Chapter 8
Isamu ordered that all of the members of his exploration party, as well as the newly arrived colonists, assemble in front of Welcome House. Captain Fukuzawa came, too, although Isamu had no clear authority over him. And he would be reporting to the shogun’s agents, and perhaps also to the grand governor of New Nippon, on how Isamu conducted himself.
He looked around to make sure that Yells-at-Bears was present. Yes, there she was, wearing a pink rose in her hair. It was a flower that had just come into bloom this month. Isamu himself was now freshly groomed. He had even oiled his queue.
“Welcome to Texada Island. Some of you are followers of the kamis and buddhas.” He gestured toward Tanaka, the priest of Kanayago-kami, and the ironworkers seated near him. Tanaka was a little shorter and stockier than Haru, but probably of similar age. He was wearing the everyday vestments of a Shinto priest: a tall, black eboshi hat, and a white karaginu robe.
“And others of you are kirishitan, who have come here to worship your Deusu in peace.” He motioned toward the other new arrivals.
“All must obey the following Black Seal Edict, given under the hand of the shogun of Nippon, Tokugawa Iemitsu, court noble of the upper first rank:
“One. It shall be unlawful for barbarians, or people from outside provinces, to enter or exit New Nippon to trade with the Indians without the consent of the grand governor of New Nippon, or the shogun.
“Two. Within the province of New Nippon, freedom of worship is permitted, provided that it does not disturb public harmony.
“Three. It shall be unlawful for residents of New Nippon who are of the Christian faith to return to their former provinces without the consent of the shogun or his duly appointed representatives.
“Four. It is strictly prohibited to inflict injustices or crimes upon the Indians of New Nippon.”
Isamu paused for effect. “This edict will be rigorously enforced. I call to your attention that freedom of worship is not merely that you may worship freely, it is also that you must not interfere with the freedom of another. Any attempt by kirishitan to convert a Shintoist or Buddhist to Christianity will be considered interference, unless you have received prior permission from me. But likewise, I will punish any attempt by a Shintoist or Buddhist to persecute a kirishitan on account of religion.” He fingered his hilt of his wakizashi.
“Now, on to lighter matters. My companions and I have been here since August 1634, exploring the island and preparing for your arrival. I will introduce them to you, so if you have questions, you will know who to ask.”
He named each of them, but it was only when Yells-at-Bears was introduced, as the native translator and expert on native fishing and foraging methods, that there was an audible stir in the audience. For most of the newcomers, it was their first sight of a Pacific Northwest Indian. Albeit one whose wardrobe had been influenced by her Japanese colleagues. She had even been persuaded to wear a kimono, purchased from one of the female colonists, for this occasion.
“I know that the Welcome House behind me is not ideal, but it is the best that we could do, given our numbers, and not knowing when or even if you would come, and how many of you there would be. But it will give you a place to lay your head until you can construct something better here.”
The Shinto and Buddhist ironworkers, and the kirishitan miners, fishermen, farmers and artisans, disagreed sharply on matters of religion, but they did agree on at least one thing: they didn’t find “Welcome House” particularly welcoming. The problem wasn’t the overall design, but rather the detailed execution. Come winter, when (as one of the sailors from the exploration party told them) there would be heavy rain and strong winds, they would be shivering inside, with rain dripping from the leaky roof. At least until the whole thing blew down.
In fact, the sailor added, Yells-at-Bears had made scathing remarks about using sapling posts and beams where her people would insist on tree trunks nearly as thick as the Ieyasu Maru’s mainmast.
Soon after the Iemitsu Maru’s arrival, Isamu received petitions from the various colonist factions with regard to the location of the permanent settlement. The fishermen of course wanted the settlement to be near Sandy Bottom Bay, and the miners had an equally strong urge for proximity to the iron ore quarries, presently as much as three to four miles from the bay. The farmers wanted to see what arable land Texada had to offer before taking a position. Isamu’s fear was that the Japanese would end up divided into three widely separated villages, which would be a nightmare to defend.
So, a few days after the Iemitsu Maru arrived, Isamu took the leaders of the kirishitan farmers to see the land he thought they could farm. Isamu made an expansive gesture. “This is Marsh Berry Lake. We thought that perhaps the shore could be used to grow rice. There is no lack of fresh water, yes?”
Hidezo, the headman of the farmers, nodded politely.
“And now, if you follow me, I’ll show you Rattling Bird Lake. . . .” said Isamu as he walked northward. As he did so, he thought, Marsh Berry Lake is only a mile from Quarry Two, and Rattling Bird is perhaps a little closer. If I can get the farmers to accept these fields, then I can at least put the farmers and the miners in the same village. . . .
Wataru, another farmer, tapped Hidezo on the shoulder, and cupping his hand so Isamu couldn’t hear what he said, complained to Hidezo. “Why does this samurai think he knows where rice can be grown? It’s too cold here.”
“I know,” said Hidezo. “And we have been here a week, and it still hasn’t rained. That native woman, Yells-at-Bears, says that this is the dry season. Whoever heard of a dry summer?”
“It is contrary to the natural order,” Wataru agreed. “But so is a farmer convincing a samurai that he is wrong about anything.”
“I know. If we tell him the truth, he may cut us down on the spot. And if we don’t, then we will labor for months and have nothing to show for it. That’s why I am glad you’re the headman.”
The two farmers politely followed the oblivious Isamu to Rattling Bird Lake and listened to him extol its virtues. At last, he asked, “So, how many koku of rice do you think we can produce?” The koku was the amount of rice needed to feed a man for a year.
Hidezo gave Wataru a beseeching look. Wataru surreptitiously made the sign of the cross.
Hidezo bowed. “Most esteemed samurai, even back home, production varies greatly from year to year, and from plot to plot. Here, in a land whose soil and climate are unknown to us, only Deusu knows.”
“But as an experienced farmer, you must have some idea of how much rice we can grow here, neh?”
Hidezo bowed again, even more deeply. “Tell me, where are you from?”
“From Sendai,” said Isamu.
“And how does the weather here compare to that of Sendai?”
Isamu shrugged. “It is a bit cooler and drier.”
“Well, we are from the southern end of Honshu. To us, it is as cold as Honshu would have been two months ago. Rice needs four months of warm weather to grow, and . . . and I don’t think that on this island it will be warm enough, long enough. So sorry. . . .”
Isamu’s first reaction was one of shock.
Wataru, belatedly feeling an obligation to support Hidezo, added, “I agree. And it may also be too dry. Rice is the thirstiest of crops. We can compensate somewhat by irrigation, of course, but I don’t know whether it will be enough.”
Isamu could feel his face turning red with embarrassment. He had bragged to Masaru about the significance of discovering the lakes. We will have no trouble growing our own rice, he had said. Now he would be eating his words, not rice.
The farmers, seeing his face, took several steps back, their faces now fearful. Isamu fought to control his anger. Commander Hosoya had told Isamu, when you are a commander, you must not blame the messenger for bringing bad news, lest no one give you the news until it is too late to salvage the situation.
Still, it would feel so good to break something right now. . . .
At last, he said, “I will ask Captain Fukuzawa to carry a message back to Sendai. They can ask the Matsumae clan whether they have any varieties of rice that will grow on Ezochi. I have heard that it has cool summers.” Ezochi was the large island shown as Hokkaido on the up-time maps, and the Matsumae outpost at Hakodate in southern Hokkaido was about three hundred miles north of Sendai. “If so, they can send us Ezochi rice seeds.”
The farmers praised his wisdom, and didn’t point out the obvious problem that it probably would be two years or more before that “Ezochi cold-hardy rice” was delivered to Texada—assuming it even existed.
Isamu sighed. “So what can we grow here?”
The farmers exchanged glances.
“It would perhaps be better for us to explore more of the island before giving an opinion,” said Hidezo.
“But what is wrong with this place for wheat, or barley?” prodded Isamu.
“For wheat or barley, it is too wet,” said Wataru.
“But we are happy to look for some place better,” Hidezo added hurriedly.
“Fine. I will hold you to that.”
“It is all very troubling,” Isamu told Yells-at-Bears. While Captain Yamada Haruno and Samurai Commander Hosoya Yoritaki of the Ieyasu Maru may have wanted Isamu’s scouting party to make great piles of ore during the fall, most of their efforts had to go to accumulating enough food to last them through the winter. And in the winter, mining was limited by the frequent downpours.
The arrival of the Iemitsu Maru had led him to hope that they would at last have enough food-gatherers to have a surplus with which to feed the miners, so the latter could devote full-time to mining. But now there were not only the miners, but also the ironworkers to feed. And if the farmers he had been sent couldn’t farm . . . well, you can’t eat iron ore!
Yells-at-Bears couldn’t make any suggestions as to where to put the farms, because she had only limited acquaintance with agriculture. Her people weeded beds of camas—a root vegetable that looked like an onion but tasted like a pumpkin—and sowed camas seeds directly into the soil as they harvested the bulbs, but they did not transplant camas seeds from one field to another.
Still, she understood that whatever the plant the Japanese were trying to grow, it was very particular about where it would grow—just like camas, which grew only in meadows with scattered Garry oak trees. And she also understood that Isamu needed her support.
She hugged him and said, “I am sure you will find a solution.”
The next day, Isamu and Yells-at-Bears took the farmers on a tour of the area around Sandy Bottom Bay. At last they came to the top of the ridge defining the eastern shore of the bay. While it was stonier and not as level as they would have liked, they held out some hope. Perhaps, they said, one could grow wheat here. Or soybeans. Or, some of the cold-hardy vegetables, like potatoes.
“Isn’t that just horse-fodder?” asked Isamu. Potatoes had been introduced to Japan around 1600, as an ornamental plant, but the Japanese were quick to discover a practical use for them.
Wataru shrugged. “If there is no rice, we eat barley and wheat. If they are not available, we eat buckwheat and millet. Potatoes are at least as good as millet.”
“So, you will farm this land?”
“We are willing to try,” said Hidezo. “In fact, we should plant soybeans right away. But we need to find fresh water nearby. It would be arduous to carry it from the lake.”
“What about the bay water?”
“The salt would kill the crops.”
The farmers’ first suggestion was to get it from Marsh Berry Creek. However, that was the lowest, least defensible part of the ridge. Yells-at-Bears proposed that they explore the area east of Sandy Bottom Bay, looking for mountain streams, lakes and springs. About three-quarters of the way from the head of Sandy Bottom Bay to Sentinel Island, and about two thousand feet from the shoreline, they found a series of springs, in a north-south line.
“These will do for now,” said Hidezo. “And when the heavy rains came in the fall and winter, we can collect the rainwater in wells or cisterns for future use.”
What Isamu liked about this location wasn’t the soil, but its position perhaps two hundred feet above the sea. The initial slope upward was perhaps forty-five degrees up to an altitude of perhaps a hundred feet. If the farming village were established here, at the top of the ridge, it would be difficult to attack it from the pebbly beach directly below it. Rather, the canoes would probably be beached at the head of the bay, and then the raiders would have to turn onto the ridge and follow it to the proposed farming village site, a distance of nearly two miles. That would give the Japanese time to spot them coming, sound the alarm, and assemble the militia. Once Isamu and his fellow samurai trained the farmers as militiamen, that is. At least the two colony ships had brought more arquebuses, shot and powder. And also some small cannon: swivel guns and three-pounders.
“All right,” said Isamu. Just as he made this decision, he heard the “yewk yewk” of an osprey as it passed overhead. It winged over the bay, hovered for a moment, then plunged down into the water. It emerged triumphantly, a fish in its mouth . . . for just an instant, as it gave it a slight toss and swallowed it.
Isamu decided it was a good omen. “We will call this Sea Hawk Village.”
The next morning, Isamu sent Saichi to explore the area near Sea Hawk Village. It would be ideal, Isamu told Yells-at-Bears, if iron ore could be found there; the village could then be the base for the miners, too.
Unfortunately, as a visibly tired Saichi reported that evening, the rocks in the vicinity of the planned Sea Hawk Village were quite different from those of the mining district west of Marsh Berry Lake, and he had found no sign of iron ore, or any other mineral of interest.
“So,” Isamu complained to Haru, Masaru and Yells-at-Bears, “instead of having one village, easy to defend, it looks like we will have three: Sea Hawk Village by the springs; a fishing village at the head of the bay; and a mining and ironworking village by the present quarries. That’s exactly what I was afraid would happen. I cannot be in three places at one time!”
“Nor should you be,” said Haru. “I recommend that I take charge of the miners, as I already have a rapport with the ironworkers, Masaru take residence at Sea Hawk Village, and you watch over the fishermen, who I assume will be living just above the beach at the head of Sandy Bottom Bay. That is the least defensible of the three locations, and also the most central. The most dangerous command should go to you as the supreme commander.”
Isamu frowned. Haru’s proposal was logical, but there was perhaps a hidden barb: the purpose of establishing the colony in the first place was to exploit its iron ore, which meant that whoever was in charge of the miners and ironworkers would probably get most of the credit for the success of the colony. Isamu didn’t think Haru was doing this deliberately—after all, last August, Haru hadn’t volunteered to stay on Texada—but Isamu feared that would be the result.
“Yes, I’ll send Masaru to Sea Hawk Village.” Let him deal with the farmers’ whining. “But just as you have a rapport with the ironworkers, I do with the miners. We have lived together for almost a year, neh? And you have barely spent any time on Texada. So I think you should introduce me to your ironworkers, and take charge of the fishermen for now. You will need to find a fishing village site close to Sandy Bottom Bay, but with freshwater access and defensible. I will assign Fudenojo, who leads my sailors, as your second-in-command; he is familiar with Sandy Bottom Bay. Who is the headman of the fishing households you brought here?”
“Fukuhei.”
“Bring Fukuhei with you when you scout out the possible sites. Otherwise, they are sure to complain about not being consulted.”
He raised his voice. “Fudenojo!”
“Yes, sir!”
“Go with Haru here to see Fukuhei. You have some planning to do.”
Haru told Fukuhei that the next day they would be scouting for a fishing village site. He in turn questioned Fudenojo about the types of fish that the exploration party had seen in Sandy Bottom Bay. But Fudenojo had to confess that most of their fishing had been for trout, in Rattling Bird and Marsh Berry Lakes, or for salmon in streams. In Sandy Bottom Bay, they mostly dug for clams.
“So, no one here knows what kind of fish you catch in Sandy Bottom Bay?”
“Well . . . perhaps . . . Yells-at-Bears. . . . But I am not sure that Isamu will be agreeable to her accompanying us.”
“Why not?” asked Haru.
“Umm . . .” Fudenojo fidgeted.
“Let me guess,” said Haru. “She is more than his interpreter. . . .”
“They indeed have a special relationship,” Fudenojo admitted. “But Masaru gives Isamu a hard time about it.”
“I’ll talk to Isamu. We want to talk to her about fish, not cuckoo birds singing amidst the purple irises during the fifth month.” Haru was alluding to a famous tenth-century love poem.
Haru and Fudenojo returned to Camp Double Six and persuaded Isamu to spare Yells-at-Bears for the next day. Part of the reason for their success was that Yells-at-Bears was enthusiastic, and nudged Isamu to give permission. She was curious about how the Japanese fishing methods differed from those of her people, and the sailors from the exploration party were not expert fishermen.
The next day, Haru, Fudenojo, Fukuhei and Yells-at-Bears walked to Sandy Bottom Bay. As they walked, Fukuhei talked about line fishing, gill nets, beach seines, boat seines, and encircling nets. Yells-at-Bears in turn told him how her people caught salmon by trolling or with a gaff hook, herring with a gill net or herring rake, and rockfish by jigging.
“What about sardines?” asked Fukuhei. Yells-at-Bears didn’t know what that was at first, but Fukuhei described the fish and its habits, and at last she understood.
“Sardines are found further south, but probably not here,” she told him. “So sorry.”
When they reached the beach, Fukuhei pronounced himself pleased. At low tide, it was evident that the bay had a sandy, gently sloping bottom, at least for at least a mile out from the high tide line. That was perfect for beach seining, in which two net boats, or a single net boat working with a shore crew, dragged the seine onto the beach. They could be used to catch any kind of fish that schooled at shallow depths close to land.
The same conditions did make launching boats awkward, at least at low tide, because they would have to be carried to the water line. But if need be, a few boats could be kept on the narrow beach margins closer to the mouth of the bay.
Fukuhei wasn’t the only fisherman on the beach this morning. Several oystercatchers, with black feathers and red beaks, were patrolling the water’s edge for clams, oysters and snails. There was a great blue heron there, too, but it was standing statue-like. After a few minutes, it stabbed the water with its bill, and pulled a hapless fish up into the air, swallowing it an instant later.
“So, now we need to find fresh water,” said Fukuhei.
“You know, the fishermen could live in Sea Hawk Village,” said Haru, pointing in the direction of the site. Farmers, carpenters and sailors were already up there, working together to put up homes. “It’s easier to protect one large village than two small ones, and there’s going to be a spring inside the walls, so you can’t be cut off from fresh water.”
“No, it will be too far from the beach,” said Fukuhei. “Being there would reduce our productivity.”
“Let me take you to fresh water,” said Fudenojo. He led the party to the mouth of Marsh Berry Creek.
“Yells-at-Bears, what do you think?” asked Haru.
“You would be very vulnerable to raiders here. They beach their canoes, and then charge the village. You are visible from the bay, and you have no height advantage.”
“I agree,” said Haru.
“When we explored Marsh Berry Creek, there was a tributary close to the mouth, coming from the east. Perhaps we should explore it,” suggested Fudenojo.
They did so. Its confluence with Marsh Berry Creek was a couple of hundred feet from the high tide line, and they found that it ran parallel with the head of the bay for quite a distance. Farther upstream, they encountered a beaver dam.
“Did the Indians build this?” asked Fukuhei.
Yells-at-Bears laughed. “Oh, no, this is dam made by—” The word she used, of course, was the one in her native language, Halkomelem. It sounded like “sklow.” She screwed up her face. “I don’t know how to say it in Japanese. But it is an animal with big buck teeth and a flat tail. It can grow to be about this big”—she held her hands about four feet apart. “It can weigh almost as much as I do.”
This excited some discussion, as beavers were not native, at least as far as they knew, to Honshu, the largest island of the Japanese archipelago. But Haru decided that beavers should be called “buck teeth,” and the stream christened “Bucktooth Dam Creek.”
They continued upstream, and found a place where a stream came down from the mountain to the north and flowed into Bucktooth Dam Creek. Here there was a profusion of ferns, with four-foot fronds, so they called this tributary, “Big Fern Run.” Just beyond Big Fern Run, there was a jog in Bucktooth Dam Creek, the result of which was that there was a stretch of wood surrounded on three sides by water. At this point they were about three tenths of a mile, as the crow flies, from the high tide mark.
“This is good,” said Haru. “We can put the village right here, where you will have fresh water, and the streams give a bit of protection on three sides—although I wish that they were wider and deeper! And while it is a little farther from the bay, I like it that the woods hide the village from the view of raiding canoes in the bay.”
Fukuhei hesitated.
“This is probably a salmon run, too,” said Yells-at-Bears. “So in spawning season, you can catch fish right on your doorstep. For that matter, the beaver dam we passed will slow down the salmon heading upstream, make it easier to spear them.”
“I suppose it is doable,” conceded Fukuhei. “But we would need boat sheds on the beach, so raiders would know that there is someone living nearby anyway.”
“I don’t think that’s a problem,” said Fudenojo. “There will be a trail leading to Sea Hawk Village, and the raiders will assume that the boats are theirs.”
“Well . . .” said Fukuhei.
“Don’t forget that Isamu-san wanted to put you by Welcome House. That would be a longer walk to the bay than even Sea Hawk Village, let alone this place.” Sea Hawk Village was a little over a mile from the mouth of Marsh Berry Creek.
Fukuhei sighed. “Very well. We can also build a hut or two just above the high tide line. The fishermen can use them and perhaps a raider will think that the huts are the village and not look further.”
They didn’t return to Camp Double Six until twilight and, as they neared the camp, they caught a fleeting glimpse of a deer.
“You have deer roaming around this close to camp?” asked Haru.
“We do,” said Yells-at-Bears. She pouted. “Masaru hunts them, since he’s a Christian, but Isamu insists that he do so well away from camp.”
Save for the miners, and Masaru, all of the Japanese in the exploration party were Buddhists. As Isamu had told Yells-at-Bears, their sects only permitted the eating of deer, and for that matter of rabbit and wild boar, on special days, or when sick. Those who were ill could eat animal flesh in small quantities if prescribed by a physician.
“Well, now that we have all these kirishitan on Texada, perhaps Isamu should permit deer hunting for their benefit. While we can put fish on the table tomorrow, getting an edible crop is going to take a while,” said Haru. “And if the kirishitan eat deer meat, there will be that much more fish and berries for the Buddhists.”
“For that matter,” said Fukuhei, “I think the iron workers you brought from Chugoku will not be averse to eating deer, even though they follow the way of the kami. Have you met their leader, Tetsue?”
“I have,” said Yells-at-Bears. “You know, he was the first Nihonjin I met who had grey hair! He must be older than even Captain Haruno! Tetsue has a nice moustache, too. But he squints a lot.”
“As a murage, he has to keep looking through a peephole in the tatara to make sure the fire is at the right temperature. His eyesight has probably deteriorated.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” said Yells-at-Bears. “But at least that won’t interfere with his enjoyment of deer meat.”
Haru told Yells-at-Bears that in the mountainous interior of Japan, where fish and grain were less available, people ate the flesh of wild animals throughout the year, albeit somewhat surreptitiously. They called rabbits “birds,” explaining that their long ears were really wings. And wild boar meat was occasionally sold as “mountain whale.”
“I, for one, think deer meat is very tasty,” said Yells-at-Bears. “During the years I was kept as a slave, I hardly ever got to eat it.” She paused. “If you bring me deer meat, I will tell Isamu that it is ‘mountain seal.’”
The next day Yells-at-Bears met Haru for a deer hunting lesson. “I know your archery skills are far superior to mine,” she said. “The first time I was allowed to shoot a bow was here on Texada. But there’s more to deer hunting than taking the shot. I know because I listened when the boys were taught.”
She made a face. “Masaru did not wish to hear my advice. But I can make you a better deer hunter than him. Even if he is the superior archer.
“Every male Indian is expected to be able to hunt deer. But he is not allowed to eat his first three kills, lest he grow up to be a greedy person.
“And the first thing he would be taught is how to make a proper deer call.” She showed Haru how to make several different kinds. One was just a blade of grass; she held it lengthwise between her two thumbs as she formed a double fist with the thumbs in her mouth, and blew over it into cavity formed by the palms and other fingers.
Another was a strip of bark held between two pieces of wood. “Be careful using this if you go hunting on the mainland,” she warned.
“Why?”
“It makes the sound of a fawn. Instead of attracting a doe, you might draw the attention of a bear or a cougar. They like deer meat as much as I do.”
Haru went hunting, and took down a small buck. He boned out the meat, cut several saplings and some vines to make a travois, and dragged it home.
Most of the meat was divided in small portions among some of the kirishitan, as a treat after being on sea rations for so long, but the biggest cut he gave to Yells-at-Bears in thanks for her advice: “‘Mountain seal,’ as promised.”