Ring of Fire III (30 page)

So far Yoriaki had fought nearly without emotion and simply out of necessity; although terrible to be sure the night’s tragedy was not something their opponents had any choice about, they were following their orders. He had killed without hate, having fought at the side of these Siamese in the past and regretted being pitted against them because of one evil man’s greed. But now that he saw they didn’t intend just to burn Nihonmachi down and cast its people out but were bent on slaughtering the innocents as well, Yoriaki felt a rage build in him. With an inarticulate scream he dove at the Siamese soldiers, his blade a wet, red whirlwind gleaming in the glow of their burning homes. One, two, three Siamese fell before him in a row, the fourth had time to block his blow before the next slew him. Yoriaki’s onslaught gave the Japanese the advantage again, the savageness of his attack inspiring them to redouble their own. Shortly Yoriaki and his three comrades stood over the corpses of their enemies.

“They are trying to kill our families now,” one of the men said, one Nakagata, who was still technically employed by the Siamese king but had taken a few days off to get over a cold. “That bastard Prasat Thong, I’d like to cut his head off myself.”

“You may get your chance,” another answered. “We will have our revenge for this.”

Yoriaki, pausing to catch his breath, watched a boat come near the shore manned by several of the holy fathers from the Portuguese side of the river. They helped the wading women and children clamber in, then began to paddle away, looking for more in need of rescue. One of the fathers recognized Yoriaki and silently gave him a blessing with a pale, trembling hand. Suddenly Yoriaki felt a spear of ice go through him. “Momo!” he cried as he turned south to look farther down the beach. The big tree stood some twenty yards away. His boat was there but he couldn’t see anyone in it. Nearby, a body lay obscured by the tall grass. “My wife!” Yoriaki broke into a sprint, behind him he could hear the others following.

Half out of his mind with fear he arrived under the tree to find that that the body was that of a Siamese soldier, not his beloved wife. He scanned the boat to see if she was lying within but it was empty. Before he could call out her name another band of Siamese appeared, chasing a young girl of fourteen, the daughter of Yoriaki’s neighbors, a paper screen maker and his Laoatian wife. The girl sobbed in terror; her sticklike arms dripped blood from small cuts where they had toyed with her, torturing the mouse a bit before landing the final blow of the claw. As one Yoriaki and his comrades moved inland. As the girl ran through their ranks, Yoriaki ordered her to get in his boat and cast off, but he wasn’t sure she even heard him such was her terror.

Now the four of them faced an even greater number, a full twenty Siamese. Even so, the enemy slowed down and came to a stop some yards away from the samurai. Yoriaki, in the grip of a terrible wrath, was surprised to find himself speaking.

“What has happened to this fair and lawful kingdom?” Yoriaki challenged them in their own language. “What has happened to the brave and noble warriors of the Siamese who fought at our sides like men? How can it be that they have turned so quickly into a pack of rabid curs, cowards attacking their neighbors in the night at the order of a pretender king? How have you come to such a low pass?”

“Shut up, you scum. You’re no warrior, just the man who sells lunches along the docks,” their chief officer snarled back, but Yoriaki knew his words had stung. “How can you dare judge the will of great King Prasat Thong? He is wise, our benefactor and protector!”

This made Yoriaki laugh. “I can guess how this has happened. He must have paid you well to turn on your truest allies. Your honor was bought with coin from the child killer, what price did it take to make you his dogs? I may not be a warrior any more but I have money. I make a good living, perhaps I can buy you myself. How much? Name your price, you sons of bitches!” Yoriaki’s comrades began to laugh. One of them pulled a bag of silver coin from his belt and threw it so that it spilled out across the enemies’ feet. Yoriaki did the same, joining in the laughter. “There it is, just lick it up off the ground, dogs, the same way you lick Prasat Thong’s feet for favors.”

That last jibe was more than enough to push them over the edge. The enraged soldiers came running forward haphazardly, forgetting their discipline. This made it easy for Yoriaki and his three allies; they cut down the first eight of them nearly effortlessly, making a pile of severed limbs and heads between them and the remaining force. The officer bellowed at his remaining men to get back into a formation. They men listened then, awed by the sight of their slaughtered comrades, but still brave and offended enough not to retreat. Yoriaki’s heart sank to see another ten men arrive behind them; having no more houses left to burn they had come to the riverside to join in what they thought would be the massacre of fleeing civilians. Yoriaki felt a grim pride that they had prevented the worst of that. He gripped his
katana
tightly and prepared for the next round of battle. The Siamese grinned smugly now at their superior numbers and began a slow, methodical advance. Yoriaki stole a glance at the men with him. Silently they agreed; they would make their stand here. The four of them formed a square, ready for the Siamese to surround them. As one they backed toward the river’s edge, knowing the water would impede anyone who came at them from behind.

The enemy saw what they planned and pressed forward, but the Japanese were ready for them. The four samurai stood their ground at the water’s edge, their superior swordsmanship holding back the Siamese onslaught. There was no doubt the Siamese were fearsome warriors, they simply weren’t as disciplined as the samurai. Still, the four of them were taking a terrible beating, as soon as they cut down one man another jumped in to take his place. Yoriaki’s muscles were on fire, he had not practiced with his weapon for several years and he suffered for it now. His blade grew heavy, feeling as if it had been alchemically transformed into lead, but he kept on, never slowing his ever-changing patterns of attack and defense, slaying one enemy after another. Behind him he heard a gasp; out of the corner of his eye he saw Nakagata fall, pierced through the heart by both of his opponents’ dual wielded
daab
swords. His killer was having difficulty pulling one of the blades back out of the dying samurai; Yoriaki helped him by cutting that arm off at the elbow before turning back to his own foes.

All along the beach similar scenes were taking place, small bands of samurai holding the king’s soldiers back from the shore as women, children and the elderly swam or boated their way to what safety they could find. Stealing a split second’s glance, he saw more boats had come, mostly Portuguese but some Chinese junks as well. Apparently they were not alone in their darkest hour; the Siamese may have let a madman rule them but the other peoples who called Ayutthaya home felt pity for their long-time friends and neighbors in Nihonmachi. This made Yoriaki smile. The Siamese chose that moment to fall back to regroup, making ready to finish off Yoriaki and his two remaining warriors. He took that opportunity to search the river for Momo again. Farther down the beach he saw a Christian Japanese, no samurai, just a merchant, holding off several soldiers with nothing but a garden shovel while his family fled into the water. The brave man went down beneath the Siamese swords as his loved ones screamed. Yoriaki saw with horror that the soldiers were now wading out after the women and children, who were clumsily trying to swim away now. Snarling with renewed rage he took a step in that direction but the enemy at hand had returned and he was forced to hold his ground.

The fresh troops came in hitting hard and Yoriaki felt his body begin to falter. The mind could only control the matter so long before it had no more to give. A lucky blow from a young Siamese warrior cut him across the belly, not too deep but he felt a tide of blood seep down his abdomen. In return his
katana
skewered the youth through the mouth, then thrust down through the chin, slicing open the neck all the way to the clavicle. Blood sprayed like the waterfalls he had once meditated under in the cool mountain forests of Japan. As that one fell, another stepped in to take his place. Deep within Yoriaki’s mind he began to pray to Lord Jesus that his wife would be spared and taken to safety. There wasn’t much time left to him so he also asked for forgiveness before his imminent exit from this world. He would die with honor, protecting his people from treachery, and he hoped the Heavenly Father would not judge his many sins too harshly. Just as he felt his sword had at last grown too heavy for another swing, there was an ear-rattling explosion from a few feet beside him. The face of the Siamese who was closing in on him for the kill disappeared in a pall of smoke, leaving behind a broken mess of shattered flesh and bone. There was another such explosion and the next man fell as well, a gory, smoking hole where his stomach had been.

Momentarily free from attack, Yoriaki turned to see Blom reloading first one massive pistol, then a second. The mustachioed Dutchman looked over at him and grinned. “Ah, Yo-san! How nice to see you again! Great bento, by the way; the grilled fish was perfect!” Having finished reloading, the plump fellow stepped forward with a pistol in each hand to shoot first one Siamese full on in the chest, then another. As Blom paused to calmly reload, again more blasts were heard and Yoriaki realized the plump Dutchman wasn’t alone. His usual mates were beside him and several more of what looked to be sailors, all cheerfully mowing down the Siamese with their blunderbusses and pistols. The battle was over a scant few seconds later, the Siamese swordsmen being no match for the barrage of Dutch firepower. Of Yoriaki’s fighting companions one was badly injured and being helped toward a longboat by the Dutch sailors, the other stood unsteadily on his feet beside Yoriaki, nearly overcome with exhaustion. Yoriaki felt a tear in his eye, a tear of glistening joy that a merciful God had sent these good Christian men to their aid.

“Thank you, Lord Jesus,” he whispered in Latin. He turned to Blom, who shoved his pistols into his belt in order to take Yoriaki gently by the shoulders to steady him. “My wife. Momo. I can’t find her.” Yoriaki’s voice a croak, rough with fear.

“She is safe with us, my friend. She and her parents were out in the middle of the river directly offshore from here; they were all crammed in her father’s little fishing boat. I hardly think they would have made it out to sea in that, so we brought them aboard the
Groenevisch
. She is the one who sent us to your aid; she knew right where to find you.” Blom carefully put pressure on Yoriaki’s left shoulder, turning him gently and then leading the exhausted man toward the water. “See that fellow there?” He pointed to the dead soldier Yoriaki had found earlier. “Your wife’s work. She told us she slit his gut with that nasty little shortsword she had. I hardly think he expected that. She’s a pretty peach but I wouldn’t get her angry for any reason! Now, I better bring you to her or she’ll have my hide. I promised her I’d fetch you!”

Yoriaki looked at the dead soldier with a mixture of horror and pride at his wife’s fierce courage. She had cut him open in a neat slice up the abdomen just like she would a dinner catfish. “She has many talents,” he managed to say as the world begin to swim blackly before his eyes. Too weak to go further himself, he let sturdy Blom lift him up and load him into the longboat. “Thank you, Blom, you are a true friend,” he managed to say before drifting into a scarlet-tinged unconsciousness.

He came to on the deck of one of the Dutch merchant ships he had seen earlier. Around thirty Japanese families were there, too, some wounded and being tended by a Dutch doctor and his assistants, but most stood staring at the conflagration that had once been their home. He heard a woman’s wordless cry come from nearby and then he was nearly knocked down as his wife hugged him fiercely with a tightness that was painful to his combat-tortured muscles. He felt the handle tip of the
wakizashi
blade she still clutched in one hand dig in painfully beneath his shoulder. “My love, please put down the blade. You may kill someone,” he breathed in her ear, managing a weak chuckle. She let him loose then and, both of them bloodstained and bedraggled, they looked long into each other’s eyes.

“I fear I already have,” she confided in a hushed tone.

“I know, I saw. Well done, wife, well done.” He gently took the crimson stained
wakizashi
from her tremblng fingers and slid it into his sash next to his battle scarred
katana
before he took her in his arms again.

* * *

Dawn found them headed south in a fleet comprised of all manner of vessels, now approaching the mouth of the Menam where it met the Gulf of Siam. There were two Dutch and three Portuguese merchant ships, a Chinese junk and a variety of smaller seaworthy vessels that were owned variously by Japanese and their former foreign neighbors. They all followed the massive and well-armed red seal ship, with its cargo of goods brought from Japan still onboard and unmolested, bound for Yamada, Nagamasa’s new kingdom in Ligor on the east side of the long peninsula that eventually became the lands of the Malay. All in all, some six hundred of the thousand or so who had inhabited Nihonmachi were making their escape to the holdings of their former leader. The rest had either been killed by Prasat Thong’s forces or were in hiding among the Portuguese or other folk who might be sympathetic to them. Yoriaki prayed for their safety and was grateful that so many had escaped what could have been a horrendous massacre. Along the way they sighted several Siamese warships but were given a wide berth. It seemed that not all of the kingdom’s military cared to persecute their former neighbors and allies.

After a few days sailing on fair seas, they reached Ligor and were welcomed by the people there, albeit a bit coolly. Yoriaki, his wife and in-laws were given a simple mud brick cottage to stay in and were brought food and a change of clothing. For the next two days meetings went on between their host Nagamasa and the higher ranking citizens that had escaped Nihonmachi, such as Ishida. Yoriaki, being a retired samurai who had chosen the life of a Christian commoner, was not invited, nor did he care; he was simply grateful to be alive with his loved ones.