“He’s already at death’s door! Look at his wounds! Bandages swollen with blood! Not to mention the deep gashes in his stomach and chest. A fool knows what that means. Even if we won, which we did not, Iwami’s time to meet his ancestors has come. Time for you to say your farewell. Our rest is nearly over,” growled the veteran kogashira[1], not even looking at Nitobe.
Nitobe didn’t speak. His superior was right. But Iwami was his townmate. The sole surviving ashigaru, aside from Nitobe, from that place. They even belonged to the same barrack. Two survivors from the hundreds mobilized for war. It was a reality ruthless enough to shake anyone’s morale. Even Nitobe, an orphan brought up by an elderly and lowly goshi - a mere country samurai - and whose mind was filled with fantastic stories of glory and samurai tenets, had been shaken by that cruel yet sad fact.
The senior samurai left abruptly, ready to bawl out and roar at other ashigaru thinking of ways to get past the heartless order to leave the immobile and severely wounded behind. Nitobe wondered where the man got his energy. When Akira left, he slowly sat up and took in their surroundings. He could see the kogashira walking toward another pair of ashigaru sheltered under a naked tree. They were unfamiliar faces and belonged to another unit. Both were young, like him.
Nitobe wiped his sore, wet forehead. He could feel blood seeping through his hachimaki. The red, dirty headband wasn’t protection against the hard, gravelly ground. Nitobe didn’t mind. Such a slight skin injury was nothing compared to the wrath of Akira’s blade. Breathing heavily, the young ashigaru took in his surroundings as he recovered his strength. A near-fatal encounter was debilitating, especially when one could not fight back, he considered. It was almost as bad as fighting in close combat.
The field was full of warriors left to their own devices as they were too injured and unable to march with the devastated division. Only those capable of fighting could rejoin the main column. A heartless decision, but for samurai inured to war, a practical one. A successful retreat to Hanseong demanded a quick and wary pace. Everyone knew the victors would not let them reach their goal untroubled by ambushes. A slow pace may even bring the might of the victorious Ming army to bear on the column. That would crush what remained of the army.
Gone were the heady days of sweeping everything and everyone before the proud banners of the leading contingent attacking Joseon. They had laughed and jeered at daimyo Kato Kiyomasa’s army rushing up to Pyongyang on a parallel course. Their lord, daimyo Konishi, won that fierce race. But after that was constant vigilance against ambushes and more preparations for large-scale battles. According to rumors, the Ming had sent a sizable army to help Joseon and preparations for a siege began.
In the days leading toward the inevitable siege of the city, Nitobe himself saw the worry hidden behind the arrogant facade of his fellow warriors. They have already lost men in the race from Dongnae-Hyeon[2] in the south toward Pyongyang in the north. If one were to assess the rush northward as a strategic attempt to capture the Joseon king, then the daring venture had miserably failed. Any chance of leveraging the authority of the King of Joseon was now gone. The royal personage had been quicker than a mouse facing a cat in making his escape from Hanseong and then Pyongyang. Nitobe had to admit he was rather impressed with the man’s sense of survival. He even doubted whether the Joseon king was really in Pyongyang. Chances are that the monarch would snake his way across the border to seek sanctuary in the Ming Empire.
As their army ensconced itself in Pyongyang, it lacked supplies because of the effective interdiction by Joseon ships. There were even rumors of entire samurai fleets being sunk. That left the Joseon countryside as a source of supplies. Unfortunately, they had already ravaged the countryside for miles around. Nothing was left. The garrison had even stopped sending out foraging parties. The inevitable losses to the waiting uibyong—peasant war bands—weren’t worth the expenditure of men and resources.
To make matters worse, few reinforcements had arrived in camp. Replacement samurai invariably drowned after their transports were sunk or, if able to land in the harbor stronghold of Dongnae-Hyeon, were cut to pieces in the myriad ambushes marking their progress toward Pyongyang. That is, if they assigned some of the arriving warriors to their army. Daimyo Konishi wasn’t the only leader with an army in the field and every one of the leading personalities wanted to show off before Kampaku Hideyoshi. A favorable notice would be the gateway to more power and wealth coming from Nippon’s strongest warlord.
Nitobe forced his gaunt frame to stand and turned toward his friend. Iwami had been brought by him to rest under a forlorn tree whose branches had been stripped of their leaves by the harsh winter. He glanced at the lonely offshoots and just as quickly rested his eyes on the person sitting below. The depressing sight of naked branches against the gray patina of an overcast sky reminded him of the parlous state of what was left of the daimyo’s army. Tired and shaken men were on the run from a revenge-driven and numerically superior foe.
***
Looking around, he saw individual samurai bringing severely wounded friends to rest beneath empty trees, leaving a spear or blade in their hands. It was a grim farewell to friends and brothers. But Nitobe believed in the futility of the act. He doubted those left to await the enemy would be in the condition to resist. The freezing cold and excessive blood loss would have the final say.
He even saw warriors assisting in the seppuku of some of the wounded who were beyond any hope of recovering enough strength to make a final slash or thrust against the foe. The assisting samurai who acted as the second, or kaishakunin, would help the severely wounded man assume a cross-legged stance and made sure the victim thrust his neck out for a clean cut with the second’s sword. As the latter made a symbolic attempt to grab a short sword or knife laid down before him, the second would execute the kaishaku, the prescribed ritualistic beheading. The young Nitobe couldn’t decide whether the seppuku was meant to regain face and honor after their disastrous defeat or a means to avoid capture and eventual horrendous torture.
Both, he decided.
However, Nitobe saw the slash made wasn’t strictly in the formal dakikubi manner, or a beheading with a strip of flesh left on the neck, leaving the head still connected to the body. All cuts were done at full brute strength, leaving heads flying off amidst a crimson spray of blood. The already red snow turned darker and more white areas became tainted with the blood of warriors. He sighed at the sight of the grim and bloody scene. The killing blow indeed assured no errors in the act and resulted in a quick death. It was escapist suicide. At least, those involved in the seppuku ceremony admitted the reality facing those performing it—that the chance of survival or even getting a last opportunity to strike back was nil. Seppuku granted the belief of honorably dying in battle and for those involved, that was enough.
He turned his gaze back to the slumped Iwami. The formerly vibrant youngster was already unconscious because of excessive blood loss. A seppuku was obviously not an option. Heavily breathing out once more, he drew his tanto, a twelve-inch item he was lucky enough to grab from a fallen samurai. The undamaged, glittering blade caught his attention for a few seconds. He wouldn’t have the opportunity to own such a weapon back home.
Nitobe was a spearman and had to make do with a purloined Joseon geom as his secondary weapon, a double-edged affair that had seen better days. Not that it was of a high quality to begin with. Due to his rank and junior status, he never had the chance to get a better sword from the weapons gathered from the enemy. The tanto in his possession was a rare prize obtained during the furious and chaotic fighting during the siege. He could have grabbed a katana, but that would attract unwelcome attention. Some samurai would only interpret possession of such a weapon by a young ashigaru as stealing from the dead. A quick decapitation would be the only result of such perceived conceit and insult.
Amidst the fury and confusion and down to the furtive retreat from Pyongyang, nobody was idle enough to waste time checking the weapons of the ashigaru. The status of being able to fight was more important. Yet Nitobe didn’t want to chance it. A katana would be pushing his luck. It stood out and was easily visible. The tanto was more low-key. Even if questioned, Nitobe could find a reason for possessing the weapon. The fallen owner of the blade wasn’t a gokenin - a house vassal - much less a hatamoto, or one of those conceited bannermen of the daimyo’s house.
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Weapons used by notable personages who died in the battle were in the custody of a ranking samurai belonging to the daimyo’s clan. Once the contingent had reached a safe place, the high-value weapons were all slated to be returned to the families of the deceased. In contrast, many of the enemy weapons obtained in successful engagements were shipped back to the rear to be melted down into raw materials for new weapons to arm fresh recruits. High-quality Joseon swords became trophies of senior samurai and were sent back to Nippon to grace daimyo and hatamoto halls.
Ming equipment was a more difficult proposition. The suzerain of the Joseon Kingdom was a latecomer to the war and its army came in force. Even skirmishes with the combined Ming-Joseon army resulted in setbacks, and the latest battle had the samurai retreating under cover of darkness in extremely difficult circumstances. Nitobe had to admit that the Ming soldiers were a notch higher than regular Joseon fighters. But in sheer battle frenzy, Joseon warrior monks trumped them all.
Taking trophies of war during a battle was dangerous and, inevitably, a foolish act. Only the static nature of the battle of Pyongyang enabled a few samurai and ashigaru to get war trophies, though some were inevitably damaged and in poor condition. But for the ashigaru, equipment the samurai would disdain to take was a godsend. Their own armor pieces were fraying and losing their value because of the long campaign across Joseon. The hodgepodge of equipment had resulted in the ashigaru sporting a mélange of protective gear.
During the first weeks of the invasion of Joseon, many of the ashigaru, Nitobe included, could only cast envious eyes at the pile of captured weapons being sent back. Despite the categories of the ashigaru, where they were divided into spear-carrying yarigumi-ashigaru, the bow-armed yumi-ashigaru, and those equipped with firearms or the teppo-ashigaru, everyone wanted a good sword for close combat. Some were fortunate enough to have such weapons before they left Nippon, but most of the new recruits weren’t that lucky.
Nitobe himself had trained with the sword and the absence of any chance to upgrade his weaponry hit him where it hurt. At least, the ashigaru were given the chance to strip their fallen enemy—except leaders and ranking soldiers—of whatever armor and weapons they could use. Most were damaged, but at least some were in better condition than the ones currently being worn. The preponderance of mismatched armor created an identification problem, but the ashigarudidn’t care. Protection was protection. However, the situation made the use of sashimono of the utmost importance. The war banner attached to an ashigaru’s back made sure clashes between the samurai in the heat of battle were avoided.
Nitobe had already observed the absence of the usually ubiquitous black sashimono with a white and red circle among the dead and dying. The leaders of the column made sure the rectangular battle pennants were removed. The sashimono were of use to the enemy, especially the uibyong. Disguised as samurai, Joseon fighters had wreaked havoc on small parties. More so when the somen, or full-face mask, of the samurai was used. His weary mind took in the horrors of war displayed around him as he waited for enough strength to return to weakened muscles. Memories of the battle and their frenzied defense swam in his consciousness. Everything seemed unreal to him. He vigorously shook his head, trying to recover the mental detachment needed for what he was about to do. Then Nitobe moved closer to the slumped Iwami.
The young ashigaru knelt beside his fatally wounded friend. He could see that Iwami was already far gone. The bandages made from layers of stripped cloth were swollen from the absorption of blood. Around the dying man was an area turned crimson by the overflowing red liquid. It would have made for a quaint display of contrasting colors if not for the hopelessness and human pain underlying the scene. Yet Nitobe could see that Iwami was holding on. The slow movement in the chest area showed that the wounded youth was still breathing. But it didn’t matter. The retreating column was going to continue its trek southward and there was no place for the severely wounded in its ranks.
That the youth was unconscious made things easier for Nitobe. But the act he had to do galled him. Yet it had to be done. Iwami was unconscious, a situation which prevented the option of leaving him with a weapon in hand to fight it out with their pursuers. Even an abridged seppuku ritual could not be considered. There wasn’t a way to wake up Iwami. Nitobe heavily fell to his knees beside his friend. He had never felt so miserable since the time Nitobe learned of the disappearance of his foster father.
“Old friend… My brother…” started Nitobe, his words finding their hesitant way forward. Then he leaned closer to Iwami’s right ear. He could only continue in a whisper, lest his throat choke from all the sadness and reluctance he was forcibly suppressing.
“I pray you will find peace. May Buddha guide you to reincarnation. We will surely meet again in the next life, and I humbly ask for your forgiveness for the act I have to do. I will never allow the josenjin[3]to insult and torture you.”
He knew his friend probably could not hear him anymore, being lost in the strange state between life and death. But Nitobe still uttered those words, believing that Iwami’s soul could hear him. Yet, he had the troubling sensation that his statements were more of an excuse, an attempt to justify to himself the act he was about to commit. As he said those words, Nitobe suddenly realized he didn’t know if Iwami was of the Buddhist faith or a follower of the Shinto gods. But he had heard Iwami say “amitabha[4]” more than once and assumed the man was of the Buddhist faith. It was not enough to show Iwami’s religion, but he had nothing else to rely on. In contrast, Nitobe believed in both Buddhism and Shintoism, even as he could be considered as a very lax, and hence delinquent, follower of either faith.
Nitobe gave a quick glance at his seated friend. The cold detachment of a veteran warrior rose as he examined where an effective and quick killing blow could be made. He had a year of brutal killing and close combat to buttress and fortify a young and formerly naïve temperament. Outside the field of battle, the junior warrior also witnessed bestialities too many to count committed by his fellow ashigaru against civilians and enemy warriors alike. Senior samurai and the leaders of the army did not stop or mitigate the atrocities. Some even joined in hideous acts of rape, torture, and pillage. In contrast, what Nitobe took was mostly food and coal. Though in his mind, these were valid trophies of a conquering army, and not stealing.
Yet what he saw being committed by his comrades far surpassed the brutal stories he had heard about Kampaku Hideyoshi’s war to unify Nippon. Captured regular soldiers and uibyong members suffered the most, enduring unbelievable torment and torture before they died. Such spectacles even led to bets as to which captive would be first or the last to die. Everything was abetted by the order not to leave anyone alive. Most times, such as in the siege of Dongnae, not even cats and dogs were spared.
His own beliefs and young temperament did not allow him to join in the unbridled rapine and torture. Civilians he came across were dismissed with an arrogant snort and a raised hand shooing them away. For Nitobe, there was no glory and honor in killing non-combatants. Much less rape and torture. Yet, he believed he understood the bestial instincts which drove his compatriots toward killing and torture. For those captured or who had surrendered, it was the dishonorable act of surrendering or being captured. Even Nitobe faintly felt that the torture was warranted. Giving up or being a captive meant the lowering of one’s status to that of less than a dog. The life and honor of a warrior who did not fight to the end when cornered was forfeit.
It was the atrocities committed against civilians which he strove to understand. Nitobe had high regard for his fellow ashigaru and samurai. After lengthy consideration, he attributed the hideous acts to the enormous mental pressure borne by the warriors of Nippon. A strange land, a persistent enemy, the death of friends and brothers, hunger, and a host of other factors came together to arouse the bestial nature of men. It was an outlook he continually reaffirmed up to the present. Nitobe discovered himself slipping into such an attitude as he dispassionately determined Iwami’s weak points. Friends murdering friends, brothers killing brothers was a dismally cruel and hideous situation no matter the belief. Such a situation was all around Nitobe, shaking his mental defenses.
Now, the young samurai wavered between slitting the neck or stabbing the heart. The former would give the best result, but Nitobe had to execute the move while in front of his friend’s face. The latter would be quicker, but Iwami also suffered a blow to his chest area, the spear smashing through the now-brittle leather armor and piercing several inches into the torso. It clearly missed the heart, but Nitobe felt it had struck part of the lungs. It was the sunken remains of the leather chestplate which prevented the grieving ashigaru from immediately deciding to inflict the killing blow through the heart.
After a few seconds of consideration, Nitobe decided to stab his friend in the heart. He remembered a throat strike would entail witnessing the last gasps of Iwami. Such a sight demanded too much from him. Nitobe surmised that removing the cracked armor from the needed area of the chest wouldn’t make things worse for the unconscious Iwami. All he had to do was to make the entire process as quick as possible.
After thrusting his tanto into the stony soil, his fingers, stiffened by the cold, moved toward Iwami’s bloody chest. Despite steeling himself on what he had to do, Nitobe’s hands trembled as pieces of damaged, blood-stained armor and cloth serving as a bandage were removed. He could not stop himself from mumbling constant apologies to his dying friend, an instinctive reaction that led to moist eyes. No matter how he tried to firm up his resolve, crystal tears unconsciously formed and eventually froze in the cold.
***
Lore and Definitions:
1 Kogashira – The head of a section.
2 Present-day Busan
3 Josenjin – Inhabitants of the kingdom of Joseon.
4 Amitabha – A Buddhist expression denoting gratitude, anger, or sadness. A simple catch-all expression.