THE STORY OF TOSHIZO HIJIKATA – FINAL CHAPTER: THE HATAMOTO OF EZO

Take a look at a map of Japan. See where Hokkaido is?

It’s the northernmost island of the Land of the Rising Sun, much more scarcely populated than the rest of the country. Its climate is rough, with chilling, snowy winters and cool summers. It is best known for amazing wildlife: Hokkaido is where the Japanese cranes live, one of the country’s most celebrated symbols – those majestic white birds with black wings, golden beaks and patches of blood-red on their heads. Nowadays, the island mostly lives off tourism – refreshingly cold summers, winter ski centers and nature parks attract a lot of travelers. But some hundred years ago, Hokkaido was the proverbial middle of nowhere, the back of beyond where nobody wanted to go. There was nothing there but snow, winds, dark forests, and unruly Ainu tribes. And, well, cranes.

Back in the olden days, the island of Hokkaido was known under a different name: Ezo.

In the fall of 1868, when it became obvious that the Shogunate forces were losing the war all over the place – not to mention that, for crying out loud, they were a Shogun short – a man named Takeaki Enomoto decided to do something about it. Enomoto was quite an interesting dude. Descendant of an old samurai family that served the Tokugawa clan for centuries and a die-hard Shogunate loyalist, he was actually educated in Europe, as the first generation of Japanese officials to see the world after the country had opened its borders. He was also remarkably young – only 31 years old when he was appointed Admiral of the Japanese Navy. So when the Meiji government asked him to pledge loyalty to the new regime and give over the warships that were under his command, he responded with a juicy “well you know what, fuck you too”. And then he took his fleet and sailed north, way up far north, to that one part of Japan that nobody cared about – the island of Ezo.

Upon arriving to Hakodate, Ezo’s largest port town, Admiral Enomoto made a dramatic announcement. He called upon all those who remained faithful to the Shogunate and rejected the new order to stop fighting in the mainland – that war was already lost. Instead, they should come to him, up north to Ezo. There, together, they’d join forces and create something new – the Republic of Ezo, a place where they would uphold the old values and continue living as they did under the Shogunate.

Enomoto’s words exploded like a thousand firecrackers. Soon enough, Tokugawa loyalists began withdrawing from the mainland and travelling north. It is estimated that as many as several thousand people came to Ezo. Not all of them were samurai or soldiers: there were many administrators and clerks who lost their positions since the government changed, or simple enthusiasts who were afraid of what the new regime might bring. There was Jules Brunet too, with a unit of French officers – even though France had dropped the Shogunate like a hot potato the moment when Yoshinobu resigned, Brunet decided to go against his direct orders and remain with his Japanese friends. And of course, there was Toshizo Hijikata. He was among the first to arrive, in the fall of 1868, on the famous warship called Kaiyo Maru, together with Keisuke Otori, a high level Tokugawa military commander with whom he had fought at the Battle of Utsunomiya Castle.

The Republic of Ezo was proclaimed on December 25th 1868. Its aim, as the Declaration of Independence stated, was to “secede from the nation of Japan and carry on with samurai traditions unmolested”.

Here’s yet another paradox of the Boshin War: in spite of insisting on “samurai traditions” in the Declaration, the Ezo Republic was way more modern and progressive than the Meiji regime. The first democratic elections ever held in the history of Japan happened in Ezo, with Takeaki Enomoto ending up as the elected President. Ezo’s governmental system was American – there were ministries for each area of importance, with Keisuke Otori becoming the Minister of Army, and Toshizo Hijikata his Deputy. The Republic’s Constitution was based on the pillars of the French Revolution – liberté, égalité, fraternité, Monsieur Brunet’s personal touch that he was particularly proud of, as pages and pages of bragging about it in his diary could confirm. The Ezo Republic adopted its flag and its anthem. It sent letters to the diplomatic missions of the United States, Russia, France and the Netherlands asking for international recognition. It also filed a famous petition to Meiji’s Imperial Court. In this document, the Republic clearly stated that it still recognized Emperor Meiji as the country’s supreme, divine sovereign – it only had a problem with the new Satsuma-Choshu government. Therefore, Ezo proposed to end the Boshin War and continue living with Japan in peaceful coexistence, as two independent nations under one Emperor. In other words, the only thing the Republic asked for was to be left alone.

But young Emperor Meiji was a smart boy, and he had even smarter advisors around him. And they were merciless.

In a way, it makes perfect sense why the Emperor and his new government had to crush the Ezo Republic. After centuries of samurai-dominated Tokugawa Shogunate, the regime was freshly changed. The country was still vulnerable and unstable – and instability was a fertile ground for all sorts of silly ideas for potential revolutions. Showing mercy to the remnants of the old regime - by essentially letting them have their way exactly how they wanted it - would be a sign of weakness. And this was not a moment for the Emperor to appear weak. So the Imperial Court responded to the Ezo petition with a brief, simple-to-understand offer.

Surrender or die.

It was cold in Ezo that winter. Fucking freezing.

The Republic’s leaders were fully aware that once the weather got better, the Imperial forces would launch a full-on campaign against them. So they did their best to make use of the winter break, working hard against the snow and wind and chill that crept into their bones. The idea was to fortify the port of Hakodate in an attempt to resist a longer siege of the island, particularly reinforcing the Goryokaku Fortress, the star fort on top of the city. As Deputy Minister of Army, Toshizo played a very prominent role in these preparations – both in terms of placing the Goryokaku Fortress under full control of the Republic, and in planning the fortifications. He was relentless, historians say. In his diary, Jules Brunet wrote how impressed he was by Toshizo’s dedication and wit in those crucial days. “The man is truly remarkable,” Brunet remarked. “If he were born in Europe, he’d be no less than a general.”

Toshizo was a doer by nature: being busy in Hakodate did him good. It gave him tasks to solve: a sense of purpose. A feeling that his dream was not dead yet. Yet the preparations did not last forever, and winters in Ezo were long. Soon enough, he ran out of things to do.

So he waited.

He went on walks around the fortress, checking and double checking that all was well. He wrote more of his godawful poetry. He penned long letters to his family in Hino – some of which he sent, some of which he burned. He watched the snow and the grey winter skies in Hakodate port, listening to the winds. He played cards with Jules Brunet. Hell, he probably even observed the cranes, since they were right there all right. He had all the time in the world to think about dead comrades and lost battles and life choices and dreams and times a-changin’ and the goddamn impending doom that loomed over them, as it was pretty obvious that no matter the fortifications, the Imperial Army would crush them like bugs come spring. Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe he tried not to think at all.

But he waited.

The Imperial Army began its final push against the Ezo Republic in late April 1869. They too had used the winter to prepare for invasion: they obtained more American warships and guns. At Toba-Fushimi, only one Gatling gun had wreaked havoc – now they owned several. Hence it’s not a surprise that the Empire quickly started winning against the Republic’s forces, sinking their ships and breaking down their barricades. Still, in spite of its obvious disadvantage, Ezo offered impressive resistance. It took a full month for the Imperial Army to finally begin a land invasion with 7000 infantry soldiers. The port of Hakodate was well defended and the Goryokaku Fortress stood strong – but the Ezo forces were tired, drained after the long winter and a string of defeats. It was obvious they wouldn’t be able to resist for long.

In early May 1869, just around his 34th birthday, Toshizo Hijikata understood that the Ezo Republic would fall in a matter of days.

It was the season of blooming cherry trees – in Ezo’s cool climate, they blossomed much later than in the rest of the country. It was a good season for a samurai’s story to end – even though he was never a real samurai.

Starting from May, Toshizo Hijikata began spending the days alone in his room. He received very few visitors – mostly just the Minister of Army Keisuke Otori, who informed him about the progress of the land invasion. On May 3rd in the middle of the night, he summoned his page, Tetsunosuke Ichimura, a boy who’d been with the Shinsengumi since his early teens. Tetsunosuke would later recount that Toshizo was all dressed in white that night. He gave the boy his two swords, a lock of his blue-black hair, a letter, a photograph – the one in which he’s sitting in a chair dressed in his Parisian suit, and a poem. A death poem, true to samurai traditions. He wrote it himself, of course – and while its lyrical quality is indeed dubious, the poem aptly reveals his matter-of-factly outlook on life clashing with his soul of a dreamer:

“Though my body may decay on the island of Ezo,
My spirit guards my lord in the east.“

It was also the ultimate grand gesture of samurai martyrdom – even in death, he’d protect the very Emperor whose forces put him in the grave. Toshizo then ordered Tetsunosuke to ride out immediately, find a way to reach Hikogoro Sato in Hino, and deliver him these items as mementos. He also ordered the boy not to cry.

On the morning of May 11th, Toshizo Hijikata asked for his horse to be readied. He said, with the land invasion ongoing, one of the first places to fall would be the Benten Daiba fort in the suburbs of Hakodate. There were men who’d once been Shinsengumi members in that fort, he said. He could not leave them.

So he ordered the gates to open and rode out of the Goryokaku Fortress alone, galloping straight into the battle mayhem where the Imperial forces awaited with their Gatling guns.

We can assume that he hoped for a quick death – glorious, in battle, in mid-movement, like in one of those romantic novels that Isami Kondo used to like so much.

What happened was that a rain of bullets killed his horse, while hitting him in the lower back, shattering his abdomen and crippling his legs. He fell on the ground, and the dead animal collapsed on top of him. And then he laid there alone, broken and paralyzed, in the pool of blood, staring at the sky, and all under the fucking cherry blossom trees.

It took him hours to die.

~to be continued~




Next: Epilogue (The Living and the Dead)
THE STORY OF TOSHIZO HIJIKATA - EPILOGUE: A Memory (The Living and the Dead)