SIEGE OF TOKYO
A slow march of nearly three weeks brought Shibusawa and his great army
to the outskirts of the shogun's capital city, Tokyo; little resistance
having been offered on the way, and no considerable inconvenience
suffered.
The assaulting general had taken his time, partly because of the
difficulty experienced in moving artillery without a sufficient supply
of horses or cattle, but chiefly in view of expected hostilities and the
uncertainty of the country through which they passed. However, he was
agreeably disappointed in finding his passage practically uninterrupted,
and the inhabitants not extremely unfriendly. The news had gone far in
advance of his coming, and the very audacity of his movements had won
for him admiration if not respect.
Upon arriving at his destination, Shibusawa halted well outside the
city, seized upon the most advantageous points and fortified them with
artillery and troops, preparatory to the great siege which he had
planned.
In his investment of the place he took particular pains to make his
stand at some considerable distance from the densely built sections. He
had realised the danger of setting fire to the thatched roofs and wooden
structures, should any heavy engagement take place near them, and
however anxious he may have been to crush the shogunate he did not wish
to do so at the cost of a conflagration or the needless destruction of
life or property. He went at the business of conquering the foe with a
just and full appreciation of the rights and conveniences of the people;
and, upon extending his lines around the city, purposely left a weak
place to the northward, giving the enemy a chance to break through, if
he so desired, thus avoiding the necessity of fighting the final
engagement at or near the great capital, with its large population, its
splendid buildings, and vast stores of wealth.
In this Shibusawa reasoned well and, under existing conditions, lost
nothing in position or opportunity. While the loophole came to nothing
so far as the shogun himself was concerned, it did afterwards accomplish
good results by letting at least a portion of the samurai out, thus
avoiding a last stand or any large engagement within the city. Nor would
it have been any the less operative in the case of Hitotsubashi, had he
not weakened at the first appearance of danger and run like the weakling
he had shown himself to be. The scared shogun had long since withdrawn
from anything like a hostile attitude, hiding himself within the secret
confines of a bulwark builded by other hands than his.
In fact, upon the receipt of Shibusawa's letter, despatched from Owara,
advising him of the mikado's edict demanding his resignation,
Hitotsubashi fainted away and was revived only by means of much sorcery
and many assurances. Tetsutaisho had by this time fully
recovered--having suffered more from the concussion than from the
wound--and become anxious to retrieve his fallen prowess. Before his
disablement at Fushima he had presaged the inevitable outcome of the
battle, had he been spared to lead on to victory his overwhelming
numbers, and now keenly felt the disgrace rightly attributed to his
idolised shogun, who had so promptly and properly taken up the ill-fated
command. Therefore, urging Hitotsubashi to stand firm, he advised that
they all fall together like men, if fall they must.
"True, your most august highness, I advised war from the beginning,"
said he. "I do no less now. And when the last has deserted, Tetsutaisho
will stand face to face with the enemy. You have my judgment; I have the
army. Do as you will, but I shall defend these walls, which enclose the
last that is dear to a samurai. Loyalty is my due, and honour my right.
May the gods deal lightly with you; with me there is a more serious
issue: the shogunate must live!"
Though the commander-in-chief of the shogun's forces held positive in
his stand, and was now strongly supported by both Daikomitsu and
Okotsuba, and several other of the daimyos, he could no longer bolster
up and encourage the waning Hitotsubashi. On the contrary the latter
grew more cowardly and anxious, and long before Shibusawa had arrived,
he, together with some twenty daimyos and a large number of retainers
and hangers-on, withdrew from the walled palace, retiring to the castle
of Mito in everlasting disgrace. Their withdrawal necessarily weakened
the triumvirate, but it did still more: it again divided them in their
policy, and scattered them in their last defence.
Daikomitsu had in the first place advised Hitotsubashi to go to Kyoto in
compliance with the mikado's request, but he had never considered the
surrendering of the shogunate or the abandonment of its cause; and when
the shogun had so flagrantly disregarded his advice and marched against
Kyoto, he realised more than ever the necessity of ignoring him, and of
establishing a more harmonious relation among the triumvirate. This he
undertook to do, and had the shogun remained quietly in the palace at
Tokyo they might yet have succeeded in saving their idolised
institution.
Tetsutaisho not only was thus sorely tried with public duties and loss
of prestige, but had been overwhelmed with sorrow at home. He had there
met with new and bitter experiences and, in place of that consolation
and comfort which a man in any position can ill afford to forego, was
burdened with a deep and abiding grief.
Not until the night before the shogun's departure had Nehachibana
relented; then she came to her husband and in a confused manner
confessed that Kinsan had not taken the life of Sodachinojoi. She told
him of how the child of itself had slipped into the crevice; and without
making any excuse for her own falsehood or expressing sympathy for the
wronged one, she left him there, and the next day went out of the city,
following the train of the shogun into seclusion.
Nehachibana had become a convert to the new religion, and believing
herself a martyr now sought to relieve her conscience by a confession of
the facts; thus preparing herself to ask His forgiveness and receive
salvation. Tetsutaisho's wife had been an easy convert and ready worker
among her kind; it had been easy for her to become a Christian, offering
a ready road to happiness; her own religion was not so easily adjusted
or so well suited to like achievement. And while the missionary, Mrs.
Lindley, escaped along with the shogun's retinue, and took her convert
with her, she had done a great good in the years she had been at Tokyo;
for not only had she saved Nehachibana's soul, but her little daughter
had given much succour and some comfort to poor Kinsan while suffering
the cruel revenge of her fiendish tormentor.
Tetsutaisho's heart sickened upon hearing the confession; and hastening
to rectify the awful mistake, he found Kinsan suffering all but the last
pangs of starvation; for the attention even of the missionary's little
daughter had in the excitement of the hour failed her. The strong man
fell upon his knees at her side, and with his own hands broke the lock
which held the vile instrument at her neck. Gathering the frail form in
his arms he carried her to her former lodge, and there summoned the best
aid and nourishment at his command. Nor was he satisfied with this
alone, but would have condemned Nehachibana even to a severer punishment
had not Kinsan pleaded for her deliverance, saying feebly:
"She is but a woman; and no more accountable for her way than I am for
my misfortune. It is not the deed, but the necessity that makes the
wrong. In such an one there can be no crime--please do not inflict a
punishment."
Tetsutaisho yielded to Kinsan's persuasion, for he now understood her,
and appreciated the force of her intent, though not her logic. He
remained a child of feudalism, and outside its tenets was a suckling,
not knowing that there opened another way. To him woman seemed but an
instrument, the better used to gratify man's desire; and when he allowed
Nehachibana to escape it had been only to encourage an eager, selfish
hope.
Kinsan recovered rapidly; thus Tetsutaisho became relieved, and devoted
himself more than ever to the strengthening of his defences and the
preparations for a final combat. In his mind there was only one course
to pursue, and that the heroic. It mattered not that a city be
destroyed, that countless lives be sacrificed. He was as bold and
intrepid as he was loyal and courageous; knowing neither the power of
deception, nor the force of heartless mechanism. He marshalled not their
cowardly virtues, but called to hand an humbler host, the glorious
heroics of a dying age. He proposed to make a last triumphant stand, and
dazzle mankind with the splendour of his achievement; but in this, too,
he was doomed to disappointment.
Both Daikomitsu and Okotsuba reasoned patiently against the dangers of
his policy. They knew too well the futility of matching valour against
cunning, the human against the inhuman. They argued well that they had
best make good their escape, holding the enemy in check and preserving
their own forces until, in time, they could substitute a more effective
warfare. But Tetsutaisho remained resolute and when the final day came,
faced a hopeless attempt, realising only at the last moment the
inevitable consequence of his folly.
It was a dark, gloomy, and hopeless day. All the morning the rain had
poured, and the thatched roofs and wooden structures were soaked with
water. The time was July--the fourth day--and after the long rain a
rising vapour enveloped the city with a low, hazy fog. The clouds
overhead ran low, and Shibusawa ordered the advance. Twice before he had
planned to move upon them, but each time refrained from doing so at the
earnest appeal of Daikomitsu, who had sent messengers protesting against
the destruction of the city. This time there must be no halting; the
heavens had cleared the way.
Column after column of the mikado's splendid army, with fixed bayonet
and steady march, advanced from the south upon the walled enclosure at
the palace grounds. Hardly had they sounded the approach, the moats were
destroyed and the big cannon hurled their easy missiles against the
yielding gates and weakening walls. The waters emptied, and the stones
loosened and fell; they pressed on, some levelling, others scaling,
until the last obstruction had fallen--thus thrice proving the certainty
of the new and the futility of the old, as time and progress ever
repeat.
As the last wall fell Shibusawa brandished high his sword and commanded
the charge. Quickly they ran, and the hillside swarmed with oncoming
hordes of sturdy, determined men. Reaching the summit the broad expanse
of the shogun's gardens spread out before them, and they ranked in
double line, listening, with breathless expectation. And as they waited
the clouds parted, revealing a scattering enemy in the background; only
a small formation stood aligned in front of the palace buildings. Like a
flash came the order:
"Fire!"
A blaze, and the crack of musketry dulled against the heavy atmosphere.
The line fell to their knees and began reloading. The rear had risen,
and stood ready to repeat. The smoke rose, and a woman was seen running
toward them. She had gained the centre of the field, yet without heed of
her presence or time to observe an order a second volley poured its
deadly shot into the foreground. Shibusawa had seen her and cried:
"Cease your firing!"
But the warning had come too late, and turning to his troops he said:
"Would you so little respect the helpless, and that a woman? I thought
better of my command. Hold you here with compassion, and let me
advance."
Nor had he checked their progress unknowingly; for before the smoke
again shut out the view he had levelled his glasses at the approaching
form, and to his horror discovered that it was Kinsan who with the white
cloth in hand had reeled and fallen before the wicked report had time to
die away.
Shibusawa at the head of his staff sprang forward, and before the smoke
had again fairly cleared away came well-nigh upon the fallen woman who
lay in a swoon, though breathing lightly and not mortally wounded. But
not he alone had gone to her rescue, for Tetsutaisho also had observed
her danger, and from the opposite side ran to save her. At the beginning
of the engagement Kinsan and others had been carefully sheltered at the
rear, from which situation she overheard a heated discussion between
Tetsutaisho and Daikomitsu, resulting in the latter's withdrawal at the
last moment of the major portion of the samurai, leaving scarcely more
than Tetsutaisho's bodyguard with which to defend himself and the
palace. Fearing his fate, Kinsan had without bidding or warning evaded
them all, seeking to stay her master's destruction by throwing herself
in front. She knew that Tetsutaisho, reduced to a handful of patriots,
could not withstand the terrible onslaught of a mighty army, and offered
to sacrifice herself in the hope of saving him in some way from ruthless
destruction, if not ignominious defeat. Her heart had gone out to him
and to the few others who had remained steadfast to principle, and her
life seemed to her of slight importance as compared with theirs, or in
prolonging, even momentarily, the institution which had given them
place.
Tetsutaisho, too, had run out in advance of his guard, and coming up
felt relieved to know that Kinsan had not been fatally shot. Halting
near by, as did Shibusawa, the two met face to face, measuring the
inevitable.
Shibusawa, the conqueror, spoke first; it became not him to humble the
vanquished. Speaking kindly yet firmly, he said:
"What would you, Tetsutaisho?"
"I am a samurai, Shibusawa."
"You have answered well, Tetsutaisho, and Shibusawa is none the less a
man."
They drew their swords--Tetsutaisho, the one that Munechika had died in
the forging; Shibusawa, the Murakumo which had not once failed the
illustrious Maidos. The guards stood umpire in the background. The
clouds parted and the sun shone forth a pale red. Their steels rang with
the perfection of their making. Kinsan rose upon one arm and humbly
raised the other in silent deprecation. Then she turned her face and
sank back upon the cool, damp ground. The two giants did not heed her;
they were facing death, and the test already quickened.
[Illustration: Their steels rang with the perfection of their
making.]
They fought without an error. Twice the swarthy Tetsutaisho forced the
nimble Shibusawa to the ground, but each time a quicker eye and better
mind saved him the fall. They fought fiercely, and the blood-stained
grass told of their deliberate purpose. A calm settled around them; no
other sound could be heard. The mighty frame of the one pressed hard; a
frown crossed his face, and he parried heavily. Shibusawa's muscles set
and his eyes flashed. Then there came a clash and a thrust, and
Tetsutaisho fell prostrate, with a broken sword at his side.
Kinsan feebly turned toward them. Tetsutaisho partly rose, and beckoned
the victor approach. Shibusawa came near, and Kinsan faintly heard the
dying man's last words:
"She is innocent!"
Shibusawa bent over Kinsan and asked her forgiveness. She only smiled;
then he took her in his arms and carried her away. It was not far, but
chanced to be to the hidden cave, which lay behind the lines just below
the hill near by. There he called for relief and her wound was dressed.
When she looked about and saw the place she felt her great love, and
knew that his had been born anew.
After Shibusawa had been fully informed as to the nature of Kinsan's
wound he ordered the army held in check, and directed that she be
carried to his own castle just below the grounds, where Maido, his
father, had lived and served so long the power that he himself had now
overcome and forever destroyed. There he found the busy Shiyoganai still
in charge,--Okyo had disappeared,--and after providing Kinsan with every
comfort and the best skill at his command Shibusawa despatched a message
and escort for his sister Yasuko, who had remained behind at the castle
in Kanazawa, urging her to come quickly, so that she might relieve him
of the immediate care of Kinsan.
He had learned that her breast was pierced through
with a bullet, and that while the wound was not necessarily a dangerous
one it would be many months before she could be expected fully to
recover, even under the most favourable circumstances. He therefore
confined his further war-like operations to Tokyo and the immediate
vicinity, returning to her each day until his sister had arrived and
replaced him with a more useful, if not kinder attention. Nor was Yasuko
unhappy for the chance, but applied herself with a devotion that
disclaimed any thought of stoicism or even indifference. She expressed a
true type of the generations that had gone before her, and did not
falter nor shrink from her part; she loved her brother, and believed his
every wish worthy of her unquestioned attention.
And she not only nursed the sick one, but so devoted herself to the
house that when Shibusawa finally returned he found the old home
bubbling over with such joys as he had never before known.