The army moved in their platoons out of the town of Kagoshima. Shinsuke Beppu, the man who had been present when Isla first met Takamori Saigō, led the first battalion, thousands of samurai from the shi-gakkō following eagerly in his wake. The leaders rode horses, some soldiers holding long banners with the Shimazu clan crest painted in white. Some of the men wore lamellar armour, others thick jackets and wide trousers, swords pushed into sash belts around their waists. The ground almost shook with their synchronised steps, and the atmosphere was alive with a thirst for vengeance against those who had tried to hurt their beloved leader.
The air smelled of horse, too, a nostalgic scent for Isla, who had loved to ride on the Scottish hills, and she inhaled deeply to catch the musty, hay-like aroma beneath the traces of steel, grass and men.
Some of those watching the brave samurai shouted well wishes and cheers of encouragement, although others remained silent with their thoughts.
Shinpachi Murata was the chief of a second battalion. It was surreal, seeing these characters Isla had read about at the Museum of the Meiji Restoration, regal and mighty on their horses, faithful warriors at their backs.
They waited behind Toshiaki Kirino’s battalion, and Isla spotted Keiichirō’s cousin, Tatsuzō, talking with a woman and a little boy no older than three. ‘Come back soon, Daddy,’ said his son, and Isla was touched to see that the lad had thrust a tree branch into a sash at his waist, in imitation of his father.
‘I will, Jin. And I’ll bring you back a present from Kumamoto, all right? Be good and take care of your mother.’
Tatsuzō’s wife held his cheeks, scanning his face as though to memorise it. Then her hands fell to her sides. Tatsuzō bowed to his family and turned to join his comrades. What unspoken words crossed between them? Had he said goodbye properly the night before, away from prying eyes?
Tatsuzō Maeda joined his fellow soldiers without looking back at his family. His usually jovial face was serious.
Another small boy, bigger this time, ran after Takamori Saigō, his sandalled feet kicking up dirt and his dog, the same Satsuma inu that had disturbed their meeting, yapping as it ran excitedly beside its young master. A ripple of laughter followed the barking dog and even Nene gave a small giggle of delight.
‘Please, Father,’ shouted the boy. ‘Let me come, too.’
Saigō laughed good-naturedly, patting his little boy on his head. ‘One day you’ll make a fine samurai, Toratarō.’ His hands moved to pet his dog, Tsun. The Satsuma inu’s tail wagged so furiously it smacked Toratarō’s skinny leg. ‘But you can’t come with me. You have to stay here and protect your brothers and sister. Can you do that?’
Toratarō stiffened, his little face screwing up with determination. He stood straight and nodded, though his lips were pressed hard together, like he was fighting back tears.
It was too much. Isla had to look away from these sights of goodbyes, tears welling for the families. These poor, dear children would never see their fathers again.
‘There’s Kirino-san’s signal,’ whispered Nene. ‘We should go.’
The bulky layers of their clothes made them easily able to pass as men. And if any of the men noticed them, they said nothing. Perhaps they recognised the value of as many as possible swelling the ranks.
Isla and Nene carried heavy rifles, though neither of them had swords. Isla had no idea how to use the gun, and, by the way Nene held hers, she didn’t either. Some of the men carried large ceramic bottles of shōchū to keep up their courage.
The marching pace was fast, and Isla was glad she was so fit these days. Nene struggled more, to judge by her deep breaths, but she never voiced a complaint as the sounds and scents of the town faded and, as one, the army headed purposefully towards the snow-capped horizon.
Isla remembered seeing these hills full of train stations and ryokan inns and roads filled with cars, every hot spring commercialised, every ‘secret’ spot pictured in magazines. Now, almost a hundred and thirty years earlier, they were wild, full of wolves and boars and more.
Which was better?
Isla couldn’t decide.
Snow began to fall after a while, muffling far-off sounds. Isla felt mesmerised by the sound of so many feet crunching on fresh snow, distracting from the cold nipping at her ears and nose. She kept her eyes on Hisa Kirino marching ahead of her.
How many women would die alongside their men? Isla wondered. Would she be one of them? She hoped not, but if that were her destiny then so be it. It was easier to accept when she was surrounded by brave men and women. She had no idea where Keiichirō was, or whether he knew a regiment of women was with the samurai. She wondered whether her ancestor Hisakichi Kuroki was with them, although she had already resigned herself to the thought that she would never find out for sure.
Isla thought back to what she had seen at the museum. She had skimmed over the details of the journey to Kumamoto Castle, not paying attention to the finer details, and this was something she bitterly regretted. They would lose the battle at the castle, that she did remember.
Isla threaded her fingers through Nene’s. At first, Nene’s hand twitched in hers, like she wanted to pull away. But then Nene’s small hand clutched her back, and they found comfort in each other’s half-frozen, entwined fingers.
The army advanced north along the shore of Yatsushiro Bay towards Kumamoto, and at last they stopped to make camp for the night.
Isla heard whispers that it was expected they’d have free passage through Kumamoto and across the Shimonoseki Strait. The soldiers were confident in the emperor’s honour and that he would grant them passage and listen to what his old friend had to say. Isla wished she didn’t know that it wasn’t going to work out like that.
‘Did your father join the fight?’ she asked.
Her lip trembling, Nene shook her head. ‘He’s a merchant, and I am ashamed that he said he had better things to do. He’ll know I came by now. I was so embarrassed by his words I didn’t tell him I was going. But he’s not a bad man, and I am sorry now I didn’t say goodbye.’
Would Nene die here, too? Had her father just lost his only child – his daughter who he would have been so proud to have seen betrothed to a samurai? It all seemed so pointless.
* * *
Kumamoto Castle was the nearest stronghold of imperial army soldiers, and their first stop before heading to Tokyo. It was controlled by a major general named Tani Tateki. Kono told Keiichirō that he had fought alongside Saigō-sama and Kirino-san only nine years prior. But now Tani Tateki stood against them, side by side with his former enemies.
Many of the soldiers in the castle were from Kumamoto or Satsuma. Would that work in their favour? The samurai following Saigō Takamori dearly hoped so. Surely anyone would side with Saigō’s banner, and not the treacherous soldiers influenced by the Westerners and the shinseifu government. Or, like Tani, had they turned their backs on their shared history and were now fighting against them?
Keiichirō marched beside Toramasa. His family armour, still at home, was ungainly and rusted. He wouldn’t know how to put it on and, besides, the lamellar armour wouldn’t be much use against rifles and cannon fire. Most of the men around them, many of them not having samurai ancestry and thus having no armour to inherit, wore thick nagagi, warm outer layers of a kimono, hakama trousers and haori jackets like the one he had let Isla borrow. He caught sight, however, of some of Beppu’s men wearing their armour with pride. The helmets, some with horn-like ornaments to make them appear taller and more threatening, looked heavy and uncomfortable.
Keiichirō had said nothing about the Scottish woman warning him of the imperial soldiers attacking the arsenal.
Too many of those whom Keiichirō knew would be like Taguchi, he feared: resolute in their belief that Isla was a spy, regardless of Nakahara Hisao’s vehement assertion that she wasn’t.
Would he see her again? He longed to, but he couldn’t forget her warning of them losing the war.
Long, rectangular flags bearing the Shimazu clan crest flapped in the wind. Saigō-sama was at the front of the procession, carried on a palanquin. There were rumours of a disease that made it impossible for him to ride a horse. He wore his Western officer uniform, mighty and regal, so that when he met the emperor he would stand before him as a friend and not a rebel.
Toramasa took a hearty swig of shōchū and grinned at Keiichirō.
Nakamura Nene’s father had filled Keiichirō’s jug to the brim, waving away his protests. Keiichirō had grabbed his father’s favourite blue shōchū cup last-minute as he said goodbye to Kana and Yura. He told himself that, once they had claimed victory at Kumamoto Castle, he would have his first drink of shōchū since they had left Kagoshima. Until then, knowing it was in his sack brought Keiichirō a measure of comfort he couldn’t quite explain.