I. Parker: Island of Exiles

The doctor proved, on closer inspection, less confidence-inspiring. The black gown was covered with stains, his finger-nails were dirt-rimmed, and his eyes bleary and bloodshot.

“Harrumph,” said the doctor. “I’m Ogata, physician and medical officer for the prisoners. Was told to have a look at you.

You’re Taketsuna? No family names here, I’m afraid. Strictly forbidden. You don’t look too good. What happened?”

“I’m all right. We ran into a storm coming over, and I’m not used to sailing. But there’s a man outside whose wounds have become infected.”

The doctor nodded, then stepped closer to peer at Taketsuna’s face. A strong smell of sour breath and wine assailed the prisoner’s nose and made him flinch.

“Hmm. I suppose the welcoming committee issued its usual warning,” the physician said, probing Taketsuna’s cheekbone and jaw with surprisingly gentle fingers. “Open your mouth.” He pursed his lips and shook his head. “Eating will be a bit painful for a while, but you should get over that.” Taketsuna smiled a little, painfully. “So far there has been no food. Only water. I could eat raw greens at this point.” He wondered if the physician had heard his comment about little Jisei.

The physician cocked his head. “When did they feed you last?”

“A bowl of gruel on the ship after the storm. It was all the food I’ve had in three days. I was seasick.”

“No wonder you’re swaying on your feet. Never mind. You’ll get fed. And, as soon as I’ve checked the rest of you, you can sit down. Take off those filthy rags.”

The prisoner glanced at the doctor’s stained gown and smiled again, but he complied without protest.

“Heavens,” muttered the physician, stepping back and walking around the patient. “You’ve got muscles. Ever do any wrestling?”

“Just for exercise.”

“They’ll put you to hard labor if they see that. You’d better keep your clothes on at all times and slouch a bit when you walk.”

“What sort of labor?”

The physician was feeling the bruised ribs. “Roads. Dikes.

Mines. Lifting and carrying rocks. Not healthy unless you’re used to it.” He moved around to the prisoner’s back and pressed near the lower spine. “Does this hurt?” The prisoner shook his head, and the physician came around to face him again, prodding about the abdomen, asking about pain. Again the prisoner shook his head.

“You can get dressed now,” the doctor said, digging about in his medicine case and pulling forth a stoppered flask. “My guess is . . .” he said, pausing to take a long swig from the bottle before extending it to Taketsuna, “that you have never done a day’s hard physical work in your life, and the sort of forced labor the stronger prisoners do here will cripple or kill a man like you.

Have you any skills?”

Taketsuna was holding the flask dubiously. The contents smelled like wine, and he wondered what it would do to his empty and painful stomach. “I can read and write,” he said. “I could do secretarial work or bookkeeping, I suppose.”

“If you’re not going to drink, give it back,” the doctor snapped crossly, extending his hand.

Taketsuna took a deep swallow and doubled over, coughing.

The wine, if that was what it was, packed an incredible punch.

“Hmph,” commented the doctor, “not much of a stomach, either. Can’t imagine why they put someone with your background on the hard labor detail. I’ll see what I can do for you.” He raised the flask to his mouth and drank deeply, waving the prisoner out.

An hour later, when Taketsuna was sitting with the others in the shade of the wooden palisade again, the doctor emerged from the guardhouse in the company of the officer. The doctor’s gait was unsteady and his path less than straight, but he made his way over to them.

“That doctor’s as drunk as a frog in a sake barrel,” muttered one of the pirates.

Jisei smiled. “That’s never stopped him before. He’ll look at me now. And maybe he’ll get us better food, like last time.” The physician ignored Jisei’s eager greeting and merely looked at each man blearily, had them open their mouths and perform some simple actions, before moving on to the next man. When it was Jisei’s turn, he frowned at the wounds on his knees and arms and pursed his lips. But even here, he made no comment, merely digging a small earthenware jar from his medicine chest. Turning to the guard officer, he said, “All these men look filthy. Have them bathe, and then put this ointment on this man’s wounds.”

The officer stepped back, affronted. “What, me? You’re drunk! They’re prisoners, not honored guests.” The doctor handed the ointment to Taketsuna. “Here, you do it.” To the guard, he said, “If you don’t keep these men clean and well fed, they’ll sicken and die, and nobody will get any work out of them. Do you want me to report you to the governor?”

“My men won’t like it,” grumbled the officer. Seeing the doctor’s implacable silence, he relented. “Oh, very well. They can have a bath if they heat the water and clean the bath afterwards.”

“And food!”

“Of course, Master Ogata. We’ll saute some kisu fish for them, with ginger shoots and sesame seeds,” the officer sneered. “Perhaps you can spare some of your wine for their banquet?”

The fat physician hunched his shoulders, then turned his back on them and staggered off.

But they got their bath and a hot dinner. Taketsuna appreciated both far more than the others and was grateful for the drunken physician’s visit. From snatches of conversation among the prisoners, he gathered that forced labor could be brutal and hoped he might be spared that. Not only Jisei, whose wounds he had tended after the bath, bore the scars of his toils. There was also Yoshi’s missing eye, lost when a guard’s whip caught him across the face instead of the back, and Kumaso’s crooked ankle, broken and badly set after a rock fell on it. And the bath had revealed that the silent Haseo’s back was so heavily scarred by crisscrossing stripes and welts that he must have been near death after his punishment.

With darkness they drew closer together against the night chill. Kumaso and Yoshi engaged in a game of “rock, scissors, paper” like two carefree children. Taketsuna thought with longing of his distant family.

The stars above were particularly clear tonight. He lay back, his arms folded under his head against the sharp bits of gravel, and wondered if he would get used to his new life, used to sleeping on the hard, cold ground without cover and under the open sky, used to humiliation and rough physical labor, used to beatings. The last was the most difficult, a disgrace impossible to be borne without retaliation. He wished for the warmth of silken quilts, but being tired, he dozed off.

The discomfort of the cold night and the hard soil beneath him woke him somewhat later. Two of his companions were whispering softly.

“Forget it. It’s too dangerous. They might find out.” The other man made some inaudible protest.

“Lot of good that’ll do you, when you’re dead. You know what they say about the Second Prince’s murder.” Startled, Taketsuna sat up. The whispering stopped. “Who was that?” he asked softly. “Who was talking?” Silence.

He reached over and shook the shoulder of the sleeper next to him. The man grunted and sat up with a curse. “What the devil d’you want? Can’t a man have a little peace at night?” he complained sleepily.

At the gate the dozing guards came awake. “Quiet over there,” one of them shouted, “or we’ll give you what for, you lousy pieces of dung.”

Taketsuna whispered an apology, lay back down, and closed his eyes. He did not have much chance to sleep, because a short time later someone arrived to pick up the new prisoner.