Tim Severin - Sea Robber

Across the sandy fighting ground the Ta-yin sat on his folding stool, unmoving and impassive, his face expressionless.

The bushi made a slight move. He brought his left hand up and touched his helmet. For a moment Hector thought he was making some sort of salute or challenge. Then it was clear the man-at-arms was adjusting the position of the visor, the better to shade his eyes.

With a brief stir of hope, Hector wondered if Jezreel was calculating on the benefit of having the sun’s glare behind him. He checked where the bushi’s shadow fell. But it was barely past midday, and there was very little advantage, if any.

Without warning, Jezreel let out a great bellow. At the same moment he launched himself forward. In huge strides, he covered the ground faster than seemed possible, even for a man of his height and bulk. Still roaring, he charged straight at his opponent’s sword. Raising his backsword high above his head, he delivered a massive downward cut at the bushi’s helmet. The speed and directness of the onslaught took everyone by surprise, including the Shimazu man-at-arms. For an eye-blink the bushi stood still, as if locked in his rigid pose. Then his training took over. Two-handed, he swung up his sword high enough to protect his head and held it parallel to the ground. It was the correct, classic blocking move. Jezreel’s backsword smashed down on the Shimazu blade with a tremendous ringing clang. Under their protective shoulder pads, the bushi’s arms flexed like springs to absorb the impact. Then the man-at-arms took a quarter-pace backwards. It was the proper response, to make space for a counter-strike. But Jezreel’s backsword was already descending again. The speed of raw violence was shocking. The big man pressed forward, looming over his armoured rival, raining down blows in such quick succession that the clashing steel made a continuous clangour. The bushi was a consummate swordsman. Without losing control he carefully edged backwards, fending off the attack, safe within his armour. He was ready to turn Jezreel’s overwhelming strength against the giant. Instead of blocking the backsword, the man-at-arms offered up his own blade at an angle, so that Jezreel’s weapon would slide aside and leave the big man open to attack. But Jezreel was not to be deflected. He turned his wrist just before his backsword made contact, so that every blow struck square and with terrific force.

The method was brutal, ugly and graceless. The flurry of blows owed nothing to the finer techniques of fencing. By sheer strength the former prizefighter was battering down his opponent’s defence. Gradually the bushi’s blocking moves became less effective. His defence began to sag. Too proud, or untrained, to turn and seek a safer distance, he started to weaken. The descending backsword came hacking closer and closer to its target. Finally it connected with the bowl-shaped helmet. Two or three more blows, each more shattering than the last, and the bushi’s knees buckled. Like a blacksmith beating metal, Jezreel unleashed one final strike, this time with the hilt of his backsword. He smashed it down on the centre of the bowl-shaped helmet, and the stunned man-at-arms fell face down.

There was a murmur of amazed shock from the watching crowd. The display of rampant physical strength had been stupefying. Several of the Shimazu musketeers were fingering their guns and looking towards their master, waiting for instructions. Hector feared they’d be ordered to shoot Jezreel where he stood, or to fire into the crowd. Backsword still in hand, his shirt soaked with sweat, Jezreel took a moment to catch his breath. Then he addressed Stolck and Panu without even looking at the Ta-yin, ‘Tell the “great man” that his honour is now at stake.’

Panu appeared unable to look the Ta-yin directly in the face. The interpreter had risen to his feet during the fight and was about to translate Jezreel’s words when the Ta-yin’s sour voice broke in. The tone was scathing, the words clipped, spoken in short bursts, this time allowing for translation.

‘Barbaric and brutish . . . Only a savage would fight like that . . . but I honour my word. Anyone who is still here this time tomorrow will be killed.’

The men from the Nicholas looked at one another with a mixture of relief and urgency. Those in the rear began to hurry back to their camp. Eaton was bold enough to request that the goods stolen from the ship be returned.

The Ta-yin gave him a baleful look. ‘No, I promised to let the men go free. Not the goods. Besides, without gunpowder for your guns, you will be obliged to begin learning the true way of fighting with the blade.’

TEN

‘HOW DID YOU know what to do?’ asked Hector. It was the following day and he and Jezreel were on the main deck of the Nicholas, tidying up loose ropes as the vessel carefully eased along the channel through the reef.

‘The deft way he beheaded Ookooma.’

Hector winced. He could still picture the single slashing sword stroke, the head jumping off the fisherman’s shoulders. ‘That would have deterred me,’ he confessed.

Jezreel paused to adjust a coil more neatly over a belaying pin. ‘When that fellow mentioned that his dad owned an old lobster helmet, it put me in mind of how they did away with King Charles. The headsman used a heavy axe against a chopping block.’

‘How did that persuade you to rush on your opponent like a man possessed?’ asked Hector.

‘King Charles lost his head to a single axe stroke. Everyone knows a headsman sometimes needs three, even four, blows to finish the cut. So imagine what sort of sword you need to do the same job so cleanly.’

‘It hadn’t ever occurred to me,’ said Hector drily.

‘Something with an edge so finely honed, and yet so strong and slender, it whips through sinew and bone as you or I might lop a twig from a tree.’

Hector recalled the design of the Shimazu sword. It had a slight curve towards the tip, a longish handle and – if he had seen it correctly – the blade was ridged in the centre.

‘And how light it was,’ Jezreel continued. ‘I watched that warrior wielding it. The sword was like an extension to his arm, beautifully balanced and easy to swing. It wasn’t the weight of the sword that carried it through the castaway’s neck. It was the quality, shape and flexibility of it, as sweet a blade as you could imagine.’

Jezreel was enjoying his subject. Edged weapons and their use had been part of his livelihood as a prizefighter. ‘That warrior had good reason to treat that blade like something very precious.’

‘I still don’t see the connection between his regard for the sword and the way you attacked him,’ said Hector. He recalled how carefully the man-at-arms had handed his sword to the attendant before he went forward to face Domine and his stiletto.

Jezreel was working on a rope’s end that had become kinked. His big, scarred hands untwisted the strands until they lay snugly together again. ‘I guessed he’d do anything to protect that blade. The cutting edge would easily chip if it hit hard against something really solid. And to knock out even a tiny sliver of metal would be sacrilege, as far as he was concerned.’

‘So you rushed at him to threaten the blade, rather than the man himself?’

‘Precisely. His first instinct was to defend himself with a blocking blow, using the blunt edge of his sword. Once I’d tricked him into raising his sword, reverse side up, I was going to pin him down, keep him in place and batter him into submission.’

‘You picked up his sword after the fight.’

‘Yes. I just wanted to check I’d been right. The leading edge was as sharp and fine as a razor, and it had what a cutler calls a grind ridge down the centre of the blade. That left the back edge blunt and gave the blade its strength.’