The Courtesan and the Samurai Read online

  The Courtesan

  and the Samurai

  LESLEY DOWNER

  BANTAM PRESS

  LONDON • TORONTO • SYDNEY • AUCKLAND • JOHANNESBURG

  Contents

  Cover

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Winter

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Spring

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Summer

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Autumn

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Afterword

  Bibliography

  About the Author

  Also by Lesley Downer

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Version 1.0

  Epub ISBN 9781409095453

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS

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  First published in Great Britain in 2010 by Bantam Press an imprint of Transworld Publishers

  Copyright © Lesley Downer 2010

  Lesley Downer has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBNs 9780593057933 (cased) 9780593057940 (tpb)

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

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  Typeset in 11/14.5pt Sabon by Falcon Oast Graphic Art Ltd Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Limited, Bungay, Suffolk

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  To Arthur

  The courtesan Usugumo of the Kadoebi-ro House in the

  Yoshiwara with two child attendants, April 1914,

  courtesy of Ichiyo Memorial Museum, Tokyo.

  Living only for the moment, giving all our time to the pleasures of the moon, the snow, the cherry blossoms and the maple leaves. Singing songs, drinking sake, caressing each other, just drifting, drifting. Never giving a care if we have no money, never sad in our hearts. Only like a gourd bobbing up and down on the river’s current; that is what we call ukiyo – The Floating World.

  Tales of the Floating World, Ryoi Asai,

  written after 1661

  Acknowledgements

  Huge thanks to Selina Walker at Transworld who was full of enthusiasm for this book and did a vast amount to encourage me and keep me pointing in the right direction. I’m much indebted to her and to her team – Deborah Adams, Claire Ward, and everyone else, who have been full of support, enthusiasm and patience when required.

  Enormous thanks too to my agent, Bill Hamilton, who as always provided sterling support and, among much else, suggested I go and see HMS Warrior, and to Jennifer Custer and everyone at A. M. Heath.

  I’m indebted to the Ichiyo Memorial Hall for their very generous permission to use the beautiful photograph of the courtesan Usugumo which forms the frontispiece. The Ichiyo Memorial Hall houses a collection of memorabilia of the celebrated novelist Ichiyo Higuchi who lived just outside the Yoshiwara and many of whose stories are set there.

  Many thanks too to Kuniko Tamae, who negotiated the use of the photograph and was full of invaluable information on Edo-period Japan.

  The beautiful calligraphy on the part titles was done by Sakiko Takada.

  I owe a debt to the Japan historians whose work I’ve drawn on to write this book (though I’ve taken the odd liberty in the interests of telling a good story). Some are listed in the Bibliography at the end of this book; there are many more.

  I was fortunate to be able to use the resources of several wonderful libraries, including the Diet Library in Tokyo, where I studied newspapers of the period, and the library of the School of Oriental and African Studies in London (SOAS). I was helped and inspired by the museums in Tokyo which recreate old Edo – the Edo-Tokyo Museum in Ryogoku, the Fukagawa Edo Museum and the Shitamachi Museum in Ueno, all of which were invaluable in helping me to recreate the period.

  As always, last but most important of all is my husband, Arthur, without whose love, support, patience and good humour I couldn’t possibly have written this book. He read and commented on each draft and, as an expert on military history, made sure I got the rifles and cannons right, visited HMS Warrior with me, and listened to endless harangues on the rights and wrongs of the civil war and on life in the Yoshiwara.

  This book is dedicated to him.

  Prologue

  11th day of the 4th month, Year of the Dragon, Meiji 1

  (3 May 1868)

  The last of the cherry blossoms were falling, settling in drifts on the ground. Watching the pink petals float down, Hana wondered if her husband would be back in time to see the cherry tree bloom next year. She could hear him stamping up and down, then a crash as he slammed something on to the floor.

  ‘The enemy taking the castle. It’s too much to bear!’ came his familiar tones, loud enough to set the servants trembling. ‘Southerners inside the gates, polluting the great hall and the shogun’s private quarters – and all we can do is run! But we’ll be back, and we’ll find a way to drive them out and kill the traitors.’

  He burst out of the house and stood in the entranceway, tall and imposing in his dark uniform with his two swords at his side, staring round at the servants and at his young wife waiting nervousl
y to wave him off.

  There was a murmur of voices at the front gate. Some youths had gathered there, straw sandals crunching on the packed earth of the road as they shuffled their feet. Hana recognized them. Some lived in the barracks nearby, others in the apprentices’ quarters, and they often came to the house to do cleaning and run errands. But now, in their bright blue uniforms and starched split skirts with swords bristling at their sides, they’d been transformed from boys into men. She could see the excitement on their faces.

  They were going to war, all of them, leaving behind only herself, her elderly parents-in-law and the servants. Hana wished with all her heart that she could go too. She could fight every bit as well as any of them, she thought.

  Hana was seventeen. As a married woman, she kept her eyebrows neatly shaved and her teeth polished black, and her long black hair, which, when loose, swept the floor, was oiled and coiled into a neat coiffure in the marumage style that young wives wore. She had put on her best formal kimono, as she always did to say goodbye to her husband. She did her best to behave in the proper way in all things, though sometimes she secretly wished her destiny might have been different.

  She had been married for a couple of years; but in all that time her husband had almost always been away at war and she’d hardly had any chance to get to know him. This time he’d been home only a few days and already he had to leave again. He was a fierce taskmaster and when he was angry he beat her. But she’d never expected anything else; her marriage had been decided by her parents and it was not her place to question their decision.

  In normal times, she would have been part of a huge household of in-laws, retainers, servants and apprentices, maybe aunts, uncles and cousins, and it would have been her task to keep the house and to serve them. But these were far from normal times. Edo was under attack – Edo itself, the greatest city on earth, a beautiful place of streams, rivers, pleasure gardens and leafy boulevards, where two hundred and sixty daimyos had their mansions and tens of thousands of townsfolk filled the bustling streets. Never within anyone’s memory had the city ever been threatened and now it had been not only attacked but occupied, and hordes of southern soldiers were swarming in.

  They had toppled His Lordship the shogun from power and this very day they were taking over the castle. Hana tried to imagine what the castle must be like – the echoing corridors with their creaking nightingale floors that sang out like birds, revealing the tread of the most light-footed intruder, the thousand-matted audience chambers and ranks of liveried servants, the priceless treasures and exquisite tea ceremony rooms and the beautiful ladies of the shogun’s household sweeping along the corridors in their lavish robes. It was dreadful to think of the southerners with their coarse accents and rough manners tramping through the elegant rooms, destroying a culture they would never understand or appreciate.

  All Edo knew it, all Edo was horrified. It was the talk of the city. The southerners had issued proclamations ordering people to stay in their houses while the takeover took place and declaring that any resistance would be brutally put down. Hana had heard the servants whispering that half the populace had fled.

  ‘I’m proud that you’re carrying on the fight, my son,’ Hana’s father-in-law said in his reedy voice. A gaunt old man with a wispy beard, he stood leaning on his sword like a battle-hardened veteran. ‘If I were younger I’d be on the battlefield with you, shoulder to shoulder.’

  ‘The north still holds out,’ her husband said. ‘At least we can stop the southern advance there. The people of Edo will have to endure occupation until we come back and win the city and the castle again.’

  He turned to the youths at the gate and shouted, ‘Ichimura!’ A gawky big-boned lad, with hair flaring out like a bush, started and stepped forward. Glancing around nervously, his eyes met Hana’s and he blushed to the tips of his large ears. She smiled and looked down, covering her mouth with her hands. Her husband pushed the youth towards her father-in-law.

  ‘My trusty lieutenant,’ he said, slapping him on the back so hard he staggered forward a couple of steps. Ichimura bowed until his back was nearly level with the ground. ‘He’s no beauty but he’s a fine swordsman and he can hold his drink too. I trust him with everything.’

  Watching him stumble awkwardly over a paving stone as he went back to join his comrades at the gate, Hana felt a pang of sadness. She bit her lip suddenly realizing she might never see any of them again.

  The servants lined up along the path between the front door and the gate were in tears. Hana’s husband was a fearsome master and they were all afraid of him, but they respected him too and knew what a great and famous warrior he was. He went down the line addressing each of them in turn.

  ‘You, Kiku, make sure you keep the fires stoked, and, Jiro, bring in the firewood and water regularly. Oharu, take care of your mistress, and, Gensuké, watch out for fires and intruders.’ Even crippled old Gensuké was rubbing his eyes.

  Hana was near the front of the line, behind her mother-in-law, with Oharu, her maid, behind her. She smelt her husband’s musky pomade as he came towards her. He raised her chin and she saw his strong face and piercing eyes, his furrowed brow and thick black hair oiled into a glossy topknot. There were streaks of grey in it she hadn’t noticed before. She looked at him, realizing it might be the last time she ever saw him.

  ‘You know your duty,’ he said gruffly. ‘Serve my mother faithfully and take care of the house.’

  ‘Let me come with you!’ she said fervently. ‘There are battalions of women up north fighting with halberds. I can join them.’

  Her husband gave a snort of laughter and the crease between his eyebrows deepened.

  ‘The battlefield is no place for a woman,’ he said. ‘You’d soon discover that. Your job is to look after my parents and defend the house. You’ll find as much excitement here, maybe more so. There’ll be no menfolk here any more, no one but you, don’t forget that. It’s a heavy burden.’

  She sighed and bent her head.

  ‘Remember,’ he continued, shaking a long, rather elegant finger at her. ‘Keep the gates barricaded and the rain doors bolted and don’t go out unless you have to. The city is in enemy hands now and there’s no one policing the streets. The southerners know who I am and they may avenge themselves by attacking my family. Do you remember what I told you?’

  ‘If all else fails, if I find myself in danger, go to Japan Bridge and ask for … the Chikuzenya.’

  ‘They’ve served our family for generations.’ His face softened and he cupped her chin in his hand. ‘You’re a good child and a brave one,’ he said. ‘I’m glad I married a samurai girl. You have a warrior’s heart. I’ll remember this lovely face when I’m on the battlefield and you’ll bear me a son when I come back.’

  He bowed to his father and asked for his blessing, then turned towards the gate. The men were already lined up there. They fell silent as he took his place at the head of the troop. Hana and her parents-in-law and the servants stood bowing until the last blue jacket had disappeared. The tramp of feet faded into the distance and all that could be heard was the chattering of insects, the cries of birds and the rustling of leaves.

  Winter

  1

  10th month, Year of the Dragon, Meiji 1 (December 1868)

  Hana was on her knees huddled close to the brazier in the great main room of the house, poring over a book by the light of a couple of candles, trying to absorb herself in the story and forget the silence and gloom around her. Then, somewhere in the distance, she heard a noise. She looked up sharply, her heart thundering, and listened, frowning, not daring to breathe. First it was a whisper, then it grew till it was like the roar of an avalanche – straw-sandalled feet, many of them, pounding along the road towards the house.

  The footsteps were coming closer. There was a bang, echoing through the still air till it reached her, deep inside the darkened rooms. Whoever they were, they were beating on the hefty wooden gate. She kept it locked and barred
as her husband had instructed, but they would break it down soon enough. She knew no one visited in times like this. It could only be enemy soldiers, come to take her away or kill her.

  She clenched her fists, trying to calm the knot of panic in her stomach. Her husband had left a gun for her in the drawer of one of the great chests, but she’d never used it. She was better off with her halberd, she thought.

  The halberd was the woman’s weapon. It was light and long, twice as long as a woman was tall and three times as long as a samurai sword, which meant that if a man charged at her with his sword drawn, a woman would have a breath of time in which, if she was nimble, she could slash at his calves before he reaced her. Swordsmen instinctively protected their heads and throats and chests but a swipe at the calves always took them by surprise.

  Hana had studied the halberd since she was a child. When she wielded it, it felt like part of her own body, and the different stances and five strokes – striking, slashing, thrusting, parrying and blocking – were as natural to her as breathing. But she had only ever fought with a wooden practice stick. She had never yet had the chance to use a real weapon.

  Now she jumped up, raced to the entrance hall and lifted the halberd down from its rack across the lintel. It was heavy, heavier than a practice stick. She held it in her hands, feeling the weight of it, and her courage began to grow.

  It was a beautiful weapon with a slim wooden shaft, with mother-of-pearl inlay at the top. Hana slid off the lacquered scabbard. The long elegant blade was curved like a scythe and as sharp as a razor. She was glad that she had kept it oiled and polished. She could see her reflection in it, small and slight; but beneath the fragile exterior she knew how to defend herself, she thought fiercely.

  The thumping at the gate was growing louder. Oharu came charging out of the kitchen, a cleaver in her hand, her eyes wide and her forehead shiny. She was a thick-legged country girl, strong and loyal. A smell of burning wafted behind her, as if in her panic she had forgotten to take the rice off the fire. Gensuké, the old retainer, followed on her heels, hobbling on skinny bent legs, his eyes popping in alarm. He had taken the poker out of the stove and was holding it like a sword, the tip still glowing red. Oharu and Gensuké had come with Hana when she’d moved to her husband’s house in the city and she knew they would do anything to protect her. Of all the servants, they were the only ones left.