Free Daughters of the Samurai: A Journey From East to West and Back by Janice P. Nimura Page A

salute, one shot fired for each of the original states. In the first-class cabins, a few of the Japanese delegates were counting. They were somewhat disappointed not to reach a higher number. “America is a democratic country and practices simplicity with respect to the level of politeness and etiquette displayed,” the scribe Kunitake Kume confided philosophically to his journal.
    Flags decorated every mast, the Stars and Stripes and the Circle of the Sun fluttering fore and aft of the smokestacks amidships. As the ship settled into her berth, an unusual group gathered on the promenade deck, led by two men. One, gazing eagerly at his home port after long absence, wore a dark beard, a winter coat, and an Astrakhan hat of Persian lamb: Charles DeLong, American ambassador, returning from two years of service in Japan. A native New Yorker, DeLong had chased adventure to the gold fields of California by the age of seventeen. Supplementing his speculative ventures with a law practice, he moved into politics, where he proved more of an opportunist than an idealist. He had accepted the post of minister to Japan in 1869 and had taken to the glamour of diplomatic life like a duck to water. His natural charm had always served him well.
    But it was the other man who drew the stares of those watching from the pier. He stood, straight and slim and solemn, in midnight-blue robes of embroidered silk tied with cord. Two swords of different lengths swept down from his sash. The sides of his head were shaved and the remaining hair drawn up into a topknot, over which he wore a black lacquered headdress—more like a box than a hat—tied securely under his chin. Strong black brows slashed downward to an aquiline nose and a mouth turned down at the corners. Heavy-lidded eyes surveyed the crowds of people gathered below. Tomomi Iwakura, minister of the right, ambassador extraordinary and plenipotentiary, made an imposing first impression. Once a chamberlain in the court of the Emperor Meiji’s father, and then a key player in the maneuverings that restored the son to power, he embodied both Japan’s past and its future.
    Behind him stood dozens of his entourage, inelegant by comparison, dressed, as one reporter noted, “in the most outlandish English ready-made garments of all styles since the flood.” When the ship was safely moored, a more sharply tailored party of local notables came on board to greet the exotic visitors, their genial smiles and outstretched hands met with stiff bows.
    Twenty-three days after leaving Yokohama, the men of the Iwakura Mission were ready to set foot on foreign soil. As the sober group filed down the gangplank, a splash of vivid color brought up the rear. A wave of excitement rippled through the crowd. Emerging from behind the ample girth of their chaperone, Mrs. DeLong, five girls stepped carefully into view. They were swathed in bright silk, lavishly embroidered from collar to hem and tied with broad contrasting sashes. Two carried themselves with the reserve of young women, hatless, their hair upswept and crowned with tortoiseshell combs. The other three, clearly younger, wore gay floral ornaments in their lacquered coiffures, though their faces were carefully composed. So these were the princesses sent by the Mikado!
    They may not have been princesses, but they were the first Japanese females ever to venture abroad in the service of their nation. The two eldest would retrace their steps within the year, but the three younger oneswould not see their homeland again for a decade. Sutematsu was eleven. Shige was ten. And Ume, her eyes darting in wonder from the houses to the carriages to the well-dressed women in the crowd, had turned seven at sea.
    T HE DOCKSIDE CROWDS parted to allow the members of the embassy to reach a line of waiting carriages. Walking between walls of onlookers, the girls kept their eyes down, uncomfortably conscious of their clothes, their hair, the staring eyes on every side. Mrs.