{271} SECTION XI
With the onset of peace in Japan, debates arose over what to do with the samurai, and the warrior culture more generally. Some early thinkers, such as Kumazawa Banzan (1619–91) (see Kumazawa Banzan, “Abolition of the Separate Soldier Class,” p. 267), argued that warriors must be tied to the land in order to be effective fighters. To Banzan, life in newly founded capital cities made the samurai soft and ineffectual. The autobiography of Confucian scholar Arai Hakusei (1657–1725) (Arai Hakuseki’s Autobiography, p. 272), ably recounts changes in samurai attitudes and status by describing his father and grandfather, who lost his land holdings. In addition, Hakuseki’s account of a fugitive samurai reveals that warrior violence still lingered for decades after the establishment of a Tokugawa peace.
Yamamoto Tsunetomo (1659–1719) wrote privately that the way of the samurai was found in death; he advocated that samurai focus on that which they could control—their end (see The Book of the Samurai Hagakure by Yamamoto Tsunetomo, p. 276). He also voiced skepticism regarding earlier morals and beliefs. Other samurai relied on ruses and the threat of committing suicide to squeeze taxes out of peasants (Musui’s Story: The Autobiography of a Tokugawa Samurai, p. 280). Fukuzawa Yukichi (1835–1901), a samurai who gained knowledge of European affairs, was critical of samurai ideals and mores, rejecting most of them entirely (see The Autobiography of Yukichi Fukuzawa, p. 291). Shiba Gorō (1860–1945), the young son of a samurai family, fought valiantly, and his mothers and sisters killed themselves in the battles of 1869, which closely followed the collapse of the Tokugawa regime (see The Testament of Shiba Gorō, p. 292). This section closes with two warriors’ petitions, written in an archaic fourteenth-century style, for reward (Two Petitions for Reward Submitted in 1869, p. 297).
{272} 1. Excerpts from Arai Hakuseki’s Autobiography1
Arai Hakusei compares his way of life with that of his grandfather, who experienced the last great battles of the early seventeenth century. He also shows how his grandfather lost status and power and was forced to give up one of his younger sons (Hakuseki’s father) to adoption. Hakuseki’s account also reveals how commoners remembered and at times aided fugitive ancestral lords or their descendants.
Book 1.
My father said that as he lost his mother at the age of four and his father at the age of nine, he knew little about his parents. Grandfather’s name was Kageyu, and grandmother was the daughter of someone called Someya. Both ended their days in Shimozuma-no-Shō in Hitachi Province.
The Arai sprang from the Minamoto clan of Kōzuke Province. The Someya were descended from the Fujiwara of Sagami Province, but for some reason they moved to Hitachi Province. There is a traditional explanation, but as it was not positively stated by my father, I cannot accept it.
My father told me; “Your grandfather said he lost his fief for some reason and went into hiding on the estate he used to possess. I remember that his eyes were large, his beard thick, and his expression stern. When he died, his hair had not yet turned white.”
Whenever grandfather ate, he always took his chopsticks from a black lacquered box, decorated in gold with irises, and when he had finished eating, he put them back in the box and placed it by his side. When father asked his old nurse about it, she told him that once, after grandfather had taken a good head in a battle, the general said to him when he presented himself: “You must be weary with fighting. Eat this.” He pushed forward his dinner-tray and gave it to grandfather with the chopsticks. This became a famous incident at the time, and so grandfather would never let them leave his side. My father added: “Since I was a child when I heard the story, I am not certain when she said it happened, where the battle took place, or who the general was.”
My father once said: “One other thing I remember. When I was playing with a companion of the same age, your grandfather heard me say to him: ‘You’re the fellow who called me a fool.’ Your grandfather said to me: ‘It is a great insult for a man to be called a fool. Though just now you were only speaking in jest, it was as bad as if you insulted yourself. You should not say such things.’”
{273} Father told me: “After your grandfather’s death, by an arrangement made by my elder brothers, I was brought up in the house of a certain man. He was not like your grandfather, but was very rich and had many servants and a great collection of bows, muskets, long spears, etc. He was very fond of me, but when I was thirteen, a friend I had had a quarrel with said: “What can a fellow understand who does not know that he has become the son of his own retainer?” I could not understand, and since there was no one else to ask, I went to the house of my old nurse and asked her about it; she told me not to bother myself about such things. More and more perplexed, I persisted. Then she wept and said: “Since those you now regard as your parents were mindful of past kindnesses, your father died peacefully. Now, this man is rich. He could adopt anyone’s son, but he has adopted you and loves you better than his own son because he bears in mind that you are the son of his lord. You must devote yourself to serving him dutifully.”
When I heard this, I felt a deep resentment against my elder brothers, and so I went to the priest who taught me calligraphy and borrowed copper coins. Fastening up some clothes in wrapping paper, I hung them on my sword hilt, did up the coins in my belt, and set off. Having gone two or three ri, I fell in with two couriers on their way from Mito to Edo. I inquired about the road to Edo, and they said: “If a young fellow travels alone, he will be in danger of robbery. Come along with us.” Thinking this was so, I went with them. When they asked where I was from, whose son I was, and whose house I was going to in Edo, I did not reply immediately, but as they were kind, and let me ride when I was tired, I thought there was no reason to be so fearful and told them how things were. They were sorry for me, took me to Edo, and looked after me. With their help, I found a master.
Twenty-five years after your grandfather’s death, desirous of visiting his grave, I returned to my native village. My three elder brothers were dead, and my elder sister alone survived. My sister told me that my second eldest brother, grieved at not knowing my whereabouts, had gone to Edo every year inquiring for me everywhere, again and again, but now he was dead. Later I heard that she too had died shortly afterward. After that, there was no one to visit in my native village.
My father’s mother died on the 2nd April 1604, and his father died on the 25th September 1609. My father was born in 1601. He left his native province in 1613.
A man called Ryōya, a former abbot of Kōtokuji, told me that when he was still a child, in the time of the abbot who preceded him, someone called Arai Kansai visited this temple. Ryōya took word to my father, who came to meet the visitor, and the two stayed together all day. The visitor sometimes came every year, and sometimes after an interval of several years. Ryōya heard he was a cousin but was not sure, nor did he know where he came from. I do not know whether my mother knew about this, much less did she dare tell me. Why were people in olden times so {274} reticent? Even Ryōya did not tell me of this until thirty years or so after my father’s death.
Not long after the civil wars, when my father was still young, men were chivalrous and were accustomed to setting a high value on nobility of spirit, in contrast to the situation today. My father spent some years wandering no one knows where. At the age of thirty-one, when he first entered the service of Mimbu-no-Shō Minamoto Toshinao (Tsuchiya), three foot-soldiers (at that time called kachizamurai) were accused of night burglary. They were arrested and confined above the firing gallery in the gate-tower and placed in the sole charge of my father. On being informed of this, father said: “If these men are committed to my custody, I hope their long and short swords will not be taken away from them.” My father’s request was granted, and their weapons were handed over to him. Giving them to a servant to carry, he climbed up to the floor above the gallery and returned them to the three men, saying: “If you intend to escape, cut off my head and go. I alone am no match for the three of you, so my own weapons are useless.” Then he wrapped his two swords in a piece of toweling and laid them aside, and so he slept and ate with the men. After about ten days, the charge against them was proved baseless. Nevertheless they were dismissed from the Kohō’s House on the grounds that he did not want such men in his service. When that time came, they said to my father: “We felt that the lord committed us to the charge of only one man because he considered us contemptible. We intended to prove otherwise, but if we had killed you, unarmed as you were, he would have concluded that we were as despicable as he had thought, which would have been unbearable. There was nothing for us but to wait for death, but still we planned, if by some lucky chance our lives were spared, to take our revenge. Owing to your kindness, our weapons were not confiscated, and now we can take our place in the company of warriors again. We do not wish to be unmindful of your kindness, and we feel that our resentment has been done away with.” With this they parted. This is the story as my father told it to me.
Shortly afterward, he was selected for special duties, and at last became a permanent retainer in the Kohō’s House, Later he was appointed a surveillance officer (at that time called a metsuke).
The events which I now relate are my own recollections dating from the time when I first began to understand things.
My father’s daily routine was always the same and never varied. He always rose early at about four o’clock, bathed in cold water, and dressed his own hair. When the nights were cold, my mother wanted him to use warm water, but he would not countenance putting the servants to this trouble and forbade it. When he was past seventy, my mother said that she too was getting on in years and could no longer endure the cold nights, so hot coals were placed on the ashes in the hearth, and they {275} lay down with their feet toward it. A kettle of water was placed by the side of the fire, and when my father got up, he bathed with the hot water.
Both my parents were devout Buddhists. My father never neglected to make obeisance to Buddha each morning, after he had done up his hair and put on his clothes. On the anniversaries of his parents’ deaths, he prepared rice and placed it on the altar with his own hands, without troubling the servants. While the night was still dark, he sat up waiting for the dawn, and as soon as it was light, he went on duty.
**
My father said that when he was young, there was a certain man named Takataki who served in the House of the Lord of Shisawa, in Harima. (He was commonly called Kichibei; I do not know his given name.) This man suddenly disappeared. After some days had passed, the story went about that, being fond of fishing, he had gone out with what is called a casting net, and, taking off his clothes by the riverside, had told his servant to guard his two swords carefully while he himself, carrying the net, went into the water. As he walked along catching trout, he crossed the border of the territory of Hayashida. The lord of that region had forbidden fishing in that place, and Kichibei was seized by two guards. When they went to tie him up with a rope, he pleaded piteously with them; they grudgingly let him go free, and off he went.
He then disappeared, perhaps because he thought that the affair would eventually become known. It was being said that he had suffered this misadventure because of his fondness for so frivolous a pastime when that year drew to a close. On the day of the lunar New Year of the following year, he cut down one of the chief samurai among the large number on duty in front of the great gate of the Hayashida mansion. He left a card describing in detail the circumstances of what he had done, stating that it was in order to wipe out his shame, and fled. Thinking that he had not fled far, they sent out parties to search for him, but they were unable to find him. The next day he cut down another man and left his card as before. Although no time was lost in making a search, once more he could not be found. Five days later he cut down yet another man, left a card, and fled as before. Despite a thorough search, they were never able to discover where he had gone. People said that to do such a deed once was easy, but to do it twice and three times proved his courage beyond a doubt. My father said: “After I went to serve in the Kohō’s House, I used to relate this incident. Later, when I went to take charge of affairs in Kazusa, my companions and I came to a place called Takataki where we stopped in at the house of the headman. When night fell, a crowd of villagers came in and one of them, a man close to sixty, who was seated at the other side of the fire that was burning in a long hearth, caught my eye and then averted his face. {276} His glance seemed peculiar, so I stared in his direction, and he also looked back at me and then away, two or three times. I was puzzled and got up from my seat, went across to him and asked him who he was. At first he turned away saying only that he was a native of that place. Afterward he said: ‘How can I conceal myself in this way? I am the ruin of that Takataki whom you once knew.’ I was astonished, and exclaimed: ‘How do you come to be living here?’
“Thereupon he said: ‘I am descended from the Kazusa branch of the Takataki who were retainers of the Kamakura Bakufu. I am a grandson of the Takataki who bore the title of Sakyō-no Jō at the time of the Satomi of Awa who annexed this province. When the House of Satomi was destroyed, I entered the House of the Lord of Shisawa. After that incident occurred, I fled here. My ancestors had held this place for generations, and the people here sheltered me for the sake of the past. When I heard that a man called Arai had come here, I wondered if it was the man I had met. I came to see, but you were surprised and spoke in an embarrassed way, and so I was ashamed.’
“When my companions asked me if I knew the man, I said: ‘He is the Takataki who, it is said, cut down three men in Harima Province in the space of seven days, and each time set up a card.’ They were all astounded. How hard it is to foresee the vicissitudes of a man’s life.”
2. Excerpts from The Book of the Samurai Hagakure by Yamamoto Tsunetomo2
Yamamoto Tsunetomo (1659–1719) was a samurai from the Saga domain of Hizen Province, which was controlled by the Nabeshima. After his lord Nabeshima Mitsushige died in 1700, the forty-two-year-old Tsunetomo, disappointed that he could not follow his lord in death, retired. His sayings were recorded by Tashiro Tsuramoto, a fellow samurai, and published with the title “Hidden Leaves” or “Hidden by Leaves” (Hagakure). This work was kept secret, circulated among samurai of the domain, and only became widely known in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries as the notion of Japan’s warrior culture, and “samurai spirit” came to be popularized. Yamamoto’s famous opening passage is included here, as are other passages critiquing the forty-seven rōnin—masterless warriors who engaged in an elaborate vendetta and were elsewhere lauded as exemplars. Though Yamamoto’s quotes are {277} often used to promote the concept of “unthinking action,” he also focuses on the importance of training and concentration. He also related an anecdote about a warrior who refused high status in order to remain able to act as he pleased.
The Way of the Samurai is found in death. When it comes to either/or, there is only the quick choice of death. It is not particularly difficult. Be determined and advance. To say that dying without reaching one’s aim is to die a dog’s death is the frivolous way of sophisticates. When pressed with the choice of life or death, it is not necessary to gain one’s aim. We all want to live. And in large part we make our logic according to what we like. But not having attained our aim and continuing to live is cowardice. This is a thin dangerous line. To die without gaining one’s aim is a dog’s death and fanaticism. But there is no shame in this. This is the substance of the Way of the Samurai. If by setting one’s heart right every morning and evening, one is able to live as though his body were already dead, he pains freedom in the Way. His whole life will be without blame, and he will succeed in his calling.
*
At the time when there was a council concerning the promotion of a certain man, the council members were at the point of deciding that promotion was useless because of the fact that the man had previously been involved in a drunken brawl. But someone said, “If we were to cast aside every man who had made a mistake once, useful men could probably not be come by. A man who makes a mistake once will be considerably more prudent and useful because of his repentance. I feel that he should be promoted.” Someone else then asked, “Will you guarantee him?” The man replied, “Of course I will.” The others asked, “By what will you guarantee him?” And he replied, “I can guarantee him by the fact that he is a man who has erred once. A man who has never once erred is dangerous.” This said, the man was promoted.
*
A certain person was brought to shame because he did not take revenge. The way of revenge lies in simply forcing one’s way into a place and being cut down. There is no shame in this. By thinking that you must complete the job you will run out of time. By considering things like how many men the enemy has, time piles up; in the end you will give up.
No matter if the enemy has thousands of men, there is fulfillment in simply standing them off and being determined to cut them all down, starting from one end. You will finish the greater part of it.
Concerning the night assault of Lord Asano’s rōnin, the fact that they did not commit seppuku at the Sengakuji was an error, for there was a long delay between the time their lord was struck down and the time when they struck down the {278} enemy. If Lord Kira had died of illness within that period, it would have been extremely regrettable. Because the men of the Kamigata area have a very clever sort of wisdom, they do well at praiseworthy acts but cannot do things indiscriminately, as was done in the Nagasaki fight.3
Although all things are not to be judged in this manner, I mention it in the investigation of the Way of the Samurai. When the time comes, there is no moment for reasoning. And if you have not done your inquiring beforehand, there is most often shame. Reading books and listening to people’s talk are for the purpose of prior resolution. Above all, the Way of the Samurai should be in being aware that you do not know what is going to happen next, and in querying every item day and night. Victory and defeat are matters of the temporary force of circumstances. The way of avoiding shame is different. It is simply in death.
Even if it seems certain that you will lose, retaliate. Neither wisdom nor technique has a place in this. A real man does not think of victory or defeat. He plunges recklessly towards an irrational death. By doing this, you will awaken from your dreams.
*
According to the situation, there are times when you must rely on a person for something or other. If this is done repeatedly, it becomes a matter of importuning that person and can be rather rude. If there is something that must be done, it is better not to rely on others.
*
There is something to be learned from a rainstorm. When meeting with a sudden shower, you try not to get wet and run quickly along the road. But doing such things as passing under the eaves of houses, you still get wet. When you are resolved from the beginning, you will not be perplexed, though you still get the same soaking. This understanding extends to everything.
*
In China there was once a man who liked pictures of dragons, and his clothing and furnishings were all designed accordingly. His deep affection for dragons was brought to the attention of the dragon god, and one day a real dragon appeared before his window. It is said that he died of fright. He was probably a man who always spoke big words but acted differently when facing the real thing.
*
{279} There was a certain person who was a master of the spear. When he was dying, he called his best disciple and spoke his last injunctions: “I have passed on to you all the secret techniques of this school, and there is nothing left to say. If you think of taking on a disciple yourself, then you should practice diligently with the bamboo sword every day.” Superiority is not just a matter of secret techniques. Also, in the instructions of a renga teacher, it was said that the day before the poetry meeting one should calm his mind and look at a collection of poems. This is concentration on one affair. All professions should be done with concentration.
*
Although the Mean is the standard for all things, in military affairs a man must always strive to outstrip others. According to archery instructions the right and left hands are supposed to be level, but the right hand has a tendency to go higher. They will become level if one will lower the right hand a bit when shooting. In the stories of the elder warriors it is said that on the battlefield if one wills himself to outstrip warriors of accomplishment, and day and night hopes to strike down a powerful enemy, he will grow indefatigable and fierce of heart and will manifest courage. One should use this principle in everyday affairs too.
*
There is a way of bringing up the child of a samurai. From the time of infancy, one should encourage bravery and avoid trivially frightening or teasing the child. If a person is affected by cowardice as a child, it remains a lifetime scar. It is a mistake for parents to thoughtlessly make their children dread lightning, or to have them not go into dark places or to tell them frightening things in order to stop them from crying.
*
You cannot tell whether a person is good or bad by his vicissitudes in life. Good and bad fortune are matters of fate. Good and bad actions are Man’s Way. Retribution of good and evil is taught simply as a moral lesson.
*
Because of some business, Morooka Hikoemon was called upon to swear before the gods concerning the truth of a certain matter. But he said, “A samurai’s word is harder than metal. Since l have impressed this fact on myself, what more can the gods and Buddhas do?” and the swearing was canceled. This happened when he was twenty-six.
*
Master Ittei said, “Whatever one prays for will be granted. Long ago there were no matsutake mushrooms in our province. Some men who saw them in the Kamigata area prayed that they might grow here, and nowadays they are growing all over Kitayama. In the future I would like to have Japanese cypress grow in our province. As this is something that everyone desires, I predict it for the future. This being so, everyone should pray for it.”
{280} *
When something out of the ordinary happens, it is ridiculous to say that it is a mystery or a portent of something to come. Eclipses of the sun and moon, comets, clouds that flutter like flags, snow in the fifth month, lightning in the twelfth month, and so on, all are things that occur every fifty or one hundred years. They occur according to the evolution of Yin and Yang. The fact that the sun rises in the east and sets in the west would be a mystery, too, if it were not an everyday occurrence. It is not dissimilar. Furthermore, the fact that something bad always happens in the world when strange phenomena occur is due to people seeing something like fluttering clouds and thinking that something is going to happen. The mystery is created in their minds, and by waiting for the disaster, it is from their very minds that it occurs. The occurrence of mysteries is always by word of mouth.
*
Calculating people are contemptible. The reason for this is that calculation deals with loss and gain, and the loss and gain mind never stops. Death is considered loss and life is considered gain. Thus, death is something that such a person does not care for, and he is contemptible. Furthermore, scholars and their like are men who with wit and speech hide their own true cowardice and greed. People often misjudge this.
*
Hirano Gonbei was one of the Men of Seven Spears who advanced straight up the hill at the battle of Shizugadake. At a later date he was invited to become one of Lord Ieyasu’s hatamoto. Once he was being entertained at Master Hosokawa’s. The master said, “Master Gonbei’s bravery is not a hidden matter in Japan. It is truly a shame that such a man of bravery has been placed in a low rank such as you are in now. This must be contrary to your wishes. If you were to become a retainer of mine, I would give you half the domain.” Giving no answer at all, Gonbei suddenly got up from his seat, went out to the veranda, stood facing the house, and urinated. Then he said, “If I were the master’s retainer, it would never do to urinate from here.”
3. Selections from Musui’s Story: The Autobiography of a Tokugawa Samurai4
This account by Katsu Kokichi (1802–50), a marginal samurai, ruffian, and charlatan, provides a remarkable window onto the late Tokugawa world. The first selection recounts episodes in his youth, while the later extended passage {281} reveals a remarkable moment later in his life, after he had taken Buddhist vows. When a friend gambled away the tax revenue he had collected from Goganzuka village, Katsu employed a variety of stratagems, detailed here, to force the villagers to pay still more taxes. Other sources confirm that he did, in fact, manage to con the villagers in this way. Katsu Kokichi’s son became one of the last generals of the Tokugawa regime.
When I was nine, my father told me to take judo lessons with Suzuki Seibei, a relative of the Katsu family in Yokoami-chō. Suzuki served as the head of the office of procurements and was reputed to have many students, among them daimyō from provincial domains and from the great houses of Hitotsubashi and Tayasu. The classes I attended were held on the third, fifth, eighth, and tenth days of each month. I behaved myself at first but soon got into mischief. My fellow students strongly disliked me and ganged up against me all the time.
On my way to class one day I found to my great surprise that a crowd of boys from Mae-chō and their parents were lying in wait for me near the Hannoki riding ground. “Here comes that troublemaker Otani—let’s beat him to a pulp!” they yelled, and flourishing bamboo spears and sticks, they quickly closed in on me. I drew my sword, slashed my way out, and clambered up the embankment of the riding ground. Just below was a muddy ditch that surrounded the shogunate lumberyard. I jumped in. I spattered my haori and hakama,5 but at least I had escaped. The gatekeeper of the lumberyard was a friend of mine—I often went there to play—and knowing he was a brave man, I had him walk me home. Forty or fifty people were still waiting. Did we get a thrashing!
For two months I avoided that section of Kamezawa-chō. Then one day I caught Tatsu, the son of an embroidery craftsman in Kamezawa-chō, walking by our house. I ran out and struck him with my sword until one of our retainers had to come out and restrain me. He told me later that he had taken Tatsu home and explained to his parents that I was only trying to get even for what had happened near the riding ground. In any case, no one in Kamezawa-chō crossed me after that.
As I said, everyone in judo class hated me. On the day that an all-night midwinter session was to be held, we received permission from the teacher to bring food. We took a break at midnight. I had packed a lacquer box full of bean jam cakes and had been looking forward all day to this moment when we would share the food. My classmates had other plans. They got together and tied me up with an obi, hoisted me to one of the rafters, and began eating, even helping themselves to my {282} cakes. So I pissed on their heads, spraying the food that had been spread out, and naturally, everything had to be thrown away. Served them right, too.
*
I then persuaded Jizaemon a village headman in the fief, to lend me forty ryō for my travel expenses to Settsu and said I’d return it by the end of the year. Earlier in the seventh month I had submitted a request to my commissioner to become a lay Buddhist priest and change my name. I received permission from Wakisaka Nakatsukasa Shōyū on the seventeenth day of the tenth month. I took the religious name of Musui, but as my shaved samurai hairdo had not yet grown in, I decided to travel under my samurai name as a retainer of Okano Magoichirō.
I asked Toranosuke to tend to my affairs in my absence. On the ninth day of the eleventh month I set off on the Nakasendō post road.6 Accompanying me were Hotta Kisaburō, Iyama Yūhachi, and two other men.
At the post station in Kumagaya, Jizaemon was waiting for me with the forty ryō. I was feeling none too well, but I pushed my men to cover as much distance as possible. We arrived at last at the Hakken’ya7 in Osaka. We rested for several days and then went to Sonezaki, to the north of the city, to call on a friend, Kagatora. He was fortunately at home, and when I explained to him the purpose of my trip, he readily agreed to my request for a loan.
We arrived the next day at the village of Goganzuka, Magoichirō’s fief in Settsu. It was about six miles from Osaka. We were put up at the residence of Yamada Shin’uemon, the manager of the fief. I lost no time in filling him in about the details of the situation in Edo.
In the morning I called together the villagers and told them of the urgent need for money. Shin’uemon said, “As you know, the rice yield of the village is assessed at five hundred koku, and the villagers have already lent over seven hundred ryō. I doubt if they can put up another penny.” I had been told by Magoichirō and his retainers that the amount lent by the village came to five hundred ryō and had undertaken the trip on that assumption. This huge discrepancy was a complete surprise. I was extremely annoyed but said nothing and dismissed the villagers for the day. If I set my mind to it, I knew there would always be a way.
I spent the next few days walking around the village. The villagers seemed relatively prosperous—a good sign. I asked Shin’uemon how much it cost the villagers to accommodate official visitors. He replied that whenever a retainer came on business, he usually came with only one man, and daily expenses amounted to eighteen silver monme. There were five of us. We would have to be very frugal.
{283} I told my men to decline all side dishes and to take them instead to Shin’uemon’s mother. Each day I reminded them how important it was to cut down on expenses, though now and then I slipped them some money to sneak off to Itami for food and drink. Within several days, looking very pleased, Shin’uemon reported that our daily upkeep came to only ten monme. I refrained from bringing up the subject of money and took trips to Osaka for my own diversion as well as to gather information on the sly about the villagers. The rumor was that they had no intention of putting up the money. “They’re simply waiting for you to get so bored that you’ll leave,” someone said.
To pass the time, every evening I invited Shin’uemon and the villagers and their children to hear me tell stories about the exploits of famous generals and brave warriors. They were very much taken and listened absorbed until late at night.
One day I again raised the subject of money. The villagers protested, “But we don’t have any money.” I dropped the matter. It then came to light that my man Iyama Yūhachi had on his own been pressuring the villagers to put up money. Feelings ran high. The angry villagers met day after day for discussions and began milling around our living quarters waving bamboo spears and shouting abuses. My men were afraid and said they wanted to go back to Edo. I gave them a piece of my mind.
The villagers continued to hold their daily meetings, rushing to the local temple at the sound of the bell. And all because of Iyama’s stupid demands.
I wasn’t a bit fazed. Now and then I put on my kimono with the shogunal crest8 and marched around the village with a retainer in tow. This never failed to send the villagers scurrying. Every morning I had Hotta Kisaburō give readings on the Greater Learning and the Book of Filial Piety and invited Shin’uemon and his family to join us. Shin’uemon, a well-meaning and upright soul, appreciated this and offered to negotiate with the villagers on his own. I said no. For I had a plan up my sleeve—something so startling that the villagers would hand over the money, even while foaming at the mouth. I bided my time.
I came down with scabies and commuted daily to Koyama Hot Springs in Itami. But I set a man to spy on developments in the village. He found out that the village officials were cooking up various evil plots. I pretended not to know.
We had been in Goganzuka for some time. I thought I would pay a visit to Shimoyama Yauemon, a friend who was in the service of Hori Iga-no-kami, the magistrate of Osaka. I had done several favors for him back in Edo and was sure I could count on him. I talked to him in private—he already knew all about Magoichirō and his troubles—and returned to Goganzuka.
{284} Shin’uemon was curious about my trip. “May I ask who you visited in Osaka?” he asked.
“Oh, Iga-no-kami, the magistrate—we used to take fencing lessons together.”
“You don’t say!” He looked intimidated.
Several days later a messenger arrived from Osaka with a train of bearers. He delivered an oral communication from the magistrate and presented me with boxes filled with fish and other delicacies. The villagers were struck dumb. “Little did we know, Katsu-sama, that you were friends with the Osaka magistrate.” They put away their bamboo spears and gave up surrounding our lodgings. It was really funny.
I distributed the fish to the village officials and gave the rest to Shin’uemon and his family. It was reported that they all ate the food reverently, bowing their heads and murmuring, “A gift, a precious gift from the magistrate himself.” They were also apparently chastened and willing to talk about money. I could carry out my scheme any day.
One morning I announced to Shin’uemon that I wished to make a pilgrimage to Nose Myōken Shrine and that I would be taking with me my man Kisaburō and two or three of the villagers who had been particularly troublesome. I wore the kimono with the shogunal crest and took along a spear box.9 I said to the group, “Today I go not as a retainer of Okano Magoichirō but as a pilgrim.” Just before leaving I said to Shin’uemon, “Could you get me a complete set of rainwear?”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” he said. The weather’s been fine for the past few days, and I’m sure it won’t rain for at least five or six days.”
“Then let me tell you that I’ve been devoted to Myōken-sama for many years and that every time I pray, it pours. So get some rainwear, will you?” He grudgingly provided a porter to carry the rainwear.
We set off, stopping at Ikeda long enough for the porter to go back and fetch a covering for my palanquin. The weather remained clear, and as we climbed uphill toward Mount Nose, we could see in the distance Osaka, Amagasaki, and further down the coastline of Settsu. For winter it was unusually warm and even with only one layer of clothing, we perspired. No one imagined for a moment that it would rain. The porter grumbled and complained.
I left my palanquin at a teahouse at the foot of Mount Nose and walked the last stretch to the peak. We purified ourselves with water from the shrine well and climbed the flight of steps leading to the main prayer hall. The other worshippers scattered in all directions when they saw the crest on my kimono, and we were left to pray undisturbed.
{285} We took refreshments in the teahouse outside the main gate and began our descent. Halfway down I saw banks of rain clouds drifting over from Mount Rokkō in Arima.
“You’re in luck,” I said to the porter. “Any moment now it’ll rain and your load will be lighter.”
Everyone disagreed. “Just because there are rain clouds, it doesn’t mean it’s going to rain.”
“I wouldn’t want it to rain before we got to the inn anyway,” I said, but urged them, nevertheless, to hurry.
No sooner had we reached the foot of the mountain than it began to pour. There was still some distance to the inn. The men were drenched, but I was nice and dry in the palanquin.
It stormed through the night and let up only around four in the morning. I stayed awake, warming myself at the hearth—you could never tell what the villagers might do, though there was no question that they had been impressed. “Katsu-sama,” they said. “You are a man of truly strange and wondrous powers. You knew all along it was going to rain. It can mean only one thing—that the gods pay special attention to your prayers. Yes, indeed, the honorable bannermen of the shōgun are really different. The likes of us could pray for a hundred days, and this would never happen.” I thought to myself, “I’ve got them now.”
We made a brief detour to the Tada Gongen Shrine and arrived back at Goganzuka about four. That night Iyama came stealthily to my bedside. He said, “Katsusama, the whole village is agog about the rain. I have a feeling they’ve had a change of heart and that you’ll be getting the money after all.” I was heartened.
The next evening I had Iyama scout the situation again. He reported that the villagers were divided in two—those willing to put up the money and those who were not. Leaving Horta Kisaburō in charge, I decided to make another trip to Osaka and left early in the morning. I took in a play at Nipponbashi, had another talk with Shimoyama, and stayed overnight at the Hakken’ya.
The following day once again a messenger came from the Osaka magistrate with a letter and gifts of food. I had the food cooked and invited Shin’uemon, his staff, and the village headman. When we had finished eating, I read aloud the letter from the magistrate. Everyone looked subdued.
“Now about the money—” I began.
“We are doing our very best, but so far it’s been impossible,” they said. I left it at that and went to sleep.
In the morning I called for Shin’uemon. “Today I have a special reason for celebrating, and I would like to invite all the village officials for some sake around four. Order some particularly tasty dishes from Amagasaki—I’ll pay for it—and see to {286} it that the soup and all the other dishes are prepared with extra care.” I gave him a copy of the menu I had planned and asked to have water heated for a bath. I had Kisaburō fix my hair and bathed while the men cleaned up the sitting room.
Then, leaving word that we were going to Gozu Tennō Shrine in Itami, I took my men to a kimono shop in Itami called the Shirokoya. I ordered three sets of ceremonial robes in linen and two sets of white haori and kimono dyed with the Okano family crest. “And have them ready by two this afternoon.” The shopkeeper said he would, as long as he didn’t have to dye in the crest. I paid for the goods and told him that someone would be by to pick them up.
On the way back I gave my men the particulars of the big farce I proposed to put on that evening. We returned to the village sometime past noon.
I had Kisaburō arrange a few sprays of white camellias in a vase to place in the alcove. It was close to five by the time we had attended to all the details. The food was ready to be served and the village officials had gathered in Shin’uemon’s office. I asked everyone to come into the sitting room. “As you’ve no doubt heard, I have a special reason for inviting you here today. It was good of you to come. Now if you would just make yourselves at home and drink—” I poured sake for everyone. “And if there’s anyone here with a hidden talent, please feel free to perform.”
I started off with a popular ditty I had picked up during my wilder days in the Yoshiwara. I kept replenishing their cups and urged them to relax and forget formalities of rank. Unlike previous meetings at which money had been mentioned, the villagers were in high spirits, laughing and singing and saying the first thing that popped into their heads. Having satisfied myself that the sake had taken its effect, I ordered tea and rice to conclude the meal. The villagers finished eating, thanked me, and rose to leave.
I hurried out to the garden and washed myself with the buckets of water that had been set out according to plan. I quickly changed into one of the white kimono and wore over it the kimono with the shogunal crest. I piled several cushions in the center of the room flanked them with a pair of candlesticks, and sat down.
“Kisaburō,” I called out. “Tell Shin’uemon and the village officials to come back. I have something important to say.”
The villagers demurred. “Couldn’t we wait until tomorrow? We’ve all had too much to drink—”
“No, I can’t. I have a previous commitment to go to Osaka tomorrow and will probably be away four or five days. Since you’re here anyway, you might as well sober up and listen to this message from your lord and master in Edo.”
They straggled back to the adjoining room, and when everyone had been seated, Kisaburō threw open the partitions. The villagers bowed low.
{287} “What 1 have to say is no less than this,” I began. “For the past month all of you have conspired to ignore the repeated request from your lord for funds to settle the Jōsuke affair. It is inexcusable that you should think only of yourselves and look the other way when your lord makes an appeal. Be that as it may, be informed that I herewith call off all talk of money.”
The villagers looked grateful and relieved. I went on. “I’ll have you know that I made this trip expressly at the request of your lord and at great risk to my health. Time and again I appealed to you for help, but you turned a deaf ear, as if I were just another ordinary retainer. It was the height of rudeness. And then, for reasons I fail to understand, you threatened me and my men with bamboo spears. Pray tell me why you did this. Depending on your answer, I may have to take it up with the Osaka magistrate tomorrow and request a hearing.”
Everyone remained huddled on the floor speechless. At length one of them spoke up in tears. “We are entirely to blame. Please have pity and forgive us.”
“If you insist—what are you but poor benighted peasants?”
I turned to Shin’uemon. “Since they seem to be genuinely sorry, I will forgive them. There is one request, however, that I would like to make to you and the villagers. You will grant me this, I hope—”
The villagers said, “Anything, anything that we can possibly do. After all, you were good enough to overlook our offenses.”
“My request is none other than this. As you know by now, the affair in Edo has involved Magoichirō’s relatives, the senior councilor Ōta Bingo-no-kami, and several other high government officials. The fact is, it’s much more serious than you imagine. Jōsuke is bargaining for all he’s worth, nothing’s been resolved, and the case threatens to be brought to the shogunate court any day. I, Kokichi, could not stand by idly, but try as I might, without money there was really nothing I could do. And that is why I came to you.
“I realize the amount Magoichirō wants to borrow is enormous and puts you in a difficult position. It isn’t that I don’t understand your reasons for refusing. All the same, you would do well to remember the debt you owe your lord from the time of his father, Gōsetsu. Indeed, it goes back several generations. Would it be right to forget it? In my opinion to abandon your lord when his family name and honor are in danger is behavior unworthy of even beast or fowl.
“Oh, one or two thousand ryō I could have easily borrowed from the Osaka magistrate. But what would be the point then of having been entrusted with the land by Gōsetsu? Just think if it were known that Magoichirō had bypassed his own fief and borrowed from another to restore his family fortune. In the first place it would be most unfilial to his ancestors. Or supposing it were bruited about that he had done this because he couldn’t control the peasants on his own land—he {288} would be hard put to revive his family name, much less show his face to his friends and peers.
“I came to Osaka in the hope that you would come forward—that lord and follower together would put things right and set an example of devotion that no one could criticize. But I, Kokichi, failed to raise the money, and having accomplished nothing, I cannot go back to Edo. In atonement I have decided to commit harakiri tonight. My request is simply this—that all of you here see to it that my corpse is delivered by the appropriate officials to my son in Edo. Yūhachi will take this letter immediately to Magoichirō. Kisaburō has already agreed to administer the final blow with his sword10 and explain everything to my wife and children when he returns to Edo. As for the other two who accompanied me here from Edo, I thank them for all they’ve done. They may keep whatever money I gave them and leave tomorrow or do as they wish. I have nothing further to say. Ah yes, this kimono from the shogun—I leave with the village officials. Treat it with respect.”
I took off my kimono and put it on a large tray. Handing Kisaburō my long sword, I said, “Use this to cut off my head.” I ordered one of my men to bring the container in which to place my decapitated head—I’d brought it from Edo—and as I unsheathed my dagger and wound its handle with a strip of cloth, I reminded everyone to carry out my instructions. I looked around the room. “You may raise your heads now. Behold how Katsu Kokichi commits harakiri!” I held up the dagger.
“Stop. Please stop!” Crying out, the villagers crawled toward me.
“Kisaburō, are you ready?”
He remained bowed to the floor.
“Must I ask someone else?”
Kisaburō slowly got up and went behind me. Several villagers clung to him and wailed. “Please wait—we have something to say.”
“Quickly then,” Kisaburō said.
“Katsu-sama, we’ll do whatever you say. Yes, even if we have to sell our possessions.”
I said, “It’s too late now.”
“Please—we beg of you not to take your life. Please.”
They beseeched me weeping and sobbing. I returned the dagger to its scabbard.
Shin’uemon tottered forward on his knees in a daze. “It is all my fault for not discharging my duties as manager of the fief. At the very least please cut off my head and send it to Edo.”
{289} “That won’t be necessary. The blame lies with everyone for being selfish and wanting in respect for their master. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve retired and don’t ask much of this world. It doesn’t matter what happens to me, though I was hoping that I might help a lot of people and that even Jōsuke might come round once he heard of my death. But since you insist, I will not take my life. Instead, I will ask you to sign a pledge that you will furnish the money.”
The villages drew up a note immediately and signed their names. “When would you like to have the money?”
“By ten in the morning.”
“Yes, yes, anything you say.”
As they shuffled out of the room, Kisaburō spoke to them in a stern voice. “Be sure you get the money, because if anything goes wrong, then I’ll commit harakiri.”
The money was collected in a frenzy and presented on a tray the next morning at ten—all of 550 ryō, with a promise to have the remaining 50 ryō delivered to the House of Shimaya in Edo before we ourselves had returned. The villagers asked that their contribution to Magoichirō’s living expenses be reduced from 330 ryō to 200 for the coming year. I told them that it was out of the question.
“Would you grant us this request, then?” they said. “Your man Iyama Yūhachi has extorted close to 400 ryō over the past year. We would appreciate it if you would hand him over to us so that we can hold an inquiry.” I said, “As soon as the work’s done.” I could see Yūhachi shaking with fright, so after they had left, I told him not to worry.
The next order of business was to punish the villagers. I demoted the village officials who had been particularly defiant to the status of plain water-drinking peasants and replaced them with men who had served in Gōetsu’s time. To those who had lent money, I granted the privilege of bearing surnames, and to Shin’uemon, I gave a set of ceremonial robes, a house, and a plot of land with a yield of almost one koku of rice.
By evening all the business had been completed. I told Shin’uemon that my men and I would be going to Kyoto for some sightseeing the next day. “Send some coolies ahead to make the necessary arrangements, and have everything we brought from Edo packed and ready. I’ll be needing Yūhachi for a while yet, but I’ll send him back from Kyoto.” I turned to Yūhachi and said, “You’re coming with me, do you hear?”
That night we were chatting and taking our ease when we were told that two village officials, Uichi and Gen’uemon, had come with a written petition claiming they had a note from Magoichirō promising to repay 150 ryō by the end of the year. “Tell them to extend the deadline to the coming year,” I told Shin’uemon.
I could hear the two protesting in the next room so I went in and demanded to see the petition. Pretending to read it, I held the paper up to the candle and burned it. Uichi and Gen’uemon blanched and muttered something under their breath.
{290} “Arc you criticizing me?” I shouted. “It has come to my attention that you two have been the worst of the lot. I’ve tolerated it so far, but this time—” They both cringed. “And the note. I’ll keep it thank you.” I snatched the document and walked out. With one phrase I had disposed of a debt of 150 ryō. I thought then how important it was in life to strike at the right moment.
We left for Kyoto at four in the morning. The villagers didn’t say a word. We rested up for three days at an inn near Sanjō Bridge and then set off for the Tōkaido. During the stop at Ōiso, I had my hair trimmed and combed back to fall behind the ears. At Kawasaki, I sent word ahead that we were returning. A crowd was waiting for us in Edo. It was the ninth day of the twelfth month.
I went straight to Magoichirō’s house with the money. The entire family came out and talked as if I were a living god. Two days later I summoned Jōsuke and handed him 339 ryō, obtained a receipt that included the signatures of his relative, and gave it to Magoichirō.
My adoptive grandmother died the next day. I made arrangements for her funeral.
The peasants on Magoichirō’s fiefs in Musashi and Sagami had said that I’d be lucky if I came back with one hundred ryō. They were amazed, and as for Magoichirō’s relative who’d said he would resign from office if I got as much as fifty—well, I guess I put him in his place. My friend Toranosuke was very pleased. Jōsuke himself couldn’t have been happier. “Katsu-sama,” he said, “as long as I live, I won’t sleep with my toes pointed in your direction.”11 He stops by my house even now.
Only a few days remained until the end of the year. I dashed around settling Magoichirō’s affairs. His grateful family invited me to dinner, saying, “It’s really the first time since Magoichirō became family head that we’ve had such a pleasant year’s end.”
All the people involved in the affair were in awe of me. The truth was, I’d never worked so hard to raise money. The expenses for the trip came to sixty-seven or sixty-eight ryō—I’d treated my men to palanquins for the trip back—and though Magoichirō offered me the remainder of the money, I declined. I knew that he had barely enough to see him through the year. My friends also said I should take at least one hundred ryō, but I had my own reasons for refusing. I finally accepted a bolt of cotton cloth from the Okano family.
The mourning period for my grandmother was completed early in the new year. I gave myself up to fun and pleasure as it if were my business and flitted about from place to place. If I ran short of pocket money, I could always sell swords for people or come up with one scheme or another.
{291} 4. Selection from The Autobiography of Yukichi Fukuzawa12
This autobiography shows that, in contrast to warriors of earlier ages, some samurai of the late Tokugawa period were skeptical regarding earlier patterns of belief.
One day when I was twelve or thirteen years old, I ran through the room in one of my mischievous moments and stepped on some papers which my brother was arranging on the floor. Suddenly he broke out in disgust: “Stop, you dunce!” Then he began to speak solemnly. “Do you not see what is written here?” he said. “Is this not Okudaira Taizen-no-Tayū—your lord’s name?”
“I did not know it,” I hastily apologized. “I am sorry.”
“You say you did not know,” he replied indignantly. “But if you have eyes, you should see. What do you think of trampling your lord’s name under foot? The sacred code of lord and vassal is . . .”
Here my brother was beginning to recite the samurai rules of duty. There was nothing for me to do but bow my head to the floor and plead: “I was very careless, please forgive me.”
But in my heart there was no apology. All the time I was thinking: “Why scold about it? Did I step on my lord’s head? What is wrong with stepping on a piece of paper?”
Then 1 went on, reasoning in my childish mind that if it was so wicked to step on a man’s name, it would be very much more wicked to step on a god’s name; and I determined to test the truth.
So I stole one of the charms, the thin paper slips, bearing sacred names, which are kept in many households for avoiding bad luck. And I deliberately trampled on it when nobody was looking. But no heavenly vengeance came.
“Very well,” I thought to myself. “I will go a step further and try it in the worst place.” I took it to the chōzu-ba (the privy) and put it in the filth. This time I was a little afraid, thinking I was going a little too far. But nothing happened.
“It is just as I thought!” I said to myself. “What right did my brother have to scold me?” I felt that I had made a great discovery! But this I could not tell anybody, not even my mother or sisters.
When I grew older by a few years, I became more reckless, and decided that all the talk about divine punishment which old men use in scolding children was a lie. Then I conceived the idea of finding out what the god of Inari really was.
{292} There was an Inari shrine in the corner of my uncle’s garden, as in many other households. I opened the shrine and found only a stone there. I threw it away and put in another stone which I picked up on the road. Then I went on to explore the Inari shrine of our neighbor, Shimomura. Here the token of the god was a wooden tablet. I threw it away too and waited for what might happen.
When the season of the Inari festival came, many people gathered to put up flags, beat drums, and make offerings of the sacred rice-wine. During all the round of festival services, I was chuckling to myself: “There they are worshipping my stones, the fools!”
Thus from childhood I have never had any fear of gods or Buddha. Nor have I ever had any faith in augury and magic, or in the fox and badger which, people say, have power to deceive men. I was a happy child, and my mind was never clouded by unreasonable fears.
5. Selection from Remembering Aizu: The Testament of Shiba Gorō13
This testament of the young samurai Shiba Gorō (1860–1945) of Aizu, a domain which was defeated during the Bōshin War (1868–69), reveals how women upheld the same samurai values as the men. In this case, all of the women of the Shiba household committed suicide when defeat loomed, while all of the men survived. Gorō, the youngest of the family, did not take part in the fighting, but was disguised as a peasant. At the same time, some peasants, such as Jinmori Heizō, fought valiantly. Heizō’s actions suggests that a kind of “domain nationalism” existed, whereby peasants, like warriors, identified with and were willing to fight to defend tozama domains.
A Night of Despair
In Omokawasawa, I found the house overrun by refugees. Complete strangers—at least a hundred—filled the rooms, huddled under the eaves, or stood in the garden drenched by the rain. Several had even cajoled my great-aunt Kisa and Tomekichi’s wife to cook rice for them and acted as if they owned the place. Among the crowd I recognized Ina Hanroku, a samurai of distinguished lineage, who had come with his retainers, but I could not find my mother or other members of the family anywhere.
{293} My aunt and Tomekichi’s wife ran to me as soon as they saw me. They asked for news of the family, but of course I could tell them nothing. Several refugees noticed us talking and realized that I was the young master of the house. They bowed deferentially and tried to cheer me up: “Oh, your family is bound to come soon.” Clinging to a glimmer of hope, I stood by the entrance and searched the gathering crowd for a familiar face. Though it was almost midday, I had no desire to eat.
At about two, my maternal aunt Hinata Hide arrived with her five children—Oyoshi, Orin, Shinsaburō, Shinshirō, and Shingorō. But my aunt, too, did not know of the family’s whereabouts. Presently, my great-uncle Shiba Seisuke (seventy years old), who lived in Omokawa Village, came with his wife, Tada. They looked utterly exhausted. I asked for news of the family, but my uncle merely answered in a low voice, “Wait till later,” and went into the house.
My uncle cleared the inner room of the refugees and beckoned me to come and sit in front of him. Drawing himself up straight, he began to speak. “It happened this morning. The enemy was already in the city, but your mother and the rest of the women in the family refused to leave the house. They committed suicide—yes, all five—your mother, your grandmother, your sisters Soi and Satsu, and Taichirō’s wife, Toku. I administered the final blow at their request.14 I then set fire to the house and came here. As her last wish, your mother asked me to take care of you.”
“I realize that this is very painful for you, but you and I both know that this is the lot of samurai. You must not become distraught or give in to unseemly grief. You are to resign yourself and accept your fate with grace and fortitude. I want you to know that your own little sister killed herself with great courage and determination. From this day forward, you are to bear up and do as I say.”
I looked at my uncle blankly, too stunned to speak, even to cry. Suddenly, my head began to swim, and I fainted away. I have no idea how long I remained unconscious, but in the middle of the night, I was awakened by someone tapping me on the shoulder. It was my uncle Seisuke. He lit the oil lamp and told me to sit up.
“Enemy troops have burned down the city and laid siege to the castle. They are certain to look for samurai outside the castle precincts. They’re the kind of scoundrels who think nothing of killing the womenfolk of townsmen and peasants. They even leave the corpses of women strewn along the streets, though the peasant men have been covering them with straw mats as they flee. You never know what those good-for-nothing potato samurai will do next. The way you look now, anyone can tell right away you’re from a samurai family. And since your mother asked me to {294} take care of you, I’ve decided to have you dress like a peasant boy for your own safety.”
Although I remained silent, my uncle motioned to my aunt Kisa to come in and help him cut off my topknot. They cropped my hair close to the skull, dressed me in an old kimono and pair of leggings that belonged to Tomekichi’s son. They stowed my Western suit and pair of swords in the loft. “This should do. But do not go outside without my permission.” With these words, my uncle left the room. I lay down on the quilts and fell asleep to the sound of rain. It was to be the last day in my life as a samurai son.
The days passed, and one by one, the refugees drifted away. My aunt Hide’s family and ten or so acquaintances stayed on. In a while, my aunt’s family left, too, but unable to find anyone willing to take them in, they soon returned.
Uncle Seisuke’s grandson Arakawa Toranosuke and I were the same age. Tomekichi’s son Tometarō was a couple of years younger, and my cousins Hinata Shinsaburō and Shinshirō were a year older and a year younger. They made perfect playmates. I played with them during the day, and the distraction momentarily eased the pain, but at night, for a full two months, I dreamed about my mother and sisters—about the family sitting happily together—and woke up each time with a start.
It was the middle of the ninth month. The sound of shelling from Wakamatsu had not ceased. In fact, one day, Satsuma soldiers had come all the way to Omokawasawa in pursuit of Naitō Kain, a domain elder, who had taken shelter with his family at the Taiunji Temple. Surrounded, he and his family committed suicide.
Then, unexpectedly, on the twentieth, my brother Taichirō arrived, carried on a stretcher by Jinmori Heizō and several subordinates. Under orders from castle headquarters, he had been fighting near Ichinoseki but had been shot in the leg. I had long since given him up for dead, and I was so happy to see him that I ran around the house announcing the news. My uncle and everyone in the Hinata family rushed out to greet my brother and took him inside to tend to his wound. Unable to stand, he barely managed to crawl across the tatami mat with his hands and one leg. The same day, my uncle told him what had happened to the family; I knew only too well the sorrow and pain my brother must have felt.
My brother worried that he would be captured if he stayed on in the house. So after dismissing his other men, he asked Heizō and me to carry him to a ravine eight hundred yards deep in the mountains. The ravine was rather ominously called Dead Man’s Gorge, but it was secluded and well hidden. We chose a spot near a spring, laid down a bed of boards about the size of two tatami mats, covered it with {295} rough straw mats, and put a thick layer of green branches overhead. Here the three of us would stay, safe from enemy eyes.
Heizō’s job was to nurse Taichirō’s wound. Each day, he drew springwater into a water pistol he had fashioned from a length of bamboo, squirted the wound, and covered it with a piece of white cotton. I easily passed for a peasant boy, so my job was to wait until dark, when no one was around. Then I would fetch food from the house and bury the soiled bandages in the ground.
One day, we received a warning that enemy troops were in the vicinity. The Hinata family came to join us, and we helped Taichirō along as we all went farther into the mountains. Taking shelter under our umbrellas, we pitched camp in a grove of pine trees.
Meanwhile, the sound of gunfire from Wakamatsu continued without even a moment’s pause. We felt much anxiety as we speculated about the outcome. My aunt Kisa and Uncle Seisuke’s wife, Tada, were of the opinion that when the shooting stopped, it meant all was lost—that the daimyō and everyone else in the castle had died. But Heizō, who was young and hotheaded, would have none of this, and whenever he heard of enemy troops approaching, he would run out with his gun and sword, only to be restrained by my brother.
Heizō came from the village of Nigorigawa in Echigo Province. He was fond of sumo and had been the champion wrestler in his village. He was also fond of gambling and regularly got into fights. But at the same time, he was a man of strong loyalties and considered himself a friend of the weak and downtrodden. In the fifth month, he had been hired as a servant by my uncle Shiba Morizō (later Kōzuki Sagonosuke), who was fighting on the Echigo front. Heizō came to relish the experience of war and eagerly fought at the front line of battle. My uncle sustained a wound, however, and Heizō had to nurse him. As soon as my uncle recovered, Heizō returned to Echigo to fight, this time under the command of my brother, the region’s military commissioner.
The Aizu forces had to retreat, and on the morning of the twenty-third of the eighth month, my brother and his men reached Tabanematsu, on the outskirts of Wakamatsu. They looked in the direction of the castle, but saw only fire and smoke. My brother pointed at the scene and said, “Wakamatsu has fallen into enemy hands. Our only course is to join the men in the castle and fight to the death. But you, Heizō, have no ties whatsoever with Aizu and are under no obligation to die with us. Go home, quickly.” Handing some money to Heizō, he bid him farewell.
Heizō was furious. “This comes as a terrible shock, sir. I cannot believe that my own master would say anything so pitiless and unkind. I may be a lowly gambler, but I am not the sort to forget a favor, whether it is a night’s lodging or bowl of {296} rice. At a time when my master’s domain is in grave danger, I consider it my duty to offer up my life in its defense. Yet I now hear that I am to leave because my master is returning to the castle in its hour of need. This would be an act of sheer ingratitude and heartlessness. These may be your orders, sir, but I must refuse.” With this, Heizō sat himself down on the ground, red with indignation and determined not to budge an inch. My brother relented. They did not go to the castle, but instead the two fought on various fronts until my brother was wounded at Ichinoseki on the nineteenth day of the ninth month.
I am jumping ahead with my story, but after the end of the hostilities, Taichirō was taken to a hospital. Assured that his master was in good hands, Heizō asked for permission to leave Taichirō’s service. He would once again become a gambler and roam about as he wished. Wearing one sword, he then took off without further ado.
After that there was no news from Heizō, but five years later, in Meiji 6 [1873], when I was a student at the Army Cadet School, I unexpectedly received a letter from him. The envelope was addressed to Shiba Gorō, Institute of Learning, Former Residence of the Honorable Ii Kamon-no-kami [Naosuke]. He asked about the family, and I immediately wrote back. Instead of answering, Heizō himself came to see me. I took him to see my brother, who was staying temporarily at the Sensōji Temple in Asakusa. Our reunion made us shed tears of joy at having come through the years unharmed. Heizō said he had settled down, found a place to live opposite the Kichijōji Temple in Komagome, taken a wife, and opened a rice-husking shop. Heizō came to visit from time to time, and in the autumn following our reunion, he invited my brother and me to dine with him at the home of a farmer living near Dangozaka in Komagome. It was the height of the chrysanthemum season. The meal was simple but served in a most hospitable manner. After we had finished eating, Heizō bowed low and pressed his hands together on the tatami. “As you know, I decided to mend my ways and make an honest living. I have somehow managed until now, but I am really not cut out for it. I don’t think I can last much longer. You see, a gambler’s only happy when he’s with his cronies. And besides, it doesn’t look as though there’ll be another war. I really have nothing to look forward to. I have made up my mind to pull up stakes and wander about again, and that is why I asked you here today. I cannot tell you how very honored I am to have you here this evening.”
Taichirō tried to dissuade him, but some time later, when I went by his house, I saw no trace of the shop. Heizō was thirty-six at the time of the Boshin War, so he must have been forty-one or forty-two when we met that evening. He was a good man, and I very much regret not seeing him again.
{297} 6. Two Petitions for Reward (gunchūjō) Submitted in 186915
Chōshū domain (comprised of the old provinces of Suō and Nagato) and ruled by the Mōri played a crucial role in leading armed resistance in the wars that brought an end to the Tokugawa regime. The Chōshū forces, famously known as kiheitai, were drawn from warriors and peasants. Narazaki Raizō (1845–75), a Hagi samurai, was a guard for Mōri Motonori (1839–96); Raizō followed Motonori to Kyoto in 1864 and fought in battles from 1865 onward. Raizō’s petition for reward, below, reveals an underappreciated side of the Bōshin War of 1869, which followed the collapse of the Tokugawa regime. Raizō’s petitions describe campaigns conducted after the fall of the Tokugawa in the far north, where the forces of Aizu Wakamatsu were defeated. Raizō was eventually dispatched to France to learn military science. While there, he must have witnessed the Franco-Prussian War. He died in France in 1875.
Such petitions for reward—often written in an archaic, fourteenth-century style, even after two hundred years of peace—reveal a conservative side to the Mōri domain. Its warriors unusually looked back to the documents of the fourteenth century as a template. Unlike most other clans, the Mōri never relocated; their unusually long residency in Chōshū generated an equally unusual level of support from the locals. In spite of the old style of these documents, the Mōri’s military organization was quite original and new. Raizō’s actions were recognized by Mōri Takachika (1819–71), the penultimate daimyō of the domain, who signed his name to the document. In 1869, Takachika passed the headship of the domain to his son Motonori, who held it only for that year before it was abolished. The name Shirakawa refers to a location in the domain of Aizu Wakamatsu.
Narazaki Raizō Keifuku Petition for Reward
Received. (Seal) [Mōri Takachika]
During the previous year, the first of Meiji (1868), from the ninth day of the third month through the twenty-second day of the ninth month, after fighting battles in various places, the wounds suffered by Keifuku are as follows:
{298} On the first day of the fifth month, at Shirakawa in Ōshū,16 Keifuku was wounded:
One place. Right wrist.
While serving as the First Battalion Second Company Commander (Dai ichi daitai niban chūtai shireikan) in the eastern provinces (Kantō), I was ordered to report this information to my superiors. This petition for reward is thus.
The second year of Meiji (1869)
Narazaki Raizō
Second Month Keifuku (monogram)
To: The Honorable Censor (danjō no suke) Masuda [Chikayoshi]
Narazaki Raizō Keifuku Petition for Reward
Received. (Seal) [Mōri Takachika]
The Commander of the First Battalion Second Company Narazaki Raizō Fujiwara Keifuku respectfully states:
I desire to be granted a monogram quickly so that my military service will serve as a model for the future.
Since the ninth day of the third month-dragon-of the first year of Meiji (1868), through the twenty-second day of the ninth month, at a variety of battles fought at Bushū’s17 Yanada station, Sōshū’s18 Iwai village, Yashū,19 and Ōshū, my squad’s (taichū) casualties—killed and wounded—were as follows:
On the ninth day of the third month, at Bushū’s Yanada station, Itō Jūrō, from the first platoon (shōtai), was wounded. Later, at Bushū’s Kumagai station, Itō Jūrō died while his wounds were being treated.
On the twentieth day of the fourth month at Sōshū’s Iwai village, Tanaka Jinkichi, of the first platoon, was killed. Scout (Kyōdō eki) Momura Hatsuzō, of the first platoon, was wounded.
[abbreviated]
Killed: 1620
{299} Wounded: 43
Died while being treated: 521
Thus.
The second year of Meiji (1869)
Narazaki Raizō
Second month
Keifuku (monogram)
To: The Honorable Censor (danjō no suke) Masuda [Chikayoshi]
1. Ackroyd, Told Round a Brushwood Fire, 37–40, 49–50.
2. Yamamoto Tsunetomo, The Book of the Samurai, 17, 28–29, 38–39, 43–44, 144–45.
3. The incident involving Lord Asano’s retainers (dramatized in the Kabuku play Chūshingura) is regarded as an example of true loyalty. Tsunetomo disagrees, feeling that the retainers should have taken revenge immediately, rather than wait a whole year to be sure of the killing of Lord Kira. The Nagasaki Fight resulted from a man’s accidentally splashing mud on a samurai of another clan. Tsunetomo feels that the men involved acted properly, because they took revenge immediately, without pausing to consider the cause or the consequences of what they were doing.
4. Craig, Musui’s Story, 16–17, 128–42.
5. A haori is a kimono-like jacket, and a hakama is a divided skirt worn over a kimono. Both are worn when formal dress is required.
6. The post road connecting Edo and Kusatsu, a town just east of Kyoto; it was more circuitous and less traveled than the Tōkaidō.
7. Landing place for boats on the Yodo River; it had accommodations for travelers.
8. Presumably the kimono given to Katsu’s adoptive father on the occasion of an audience with the shogun in 1792.
9. Part of the equipment for a daimyō procession; Katsu took it to lend an air of formality to the trip.
10. In ritual harakiri another man stood by to administer the final blow by decapitation.
11. A common figure of speech for showing respect and gratitude.
12. Kiyooka Eiichi, The Autobiography of Yukichi Fukuzawa, 15–17.
13. Craig, Remembering Aizu, 54–59.
14. When a person commits ritual suicide, the final blow is administered by decapitation.
15. These documents were introduced by Kurushima Noriko, “Senkō no kiroku: Chūsei kara kinsei e,” Kokuritsu rekishi minzoku hakubutsukan kenkyū hōkoku no. 182 (1.2014), 167-80. Documents translated by Thomas Conlan. For more on Narazaki Raizō (in Japanese), see https://sites.google.com/site/hagijinbutsu/list/35, accessed May 16, 2020.
16. The far northern province of Mutsu. Here refers to the domain of Aizu-Wakamatsu.
17. Musashi province.
18. This refers to the two old provinces of Kazusa and Shimōsa.
19. Shimotsuke province.
20. Corrected from 17.
21. Corrected from 4.