UPON his return to the fortress, Keiki, as the capable and devoted
leader of the cause of Imperialism, was deferred to by his brothers. He
at once assumed in his own right the command of the resources of the
clan.
The household was put upon a footing even more military than before.
Regular watch was kept at all points of the estate and at the boundaries
of the province. Reports of all crossing the boundaries of the province
in either direction were made to Keiki each morning.
An army of laborers impressed into service from the Mori as well as the
friendly southern provinces were put to work strengthening the defences
of the Mori fortress, now become the war headquarters of the Imperial
party.
The castle itself, situated within the centre of the province, approach
to which on all sides must be made through friendly provinces, with the
exception of the Catzu, because of its natural defensive properties,
became the nucleus for a host of outworks sheltering the activities of
Keiki. Within the line of fortifications surrounding the immediate
vicinity of the fortress were the factories and foundries now built by
those who acknowledged Keiki as their leader. For while all this owed
its inception to the Shining Prince, it could not be carried out with
his resources alone. The neighboring clans, whose lords in the past had
held equal and superior rank to the Shogun, sent of their best to the
Prince of Mori. The clans of Satsuma, Ozumi, Hinga, Nagate, Suwo, the
Liu Kiu Islands, and others ordered their artisans and mariners to
Keiki’s headquarters.
The old Prince of Satsuma, more learned in European civilization than
Keiki (although Choshui was the home in Japan of Dutch sciences), was
the Prince’s preceptor. Under his direction the cannon foundries, whose
weapons of war were to oust the Shogun, were built. A sort of light
rifle designed by Satsuma was manufactured under his direction near
Keiki’s fortress. The castle, which in time of war would afford
protection to all these works and foundries, was reduced in the number
of its living apartments. These were situated within the inmost
recesses. All about the old portions of the house were built broad
platforms. Upon their edges were set stone walls with openings for
cannon. These, as fast as they came from the foundry, were set in tiers
so arranged that they could command the approaches to the large circle,
within which were set the factories and works of the Imperialists.
In the midst of these activities Keiki found relief from the flood of
memories that otherwise might have overwhelmed him. He felt that now he
was rising to true greatness. For him personally, selfishly, life held
nothing. It was for his country he labored. So austere and unbending was
his demeanor, that for months after his return his brothers forebore to
speak of the message that had come during his absence.
But one evening as he sat in his chamber alone, within the centre of the
fortress, his brother, Komozawa, came to him and held out in silence the
letter which had disturbed them. Keiki read sufficient to ascertain its
tenor. Then gently he laid it aside. There was no passion to his tones
or manner as he said, coldly:
“Brother, whatever truth or falsity may lie in this epistle is of the
past, and concerns me alone. It cannot affect the future. Speak to me no
more of the leaves of last autumn.”
“But—” began the brother, timidly.
Keiki sprang to his feet. There was a cloud upon his brow, dark and
threatening. His sword showed half its bare length.
“Not a word,” he said, “or, dearly as I love you, this blade shall give
you explanation.”
Komozawa bowed submissively and retired.
In the thoughts that the words of his brother had called into being
Keiki was led to remember the imprisoned Toro, whose existence he had
forgotten. Immediately he ordered the youth before him.
To his surprise he found that Toro, instead of appearing sullen or
dejected, was quite cheerful and optimistic. He greeted the Prince with
so much bonhomie and frankness that Keiki was puzzled at first to know
how to treat him.
“Toro,” he said, “I have come to a decision regarding you.”
“That is good,” said Toro, at once, “for I really am becoming interested
in my prospects.”
“And what are your prospects?” said Keiki.
Toro fingered his sash buoyantly, and assumed the attitude of a gay
spark.
“Well, if it please you, my lord, I should wish to remain in Choshui,
but at peace and liberty, pray understand.”
Keiki frowned impatiently, but Toro remained apparently unconcerned.
“In fact,” he added, ingenuously, “I would very much like to remain in
Choshui as a guest—such as your excellency was in my own province. I do
assure you, my lord, that I have not been treated with the equal
hospitality and courtesy offered to your highness in Catzu.”
“It is impossible for you to remain here,” said Keiki; “matters have
changed.”
“Then let me recall a certain promise made to me by your excellency. For
my services in your behalf with my lady cousin in Catzu, you in return—”
He stopped abruptly, held by the expression on the other’s face. For the
first time he perceived that the Prince was in an unnatural state of
mind.
“Wistaria, my lord—what of her? You do not mean to tell me that you
failed in your suit!”
With a sob in which no tears intermingled, Keiki raised his sword, only
to drop it, groaning inwardly.
“Return to your father, Toro. Be warned by me that this is best.”
“But I wish to repeat that your highness promised—”
“Listen. If you remain here, your life will not be safe. Do not further
protest. I will say this, that if your lordship does not care to follow
my suggestion, I shall be forced to eject you or allow my officers to
deal with you.”
Toro shrugged angry shoulders, a gesture to Keiki reminiscent of his
mother. The action displeased him. Sharply he clapped his hands. To the
officers answering his summons he said, briefly:
“Be good enough to have my Lord of Catzu taken to Catzu under such
escort as he may require.” To Toro he bowed perfunctorily: “Good-day, my
lord.”
The preparations and activities of the past few months had brought all
within the domination of Keiki to active readiness for war. Keiki
himself was now of greater value to his cause, since old Satsuma had
taught him all he knew—the result of years of European study and
reading—of the making of the munitions of war. The lingering disease
which threatened Satsuma need carry no fear to the Imperialists. Keiki,
the disciple and heir in knowledge to Satsuma, could well cope with any
man in the world in the utilization of the war resources at his hand.
Only a pretext, a happening that should afford the opening wedge for
war, was wanting to the Imperialists. The public mind must be quieted by
the outbreak of hostilities as the logical outcome of some event, not as
a sudden, uncaused outburst.
It was during these days of waiting that the old Lord Satsuma sought
Keiki out in the interior of the fortress. There was an evident
perturbation and embarrassment manifest in his bearing. Keiki, alarmed
lest some accident should have endangered one of the projects of the
labor of years, started upon sight of his hereditary friend.
“My Lord Satsuma, is it ill with you?” he inquired with solicitude.
He noted that the face of Satsuma showed as never before that its master
would never live to see the Restoration. This thought saddened him.
Satsuma, though in some pain, smiled gently.
“Ill indeed it is with me,” he said.
Keiki reached out and impulsively seized the hand of the old warrior,
pressing it with sympathy that words could not have expressed.
“I may not be with you,” continued Satsuma, “on the day of the bakufu’s
undoing.”
“Nay, do not say so.”
“It is so, nevertheless,” said Satsuma. “I must go before—”
“My lord, it is but the common lot—the common happiness of life to give
up, to cease to struggle. Your achievements have been many. This rifle
by my hand, that cannon in the embrasure, all these will speak for you
with terrible effect after you yourself are long silent.”
“Prince Keiki, it is not for myself I think thus sadly of life and
death. I have a daughter. We are on the eve of war, the country is
unsettled. I cannot leave her unprotected to share its uncertain fate.”
“But surely,” said Keiki, with a mild surprise, “your daughter will be
well cared for among her many honorable relations.”
“Alas, no, that is not possible. Her stepmother is ill disposed towards
her, and all of her brothers are pressed into the Imperialist service.”
“This is very sad,” said Keiki, “and if it were in my power to aid you I
would beseech you to command me immediately.”
“It is possible for your highness to aid me,” said Satsuma, slowly.
“How? Let me know at once how I can do so.”
“By permitting my insignificant daughter to have the personal protection
of so chivalrous a prince as your excellency.”
“My personal protection!” exclaimed Keiki; “but I am engaged in the work
of warfare.”
“True, but my lady would not distract you from these tasks. Her presence
in the fortress need scarcely be felt.”
Keiki sprang to his feet and began to pace the apartment in a perturbed
manner. Under his thick brows old Satsuma regarded him keenly.
“My lord,” said Keiki, stopping suddenly in his walk, “your suggestion
gives me much pain, because I am unable to grant your request. It is
quite impossible. This is not the place for a woman.”
Drawing himself up proudly, Satsuma replied, in a ruffled voice:
“Very well, your excellency. You refuse me.”
After a moment, as Keiki averted his face and did not reply, he
continued:
“I am an old man, travelling over the last stage of the journey of life.
I had a natural longing to have with me in these my last days my beloved
child. Hence, feeling assured that you would not deny the wish of a
dying father, I took the liberty of bringing her hither with me.”
“You brought her here!” cried Keiki, in amazement.
“She is within,” said the old Prince, quietly, as he indicated the
interior apartment.
With difficulty Keiki curbed his temper. Satsuma had not long to live.
He would tell him his secret: he would bare to him the source of his
buried grief. Thus his old friend would recognize the impossibility of
his being brought into contact with any woman, and perceive how unfitted
he was for the task of protecting her.
So it happened that while without a storm raged, and rainy blasts struck
sharply into the faces of the sentinels about the fortress, Keiki
related his story to his aged friend. Once during the recital the shoji
moved, then there appeared in it two tiny holes. Once there crept into
the room, mingled with the tempest and the sentinels’ sharp cries
without, a muffled sob.
“You have passed through the heart’s narrowest straits to the mind’s
broadest realm,” said old Satsuma; “but permit me to still insist that
while your highness’s story has touched me deeply, I cannot agree with
you that it should be permitted to affect the fate of my daughter.”
“You are right,” said Keiki, gently. “It must not do so.”
“You will allow her to remain here?”
“Yes.”
Satsuma bowed deeply and gratefully.
“The camp,” said Keiki, thoughtfully, “is no place for a woman, but here
in my fortress she will be safe.”
“Your highness,” said Satsuma, with much emotion in his voice, “no words
of mine can express the thanks of a grateful heart. Goodnight, my brave
boy; the gods comfort and bless you.”
In the adjoining apartment a small figure, half crouching by the
dividing doors, sprang to its feet. A girl ran to him with a little cry
and threw her arms about his neck, pressing a little, wet face
gratefully against the heavily limned one of the old Prince.
“It is well,” said Satsuma, patting her head.
“How can I thank thee?” she breathed.
“By endeavoring to feel as if thou wert indeed my own daughter instead
of a distant relative. But come, thou art pale, and your garments are
soiled and torn with travel.”
“The journey was long,” she sighed, glancing at the frayed ends of her
kimono, “and do you know, my Lord Satsuma,” she added, “I could scarcely
hire a runner to carry me, because of my unworldly attire, and so I was
compelled to make much of the journey on foot.”
Meanwhile Keiki sat alone, his hands clasped before his eyes. All the
bitterness of a lifetime welled within his bosom. He was trusted above
men; at young years the idol of a brave nation; fate was bearing him
upon a wave of the highest destiny that could not fail to beat down the
rotten dikes of oppression. Yet all this brought no peace, no happiness.
He realized in a moment the futility of all his efforts to put the soul
of the Lady Wistaria out of his heart. Only in fierce action and strain
that should engross all his faculties could he even find a temporary
easement. After that, the gods pity him! After that, he could not live.
There should no longer be any delay. There should be war, and that
speedily, perhaps on the morrow.
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[Illustration: Decoration]