Praise for the Young Samurai series

‘A fantastic adventure that floors the reader on page one and keeps them there until the end. The pace is furious and the martial arts detail authentic’

– Eoin Colfer, author of the bestselling Artemis Fowl series

‘Fierce fiction … captivating for young readers’

– Daily Telegraph

‘Addictive’

– Evening Standard

‘More and more absorbing … vivid and enjoyable’

– The Times

‘Bradford comes out swinging in this fast-paced adventure … and produces an adventure novel to rank among the genre’s best. This book earns the literary equivalent of a black belt’

– Publishers Weekly

‘The most exciting fight sequences imaginable on paper!’

– Booklist

Winner of Northern Ireland Book Award 2011

Shortlisted for Red House Children’s Book Award 2009

School Library Association’s Riveting Read 2009

CHRIS BRADFORD

PUFFIN

Disclaimer: Young Samurai: The Way of the Warrior is a work of fiction, and while based on real historical figures, events and locations, the book does not profess to be accurate in this regard. Young Samurai is more an echo of the times than a re-enactment of history.

Warning: Do not attempt any of the techniques described within this book without the supervision of a qualified martial arts instructor. These can be highly dangerous moves and result in fatal injuries. The author and publisher take no responsibility for any injuries resulting from attempting these techniques.

PUFFIN BOOKS

Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

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First published 2008

Text copyright © Chris Bradford, 2008
Cover illustration copyright © Paul Young, 2008
Map copyright © Robert Nelmes, 2008

The moral right of the author and illustrators has been asserted

All rights reserved

ISBN: 978-0-141-91802-0

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Chris Bradford is a true believer in ‘practising what you preach’. For his award-winning Young Samurai series, he trained in samurai swordsmanship, karate, ninjutsu and earned his black belt in Zen Kyu Shin Taijutsu.

For his new Bodyguard series, Chris embarked on an intensive close-protection course to become a qualified professional bodyguard. During his training, he acquired skills in unarmed combat, defensive driving, tactical firearms, threat assessments, surveillance, and even anti-ambush exercises.

His bestselling books are published in over twenty languages and have garnered more than twenty-three children’s book award nominations.

Before becoming a full-time author, he was a professional musician (who once performed for HRH Queen Elizabeth II), songwriter and music teacher.

Chris lives in England with his wife, two sons and two cats.

Discover more about Chris go to www.chrisbradford.co.uk

Prologue
Masamoto Tenno

Kyoto, Japan, August 1609

The boy snapped awake. He seized his sword.

Tenno hardly dared to breathe. He sensed someone else was in the room. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he searched for signs of movement. But he could see nothing, only shadows within shadows, the moonlight seeping ghostlike through the lucent paper walls. Perhaps he had been wrong … His samurai training, though, warned him otherwise.

Tenno listened intently for the slightest sound, any indication there might be an intruder. But he heard nothing unusual. The cherry blossom trees in the garden made a faint rustle like the sound of silk as a light breeze passed through. There was the familiar trickle of water as it flowed from the small fountain into the fishpond, and nearby a cricket made its persistent nightly chirp. The rest of the house lay silent.

He was overreacting … It was just some bad kami spirit disturbing his dreams, he reasoned.

This past month the whole Masamoto household had been on edge with the rumour of war. There was talk of a rebellion and Tenno’s father had been called into service to help quell any potential uprising. The peace Japan had enjoyed for the past five years was suddenly under threat and the people were afraid they would be plunged back into war. No wonder he was so on edge.

Tenno lowered his guard and settled back to sleep on his futon. As he did so, the night cricket chirped a little louder and the boy’s hand tightened round the hilt of his sword. His father had once said, ‘A samurai should always obey his instincts’, and his instincts told him something was wrong.

He rose from his bed to investigate.

Suddenly a silver star spun out of the darkness.

Tenno threw himself out of the way but was a second too late.

The shuriken sliced through his cheek before burying itself deep into the futon where his head had just been. As he continued to roll, he felt a rush of hot blood stream down his face. Then he heard a second shuriken thud into the tatami-matted floor, and in one fluid movement he sprang to his feet, bringing his sword up to protect himself.

Dressed head-to-toe in black, a figure drifted ghost-like out of the shadows.

Ninja! The Japanese assassin of the night.

With a measured slowness, the ninja unsheathed a vicious-looking blade from his saya. Unlike Tenno’s large curved katana sword, the tantō was short, straight and ideal for stabbing.

The ninja took a silent step closer and raised the tantō, a human cobra preparing to strike.

Tenno, anticipating the attack, cut down with his sword, slicing across the body of the approaching assassin. But the ninja deftly evaded the boy’s sword, spinning round to kick him squarely in the chest.

Thrown backwards, Tenno crashed through the paper-thin shoji door of his room and out into the night. He landed heavily in the middle of the inner garden, disorientated and fighting for breath.

The ninja leapt through the torn opening and landed cat-like in front of him.

Tenno attempted to stand and defend himself, but his legs gave way. They had become numb and useless. In a panic, he tried to scream – to call for help – but his throat had swollen shut. It burned like fire and his cries became suffocating stabs for breath.

The ninja shifted in and out of focus before vanishing in a swirl of black smoke.

The boy’s vision folded in on itself and he realized the ninja’s shuriken had been dipped in poison, paralysing him limb by limb. His body quickly succumbed to its lethal powers and he lay there at the mercy of his assassin.

Blinded, Tenno listened for the ninja’s approach, but could only hear the chirp-chirp of the cricket. He recalled his father once telling him that ninja used the insect’s calls to mask the noise of their own movements. That was how his assassin had slipped by the guards undetected!

Briefly his eyesight returned and under the pale light of a waning moon, a shrouded face floated towards him. The ninja drew so close that Tenno could smell the assassin’s hot breath on his face, sour and stale like cheap saké. Through the slit in the hood of its shinobi shozoku, the boy could see a single emerald-green eye blazing with hatred.

‘This is a message for your father,’ hissed the ninja.

Tenno felt the deadly cold tip of the tantō on the flesh above his heart.

A single sharp thrust and his whole body flared white-hot with pain …

Then nothing …

Masamoto Tenno had passed into the Great Void.

1
  

Fireball

Pacific Ocean, August 1611

The boy snapped awake.

‘All hands on deck!’ bellowed the Bosun. ‘That means you too, Jack!’

The Bosun’s weather-beaten face loomed out of the darkness at the boy, who hastily dropped from his swaying hammock to the wooden floor of the ship’s middle deck.

Jack Fletcher, only twelve, was nonetheless tall for his age, slim and muscular from two years at sea. Hidden behind the straggly mess of straw-blond hair he had inherited from his mother, his eyes were an azure blue and glinted with a determination and fire far beyond his years.

Men, weary from the long voyage on board the Alexandria, slumped from their bunks and pushed past Jack, heading urgently for the upper deck. Jack threw the Bosun a hopeful smile of apology.

‘Get going, boy!’ snarled the Bosun.

Suddenly there was an almighty crash, followed by a shrieking of the timbers and Jack was thrown to the floor. The small oil lantern suspended from the central beam of the dingy hold swung wildly, its flame spluttering.

Jack landed heavily among a pile of empty casks, sending them spinning across the bucking floorboards. He struggled to find his footing as several other grime-ridden, half-starved crewmen stumbled past in the flickering darkness. A hand grabbed the back of his shirt and dragged him to his feet.

It was Ginsel.

The short stocky Dutchman grinned at Jack, revealing a set of broken jagged teeth that made him look like a great white shark. Despite his severe appearance, the sailor had always treated Jack with kindness.

‘Another storm’s hitting us hard, Jack. It sounds as if Hell itself has opened up its gates!’ growled Ginsel. ‘Best get yourself up on the foredeck before the Bosun has your hide.’

Jack hastily followed Ginsel and the rest of the crew as they scrambled up the companionway and emerged into the heart of the storm.

Menacing black clouds thundered across the heavens and the complaints of the sailors were immediately drowned out by the relentless wind ripping through the ship’s rigging. The smell of sea salt was sharp in Jack’s nostrils and ice-cold rain slashed at his face, stinging him like a thousand tiny needles. But before he could take it all in, the ship was rolled by a mountainous wave.

The deck flooded and foamed with seawater and Jack was instantly drenched to the skin. The water cascaded away through the scuppers, and as he gasped for air, another tumultuous wave roared across the deck. This one, stronger than the first, swept Jack off his feet and he barely managed to grab hold of the ship’s rail to stop himself being washed overboard.

Jack recovered his footing as a jagged line of lightning scorched its way across the night sky and struck the main mast. For a brief moment, the entire ship was illuminated by a ghostly light. The three-masted ocean trader was in turmoil. Her crew were scattered across the decks like pieces of driftwood. High up on the yardarm, a group of sailors battled against the wind, attempting to furl the mainsail before the storm ripped it away, or worse, capsized the ship entirely.

On the quarterdeck, the Third Mate, a seven-foot giant of a man with a beard of fiery red hair, was wrestling with the wheel. Beside him was Captain Wallace, a stern figure who shouted commands at his crew, but all in vain; the wind whipped his words away before anyone could hear them.

The only other man on the quarterdeck was a tall and powerful sailor with dark brown hair tied back with a thin piece of cord. This man was Jack’s father, John Fletcher, the Pilot of the Alexandria, and his eyes were fixed on the horizon as if hoping to pierce the storm and seek out the safety of land beyond.

‘You lot!’ ordered the Bosun, pointing at Jack, Ginsel and two other crewmembers. ‘Get yourselves aloft and unfurl that topsail. Now!’

They immediately headed for the bow of the ship, but as they crossed the main deck to the foremast, a fireball plummeted out of nowhere – straight towards Jack.

‘Watch out!’ cried one of the sailors.

Jack, having already experienced several full-on attacks from enemy Portuguese warships during the voyage, instinctively ducked. He felt the rush of hot air and heard the deep howl as the fireball flew past and plunged into the deck. However, the impact was unlike the sound of a cannonball. It didn’t have the same fearsome crack of iron against wood. This was dull and lifeless as if it were a bale of broadcloth. With sickening horror, Jack’s eyes fell upon the object now at his feet.

It was no fireball.

It was the burning body of one of the crew, struck dead by the lightning.

Jack stood transfixed, sickness rising from the pit of his stomach. The dead man’s face was etched in agony and so disfigured by fire that Jack could not even recognize him.

‘Holy Mary, mother of God,’ exclaimed Ginsel, ‘even the Heavens are against us!’

But before he could utter another word, a wave crested the rail and swept the body out to sea.

‘Jack, stay with me!’ said Ginsel, seeing the shock rise in the boy’s face. He grabbed hold of Jack’s arm and tried to pull him towards the foremast.

But Jack remained rooted to the spot. He could still smell the charred flesh of the dead sailor like an overcooked pig on a spit.

This was by no means the first death he had witnessed on the voyage and he knew it would not be the last. His father had warned him that crossing both the Atlantic and the Pacific would be fraught with danger. Jack had seen men die from frostbite, scurvy, tropical fever, knife wounds and cannon shot. Still, such familiarity with death did not make Jack numb to its horror.

‘Come on, Jack …’ urged Ginsel.

‘I’m just saying a prayer for him,’ Jack finally replied. He knew he should follow Ginsel and the rest of the crew, but the need to be with his father at this very moment outweighed any duty to the ship.

‘Where’re you going?’ yelled Ginsel, as Jack ran for the quarterdeck. ‘We need you aloft!’

Jack, though, was lost to the storm, struggling towards his father in a chaotic battle against the elements as the ship pitched and rolled.

He had barely managed to reach the mizzenmast when another colossal wave ploughed into the Alexandria. This one was so powerful that Jack was whipped off his feet and washed across the deck, all the way to the larboard rail.

The ship lurched again and he was tossed over the side, swallowed whole by the dark seething ocean …

2
  

Rigging Monkey

Jack braced himself for the final impact into the sea, but his body was unexpectedly jerked upright and he found himself hanging over the edge of the ship, the ocean rushing violently beneath him.

Jack looked up to see a tattooed arm clamped firmly round his wrist.

‘Don’t worry, boy, I’ve got you!’ grunted his saviour, as a wave rose to meet Jack and tried to drag him under again. The anchor tattooed on the man’s forearm appeared to buckle under the strain and Jack felt his own arm almost pop out of its socket as the Bosun hoisted him back on board.

Jack collapsed in a pile at the man’s feet, heaving up mouthfuls of seawater.

‘You’ll live. Natural sailor like your father you are, though a little more drowned,’ the Bosun smirked. ‘Now answer me, boy! What do you think you were doing?’

‘I was … running a message to my father, Bosun.’

‘That ain’t what I ordered. I told you to stay on deck,’ shouted the Bosun in his face. ‘You may be the Pilot’s son, but that’s not going to stop you getting a whipping for disobedience! Now get yourself up the foremast and unsnag the top gallant sail or else I’ll be giving you a taste of the cat!’

‘God bless you, Bosun,’ muttered Jack and quickly made his way back to the foredeck, aware that a lashing from the cat-o’-nine-tails was no empty threat. The Bosun had lashed other sailors for misdemeanours far less severe than disobeying an order.

Still, when he reached the bow, Jack hesitated. The foremast was taller than a church steeple, and pitching wildly in the storm. Jack’s fingers, already numb with cold, couldn’t even feel the rigging and his sodden clothes had become cumbersome and heavy. The problem was that the longer he stalled, the colder he would get and soon his limbs would be too stiff to save himself.

Come on, he willed himself. You’re braver than this.

Deep down, though, he knew he wasn’t. In fact, he was truly terrified. During the lengthy voyage from England to the Spice Islands, he had acquired a reputation for being one of the best rigging monkeys. But his ability to climb the mast, repair the sails and untangle ‘fouled’ ropes at great height hadn’t come from confidence or skill – it was born out of pure fear.

Jack looked up into the storm. The sky had been whipped into a frenzy and dark thunderous clouds streaked across a colourless moon. In the gloom, he could just make out Ginsel and the rest of the crew in the shrouds. The mast swayed so violently, the men swung like apples being shaken from a tree.

‘Don’t be afraid of storms in life,’ he recalled his father saying, on the day Jack had been tasked with climbing to the crow’s-nest for the first time. ‘We must all learn how to sail our own ship, in any weather.’

Jack remembered how he had watched all the new recruits attempt the terrifying ascent. Every one of them, bar none, had either frozen with fear, or else puked their guts out on to the sailors below. By the time it was Jack’s turn, the wind had got up so much the rigging was rattling almost as fretfully as his own legs.

Jack looked to his father, who squeezed his shoulders with loving reassurance. ‘I believe in you, son. You can do this.’

Convinced by his father’s faith in him, Jack launched himself at the rigging and didn’t look down until he had hauled himself over the lip and into the safety of the crow’s-nest. Exhausted but elated, Jack had let out a yell of delight to his father, tiny as an ant, on the distant deck below. Fear had driven Jack all the way to the top. Getting down had proved another matter …

Jack grabbed hold of the rigging and pulled himself aloft. He quickly fell into his usual rhythm, the comfort of habit providing some reassurance. Hand over hand, he rapidly gained height, until he could see the white crests of the waves as they charged at the ship. But they were no longer the threat. It was the relentless wind. Fearsome gusts did their utmost to drag Jack off into the night, but instinctively bracing himself he continued upward. Before long he was standing next to Ginsel on the yardarm.

‘Jack!’ yelled Ginsel, who looked worn out, his eyes bloodshot and sunken. ‘One of the halyards got fouled up. The sail won’t drop. You’re going to have to go out there and unsnag it.’

Jack looked up and saw a thick sail rope tangled in the rigging of the gallant, its block and tackle flailing dangerously.

‘You’ve got to be kidding! Why me? What about the others?’ exclaimed Jack, nodding towards the two petrified sailors hanging on for grim life on the other side of the yardarm.

‘I would’ve asked your friend Christiaan,’ replied Ginsel, glancing over at a small Dutch lad, the same age as Jack, with mouse-like eyes that were full of fear, ‘but he’s no Jack Fletcher. You’re the best rigging monkey we’ve got.’

‘But that’s suicidal …’ protested Jack.

‘So’s sailing round the world, yet we’ve gone and done it!’ replied Ginsel, attempting a reassuring smile, but his shark-like teeth only made him appear maniacal. ‘Without that topsail, there’s no way the Captain can save this ship. It’s got to be done and you’re the monkey for it.’

‘All right,’ said Jack, realizing he had little choice. ‘But you’d better be ready to catch me!’

‘Trust me, little brother, I wouldn’t want to lose you now. Tie this rope round your waist. I’ll keep hold of the other end. Best take my knife too. You’ll need to cut the halyard free.’

Jack secured the tie-rope and clamped the roughly honed blade between his teeth. He then clambered up the mast to the topgallant. Using the little rigging available, Jack edged along the spar towards the tangled halyard.

The going was treacherously slow, the wind pulling at him with a thousand unseen hands. Glancing down, Jack could barely make out his father far below on the quarterdeck. For a moment he swore he saw his father wave at him.

‘Look ouuuutttt!’ warned Ginsel.

Jack turned to see the loose block and tackle come flying out of the storm straight towards his head. He threw himself to one side, dodging it, but in the process lost his grip and slipped from the spar.

Jack snatched for the rigging, grabbing hold of a loose halyard as he fell. His hands ripped down the rope, the rough hemp cutting deep into his palms. Despite the searing pain, he somehow kept his grip.

He hung there, flying in the wind.

The sea. The ship. The sail. The sky. All of them swirled around him.

‘Don’t worry. I’ve got you!’ shouted Ginsel above the storm.

He pulled on the tie-rope strung over the topgallant and hauled Jack towards it. Jack reached up and flipped his legs over the spar, swinging himself upright. It took several moments for Jack to regain his breath, sucking in air between teeth still clamped round Ginsel’s knife.

Once the burning pain in his hands had subsided, Jack resumed his painstaking crawl along the spar. Eventually the tangled halyard was only inches from his face. Jack took the knife from his mouth and began to hack away at the sodden rope. But the knife proved too blunt and it took him several attempts before the threads started to cleave apart. Jack’s fingers were icy to the core and his bloodied palms made his grip slippery and awkward. A blast of wind shunted him sideways and in attempting to steady himself, the blade spun away with the storm.

‘Noooo!’ cried Jack, futilely reaching after it.

Shattered from his efforts, he turned towards Ginsel. ‘I’ve only cut half the rope! What now?’

Ginsel, lifeline in hand, gestured for him to come back, but another gust slammed into Jack so hard he could have sworn the ship had run aground. The entire mast shuddered in its bed and the topsail yanked hard at the halyard. Weakened by Jack’s cutting, the rope snapped as if it were a breaking bone, the canvas unfurled and, with an almighty crack, caught the wind.

The ship surged forward.

Ginsel and the other sailors gave a cheer as the Alexandria turned in the wind and the breaking waves stopped battering her decks. Jack’s spirits were lifted by their unexpected turn of fortune.

But his joy was short-lived.

The sail, in dropping, had jerked the block and tackle tight against the mast, where it had promptly snapped away and now plummeted like a stone towards Jack, but this time he had nowhere to go.

‘JUMP!’ shouted Ginsel.

3
  

Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

Jack let go of the spar and dived out of the block-and-tackle’s path.

He arced across the sky, Ginsel straining to hold him on the other end of the tie-rope. Jack crashed into the rigging on the far side of the foremast and looped his arm through the ropes, holding on for all his life was worth.

The block and tackle now dropped straight towards Ginsel. Barely missing him, it struck Sam who was standing right behind him. The unfortunate sailor was sent spinning into the sea.

‘Sam …!’ Jack cried out, hurriedly clambering down the rigging after him.

Back on deck, he ran to the rail but could only watch helplessly as Sam struggled against the mountainous waves, disappearing and reappearing until, with a pitiful scream, he was dragged under for a final time.

Jack turned despondently to the Bosun, who had joined him at the rail.

‘There ain’t nothing you can do, boy. Grieve for him in the morning, if we make it,’ said the Bosun.

Noting the look of despair in Jack’s face, the Bosun softened slightly.

‘You did well up there, boy. Now go and see your father – he’s in his cabin with the Captain.’

Jack bolted for the companionway, thankful to escape the raging tempest. Within the belly of the ship, the storm felt less of a threat, its unrestrained fury above becoming a muffled howl below. Jack weaved his way through the bunks to his father’s berth in the stern and quietly entered the small, low-beamed room.

His father was bent over a desk, studying a set of sea charts with the Captain.

‘Pilot, it’s in your hands to get us out of this!’ barked the Captain, pounding the desk with his fist. ‘You said you knew these waters! You said we’d make landfall two weeks ago! Two weeks ago! By the hand of God, I can sail this ship in any storm but I’ve got to know where to damn well go! Perhaps there are no Japans, eh? It could all be legend. A cursed Portuguese deception designed to ruin us.’

Jack, like every other sailor on board, knew about the fabled islands of Japan. Full of unfathomable riches and exotic spices, a trading mission to the Japans would make wealthy men of them all, but so far only the Portuguese had ever set foot on the islands and they were determined to keep the route secret.

‘The Japans exist, Captain,’ said John Fletcher, calmly opening a large leatherbound notebook. ‘My rutter says they exist between latitudes thirty and forty north. By my calculations, we’re only a few leagues off the coast. Look here.’

John pointed to a crudely drawn map on a page within the rutter.

‘We’re in striking distance of the Japanese port of Toba – here. That’s several hundred leagues off our trading destination, Nagasaki. So you can see, Captain, the storm has blown us way off course. But that’s not our only problem – I’m told this whole coastline’s rife with pirates. Toba’s not a friendly port so they’ll probably think we’re pirates too. And worse, another pilot in Bantam informed me that Portuguese Jesuits have set up a Catholic church there. They’ll have poisoned the minds of the locals. Even if we made it ashore, we’d be slaughtered as Protestant heretics!’

There was a deep boom from within the bowels of the ship, followed by the groaning of timbers as a vast wave peeled along the side of the Alexandria.

‘In a storm such as this, Pilot, we’ve little choice but to make for land, whatever the cost. It may be a choice between the devil and the deep blue sea, John, but I’d prefer to take our chances with a Jesuit devil!’

‘Captain, I’ve another suggestion. According to my rutter, there are some sheltered bays two miles south of Toba. They’ll be safer, more secluded, though their access is made treacherous by these reefs.’

Jack watched as his father pointed to a small series of jagged lines etched on to the map.

The Captain’s fierce eyes bored into John’s. ‘You think you can get us through?’

John put his hand on the rutter. ‘If God be on our side, yes.’

As the Captain turned to leave, he caught sight of Jack. ‘You’d better hope your father’s right, boy, the life of this ship and its crew are in his hands.’

He swept past, leaving Jack and his father alone.

John carefully wrapped a protective oilskin round his rutter and walked over to a small bunk in the corner of the cabin. He lifted the thin mattress and slid back a hidden compartment into which he placed the rutter and clicked it shut.

‘Remember, Jack, it’s our little secret.’ He gave Jack a conspiratorial wink as he patted the mattress back flat. ‘This rutter’s far too valuable to leave lying around. As soon as anyone hears we’ve reached the Japans, they will know there’s one on-board.’

When Jack didn’t reply, he studied his son with concern. ‘How are you holding up?’

‘We’re not going to make it, are we?’ said Jack bluntly.

‘Of course, we are, son,’ he replied, drawing Jack to him. ‘You got the foresail down. With sailors like you, we cannot fail.’

Jack tried to return his father’s smile, but he was genuinely scared. The Alexandria had met storm after storm, and even though his father claimed they were close to their destination, it seemed like they’d never feel land under their feet again. This was a darker fear than that which he had felt in the rigging, and at any other point on the gruelling journey so far. His father bent down to look him in the eye.

‘Don’t despair, Jack. The sea is a tempestuous mistress, but I’ve been through storms far worse than this and survived. And we will survive this one.’

Making their way back on to the quarterdeck, Jack kept close to his father. Somehow he felt protected from the worst of the storm by his presence, his father’s unwavering confidence giving him hope where there appeared to be none.

‘Nothing like a good storm to swab the decks, eh?’ jested his father to the Third Mate, who was still valiantly wrestling with the wheel, the exertion sending his face as red as his beard. ‘Set a course for north by north-west. But let it be known there are reefs ahead. Warn the lookouts to stay sharp.’

Despite his father’s faith in the direction they were heading, the ocean stretched on and on, wave after wave pounding the Alexandria. Jack’s own confidence began to ebb away with the sand in the binnacle hourglass.

It was not until the sand had run dry a second time that the cry of ‘Land, ho!’ come forth. A wave of elation and relief ran through the entire crew. They had been battling the tempest for close on half the night. Now there was a glimmer of hope, a slim chance they could ride out the storm, tucked behind a headland or within the shelter of some bay.

But almost as quickly as their hopes had been raised, they were dashed by a second cry from the lookout.

‘Reefs to starboard bow!’

Then shortly after …

‘Reefs to larboard bow!’

Jack’s father began to shout bearings at the Third Mate.

‘Hard to starboard! … Now hold your course. Hold … Hold … Hold …’

The Alexandria rose and fell over the churning waves, skirting reefs as it ran headlong for the dark mass of land in the distance.

‘HARD-O’-LARBOARD!’ screamed his father, throwing his own weight behind the wheel.

The rudder bit into the churning sea. The deck heeled sickeningly. The ship swung the other way … but too late. The Alexandria collided with the reef. A halyard snapped and the weakened foremast cracked, crumpled and fell away.

‘CUT THE RIGGING!’ ordered the Captain, the ship lurching dangerously under the drag of the foremast.

The men on deck fell upon the ropes with axes. They hacked away, freeing the mast, but the ship still failed to respond. It was apparent her hull had been breached.

The Alexandria was sinking!

4
  

Land of the Rising Sun

The whole crew had battled all night to keep the ship afloat, though it had seemed a futile attempt. Seawater had flooded the bilge and Jack had worked alongside the men frantically attempting to pump it out, but the waters rapidly rose past the level of his chest. He had desperately fought to control his panic. Drowning was a sailor’s worst nightmare, a watery grave where crabs crawled over your bloated body and picked at your cold, lifeless eyes.

Jack retched over the Alexandria’s side for the fourth time that morning, remembering the way the dark brackish water had lapped at his chin. Holding his breath, he had still kept pumping. But what other choice had there been? Save the ship or drown trying?

Then fortune was on their side. They reached the safety of a cove. The ocean had suddenly calmed, the Alexandria eased down and the water level quickly fell away. Jack recalled sucking in the rancid air of the bilge like it was the sweetest mountain breeze as his head cleared the surface and he heard the heavy whomp of the anchor being dropped.

Recovering now on the quarterdeck, the pure sea air cleared his head and his stomach began to settle.

Jack stared out to sea, her waves now gently lapping around the hull, the roar of the tempest replaced by the early morning call of seabirds and the occasional creak of the rigging.

He let his mind drift with the peace of it all. Within minutes a glorious crimson sun peaked above the ocean to reveal a spectacular sight.

The Alexandria lay in the centre of a picturesque cove with a towering headland that jutted out into the ocean. The bluff was swathed in lush green cedar trees and red pines, and a glorious golden beach rimmed its inner bay. The cove’s emerald-green waters were alive with an ever-shifting rainbow of coloured fish.

Jack’s attention was drawn by something catching the morning light on the peninsula. He lifted his father’s spyglass to his eye to get a better look. Among the trees stood an exquisite building that appeared to have grown out of the rock itself. Jack had never seen anything quite like it.

Perched upon a massive stone pedestal were a series of pillars made of deep-red wood. Each pillar had been painstakingly gilded in gold leaf with images of what appeared to be dragons and exotic swirling symbols. Resting upon these pillars were intricately tiled roofs that curled up towards the heavens. At the very peak of the highest roof was a tall thin spire of concentric golden circles that pierced the forest canopy. In front of the building, and dominating the bay, a huge standing stone thrust up from the ground. This too was engraved with the same ornate symbols.

Jack was trying to figure out what the symbols were, when he glimpsed movement.

Next to the standing stone a glorious white stallion was tethered, and in its shadow, barely reaching the height of the saddle, was a slim dark-haired girl. She appeared as ephemeral as a spirit. Her skin was as white as snow, while her hair, black and mysterious as jet, cascaded down past her waist. She wore a blood-red dress that shimmered in the haze of the early morning light.

Jack was transfixed. Even at this distance, he could feel her gaze. He raised his hand hesitantly in greeting. The girl remained motionless. Jack waved again. This time the girl bowed ever so slightly.

‘Oh, glorious day!’ exclaimed a voice from behind. ‘One so much sweeter for the passing of the storm.’

Jack turned round to see his father admiring the ruby-red disc of the sun as it rose over the ocean.

‘Father, look!’ cried Jack, pointing to the girl on the peninsula. His father glanced up and searched the headland.

‘I told you, son! This land is gilded with gold,’ he said jubilantly, pulling Jack to him. ‘They even build their temples with the very stuff …’

‘No, not the building, father, the girl and …’ But the girl and the horse had disappeared. Only the standing stone remained. It was as if she had been carried away on a breeze.

‘What girl? You’ve been too long at sea!’ teased his father, a knowing smile on his lips, which quickly faded as if stolen by a forgotten memory. ‘Far too long …’

He trailed off, gazing mournfully at the headland.

‘I should never have brought you, Jack. It was foolhardy of me.’

‘But I wanted to come,’ insisted Jack. ‘Like you said, to be the first Englishman to set foot in Japan.’

‘Your mother – God rest her soul – would never have allowed it. She would have wanted you to stay home with Jess.’

‘Yes, but my mother didn’t even allow me to cross the docks without holding her hand!’

‘And for good reason, Jack!’ he replied, the smile returning to his lips. ‘You were always one to seek out adventure. You’d have probably jumped aboard some ship bound for Africa and we wouldn’t have seen you again!’

Jack suddenly found himself enveloped within one of his father’s massive bear hugs.

‘Now here you are in the Japans. And, by my life, son, you proved your mettle last night. You’ll be a fine pilot one day.’

Jack felt his father’s pride in him seep into his very bones. He buried his head into his father’s chest, wanting never to be let go.

‘Jack, if you did spy someone upon the headland, then we had best remain on our guard,’ continued his father, taking the spyglass from Jack. ‘Wakō ply these waters and one can never be too vigilant.’

‘What are wakō?’ asked Jack, pulling his head away.

‘They’re pirates, son. But no ordinary pirates. They’re Japanese pirates, disciplined and ruthless,’ explained his father, scanning the horizon. ‘They’re feared in all places and have no qualms about killing Spanish, Dutch, Portuguese and English men alike. They’re the very devil of these seas.’

‘And they are the reason, young man,’ interrupted the Captain from behind, ‘why we must make haste and repair the Alexandria. Now, Pilot, did you get the damage report from the First Mate?’

‘Yes, Captain,’ replied Jack’s father as he and the Captain made their way to the helm. ‘It’s as bad as we feared.’

Jack remained close by, catching snatches of their conversation while he continued to search the headland for signs of the mysterious girl.

‘The Alexandria’s taken quite a beating …’ said his father.

‘At least two weeks to get her into proper shipshape …’

‘… I want the Alexandria seaworthy by the turn of the new moon.’

‘… that’s barely a week away …’ protested his father.

‘ Double shifts, Pilot, if we are to be spared the fate of the Clove …’

‘… dead to the last man. Beheaded – each and every one.’

The news of double shifts did not go down well with the men, but they were too afraid of the Bosun and his cat-o’-nine-tails to complain. For the next seven days, Jack, along with the rest of the crew, laboured like galley slaves, the sweat pouring off them in rivulets under the hot Japanese sun.

While repairing the foresail, Jack found himself often gazing up at the temple. Shimmering in the heat haze, it appeared to be floating above the headland. Every day he had been on the lookout for the girl – but he was beginning to think he’d imagined her.

Perhaps his father was right. Maybe he had been too long at sea.

‘I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all,’ complained Ginsel, rousing Jack from his daydream. ‘We’re a trader ship with no sail. We’ve got a cargo of cloth, sappanwood and guns. Any pirate worth his salt is going to know we’re a prize for the taking!’

‘But there’s over a hundred of us, sir, and we have cannon,’ pointed out Christiaan. ‘How could they possibly beat us?’

‘Don’t you know nothing, you little sea urchin?’ spat Piper, a thin, bony man with skin that hung off his scrawny frame like dry parchment paper. ‘This here is the Japans. The Japanese ain’t no defenceless, bare-breasted natives. They’re fighters. Killers! You ever heard of the samurai?’

Christiaan shook his head in mute reply.

‘The samurai are said to be the most deadly, evil warriors to walk this earth. They’ll kill you as soon as look at you!’

Christiaan’s eyes widened in horror. Even Jack was taken aback by the terrifying description, though he was well aware of Piper’s reputation as a teller of tall tales.

Piper paused to light his small clay pipe and sucked lazily on it. The sailors all huddled closer.

‘Samurai work for the Devil himself. I’ve heard they’ll chop your head off if you don’t bow to them like serfs!’

Christian gasped … a few men laughed.

‘So if you ever meet a samurai, lads, bow low. Bow very, very low!’

‘That’s quite enough, Piper! Less of your scaremongering!’ interjected the Bosun, who had been watching them from the quarterdeck. ‘Now get this boat shipshape – we must be ready to sail by sunrise tomorrow!’

‘Aye, aye, Bosun,’ the men all chanted, hastily returning to their duties.

During the night, there was a growing uneasiness among the crew. Rumours about samurai and wakō had spread like wildfire, and the watch had sighted black shadows moving through the forest.

The next day, all eyes were fixed on the shore and, despite the coastline remaining completely deserted, there was a feverish anxiety to the way the men worked.

It was close to dusk by the time the Alexandria was fit to sail. The Bosun called all hands on deck and Jack waited with the rest of the crew to hear the Captain’s orders.

‘Gentlemen, you have done a fine job,’ announced Captain Wallace. ‘If the wind is fair, we sail in the morning to Nagasaki and our fortune. You’ve all earned yourselves an extra ration of beer!’

The whole crew let out an enthusiastic cheer. It was rare for the Captain to demonstrate such generosity. As the cheering died down, though, the watchman from the crow’s-nest could be heard shouting.

‘Ship ahoy! Ship ahoy!’

They all turned as one and looked out to sea.

There, in the distance, was the ominous outline of a ship … bearing the red flag of the wakō.

5
  

Shadows in the Night

The old moon had waned, leaving the night as black as pitch, and the wakō ship was soon swallowed up by the darkness.

Up on deck, the Captain had doubled the watch in case of an attack, while below those off duty whispered their fears to one another. Exhausted, Jack lay silent in his bunk, staring blankly at the spluttering oil lamp, which made the men’s faces appear gaunt and ghostly as they talked.

Jack must have drifted off because when he opened his eyes again the oil lamp had gone out. What had woken him? The night was soundless, apart from the heavy snoring of his fellow crewmembers. Yet he still felt an intense disquiet.

Jack dropped from his bunk and padded up the companionway. It was no lighter up on deck. Not a single star could be seen and Jack found the absolute darkness disturbing. He made his way across the deck, feeling his way as he went. The fact that there appeared to be no one around only served to increase his sense of unease.

Then, without warning, he collided straight into a watchman.

‘Bleeding idiot!’ snarled the sailor. ‘You scared the living daylights out of me.’