Shibusawa, the young daimyo, was there with a goodly share of the forces of Kanazawa intrenched behind formidable walls, and the voice of the cannon warned Tetsutaisho of the former’s determination to stand, even at the cost of defeat.

When the mikado’s envoy returned with Hitotsubashi’s promise all Kyoto had gone wild. Every preparation had been made for his gala entrance into the capital and for his welcome at the mikado’s palace. A million yens had been set aside to defray the cost and Saigo sent into the south to marshall a force wherewithal to meet the shogun’s coming in the height of gorgeous display. The day had been fixed upon for Hitotsubashi’s friendly arrival, and no thought of war entered their minds.

Thus they found themselves relaxed and unprepared upon receipt of advance news that the shogun hastily approached with a powerful army under the command of the invincible Tetsutaisho, and in consequence their very existence seemed threatened. There was no time now to reach Saigo; he had gone far away into the southland. The force left in front of the gates at Kyoto formed scarcely a bodyguard, and at last the combination had been brought face to face with the perils of active warfare.

Yet there appeared an alternative, and it was Takara who advanced its proposal. The council had met in closed session, and had now become no less than a storm of indecision. Shibusawa chanced to be absent, and Kido, alone and unsupported, was unable to quell the tumult in a disorganised and frantic chamber. Amidst this frenzy the doors opened and the mikado’s daughter entered. A hush came over them, for never before had a woman dared enter there. It had been the business of men, and since the days of Jingo their council remained barred to the presence of women. They ceased quarrelling and stared intently. She hastened forward, first addressing Kido, then the assembly:

“Honourable chairman, and men of the council, hold your tongues! There is need of a better work.”

Not a voice was raised against her; she had gained their attention. Kido, only, ventured to speak, asking her to proceed.

“Would you sit here inert, while the enemy beat down your doors? Falter in the hour of need? Ignore the help that is within reach?”

“No, no, no!” came from everywhere around her.

“Then I implore you to act,” said she, resolutely.

“But who is there? Where is our defence?” said a voice in front.

“Shibusawa!”

A stillness came over them. They had not thought of him—their minds did not go beyond their own little sphere. Possibly Kido had thought as deeply, but the time had not come for him to speak. Takara had now robbed him of the privilege, and every man there shouted himself hoarse with applause. It was thenceforth Shibusawa who could and would save them; drafting a formal request Takara in the absence of a dissenting voice was chosen the trusted messenger.

She lost no time in reaching Shibusawa, nor he in accepting the responsibilities; and while it may have taken him longer than Tetsutaisho to mobilise his forces the distance was short and, once on the ground, his defences were more quickly intrenched. True, his force at hand numbered less than one to every ten of the antagonists’, but they were trained to the use of a more deadly weapon. Shibusawa had learned while abroad of the utility of powder and shot, and from the day of his accession had drilled his men in the use of modern arms. He had thrown away the sword and spear, substituting the rifle and bayonet. Close-fitting breeches replaced the loose and cumbersome garments of the soldiery, and his men had been recruited from the masses. They were well fed and enthusiastic, while their steady nerves and acute sight enabled them to fire rapidly and accurately. Nor had he equipped solely with infantry, but laid in a supply of light artillery—the best of modern make—and this, as he soon discovered, stood him well in hand.

Upon his arrival at Kyoto, Shibusawa learned from news conveyed by runners that owing to Tetsutaisho’s rapid approach he did not have time to move his army as far as Osaka, the intended place of resistance; therefore he selected Fushima, a walled suburb of the capital proper, as being the most available place to make a stand and throw up temporary defences.

Here he took possession of the outer gates, through which the enemy must pass on their march along the Tokaido[22] toward the palace in the city above. Seizing upon a long, sloping hillside that lay just inside the great gate, Shibusawa scattered his infantry throughout its length from the wall below to the hilltop at the bend above; placing them in hollow squares the better to pick and fell the advancing swordsmen as they clambered upon the walls, or to fire upon the straggling spearsmen who chanced to escape the artillery and gain the gates. The artillery had been intrenched also on the hillside, sweeping at a convenient range either the gate or the Tokaido; still a small reserve was held behind all, out of sight and within easy reach.

All in all Shibusawa could have found no more advantageous place to pit a modern army against a large force of samurai. Both he and his men realised his superior position, and it gave them confidence in their ability to cope with Tetsutaisho’s overwhelming numbers. They had no time to wait, though they were fully prepared when the charge began.

The infantry stood hidden behind the great wall which crossed the samurai’s line of march, and the artillery lay low behind their own breastworks. Only Shibusawa and his small staff stood in the open above—they were in no danger—and with field-glass and time-piece carefully watched and noted the last proud march of the heart and soul of feudal Japan. He could not help admiring them; and a feeling of sadness crept over him as he measured their helpless destruction.

Yet he stood there, and on they came. Shibusawa gave the command, and the roar and boom of the cannon warned the mighty shogun to halt his march. Again and again the destructive thing belched its angry fire in the face of an unfaltering foe: they came on, and Tetsutaisho’s voice rang out on the still cool air of morning:

“Down with the gates; on with the march!”

The blunt sound of the battering ram bespoke the hopeless force which lingered in their hands. The proud commander, with giant stride and thundering voice, ran down the lines, urging the last onward rush of a hitherto victorious host. The samurai broke file and quickly ranked in line after; Tetsutaisho had presaged the havoc awaiting a close formation, and scattering his men sought to scale the walls as well as batter down the gates.

Within the huge walls all was silence; after the first notes of warning had been sounded Shibusawa ceased firing, and did not again give the order until the gates had been driven loose and begun to fall. Then a hundred guns poured shot and shell into the face of the onrushing spearsmen, and the carnage wrought at that gate was frightful. The dead piled high in the roadway, though again and again dragged from the path of the undaunted oncomers. Nor were the swordsmen less valiant, for everywhere they scaled the ramparts and rushed upon the infantry. Thus before long, Shibusawa had called out his last reserve, and more feebly repulsed the terrible onsets that came swifter and faster. Column after column of his advance had been wiped out, and one position after another yielded to the enraged enemy; yet his rear lines and the artillery kept up an incessant fire. Tetsutaisho’s men fell thick and fast about the gate and around the walls; the defender’s fire was deadly, and the cost of each advance appalling.

Thus the battle raged and as yet neither had gained a victory. The ranks on the mikado’s side were thinning, and Shibusawa could not determine the reserve strength of the enemy. The shogun’s advance had become maddened at the sight of such havoc, while the rear grew eager with expectation. Everywhere they scaled the walls, and a constant stream, though thinned and scarred, now poured through the battered gates. Tetsutaisho shouted a last advance, and the valley below swarmed with his mighty reserve. They did not halt, nor did they rush; but came determined and invincible.

Shibusawa groaned as the tremendous odds revealed themselves. He looked at his scattering few, then concentrated them, and cheered them for a last heroic stand. He had withstood a terrific advance, and now would resist a final onslaught, even to the last man. They were there to fight, and did not know the meaning of surrender; nor would they deign to retreat.

The solid columns advanced upon them,—shot and shell could not check those swarming veterans,—and the walls no longer offered much resistance. Tetsutaisho rushed forward; Shibusawa grasped his sword hilt; his men redoubled the fire and hurried into line. The crack of the rifle, the roar of the cannon, mingled to make the scene a cruel, sickening slaughter. Shibusawa’s little fragment seemed doomed, and he pressed forward to sacrifice himself on the altar of courage. Then a hand stretched forth from out the mists to save him; a shell burst and Tetsutaisho fell wounded in the distance.

The fallen hero, however, was quickly snatched up and carried to the rear, while the fight waxed hotter, and no sign of disorder appeared. Yet there was one who sat outside the gate, well shielded behind the walls; he felt sick with the sights everywhere greeting him, and as the stricken commander was carried into his presence he weakened and again changed his mind: when the victory rested within his grasp Hitotsubashi gave the order to retreat, and the remnant of Tetsutaisho’s splendid army ran pell-mell toward the place whence they came.

Nor did the hesitating shogun stop his flight until he had again reached Tokyo and securely locked himself within the gates at the palace. Shibusawa had been too much surprised and his force too greatly weakened to cut off the enemy’s retreat or follow up his own victory; a few straggling remnants were driven beyond the gory walls and begrimed gates, and there the successful commander halted, content.

For the first time in the history of their country the power of the machine over the individual had been fairly tried and fully demonstrated. A vastly greater force of valiant men had been held in check for hours by the quick and accurate firing of a few painless, heartless, soulless guns; though at a frightful cost and the most heroic trial they had ever known.