All the time he had been preparing himself. With a sudden fluid movement, he stood erect and whirled his sword from the sheath--and the youth into eternity.

"Eeee," one of his men said with admiration.

"Uraga-san, that was marvelous to see."

"Sensei Katsumata of Satsuma was one of my teachers," he said throatily, his heart pounding like never before, but pleased that he had performed his duty as a samurai correctly.

One of his men picked up the head by its topknot.

The rain became tears, washing away the real ones. "Clean the head and take it to Lord Anjo for viewing." Uraga glanced at the castle gates. "Cowards disgust me," he said and walked away.

That night, when it was safe, Hiraga and the others sneaked out of the cellar that had been located in advance. By different routes they slipped away for their safe house.

It was overcast and black, wind strong with spattering rain. I will not feel cold, I will not show discomfort, I am samurai, Hiraga ordered himself, following the pattern of training in his family ever since he could remember. Just as I will train my sons and daughters--if my karma is to have sons and daughters, he thought.

"It's time you married," his father had said a year ago.

"I agree, Father. I respectfully request you change your mind and allow me to marry my choice."

"First, it is the duty of the son to obey the father, second it is the father's duty to choose the wives of his sons and husbands of his daughters, third, Sumomo's father does not approve, she is Satsuma and not Choshu and last, however desirable she is not suitable. What about the Ito girl?"' "Please excuse me, father, I agree my choice is not perfect but her family is samurai, she is samurai trained and I am possessed by her. I beg you. You have four other sons--I have only one life and we, you and I, we both agree it is to be devoted to sonno-joi and will therefore be short. Grant this to me as a lifetime wish." By custom such a wish was a most serious request and meant that, if granted, it precluded asking for any other, ever.

"Very well," his father had said gruffly. "But not as a lifetime wish. You may be affianced when she is seventeen. I will welcome her into our family."

That was last year. A few days later he had left Shimonoseki, supposedly to join the Choshu regiment in Kyoto, actually to declare for sonno-joi and become ronin--and put his secret four-year adherence and training to use.

Now it was Ninth Month. In three weeks Sumomo became seventeen but now he was so far outside the law there was no chance of safe return. Until yesterday. His father had written: Astonishingly, our Lord Ogama has offered a pardon to all warriors who openly embraced sonno-joi and will restore all stipends if they return at once, renounce the heresy and again swear allegiance to him publicly.

You will take advantage of this offer. Many are returning.

The letter had saddened him, almost destroying his resolve. "Sonno-joi is more important than family or even Lord Ogama, even Sumomo," he had told himself over and over.

"Lord Ogama cannot be trusted. As to my stipend ..."

Fortunately his father was relatively well off compared with most, and, because of his shoya grandfather, had been promoted to hirazamurai, the third rank of samurai. Above were senior samurai, hatomoto and daimyo. Below hirazamurai were all others--goshi, ashigaru, rural samurai, and foot soldiers, who were of the feudal class but below samurai. As such his father had had access to lower officials and the education of his sons was the best available.

I owe him everything, Hiraga thought.

Yes, and obediently I worked to become the best pupil in the Samurai School, the best swordsman, the best at English. And I have his permission and approval and that of the Sensei, our chief teacher, to embrace sonno-joi, to become ronin, to lead and organize Choshu warriors as a spearhead for change. Yes, but their approval is secret, for if known, surely it would cost my father and the Sensei their heads.

Karma. I am doing my duty. Gai-jin are scum we do not need. Only their weapons to kill them with.

The rain increased. And the tempest. This pleased him for it made interception less likely. The beckoning bath and sak`e and clean clothes kept him warm and strong. That the attack had failed did not concern him. That was karma.

Ground into him by his teachers and heritage was the certainty that enemies and traitors were everywhere until it was a way of life. His steps were measured, he made sure he was not being followed, changed direction without logic and, whenever possible, explored ahead before moving.

When he reached the alley his strength drained out of him. The Inn of the Forty-seven Ronin and its surrounding fence had vanished.

All that remained was emptiness and the reeking smell and smoking ashes. A few bodies, men and women. Some decapitated, some hacked to pieces. He recognized his comrade shishi, Gota, by his kimono. The mama-san's head was on a spear thrust into the ground. Attached was a sign: It is against the law to harbor criminals and traitors. The official seal below was of the Bakufu, signed by Nori Anjo, chief of the roju.

Hiraga was filled with surging fury but it was icy and merely added more layers to that already within. Those cursed gai-jin, he thought. It is their fault.

Because of them this happened. We will be revenged.

Sunday, 28th September

Sunday, 28th September: Malcolm Struan came out of sleep slowly. His senses probed, testing. He had always known much about mental pain, losing two brothers and a sister; the anguish caused by his father's drunkenness and ever increasing rages; from impatient teachers; from his obsessive need to excel because one day he would be the tai-pan; and from his nagging fear he would be inadequate however much he prepared and trained and hoped and prayed and worked by day and by night, every day and every night of his life-- no real childhood or boyhood like others.

But now as never before he had to test the level of his awakening, to plumb the depth of what physical pain he had to endure today as today's norm, disregarding the sudden, blinding spasms that arrived without warning or logic.

Just a throbbing ache today but better than yesterday. How many days from the Tokaido Road? Sixteen. Sixteenth day.

He allowed himself to become more awake. Truly better than yesterday. Eyes and ears open now.

Room steady in the early light. Clear sky, light wind, no storm.

Two days ago the storm had ceased. It had blown for eight days at typhoon strength, then vanished as quickly as it had arrived. The fleet standing off Yedo had scattered the first day seeking safety at sea. Alone of all the warships, the French flagship had disengaged early, just making it back safely to Yokohama.

No other ships had returned. No need to worry yet, but everyone watched the horizon uneasily, hoping and praying.

During the gales here at Yokohama a merchantman had been blown ashore, some buildings damaged, many cutters and fishing boats lost, havoc wrought in the village and Yoshiwara, many tents in the military encampment on the bluff blown away but no casualties there, or in the Settlement.

We were more than lucky, Struan thought, concentrating on the central problem of his universe. Can I sit up?

A tentative, awkward attempt.

Ayeeyah! Pain, but not too bad. With both arms he pushed further and now he was erect, his hands braced behind him.

Bearable. Better than yesterday. Waiting a moment, then leaning forward, carefully taking his weight off one arm. Still bearable. Weight off both arms. Still bearable. Taking care he pulled the bedclothes off and cautiously tried to swing his legs to the floor. But he could not, the stabbing pain too great. A second try, again failure.