Pearl Harbour - A novel of December 8th by William R. Forstchen, Newt Gingrich Page A

pressure on the Chamberlain. My God, if someone pulled a revolver out in front of the King or in Parliament, there’d be hell to pay.”
    “Now we are getting into the deeper issues with these Japanese,” Cecil said, with a smile. He nodded toward the decanter of scotch, and Winston, smiling, waved for him to refill, which he did. Wreathed in smoke, Winston then nodded for him to continue.
    “Disgraced in their world, the forty-seven ronin did not leave the capital. Instead they remained in the city, apparently casting aside their ceremonial robes and selling their swords. They took on the most menial of tasks, gardeners, night soil collectors, wood cutters, drifting to the edge of society, and over time they were all but forgotten.”
    Cecil smiled.
    “They waited for over a year. The Chamberlain was no fool; he knew they were out there, watching, waiting. He kept his guard up, extra samurai to keep watch day and night, so much so that he himself became something of a laughingstock, viewed as a coward afraid of his own shadow. But he had reason to be afraid.
    “For finally, he did let his guard down, and then, at last, the leader of the forty-seven ronin, his name was Oishi, summoned his comrades together. In secret, they met in the graveyard where their lord was buried, and from secret hiding places drew out their ceremonial robes of his house and their swords, which they had not sold.”
    Winston leaned forward, caught up in the tale.
    “They stormed the Chamberlain’s palace and slaughtered everyone. Cornered, the Chamberlain begged for his life, but they killed him and took his head.”
    Winston slapped his knee.
    “Figured it would be something like that.”
    Cecil nodded.
    “But there’s far more, sir. You see they had, in so doing, fulfilled their own sense of honor, and yet had directly violated the will of the Emperor. They were now hunted men.
    “The hue and cry went up. There are several versions of what happened next, but finally they are brought before the Emperor himself, who orders them to commit suicide.”
    Cecil nodded, and unable to contain his desire any longer he motioned to the box of cigars, which Winston happily offered. He had managed to drop the habit in Japan--good tobacco was all but impossible to find there--but the scent of the smoke, the warmth of the fire, the taste of good scotch, a cigar would make it complete; and Winston sat in silence as Cecil unwrapped the cigar, cut the end, and puffed it to life.
    “But, sir, there is far more. A Westerner hearing the story might say it’s a rousing good tale but not see the deeper meaning to it, a meaning that relates to what happened in Japan last week.”
    “And that is?”
    “Gekokujo. Their actions ultimately were gekokujo. Yes, they got the revenge they felt duty-bound to fulfill, but there is also their suicides. It was not just an apology to the Emperor for breaking the law, as some might read it. It was a message direct to the Emperor and the Shogun, an act of rebellion. The message was that they were right, and he had done wrong. The Emperor had failed their daimyo, allowing a corrupt official to stay in the court. He had failed in allowing a good man to be driven to the point of madness by this corrupt official. Killing the Chamberlain therefore was an act the Emperor or Shogun themselves should have done long ago. Their suicide would remain in the national psyche, be a lesson to all, and restore balance and purity.”
    “Connect the two,” Winston said, “this rebellion and the story.”
    “Easy enough, sir. The coup attempt on February 26 was carried out by a small cadre of disenchanted junior officers in the army and some revolutionary radicals. They are enamored with a mystical sense of a unique and special destiny for Japan. Their concept of nationhood is unlike ours. It is nationalism tied to religion, tied to, for lack of a better term, a racial destiny.”
    “God save us, not another Hitler and his drivel,”