Something of this had to come to the ears of Jisuké; but not the full extent of his son's wickedness. He sought a remedy for what he thought mere wild behaviour. Now in the town, years ago, there had lived a poor farmer and his wife; "water drinkers," in the local expression for bitter poverty. The man laboured at day tasks, and the wife laboured as hard with him, bearing her baby girl on her back. Jisuké aided as he could, and as was his wont, and when the pair were taken down and died with a prevailing epidemic disease, it was Jisuké and his wife who took the child to themselves, to bring her up as their own. O'Ichi San grew into a beautiful girl, and at this time Jisuké and his wife trusted to her favour and influence to bring Jinnosuké to the sedateness and regularity of a farmer's life. The girl blushed and looked down as she listened to what was more than request, though put in mildest form. "One so humble is hardly likely to please the young master. Filial duty bids this Ichi to obey, and yield her person at command." The mother was more than gratified at the assent and modesty—"Dutiful you have always been. We parents have no eyes. The whole matter is left to you. If Jinnosuké can be taken by your person, perchance he will devote his time to home and the farm work, now so irksome to his father. Where he goes in these long absences is not known; they can be for no good purpose." Thus the arrangement was made. The girl now busied herself about and with Jinnosuké. She was the one to attend to all his comforts, to await his often late return. Thus used to her he soon began to look on her with anything but brotherly eyes. Was she not the daughter of old Tarōbei, the water drinker? He knew the story well. Thus one night he took O'Ichi to himself. She pleased him—as with the parents. No objection was anywhere raised to the connection; a village of Nippon has cognizance of such matters; and in short order public notice was given of the marriage.
The influence was not of long duration. With his wife's pregnancy Jinnosuké disappeared. From the age of thirteen years he had been hand in glove with all the rough fellows of the district. These were stirring times in the south. There was something to pick up. After all was not he a samurai's son. Jinnosuké was too late for action. Although but seventeen years old his short sturdy and astonishingly active frame and skill with weapons was a welcome addition to the band that Ogita Kurōji had gathered after the fall of Ōsaka-jō. Now Jinnosuké figured as Kosaka Jinnai. Here first he came in contact with the law and Aoyama Shūzen. On this failure he betook himself at once to the disguise of his native village; to enter it as quietly as if he never had left it, to find himself the father of a baby girl, Kikujō, and to procreate another on his patient wife. But before this second girl, O'Yui, was born Jinnosuké, as the village still knew him, had again disappeared. This was in strict accordance with his principle, of which something is to be said.
Of these Ōsaka rōnin, determined not to take another master, there were three Jinnai. In council over past failure, said Tomizawa Jinnai.[21] "The ambition of this Tomizawa?" He laughed. Jinnai was no distinctive term in this gathering. "It is to collect all the beautiful costumes of Nippon."—"Admirable indeed!" chimed in Shōji Jinnai (or Jinémon, as he called himself). "But why stop at the surface? As you know, the ambition of this Shōji had long been to see gathered together all the most beautiful women of Nippon. And you, Kosaka?"—"To see all distinction done away with between other men's property and my own."—"Splendid indeed! But don't poach on our ground." The two others clapped their hands and laughed. Kosaka Jinnai did not. "Well then—to put the matter to the test," said he callously. Tomizawa Jinnai forthwith took up the collection of old clothing and costumes of divers sorts. He can be said to be the ancestor of the old clothes trade of Edo—Tōkyō; and the Tomizawachō at Ningyōchō no Yokochō, the place of his residence, is his memorial. To this day it is a centre for old clothes shops. Shōji Jinnai pressed the petition he had once put in (Keichō 17th year—1612) as Jinémon before being finally convinced of the righteousness of a Tokugawa world. He was lucky enough to find oblivion and reward in the permit for a harlot quarter. As its bailiff (nanushi) he assembled three thousand beautiful women for the service of the Yoshiwara, then at Fukiyachō near Nihonbashi, and of which Ōmondori is the chief relic. Kosaka Jinnai, under such encouragement and auspices, betook himself more vigorously than ever to robbery; enhanced by a mighty idea which the years gradually brought to ripeness in his mind. From being a sandal bearer Hidéyoshi the Taikō had risen to rule. He, Jinnai, would emulate the example and rise to rule from being a bandit. He was not, and would not be, the only one of the kind in the political world. Hence his wide travels through the provinces, his seeking out all the most desperate and villainous characters, for he had "trust" in few others, his weaving together of a vast conspiracy of crime, not to be equalled in any time but the closing days of the Ashikaga Shōgunate—and that not so far off. Of this period of Jinnai's life there is a tale to relate.
CHAPTER XIX
A Matter of Pedestrianism
Up to the very recent days of Meiji the precincts of the Shiba San-en-zan Zōjōji, now known more particularly as the most accessible of the burial places of the Tokugawa Shōgun, were an excellent example of the old monastic establishments. The main temple with its wide grounds was completely girdled by a succession of halls or monastic foundations, some of which were famed through the land for their theological teaching of the principles of the Jōdō sect. Conspicuous among these were the Tenjingatani and the Mushigatani, seminaries widely sought for the erudition of the professors. In all nearly three thousand students attended the halls, with an eye to an ecclesiastical future.
On the dawn of a cold winter morning a priestly clad man, a shoké or one of the lowest clerical order, mainly notable for the vastness and robustness of his proportions, could have been seen leaving the gate of the Tokuchō-in. His size alone would have attracted attention, for the mouse coloured kimono, the white leggings and mitts (tekkō), the double soled waraji (sandals) fastened on a pair of big feet, were usual travelling equipment of his kind, made sure by the close woven ajiro or mushroom hat covering his head; admirable shelter against heat in summer, and a canopy—umbrella like—against falling snow in winter. By somewhat devious route he strode along a narrow lane, crossed the Gokurakubashi and halted before the Chūmon on the broad avenue leading up to the temple. A glance thither satisfied him for a leave-taking, which yet displayed some sentiment. A few moments carried him without the entrance gate, and but few more saw him crossing Kanésujibashi, evidently on some long tramp, if the steady swing of a practised walker, in no haste and conserving his strength, is any test.
The road in those days passed through a long succession of village houses, the chō of Shiba village, broken very occasionally by a yashiki wall. It was not until he reached the barrier at Takanawa, Kurumachō, that he came full out on the bay just lighting up with the coming day—a beautiful stretch of water, now spoiled by the ugliness of the railway and the filling in which has turned the haunt of thousands of wild fowl into a prairie, soon to be covered by hideous factories and other sites of man's superfluous toil. Close by the little saddle at Shinagawa, now a railway cutting, a stream came into the bay from the west. On the bridge the priest Dentatsu stopped for a moment. Throughout, from the time of leaving Kanésujibashi, he had had a feeling of being followed. Now he determined to get a good look at his pursuer, it was not particularly satisfying. "Iya! An ill looking chap—with an eye like a knife." The object of these remarks had halted with him, at the further side of the bridge. He was contemplating the water with one eye, the priest with the other. A short sturdy man of forty odd years, Dentatsu noted the good but thin upper garment, the close fitting leggings, the well chosen waraji, the copper handled dagger in his girdle. Furthermore he noted a cold decision in the glance of the eye that he liked least of all in the fellow's equipment.
This was a man he would not choose for companion—"Bah! Short Legs, this Dentatsu will soon leave your stumps in the rear. A little speed, and this doubtful fellow is left behind beyond hope." So off started his reverence at the full pace of his huge legs and really great endurance. Through Ōmori and Kamata, crossing in the same boat at the Rokugo ferry, through Kawasaki and Tsurumigi—totsu-totsu-totsu the stranger's legs kept easy pace with those of the priest. "A most extraordinary fellow," thought Dentatsu. "He moves as on springs. It would be well to settle matters at once with him." Halting he waited for this pursuer to close up the few score feet maintained between them. His frowning manner had a genial greeting. "Ah! Ha! Truly the Go Shukké Sama[22] is no mean walker. But even then company on the road is good. From the Zōjōji; by that kesa (stole), dress, and carriage? Probably the honoured priest has a long journey before him—to the capital?" Dentatsu duly scanned his company—"To the Chion-In, the parent temple, and none too fond of companionship on the road. Deign, good sir, to spare yours; with such short legs the task of precedence would be out of the question. Drop the useless effort of this pursuit, which becomes an annoyance."