Chapter 1
Sandy Bottom Bay, Texada Island
October 1634
Crabs scurried out of the way of the two samurai as they and their companions walked along the beach of Sandy Bottom Bay, the large bay near the middle of the southwest coast of Texada Island. They all wore straw raincoats and conical straw hats, as it had rained every day for the past week and the sky had been overcast when they left camp.
They now stood about two miles south and east of the head of the bay. “I should scout ahead,” said Deguchi Masaru. He was ready for trouble, armed not only with the two swords that marked him as a samurai, but also with a half-bow that he held in one hand. There was a bamboo quiver on his back. His face was pockmarked, the relic of a childhood bout with smallpox.
Oyamada Isamu, the leader of the Japanese exploration party on Texada Island, motioned for him to proceed. Like Masaru, he bore the “big” and the “little”; the lacquered wooden scabbard of his katana pointed diagonally down and back, and that of the smaller wakizashi was almost horizontal. He had a white scar on the back of his katana hand.
As he watched Masaru walk south along the east side of the bay, the sand crunching under Masaru’s feet despite his attempt at stealth, Isamu thought about the strange circumstances that had put him here, on an island in the Strait of Georgia between Vancouver Island and the Canadian mainland.
More than a year ago, the shogun had learned from up-time books given to him by the Dutch that in the far future Japan would be humiliated twice over by invaders from America. And he had also learned that the Japanese Christians, the kirishitan, of the Shimabara peninsula would rebel against the ban on Christianity in the very near future, 1637. He was persuaded that all of them should be sent into exile across the Pacific, to colonize California and there act as a buffer against European expansion. And the First Fleet, carrying the first group of kirishitan into exile, should have arrived at Monterey Bay by now. They were placed under the authority of Date Masamune, the powerful daimyo who the shogun had appointed grand governor of New Nippon.
Before the First Fleet lifted anchor, Date Masamune had sent an exploration vessel, the Ieyasu Maru, across the Pacific, and two months earlier, it had come to Texada Island. The Date clan had learned from up-time sources that the island had iron deposits. And when a large, telltale red stain was seen upon a hillside near Sandy Bottom Bay, Iwakashu, their mining engineer, insisted that they let him take a boat ashore.
Iwakashu had confirmed that there was iron ore on that hillside. Indeed, some of it was lying loose for the taking, and Iwakashu had brought back samples. The Ieyasu Maru had sailed for Monterey Bay, to report this discovery, with the firm expectation that the grand governor would send word home to dispatch new colony ships to Texada.
Isamu’s party—sailors, miners, and interpreters—had been left behind, to begin mining, and to explore the island so that they could guide the expected colonists.
The Japanese expedition’s present goal was to locate potential farmland near Sandy Bottom Bay, where the colonists were expected to land. Unfortunately, none of the expedition members were farmers, and so the best they could do, Isamu had decided, was to locate reasonably flat, vegetated land that was neither soggy wet nor bone dry.
Masaru returned with an alarming report. “There’s an Indian village up ahead.”
Isamu knew what that meant. First, they could not survey the Sandy Bottom Bay area on the colonists’ behalf without revealing themselves to the Indians. And second, conflicts between the colonists and the natives were likely to occur soon after the colony was founded.
“So close to Sandy Bottom Bay! Why didn’t the lookouts on the Ieyasu Maru see it?”
“Because the village was burnt down.”
That was good news, up to a point; it meant that the villagers themselves would not be an issue. But it also raised several questions.
“What I want to know,” said Isamu, “is why did the village burn down? Did a fire get out of control? Or was one set by an attacking tribe? Yells-at-Bears, what do you think?”
Yells-at-Bears was an Indian, of the Snuneymuxw of eastern Vancouver Island, near the up-time map’s Nanaimo. She had been taken from her village by raiders, and then sold by her captors to another tribe, who sold her in turn to the Gwat’sinux on the western coast. They had kept her as a slave until four months ago, when Tokubei, the first mate of the Ieyasu Maru, had purchased her from the Gwat’sinux, and brought her into Japanese service.
When the Japanese had first met her, she had worn a fringed skirt of shredded cedar bark and had been naked from the waist up. She still wore the skirt, but had covered her upper body with an indigo blue-dyed quilted cotton jacket of the sort that some of the Japanese sailors favored. Her feet were bare, but she had tied deer sinews around her ankles.
Her black hair, parted in the center, grazed the top of her shoulders. It contrasted sharply with the Japanese men’s coiffure; their foreheads were shaved, and the hair on top and back gathered into an oiled queue that curled forward, like the figurehead of a ship.
“Ever since Beaver stole fire,” said Yells-at-Bears, “we have used it for many things. Not just for cooking at camp. Near my old home, there was an island covered with a camas prairie. We would come to the island each summer, after the camas had flowered, and the men would fish and we women would dig for camas bulbs. When we were done, we would burn off the island. That way, the camas crop would be good the next year.
“Here, there is much forest. We would set fires to clear undergrowth from the forest to make it easier for hunters to pursue game. It is possible that such a fire, mishandled, accidentally burnt this village.”
This speech was only partially in Japanese. While Yells-at-Bears had come aboard the Ieyasu Maru in June, and had been learning Japanese both from lessons and by osmosis ever since, she was also making explanations in Kwak’wala, the language of her former captors. And this in turn was being translated by Dembei.
Dembei had been one of several Japanese castaways whose rudderless and dismasted junk had been carried by the North Pacific Gyre to the northwest coast of Vancouver Island about a decade earlier, where they had been enslaved by the Nakomgilasala. They had been freed by the Ieyasu Maru, and two—Dembei and Jusuke—had been assigned to Isamu’s exploration party. Denbei’s face was wide, and Jusuke’s, narrow, but they were cousins.
“And do you use fire in warfare?” asked Isamu.
“I am not a warrior, but I have heard my father speak about this,” said Yells-at-Bears. “It depends. Some raids are just to take slaves. But if there is much bad blood between the two sides, then you might burn the village so the band that lived there is broken up.”
“The lookouts would have seen smoke,” said Isamu, “if it were still burning when we came up the coast. Or while the Ieyasu Maru was anchored in Sandy Bottom Bay. So the fire, whatever its cause, must be from before our visit to Texada.”
“If you’re right,” said Masaru, “then even if the fire was the result of an attack, it was not likely the attackers lingered for more than a week afterward. If the attackers’ goal was to occupy, rather than destroy, they wouldn’t have burnt the village in the first place.”
“Are you sure that there are no unburnt buildings, Deguchi-san?” asked Yells-at-Bears.
“No, I am not. When I saw a row of buildings, I stopped and returned to warn the rest of you.” He sounded annoyed.
“As well you should have,” said Isamu in a placating tone. “Masaru and I will go forward. Dembei, Zensuke and Yells-at-Bears remain here. If we are not back in an hour, your mission is to return to camp and warn Fudenojo to avoid this area.” Fudenojo commanded the sailors left on Texada by the Ieyasu Maru.
“What if we hear fighting from your direction? Four warriors are better than two,” Zensuke protested. He was a sailor, and he and Dembei were armed with hatchets. Yells-at-Bears only carried a knife, and Zensuke obviously didn’t count her as a warrior.
Isamu pondered the suggestion only briefly. The situation appeared to call for stealth and skill, and Isamu had never seen Dembei or Zensuke in action. And if a fight went awry, Yells-at-Bear’s knowledge might be critical to the survival of the remaining Japanese.
“Masaru and I have guns, as well as bows, and chances are that even one gun will scare them away,” said Isamu. “If you hear fighting, leave.”
“Hai.”
That settled, Isamu motioned to Masaru, and they began walking, half-crouched, in the direction Masaru indicated. Isamu was not in fact as sanguine about the effect of a demonstration firing as he had led Zensuke to believe. From what Yells-at-Bears and Dembei had told him, the largest war canoes of the northwest coast of America could hold forty men, and even if some of those were merely slave rowers, the Indians would still overwhelm Isamu’s fivesome. Better for three to survive, he thought, than none.
San Miguel District, Manila, Philippines
October 1634
The Jesuit Father Pedro Blanco twisted and turned in his sleep.
In his dream, he saw a giant demon walking across Manila Bay, making great splashes with each step. Pedro was in the bell tower of a church, pulling on the rope, and trying to warn the city, but for some reason, the clappers weren’t working. The demon stomped on the Baluarte de San Diego, one of the bastions of the Intramuros, and—
Suddenly, he awoke to the realization that his host’s son, Juan Kimura, was shaking him. “What’s wrong?” Father Blanco asked groggily.
“My father needs to speak to you. Urgently.”
“Give me a moment.”
The basement hidey-hole that he had been living in the past seven months had no natural lighting, but Juan had brought down a lantern. It cast a harsh orange-red light on the bare walls of the hidey-hole. The latter did have one advantage, however: it was spacious, no doubt because it had been built to safeguard the entire Kimura family in a time of unrest.
Unfortunately, its ceiling was low enough that Father Blanco had to be cautious about standing up. But then, that had happened at some Spanish inns, too. Father Blanco was a giant even by Spanish, let alone Japanese, standards.
Father Blanco dressed hurriedly, wondering what could be the matter. He had been a missionary in Japan until 1614, when the shogun Tokugawa Ieyasu banned Christianity and ordered the expulsion of all European missionaries. He had returned to Manila and ministered to the Japanese Christians settled in the Dilao and San Miguel districts.
When a joint Dutch-Japanese task force captured Manila in March 1634, the Kimuras, a Japanese Christian family in San Miguel, had hidden him. Ironically, their hidey-hole was one constructed in case the Spanish launched a pogrom against the Japanese residents, as they had after the pagan Japanese living in Dilao revolted in 1606.
The Japanese had exiled or killed all of the Spanish residents of Manila that they had been able to find. They were particularly interested in finding government officials, soldiers and priests. The reward for turning in a priest like Father Blanco was substantial, but he had nonetheless been protected. Indeed, on several occasions, he had been shuttled to other Japanese Christian homes to hold secret services for the faithful.
That, too, was ironic. He had begged to be one of the priests who hid in Japan after the expulsion edict, but his superiors had denied the request. And yet he had ended up serving the Faith in post-invasion Manila in much the same way as he would have had he courted martyrdom by remaining in Japan.
“I am glad you are awake, Padre,” said his host, Francisco Kimura. “We need to move you out of the city.”
“What has changed?” asked Pedro bluntly.
“A servant betrayed one of the families who you held services for. They were arrested and held for questioning. It is only a matter of time before they reveal your presence in the area. Even if they can’t specifically identify us, the Japanese will cordon off the area and conduct house-by-house searches.”
“I understand. But I fear for what might happen to you.”
“I am of samurai status myself. The authorities will be reluctant to torture me or my family. So, as long as they do not find you here”—he shrugged—“I think we will survive.”
“I will leave at once then,” said Father Blanco, “and leave my fate to the Lord.”
“I’d rather give the Lord some assistance,” said Francisco drily. “If you are captured, you will certainly be tortured, and will likely reveal our role. I have planned for this eventuality and it won’t take long to finalize the arrangements to get you out of here safely. At least, more safely than if you try to make a run for it tonight, on your own.”
“As you think best,” said Father Blanco.
Francisco bit his lip. “One more thing. Your beard . . . it needs to be shaved off. I have a servant who has a deft hand with a razor.”
“My beard? Why?”
“You will need to pass as a Filipino fisherman,” said Francisco. “And how many of them have beards?”
Father Blanco sighed. “If I must.”
“Better to cut off your beard now, than have your head cut off later.”
Sandy Bottom Bay, Texada Island
Before long, as Masaru had warned, Isamu could see the burnt remains of a wooden structure through the trees. Isamu and Masaru exchanged hand signals; Masaru kneeled beside the trunk of a tree, and readied his bow. Isamu started crawling slowly toward the ruin.
Isamu found a place with good cover, took out his own bow, and signaled Masaru to come forward.
Now it was Masaru’s turn again to kneel, and Isamu’s to crawl. Isamu came at last to a point at which he had a much better view of the remains, while still enjoying, thanks to a barberry bush, some measure of concealment.
From this vantage point, he could see that the structure was the nearest of three, in a row paralleling the shore, all burnt down. The houses had been rectangular, each perhaps fifty feet long, and much shorter in width. Isamu noticed that the ruins were overgrown with vegetation. That helped explain why the Ieyasu Maru had not spotted the buildings. It also suggested that the fire had happened months ago, probably before the last rainy season.
He signaled Masaru to fetch the others.
Some minutes later, they made it to Isamu’s position. “Masaru-san? Dembei? Zensuke? Yells-at-Bears? Doesn’t this look long deserted to you?”
They all agreed with his assessment. With some trepidation—his armor had been left at camp—Isamu stood and walked alone into the more open area where the buildings had stood.
No arrows or spears came flying toward him.
He made the hand sign, “all join me!”
The deserted village was, he saw, just shy of the point that marked the southern extremity of Sandy Bottom Bay. Southwest of the point, there was a small island.
He directed Zensuke’s attention to this. Zensuke expressed regret that they did not have a small boat with them to go check out the island; their raft had been left hidden near the mouth of Marsh Berry Creek.
As for the village, Isamu could see the remnants of the corner posts, and some long charred fallen timbers. There appeared to have been a central hearth running lengthwise in each building. Yells-at-Bears confirmed this, and told him that the front door would have faced the shore.
She studied the ruins for a time, and then said, pointing in the opposite direction, “Isn’t that another building there?”
It was. In fact, they found two more rows of buildings. These were not burnt, but they were partially dismantled. All that was left of them was the framework: a row of tall posts in front, a row of shorter posts in back, and connecting beams.
“What are we looking at here?” asked Isamu.
“It is a house whose roof and wall planks have been removed. The roof would have sloped backward to carry away the rain.”
“Is that normal? Does that mean the villagers aren’t coming back?”
“Some families have both summer and winter homes. The winter homes are larger, because more families come together at that time. It is common to take the planks from summer house to winter house, and back again, leaving the frame behind. However . . . May I go closer?”
Isamu motioned her forward, and she walked onto the dirt floor of the house, and wandered around, her eyes cast downward.
“She looks like Saichi, hunting for iron ore,” said Dembei. Saichi was the chief miner of the exploration party. He was back at their base, Camp Double Six.
“She is prettier than Saichi,” said Zensuke.
“That isn’t much of a compliment,” Dembei retorted.
“Enough!” Isamu, accompanied by Dembei, walked over to join Yells-at-Bears. “Have you discovered anything?”
“It is what I haven’t found that is interesting,” she said. “I see no sign that this building was lived in over, say, the last year.”
“So what do you think happened here?”
“It is unclear. It is possible that raiders ransacked and burnt the homes nearest the shore, and then were driven off. And afterward, the villagers decided to leave this place.”
“It certainly has no natural defenses,” Isamu observed.
“They could have built a stockade,” said Dembei. “Some villages my former master took me to did. But perhaps the resources here didn’t warrant the trouble.”
Yells-at-Bears, via Dembei, aired some alternative theories. “There might have been an accidental fire, caused by a hearth fire let untended, or a lightning strike, and the inhabitants took it as a portent that they should move. Or the fire and the departure were unrelated; perhaps the game got wary or the fish swam away, so they left to find someplace better.”
“Let us continue to explore,” said Isamu, “and see if we can find anything useful that was left behind. Food, clothing, tools, even a boat if we’re lucky?”
“You might as well wish for a stash of sake, while you’re at it,” muttered Masaru.
They didn’t find anything that was movable, other than some slate arrowheads and a slate knife, but on the coast, at low tide, they found an intact fish weir. It was a set of hundreds of wooden stakes, arranged in the shape of a chevron, pointing away from shore. Yells-at-Bears explained that fish would enter the small gap at the base of the chevron, and be trapped in the wings when the tide reversed.
“We could do this at the beach at Sandy Bottom Bay!” exclaimed Zensuke.
“Why go to that effort, when this one is already built?” asked Masaru. “Let us settle the colonists here. In fact, let us move our camp here!”
Camp Double Six was so-called because it was a lucky dice throw in ban-sugoroku. The site was lucky because it was near their initial iron discovery. However, its nearest marine access, Iron Landing, was a dangerous place for boats to land or cast off. The abandoned village was much closer to Sandy Bottom Bay, the best anchorage on the southwest coast of Texada.
Isamu shook his head. “No. We don’t know whether the village was abandoned, and, if so, why. We don’t want to use this fish weir and attract unfriendly attention. At least, not until there are more Nihonjin here. Especially armed Nihonjin. Until the colonists come, we don’t even want to occupy Sandy Bottom Bay.”
“When they do, we can pull the stakes from here and move them to Sandy Bottom Bay,” said Zensuke.
Masaru frowned at Isamu. “Didn’t Yells-at-Bears tell you that this village has been abandoned for at least a year? The risk seems worth it. And if Sandy Bottom Bay would be just as good, then why did they build their village here, not there? In fact, we should move our camp here. I am sure the weir will make it easier to feed ourselves for the winter!”
“What do you think we should do, Yells-at-Bears?”
“There are only eighteen of us, Isamu, counting those left behind at Camp Double Six. We do not need this big fish weir to feed ourselves. And there aren’t enough of us to fend off a big warband, especially if they were to surprise us with a dawn attack. We should not tempt fate; leave this village alone until your friends come back with their big ship and many guns.”
Isamu sighed. “We do not have to make a decision this instant. Let us return to Sandy Bottom Bay and camp there for the night.”
The following morning, at the beach of Sandy Bottom Bay, Isamu declared, “Yells-at-Bears is right. Forget the village and its fish weir for now. In the summer, when the colonists come, we can return and if it is still abandoned, it can be occupied.”
Again, Masaru briefly tightened one side of his lip. “Are you sure your judgment is based on facts and logic alone? It isn’t clouded by . . . other influences?” He didn’t identify them verbally, but his eyes strayed briefly in Yells-at-Bears’ direction. “Perhaps, after the rainy season arrives, and we are starving to death, you will reconsider.”
There was little doubt in Isamu’s mind that the separated references to clouds and rain were deliberate. In Japan, “making clouds and rain” was a euphemism for sexual intercourse. Masaru was implying that Isamu had favored Yells-at-Bears’ advice over Masaru’s, because Isamu and Yells-at-Bears were lovers. It was an outrageous position for Masaru to take. Even if they were in fact lovers. Which they weren’t. Not that Isamu hadn’t had some thoughts in that vein. Yells-at-Bears was attractive, in an exotic sort of way.
However, if Isamu took offense, it might lead to a duel. And even if Isamu won, he would lose; the expedition would be deprived of one of its two trained warriors, and he would ultimately have to report and justify the duel to his superiors. And they would only hear the words, not Masaru’s tone and cadence.
“I am sure,” Isamu said as evenly as he could manage. “Thank you for sitting before me on the white sand of Sandy Bottom Bay beach and telling me this.” He hoped that Masaru would perceive the hidden meaning; the term “white sand”—shirasu—also referred to the area where a prisoner accused of a crime knelt before a magistrate and awaited judgment.
From the quick tensing of Masaru’s brows, it was evident that he did.
San Miguel, Manila
Francisco Kimura had arranged for Father Blanco to be smuggled out of Manila aboard a fishing vessel that had come down the Pasig River from Laguna de Bay to sell its catch in the city market. Come morning, they expected a sea breeze, which would allow them to sail back upriver.
In the Hour of the Tiger, there was a knock at the back door of Francisco’s home. Was it the fishermen, or Japanese soldiers from the occupation force? Francisco called out, “Who’s there?”
“A flock of seagulls ready to fly away.”
That was the agreed-upon recognition phrase. Sighing with relief, Francisco pulled open the door. Three Filipino fishermen stood before him. “Where is he?”
“We’ll have him out in a moment,” said Francisco. “I thought it best to keep him well hidden until you arrived.” He turned to his son. “Juan, go fetch Father Blanco.”
Father Blanco had been given a red cotton barong shirt and a matching patadyong pleated skirt to wear. On his head was a plaid putong and over it, a straw salakot. The latter had a wide brim, which would help, Francisco hoped, to hide his face. Father Blanco had been ordered to leave his cassock and crucifix behind, in case he was searched. He kissed the latter before he handed it to Francisco.
The fishing boat captain looked him over closely. “Roll up your sleeves,” he ordered, and Father Blanco complied.
“This is for you to carry,” he added, handing Father Blanco a long-handled fishing net and a small container. “Put the handle over your right shoulder.”
Father Blanco did so, and picked up the bait container in his other hand.
The Filipino shook his head. “No, hang it on the near end of the handle, by your right hand, to balance the weight of the net end.”
After Father Blanco complied, he said, “I will take the lead, you walk directly behind me, with my friends on either side of you. That will help conceal you from unfriendly eyes. Walk as we walk. Do you speak Tagalog?”
“A little bit,” Blanco said in that language.
“Hmph. Try not to say anything until we are on the boat and under way. Let’s go!”
“Ganbatte!” said Francisco.
“God bless you,” answered Father Blanco.
From Francisco’s house, it was several blocks to where the fishing boat was moored. It was a small guilalo, with two lateen sails.
“Where do I hide?” whispered Father Blanco.
“In plain sight,” said the captain. “You row when it is needed. Otherwise, act . . . nonchalant.”
Father Blanco did his best to mimic the crew. As he was helping them raise the spars into position, he saw, out of the corner of his eye, a two-man Japanese patrol heading in their direction.
He mentally ran through the reasons why he should keep calm. Primus, they are walking, not running. Secondus, he was dressed just like the others on the boat. Tertius, if he did not keep calm, they would certainly notice. And quartus, he had to have faith in the Lord to protect him.
The sails were already bent onto the spars, so he didn’t have to worry for long. The skipper put his hand on the tiller, and called out, “Cast off!”
And the boat started to move upriver.
On the Pasig River, Luzon, Philippines
“Thank you for helping me,” said Father Blanco.
“We are good Christians,” said the fishing boat captain. He shrugged. “And we were paid well.”
The journey up the Pasig River to Laguna de Bay was about twenty miles. Thanks to the sea breeze, they didn’t have to row much at all, giving Father Blanco the opportunity to study a part of Luzon that he had not visited before. The houses by the banks were nipa huts, rather than Spanish villas, and the Filipinos here wore less clothing than those in the city. Bangka, the Filipino double outrigger canoes, passed by the guilalo, the canoers calling out greetings. Around noon, he heard the “huh-huh-huh” call of the kalaw, the “clock of the mountains.”
Laguna de Bay was a large freshwater lake, with the shape of a three-toed bird of prey. The boat had entered it from the northwest, but Father Blanco was being taken to the village of Bay, on the south shore, over twenty miles away.
Having successfully escaped Manila, Father Blanco was in good spirits, but this did not last. The sky darkened, and it started to rain heavily. The wind strengthened, and large waves formed. The captain ordered the crew to reduce sail.
The wind howled even more strongly. Father Blanco could see whole trees in motion on the shore.
“What can I do to help?” asked Father Blanco.
“Pray.”
Father Blanco prayed to Saint Nicholas, the patron saint of seafarers. “Calm the wind and the waves, help us who are in the way of the storm to reach safety. . . .”