Though Katsu Kaishū had not mentioned Saigō Takamori’s death in his journal, shortly after Saigō died he produced a small book of late great men of the Meiji Restoration. It is clear that Saigō was foremost on his mind—but he could not explicitly dedicate the book to him. Bōyūchō (Notebook of Deceased Friends) is an annotated compilation of letters, poems, and paintings in the original calligraphic brushwork, which Kaishū personally had received from eight late friends “over my career of thirty years.” (The book actually covers ten men, but Kaishū possessed calligraphic works addressed to himself from only eight of them.) . . . . Included beside Saigō are (in order of appearance): Sakuma Shōzan, Yoshida Torajirō (Shōin), Shimazu Nariakira, Yamauchi Yōdō . . ., Katsura Kogorō, Komatsu Tatéwaki, Yokoi Shōnan, Hirosawa Hyōsuké, and Hatta Tomonori. Yokoi and Saigō are allotted the most space, with three works included from each of them. But Saigō alone is alluded to (if only implicitly) in the Introduction and it was with Saigō’s poem, Zangiku(“Chrysanthemums of Early Winter”), that Kaishū concluded the book.

The other day I was interviewed by John Dolan, co-host of a very fine weekly podcast called “Radio War Nerd,” which covers a wide range of military topics. John had read my Shinsengumi and became interested in the “samurai revolution.” He mentioned that many men had been butchered with swords during those years, and asked why samurai did not also use guns against their enemies. In my reply, I failed to mention the incident at the Teradaya inn in the outskirts of Kyoto, in which Sakamoto Ryoma famously used a Smith and Wesson revolver to defend against an attack by a Bakufu police unit, as depicted in this print published in Chikami Kiyomi’s early biography (1914). In Samurai Revolution, I translated Ryoma’s own account of the incident, as reported in a letter to his family. Following is a brief excerpt: Thinking that the enemy was going to attack from the [left] side, I shifted my position to face left. Then I cocked my pistol and I fired a shot at [the man] on the far right of the line of ten enemy spearmen. But he moved back, so I shot at another one, but he also moved back. Meanwhile, [others of] the enemy were throwing spears, and also hibachi [charcoal braziers], fighting in all sorts of ways. . . . Needless to say, the fighting inside the house made quite a racket. Now I shot at another man, but didn’t know if I hit him.

I have been studying Meiji Restoration history for more than thirty years, since I began research for my novel about Sakamoto Ryōma while living in Tokyo. In all of my books, I have explored the personalities of the leading actors in this history, presenting it as a human drama of epic proportion—thus bringing it to life.

Samurai Assassins was published in 2017. As I wrote in the Preface, the book is more than just a chronicle of “dark murder” [assassination] in the revolution [Meiji Restoration]. It is also an in-depth study of the ideology of the men behind the revolution, including bushidō, the code of the samurai, and the philosophy of Imperial Loyalism, which informed the revolution and would become the foundation of the Emperor-worship of World War II.

To the best of my knowledge, this is the first book in English to correlate bushidō and Imperial Loyalism in their respective indispensible roles in the Meiji Restoration. My previous book, Samurai Revolution, is a comprehensive history of the Meiji Restoration and the first ten years of Imperial rule. Samurai Assassins provides an in-depth overview of the Meiji Restoration, while focusing on significant men and events, and ideology, not expatiated in my previous book.

[The assassination of Ii Naosuke is the subject of Part I of Samurai Assassins. One of Ii’s assassins, Arimura Jizaemon of Satsuma, who delivered the coup de grâce, is depicted on the cover of the book. The image is part of a series entitled Kinseigiyuden (“Biographies of Loyal and Courageous Men”) by Ichieisai Yoshitsuya (1822 – 1866), originally published in a magazine called “Nishikie.”]

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Recently I have been focusing on my forthcoming Samurai Swordsmen: The Definitive History of the Shinsengumi (1863–1869), scheduled for publication in fall 2026 with Helion. I also provide consulting on Bakumatsu–Meiji Restoration history and culture to authors, editors, publishers, documentarians, producers, screenwriters, translators, and other professionals who need expert guidance on the era.

See overviews of my other books at Books at a Glance.

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Few encounters in Japanese history carry as much weight as the first meeting between Katsu Kaishū, the shogunate’s forward-looking naval officer, and the outlaw samurai Sakamoto Ryōma. Kaishū, a man of discipline and vision, was committed to modernizing Japan through Western science and maritime strength. Ryōma, by contrast, was a restless revolutionary intent on overthrowing the Tokugawa shogunate. When these two men came together, what could easily have been a clash of swords became instead a meeting of minds—one that altered the course of Japan’s transition from feudal rule to modern nationhood.

How I wish I could have been present during their first meeting. Here is a slightly edited excerpt (without footnotes) from Samurai Revolution, Chapter 11: “The Commissioner and the Outlaw.”

Ryōma first visited Katsu Kaishū some time between the Tenth and Twelfth Months [of Bunkyū 2, Japanese year corresponding to 1862), though the date is unclear. In light of Ryōma’s Loyalist background and his antiforeign leanings, and the fact that he was outwardly anti-Bakufu, it is not unreasonable to assume that he might have visited Kaishū’s home with blood in his eyes. “Sakamoto Ryōma came to kill me,” Kaishū would say in a newspaper interview years later, on April 3, 1896. But Kaishū tended, on occasion, to exaggerate and embellish upon his past exploits—and, I contend, that tendency was at work during that particular newspaper interview. In fact, it is hard to believe that Ryōma intended to kill him. Ryōma, who hated bloodshed, is believed to have killed only once, and that in self-defense a few years later. Furthermore, with his naval aspirations, Ryōma stood to benefit through amicable relations with the man he would soon call “the greatest . . . in Japan.”

According to Kaishū, Ryōma was accompanied by Chiba Jūtarō on his first visit to Hikawa [Kaishū’s home]. Kaishū must have been forewarned by Shungaku. And it seems unlikely that the adept in Zen and kenjutsuwould have been taken off guard by the two younger and less experienced men. At any rate, Kaishū invited his visitors inside. Ryōma and Chiba would have had their two swords at their left hip. Ryōma, who according to a childhood friend “was of average height,” was much taller than Kaishū, who was only about five feet tall. And, of course, Kaishū would have been unarmed at home. “If you don’t like what I have to say, you should kill me,” he claimed to have told them. The two visitors, probably startled, followed Kaishū into the house. No doubt they were impressed by Kaishū’s pluck, although his tongue was certainly stuck in his cheek! According to Hirao, when the two swordsmen started to remove their swords as protocol demanded, Kaishū stopped them, perhaps to keep the upper hand. “It would be careless of you as samurai to take off your swords in these troubled times,” he reportedly said. Ryōma and Chiba were presently seated in the drawing room. “So, you’ve come to cut me down. Don’t try to hide it. I can see it in your eyes.”

Needless to say, Ryōma did not kill Kaishū. Instead, he listened closely as Kaishū discoursed on the state of the country and the world at large. Kaishū spoke of the futility of trying to defend against the foreign onslaught without a navy, for which Japan needed Western technology. He said that the navy must be a national effort, and not merely a force of the Tokugawa Bakufu. It must include capable young men from all the feudal domains, regardless of lineage, and not only the privileged sons of Tokugawa vassals. Such radical talk from the shōgun’s vice warship commissioner must have stunned the outlaw, who was captivated. Years later Kaishū wrote, “It was around midnight. After I had spoken incessantly about the reasons why we must have a [national] navy, [Ryōma], as if having understood, told me this: ‘I was resolved to kill you this evening, depending on what you had to say. But having heard you out, I am ashamed of myself.’” (It’s hard to believe that Ryōma actually spoke those words, and even if he did, that he meant them. But based on the fact that they were written down by Kaishū rather than reported in an interview, it is also hard to discount them. My only explanation is that Ryōma perhaps said those words to demonstrate to the Bakufu official, and even more importantly to his friend Chiba Jūtarō, his dedication to Imperial Loyalism.) “He told me that he wanted to become my student,” Kaishū wrote. Kaishū thought Ryōma to be “quite a man,” who “had a cool head, and a certain power about him that was hard to penetrate. He was a good man.” He readily accepted Ryōma’s request.

That Kaishū and Ryōma, men from opposing camps, not only set aside their differences but forged one of the most consequential alliances in Japanese history is a testament to both their characters. Kaishū’s pragmatism and Ryōma’s daring combined to pave the way for a relatively bloodless transition of power in 1868. It is no exaggeration to say that without this meeting, Japan’s path to modern nationhood might have been far more chaotic.