We wakened, stiff and sore, a full two hours after noon. Yoritomo, who was first to rouse up, ran to the door to look out. He turned about, with an urgent cry that cut short my yawnings in the midst: “Up! up, brother! We’ve slept past midday. We must lose no time if we expect to reach the heart of Yedo by nightfall.”
“Do you remember the two biscuits I wrapped in my bundle?” I demanded. “I’m famished. A drink and a biscuit for me before I take to any road race.”
“We must dress and eat. There is water outside,” he responded, and he slashed open our bundles.
Not a drop of water had penetrated the oil-paper wrappings. We slipped off our stained and tattered Yamabushi robes to put on the silken garments which he had carried from his country all the long voyage to Europe and back. First came a pair each of the gorgeous baggy trousers, or hakama. They were provided with side slits, into which we tucked the skirts of our silk kimonos. The narrow twisted obi, or sash, served to hold my revolvers and the magnificent Masamune sword presented to me by Yoritomo that eventful night in the cabin of the Sea Flight.
My friend thrust his sword and dirk into his girdle, not in the horizontal Japanese fashion, but vertically, as I wore mine, that the scabbards might not show beneath our outer robes. His writing case and the bag containing his smoker’s outfit were secured on the other side by passing the carved ivory buttons of their cords through a fold of the girdle. Inside, about my waist, I placed my twenty odd pounds of metallic revolver cartridges, while he packed within his bosom a lighter though bulkier load consisting of white silk foot-mittens, extra sandals, a roll of crinkly writing paper, and the box with the remainder of his gold coins.
Over all we drew our cloak-like coats, or haoris, of rich stiff silk, upon which the circled mallow-leaf trefoil of the Tokugawa crest was embroidered on back, breasts, and sleeves. These coats were in turn covered with our dingy priest robes, and we were outwardly prepared to take the road. There remained our inward preparation. We took our ship’s biscuits and passed out the narrow entrance.
My first glance was directed towards Fujiyama. But the glorious peak was shrouded from view by a bank of envious clouds. Yoritomo turned at once to a hollowed stone from which trickled a rill of pure water. We drank and crouched down beside the spring to gnaw at our biscuits. At first I was too hungry to heed my surroundings. Yoritomo, however, soon pointed southward, through a gap in the shrubbery, to where, some four miles distant, a hilly promontory jutted out into the bay.
“That is the town of Kanagawa,” he said.
“Where?” I asked. “I see no smoke. Do you mean that little gray blotch low down on the edge of the promontory?”
“No, that is only a small fishing village lying among the rice swamps,—Yokohama, I believe, is its name. Kanagawa lies about two miles to the west of it. You see no smoke because in Japan we use charcoal only. Kanagawa is the last station on the Tokaido where the daimios stop over night before marching into Yedo.”