THE NEW RONIN By Kurt Saxon
Chapter Three: THE VOYAGE
Early next morning the young men met the old priest at the
pier. He had left his priest's robes at home and wore a jacket and work
clothes. He had a beaten-up, thirty-foot launch ready to go. Its deck was
piled with cans of extra fuel, flashlights and supplies of food and water,
plus a hydraulic jack. There was also a pile of picks and shovels in the
storage hold.
Mr. Tsubaki, the ancient owner of the launch, shuffled
about, rearranging the cargo and polishing the engine. The young men speculated
on their chances with him as captain when the old priest said, "So you
came. Good. Which of you will drive the boat?"
Saburo was astonished. "We're not seamen. What about the
old fellow?"
Kuwahara replied, "Tsubaki's too old. Besides, he seldom
goes out of sight of land. He can't dig, either. But don't get excited
boys. One of you can handle the launch or I'm wrong. And I'm not wrong."
"I can handle the launch," spoke up Takeo.
"You never mentioned it," said Yoshi.
"It never came up," answered Takeo. "But my uncle owns
six fishing boats. I spent all my summers with him on the Sea of Japan
from childhood until I came to the university. I can navigate, too, if
I have the coordinates."
The old priest handed him a piece of paper filled with
figures. After a few moments of study, Takeo said, "This puts the island
608 miles from here." Then to Mr. Tsubaki, "What does your engine do?"
"Twenty knots, steady. She's a good one, overhauled not
a year ago. I know engines. I was a machinist's mate on a freighter during
the war. You don't think I know my engines?"
"Let me tell you something," Tsubaki said, his voice rising.
"I kept that old freighter's engines going with spit and wire. A year and
a half without an overhaul. Do you think those desk-riding Naval fools
in Tokyo cared? The carriers, cruisers, destroyers; of yes. That's where
the glory was. But we merchant seamen? To hell with us and our worn out
boats. No headlines from us but we were the backbone of the war. The backbone,
I tell you." He was shrieking now.
"A year and a half without an overhaul or replacements.
Spit and wire, that's all. Then, two hundred miles from port, dead in the
water. It wasn't our fault. Can you blame me?"
The old priest patted his shoulder. "Not your fault at
all, my friend. It's over. It's in the past."
"To you, it's in the past," said Tsubaki, sobbing. "But
it was yesterday to me. Dead in the water and the enemy's planes descending
on us like crows on a dying hawk. Bombs, bullets; she broke in two. Only
one raft free and only twenty of my mates out of the forty-eight floundering
in the water, holding on to whatever wood floated up out of the hold."
"I was on the raft with the radioman. Then the sharks.
At least a million sharks! Every shark in all the oceans! Pulling my mates
down. I can still hear their screams. One shark even raised up and pulled
the radio man off the raft. He screamed, 'Tsubaki, Tsubaki', as if I could
help him. But it wasn't my fault. Spit and wire!"
Kuwahara continued to comfort old Tsubaki and he finally
calmed down and his weeping subsided.
Tears were running down Yasuo's face. Only Takeo seemed
unmoved. Having met few survivors of the shooting part of the war, it's
horrors and scars on individuals were foreign to most of them.
Takeo went on, as if to himself, "Well, the launch is
old but seems in good repair. The engine's old, too, but I've seen worse.
Checked the weather last night. We have a week of calm. If the engine fails,
there's a mast in the hold I can rig. We can get back. So if all goes well
we should be there by ten tomorrow morning."
"Well then," said the old priest, "since our safety is
assured, let's go. A day to get there, two days digging and a day to get
back. Four, maybe five days."
After a half-hour of rearranging the cargo to satisfy
Takeo's demand for proper balance, they were on their way. As they left
the shore, Mr. Tsubaki shouted, "Be sure to bring me back a bottle of sake."
Kuwahara shouted back, "We'll bring you a whole case,
my friend."
Unused to water travel, all the young men but Takeo shifted
around to find comfortable spots to stretch out. Takeo stood at the wheel,
keeping his eyes ahead or on the compass. He could have been a piece of
sculpture, motionless except when he would secure the wheel and bound to
the engine to give it a bit of oil or tighten a loosening part.
He would let no one else steer or touch the engine. He
would not sleep until the goal was reached. He was a part of the launch,
feeling every tremor of the engine. He was conscious of the ocean's drift
and was quick to correct the course as the current pulled at the launch.
Yasuo, in his own way, also became a part of the boat.
He seated himself on the bow, his feet dangling and his hands clinging
to the bow and leaning forward so he could see nothing but the ocean in
front and the sky above.
As he peered into the depths he could see in his mind's
eye, the mates of old Tsubaki. Their arms reaching upward, their mouths
gaping open, silently crying for help that never came. Americans were there,
too. All one in death, killed not by each other, but by the mindless, unrelenting
Pacific.
To the poet it was senseless and tragic. Such a waste
of young men who only wanted to live and work and play with their children.
Children unborn because the fine young men on both sides of the stupid
conflict never got back to their wives and sweethearts. It was beautiful
and sad and Yasuo's tears added to the ocean a bit of maudlin compassion.
Kuwahara leaned back against the side of the launch and
pretended to doze as the young men talked. Saburo was saying, "What if
the old man is right and even some of the war supplies are intact? How
would we market them?"
Hideki spoke up, "I could market them among criminals,
with whom I could make contact. But I wouldn't want to do that."
Minoru then said, "My sister is a secretary for Americans
at the Army base near our town. My mother gave her my grandfather's pistol
he had hidden after our army was demobilized. Hisako sold it to an American
sergeant for more than a month's wages. Americans are crazy for weapons,
especially war souvenirs."
Tadashi entered the conversation with, "So I suppose you
would just load the weapons into a truck and drive it onto the nearest
American base. Even I would have a long white beard before I finished explaining
where we got them."
Yoshi then put in, "My mother was eight years old when
the war ended. Shortly after the occupation began she was on her way from
school with some of her friends. Several drunken American soldiers were
coming toward them. My mother and the other girls panicked and ran out
into the field beside the road. The Americans chased them and caught them.
The girls were sure they going to be killed and eaten. To little Japanese
girls in those days, Americans were gigantic and fearsome, with red faces.
They considered themselves white, except for the brown ones, who consider
themselves black.:
"Anyway," he continued, "the Americans held them and forced
them to eat chocolate bars, which they all seemed to carry. The girls were
sure it was poisoned but it was good and after a few minutes, they lost
their fear. Then the Americans led them back to the road and let them go."
"Well," snapped Tadashi, "what does that have to do with
anything?"
"Nothing, I suppose," said Yoshi, lying back and going
promptly to sleep.
Listening to them, Takeo sneered contemptuously in his
mind; his face an expressionless mask. He cared not a bit how the material
would be marketed. With his share he could develop his envisioned super
motorcycle. It would be a machine to which one could relate.
He preferred machines to people. He could reason with
a machine. A few tools and a machine would show one what it could do. A
machine never babbled on senselessly or made excuses. It performed rationally.
He remembered himself as a quiet, painfully shy child
on his first voyage on one of his uncle's fishing schooners. Being timid,
he was afraid of the rough, but good-natured fishermen manning the schooner.
In the summer heat, bare to their waists, he was awed
by their muscular arms and heaving chests as they hauled in the nets. The
fish squirmed and their silver scales flashed in the sun as the nets were
emptied and the fish flopped around on the deck before being shoveled into
the ice-filled hold.
If Takeo ever had a childhood friend, it was Takijero
Ota. Ota was a barrel-chested, brawny machinist whose second love was the
schooner's engines. His first love was a combination of brawling, drinking
and womanizing.
When drunk Ota would fight anyone, for no reason apparent
to the wide-eyed little boy he sometimes took to the bars he frequented.
Takeo's uncle often left him in Ota's charge while he visited the sleazy
brothels dotting every port town.
To Takeo, Ota was a god who worshipped only his higher
gods, the engines in the schooner. As Ota pampered them, talked to them,
often cursed them, Takeo found the only religion he was ever able to understand.
The machines, more powerful by comparison than even the strength of Ota,
commanded his respect from childhood.
As Ota explained the working of the engines, little Takeo
committed himself to the worship of the power in the machine. On land,
in a world made false by teachers and baths, his life was one of loneliness
and alienation. But on the schooners, he happily dreamed of becoming a
willing servant to the engines.
In Takeo's early teens, Ota was stabbed to death during
a drunken altercation with several Spanish seamen. Helpless to act in Ota's
defense, young Takeo resolved never to drink or visit bars. He took Ota's
place serving the engines. And aside from his association with his six
university comrades and Kemiko, he cared nothing for any other human besides
Kuwahara.
As Takeo was running these thoughts through his mind,
a sudden swell caused Yasuo to lose his balance and fall straight forward
into the water. On reflex, Takeo turned the wheel hard aport and the barnacle-studded
keel of the launch barely missed the self-hypnotized poet.
Takeo cut the engine and turned, on the launch's momentum
as the others reached out for Yasuo. When he was dragged back on board,
Takeo shouted, "Fool, no more of that. Stay inside the boat from now on."
The chastened Yasuo removed and wrung out his clothes.
After putting them back on, he boasted to the others that his whole life
had flashed before him. Saburo told him he hadn't been in the water for
more than a minute and was only fantasizing, as usual.
Then Yasuo crawled under a tarpaulin and went to sleep
while the sun boiled the moisture out of his clothing. After the others
discussed the event until bored, they all slept until the late afternoon
chill awakened them.
Then they ate a cold supper from the large hamper Kuwahara
had stocked with enough non-perishable foods to last the trip. After eating,
they discussed the island's ownership and the likelihood of its habitation
by anyone.
The old priest expressed doubt that such a small island,
so far from anything, would be of interest to anyone. He assured them that
as no real battle had been fought on the island, its location would probably
be absent from all but the most detailed of nautical maps.
Tadashi questioned the legality of the island and any
war material on it. Kuwahara said, "Whichever nation claims the island
would be legally entitled to everything on it. And, of course, the weapons
would be illegal in Japan. But I know an American arms smuggler who will
dispose of the goods to people outside the country."
Minoru interrupted, "Let's not sell our treasures before
we get them. If that boat approaching is the Japanese Coast Guard, we may
not get to the island."
Takeo looked back at the oncoming Coast Guard cutter and
said, "From her bearing, I'd say she was out of Kyushu. Hard to say what
she'd be doing out this far."
Takeo held the course and in a few minutes the faster
boat cut to the side and edged in front of the bow, forcing Takeo to put
the engine in neutral. The captain of the cutter was an officious type,
fond of impressing civilians.
"Who are you and what are you doing out here?" he shouted.
Tadashi stood up and replied in a tone of derision, deliberately
insulting, "I am Tadashi Yoritomo. My father is Minamoto Yoritomo, member
of the Board of Directors of Mitsubishi. My uncle is Ashikaga Takauji,
vice-president of Honda. My aunt is Nyosan Kiohira, member of the Diet
and indirectly connected to the Maritime Board. My companions and myself
are students of the University of Tokyo. The old man owns the launch. We
bet some of the other students that we could go out to the nearest island,
collect some leaves and plants and photos for proof and get back by tomorrow
at six p.m."
"You'll never make it," snapped the captain.
"Of course we'll never make it," shouted back Tadashi
"if we waste much more time with you. And you might tell us what you're
doing so far from shore."
"We are on official business," yelled the captain over
the clatter of the launch's idling engine. "And you, pilot, turn off that
engine."
"No," shouted back. "It's old and I may not get it started
again. Now, sheer off and let us be on our way."
"Don't give me orders, you young rascal," boomed the captain.
"I want to see all your papers. You make me suspicious. We might just tow
you back to shore."
"But what of your 'official business', Captain?" sneered
Yasuo. "What are you up to, anyway? Your face is flushed and there is a
noticeable bulge in your pants. Are you having a drunken orgy below decks?
I'd like to join you, that is, if you have women on board." He then shrieked
with laughter at his joke.
The captain's face reddened and two of his crew snickered.
He acted as if he were going to jump into the launch and go after Yasuo.
"You impudent young bastard! Do you think you can insult your betters with
impunity?"
During this exchange, Saburo was snapping photos of the
captain, his crew and the boat. "Captain," he shouted, "I'm a journalism
major. I think being towed back would be more fun and would give me a good
story for the papers. Throw us a line."
"No, I will not throw you a line. I will not tow you back,
you snot-nosed rich brats. And I hope your junkyard engine fails and you
all drown." With that, the captain signaled to get under way and the cutter
nearly swamped the little launch as it proceeded on its original course.
As the cutter increased its distance, Tadashi fell to
the deck, laughing hysterically.
Hideki said, "Tadashi, Yasuo, Saburo, that was masterful."
Kuwahara broke in, furiously, "I am so ashamed of you.
I have never seen such disrespect. How dare you talk to a Japanese officer
like that?"
Hideki spoke up soothingly, "Sir, it was necessary. All
police are like dogs. If you run, the dog will chase you. If you cower,
he will maul you. But if you stand your ground and growl back, unless he
knows you are in the wrong, he'll retreat in confusion. Now, had we identified
ourselves, our presence out here, our coordinates and possible destination
would be on record. Later, if you are right and we do bring back such materials
as you describe, the authorities could piece enough together to have us
all in jail."
"Besides," he continued, "when you were younger, everyone
in uniform was a spokesman for his emperor-god. Today, they are simply
public servants and must be treated as such if they are to be kept in line."
"Well," said the old priest, "that sounds reasonable.
But in my day you would have been imprisoned for such conduct. I don't
really know if I like the new ways."
By this time it was nearly dark. Takeo had the engine
at full power again and was following the stars to their destination. Minoru
asked Tadashi if there was any truth in the line he had fed the Coast Guard
captain. Tadashi replied, "Basically, yes. My father heads a small department
under one of the directors of the board at Mitsubishi. My uncle is a foreman
on an assembly line at Honda. My Aunt Nyosan is an executive secretary
to a member of the Diet."
Kuwahara listened as he dozed. Worries continually disturbed
him in his half-awake state. Would these young men submit to his authority
in the matter of the disposal and use of the proceeds from the treasure?
If they would, could they, this strange new generation?
But as he pondered Tadashi's arrogance and audacity, Yasuo's
almost suicidal insolence and Saburo's businesslike poise and air of command,
he remembered the island. His comrades were likewise arrogant and manipulative.
Never did a ship's captain leave with his hold filled with supplies that
he did not thank them as if the supplies were a gift, instead of his due.
He also remembered an Army colonel and his staff, off
loaded to be picked up a week later for the battle zone. The colonel started
off giving orders and making himself at home. Within an hour, Captain Anoka
and the others had him in his place, promising to keep out of the way and
offering his staff for any work that needed doing.
These young men were samurai to the core, just as his
comrades had been. A samurai would do exactly as he pleased unless expressly
forbidden, and then only in the face of superior force.
The old priest lapsed into a deeper sleep. But dreams
tormented him. These young men, his comrades, if not his original comrades,
combined to make a monster. Could it be controlled? Could it be directed
against Namoto, without being more of a threat than Namoto?
When he awoke dawn was breaking. Takeo was still at the
wheel as the launch chugged unerringly toward the island. About ten o'clock,
the island was spotted. The young men were disappointed, as it seemed to
be merely a low hump, three-quarters of a mile long and a half-mile wide,
covered with scrub and jungle foliage.
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