The Last Mandarin Read Online Free

prickling, with an acceleration of the blood, as though Nanking were a dragon to be slain. Also in Nanking were foreigners. Westerners, large hairy creatures lacking passion and nobility. They spoke always as if to servants. In Shanghai Kanamori had accompanied his colonel to a social meeting with several British. These British were of an unpleasant sandpaper color. It was soon apparent that their only concern was the interruption of commerce. Only one spoke of the women and children, of the random bombardments, and declined to drink, and turned angrily and left. The others apologized for him. Kanamori could not have said which he disliked more. They had a way of laughing. There were French, too, and Germans, and Americans. Kanamori scorned them all. The Chinese were an inconsequential people, true; killing them was like crushing lice or burning ant hills. Yet they were of Asia.
    Kanamori’s head count was sixty-five and his blade was nicked. A tall Chinese officer had fought back. Kanamori’s men formed the customary circle, and offered this officer the customary sword, of the same length and weight as Kanamori’s though surely inferior in workmanship. The Chinese took up the sword, slashed the air, examined the edge. His behavior was exemplary; he bowed, as did Kanamori. The Chinese offered to remove his helmet if Kanamori would do the same. Kanamori declined, and allowed him to remain covered. This officer’s helmet was little more than a cooking pot; Kanamori laughed aloud. He remembered tales of the Chinese army twenty, even ten, years before, swarming to battle with a teapot and a paper umbrella hanging from the belt.
    But this one fought. He danced and parried. He was larger than Kanamori and heavier, though surely not as strong. His gaze did not falter, nor his wrist tire. Kanamori’s men fell silent. Kanamori panted but maintained a victorious air. The Chinese too huffed and puffed. Kanamori feinted, let his left foot seem to slip; the Chinese leaped and thrust, but Kanamori was already out of range, and as the weight of the sword carried the Chinese through his stroke Kanamori flew at him with the two-handed chop. The saber sliced through the Chinese helmet, skull, neck and some of the breast. It was the finest stroke Kanamori had ever delivered. The thrill of it raced through his arms, and to his heart. Even years later he felt it. But the helmet, or an angry human bone, nicked his blade. In the forging the steel of that blade had been folded double twenty times; a million bondings and more! And yet that nick!
    Nevertheless Kanamori did not omit his prayer of thanks. As if to forgive the nick he uttered thanks to Yamato. There was no sword like a Yamato sword.
    That was number sixty-five. Kurusu was on the right wing and they were too busy fighting, with no time for diversion and gossip. Kanamori would of course believe whatever figure Kurusu reported; Japanese officers did not lie.
    This village was deserted. The Japanese had been cheated. They stormed through every house, even the reed huts. They smashed chairs and pots. Ito and Kyose set fires. In one house they found painted tiles of old men with wispy white beards. They smashed them with rifle butts. The men carried Arisaka 38’s. Kanamori carried the carbine, the type 44. Two men tended a type-99 light machine gun. It was useless half the time, on the march, but in the occasional true skirmish it was invaluable. Supply was always a problem. The trucks and ammunition trains tried to keep pace, and each evening units tried to find them and restock.
    In one hut they heard a cry. All came running, eager and ready. They heard movement then, and waited. Beside Kanamori, Ito hissed and hissed. He was a burly man who carried hissing too far, but Kanamori’s breath too came thin and quick.
    A creature emerged. The men shouted in rage and bafflement, and then all guffawed. It was a pig, a scrawny but brave pig. He charged two steps, then