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Rusu no Michizane looked up with fever-dulled eyes. The wound from Kumamoto stank so badly that no one would go near him. Many twice-wounded men would’ve slunk away, but not Michizane-san. His only regret was that he’d not died at Kumamoto. He often quoted, “Bushidō is found in the way of death.”
Instead, he’d lived on, only to see his comrades die or quietly vanish. Then the infection set in, robbing him of a warrior’s death, but at least he hadn’t fled. He might not fall with honor, but he would not die with shame.
How he was still alive was a mystery — or maybe not. He was just stubborn.
Reaching Shiroyama took tenacity, overwhelming honor, and a masterful blade. Only the unwavering made it that far. Retreat came only at a commander’s word. “A samurai’s honor lies in duty — retreat is a shame,” Michizane-san whispered, his mind wandering to past battles. And Saigō Takamori had demanded no less.
Not normally a poetic man, more used to the field than the court, he found words came to him in his last hours: “Today, there will be a sunset, but no dawn.”
His thoughts returned to the man he’d followed, Saigō Takamori. He had been everything a man should be, worthy of loyalty. And Michizane had served faithfully through every charge and retreat.
But Saigō-sama wouldn’t order a retreat today. Beppu-san had helped him die as a warrior. Now he cradled Saigō-sama’s head, searching for a place to hide it. The other warriors sheltered from the constant bombardment and prepared for a final charge.
“One finds the Way in death,” Michizane said to himself.
Michizane-san’s eyes fastened on the head. If only he could rise and avenge Saigō-sama. He longed to fall with his comrades and to send a few more peasant levies screaming after him.
His finger scratched out his death poem in the mud. That done, he stared at the sky and listened to the clatter and yells as the samurai charged to meet their sunset.
“Remember this — we die as warriors.”
“Totsugeki jaa! Totsugeki jaa! Totsugeki jaa!”
“Eei, kakarei!”
“If only…” he thought. “If only I could die with honor, like a warrior.”
Instead, he cursed the farmer who ended his life, not giving an inch.
His poem lay unreadable in the mire. Then, it too disappeared under the tread of his enemies.
Brave sowing
Under dawn’s light
Evening falls
A scarlet glimmer
A noble last harvest