For an hour or more we loitered about within view of the great gate of
Zozoji, waiting for the cortege of the Shogun’s daughter to march out
on its return trip to the citadel. That the Princess would come back
through the main entrance was evident from the fact that the _norimons_
of her ladies-in-waiting were stationed in the road at one side of the
grand carved portal. Yoritomo stood beneath a camellia tree, seemingly
lost in meditation, but I paced to and fro through the passing crowds,
unable to restrain my impatience.
At last between the meshes of my hat brim I caught sight of the
_samurai_ escort of the Princess issuing from the gateway. In their
lead was the quick-tempered _hatamoto_ Yuki who had struck at me from
the ferryboat at the passage of the Rokugu River. The bearers of the
_norimons_ moved around, and as soon as the ladies-in-waiting had taken
their seats, the cortege formed in line, with one of the _norimons_
before and the other behind the gold-lacquered palanquin of the
Princess. We drew back behind a hedge of blooming privet.
Soon the cortege marched past us, at a slow and stately pace, though
the absence of standards indicated to the public that the noble person
escorted was travelling incognito and dispensed with the usual kneeling
of the common folk along the road. I examined with intense interest
the sturdy _norimon_ bearers and the score of proud _hatamotos_, or
shogunate _samurais_, who made up Yuki’s company.
These gentlemen-soldiers seemed to me to be picked men, but they wore
no armor and carried no other weapons than the customary sword and
dirk. Though their petticoat-trousers were neatly tucked up above the
knees in the tops of long silk stockings, freeing their legs for quick
action, their arms and forebodies were encumbered with the peculiar
gauze-winged ceremonial jackets and the long sleeves of their _haoris_.
“That guard looks more like dress parade than action,” I commented.
“They are the pick of the best swordsmen among the _hatamotos_; yet
they are all doomed men,” replied Yoritomo.
I caught at my swordhilt, no longer intent on the fringe of split
bamboo which curtained the window of the Princess’s _norimon_. “All
doomed?--And ourselves?”
“Mito will have planned to sacrifice as few retainers as possible. But
though they will not be many, they will have the advantage of armor.
Our sole chance of success lies in the method of fence you have taught
me. Lunge for face or neck. Waste no thrusts on mail-clad bodies.”
“We can at least hold them until other rescuers run up,” I said.
He shook his head doubtfully. “Look down the bay. A rain-squall is
coming. There will be few in the streets, and if Keiki rushes up first
with his rescue party, we will be cut down with the _ronins_. As you
say, we are playing against long odds, but the stake is big.”
“A little hot soy will flavor the rice,” I replied. “Lead on.”
He shuffled about, and we strolled out and along the road, keeping
half a hundred paces behind the rearmost of the strutting _hatamotos_.
Leisurely as was the advance of the cortege, we were soon clear of
Shiba and approaching a hill that Yoritomo called Atago-yama. The
eminence was provided with two means of ascent, a straight steep
stairway and another one long and winding. The cortege passed by on one
side.
We now descended into a low and thickly populated quarter, passing at
every two hundred paces one of the gloomy gates which divide off all
the streets of the lower city into wards of fifty or sixty houses. Each
ward was given over to a particular trade or the sale of a certain
article,--as a street of blacksmiths, squatting before their primitive
forges, a street of toy merchants, another of lacquer-dealers,
fan-makers, cabinet-workers, and so forth.
Shops and people differed little from those I had already seen, but for
the first time I observed the lofty ladder watch towers, at the top of
which hung firebells. The urgent need of such means of warning in a
city built, for the most part, of tinder-like materials, was evident
from a belt of ash-covered ground off to our right, in which the only
buildings unburned were a few mud-walled storehouses.
My roving eye was recalled by a word from Yoritomo to be on my guard.
Kohana had conjectured that the attack would be made near one of the
moats, and we were approaching a boat-crowded canal or moat, the
outermost of the line of fortifications that gird in the Shogun’s
palace and the _yashikis_, or palaces, of the _daimios_. I loosened
my swordblade in its scabbard, and held my hand ready to jerk up the
skirts of my robes and tuck them in the back of my girdle.
The cortege moved slowly on down the busy street and out upon the
old wooden bridge that arched across from the grassy slope of the
nearer bank to the abrupt stone wall which Kämpfer calls the Outer
Castle. We followed, warily scanning the band of _samurais_ that
approached from the far end of the bridge and the scattered groups
that clattered up behind us through the crowds of common people. All
alike, however, showed the utmost deference in avoiding close contact
with the attendants of the Princess, and the crests of their respective
_daimios_, conspicuous on the backs, breast, and sleeves of their
_haoris_, proved that they were not _ronins_.
We plodded after the cortege, across the canal and through the
bastioned gateway on the far side, out into one of the smooth wide
streets of the official quarter. Here there were no commoners to be
seen, and the few _samurais_ scattered up and down the broad way were
hastening to shelter before the first gusts of the coming rain-squall.
But even the threatened downpour failed to hurry the _hatamotos_ out of
their stately strut. Seeing no sign of any _ronins_, I relaxed my tense
nerves and looked about at the long walls of the _yashikis_ which lined
each side of the street.
I knew that these residences of the _daimios_ each consisted of
a mansion house surrounded by courts and gardens, all set in the
defensive hollow square of the retainers’ barracks. What I had failed
to picture from Yoritomo’s descriptions was the extent and odd
appearance of these _samurai_ quarters. One of them stretched along
the road nearly a quarter of a mile, its continuous roof of red tiles
broken only by a grand, ornate gate, midway of the monotonous façade.
The mortarless stone foundation walls of the _yashikis_ rose from deep,
curbed ditches that flowed along each side of the street. Above the
high foundations the walls were of diagonally-set black tiles with wide
joints of white plaster. Well up in this checkerboard surface, rows of
small windows, stoutly barred against attack, projected in shallow bays.
A turn in the street brought us in view of the citadel just as the
rain-squall came swirling upon us. Across the head of the street loomed
up a mighty wall of cyclopean masonry, its granite base deep beneath
the placid waters of a broad moat, its crest crowned with trees and
square pagoda guardtowers. Our street rose to meet the causeway that
ran along the moat bank and curved in to cross a wooden bridge. At the
far side a huge bastioned gateway led up into the higher ground of the
citadel.
Beyond the trees and pagodas that fringed the top of the titanic wall,
I saw outlined against the blackening sky the lofty white peak of the
“Lord of Heaven” tower, in the O Shira, or innermost castle. Then the
full force of the storm struck us and wrapped us about in blinding,
swirling torrents of rain. Yoritomo pressed up close to me, and bent
over to make himself heard above the howls of the wind and the drumming
splatter of the deluge.
“Be ready!” he warned. “Watch this street that runs in on the left
where the vanguard is passing--There is one just beyond, on the right.
At the moat gate is stationed a powerful guard. If the _ronins_ fail to
attack here--”
“Look!” I cried, grasping at my swordhilt.
Out of the narrow street on the left were streaming a number of
cloaked figures, silent and downbent as though intent only upon making
their way through the storm. As they filed out into the broad roadway
alongside the _norimon_ of the Princess, a gust of wind tore open the
cloak of one in the rear and exposed to our gaze the bright links of
chain armor within.
“The _ronins_!” hissed Yoritomo. “Wait! Make ready.”
I let go my half-drawn sword, and hastened to follow his example
by tucking my robe skirts in the back of my girdle and tying up my
long sleeves. In the midst I saw one of the _hatamotos_ turn upon
the nearest _ronin_ with a repellent gesture. Instantly the assassin
drew his sword and struck a fearful two-handed blow. The head of the
luckless _hatamoto_ leaped from his shoulders and fell after the
blood-gushing corpse into the mud and water.
At the treacherous blow all the _hatamotos_ who had seen it yelled
with fury and amazement, and flashed out their swords to strike down
the murderer. But their blades clashed without effect upon his hidden
helmet and armor, and in an instant the other _ronins_ were beside
their chief, slashing back at the armorless _hatamotos_. Half a dozen
guardsmen fell beneath the razor-edged blades, slain outright or
hideously maimed, all in the brief moment before those in the van of
the cortege could turn about and rush to their aid.
I found myself with drawn sword, struggling frantically to free myself
from the grip of my friend. Though I was the stronger, he held me fast
by some subtle trick of wrestlers’ art that, without injuring, rendered
me as helpless as a child.
“Not yet!” he muttered, “not yet, brother!”
Unable to free myself, I was forced to stand and glare impotently
through the whirling rain at the terrible massacre. At the beginning
of the fight the _hatamotos_ had numbered a fourth more than the
assailants. Now they were already less than equal in number. With
merciless swiftness, the _ronins_ struck out in terrific blows that
split heads to the chin and hewed off arms and legs and ripped open
bodies with hideous slashes.
Vainly the brave _hatamotos_ parried and slashed back at their foes
with strokes no less powerful and often more skilful. For the most
part, their blows served only to slice the false covering from the
helmets of the _ronins_ or nick the steel and brass under the masking
cloaks. But every stroke of the _ronin_ blades that reached its mark
meant a ghastly wound.
Yet the _hatamotos_ were not the only ones that fell in the bloody
shambles. Twice I saw _ronins_ go down under blows that split clean
through their steel helmets; others were bitten deep by blades that
slashed through the firmest chain mail; while more lost a foot or
a hand from the lightning strokes of the Shogun’s swordsmen. But
gloriously as the _hatamotos_ fought, the _ronins_ were no less
brave and little less skilful, and the armor gave them an advantage
impossible to overcome.
Never had I dreamt of such terrific fighting. In as many seconds a
dozen of the guard were lying mutilated under the iron-shod sandals
of the _ronins_. Every _hatamoto_ near the _norimon_ of the Princess
and all but three or four of those in the rear were slain. One of
the bearers of the rearmost _norimon_ caught up a sword and struck
out manfully. Back flashed a blow that split him to the middle. His
fellow-bearers, who so far had stood as though paralyzed by fright,
fled past us shrieking.
But not one of the proud _hatamotos_ sought to escape. Shouting fierce
imprecations, the last of the rearguard parried and struck, each
as long as he could stand,--without giving back an inch before the
merciless attack of their murderers. The six members of the vanguard
still left, burst through the ring of _ronins_ that was closing about
them, and fought their way back towards the _norimon_ of the Princess,
whose bearers were being forced by threatening blades to swing about to
the narrow side street.
“Now!” shouted Yoritomo, as the _ronins_ again closed around the
vanguard. He freed me and leaped away up the street, flourishing his
sword and yelling, “_Owari!_ _Owari!_”
I rushed after him, blood-mad with the sight of the fighting and
slaughter, and utterly lost to all sense of danger in my fury at the
ferocious treachery of the assassins.
“Avast!” I roared in English, “avast, you devils!”
For answer, the head of the last rear-guardsman came rolling towards
us along the wet pavement. Close after it a pair of _ronins_ sprang to
meet and slash down the audacious priests. Out lunged Yoritomo’s sword,
and the foremost murderer fell headlong, stabbed through the throat.
The second slashed at my head. But the stroke glanced harmlessly down
my parrying blade, and before the fellow could recover guard, I drove
my point into one of his glaring eyes.
As my man fell across Yoritomo’s, three others came running at us
with the ferocity of tigers. We sprang to meet them half-way. One,
fortunately, was slightly outdistanced by his fellows. The swords of
the two leaders clashed against ours in fierce, eager strokes. A blow,
barely warded, struck off my hat and exposed fully to the gaze of my
opponent my distended blue eyes. A look of horror flashed across his
vengeful face. Doubtless he thought me a demon. For the barest fraction
of a second he faltered--it was enough for me. Before his gaping mouth
could snap shut, he fell to my lunge.
I wheeled to meet the third man, who, as Yoritomo parried with the
second for an opening, had sprung around for a treacherous side slash.
My outstretched blade met but failed to check entirely the blow, which
fell across the back of Yoritomo’s right shoulder. Meeting my gaze, the
ronin faltered as had his mate, and the result was as fatal to him. How
seriously Yoritomo had been wounded I could not tell. I doubt if he was
aware he had been struck. His lunge followed after mine, flash upon
flash.
We darted forward, leaving five of the murderous band already accounted
for. Four more were intent upon driving the bearers of Azai’s _norimon_
on across into the side street. All the others were crowding around the
few survivors of the vanguard in furious attack. Only supreme masters
of Japanese swordcraft could have so long withstood the tremendous
blows of the assassins throughout this atrocious massacre.
To fling ourselves into the midst of the deadly struggle was sheer
madness--but it was a glorious madness. Having a moment’s start of my
friend, I dashed ahead, past the rearmost _norimon_, from which the
younger lady-in-waiting was frantically struggling to free herself.
The _norimon_ of the princess had been swung about, and its reluctant
bearers were being forced into a trot by prodding dirks.
Shouting a command for the bearers to halt, I ran upon the _ronins_ at
the rear, who were directly before me. Until this moment they had been
too intent upon driving the bearers to perceive us. The sight of their
fallen comrades and the possibility of a check in their plans seemed to
madden them. They rushed to meet me with a silent rage that flamed into
wildest fury at sight of my _tojin_ eyes.
“Demon! Kill! kill!” they yelled, and their strokes flashed out at me
so swift and strong that I was beaten back a full two yards, and saved
myself from the whistling blades only by the nimblest of footwork and
parrying.
In a moment, though none too soon, Yoritomo sprang to my side and
crippled one of the grinning fiends with a leg cut. This man must
have been the leader of the band, for as he and his mate fell to our
thrusts, the pair at the head of the _norimon_ checked their charge
upon us, and shouted loudly to their fellows.
Only three of the _hatamotos_ now stood in the merciless circle of
swords, and but one of their assailants had fallen. At the cry for
help, the greater number of the _ronins_ wheeled about and charged upon
us, with the rain splashing upon their downbent helmet brims.
“Shoot!” gasped Yoritomo, bending over to lean upon his sword. “My arm
weakens!--Shoot!”
Already my right hand was thrusting into my bosom. As I drew out one of
the revolvers and cocked it, I stepped forward and to the left, that I
might have the _norimon_ between me and the charging _ronins_. At the
same moment the young _samurai_ woman from the rear _norimon_ darted
between the bearers and stood up across from me, facing the _ronins_,
with upraised dirk. She could not have hoped to stop the ruffians for
an instant, but she thought they meant to injure her mistress, and so
was offering her own bosom first to the murderous blades.
The sight of such absolute courage and devotion steadied my twitching
hand. I raised my revolver, and fired as rapidly as I could work hammer
and trigger. The _ronins_ were too close for me to miss even through
the swirl of wind and rain. I risked no glancing of balls from mailed
breasts, but aimed at the devilish faces below their broad helmet
brims. To shoot wide of such large marks within a distance of ten
paces and less would have been difficult, and a man shot from the front
anywhere between mouth and brows never requires a second ball. Down
went the foremost _ronins_, sprawling backwards in the flooded roadway,
one at every shot.
To these mediæval warriors, acquainted only with antique matchlocks and
Tower muskets, the mysterious appearance and rapid fire of my revolver
must have been even more appalling than the death of their leaders.
Before I could snatch out my second pistol, every man of them still on
his feet fled towards the narrow cross street, shrieking that I was the
_daimio_ of demons. To aid their flight, I sent after them a leaden
message that glanced from the helmet of the rearmost man, yet sent him
staggering for a dozen yards.