Daikomitsu took pains to see for himself that Tetsutaisho had kept his word with reference to Kinsan’s punishment, then without further attention devoted himself to the arduous duties rapidly crowding around him. He felt that Takara’s secret rested safe for the present, therefore did not worry much about her, although the knowledge of her failure had been a severe blow to him. There were other things needing his attention more than a private affair, and as he had never been an extremely ardent lover it did not entail any great sacrifice on his part to put thoughts of Takara aside and busy himself with matters more urgent.

Rumours coming in daily from the south made it more and more apparent that sooner or later a determined resistance would be offered to the mandates of the shogun, no matter who the incumbent or what the purport of their recent letter might be. Yet the shogunate had in no wise prepared to meet it, and the delay hoped for as a result of the frank and unequivocal resignation of Hitotsubashi was much needed by Daikomitsu and Okotsuba in making a last heroic effort to gather and utilise the fragments of their strength. Tetsutaisho took no active part in these endeavours, neither did he offer any strong resistance or disencouragement; nor was his failure at that time so much felt. He was a fighter, not an organiser; still his actions had a bad influence upon the samurai (which constituted the shogun’s army), as it also embarrassed the remaining members of the triumvirate in the use of a free hand and undisturbed purpose. The feeling of uncertainty arising from his indifference caused more hindrance than any other, and Daikomitsu grew puzzled to know just what Tetsutaisho would do when it came to the final test.

Both Daikomitsu and Okotsuba knew very well that the commander-in-chief’s influence with the army rose above that of any other man, and that without his leadership the samurai would be hard to hold intact. Yet they could not think of surrendering entirely to his careless if not boastful ideas, so they undertook to make their preparation for war harmonise with his notions, in so far as it became necessary in order to hold his support.

The letter containing the resignation, upon its arrival at Kyoto, so surprised the leaders of the southern combination that they forthwith began the reorganisation of the government upon the lines laid down at a previous assembly of the daimyos. They felt that the first step toward a complete rehabilitation had been successfully effected, though not entirely secured without having gained the sole and unqualified possession of the person of the mikado. It had been a universal custom for the shogun to keep a body of samurai posted at the gate of the Kyoto palace as a safeguard to the security of the mikado, and now that the combination looked upon the latter as their sole supreme ruler they no longer deemed it safe or desirable to intrust in any measure his protection to a guard of the enemy, nor to allow them access to the palace.

Hence on the third of January Saigo seized the gates and dismissed the detachment of samurai there stationed, while the council issued in the name of the mikado, an edict abolishing the office of shogun, forbidding the bakufu entrance to the palace enclosure, and warning all against interfering in any way with the royal court or council.

It came as an unexpected blow to the shogun and his advisers, thoroughly convincing them that, contrary to their expectations, Hitotsubashi’s resignation had been promptly accepted and positively acted upon. It also disabused the minds of the triumvirate of any hope of their being recognised by the combination at Kyoto, and Daikomitsu was forced to acknowlege that Hitotsubashi’s resignation had been considered the act of the shogunate: that he as well as the adherents of the Tokyo court would be compelled to defend with arms their time-honoured institution. The last hope of conciliation had been swept away, and Daikomitsu, if not his associates, realised that it had come to a battle to the death, not for the expulsion of the foreigner, but for the very life of the shogunate itself.

Immediately upon the mikadate’s closing of the gates at Kyoto and declaring the shogunate at an end, the princes Owara and Kii had been despatched to the shogun with a request that he come to Kyoto, join the new government, and receive suitable recognition and position thereunder. The shogun was weak and unable to decide; he hesitated and wavered between two counsels, for there now developed a test of strength between Daikomitsu and Tetsutaisho.

As usual, however, it again fell to the lot of the army to determine. Whatever may have been Daikomitsu’s reasons—whether a recognition of the inevitable or a desire to obtain the best terms possible, or whether to rid themselves of the cumbersome Hitotsubashi—he continued to urge the shogun to comply with the mikado’s request and go forthwith, peaceably and unattended by military display, and submit himself and his friends to the reasonable disposition of the Kyoto court. Okotsuba, in command of all the shogun’s navy, gave his hearty support to Daikomitsu’s proposals, and Hitotsubashi reluctantly consented, forthwith communicating his intention to the mikado’s envoy, sending back to Kyoto his best respects and hearty assurances.

Hitotsubashi had not gone though, nor was he to do so until Tetsutaisho’s recommendations had wrought their influence. This proud samurai had not been so easily convinced of the wisdom of Daikomitsu’s policy, and now that he had come to questioning the latter’s motives he began quietly to break faith with the triumvirate and to approach the vacillating shogun directly, urging secretly a counter plan—one more to his own liking and carrying with it a greater enthusiasm. He argued:

“Would you give this splendid army, the fleet, their arms and equipments, into the hands of a weaker force? Sacrifice all these, the building of centuries, at the first cry of danger? Surrender your birthright and defame the gods? They tell you they are your friends, but I believe them to be foes. They say they are strong, yet I know they are weak. They cry the samurai are for peace, though I grant they are for war. Then why not let this talk of peace be crowned with war? I say, marshall the hosts of Shishi-Fukinjin, and enter the gates of Kyoto with a force that will sound the warning of Raiden and spread the havoc of Hoorie.”

“Can you convince me of the samurai?” asked Hitotsubashi, with growing enthusiasm.

“You have only to make the call,” answered the roused-up commander.

“To-morrow I will hear them at the palace gate, and if Tetsutaisho be vindicated then Hitotsubashi shall turn his face toward Bishamon and hearken to the voice of Ojin. Let it be as it may, and go hence now, that you fail not then, for the hour is to be nine; then the march shall begin.”

“I serve you, my most honourable shogun and august ruler.”

Tetsutaisho made short his audience, and went away with a light heart and glowing purpose. He had met with his first victory, and now almost regretted having ever listened to the counsels of Daikomitsu or having pledged himself to any other or further understanding than the valiant defence of his shogun. All this happened on a clear, bright morning while the air was crisp and frosty. The sun had barely risen, and Tetsutaisho’s drill served him well in getting the attention of the shogun long before the brainy prime minister had thought of quitting his needed slumbers. Leaving the shogun Tetsutaisho hastened along with vigorous step and rising purpose to army headquarters, and there gave the command that was to send a thrill to the heart of every loyal Japanese—whatever banner, the shogun’s or the mikado’s, might be the emblem of his fortunes. To his subordinates he said:

“You will mobilise and report at the inner palace gate to-morrow not later than nine o’clock in the morning.”

No intimation was given of what he expected—they knew their commander had spoken and that if any should be delinquent it would be they and not he. Tetsutaisho gave himself no further concern, but on the following day took his place at the gate promptly on time, as did also Hitotsubashi, Okotsuba, and strangely enough, Daikomitsu.

Nor were the samurai late in coming, for discipline had been their life’s teaching and they knew no such thing as failure. They lined up, the left and right divisions in double rank on either side of the roadway, their front resting on the inner gate and their rear stretching through the outer gate afar into the city beyond. The soft, light uniforms of the swordsmen wound round their waists and fell on one side well down toward the ground. At the other side hung their black sheaths and polished hilts, while their bared arms and quick eyes told of their great skill at the business of war. The spearsmen with their brown breasts and short skirts, resting lightly upon their spear handles, lined up at the rear on either side, their spear points glistening away and beyond the reach of human eyes. These were men of muscle, and their bared limbs bespoke a wonderful endurance.

All together, Tetsutaisho might be proud and Hitotsubashi enthused with the splendid army of their valorous defenders. The sun peeped out from behind a passing cloud, and its rays dazzled and reflected from a hundred thousand bright sides as the long lines broke and faced about in double file and their commander stepped forward to greet them. Bowing low to his shogun he arose and leaned forward from the battlement. He spoke in a clear, ringing voice, his words being echoed and handed on from man to man, squad to squad, and host to host to the last one in line:

“Comrades and samurai: Our shogun has been assailed, and your commander’s honour is at stake. Do you follow me?”

The answer came thundering back:

“Until death!”

There was not a dissenting voice, and even Daikomitsu marvelled at their unison of purpose and offered not a breath of protest. The shogun mounted his war chair, and Tetsutaisho marched out at the head of the heart and flower of feudalistic Japan. The war god had whispered sweetly the glories of victory, and Hitotsubashi had listened. He drank of the poisoned waters, and became drunk with desire. He had again changed his mind, and Daikomitsu’s counsel was of no avail; he must go, and his friends suffer the consequences of his folly.

They marched out of the city and on toward the enemy, nothing of importance interrupting their progress until they had reached Fushima, not far distant from Kyoto. Here the gates were closed against them, and Tetsutaisho met face to face his older rival, Shibusawa.