Pathway to Japanese Literature

One “A secret conference—come over here.” For Lord Uemon-no-suke’s protection, Kobayashi Heihachirō—chief retainer of the Uesugi clan’s affiliated branch dispatched to Kira’s mansion—looked up as Shimizu Ichigaku, fellow Uesugi retainer and inspector whom he had summoned, slid abruptly into the room. He pulled the writing desk from his knees where he had been working and set it aside. “It’s bitterly cold today.” “Indeed,” “After all, it’s already year-end December.” When Kobayashi pushed aside the brazier he had been warming his hands over, Ichigaku seized it almost possessively and sat hugging it to himself.

Kobayashi pushed aside the brazier he had been warming his hands over, and Ichigaku pulled it into his lap and sat down as if snatching it away. "What kind of matter are you referring to—?"

Among the numerous retainers dispatched from the Uesugi clan, these two had always been particularly close. Disregarding differences in rank, they spoke as friends would.

It was a room in Kira's mansion, located in Honjo Matsuzaka-cho beyond the vermilion boundary line. Kobayashi remained silent for a time, then "Caution upon caution—"

As he spoke, he stood up and slid open all the sliding paper doors along the veranda and the partitioning doors to the adjacent room with a clatter, then returned to his seat with a wry chuckle.

From the garden, a pale, thin sunlight streamed in.

Ichigaku said, "Things have grown rather strict, haven't they?" With that peculiar habit he displayed when broaching serious matters, Kobayashi smiled and began, peering at Ichigaku's face: "There's a general goods store before the back gate here. Are you aware of it? Someone informed us that this 'Komeya Gohei' is actually called Maebara—an Akō rōnin."

Ichigaku laughed. “Again? I’ve also been told that Azukiya Zenbei at the Honjo general store was actually an Akō rōnin in disguise.” “Let’s see—Kanzashi Shigorō, Gogorō… But it’s all baseless.” “So Akō rōnin are lurking everywhere now—here, there—how could that possibly be?” “If we follow that logic, every merchant and errand runner coming through would be Akō rōnin—hell, by that measure, you yourself might be one of their finest samurai! Ahahaha! No, no—hearing danger in every rustle, hearing danger in every rustle—”

Kobayashi had taken out the former Akō domain’s directory from his document case and was examining it spread across the tatami when he suddenly pointed to one entry, “Look, here it is. “Maebara Isuke Munefusa: minor page, concurrently finance magistrate, 10 koku with stipends for three retainers—”

Two Ichigaku shook his shoulders in small, restless motions—like a nervous tic—while muttering under his breath. “Shimizu Ichigaku—this is but a temporary alias to live incognito." “To tell the truth—if this keeps up, we’ll soon find ourselves being labeled as retainers of Asano Takumi-no-kami Naganori or some such nonsense.” “Hahaha.” But when he noticed Kobayashi’s serious expression, he lowered his eyes to the directory,

“Hmm. So conclusive evidence has been gathered that this Maebara is indeed that rice shop owner in front of the back gate? In that case, I could just cut him down tonight.” “Now, wait. I’ve already ordered Hoshino to conduct an investigation into this matter.” “Then we’ll wait for that report—but I can’t help feeling we’re all getting a bit too on edge.”

“However, Shimizu—whether because year’s end draws near—the world has grown quite restless.” “When you say that,” Ichigaku smiled and pantomimed gripping a sword, “this may well come to pass before long.”

“Hmm.” “That’s precisely what I wish to discuss.” Kobayashi edged forward on his knees, “Your brother Kurōtarō—I want to formally request that very Kurōtarō’s participation...”

Ichigaku also leaned over the brazier and brought his ear to Kobayashi’s mouth. The secret talks continued.

It was the 4th day of December, Genroku 15 (1702).

III

“Brother! Brother—!” Shimizu Ichigaku’s rugged hand came down on brother Kurōtarō—who today too had been guzzling since morning and lay sprawled out in a *dai* shape—and attempted to shake him awake. “Brother! "Again?" “Day and night, guzzling yourself into a stupor—you’re such a troublesome wretch. What am I to do with you?” Ichigaku, wearing a black crepe under-robe that let the collar of his quilted training jacket—tied with a cord—peek out from beneath it, leaned over his brother’s face. At the row house within Kira’s estate—which had been relocated from Tokiwabashi to Honjo Matsuzaka-cho outside the red-line district—Ichigaku had just taken his leave from Kobayashi and returned to his own quarters.

Through the double-lattice window, the heavy sky—suddenly winter-like since December began—appeared to hang low while sunlight resembling water lapped inward. Though called an inner chamber, it was a room merely two spaces from the entrance—a three-foot veranda there connected to a token garden, with the estate’s encircling textured plaster wall pressing oppressively close before one’s eyes. Resting the back of his head on the edge of the alcove, his kimono’s black collar—discolored reddish and bearing family crests—left disheveled, his legs in ash-stained white hakama splayed out, Shimizu Kurōtarō, Ichigaku’s older brother, lay sound asleep.

His face had severe lines—angular. Though he had just turned forty, when Ichigaku spotted one or two white hairs gleaming amidst the thick black chest hair peeking through his slovenly open collar, he found himself feeling an inexplicable twinge of pity for this dissolute, unruly eccentric of an older brother who treated others with contempt.

In that moment, the phrase "old steed" surfaced in Ichigaku’s mind. An old steed lies in the manger. A steed may age, yet its spirit races a thousand ri—repeating this under his breath, he found himself overcome by an uncharacteristic wave of tenderness toward Kurōtarō, this troublesome burden.

“Brother, wake up. There’s something I need to discuss—this is getting out of hand.” When he clicked his tongue in irritation, Kurōtarō’s mouth—of whom he had assumed was still fast asleep—twitched. “Whether my ears are vertical or horizontal, they hear just fine.” Ichigaku thudded violently against the tatami mats and straightened up abruptly. “Lord Kobayashi held another secret conference today.”

With a thoroughly perplexed expression, Ichigaku continued speaking, "As usual, what has often been discussed until now is—needless to say—nothing more than a baseless rumor." "What—?" "However, the rumor that those Akō rōnin are likely to assault Lord Kira’s mansion in the near future is still being secretly circulated among the townsfolk." "Oh right. That." "Hearing that, even I ended up being completely appalled, I tell ya." "I’m the one who’s appalled!"

“What’s this? So sudden.” “Therefore—especially since we’ve come from the Uesugi clan—to repay Lord Chisaka’s benevolence, all of us are out day and night scouting those Akō ronin’s movements. Yet here you lie, brother, loafing about like—” “Shut up!” Kurōtarō turned over heavily. A small fry.

I

“Your carefree attitude brings me to tears. I wish you’d consider your younger brother’s position for once. This makes it impossible for me to face Lord Kobayashi with dignity.”

“What the hell are you saying? “The hell you sayin’? Your face ain’t got the looks for it.” “That face of yours ain’t one anyone could stand to look at.” “As this humble one who came here as inspector through Lord Chisaka’s esteemed recommendation, I must diligently urge Ōsuga, Kasahara, Torii, Kasuya, Sudō, Miyaura, Matsuyama, Sakakibara, as well as Waku Handayū, Hoshino, Wakamatsu, and the rest—to work tirelessly in investigating those Akō ronin’s movements.” “Moreover, in fact, everyone is working themselves to the bone—and you, who should be leading them by example, just lie there growing that scruffy beard—.”

Kurōtarō brought his hand from his cheek to his chin and stroked it.

A loud, scratchy noise rang out, like sandpaper rubbing against pumice stone.

Ichigaku continued, “You’re breathing that overripe-persimmon stench—” With a “haah,” Kurōtarō exhaled, then stuck out his nose as if chasing it and sniffed. “You are an eyesore!” At his brother’s shout, Kurōtarō sat up abruptly. “You’re loud. Can’t even sleep.” With his round face blank with puzzlement, he stared at Ichigaku. “Ugh, what the hell do you want me to do?” “Truly, you are an incorrigible person. To protect Lord Kira, I need you to uncover the schemes of those Akō ronin. This is your natural duty as a retainer!”

“Don’t worry. They won’t come attacking. And if they do come, we’ll handle it then. Don’t panic. Don’t get flustered.” “What are you saying?! The duty of covert operations requires advance—” “A covert agent? This... me?” “Indeed.” “So I’m a spy, huh?” “Exactly!” “A covert agent, then—just say it plainly.” “Enough already!” “A dog, huh? So—a dog, a cat, or even a male concubine—I thought I wouldn’t stoop to that, but—”

“What are you saying?!” “What woman would ever take you as a kept man?” Ichigaku finally burst into laughter. “You speak of dogs and cats in such a belittling way—yet you yourself live exactly like one—”

Kurōtarō blinked his eyes blearily, “Now, don’t say that.”

“No, I will say it. “I’m saying this because it’s gone too far.” “You were wandering about like a stray dog or cat, with no shelter from the rain—your feathers all bedraggled.” “I’m not exactly preening myself now either.” “That’s nothing to boast about!” Ichigaku grew unbearably impatient. He wanted to shove Kurōtarō with all his might—this man sitting there smug as a tuna sprawled in a cross-legged slouch.

二 “When this humble one took you in—forgive my bluntness—and brought you here after you were in such dire straits, what did you say?”

“Forty-odd years an old pedant—something like that, did I hum? Can’t really remember.” “From now on, you vowed to completely reform your spirit and make a great name for yourself—starting first by working earnestly as Lord Kira’s guard. Did you not make that very promise?”

That was indeed the truth.

Kurōtarō, with a slightly resigned expression, vigorously scratched his large, unkempt head, scattering white dandruff everywhere as he— “W-wait!” “What I said when I was starving doesn’t count as a binding promise.”

“As I have long recommended—would you not take this opportunity to gain Lord Chisaka’s notice and, through Lord Kobayashi’s mediation, enter service with the Uesugi clan?” “Can’t say there isn’t.” Kurōtarō said with a troubled look, “But palace service at my age... Once you’ve done it three days, you can’t quit—that’s the life of beggars and freeloaders.” Ichigaku clenched his fist, thrust out his elbow, and pressed closer. “With that... that overflowing talent and once-in-a-generation swordsmanship you possess—”

“Yah! You’re buttering me up now?!” “This guy’s flattering me!” “And yet you spend the entire year idling about—are you perhaps unwell?”

“Hmm.” “There’s nothing wrong with me.” “I just want to drink sake.” “If you call this an illness, then I guess it is.” “Well then, that’s precisely why I’m saying this: show your worth here, gain Lord Chisaka’s recognition, secure a position with the Uesugi clan, receive a proper stipend, and drink your fill of fine sake—” “How does this proposal strike you?” “Well, that’s true enough.” Kurōtarō replied with bleary eyes, “I get it. When someone feeds you, you’ll do anything for ’em. No—you end up havin’ to do everything.” “This is what they call loyalty.” “Look—if the Akō rōnin bastards’ annoying little schemes count as loyalty, then us havin’ to stop ’em’s loyalty too.” “Loyalty against loyalty—a head-on collision of duty.” “Truly, isn’t this a bitter world we’re in?—or so I’d say—heave-ho.”

Pushing both hands against his raised knee, Kurōtarō heaved himself upright.

“Off I go.” “Where to, Brother—?” “Brother this, Brother that—you came here to sell me out as your Brother... Don’t stop me.” “Hmph—wouldn’t dream of stopping you.” “Where to? That much was clear. I’m heading out on a covert mission. Ain’t exactly a role that suits my style, but...”

“By that, do you mean you have some lead in a particular direction...?”

“Ain’t got nothin’ like that.” Even as he spoke, Kurōtarō fumblingly sheathed his absurdly long sword, “But hey—a dog that walks around gets whacked with a stick.” “See ya.”

He had already descended to the earthen floor. Dragging his snow clogs—their metal heel plates having come loose—he strode briskly toward the service gate.

“Coming through! Out of the way, small fry!” “Small fry!” With a rasping voice, he bellowed at the gate guard ashigaru and promptly exited onto Matsusaka-chō street.

Cotton Drifting: A Solitary Decision

One

However, he immediately stopped just outside the gate and cast his eyes left and right along the street. With the year’s end approaching, the street bustled with the hurried footsteps of passersby. “East, west, south, north—hmm, which way should I go?” With eyes brimming with laughter, Kurōtarō muttered to himself and tilted his head.

From the friction of his sword guard, a large hole had formed at the left side of his kimono, its cotton padding spilling out through the rent. Kurōtarō plucked two or three tufts of the exposed cotton and blew them away with a puff.

A faint, almost imperceptible breeze. The cotton, carried by that breeze, drifted through the sky like white moths. It flew toward Honjo’s second bridge. “East, then...” He ambled off.

“Right.” “Interesting.” “I’ll head out to the Tōkaidō Highway.”

二

The sea came into view. It was a gray sea. Boats were out. The road sloped upward slightly, where a single rokubu pilgrim carrying a tengu mask and two townspeople in travel attire hurried busily along. To the left, flanked by cedar and zelkova trees, stood inns like Yoshiya, Taruya, and Tamagawa—their thatched-roof eaves lined with red lanterns and darkened lattices arrayed in rows—as women attendants with loosely tied sashes called out in practiced voices: “Travelers, this way—Hodogaya’s still one ri and nine chō ahead.”

“This is Nakaya.” “Please rest here.” “Would you care for some tea?” “Our rooms currently have a bath available.”

It was the Kanagawa inn. In its midst, beneath hanging lanterns marking the Ōyama pilgrimage group, Tsukishima pilgrimage group, Hyakumi pilgrimage group, Kanda pilgrimage group, Kyōbashi pilgrimage group, and Taishi pilgrimage group—the secondary lodging Sawaraya, with its rows of name plaques, was crowded today. In one of the rear second-floor rooms, a quiet voice could be heard through the paper sliding doors. "No, there’s official business in Edo, you see. Since he’s unaccustomed to litigation matters, it fell to me—his uncle—to come up to the capital as his guardian. Yes."

The portly, mild-mannered man in his mid-forties who had been speaking—posing as Kakimi Gohei, a wealthy farmer from Ōmi—was Ōishi Kuranosuke, staying at the inn under this false identity.

The boy smiling nearby under the alias of his nephew, Kakimi Sanai, was Chikara. The old man who had come to this room under the pretext of having become acquainted in this inn’s bathhouse last night—now having tea and sweets brought in while engaging in conversation—was Onodera Jūnai, a senior member among their comrades posing as a practitioner of the Tosa tea ceremony.

“Edo must have changed quite a bit.” “Well—this one hasn’t visited Edo in some time—three years now, in fact.” “It might as well be my first descent—”

“As for this one, it’s my first time—” “My nephew here has been on this long journey since cutting his umbilical cord, yes.”

Aware of the figure passing through the corridor, they spoke just loud enough to be overheard.

This man for sale

一

“Hey! What the hell’s that?” Takebayashi Tadashichi, sitting on the front railing of Sawaraya’s second floor, raised his voice in an astonished tone. “Hey—come take a look at this.” Over the past several months, Takebayashi had secretly traveled between Osaka—where Harada Soemon had been hiding—Kyoto—where Kataoka Gengo lay low—and Edo’s Horibe Yasubei, vehemently advocating to accelerate their decisive strike. Now that all preparations were complete, he had fully transformed himself into a merchant’s clerk and was presently making his way to Edo.

Hazama Shinroku, who had likewise adopted a merchant guise, was lying sprawled on his back in the middle of the room. “A beautiful woman passing by or something?” “No, I was astonished.” “Doesn’t matter.” “Come look. Hurry up.” “What a noisy fellow.” With that, he got up and came over.

Tadashichi, laughing all the while, kept pointing insistently at the thoroughfare below.

A man was passing through. He was a samurai in the guise of a rōnin. A sheet of paper with "This Man For Sale" written in large characters was stuck to his back. On white paper, in jet-black ink—a truly bizarre phrase. Yet no matter how many times they looked, it undeniably read: “This Man For Sale.”

The man was walking with great swagger, shouldering that "For Sale" notice on his back.

Shinroku also began to laugh along,

“What’s with that guy? Is he a madman?” The “Is he a madman?” part came out a bit too loud. The words reached the man passing directly below, and he stopped to look up. With his hair tied in a large topknot, a ruddy, alcohol-flushed face, and a tall stature—it was Shimizu Kurōtarō. He had devised some eye-catching scheme—anything to create an opportunity for conversation among travelers along this highway—and after much deliberation, hit upon this placard idea. At Kawasaki’s Tateba tea house, one stage prior from Edo, he obtained hanshi paper, borrowed an inkstick, and wrote it.

And then, using rice grains to affix that paper placard to his crested back, he had come all the way to this Kanagawa—greeted by the astonishment and seen off by the derisive smirks of passersby along the way.

When Kurōtarō looked up at the second floor of the inn named Sawaraya before him, two townsmen were peering down from the railing and smirking. As if he had been waiting for this moment, he fixed his gaze and glared sharply upward. “Hey, you lot! You laughed.” “What’s so funny!” “You mere townspeople—what makes you think you could ever grasp my true intentions?” “It is precisely because I lost my stipend and was left destitute that I have endured shame, bent my principles, and put myself up for sale like this.” “Why is the serious effort of a man trying to survive so laughable, hmm?”

“Samurai sir, no matter how desperate you are, your antics are a bit too outlandish, don’t you think?”

Shinroku desperately pulled at the sleeve of Tadashichi, who had suddenly adopted a townsman-like tone and begun to speak, "Stop it! Don't engage him! If we get strange complaints from him now, we'll never hear the end of it."

Down below, Kurōtarō began in a loud voice, “Since you laughed at this ‘man for sale’ business, that must mean you’ve got the means to buy me.” “Very well.” “Then I’ll have you take me as I am—here and now.”

“Forgive me—” sounded as the masterless samurai already appeared to have stepped into Sawaraya’s earthen entrance.

II

Kakimi Gohei, the Ōishi father and son (Sanai), and Onodera Jūnai pretended to be meeting for the first time, each revealing their status before losing themselves in deliberately loud small talk about their journey and rumors of Edo, where they would soon be heading.

From a slightly dim small room at the base of the staircase, a short distance away,

“That’s why I told you—ain’t no use complainin’ now.” “Every night, every night—drinkin’ with that white-necked wench, and it’s plain as day you’ll be broke ’fore we even hit ten stations on the way back from the Fifty-Three—! Hey! Then what the hell did you go and say?” “Outbound daimyo, return beggars—that’s the Edoite way, ain’t it?” “You fool! You think you can walk all the way to Shinagawa on just water?” “I ain’t no goldfish—.” “Now, Bro.” “I’m tellin’ ya, quit barkin’ orders like that.” “Gimme a break.” “In return, I’ll carry your load on my shoulders from tomorrow on.” “I ain’t no servant.” “I’ll carry it all the way.” “Then there ain’t no complaints, right?”

Thus, Kumakō and Garappachi—two companions who appeared to be returning from a pilgrimage to Ise while noisily projecting their voices—turned out to be none other than Ōtaka Gengo and Akagaki Genzō in thoroughly convincing disguises.

Meanwhile, in the room across the courtyard, “Yes. In this humble one’s medical practice as well—much like the noble samurai’s martial training—traveling through various provinces and taking the opportunity to examine unusual pulses is indeed the greatest form of cultivation—”

This was Murmatsu Kihei, disguised as a physician. Indeed, Sugaya Hannojō—dressed in attire reminiscent of martial training—had come over from the neighboring room and was skillfully chiming in. In addition to Tomimori Sukeemon, Mase Hisadayū, and Okajima Yasuyemon, the comrades—disguised variously as townspeople, country samurai, physicians, and the like—were all lodging at Kanagawa’s Sawaraya inn this day, a group numbering twenty-one in total.

They maintained the pretense of being strangers—merely travelers heading in the same direction who had coincidentally gathered at this inn. They met today and parted tomorrow. People with no connection whatsoever. They kept up this act. Even when passing each other in corridors or the bathhouse, they showed no recognition and pretended complete ignorance. The comrades who had been scattered across Kansai on standby began descending one after another. Those operating covertly in Edo went out partway to meet them, and over two or three days—some arriving earlier, others later—they had finally reached this point just outside Edo in small groups, all while maintaining utmost caution.

“This is the room!” On the front second floor, a loud voice erupted as the masterless samurai with the “This Man for Sale” sign clattered open the sliding door to Takebayashi Tadashichi and Hazama Shinroku’s room. *A whistle.*

I

Hazama suddenly flattened his hands against Kurōtarō’s feet, “Honorable samurai, as you can see, I offer my deepest apologies—”

As he spoke, he tensed up, his complexion changing color. Before their major plan unfolded, they could not afford to let this trivial matter escalate into a commotion that might draw unwanted eyes. If any trouble were to arise now, it would have been inexcusable before our comrades. Moreover, we didn't even know who this opponent truly was—.

“I have said something utterly outrageous and disrespectful—” But Kurōtarō entered in silence, passed by Shinroku with a loud stomp on the tatami mats, then jabbed Takebayashi—who still stood smirking by the window—in the chest. “You bastard.” “What was it you just said while laughing?”

Takebayashi was short-tempered. Takebayashi remained standing rigidly with a sullen face, looking as if he might say something that would worsen the situation further, so Shinroku grew anxious.

Shuffling closer on his knees as if clinging desperately,

“No. It was merely that this unworthy one inadvertently said something that offended your sensibilities—.” “Shut up.”

Kurōtarō grabbed Takebayashi Tadashichi by the collar and yanked it tight. “You’re not kicking up a fuss. But your stance—the way your eyes move—ain’t normal.”

Even so, Takebayashi Tadashichi glared at Kurōtarō and stood imposingly in his way.

Shinroku panicked. “Don’t just have me doing all the apologizing here—you sit down too—no, honorable samurai, this one here’s a bit of an eccentric, but his heart’s in the right place.”

Shinroku desperately signaled to Tadashichi with his eyes. Then Kurōtarō laughed with astonishing volume, “A freak, huh? Heh heh, ain’t wrong about me bein’ a freak. Samurai ain’t supposed to be dressed like townsfolk.”

Takebayashi and Shinroku exchanged a swift, fleeting glance. “Preposterous!” “We are honest and true-born townspeople.” “Born-and-bred Shitaya folk.” “Just returned from Kamigata on business—”

Kurōtarō cast his gaze at Takebayashi’s flushed forehead and spoke as though delivering a decisive blow. “Helmet callus—look, this helmet callus here’s all the proof I need.”

Takebayashi’s fingers came to rest quietly on Kurōtarō’s hand gripping his collar. “If it’s for sale, I’ll buy it.” “This man is for sale—but I’ve changed my mind. I ain’t sellin’ to the likes of you. Not anymore.” “If you’re selling a fight, I’ll take you up on it.”

Shinroku shouted as he intervened. "You there—really, what are you saying to a samurai without even sizing up your opponent—." "Hmph." Kurōtarō flared his nostrils. "This hand—look, this hand grabbing mine—you're pretty damn good at jujutsu, ain't ya." Seeing no other choice, Shinroku headed toward the closet. There were two of Takebayashi's travel swords placed there.

Because a strange samurai had barged in, the startled faces of the inn’s manager and maids—who had followed him out of concern—were peering from the corridor. They scattered in a flash upon seeing Takebayashi and Kurōtarō glaring at each other with hostile eyes and Shinroku heading toward where the swords were kept.

Two

However, neither drew their swords. Before long, Kakimi Gohei—posing as proprietor of Sawaraya Inn and acting as elder of their shared lodgings—arrived at the room with Onodera Jūnai, Muramatsu Kihei, and others, bowing low before Kurōtarō to apologize on behalf of the two men.

Kurōtarō spent a long time looking around at the faces of those present, but

“Hmm.” “I see.” “Nah—just a minor thing before the big show.”

He remarked drowsily, clattered down the ladder steps, and left Sawaraya.

“We should cut him down.” As Takebayashi Tadashichi tried to rise while gripping his sword—only for Kakimi Gohei to restrain him—a strange, bird-like cry rose from the street below, growing fainter as it receded into the distance. Kurōtarō walked away, whistling as he went.

These people heard the sound of a whistle for the first time. When Kurōtarō returned to the longhouse within Kira’s mansion, he said to his brother Ichigaku, “You fool! I saw it. There’s not a damn sign of any Akō rōnin coming into Edo. Don’t worry. Besides, since I’ve worked so damn hard—how ’bout it? Buy me a sho. C’mon, a sho—.”

Three No matter how much they looked into this Shimizu Kurōtarō, nothing could be clearly ascertained. However, Ōishi’s faction, which had settled at Koyamaya Yahee’s residence in Nihonbashi Ishichō Sanchōme, later rented a house behind this inn and advanced their covert operations; but Kira’s spies began to appear in the vicinity. Then those spies would again be slain by unknown assailants; but whenever that happened, a whistle was said to be heard.

And as a certain book states that Kurōtarō, as usual, lay drunk and sleeping all day in his brother’s room at Kira’s mansion, he was likely still there on the night of December 14th as well. When it came to pass, he too must have fought valiantly alongside Ichigaku, Kobayashi Heihachirō, Waku Handayū—a practitioner of Yagyū-ryū—Shingai Yashichirō, Amano Sadanoshō, and Koro Genhachirō, only to meet his end in battle without doubt. No clear records remain to confirm this, but it is said that among those Okuda Magodayu faced in the garden was a large-built samurai who had attached a hyakume candle to the tip of a green bamboo pole, thrust it into the collar of his nightclothes, and confronted him with drunken staggering—a man of considerable swordsmanship. This might have been Kurōtarō. Given that he was said to be hopelessly drunk, after crossing swords with Magodayu and parting ways, he must have been easily cut down by someone.

The next morning, as the party—having tied Kira’s head to a spear shaft and assembled before the gate of Ekōin Muen Temple—detoured across Eitaibashi Bridge on their way to Sengakuji Temple in Takanawa, Takebayashi Tadashichi within the procession called out, “Hey, Hazama!” turning around and coming to a halt in the snow. “A whistle—I hear it.” Hazama Shinroku—his entire body blackened with splattered blood like Takebayashi—also halted his steps. “What? A whistle—?” “Yes, I hear it. “Listen carefully—there! “From nowhere, a whistle—there!”