* * *
Date Masamune and his son stood on a tower, watching the moon rise over the Sierras.
“It’s easy enough to say politics is politics,” Masamune grumbled, “but it’s still painful to contemplate being relieved of my grand governorship. I defy any of my peers to have done better, under such circumstances. A virtually unknown domain, populated by savages who don’t speak our language. Fractious colonists, from every part of Japan, thrown together and forced to form a community. Religious differences between the colonists and the samurai who protect them.”
“Surely your governorship is safe now,” said David Date. “The kirishitan troublemakers are mining cinnabar, God help them. First-to-Dance negotiated a truce with one of the tribes attacking our miners, and we trounced another, so cinnabar production is up. The eta, excuse me, the “Chumash” kawata, are working again, so we have leather.”
“True. But our hold on the mine remains tenuous. By the time the commissioners arrive, the truce could break down, and then matters could be . . . uncomfortable. Nor am I sure that the commissioners will place their seal of approval on the eta solution. It was . . . unorthodox.”
Maruya
Yoshimichi had a strong sense of duty. That sense extended, however reluctantly, to keeping up with paperwork. He was now down to the letter he had put off for last, as it came from Danzaemon. Having to deal with the eta—ex-eta, he reminded himself—was, he was sure, punishment for the sins committed in his last incarnation.
The letter, of course, was written on recycled paper. Back home, there were people who made a living collecting paper trash and selling it to used paper warehouses. From there, it went to the paper mill to be reduced to pulp and reborn, a little grayer and coarser, as a blank sheet of paper. Here in California, recycling was even more important, but of course it was practiced on a smaller and more informal scale.
Before he broke the seal, Yoshimichi noted that it wasn’t made of wax, but rather of a strange black material. It was the first time he had ever seen petroleum tar.
The letter was addressed to “the Honorable ex-Daikan for the ex-Eta.” Yoshimichi snorted.
“As you see, we are now above quota for leather hides,” Danzaemon had written. “Most are deer skin, but there are a few bear skins. There are plenty more bears where those come from; please send more powder and shot. Some more guns would be nice, too; the damn things take too long to reload.
“It would be very nice if the Dutch could be persuaded to bring us cattle; I think cattle would do well here. At least our cattle would, and I imagine the Dutch beasts aren’t that much different.
“I enclose a present for you, it’s a drill used to make holes in shells. The Chumash hang the shells on strings and use them as money, or trade them to the inland tribes. I think you will find the present most interesting.”
The letter was signed by the “Master” of the “Brotherhood of the Hide.” Later, Yoshimichi would learn that this was done in mimicry of the most important of the Chumash craft guilds, the “Brotherhood of the Canoe.”
The daikan grumbled. “Powder? Shot? Guns? Not a chance. I am not going to set a cat to guard dried bonito. Not twice, at least.” He called for his assistant.
“We will have an archery and gunnery competition for the samurai.” As he spoke, he unwrapped the present from Danzaemon. “The six best will have the honor of conducting a bear hunt for—” He stopped speaking, staring at the drill bit.
“Sir?”
“A hunt for the benefit of our Chumash friends. Which I will attend personally. Free my calendar.”
Morro Bay
Yoshimichi crossed his arms. “All right, Danzaemon, you got my attention.”
“Would you like some shells, Inawashiro-sama?”
“Don’t trifle with me. I am not that idiot Benzo. The drill bit was made of jade. Is there jade in Chumash territory?”
“Not as far as I know. The fellow I got the drill from, he said that he got in trade from the Tsetacol. That’s the next little tribe north of here, along the coast, around the place marked as Cambria on our map. My village sometimes trades with them, sometimes fights with them. I can find you someone who has been there before.
“Now, I hope that in view of the value of this information I have provided, that you will reconsider our request for more gunpowder . . .”
North Along the Coast
Inawashiro Yoshimichi and his six samurai worked their way north by sea, in the large fishing boat that had brought them to Morro Bay. They were accompanied by one of the Chumash, who had shown much curiosity about their vessel. His name, if they could trust their translator, was Keeps-Canoe-Off-Rocks. It sounded like a good omen, if nothing else.