TAIKO: AN EPIC NOVEL OF WAR AND GLORY IN FEUDAL JAPAN

  TAIKO: AN EPIC NOVEL OF WAR AND GLORY IN FEUDAL JAPAN

  Eiji Yoshikawa

  Toward the middle of the sixteenth century, as the Ashikaga shogunate crumbled, Japan came to resemble one huge battlefield. Rival warlords vied for dominance, but from among them three great figures emerged, like meteors streaking against the night sky. These three men, alike in their passion to control and unify Japan, were strikingly different in personality: Nobunaga, rash, decisive, brutal; Hideyoshi, unassuming, subtle, com­plex; Ieyasu, calm, patient, calculating. Their divergent philosophies have long been recalled by the Japanese in a verse known to every schoolchild:

  What if the bird will not sing?

  Nobunaga answers, "Kill it!"

  Hideyoshi answers, "Make it want to sing."

  Ieyasu answers, "Wait."

  This book, Taiko (the title by which Hideyoshi is still known in Japan), is the story of the man who made the bird want to sing.

  TAIKO: AN EPIC NOVEL OF WAR AND GLORY IN FEUDAL JAPAN

  1 FIFTH YEAR OF TEMMON 1536

  Characters and Places

  Hiyoshi, childhood name of

  Toyotomi Hideyoshi, the Taiko

  Ofuku, adopted son of Sutejiro

  Onaka, Hiyoshi's mother

  Otsumi, Hiyoshi's sister

  Kinoshita Yaemon, Hiyoshi's father

  Chikuami, Hiyoshi's stepfather

  Kato Danjo, Hiyoshi's uncle

  Watanabe Tenzo, leader of a band

  of masterless samurai

  Sutejiro, pottery merchant

  Hachisuka Koroku, head of the Hachisuka clan

  Saito Dosan, lord of Mino

  Saito Yoshitatsu, Dosan's son

  Akechi Mitsuhide, retainer of the Saito clan

  Matsushita Kahei, retainer of the Imagawa clan

  Oda Nobunaga, lord of Owari

  Kinoshita Tokichiro, name given to

  Hiyoshi when he became a samurai

  Shibata Katsuie, head of the Shibata clan

  and senior Oda retainer

  Hayashi Sado, senior Oda retainer

  Owari, birthplace of Toyotomi Hideyoshi

  and province of the Oda clan

  Kiyosu, capital of Owari

  Mino, province of the Saito clan

  Inabayama, capital of Mino

  Suruga, province of the Imagawa clan

  "Monkey! Monkey!"

  "It's my bee!"

  "It's mine!"

  "Liar!"

  Seven or eight young boys swept across the fields like a whirlwind, swinging sticks back and forth through the yellow mustard blossoms and pure-white radish flowers, looking for the bees with honey sacs, called Korean bees. Yaemon's son, Hiyoshi, was six years old, but his wrinkled face looked like a pickled plum. He was smaller than the other boys, but second to none among the village children when it came to pranks and wild behavior.

  "Fool!" he yelled as he was knocked down by a bigger boy while fighting over a bee. Before he could get to his feet, another boy stepped on him. Hiyoshi tripped him.

  "The bee belongs to the one who caught it! If you catch it, it's your bee!" he said, nimbly jumping up and snatching a bee out of the air. "Yow! This one's mine!"

  Clutching the bee, Hiyoshi took another ten steps before opening his hand. Breaking off the head and the wings, he popped it into his mouth. The bee's stomach was a sac of sweet honey. To these children, who had never known the taste of sugar, it was a marvel that anything could taste so sweet. Squinting, Hiyoshi let the honey run down his throat and smacked his lips. The other children looked on, their mouths watering.

  "Monkey!" shouted a large boy nicknamed Ni'o, the only one for whom Hiyoshi no match. Knowing this, the others joined in.

  "Baboon!"

  "Monkey!"

  "Monkey, monkey, monkey!" they chorused. Even Ofuku, the smallest boy, joined in. He was said to be eight years old, but he was not much bigger than the six-year old Hiyoshi. He was much better looking, however; his complexion was fair, and his eyes and nose were nicely set in his face. As the child of a wealthy villager, Ofuku was the only one who wore a silk kimono. His real name was probably something like Fukutaro or Fukumatsu, but it had been shortened and prefaced with the letter o in imitation of a practice common among the sons of wealthy families.

  "You had to say it too, didn't you!" Hiyoshi said, glaring at Ofuku. He did not care when the other boys called him monkey, but Ofuku was different. "Have you forgotten that I'm the one who always sticks up for you, you spineless jellyfish!"

  Thus chastened, Ofuku could say nothing. He lost courage and bit his nails. Although he was only a child, being called an ingrate made him feel much worse than being called a spineless jellyfish. The others looked away, their attention shifting from honey bees to a cloud of yellow dust rising at the far end of the fields. "Look, an army!" cried one of the boys. "Samurai!" said another. "They've come back from battle." The children waved and cheered.

  The lord of Owari, Oda Nobuhide, and his neighbor, Imagawa Yoshimoto, were bitter enemies, a situation that led to constant skirmishing along their common border. One year, Imagawa troops crossed the border, set fire to the villages, and trampled the crops. The Oda troops rushed out of the castles of Nagoya and Kiyosu and routed the enemy, cutting them down to the last man. When the following winter came, both food and shelter were lacking, but the people did not reproach their lord. If they starved, they starved; if they were cold, they were cold. In fact, contrary to Yoshimoto's expectations, their hardships only served to harden their hostility toward him.

  The children had seen and heard about such things from the time they were born. When they saw their lord's troops, it was as if they were seeing themselves. It was in their blood, and nothing excited them more than the sight of men-at-arms.

  “Let’s go see!

  The boys headed toward the soldiers, breaking into a run, except for Ofuku and Hiyoshi, who were still glaring at one another. The weak-spirited Ofuku wanted to run with the others, but he was held by Hiyoshi's stare.

  "I'm sorry." Ofuku nervously approached Hiyoshi's side and put his hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, all right?"

  Hiyoshi flushed angrily and jerked away his shoulder, but seeing Ofuku on the brink tears, he softened. "It's just because you ganged up with the others and said bad things about me," he reproached him. "When they tease you, they always call you names, like : Chinese kid.' But have I ever made fun of you?"

  "No."

  "Even a Chinese kid, when he becomes a member of our gang, is one of us. That's what I always say, right?"

  "Yeah." Ofuku rubbed his eyes. Mud dissolved in his tears, making little splotches around his eyes.

  “Dummy! It's because you cry that they call you 'the Chinese kid.' Come on, let's go the warriors. If we don't hurry, they'll be gone." Taking Ofuku by the hand, Hiyoshi ran after the others.

  War-horses and banners loomed out of the dust. There were some twenty mounted samurai and two hundred foot soldiers. Trailing behind was a motley group of bearers: pike, spear, and bow carriers. Cutting across the Inaba Plain from the Atsuta Road, they began to climb the embankment of the Shonai River. The children outstripped the horses and scampered up the embankment. Eyes gleaming, Hiyoshi, Ofuku, Ni’o, and the other snotty-nosed kids picked roses and violets and other wildflowers and threw them in the air, all the time yelling at the top of their voices, "Hachiman! Hachiman!" invoking the god of war, and, "Victory for our valiant, glorious warriors!" Whether in the village or on the roads, the children were quick to yell this whenever they saw warriors.

  The general, the mounted samurai, and the common
soldiers dragging their feet were all silent, their strong faces set like masks. They did not warn the children about getting too close to the horses, nor did they favor them with so much as a grin. These troops seemed to be part of the army that had withdrawn from Mikawa, and it was clear that the battle had been bitterly fought. Both horses and men were exhausted. Blood-smeared wounded leaned heavily on the shoulders of their comrades. Dried blood glistene black as lacquer, on armor and spear shafts. Their sweaty faces were so caked with dust that only their eyes shone through.

  "Give the horses water," ordered an officer. The samurai on horseback passed the order along in loud voices. Another order went out to take a rest. The horsemen dismounted, and the foot soldiers stopped dead in their tracks. Breathing sighs of relief, they dropped wordlessly onto the grass.

  Across the river, Kiyosu Castle looked tiny. One of the samurai was Oda Nobuhide’s younger brother, Yosaburo. He sat on a stool, gazing up at the sky, surrounded by half a dozen silent retainers.

  Men bound up arm and leg wounds. From the pallor of their faces it was clear they had suffered a great defeat. This did not matter to the children. When they saw blood, they themselves became heroes bathed in blood; when they saw the glitter of spears and pikes, they were convinced that the enemy had been annihilated, and they were filled with pride and excitement.

  "Hachiman! Hachiman! Victory!"

  When the horses had drunk their fill of water, the children threw flowers at them, too, cheering them on.

  A samurai standing beside his horse spotted Hiyoshi and called, "Yaemon's son! How is your mother?"

  "Who, me?"

  Hiyoshi walked up to the man and looked straight up at him with his grimy face. With a nod, the man put his hand on Hiyoshi's sweaty head. The samurai was no more than twenty years old. Thinking this man had just come from battle, and feeling weight of the hand in its chain-mail gauntlet on his head, Hiyoshi was overwhelmed by a feeling of glory.

  Does my family really know such a samurai? he wondered. His friends, who lined up nearby, watching him, could see how proud he was.

  "You're Hiyoshi, aren't you?"

  "Yes."

  "A good name. Yes, a good name."

  The young samurai gave Hiyoshi's head a final pat, then struck the waistband of his leather armor and straightened up a bit, studying Hiyoshi's face all the while. Something lade him laugh.

  Hiyoshi was quick to make friends, even with adults. To have his head touched by a stranger—and a warrior at that—made his big eyes shine with pride. He quickly became his usual talkative self.

  "But you know, nobody calls me Hiyoshi. The only ones who do are my mother and father."

  "Because of what you look like, I suppose."

  "A monkey?"

  "Well, it's good that you know it."

  "That's what everyone calls me."

  "Ha, ha!" The samurai had a loud voice and a laugh to match. The other men joined the laughter, while Hiyoshi, trying to look bored, took a millet stalk from his jacket and began chewing on it. The grassy-smelling juice in the stalk tasted sweet.

  He carelessly spat out the chewed-up stalk.

  "How old are you?"

  "Six."

  "Is that so?"

  "Sir, where are you from?"

  "I know your mother well."

  "Huh?"

  "Your mother's younger sister often comes to my house. When you go home, give my regards to your mother. Tell her Kato Danjo wishes her good health."

  When the rest break was over, the soldiers and horses got back in line and crossed the shallows of the Shonai River. With a backward glance, Danjo quickly mounted his horse. Wearing his sword and armor, he radiated an air of nobility and power.

  "Tell her that when the fighting's over, I'll be stopping by Yaemon's." Danjo gave a yell, spurred his horse, and entered the river's shallows to catch up with the line. White water lapped at his horse's legs.

  Hiyoshi, remnants of the millet juice still in his mouth, gazed after him as if in a trance.

  * * *

  Every trip she made to the storage shed left Hiyoshi's mother sorely depressed. She went there to fetch pickles, grain, or firewood, and was always reminded that supplies often ran out. Thinking of the future brought a lump to her throat. There were only the children, Hiyoshi, six, and his nine-year-old sister, Otsumi—neither, of course, old enough to do any real work. Her husband, wounded in battle, was capable of nothing but sitting by the hearth and staring into the space beneath the hanging teakettle, even in summer when there was no fire.

  Those things… I'd feel better if they were burned, she thought.

  Leaning against a wall of the shed was a spear with a black oak shaft, above which hung a foot-soldier's helmet and what seemed to be part of an old suit of armor. In the days when her husband had gone off to battle, this equipment had been the best he had. It was now covered with soot and, like her husband, useless. Every time she looked at she felt nothing but disgust. The thought of war made her shudder.

  No matter what my husband says, Hiyoshi is not going to become a samurai, she resolved.

  At the time of her marriage to Kinoshita Yaemon, she had thought it best to pick samurai for a husband. The house in Gokiso where she was born, while small, was that of a samurai family, and although Yaemon was just a foot soldier, he was a retainer of Oda Nobuhide. When they had become husband and wife, vowing that "in the future, we’ll earn a thousand bushels of rice," the armor had been a symbol of their hopes and had taken precedence over the household goods she had wanted. There was no denying that it brought back happy memories of their marriage. But the contrast between their youthful dreams and the present was not worth a moment's thought. It was a curse eating away at her heart. Her husband had been crippled before he could distinguish himself in battle. Because he was no more than a foot soldier, he had been forced to leave his lord's service. Making a living had been difficult in the first six months, and he had ended up becoming a farmer. Now he was not even capable of that.

  Help had come from a woman's hand. Taking the two children with her, Yaemon’s wife had picked mulberry leaves, plowed fields, threshed millet, and warded off poverty all these years. But what of the future? Wondering if the strength of her slender arms would hold out, her heart felt as cold and gloomy as the storage shed. Finally she put the food for the evening meal—millet, a few strips of dried radish—into a bamboo basket and left the storage shed. She was not yet thirty years old, but Hiyoshi's birth had not been an easy one, and ever since, her skin had been the pale color of an unripe peach.

  "Mother." It was Hiyoshi's voice. He came around the side of the house, looking for her. His mother laughed softly. She had one bright hope: to bring up Hiyoshi and make him the kind of son and heir who would grow up quickly and be able to present her husband with at least a bit of sake every day. The thought made her feel better.

  "Hiyoshi, I'm over here."

  Hiyoshi ran toward his mother's voice, then took hold of the arm that held the basket.

  "Today, at the riverbank, I met someone who knows you."

  "Who?"

  "A samurai! Kato something. He said he knew you, and he sent you his regards. He patted my head and asked me questions!"

  "Well, that must be Kato Danjo."

  "He was with a big group of warriors just coming back from a battle. He was riding a good horse, too! Who is he?"

  "Well, Danjo lives near the Komyoji Temple."

  "Yes?"

  "He is engaged to my little sister."

  "Engaged?"

  'My, you're persistent!"

  'But I don't understand."

  'They're going to be married."

  "What? You mean he's going to be my mother's little sister's husband?" Hiyoshi seemed satisfied, and laughed.

  His mother, when she looked at his toothy, impudent grin, even though he was her own child, could only think of him as a precocious little brat.

  “Mother, there's a sword about this big in the
storage shed, isn't there?"

  “There is. What do you want with it?"

  “Won't you let me have it? It's all beat up, and Father doesn't use it anymore."

  “Playing war games again?"

  “It's all right, isn't it?"

  “Absolutely not!"

  “Why not?"

  “What's going to happen if a farmer's son gets used to wearing a sword?"

  “Well, one day I'm going to be a samurai." He stamped his foot like a spoiled child, thinking the matter closed. His mother glared at him, and her eyes filled with tears.

  “Fool!" she scolded him, and, clumsily wiping away her tears, she pulled him along by the hand. "Just for a bit, try to be a help to your sister and draw some water." Dragging him along by force, she went back to the house.

  “No! No!" Hiyoshi fought her, yelling and digging his heels into the dirt. "No! I hate you! You're stupid! No!"

  His mother pulled him along, imposing her will. Just then the sound of a cough, mixed with smoke from the hearth, came through the bamboo-screened window. When he heard his father's voice, Hiyoshi's shoulders shrank and he became silent. Yaemon was only about forty, but, condemned to spend his days as a cripple, he had the raspy, coughing voice of a man past fifty.

  “I’ll tell your father you're giving me too much trouble," his mother said, loosening her grip. He covered his face with his hands and wiped his eyes as he cried softly.

  Looking at this little boy who was too hard to handle, his mother wondered what was to become of him?

  Onaka! Why are you shouting at Hiyoshi again? It's unbecoming. What business do you have fighting with your own child and crying like that?" asked Yaemon through the window, in the shrill voice of a sick man.

  “You should scold him then," Onaka said reproachfully.

  Yaemon laughed. "Why? Because he wants to play with my old sword?"

  “Yes."

  “He was just playing."

  “Yes, and he shouldn't be doing that."

  “He's a boy, and my son, too. Is it really so bad? Give him the sword!"