DAYS went by. The entire force at the command of Mori moved slowly in
the direction of the Emperor’s capital of Kioto. As the days stretched
into weeks and months, still the army moved without haste. Mori was now
in communication with the other leaders of his party, through runners.
All were concentrating upon the capital.
Echizen, moreover, had sent word to Mori by special courier. The boy
Shogun was dead, and the young Prince of Mito, who had headed the army
of chastisement against the Imperialists in Kioto, had been appointed
Shogun. But Echizen’s tidings of death did not stop here. The Emperor
Kommei Tenno had succumbed to disease and oppression, and upon his
death, his son, young Mutsuhito, a youth of sixteen, had succeeded to
the throne.
When Mori learned of this latter event he despatched long epistles to
each of the leaders. He urged that all should concentrate their forces
in small parties, whose approach should be gradual upon the Imperial
palace. Once having possession of the Imperial city and the palace, the
Aidzu-Catzu supporters would be instantly expelled, and Mutsuhito, the
new Mikado, should be proclaimed sole ruler of Japan.
To this all assented. The 3d of January was settled upon as the day.
Dividing his force into small parties, who were assigned a rendezvous in
Kioto, Mori continued his advance. Then came the news to him from
Echizen that the Prince of Mito (now the Shogun) had been persuaded to
resign his office. Now there seemed small obstacle in the way of the
Imperialist plan.
On the day appointed, the various relays of Mori’s force which had
preceded him to Kioto met and joined his personal following. At the hour
of noon they marched in perfect order to the western gate. Each of the
nine gates was taken without force by a large body in command of one of
the Imperialists.
Two hours later Mori, Echizen, Oguri, and the other leaders were in full
possession of the Mikado’s person and policy. The shogunate was declared
abolished. An edict was issued declaring the Mikado the sole ruler, and
a government was created. Aidzu and Catzu had been expelled from the
palace.
It was reported to Mori that the ex-Shogun, Mito, had left Kioto in
anger, and that, regretting his resignation, he was gathering troops
about him to dispute the _coup d’état_.
Wearily Mori assumed command of some two thousand troops, went to
Fushimi, where he met the Prince of Mito, with an army much larger than
his own. After three days’ fighting the ex-Shogun was driven back to
Ozaka, whence he departed for Yedo on an American vessel. Mori followed
more slowly.
He was now embarked upon the most desperate stage of his undertaking.
Mito possessed in his capital, Yedo, forces, ships, and resources in
great excess of any belonging to the new government. Nevertheless Mori
marched upon Yedo steadily. At the gates of the city the senior Lord of
Catzu met Mori.
“How now, my lord?” demanded the Mikado’s defender. “Are you come again
to bid me lay down my arms?”
“No,” said Catzu, almost humbly, “I am come to offer you the submission
of the Prince of Mito.”
“Ah!” Mori veiled his satisfaction.
“Under my counsel,” continued Catzu, “his highness the Prince of Mito
has seen his error. Never again will he take up arms against his
sovereign lord the Mikado. I but beseech you now to spare the city of
Yedo.”
“My business here is done,” was Mori’s reply.
“Stay, my lord.” Catzu entwined his fingers in an effort to conceal a
strange nervousness.
“I await your words, my lord.”
“Thy wife—” began Catzu.
The brain of the leader became clouded and dark with passion.
“Another word, my lord,” he replied, haughtily, “and thou and Yedo shall
both be put to the sword. Having found my armor invulnerable to the
darts of your spears and arrows, you think to advantage yourself by an
ancient weakness of mine. Be assured that I am as invincible in that
regard, my lord, as in the matter of warfare.”
At the end of twelve days Mori was again in Kioto. The surrender of the
late Shogun had not carried with it the submission of Aidzu, who had
fled to his province. The Prince despatched Oguri into the highlands of
Aidzu to complete the unification of the country. Eventually Oguri
fulfilled his mission, bringing complete victory to the Imperial cause.
In the Kioto court the new party wrought speedy change. The daimios, or
territorial lords, were summoned, and resigned into the hands of the
Mikado their feudal possessions.
At one of the last councils attended by Mori, the Shining Prince made an
address of deep import.
“Your Majesty,” he said, “may not be insensible to the changes forced
and hastened in your country by the advent of the foreigner. I have been
fighting feudalism, the bakufu, and the shogunate with the civilization
and weapons of the foreigners. Through them we have conquered and
prevailed. Since we owe our supremacy to their rifle and cannon, a
conviction has forced itself upon me. Your Majesty no longer lives
behind a screen, seen by a few eyes only. Your Majesty is a world power,
and must have relations with other nations. We must assimilate foreign
civilization, if only to combat the foreigner.”
Thus Mori came to the spirit of New Japan, speaking almost the identical
words uttered by Iyesada long ago.
Having accomplished his share of the establishment of the new
government, Mori felt that he could now turn his attention to the
welfare of his faithful followers.
He set a day for a final interview with them, when he should bestow such
rewards as were now in his power, as chief adviser to his sovereign, to
give.
For himself, an important cabinet portfolio had been offered, but he had
come to no decision. He felt that his work was done. He desired only
peace. He was not ready to think further.
Realizing that the lost Jiro, if alive, must be in some portion of the
palace, Mori caused him to be sought for.
On the evening prior to his final meeting with his officers, Jiro came
to him as he sat alone in his chamber. The sight of the lad affected the
Choshui Prince peculiarly. He realized in a moment of self-revelation
that the feeling of loneliness and isolation among his officers had
first manifested itself just after the departure of Jiro. While his
relations with the youth had not been of an intimate nature, still Mori
felt that he had ever sought and found tacitly a silent, unspoken
understanding and support of his purposes from him. He felt drawn
towards the boy as one great soul seeks the penetrating sympathy of
another. A longing, throbbing into wistfulness, pervaded him. Wearily,
yet patiently, he regarded the youth.
“Jiro, my boy, why have you left me so long?” he said.
The boy flushed slightly as an eager delight betrayed for a moment his
pleasure in Mori’s words.
“Have you, then, missed me?” he began, in a warm voice, to break off
abruptly as a forced coldness took possession of him. “I have been much
engaged, my lord,” he said, without enthusiasm.
“Ah!” said Mori, quietly, noting his flushing face; “and I am ready to
wager it was with a maiden.”
“It was, my lord.”
“Ah!—thou, too, Jiro,” said Mori, sadly. “A youth, thou hast come to the
gates of love, to enter paradise—or hell.”
“It was not an affair of love, my lord.”
“No?”
“I have been endeavoring to right the wrongs of a woman—a very near
kinswoman. But I find that I am without power to proceed further.”
“Nay, tell me, Jiro, thy troubles, and those of thy kinswoman. I am not
without power now, and may assist thee.”
Mori smiled pitifully at thought of his power and the poor satisfaction
it held, now that its great consummation had been crowned.
A slight nervousness fell upon Jiro. While his hands tremblingly
fingered his obi, there came into his eyes and his voice a suggestion of
something ulterior, something beyond.
“My lord, my kinswoman loved a man and he loved her,” he said, pausing.
“Sad,” murmured Mori, with the cynicism of his broken mood.
Without noticing the Prince’s comment, Jiro continued:
“My lord, has not a parent the right to exact obedience from his child,
even though that obedience lead her to utmost misery?”
“Such is the Japanese idea,” returned Mori.
“Then, my lord, the parent of my kinswoman exacted a task from her. He
forced her to betray her lover, though she, ignorant that he was the
person implicated, yet sought to warn him of the danger to himself and
the unknown.”
Mori’s eyebrows contracted darkly. He half rose from his seat. Then with
a forced calm he dropped back into his place.
Jiro’s face was now flushed a deep scarlet. He seemed to be using all
his strength in an effort to control his emotions.
“My lord,” he added, “my kinswoman was not only forced to betray her
lover by her father, but she was driven further—into marrying, and,
consequently, degrading him, because only in that way could she save his
life from the hands of the public executioner.”
Mori was white to the lips with his anger. But he controlled himself
strongly. Jiro had claims upon his gratitude.
“You have failed to tell me,” he said, coldly, “in what way I can serve
you—and your kinswoman.”
“My lord, the lover put away my kinswoman, being in ignorance of the
treachery of her parent. Yet so grievously is he wounded that he could
not be approached by one so slight as I. He would not listen to truth.”
Impenetrability masked the face of Mori. His thoughts were veiled behind
a set countenance.
Half abashed, and fully shaken in his late confidence, Jiro spoke
trembling words.
“Do you, my lord, speak to this lover—tell him that it was the fault of
their fathers, and that his lady, indeed, loves him and has always loved
him.”
Still silent and motionless remained Mori.
Jiro faltered. “I have served thee,” he said, as he went a step closer
to Mori; “do thou this now for me.”
Mori spoke.
“To-morrow,” he said, “I take farewell of my officers. My worldly tasks
are then finished. Then I will endeavor to serve you, Jiro—to-morrow.”
“But, my lord, thou speakest of thy worldly tasks. Wilt thou, then—?”
“Nay, Jiro, I will not take my life, I promise thee, before I have seen
thee. To-morrow.”
“To-morrow,” repeated Jiro, and was gone.
Near the iris field in the Emperor’s garden there is a slight hill, set
upon whose sides are a number of fanciful shelters. Under one of these,
upon a bench that night long sat Prince Mori Keiki. Above him the bare
trees supporting the structure twined their naked boughs together into
what in the leaftime was a natural roof. This night, bare of leaf, they
were as open to the cold as the structure’s side, yet Mori seemed
unaware of the season. There was no chill upon his limbs. A strange
smile flitted across the features of the solitary Prince.
With a shrug of the shoulders he glanced at the slight structure under
which he sat.
“It is a summer-house,” he muttered, “and it is now winter.
Fitting—fitting.”
Farther up the hill above him, within the shadow of another similar
structure, a slight form crouched, while burning eyes were fastened upon
Mori. With chilled and shivering being, the youth watched.
“He must not depart this life,” said the little watcher on the hill; “he
must live—and believe. Oh! all the gods, lend me the strength and power
to convince him!”
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[Illustration: Decoration]