Wae Ran Imjin
(The First Imjin War)
The Era of Bunroku no eki
(1592 to 1596)
Late Winter of 1593
South of Pyongyang
“Baka!”
A skinny young man clad in pieces of mismatched, damaged armor lurched forward after a slap hit his head. The shouted insult rang in his ears as he fell on the cold, snow-covered ground. Fortunately, a dented kabuto which had seen better days protected his skull, but the twin impacts of the sudden blow and the hardness of the welcoming ground also sent waves of pain through his head.
What the young man immediately thought was to thank the gods that the blow landed on the solid, rounded metal hachi. A broken neck would be the fatal result if the strike landed on the shikoro, or nape-guard - the strips of armor hanging from the helm, protecting the neck. If the strike had been directed against the shikoro, he’d now be saying ohayou gozaimasu to all his ancestors. But the blow was hard enough to give out a loud clang and make him see stars before his metal face armor crunched against the snow-covered earth. From the strength of the blow, the young warrior suspected a rather large branch was used against him.
Yet the familiarity of the voice instantly stamped out the instinct to draw his blade and retaliate. It was clearly that of Akira Kyusho, the senior bushi leading what was left of their section of ashigaru. Though the man was also an ashigaru like him, barely of the samurai class, he was a senior and hence a person to be feared and obeyed. The man had already made his mark on their unit with his quick, decisive, and sometimes lethal modes of discipline. A degree of healthy respect was needed, given Kyusho’s position, experience, and ability. Primarily known for his strength, the man was a dangerous warrior.
Sugimoto Nitobe scrambled in the snow, faced his angry superior, and hurriedly bowed on his knees. As his head slammed on the cold, snow-covered ground, an overwhelming fear assaulted the thin young man. The familiar emotion drove undiscovered energy into his weakened, shaking muscles. But the shivering of his entire body wasn’t only due to fear. Bloodied, torn rags standing as an excuse for a uniform also miserably failed to protect against the intense wintry environment. Yet being called a fool didn’t stir his sense of pride. Instead, it was the clear anger in the familiar voice that instilled a terrified alarm in his bones.
The shock of being discovered and the frenzied effort to show his respect to a superior drew from his lagging reserves of strength. Blood-covered snow swirled around his figure, disturbed by the sudden movement as he turned around to face the domineering senior ashigaru. Around the panicking young man were the frozen corpses of their compatriots, interspersed with crawling, severely wounded minions of Kampaku Hideyoshi’s Joseon adventure. At that moment, the land of the Ming, the penultimate objective of the entire expedition, never seemed so far away.
“You dare disobey orders, bakayaro?” shouted the offended leader grimly, unperturbed by the grisly scene around them.
“No, oyakata-sama. I was merely checking if Iwami could continue,” Nitobe replied quickly in a subservient manner, his forehead still kissing the cold ground.
He silently and frantically invoked the grace and mercy of Buddha and all the Shinto gods. Nitobe knew his superior had ambitions of being appointed as a kenin and the young warrior immediately played to such a dream. For Akira Kyusho to be appointed as a kenin or a direct vassal of the daimyo’s clan was a pipe dream in Nitobe’s view. Still, any tool with which to assuage the man’s anger was both useful and a necessity.
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The possibility of a quick death danced before Nitobe. Even the servile and eager manner in which he addressed the senior ashigaru betrayed his fear. Nitobe wasn’t afraid of death in battle. Yet dying because of punishment meted out arising out of a violation of a superior’s order went against all his beliefs as a warrior abiding by the code. An honorable seppuku could serve as an alternative to such shame, but the choice somehow went against his mindset. Somehow, he couldn’t understand the reasoning behind such an option. Why not be ordered to die in a fight against bandits, rogue samurai, or even the wako? Death would have meaning, then.
Nitobe would rather horribly die in battle rather than be meted such a degrading penalty. Even the fate of the thousands of samurai who died by fire during the siege of Pyongyang would be honorable. They perished in glorious battle and that’s what a samurai was meant to do. Nitobe had read some of the gunki monogatari, the popular stories illustrating the conflicts during the Genpei Wars. He deeply agreed with the belief found within—that a samurai’s path was to grasp the long and short swords and, in the end, to die according to the warrior’s way.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
The scared young ashigaru knew he was years away from being able to use the suffix “dono” with the veteran senior. It was used among samurai of equal rank or of more than passing familiarity with each other. For now, he was earnestly praying that addressing the swarthy man of fifty-three years as “my lord” would assuage his anger. But even though his dirty brow was pressed against the ground, he glimpsed the tip and part of the katana wielded by his accuser. It was already unsheathed, ready to follow its master’s bidding. The beautiful blade sported small nicks along its length, a testament to the ferocity of their previous battle.
Nitobe didn’t mind being called a fool or an idiot. As one of the youngest in the ashigaru company and with no senior samurai in the contingent as a patron, baka or bakayaro were regular nicknames. He always tried to blend into the background, avoiding attention. The current dour temperament of their superiors - samurai, ashigaru-taisho, and ashigarugashira alike - made for a tense and dangerous environment. It was a far cry from the laughter and high morale of the contingent, marking their advance from the southernmost tip of the Joseon kingdom to the ancient city of Pyongyang.
The prostrating young warrior knew that the tempers of the leaders of the retreating column were on incredibly short fuses because of overwhelming fatigue and fear. Retreating from a lost battle had clawed out the confident arrogance and steely resolve of the senior warriors and even their daimyo, Konishi Yukinaga. Giving short, bladed responses resulting in headless victims was now the norm. The stumbling and weary samurai of the long, desperate column were driven by the twin terrors of a bladed death and the frightful reality of a brutal enemy on their ragged heels bent on revenge. Being captured was unacceptable to the retreating warriors.
In the minds of many of those now trudging across the white landscape, leaving their wounded and crippled compatriots alive, namely those unable to walk or keep pace with the main column, was already a significant concession. Sword or spear in hand, the doomed warriors could catch a foe unaware. That is, if they’re still alive and able to muster the strength for a last effort when their determined pursuers arrive. It was a slim chance of striking back, but still an opportunity.
Being left alive, even barely at that, they could try to fight back, attempting to bring down at least one enemy. This was an attitude mandated by the code of the warrior, tenets by which the warriors of Nippon were expected to live their life. If those left behind couldn’t wait for the enemy, then killing oneself should be their last act as samurai. It was what distinguished warriors from servants.
Nitobe kept quiet after his obsequious demonstration. He had closed his eyes and gritted his teeth after bowing, expecting a sudden sharp pain in his neck. Several seconds passed, and he was still alive. Exhaling slowly and quietly, the young ashigaru opened his eyes, unable to believe his luck. Akira Kyusho was known to be quick in his lethal disciplinary methods. If Nitobe wasn’t dead in the first few seconds after being accosted, then he wouldn’t die in this miserable, frosty excuse of a battlefield.
A sudden movement caught his attention. It was the movement of a nearby samurai walking away. The man was leaving a severely wounded comrade resting against a tree, spear in hand. Despite the many blood-soaked bandages, Nitobe recognized the injured samurai. The helmless man was a retainer of the daimyo’s clan, several notches higher than ordinary soldiers in the contingent’s hierarchy.
Deluded fools, Nitobe sneered in his heart as his greedy eyes quickly took in the doomed man’s armor. He couldn’t help but take in the usable parts of the protective set.
The dented cuirass, or do, appeared to be heavily mauled, and hence, worthless. Yet the vambraces, gauntlets, and greaves seemed to be in good condition. Yet he knew he couldn’t just move over and strip the helpless man of parts of his armor. Aside from maintaining a veneer of fighting ability and honor, it would serve as an additional layer of protection against the Joseon winter. But the young ashigaru felt it to be an empty gesture. Chances are, the waiting wounded would be frozen stiff by the time their pursuers arrive.
Seeking a chance to fight back when severely weakened because of wounds in the middle of an unforgiving winter was but a delusion. An ideal one, perhaps, but a cruel hoax when measured against harsh reality. He couldn’t decide whether those helping the doomed warriors were merely avoiding their duty in granting the final blow or had been turned into half-stupid donkeys by the blows their protected heads had received from the Ming soldiers, Joseon fighters, or those crazed monks.
Those crawling after the main formation didn’t merit a second look. For most of those present, such an attachment to life in the face of clear defeat and inability to withdraw in good order and condition was cowardice. They could either slit their own throats or get somebody to assist them in committing seppuku. It was already a mercy that samurai with the strength to stand up didn’t stab or behead those insulting the way of Bushido.
For the retreating survivors of the siege of the Joseon city of Pyongyang, granting them the chance to fight back was a precious gift of honor. It was a luxury not afforded to the thousands who drowned while attempting to cross the river bordering the now-lost northern Joseon city. The frozen Daedong River proved to be as treacherous as the ambushes set by the uibyong, the innumerable “righteous armies” that sprung up like weeds from the Joseon countryside. The small rebellious groups were not a concern in the face of ready samurai. Even at ten-to-one odds, desperate arms couldn’t hold against trained blades wielded by those also ready to die in battle. The uibyong were filled with poorly equipped peasants, led by hardened, brutal men, and supported by crueler womenfolk. The latter were mostly armed with a miscellany of sharp-bladed items barely qualified to be called weapons. Wounded samurai left behind in battle were sure to suffer from their deadly and slow ministrations while the men chased after the retreating warriors of Nippon-koku.
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