Jack shook his head, realizing the futility of their situation. ‘If I hand myself over, at least there’s a chance you can all escape.’

‘Jack, we didn’t come this far to give up now,’ countered Saburo.

‘I can’t let you sacrifice yourselves like this –’

Yori interrupted him. ‘Remember what Sensei Yamada once said: A samurai alone is like a single arrow. Deadly but capable of being broken. Only by binding together as a single force will we remain strong and unconquerable.’

He went and stood beside Saburo and Miyuki.

‘Forever bound to one another. Isn’t that what Akiko vowed to you, Jack? Well, we are too.’

Jack looked at his friends. Their unwavering loyalty astounded him. He knew this was what it meant to be samurai – and ninja, for that matter.

‘I’m honoured to have such friends,’ he said, humbled, and bowed his respect. ‘We had better make a plan then.’

Miyuki patted one of the saké casks upon which an oil lamp sat. ‘We can set fire to the place as a diversion.’

Jack shook his head. ‘Too many innocent people could be hurt.’

‘What about hiding among the crowd?’ Saburo suggested. ‘It’s getting busy out there.’

Jack and the others peered through the doorway. Aside from the fishermen and dockhands, there were several groups of men and women queuing to join boats lined along the jetty. Many of these were dressed identically in white breeches, white jackets, straw hats and sandals. A white bag was slung across each of their shoulders, and round their necks hung a dark-blue stole – the rectangular cloth being the only item not coloured white. In one hand, each held a set of rosary beads; in the other, a wooden staff with a small bell attached to the handle.

‘It’s like a gathering of winter ninja,’ remarked Jack, throwing a wry grin in Miyuki’s direction. When she’d come looking for him, she’d been wearing an all-white shinobi shozoku, the customary ninja garb for missions in snow. Miyuki had since reversed her clothes to the black side, concealing them beneath a plain brown kimono.

‘They’re pilgrims,’ explained Yori.

‘We could ask them to pray for our escape!’ Saburo quipped, his nerves evident in his strained attempt at humour.

Jack saw the samurai working their way down the harbour, getting closer with every step. ‘I think we’ll need more than prayers.’

Yori turned to him. ‘This fishing port must be Tomo Harbour. Followers of Kobo Daishi, the Great Saint, pass through here to get to Shikoku Island, where they embark upon a pilgrimage of eighty-eight temples in his honour.’

‘But why are they all dressed in white?’ Jack asked.