A slow march of nearly three weeks brought Shibusawa and his great army to the outskirts of the shogun’s capital city, Tokyo; little resistance having been offered on the way, and no considerable inconvenience suffered.

The assaulting general had taken his time, partly because of the difficulty experienced in moving artillery without a sufficient supply of horses or cattle, but chiefly in view of expected hostilities and the uncertainty of the country through which they passed. However, he was agreeably disappointed in finding his passage practically uninterrupted, and the inhabitants not extremely unfriendly. The news had gone far in advance of his coming, and the very audacity of his movements had won for him admiration if not respect.

Upon arriving at his destination, Shibusawa halted well outside the city, seized upon the most advantageous points and fortified them with artillery and troops, preparatory to the great siege which he had planned.

In his investment of the place he took particular pains to make his stand at some considerable distance from the densely built sections. He had realised the danger of setting fire to the thatched roofs and wooden structures, should any heavy engagement take place near them, and however anxious he may have been to crush the shogunate he did not wish to do so at the cost of a conflagration or the needless destruction of life or property. He went at the business of conquering the foe with a just and full appreciation of the rights and conveniences of the people; and, upon extending his lines around the city, purposely left a weak place to the northward, giving the enemy a chance to break through, if he so desired, thus avoiding the necessity of fighting the final engagement at or near the great capital, with its large population, its splendid buildings, and vast stores of wealth.

In this Shibusawa reasoned well and, under existing conditions, lost nothing in position or opportunity. While the loophole came to nothing so far as the shogun himself was concerned, it did afterwards accomplish good results by letting at least a portion of the samurai out, thus avoiding a last stand or any large engagement within the city. Nor would it have been any the less operative in the case of Hitotsubashi, had he not weakened at the first appearance of danger and run like the weakling he had shown himself to be. The scared shogun had long since withdrawn from anything like a hostile attitude, hiding himself within the secret confines of a bulwark builded by other hands than his.

In fact, upon the receipt of Shibusawa’s letter, despatched from Owara, advising him of the mikado’s edict demanding his resignation, Hitotsubashi fainted away and was revived only by means of much sorcery and many assurances. Tetsutaisho had by this time fully recovered—having suffered more from the concussion than from the wound—and become anxious to retrieve his fallen prowess. Before his disablement at Fushima he had presaged the inevitable outcome of the battle, had he been spared to lead on to victory his overwhelming numbers, and now keenly felt the disgrace rightly attributed to his idolised shogun, who had so promptly and properly taken up the ill-fated command. Therefore, urging Hitotsubashi to stand firm, he advised that they all fall together like men, if fall they must.

“True, your most august highness, I advised war from the beginning,” said he. “I do no less now. And when the last has deserted, Tetsutaisho will stand face to face with the enemy. You have my judgment; I have the army. Do as you will, but I shall defend these walls, which enclose the last that is dear to a samurai. Loyalty is my due, and honour my right. May the gods deal lightly with you; with me there is a more serious issue: the shogunate must live!”

Though the commander-in-chief of the shogun’s forces held positive in his stand, and was now strongly supported by both Daikomitsu and Okotsuba, and several other of the daimyos, he could no longer bolster up and encourage the waning Hitotsubashi. On the contrary the latter grew more cowardly and anxious, and long before Shibusawa had arrived, he, together with some twenty daimyos and a large number of retainers and hangers-on, withdrew from the walled palace, retiring to the castle of Mito in everlasting disgrace. Their withdrawal necessarily weakened the triumvirate, but it did still more: it again divided them in their policy, and scattered them in their last defence.

Daikomitsu had in the first place advised Hitotsubashi to go to Kyoto in compliance with the mikado’s request, but he had never considered the surrendering of the shogunate or the abandonment of its cause; and when the shogun had so flagrantly disregarded his advice and marched against Kyoto, he realised more than ever the necessity of ignoring him, and of establishing a more harmonious relation among the triumvirate. This he undertook to do, and had the shogun remained quietly in the palace at Tokyo they might yet have succeeded in saving their idolised institution.

Tetsutaisho not only was thus sorely tried with public duties and loss of prestige, but had been overwhelmed with sorrow at home. He had there met with new and bitter experiences and, in place of that consolation and comfort which a man in any position can ill afford to forego, was burdened with a deep and abiding grief.

Not until the night before the shogun’s departure had Nehachibana relented; then she came to her husband and in a confused manner confessed that Kinsan had not taken the life of Sodachinojoi. She told him of how the child of itself had slipped into the crevice; and without making any excuse for her own falsehood or expressing sympathy for the wronged one, she left him there, and the next day went out of the city, following the train of the shogun into seclusion.

Nehachibana had become a convert to the new religion, and believing herself a martyr now sought to relieve her conscience by a confession of the facts; thus preparing herself to ask His forgiveness and receive salvation. Tetsutaisho’s wife had been an easy convert and ready worker among her kind; it had been easy for her to become a Christian, offering a ready road to happiness; her own religion was not so easily adjusted or so well suited to like achievement. And while the missionary, Mrs. Lindley, escaped along with the shogun’s retinue, and took her convert with her, she had done a great good in the years she had been at Tokyo; for not only had she saved Nehachibana’s soul, but her little daughter had given much succour and some comfort to poor Kinsan while suffering the cruel revenge of her fiendish tormentor.

Tetsutaisho’s heart sickened upon hearing the confession; and hastening to rectify the awful mistake, he found Kinsan suffering all but the last pangs of starvation; for the attention even of the missionary’s little daughter had in the excitement of the hour failed her. The strong man fell upon his knees at her side, and with his own hands broke the lock which held the vile instrument at her neck. Gathering the frail form in his arms he carried her to her former lodge, and there summoned the best aid and nourishment at his command. Nor was he satisfied with this alone, but would have condemned Nehachibana even to a severer punishment had not Kinsan pleaded for her deliverance, saying feebly:

“She is but a woman; and no more accountable for her way than I am for my misfortune. It is not the deed, but the necessity that makes the wrong. In such an one there can be no crime—please do not inflict a punishment.”

Tetsutaisho yielded to Kinsan’s persuasion, for he now understood her, and appreciated the force of her intent, though not her logic. He remained a child of feudalism, and outside its tenets was a suckling, not knowing that there opened another way. To him woman seemed but an instrument, the better used to gratify man’s desire; and when he allowed Nehachibana to escape it had been only to encourage an eager, selfish hope.

Kinsan recovered rapidly; thus Tetsutaisho became relieved, and devoted himself more than ever to the strengthening of his defences and the preparations for a final combat. In his mind there was only one course to pursue, and that the heroic. It mattered not that a city be destroyed, that countless lives be sacrificed. He was as bold and intrepid as he was loyal and courageous; knowing neither the power of deception, nor the force of heartless mechanism. He marshalled not their cowardly virtues, but called to hand an humbler host, the glorious heroics of a dying age. He proposed to make a last triumphant stand, and dazzle mankind with the splendour of his achievement; but in this, too, he was doomed to disappointment.

Both Daikomitsu and Okotsuba reasoned patiently against the dangers of his policy. They knew too well the futility of matching valour against cunning, the human against the inhuman. They argued well that they had best make good their escape, holding the enemy in check and preserving their own forces until, in time, they could substitute a more effective warfare. But Tetsutaisho remained resolute and when the final day came, faced a hopeless attempt, realising only at the last moment the inevitable consequence of his folly.

It was a dark, gloomy, and hopeless day. All the morning the rain had poured, and the thatched roofs and wooden structures were soaked with water. The time was July—the fourth day—and after the long rain a rising vapour enveloped the city with a low, hazy fog. The clouds overhead ran low, and Shibusawa ordered the advance. Twice before he had planned to move upon them, but each time refrained from doing so at the earnest appeal of Daikomitsu, who had sent messengers protesting against the destruction of the city. This time there must be no halting; the heavens had cleared the way.

Column after column of the mikado’s splendid army, with fixed bayonet and steady march, advanced from the south upon the walled enclosure at the palace grounds. Hardly had they sounded the approach, the moats were destroyed and the big cannon hurled their easy missiles against the yielding gates and weakening walls. The waters emptied, and the stones loosened and fell; they pressed on, some levelling, others scaling, until the last obstruction had fallen—thus thrice proving the certainty of the new and the futility of the old, as time and progress ever repeat.

As the last wall fell Shibusawa brandished high his sword and commanded the charge. Quickly they ran, and the hillside swarmed with oncoming hordes of sturdy, determined men. Reaching the summit the broad expanse of the shogun’s gardens spread out before them, and they ranked in double line, listening, with breathless expectation. And as they waited the clouds parted, revealing a scattering enemy in the background; only a small formation stood aligned in front of the palace buildings. Like a flash came the order:

“Fire!”

A blaze, and the crack of musketry dulled against the heavy atmosphere. The line fell to their knees and began reloading. The rear had risen, and stood ready to repeat. The smoke rose, and a woman was seen running toward them. She had gained the centre of the field, yet without heed of her presence or time to observe an order a second volley poured its deadly shot into the foreground. Shibusawa had seen her and cried:

“Cease your firing!”

But the warning had come too late, and turning to his troops he said:

“Would you so little respect the helpless, and that a woman? I thought better of my command. Hold you here with compassion, and let me advance.”

Nor had he checked their progress unknowingly; for before the smoke again shut out the view he had levelled his glasses at the approaching form, and to his horror discovered that it was Kinsan who with the white cloth in hand had reeled and fallen before the wicked report had time to die away.

Shibusawa at the head of his staff sprang forward, and before the smoke had again fairly cleared away came well-nigh upon the fallen woman who lay in a swoon, though breathing lightly and not mortally wounded. But not he alone had gone to her rescue, for Tetsutaisho also had observed her danger, and from the opposite side ran to save her. At the beginning of the engagement Kinsan and others had been carefully sheltered at the rear, from which situation she overheard a heated discussion between Tetsutaisho and Daikomitsu, resulting in the latter’s withdrawal at the last moment of the major portion of the samurai, leaving scarcely more than Tetsutaisho’s bodyguard with which to defend himself and the palace. Fearing his fate, Kinsan had without bidding or warning evaded them all, seeking to stay her master’s destruction by throwing herself in front. She knew that Tetsutaisho, reduced to a handful of patriots, could not withstand the terrible onslaught of a mighty army, and offered to sacrifice herself in the hope of saving him in some way from ruthless destruction, if not ignominious defeat. Her heart had gone out to him and to the few others who had remained steadfast to principle, and her life seemed to her of slight importance as compared with theirs, or in prolonging, even momentarily, the institution which had given them place.

Tetsutaisho, too, had run out in advance of his guard, and coming up felt relieved to know that Kinsan had not been fatally shot. Halting near by, as did Shibusawa, the two met face to face, measuring the inevitable.

Shibusawa, the conqueror, spoke first; it became not him to humble the vanquished. Speaking kindly yet firmly, he said:

“What would you, Tetsutaisho?”

“I am a samurai, Shibusawa.”

“You have answered well, Tetsutaisho, and Shibusawa is none the less a man.”

They drew their swords—Tetsutaisho, the one that Munechika had died in the forging; Shibusawa, the Murakumo which had not once failed the illustrious Maidos. The guards stood umpire in the background. The clouds parted and the sun shone forth a pale red. Their steels rang with the perfection of their making. Kinsan rose upon one arm and humbly raised the other in silent deprecation. Then she turned her face and sank back upon the cool, damp ground. The two giants did not heed her; they were facing death, and the test already quickened.

Their steels rang with the perfection of their making.