After the raid, Sano had brought Captain Oss the bodies of Interpreter Iishino and Abbot Liu Yun, who had killed Jan Spaen and Maarten deGraeff. Oss had retreated from the harbor. A few of the crew remained on board while the rest had accompanied the cargo to Deshima. The Dutch merchants had sold their goods. The new East India Company staff had taken up residence on the island. Now the ship awaited favorable winds for departure.

“Soon we go,” Dr. Huygens said. “Home.”

Home, to rebuild the life Jan Spaen had destroyed; to resume his medical practice and continuing effort to atone for his youthful crime. As Sano contemplated Huygens’s long ocean journey, he thought how small his country was compared to the vast world beyond its shores. He realized that Japan couldn’t hold the world at bay forever. The bakufu’s policies provided a flimsy barrier. More foreigners would come—not just from the Netherlands, but also from many barbarian kingdoms—with superior ships and weapons, hungry for new trade and territory. Now Sano could see the shōgun and the bakufu not as omnipotent tyrants, but as small men afraid of a future they couldn’t control. Japan must eventually surrender its isolation, and what then?

Sano envisioned a day when barbarians would freely walk the streets of Japan’s cities and his descendants travel to distant lands. Japanese and barbarians would speak one another’s languages, share ideas. His adventurous spirit thrilled to the possibilities. But Sano could also imagine foreign warships attacking Japan; the boom of gunfire rocking sea and land; cities burning; the death of his people in wars more destructive than any before. Sano didn’t know which vision would come to pass, but he realized how vulnerable Japan was, how fragile the culture that dominated and nurtured him. Even Bushido might not survive the onslaught of foreign influence.

Now Sano experienced a powerful surge of love for his imperiled country. Like a pure, clean spring, it washed away the bitter hatred with which his past ordeals had infected him. Perceiving the danger renewed his samurai will to defend to the death his lord—and, by extension, his homeland, his people, his way of life. He felt strong and exhilarated, as if he’d recovered from a long illness. The future seemed alive with promise, his purpose clear.

Soon Huygens’s basket was full; in the harbor, Sano’s ship waited. Shepherded by the guards, they walked downhill, through the city. Outside the Deshima gatehouse, they made their farewells.

“I wish you a safe journey and a happy, prosperous life,” Sano said, bowing.

“You safe journey. Good luck, friend.” The doctor extended his hands. At first Sano didn’t understand the unfamiliar gesture. Then he clasped Huygens’s hands in his own, pledging eternal friendship barbarian-style. And it seemed to Sano that by parting thus, they also wished both their nations a mutually beneficial journey into the future.