When quiet was restored Hideyoshi bestowed rewards on all the daimios who had fought for him, and Ujisato was promoted to the Governorship of Matsuzaka Castle in the province of Isé with an annual income of 300,000 koku of rice.
All in their turns, and according to their degrees, Ujisato rewarded those of his vassals who had distinguished themselves under his leadership. Some were given handsome gifts; others had their stipends raised. Gonshirō who considered he had done a greater deed than any of the others, seeing that he had saved his master’s life at the risk of his own, naturally expected to receive some special favour. But greatly to his surprise and chagrin no acknowledgment was made. What could be the reason?
At first he felt no little resentment and brooded over this neglect. But after a time, being a man who cared little for gain, he let the affair fade from his mind though he still felt sore when he happened to think of it.
Meanwhile the summer had come and gone, and now the 15th of September was here. The night of all the year on which the atmosphere in Japan is most translucent and the moon shines with the greatest brilliancy. The night when men of a poetic turn sit up into the small hours composing verses on the beauty of the scene, the while they sip saké from delicate porcelain cups to aid the fickle muse. On this night therefore Ujisato gave a “moon-viewing party,” inviting a large number of his retainers to a banquet in the main hall of his castle.
The witching light of the full moon wrapt the stern old pile; the tiny ripples on the moat glistened like liquid gold; the crickets shrilled musically among the tall grasses. The sliding screens had been removed and the calm beauty without softened and impressed the hearts of the sturdy warriors inured to scenes so different of bloodshed and the din of battle. Now it was that charmed by the loveliness around them many began to compose verses in adoration of the scene, and Ujisato’s were among the best. But after a time the saké of which they partook, not sparingly, went to their heads, and it is not surprising that some of the would-be poets became a little elevated. The talk turned to tales of war and one and another recounted deeds of prowess performed by himself in the face of danger and difficulty. Nor was the host, Lord Ujisato himself, above a little boasting in his cups and it was thus he spoke:—
“Listen, my friends,” he began. “Do you remember the fierce assault of the Castle of Ganshaku at the beginning of this year? The mere mention of it makes my blood boil! We attacked the castle three days without a break yet could make no headway. You men lost heart. To rouse you to a final effort I rode up to the gate alone—alone, in the face of the enemy amid a perfect hailstorm of missiles. A bullet struck my horse and he fell—I under him. Seizing the opportunity the enemy poured out and surrounded me nine or ten deep—I determined to sell my life dear” ... here the narrator paused to wipe his face from which the perspiration was streaming from the energy with which he spoke. Gonshirō’s heart leapt, he bent forward his face eager—now, at last his lord was about to reward his patient waiting and acknowledge his service before all men.
“To sell my life dear,” repeated Ujisato with gleaming eyes. “So I fought as I had never done before with the courage of despair. Some I cut down, others I put to flight, finally I succeeded in remounting my horse and rode into the castle before the enemy could close the gates against me. Seeing my intrepid action you were inspired by my spirit, and following closely on my heels, you all did your best and the fortress was taken.”
Thus did Ujisato omit all mention of Gonshirō and overlook his gallant deed. This base ingratitude was more than the faithful retainer could bear!
“Gonshirō begs permission to speak a word, your lordship,” he said brusquely.
“By all means,” assented Ujisato. “What is it?”