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!
“By God, it’s wonderful to speak English again,” he said to the samurai. “Christ Jesus, I thought I was a dead man. That’s my eighth life gone. Do you know that, old friends? Now I’ve only one to go. Well, never mind! Pilots have ten lives, at least, that’s what Alban Caradoc used to say.” The samurai seemed to be growing irritated by his incomprehensible talk.
Get hold of yourself, he told himself. Don’t make them touchier than they are.
He noticed now that the samurai were all Grays. Ishido’s men. He had asked Father Alvito the name of the man who opposed Toranaga. Alvito had said “Ishido.” That was just before he had been ordered to stand up and had been taken away. Are all Grays Ishido’s men? As all Browns are Toranaga’s?
“Where are we going? There?” He pointed at the castle which brooded above the town. “There, hai?”
“Hai.” The leader nodded a cannonball head, his beard grizzled.
What does Ishido want with me? Blackthorne asked himself.
The leader turned into another street, always going away from the harbor. Then he saw her—a small Portuguese brig, her blue and white flag waving in the breeze. Ten cannon on the main deck, with bow and stern twenty-pounders. Erasmus could take her easily, Blackthorne told himself. What about my crew? What are they doing back there at the village? By the Blood of Christ, I’d like to see them. I was so glad to leave them that day and go back to my own house where Onna—Haku—was, the house of . . . what was his name? Ah yes, Mura-san. And what about that girl, the one in my floor-bed, and the other one, the angel beauty who talked that day to Omi-san? The one in the dream who was in the cauldron too.
But why remember that nonsense? It weakens the mind. “You’ve got to be very strong in the head to live with the sea,” Alban Caradoc had said. Poor Alban.
Alban Caradoc had always appeared so huge and godlike, all seeing, all knowing, for so many years. But he had died in terror. It had been on the seventh day of the Armada. Blackthorne was commanding a hundred-ton gaff-rigged ketch out of Portsmouth, running arms and powder and shot and food to Drake’s war galleons off Dover as they harried and tore into the enemy fleet which was beating up the Channel toward Dunkirk where the Spanish legions lay, waiting to transship to conquer England.
The great Spanish fleet had been ripped by storms and by the more vicious, more sleek, more maneuverable warships that Drake and Howard had built.
Blackthorne had been in a swirling attack near Admiral Howard’s flagship Renown when the wind had changed, freshened to gale force, the squalls monstrous, and he had had to decide whether to try to beat to windward to escape the broadside that would burst from the great galleon Santa Cruz just ahead, or to run before the wind alone, through the enemy squadron, the rest of Howard’s ships having already turned about, hacking more northerly.
“Go north to windward!” Alban Caradoc had shouted. He had shipped as second in command. Blackthorne was Captain-Pilot and responsible, and this his first command. Alban Caradoc had insisted on coming to the fight, even though he had no right to be aboard except that he was an Englishman and all Englishmen had the right to be aboard in this darkest time in history.
“Belay there!” Blackthorne had ordered and had swung the tiller southward, heading into the maw of the enemy fleet, knowing the other way would leave them doomed by the guns of the galleon that now towered above them.
So they had gone southerly, racing before the wind, through the galleons. The three-deck cannonade of the Santa Cruz passed safely overhead and he got off two broadsides into her, flea bites to so huge a vessel, and then they were scudding through the center of the enemy. The galleons on either side did not wish to fire at this lone ship, for their broadsides might have damaged each other, so the guns stayed silent. Then his ship was through and escaping when a three-deck cannonade from the Madre de Dios straddled them. Both their masts careened away like arrows, men enmeshed in the rigging. Half the starboard main deck had vanished, the dead and the dying everywhere.
He had seen Alban Caradoc lying against a shattered gun carriage, so incredibly tiny without legs. He cradled the old seaman whose eyes were almost starting out of his head, his screams hideous. “Oh Christ I don’t want to die don’t want to die, help help me, help me help me, oh Jesus Christ it’s the pain, helllp!” Blackthorne knew there was only one thing he could do for Alban Caradoc. He picked up a belaying pin and smashed down with all his force.
Then, weeks later, he had to tell Felicity that her father was dead. He told her no more than that Alban Caradoc had been killed instantly. He did not tell her he had blood on his hands that would never come off. . . .
Blackthorne and the samurai were walking through a wide winding street now. There were no shops, only houses side by side, each within its own land and high fences, the houses and fences and the road itself all staggeringly clean.
This cleanliness was incredible to Blackthorne because in London and the cities and towns of England—and Europe—offal and night soil and urine were cast into the streets, to be scavenged or allowed to pile up until pedestrians and carts and horses could not pass. Only then would most townships perhaps cleanse themselves. The scavengers of London were great herds of swine that were driven through the main thoroughfares nightly. Mostly the rats and the packs of wild dogs and cats and fires did the cleansing of London. And the flies.
But Osaka was so different. How do they do it? he asked himself. No pot holes, no piles of horse dung, no wheel ruts, no filth or refuse of any sort. Just hard-packed earth, swept and clean. Walls of wood and houses of wood, sparkling and neat. And where are the packs of beggars and cripples that fester every township in Christendom? And the gangs of footpads and wild youths that would inevitably be skulking in the shadows?
The people they passed bowed politely, some knelt. Kaga-men hurried along with palanquins or the one-passenger kagas. Parties of samurai—Grays, never Browns—walked the streets carelessly.
They were walking a shop-lined street when his legs gave out. He toppled heavily and landed on his hands and knees.
The samurai helped him up but, for the moment, his strength had gone and he could walk no further.
“Gomen nasai, dozo ga matsu”—I’m sorry, please wait—he said, his legs cramped. He rubbed his knotted calf muscles and blessed Friar Domingo for the priceless things that the man had taught him.
The samurai leader looked down at him and spoke at length.
“Gomen nasai, nihon go ga hanase-masen”—I’m sorry, I don’t speak Japanese, Blackthorne replied, slowly but clearly, “Dozo, ga matsu.”
“Ah! So desu, Anjin-san. Wakarimasu,” the man said, understanding him. He gave a short sharp command and one of the samurai hurried away. After a while Blackthorne got up, tried to hobble along, but the leader of the samurai said “Iyé” and motioned him to wait.
Soon the samurai came back with four semi-naked kaga-men and their kaga. Samurai showed Blackthorne how to recline in it and to hold on to the strap that hung from the central pole.