wounds as we do. They are more like animals, their nerves dulled, compared to us.

Above them the cliff soared two hundred feet. The shore was fifty feet below. Beyond and all around were mountains and not a house or hut in the whole bay area. This was not surprising for there was no room for fields, the shore pebbles quickly becoming foreshore rocks and then granite mountain with trees on the upper slopes.

The path dipped and rose along the cliff face, very unsafe, the surface loose. Blackthorne plodded along, leaning against the wind, and noticed that Yabu’s legs were strong and muscular. Slip, you whore-bastard, he thought. Slip—splatter yourself on the rocks below. Would that make you scream? What would make you scream?

With an effort he took his eyes off Yabu and went back to searching the foreshore. Each crevice and cleft and gulley. The spume wind was gusting and tore the tears from him. Sea spilled back and forth, swirled and eddied. He knew there was a minimal hope of finding Rodrigues, there would be too many caves and hidden places that could never be investigated. But he had had to come ashore to try. He owed Rodrigues the try. All pilots prayed helplessly for death ashore and burial ashore. All had seen too many sea-bloated corpses and half-eaten corpses and crab-mutilated corpses.

They rounded the headland and stopped gratefully in the lee. There was no need to go further. If the body wasn’t to windward then it was hidden or swallowed up or already carried out to sea, into the deep. Half a mile away a small fishing village nestled on the white-frothed shore. Yabu motioned to two of the samurai. Immediately they bowed and loped off toward it. A last look, then Yabu wiped the rain out of his face, glanced up at Blackthorne, motioning their return. Blackthorne nodded and they set off again, Yabu leading, the other samurai still watching him so carefully, and again he thought how stupid they were.

Then, when they were halfway back, they saw Rodrigues.

The body was caught in a cleft between two great rocks, above the surf but washed by part of it. One arm was sprawled in front. The other was still locked to the broken oar which moved slightly with the ebb and flow. It was this movement that had attracted Blackthorne’s attention as he bent into the wind, trudging in Yabu’s wake.

The only way down was over the short cliff. The climb would only be fifty or sixty feet but it was a sheer drop and there were almost no footholds.

What about the tide? Blackthorne asked himself. It’s flowing, not ebbing. That’ll take him out to sea again. Jesus, it looks foul down there. What’s it to be?

He went closer to the edge and immediately Yabu moved in his way, shaking his head, and the other samurai surrounded him.

“I’m only trying to get a better look, for the love of Christ,” he said. “I’m not trying to escape! Where the hell can I run to?”

He backed off a little and peered down. They followed his look and chatted among themselves, Yabu doing most of the talking.

There’s no chance, he decided. It’s too dangerous. We’ll come back at dawn with ropes. If he’s here, he’s here, and I’ll bury him ashore. Reluctantly he turned and, as he did, the edge of the cliff crumbled and he began to slip. Immediately Yabu and the others grabbed him and pulled him back, and all at once he realized that they were concerned only for his safety. They’re only trying to protect me!

Why should they want me safe? Because of Tora—What was his name? Toranaga? Because of him? Yes, but also perhaps because there’s no one else aboard to pilot us. Is that why they let me come ashore, gave me my way? Yes, it must be. So now I have power over the ship, over the old daimyo, and over this bastard. How can I use it?

He relaxed and thanked them and let his eyes roam below. “We’ve got to get him, Yabu-san. Hai! The only way’s that way. Over the cliff. I’ll bring him up, me, Anjin-san!” Again he moved forward as though he was going to climb down and again they restrained him and he said with feigned anxiety, “We’ve got to get Rodrigu-san. Look! There’s not much time, light’s going.”

“Iye, Anjin-san,” Yabu said.

He stood towering over Yabu. “If you won’t let me go, Yabu-san, then send one of your men. Or go yourself. You!”

The wind tore around them, whining off the cliff face. He saw Yabu look down, weighing the climb and the falling light, and he knew Yabu was hooked. You’re trapped, bastard, your vanity’s trapped you. If you start down there you’ll get hurt. But don’t kill yourself, please, just shatter your legs or ankles. Then drown.

A samurai began to climb down but Yabu ordered him back.

“Return to the ship. Fetch some ropes immediately,” Yabu said. The man ran off.

Yabu kicked off his thong slippers. He took his swords out of his belt and put them safely under cover. “Watch them and watch the barbarian. If anything happens to either, I’ll sit you on your own swords.”

“Please let me go down there, Yabu-sama,” Takatashi said. “If you’re hurt or lost I’ll—”

“You think that you can succeed where I will fail?”

“No, Sire, of course not.”