A Time Traveller's Guide To Feudal Japan

The Miura men pulled back the hammer’s on their rifles and the Uesugi soldiers drew their bows taught and true.

"Fire!" Jikouji barked, swinging down his arm and fire they did.

A monstrous cloud of arrows crept up into the air, enough to blot out the sun. The same weapon that Kenshin had used against him, Gengyo was able to try for himself. It was a pleasant feeling. The men were quick in their movements, and before that arrow even landed, they had nocked a second and were drawing their bows skyward for that second shot.

The difference between a bullet and an arrow was made immediately apparent. Whilst the arrows flew into their sky completing the ascent of a dragon, making their presence felt, bullets flashed through the air like the stealthiest of ninjas and tore a hole in that which was directly in front of them. Two thousand bullets were released just like that. The bite of the Takeda charge was taken immediately. Yoshinobu took a couple of bullets himself and his eyes widened, but he kept his sword pointed forward and did not fall from his saddle.

It was a hopeless prospect for them. Before the arrows landed, a second volley of bullets was released and less than half of the Takeda force remained. Yoshinobu and his generals kept to their saddle, despite taking the worst of the fire, though now they slumped into the neck of their horses, their eyes darker than they once were.

The arrows landed. Men howled. Horses were torn to pieces. It was a willful execution. Yoshinobu had led his men in the most honourable suicide he could conceptualize. There was seppuku, but nothing could compare to a true warrior’s death.

The third volley and Yoshinobu finally left his saddle, riddled with arrows and bullet holes. Only a handful of men still stood. They were dealt with when the next swarm of arrows fell on top of them.

Silence swept the air. The breeze brought with it a chill and a familiar smell, heralding the arrival of autumn and the promise of a cold winter.

Two thousand horses and two thousand hors.e.m.e.n all lay dead in the mud in front of them. Not a single one had managed to make it close to the Miura frontline. The only cost for their deaths was the expending of ammunition.

A sombre mood took the men. They could not throw their arms up at the victory, for it had not been a hard-earned one. True, they were glad to have been spared a true fight, so there was relief in their hearts, but the reckless charge of those two thousand Takeda men, it had won their respect.

Everyone had a story, Gengyo reflected. He wondered upon Yoshinobu’s. He had his own opinion’s of the man, and in his mind – and his own father’s – the boy had never amounted to much. But with such a fiery death, there must have always been a fire in the boy’s heart. How did he feel when he awoke that morning? How was it to grow in his shoes and live his life? If the stars had aligned differently, was there a time when he could have reached his full potential, when he was given the chance to truly rule? It might have been that he’d be the greatest warlord Japan had ever seen. Or perhaps the most ruthless tyrant. But it was a story that had been snuffed out before it could truly be told.

"Honour to he who seeks death in combat," Yamagata stated resolutely, a fist across his heart.

Gengyo returned that gesture, he was compelled to. The men followed his lead and they saluted the army of the dead that lay to the front of him.

"A pyre will be built for these men," Gengyo stated. "They will be ushered into Takamagahara as if they were our own."

The men were only too happy to oblige. There was a small cl.u.s.ter of trees nearby, the last remnants of a dying forest, their wood was long since dry. Everything was laid before them as it was truly meant to be and so with an eye to the gods, Gengyo dipped his head, knowing that he swam the river of the gods’ flow and operated according to their will.

It was a grand structure every time they did it. A tower of carefully arranged wood with plenty of gaps and spaces for bodies to be placed. They could not light them all up as one, so they added them to the flames gradually whenever a space was burned free. Even the horses went with them – it seemed a shame not to allow them their steeds when Takeda men were known to be so close with their horses.

The tinder was lit beneath that wooden tower and the flames crackled to life. They licked at the bodies of their enemy and soon devoured them entirely. They worked throughout the night to burn them all, but each of them was glad to have done it. They felt the enemy deserved no less. If they were in the shoes of those Takeda men, would they have the courage to charge forward, knowing that it meant certain death? It was a question that hung on all of their minds.

When morning came, Gengyo had not slept a wink. He watched the rising of the sun, surrounded by dew-covered grass, with Akiko’s head resting on his arm. The path forward was for the capital. This land all around him was his. He did not rejoice in that fact, but accepted it, for in his heart it had always meant to be.

"I am glad for you, Shingen," Gengyo whispered to the breeze. "Your son has done you proud in his final moments."

He was glad for himself too. He did not want to sully the name of a good man with the execution of a pitiful child. Indeed, Takeda Yoshinobu was a Takeda man through and through.

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