Blood and Dignity: The Seppuku That Changed Japan’s Course

It was late afternoon in mid-February 1868, a season when Osaka Bay’s cold wind often swept the shoreline of Sakai. The sky overhead had begun to shift from a dull winter gray to a hushed, moody twilight. While finishing their day’s labor along the waters near the port, Fishermen might have noticed a cluster of Western vessels anchored at a distance. Yet few in Sakai, save the newly arrived Tosa samurai, would have predicted how those ships and their occupants were poised to alter the day’s course and, in many ways, reshape Japan’s future.

Even if unfamiliar with the nuances of foreign naval power, Sakai residents sensed a pervasive unease. Japan was caught in one of the most tumultuous transitions in its long history: the Tokugawa shogunate's final collapse and the Meiji Restoration's concurrent rise. The centuries of strict rule under the Tokugawa had begun unraveling, allowing new foreign influences and alliances to enter. Some saw these influences as pathways to modern progress, while others perceived them as dangerous intrusions into cultural identity.

The Tosa samurai, posted to Sakai after the Battle of Toba-Fushimi, felt the tension most keenly. They had been dispatched on behalf of the emerging Meiji government to watch over Sakai, replacing the Tokugawa officials who once administered this prosperous port. Many of these samurai were from the southwestern domain of Tosa (today’s Kōchi Prefecture), known for its tradition of strong-willed warriors, restless intellectuals, and fierce loyalty to the realm.

Their calm was pierced on February 15, 1868 when a French warship, the Dupleix, arrived just beyond the harbor. The French, under Commodore Gustave Ohier, had come to survey Osaka Bay's shallows—partly because the waters were notoriously difficult to navigate and already had proven perilous to other foreign vessels. But by late afternoon, local inhabitants saw more than just a survey: nearly one hundred French sailors row ashore in small skiffs, eager for respite or exploration—despite Sakai not being an officially recognized “treaty port” open to foreigners.

From the vantage of Michelle Wright’s narrative approach, one can imagine these French sailors, brimming with confidence, stepping onto the docks with a mixture of curiosity and swagger. Their uniforms, salt-stained from the sea voyage, must have gleamed oddly against the more subdued kimonos of townspeople. The language barrier was daunting. The cultural gap, even greater. And the political tensions might have been the most volatile piece of all.

Rising Tensions: A Clash of Expectations

While some French sailors wandered around, peering into shops or curiously entering shrines, the Tosa samurai hurried to enforce the protocol set by the new government. Foreigners wishing to set foot on Japanese soil—particularly outside the designated open ports—were required to present official travel documents. This was the single most prominent rule that emerged from the uneasy treaties Japan had signed in recent years. Yet these sailors had no license. They had come unannounced, believing that a friendly excursion would cause no commotion.

But commotion found them quickly. Residents of Sakai, unaccustomed to foreigners walking freely along their streets, grew anxious. Rumors spread that the French were barging into local homes or, at the very least, were poking around with little regard for local customs. In that tinderbox environment—where warriors already braced themselves for anti-foreign violence or, conversely, for foreign retaliation—the lines between rumor and reality blurred.

One version of events holds that a French sailor tried to seize a Tosa unit’s regimental flag in a rowdy confrontation, sparking a chase. Another claims that the Tosa samurai, noticing the foreigners defying instructions to leave, forcibly restrained one or more of the sailors. The key detail remains the same in either telling: firearms came into play. Shots rang out. Panic gripped the wharf. In mere moments, a short burst of violence left 11 French sailors dead—and wounded others—in what would soon be known worldwide as the Sakai Incident.

Diplomatic Shockwaves: New Government in Peril

Word traveled fast. In the newly forming Meiji administration, leaders realized their precarious position. Western powers had demanded the opening of Japan’s ports through diplomatic treaties. The rationale behind the Meiji Restoration was partially to unify Japan beneath the Emperor while staving off foreign domination by proving the government’s ability to handle international affairs. Now, with more than a dozen French casualties, the fear was that France might respond with crushing force.

At the same time, many Tosa samurai retained a lingering anti-foreign sentiment. They had never fully accepted the notion of allowing foreigners free rein in Japanese cities. For them, the presence of the French in Sakai was yet another provocative intrusion. The tension was no longer a simple matter of defending local pride—it was about preserving order at a moment of revolutionary upheaval.

With pressure mounting, the French envoy demanded swift and decisive punishment. The new Japanese authorities, faced with what they viewed as an existential crisis—maintaining good relations with a powerful Western navy—felt they had no choice. After negotiations, a severe decision emerged: twenty Tosa samurai would be ordered to commit ritual suicide (seppuku) before the eyes of French officials. Only the harshest measure, so the logic went, would satisfy France’s demand for redress and quell any impetus for immediate French military retaliation.

The Ritual of Seppuku: A Convergence of Horror and Tradition

On February 23, 1868, the sentence was carried out in the temple garden of Myōkokuji in Sakai. The late afternoon might have been marked by a hushed stillness in the temple precincts, broken only by the subdued shuffle of feet on gravel. One can almost see the rows of Tosa samurai, heads held high, each man prepared to meet his fate. For them, seppuku was not merely a form of punishment but also an expression of an ancient samurai code, guaranteeing that they atoned for wrongdoing according to their own sense of honor.

Witnessing the ritual were officers from the French navy and diplomatic corps, many of them wholly unaccustomed to such an event. The first Tosa samurai stepped forward, his name called. Kneeling on the bare tatami or temple courtyard mat, he took up a short blade and opened his abdomen. Traditionally, a second—someone from the same domain—would stand behind him, sword drawn, ready to end his comrade’s agony by swiftly decapitating him. A solemn hush fell with each sword stroke, each repetition of the ritual.

According to many eyewitness accounts, the French officials quickly grew alarmed and sickened by the spectacle. By the time eleven Tosa samurai had disemboweled themselves, the French captain in attendance—reportedly turning pale at the sustained brutality—asked that the remaining nine be spared. Historians have debated the rationale: some say he believed parity was achieved once eleven Tosa men had died, matching the count of French sailors lost. Others suggest the foreigners simply could not stomach more bloodshed. Perhaps it was a combination of the two.

Whatever the precise motive, the ritual execution halted, leaving nine Tosa warriors alive. Yet for them, the interruption was both shocking and, in a way, humiliating. They had mentally prepared themselves for certain death; now they were left in limbo—branded as criminals, exiled for a time, and released back to Tosa carrying haunting memories of the day.

Aftermath and Reflection: Japan’s Painful Diplomatic Lesson

The immediate outcome of the Sakai Incident was to preserve a fragile peace between Japan and France. In exchange for the spectacle of contrition, the French government refrained from further military retribution, though its diplomats continued to pressure the new government on foreign policy matters. For the Meiji leaders, the event left a deep impression: They had learned that an international incident could quickly escalate and that Western powers sometimes demanded an unyielding show of punishment.

Many contemporaries argued that the incident demonstrated Japan’s precarious position in a world order dominated by technologically advanced navies. Others lamented the government's willingness to sacrifice the samurai for realpolitik. Under the old Tokugawa system, it was not unusual for certain local lords to manage foreign “crimes” in their own ways. But in the new era, the Emperor’s government felt obligated to answer collectively for the entire nation.

In Tosa Domain itself, the survival of the nine who returned from Sakai was complicated. Some, like Aihei Hashizume, were said to suffer acute mental anguish; historical records describe how he attempted to end his own life not long after being spared. In the end, the domain placed these men under strict watch, uncertain what to do with individuals whose entire being had been dedicated to following an order that was at once honorable and tragic.

A City’s Memories: Temples, Gravestones, and Quiet Reminders

Walk around Sakai today, and you can find physical reminders of this story.?Myōkokuji Temple, where the seppuku took place, hosts memorial stones that stand solemnly amid the bustle of the modern city. Meanwhile, the?Grave of the Eleven Tosa Martyrs?lies at?Hōju-in Temple, not far from Myōkokuji. Headstones lined in a row mark each life lost that day. Locals sometimes refer to them collectively as “Zannen-san,” an expression capturing a sense of everlasting regret.

In the first decades that followed the incident, tensions between Japan and foreign powers still flared here and there. Yet by the early 20th century, alliances were forming, and Japan was marching rapidly toward modernization. Interestingly, it wasn’t until around 1916—deep into the Meiji period and with World War I raging across Europe—that a formal monument to the French victims appeared at Myōkokuji Temple, symbolizing a belated sense of reconciliation and mutual remembrance.

The “Sakai Incident” moniker itself is somewhat modest in scale, overshadowed in most global histories by the broader story of how Japan ended centuries of isolation and raced to catch up with Western powers. But for those who take the time to delve deeper, the event provides a stark, gripping snapshot of the frictions that erupted as old codes met new realities.

In Michelle Wright’s historical narratives, the personal dimension often gains center stage. One wonders about the inner worlds of those directly involved. For instance, Miura Inokichi—often referred to in some records as the Tosa captain—may have carried a heavy heart, commanding men who ultimately paid with their lives. The families of the eleven Tosa martyrs perhaps took small solace in the notion that their loved ones died, if not for a wholly just cause, at least upholding the code that governed samurai existence. On the French side, survivors who witnessed the brutal series of seppuku might have left Japan convinced that its warrior class adhered to customs both fearsome and, in their eyes, perplexing.

Larger Themes: Tradition vs. Modern Power

Beyond its haunting details, the Sakai Incident symbolizes the collision of two worlds: feudal Japan’s strict hierarchy and warrior ethos met the unstoppable weight of Western maritime might. Where swords once decided the shape of local feuds, newly arrived cannons and foreign-coded treaties dictated diplomatic outcomes. As the new Meiji government pushed to industrialize the country, build railways, and create modern institutions, events like the Sakai Incident served as cautionary tales of how dangerous any cultural or military misunderstanding could become.

For many historians, the significance lies in how the Meiji Restoration leaders chose to respond. Rather than doubling down on the samurai’s tradition of xenophobia, they recognized the importance of forging relationships with foreign powers—or at least managing them carefully to buy time for internal modernization. Had the aftermath gone differently, with France deciding to bombard the port or impose crippling demands, Japan’s early modernization steps might have been wholly derailed.

In a broader sense, the Sakai Incident stands as a microcosm: a short-lived but intense conflict that encapsulated Japan’s existential predicament in the late 1860s. The brand-new government was torn between securing its sovereignty and appeasing formidable Western powers. Meanwhile, on the ground, local warriors still adhered to the moral code that had defined them for generations.

Echoes in Culture and Literature

Such a dramatic story did not go unnoticed in Japanese arts and literature. The novelist Mori ōgai, himself fascinated by the interplay of old and new in Meiji Japan, penned a work titled “Sakai Incident,” lending his perspective on the swirling motivations of the various players. Later authors revisited the event, sometimes transforming the raw facts into allegories of loyalty, sacrifice, and tragic cultural collision.

Nor was the story confined solely to Japanese narratives: French newspapers of the era, like Le Monde Illustré, published accounts of the incident in 1868, complete with stark woodcuts that depicted the scuffle on Sakai’s shore. Western readers, still forming their notions of what Japan was all about, likely found these images a startling introduction to the country’s complexities: a land that could, on one hand, adopt modern rifles and artillery, yet on the other, uphold a medieval-sounding practice like seppuku as a punishment for wrongdoing.

A Legacy of Lessons

Standing in present-day Sakai, where modern highways crisscross near ancient canals, one can easily overlook the fact that this city once hosted one of the era’s most heartbreaking moments of intercultural confrontation. Yet the temples still remain, and the gravestones are still carefully maintained. For visitors and historians, they serve as tangible links to a moment in time when fear, pride, misunderstanding, and duty converged in a single explosive incident.

Michelle Wright’s approach to history reminds us how the darkest episodes can throw the enduring resilience of human beings into sharper relief. Though overshadowed by grander accounts of the Meiji Restoration’s triumphs, the Sakai Incident’s enduring resonance invites us to think about what it meant for individuals caught up in unstoppable currents of transformation. What did it feel like for a Tosa warrior, kneeling in the temple courtyard under a foreign gaze, to reconcile age-old samurai honor with the unstoppable juggernaut of modern geopolitics? What did it feel like for a French officer, trained to see the world in Enlightenment-era terms, witnessing a custom so profoundly at odds with European mores?

Their stories, after all, were not about cold diplomatic transactions alone but about the tragedy and dignity that can arise when cultures meet halfway in confusion and fear. Through this prism, the Sakai Incident is far more than a simple footnote to a complex period—it is a reminder that in times of great upheaval, even small corners of the globe can become stages for grand historical dramas.

In the final reckoning, the events at Sakai testify to the cataclysmic transformations Japan underwent in the mid-19th century. A mere handful of days in 1868 laid bare the fragility of the new government’s authority, the lethal potential of misunderstanding, and the lengths to which men might go—through an act as final as seppuku—to uphold or restore the honor of a nation they felt was their charge to protect. Indeed, from the vantage point of centuries, we can see how that single exchange of gunfire and final excruciating ritual shaped the mindset of a rising modern power.

Had events played out differently that day, who can say how the delicate patchwork of early Meiji foreign relations might have unraveled or changed? But as it stands, the Sakai Incident became an early milestone in Japan’s precarious entry into the global arena, bridging tradition and modernity through a moment of extraordinary sacrifice. In that sense, it remains not only a deeply affecting anecdote but also a vital lens through which to contemplate how societies negotiate peace, preserve dignity, and respond to the pressure of the unknown.