Isla wished the downpour was back. Compared to this, there had been comfort in a falling sheet of heavy rain, muffling sounds and banishing people from the streets.
But now Isla felt people stare as she ran from Nene Nakamura, thinking how they would be gossiping about her.
Of course Keiichirō wouldn’t be unattached. He was handsome and kind, and treated women well, all highly prized qualities.
Isla felt so stupid. She’d let her foolish, gullible heart catch feelings for a good-looking face, let his gentle, caring ways ignite a small flame deep within as they brought something alive in her heart.
But it was just another trick.
All men were the same.
Kirino-san had said he’d pick her up from where the women were, but Isla couldn’t bear to be near Nene for a moment longer. No wonder she had been stand-offish and suspicious. Isla’s heart lurched. Nene must have been assigned, as Keiichirō and Kana had, to look out for her, as she would be considered an extension of Keiichirō’s family. None of them would have wanted to be involved but, once they had been instructed to take care of her, they had all made sure to do their duty.
Stupid, Isla berated herself, and so humiliating, too.
She sighed. She was so tired of it all. Being in Satsuma in the wrong time, feeling as if she had no purpose, being shunned and distrusted everywhere and by everyone simply for being a gaijin. It was a world she didn’t understand and didn’t seem to make headway in. And she had had enough of it.
Would going with the Dutch traders help her situation or would it be a mistake? Who knew. But it probably wasn’t going to make anything worse.
Isla glanced behind to see if anybody had followed.
She wasn’t looking where she was going, and bumped into someone. She stumbled back from the solid figure with a short gasp. ‘I’m so sorry. Please excuse me,’ she said quickly.
As she spoke, she realised she had walked straight into Takamori Saigō as he stood on the riverbank. Heat crept up Isla’s neck as she stared at Kagoshima’s most famous historical figure, his thick eyebrows raised slightly in surprise. This was her second time meeting him, and she felt just as much awe at simply being in his presence.
‘Get away from Saigō-sama, gaijin,’ snarled a bearded man Isla recognised as Shinpachi Murata, the man Taguchi had reported her to. He didn’t seem to care that they’d spoken before, and he kept on shielding his leader with a narrow, suspicious glare. Saigō was surrounded by several important-looking samurai, all in regal wear and with their katana swords at their left hips.
‘It’s all right, Murata-san.’ Saigō seemed friendly enough, as he said then, ‘Well, MacKenzie-san, have you decided whether you’d like to join the Dutch traders? They’ll be leaving soon and I was about to send for you.’
Isla was touched by Saigō speaking slowly so that she could understand without trouble.
She told him, her eyes downcast, ‘I have, Saigō-sama. I’ve decided to go with them. I must thank you for your hospitality.’
‘Very well, oneesan.’ Saigō used the term for ‘young woman’, and she appreciated the effort he was making. ‘Do you have everything?’ he added.
‘Not yet, Saigō-sama. I was on my way to collect what I need.’
The whole group of samurai accompanied her, in a silence that felt serious, to Keiichirō’s house, where Isla hoped he wasn’t waiting. Thankfully, he wasn’t.
She slid open the door to her room and discovered the futon was more neatly made than she had left it, with her towel folded tidily on top. Kana may not be married, but she certainly acted like a housewife, and Isla thought that she would no doubt be another person glad to see the back of her.
Kana came up to the house with a basket in her arms, her daughter Yura tottering behind her. She gasped at the sight of the samurai, the basket slipping from her fingers. She prostrated herself on the ground, bowing to them all.
‘Maeda-san, we shan’t keep you,’ said Saigō as Isla came outside with her wallet and her flip phone tucked into the pockets of her running leggings, and wearing her trainers. Yura, oblivious to her mother’s bowing, ran over and wrapped her pudgy arms around Isla’s leg.
Isla was touched by the little girl’s affection. She knelt to her level and gave her a hug.
‘Goodbye, little one. And thank you, Kana,’ she said. Kana gave her a stiff nod.
‘I’m ready,’ Isla announced to the samurai.
The carriage smelled of sweat and horses; the traders spoke in rapid Dutch as they threw curious glances at Isla. One, who had a tooth missing, sat beside her on the wagon. Isla thought he was probably no more than fourteen years old.
‘Hello,’ he said in English.
It had been so long since Isla heard her native language that for a moment it didn’t register.
‘Hello,’ she answered eventually, and heard the relief in her own voice. ‘You speak English?’
‘A little.’
The sun was setting as they clopped along the road that carried them through the outskirts of the town of Kagoshima.
Isla let her anger fuel her against any fears she had about the future. Keiichirō had said nothing about his engagement to Nene. She had thought they’d shared a moment. Several moments. Had it meant nothing?
The town was bathed in orange light, making it look almost a dreamscape. Mount Sakurajima stood proud and high to one side of the carriage, a silent guardian over the town. Lanterns glowed, the darkening water beyond scattered with boats.
Isla pushed the complicated feelings she had about Keiichirō out of her mind and straightened. Boats.
‘What’s the date?’ she asked the boy.
‘Today? It’s the twenty-ninth of January.’
A memory stirred, and then she felt a shiver down her spine.
For, at the end of the month, the Japanese government would send a naval ship to confiscate the Shimazu clan’s weapons and ammunition. She had seen a display about this in the museum.
Why hadn’t she thought of this earlier, or its significance? She’d been so fixated on the year, and getting home, that she hadn’t thought deeply enough about what happened in the January of that year. There’d been so much to take in that was new and disorientating, and of course she’d spent time with Keiichirō. Her mind had been occupied with other, more personal thoughts.
What if this was why she found herself now here? Was it possible that it wasn’t a coincidence that she’d arrived weeks before the beginning of the infamous Satsuma Rebellion, the war that would ultimately end the way of the samurai forever?
This town, the people she had got to know, the hard-working men who worked and lived here, who carried swords at their hips. By September, they’d all be dead. And where would that leave the women she had come to know as she toiled alongside them in recent weeks? How many of them would lose brothers, husbands, sons?
But none of this had happened yet.
And in a surging beat of her heart Isla knew what she must do.
She stood up and rudely pushed past the boy sitting next to her.
‘Where are you going? Miss!’ he shouted in English as Isla jumped from the carriage, landing in the dirt, and the carriage abruptly came to a halt.
‘I changed my mind!’ she shouted over her shoulder as she began to race back the way they had just come.
The town lit up at the bottom of the hill, flanked by forests. She ran, trainers pounding on the road, freezing air in her lungs. She had to warn the samurai that the imperial soldiers were mustering. The event that kicked off the whole war might be turned around if she could get them to move the weapons before they could be stolen. With more weapons and ammunition, was there a chance the tide of fortune could be skewed in their favour?
‘MacKenzie-san?’ said a voice, and she skidded to a halt. It was Keiichirō’s friend, the tall one. ‘Mori Toramasa.’ He patted his chest as he reminded her of his name.
‘I need to speak to Keiichirō,’ she said, ‘it’s urgent.’
He was the most likely person in Kagoshima to believe her.
Toramasa nodded and said he would find him. Isla was to wait where she was.
Isla paced anxiously in the gathering dark. Then there were quick footsteps and at last Keiichirō was there, his chest heaving, his eyes strangely wide.
‘We need to talk,’ said Isla.
‘Is this about Nakamura Nene?’ Keiichirō asked, his voice low.
‘It’s not, but we need somewhere private to talk.’
They headed to the harbour, where Mount Sakurajima was barely visible, merely a black silhouette against the sky now.
‘I’m glad you came back,’ said Keiichirō. ‘I don’t trust those traders, or like the idea of you on a ship alone with a bunch of barbarians.’
Isla bristled. ‘I’ve come back to warn you. The imperial army are on their way to steal Satsuma weapons.’ She said it all in one breath, before Keiichirō could interrupt her.
‘Eh?’ He frowned in disbelief.
‘There’s a ship on its way right now!’ she almost shouted.
‘How do you know?’ he asked.
Isla had hoped this question wouldn’t come up so soon, but she should have known it was obvious it would. ‘If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me,’ she said after a pause. ‘Just trust me, please.’
Keiichirō was looking, transfixed, over her shoulder.
Isla turned towards the water, and as if she had magicked it, there was a ship emerging out of the shadow of the volcano. Isla’s pulse raced. This was really happening.
‘There’s no time,’ she screamed. ‘That’s them!’
* * *
Keiichirō ran through the darkness until he found the Mori household. Toramasa lived with his elderly mother on a quiet street on the east side of the town.
‘Mori-san!’
The lined face of Toramasa’s mother looked out of a window, accompanied by the scent of yuzu fruits. ‘Maeda-san? What is it?’
‘Toramasa must come,’ Keiichirō cried. ‘We have intruders!’
Next he ran and hammered on his cousin Tatsuzō’s door. At the word ‘intruder’, his cousin made haste. It wasn’t long before they had rallied all their shi-gakkō friends, and they dispersed to other homes to fetch them.
Full darkness had fallen by the time they ran to the bay and the ominous ship.
‘They’re taking our weapons,’ Toramasa whispered.
As they watched, men carried boxes to small craft tied up on the quay while the ship waited in deeper water and a hissed voice ordered the thieves to go faster. The thieves wore Western-style uniforms, their hair cut short and moustaches oiled.
Traitors. Instruments of the Western invasion.
As the samurai had hastened to the harbour, they had agreed not to spill blood. If they did, it would be seen as provocation of war.
Instead, they’d gathered whatever they could find – bamboo swords and sticks used for training, cooking utensils. Weapons to hurt, but not to kill. Their classmate Murakami wielded an enormous mallet used for pounding rice into mochi cakes.
More and more samurai appeared, over a dozen, then fifty or more, moving as silently as shadows, and carefully they all surrounded the oblivious thieves.
Even those who had caught wind of the attack but who didn’t belong to the academies wanted to help, and came with improvised weapons of their own, and nobody stopped them.
‘Now!’ Keiichirō said, and the samurai rose as one. Shouting like maddened dogs, they burst from the shadows, waving weapons above their heads.
The looters started, eyes widening in terror as the might of the Satsuma samurai encircled them.
Toramasa smacked a thief on the back with a bokken stick. Shouts and screams from both sides filled the air as Tatsuzō yelled, ‘This is Saigō-sama’s property!’
One soldier pulled out a sword, sliding into a fighting stance to spill blood. Murakami tackled him to the ground. They struggled for a moment, until Murakami overpowered him and hauled him to his feet by the scruff of his neck.
Keiichirō revelled in the chaos of their counter-attack, thinking how easily spooked were the men of the imperial army who had ambushed Kagoshima in the night. Boxes thudded to the ground, a welcome sound.
‘This is government property!’ one of the imperial soldiers spluttered. But the others fled, clambering into their rowing boats, now cleared of their booty, and making haste back to the ship.
‘Not so brave or so clever now, ne?’ shouted Keiichirō to their retreating backs.
‘Nakahara!’ Toramasa raged as he realised he was grappling with one of their own, moonlight illuminating his face. ‘Traitor!’
Murakami gave Nakahara Hisao a violent shake as he pulled him away from Toramasa, and took his swords away. ‘You’re coming with us. You will have to explain your actions, the actions not worthy of a Satsuma samurai.’
Nakahara Hisao began to beg for leniency, saying he had made a terrible mistake but he hadn’t meant to do anything wrong. The men roared at him, disgusted by his cowardice.
‘Where are Beppu-san and Kirino-san?’ Murakami barked. ‘Tell them we’ve caught a spy.’
Once it had quietened down, the samurai did an inventory of the Satsuma arsenal. The building had been forced open, and crates and boxes were missing, grooves in the dirt where they’d been dragged out in haste.
Even though Keiichirō and the others had fought bravely, over half of their weapons and supplies were gone.
Keiichirō glanced up the hill to where Isla was hidden. She had warned him of this, and at this moment he didn’t care how she knew. Thanks to her, he thought, they had saved half of their supplies.
* * *
Far above Keiichirō, Isla crouched in a secluded spot where the vegetation gave her good cover as she watched the action unfold.
As she’d seen in the museum, hundreds of samurai had descended upon the imperial thieves, creating a racket and scaring the soldiers away.
It had happened exactly like the history books promised, with hundreds of samurai preventing the imperial navy stealing from the weapons depot.
What happened next? Isla wished she knew more about this. She’d been so engrossed in finding information about her third-great-grandfather that she hadn’t paid enough attention, and she felt that, in this, she had failed the Satsuma samurai.