The old couple looked at each other for a long moment and then came to the kind of unspoken agreement only possible to those long married.
“We will do as you say, Yo-kun. You are a good son and we know you are wise to the ways of the world. We will join our daughter downriver.”
Yoriaki let out a long puff of relief, not realizing he had been holding it in. “Good, that is good! But please hurry, don’t bother packing anything, there may be very little time! Just put on your shoes and go to the river! Please, I implore you to go to safety right away!”
Momo’s parents nodded, then dutifully began to put on their shoes. Satisfied, Yoriaki gave them a deep bow and started to leave.
“My son!” Momo’s father said before he could break into a run again. “Please come back to us safely. We need you.” Behind him his wife burst into tears.
“I will, Father. I promise!”
Somewhat relieved that his small family was on their way to reasonable safety, Yoriaki slowed his pace somewhat. It would not be good to arrive all out of breath. As he came to the docks, he saw that the crowd had swollen to a very large size, mostly Japanese men but also many of Nihonmachi’s women. These hung farther back, talking amongst themselves nervously in a patois of languages. Beyond the crowd Yoriaki could see two groups in a face-off around the gangplank, which was guarded by the mixed race crew of the ship loyal to Nagamasa along with a party of Japanese samurai who had remained in Nihonmachi for their own reasons when Nagamasa left with his troops. A few of these had become Christians much as Yoriaki had, but those now stood in solid ranks with their Buddhist and Shinto countrymen. In front of their line stood a cadre of enraged Siamese soldiers and officials. Both sides continued to shout threateningly at each other and it showed no sign of letting up.
Yoriaki arrived near the back of the crowd and found a familiar face, a man named Hiranaka, a retired samurai he had served in the guard with, now turned ceramic maker. Hiranaka was not a Christian, but choice of religion was usually of small import among the Japanese of Ayutthaya in their dealings with each other. Ayutthaya was remarkably a very free and tolerant society and these concepts had soon been embraced by the Japanese who came here, nearly all of whom had been persecuted in some way by the stifling social constrictions they had left behind in Japan. Here they could do any job, marry any person and worship any god they wished. Unfortunately, Yoriaki thought such freedoms might be coming to an end.
“Hiranaka-san! What’s going on?” Yoriaki asked him.
“Ah, Nishioka-san! Well, it’s quite a kerfuffle. That ship is Nagamasa’s and it came here thinking to find him. Now that they have learned he’s not here anymore they want to take their cargo to him down in Ligor. The problem is, King Prasat Thong has other ideas. He has sent this group of Siamese soldiers to claim it for himself, but our fellows aren’t letting them on board. Right now it’s a standoff, they are all just yelling at each other but I fear it may come to blows. A while ago several of the Siamese were sent running back to the city, and it is likely they will return with reinforcements.” Hiranaka pulled back his yukata to expose a katana tucked beneath. Yoriaki did the same and they both shared a grim smile.
“Looks like I’m not the only ex-samurai who had a bad feeling this evening,” Hiranaka said wryly. “We may have left the warrior’s life behind but it seems we retain our instincts. I sent my wife and children to the river and told them to board whatever boats might be available...” His eyes raised the question to Yoriaki.
“I have done the same for my family. I do hope we are wrong.”
The confrontation at the dock was reaching a climax. Yoriaki and Hiranaka began to push their way past the women in the crowd, ordering them as they passed by to leave the docks for the safety of the shore farther downriver. Some did as they were told but others stayed anyway, entranced by the excitement. Just as they reached the front of the crowd the situation arrived at its boiling point. The thirty or so Siamese soldiers gathered there made a lunge at the ship’s guard, who were outnumbered but ready to defend their prize with their lives. The battle had begun. Swords clashed in an angry din.
Now that fighting had begun most of the crowd fled to a safer distance, but there were many such as Yoriaki and Mori who were ready to join the action. These latecomers quickly closed ranks with the men guarding the ship so that now it was the Siamese who were outnumbered, facing well over a hundred men. Their officers bawled at them to fall back, which they did, reluctantly. The Japanese held their position, the clash ceasing for the moment.
“Go tell that child-killing king of yours that he may not have that which is Nagamasa’s!” the Chinese captain of the ship bellowed in accented Siamese.
The city official leading the Siamese contingent shrieked back, “How dare you speak disrespectfully of our blessed ruler! Remember that you are but guests in our land. The welcome you had under dead Song Tham has come to an end. Just wait, you shall see!” And with that the silk-clad and bejeweled man laughed shrilly, his heart as black as the ursurper he served. Just then a bell began to toll, the bell of the Buddhist temple of Nihonmachi, a plain structure compared to the great gleaming towers of the Siamese wats. The official laughed even louder, joined by his men. This made the Japanese take a step forward, more than ready to put an end to their impious gaiety, but now shouts came from the road that ran north to south along the east side of their enclave. A handsome male youth of mixed race, one of the many children of unions between the Nihonmachi men with local women, came running from the road yelling in Japanese.
“Soldiers with torches are coming from the north, hundreds of them!”
There was a brief silence while the men of Nihonmachi looked at each other, their faces full of dread. The Siamese they had briefly clashed with began to laugh again, which turned out to be a mistake on their part, their last such on this earthly plane. The Japanese moved through them like an avalanche through pines, cutting down their tormentors long before their reinforcements could arrive. Yoriaki slew two himself; he hadn’t intended to come fight but Hiranaka had been right, the instincts were still there. He saw the boy, a lad of no more than thirteen, still standing there, staring at the carnage.
“You, boy!” Yoriaki called to him, “Run through town and shout your warning to all, tell everyone to flee to the river, then do so yourself. Go!” he commanded. The boy bowed quickly and did as he was told, shouting the alarm at the top of his lungs. Doors opened and lantern light fell across his path as he made his way down Nihonmachi’s narrow streets. Yoriaki turned to where the men were making a quick battle plan. A man called Ishida, one of the town’s highest ranking samurai, an officer recently retired from the palace guard, had stepped up to take charge due to his experience and the respect they all held for him. He was in his late fifties but there was no doubt his sword arms were still strong. No one knew where their town’s current leader was and no one asked.
“You, Captain, sir.” Ishida turned to the ship’s master. “Untie your ship and be ready to push off, but first I ask you to take on as many of our people as you can until you must go,” he said in Chinese. Yoriaki understood that language fairly well and was impressed by Ishida’s fluency, no doubt the result of years of trading.
The captain agreed to this request. “I will do as you ask, sir, we would save as many as we can. We will take the refugees with us to Ligor.” He then spat on the ground and said in heavily accented Japanese. “That stinking bastard king has ruined the peace of this great city, may he burn in Hell forever!” In answer came a murmur of agreement and darkly muttered oaths.
Many of the noncombatants who had made up the crowd were already hurrying onto the great red seal ship, looking over their shoulders with mounting fear as they climbed aboard.
“The rest of you men, listen now.” Ishida’s voice was calm and full of confident authority, the voice of a man who had commanded troops before in his long career. “They are coming to burn the town, there can be no doubt. We can’t possibly
win against such numbers. I say we let them have Nihonmachi and live to fight again, I have no doubt Yamada Nagamasa will want revenge for this treachery and I plan to march on Ayutthaya with him!”
That brought a round of cheers from the gathered men.
“So, here’s what we must do. We will make a stand at the road until we can’t hold there any longer. From there a fighting retreat, slowing them down long enough to be sure that all our women and children can get to the river. Once they have got clear we fall back to the shore ourselves and make our own escape. Let those two-faced sons of dogs burn this town, we care not—one day it will be we who live in those pretty palaces on that island! I say ‘Death to Prasat Thong!’ What say you?”
As one, the men of Nihonmachi made their battlecry, “Death to Prasat Thong!” Following Ishida they sprinted to the road, forming a line across it at the north edge of town. The Siamese were close now, marching confidently, carrying a single edged daab sword in one hand, a torch in the other. Most Siamese fought wielding a daab in each hand with considerable prowess. Many now lay their torches down by the side of the road to draw their other sword before engaging the Japanese. There was no doubt that the Siamese soldiers were a force to be reckoned with. There was another moment of quiet as the attackers paused not five yards away from the defenders, waiting for the order to attack. They could hear each other breathing. Then the order came, with a deafening clash of blades the two forces slammed against each other in the soft red sand of the road.
The Japanese held their line, cutting down wave after wave of charging Siamese. The Siamese were powerful warriors indeed, but the men of Nihonmachi were more highly skilled, having undergone rigorous samurai training before seeking their fortunes in this far off land. It was widely considered that the Japanese were the most feared of all fighting men in Asia; certainly they were the most fearless. These men, facing an overwhelming force, had one thing in their favor the Siamese did not—they were fighting for the survival of their loved ones. The longer they held out, the longer their women and children had to flee what would surely be carnage to come. Still, they were not invincible and inexorably some samurai fell to lie beside the slain of their former allies in the blood-drenched dust.
“Look! Some of them have gone around through the rice fields, they’re crossing the road into the south part of town!” one of the men cried out.
“Fall back, follow the plan! Those that can get free quickly run and head those bastards off!” Ishida commanded.
Yoriaki was engaged with a man who he was acquainted with from his time in the royal guard. He had been trying to only wound the fellow and put him out of the fight alive, but his opponent didn’t seem to recognize him and fought savagely. “Sorry, friend,” Yoriaki told him in Siamese, then with a lightning fast swing of his katana he beheaded the man. Freed up from the melee, he instantly ran to the south end of town, joining some twenty or so others. They cut the town at an angle so they could get between the Siamese and the beach. Yoriaki saw flames shooting up; the Siamese were pausing to torch the houses. Good, that would slow them down and let him and the other men form a line. Yoriaki saw his own home beginning to burn as he ran by, the man who held the torch turning to go light the next. He lost his head without even seeing Yoriaki coming.
Suddenly five more enemies appeared in the path from the road, a row of houses blazing behind them. Their work done, they were now headed toward the water to make what mischief they could amongst the fleeing townsfolk. Yoriki ploughed into them, gutting the first three before they had time to react. He was in full fighting fury now, his weapon and body working as one, his mind focused only on the killing. Of the remaining two, the senior and more skilled forced an engagement, skillfully bringing his sword into close quarters with Yoriaki’s, the blades ringing in a furious dance of death. Yoriaki saw the second opponent was going to try to get behind him. Wielding his longsword one-handed temporarily, Yoriaki’s free hand snaked out to grab that one by his wrist, snapping the bones with a well-practiced twist. The man’s animal-like cry caused his companion to pause for a split second, leaving his belly exposed. Yoriaki’s sword flashed as it passed deeply into the soft flesh with a single upward slice then continued in an arc to enter the disabled attacker’s neck behind the ear. Both men went down in twitching heaps on the cobblestones. Pausing for a moment to catch his breath after the intense encounter, Yoriaki heard shrieks coming from behind him, the cries of women.
Yoriaki ran faster than he ever had in his life, the breath pumping in and out of him with the force of a blacksmith’s bellows. He arrived to the beach to find three men of Nihonmachi facing three times their number near the shore, behind them several families were wading waist-deep into the water, women and children crying in fear. One of the women (Not Momo!) hadn’t made it, she lay folded up on the beach in her blood-soaked kimono like a crumpled origiami sculpture discarded by a careless child.
So far Yoriaki had fought nearly without emotion and simply out of necessity; although terrible to be sure the night’s tragedy was not something their opponents had any choice about, they were following their orders. He had killed without hate, having fought at the side of these Siamese in the past and regretted being pitted against them because of one evil man’s greed. But now that he saw they didn’t intend just to burn Nihonmachi down and cast its people out but were bent on slaughtering the innocents as well, Yoriaki felt a rage build in him. With an inarticulate scream he dove at the Siamese soldiers, his blade a wet, red whirlwind gleaming in the glow of their burning homes. One, two, three Siamese fell before him in a row, the fourth had time to block his blow before the next slew him. Yoriaki’s onslaught gave the Japanese the advantage again, the savageness of his attack inspiring them to redouble their own. Shortly Yoriaki and his three comrades stood over the corpses of their enemies.
“They are trying to kill our families now,” one of the men said, one Nakagata, who was still technically employed by the Siamese king but had taken a few days off to get over a cold. “That bastard Prasat Thong, I’d like to cut his head off myself.”
“You may get your chance,” another answered. “We will have our revenge for this.”
Yoriaki, pausing to catch his breath, watched a boat come near the shore manned by several of the holy fathers from the Portuguese side of the river. They helped the wading women and children clamber in, then began to paddle away, looking for more in need of rescue. One of the fathers recognized Yoriaki and silently gave him a blessing with a pale, trembling hand. Suddenly Yoriaki felt a spear of ice go through him. “Momo!” he cried as he turned south to look farther down the beach. The big tree stood some twenty yards away. His boat was there but he couldn’t see anyone in it. Nearby, a body lay obscured by the tall grass. “My wife!” Yoriaki broke into a sprint, behind him he could hear the others following.
Half out of his mind with fear he arrived under the tree to find that that the body was that of a Siamese soldier, not his beloved wife. He scanned the boat to see if she was lying within but it was empty. Before he could call out her name another band of Siamese appeared, chasing a young girl of fourteen, the daughter of Yoriaki’s neighbors, a paper screen maker and his Laoatian wife. The girl sobbed in terror; her sticklike arms dripped blood from small cuts where they had toyed with her, torturing the mouse a bit before landing the final blow of the claw. As one Yoriaki and his comrades moved inland. As the girl ran through their ranks, Yoriaki ordered her to get in his boat and cast off, but he wasn’t sure she even heard him such was her terror.
Now the four of them faced an even greater number, a full twenty Siamese. Even so, the enemy slowed down and came to a stop some yards away from the samurai. Yoriaki, in the grip of a terrible wrath, was surprised to find himself speaking.
“What has happened to this fair and lawful kingdom?” Yoriaki challenged them in their own language. “What has happened to the brave and noble warriors of the Siamese who fought at our sides like men? How can it be that they have t
urned so quickly into a pack of rabid curs, cowards attacking their neighbors in the night at the order of a pretender king? How have you come to such a low pass?”
“Shut up, you scum. You’re no warrior, just the man who sells lunches along the docks,” their chief officer snarled back, but Yoriaki knew his words had stung. “How can you dare judge the will of great King Prasat Thong? He is wise, our benefactor and protector!”
This made Yoriaki laugh. “I can guess how this has happened. He must have paid you well to turn on your truest allies. Your honor was bought with coin from the child killer, what price did it take to make you his dogs? I may not be a warrior any more but I have money. I make a good living, perhaps I can buy you myself. How much? Name your price, you sons of bitches!” Yoriaki’s comrades began to laugh. One of them pulled a bag of silver coin from his belt and threw it so that it spilled out across the enemies’ feet. Yoriaki did the same, joining in the laughter. “There it is, just lick it up off the ground, dogs, the same way you lick Prasat Thong’s feet for favors.”
That last jibe was more than enough to push them over the edge. The enraged soldiers came running forward haphazardly, forgetting their discipline. This made it easy for Yoriaki and his three allies; they cut down the first eight of them nearly effortlessly, making a pile of severed limbs and heads between them and the remaining force. The officer bellowed at his remaining men to get back into a formation. They men listened then, awed by the sight of their slaughtered comrades, but still brave and offended enough not to retreat. Yoriaki’s heart sank to see another ten men arrive behind them; having no more houses left to burn they had come to the riverside to join in what they thought would be the massacre of fleeing civilians. Yoriaki felt a grim pride that they had prevented the worst of that. He gripped his katana tightly and prepared for the next round of battle. The Siamese grinned smugly now at their superior numbers and began a slow, methodical advance. Yoriaki stole a glance at the men with him. Silently they agreed; they would make their stand here. The four of them formed a square, ready for the Siamese to surround them. As one they backed toward the river’s edge, knowing the water would impede anyone who came at them from behind.