Chapter 137: For the Glory of the Netherlands

As Coen gave the order, all eight yacht ships lowered their boats, ferrying soldiers ashore to the island.

Among them was a company of over a hundred Japanese ronin mercenaries, clad in tattered kimonos and wooden clogs, each with two katana at their waist — a striking sight.

The ronin Yamamoto was the commander of this band of Japanese mercenaries. Their group had been hired by Governor-General Coen only a few months prior and had yet to formally fight for him. Today was their chance to prove themselves, and they whooped and howled for battle.

The moment the boat touched shore, Yamamoto drew his katana and shouted loudly in Japanese: "Kokaigi!"

The other ronin drew their blades one after another, answering with strange cries — an intimidating display.

Some ronin, before the boat had even stopped, leapt howling into the water, wading through thigh-deep surf and charging hard for the shore.

Wounded natives and those too slow to flee were run through without mercy by the katana.

Wherever the ronin passed, not a single living soul remained.

While the Dutch soldiers were still forming ranks, the ronin had already sprinted into the native stockade. They treated women, children, and men alike — swinging their blades and cutting down all without mercy.

The katana were sharp and the ronin skilled; the natives, who lacked even armor, had virtually no power to resist. The scene was almost a one-sided slaughter, far more efficient than a volley from eighty-odd cannons.

Aboard the Batavia, Coen watched the ronin's performance and broke into a smile. As a businessman, what mattered most was profit, and profit demanded efficiency — and the ronin's killing efficiency pleased the Governor-General greatly.

In less than half an hour, the ronin had slaughtered every remaining native in the stockade.

Native women and children hiding in cellars were dragged out by the ronin. The children were all beheaded; the ugly women were beheaded as well; the pretty ones were raped on the spot, then beheaded when it was done.

Yamamoto, whose ambitions ran high, wasted no effort on women. He led a dozen or so ronin in pursuit into the mountains.

The first mate of the Batavia, seeing this, cursed: "What are these yellow-skinned beasts doing? There's no honor in this, and no discipline either!"

Coen shrugged it off: "As long as they kill every last islander, let these ronin do as they please."

The first mate frowned: "Your Excellency the Governor-General, these natives did sell nutmeg to the English, violating company law — but they are still fine labor... And killing so many — does it not go against God's teachings?"

"You're wrong," said Coen.

The first mate said quietly: "I know too, these people are all heathens..."

Coen cut him off with a laugh: "That's not where you're wrong. These natives are lazy by nature, and short and weak besides — they don't qualify as fine labor.

If you want fine, that's the African Negro slaves.

But if you want the finest of all, it's the laborers of the Great Ming. No one serves us better than the people of the Great Ming."

By now the Dutch soldiers had finished forming up on the beach. Some went into the mountains to hunt down natives; others gathered and hauled away the native corpses, piling them for burning.

The Banda Islands were the jewel of the Spice Islands, rich in nutmeg — a commodity worth a fortune once shipped to Europe, where a single pound of nutmeg could buy three sheep.

So the corpses had to be disposed of properly to prevent the spread of plague before commercial development could proceed.

The first mate hesitated: "The Ming government is stubborn and ignorant, yet also extremely hardline. If we forcibly conscript Ming laborers, I fear it will worsen our relations with them and harm our trade even more."

Coen said: "You're wrong again, my friend. Trade cannot be obtained by prayer — violence is the necessary condition for profit. We cannot carry on trade without war, nor war without trade."

The first mate was left speechless. Judging from the Governor-General's own track record, that was indeed exactly how he operated.

Founding Batavia, seizing the Portuguese trading post, fighting the English at sea — Coen had won every single time, and every victory had brought enormous profits to the Company.

So much so that the seventeen-man board of directors trusted Governor-General Coen utterly, granting him a high degree of autonomy in the East Indies.

Back in the Netherlands, Coen was hailed as a hero. His deeds, embellished, had made him the idol of countless women and the life goal of countless children.

Just in the first half of this year, Coen had beheaded thirty Englishmen who had come to the Spice Islands to trade, on charges of smuggling.

And through naval intimidation, he had forced the English to withdraw from the Spice Islands entirely, achieving a monopoly on the spice trade between East and West.

This was the very peak of Coen's power and prestige — his decisions in Batavia were comparable to a king's decree.

So despite his disagreement, the first mate argued no further.

The slaughter on the Banda Islands continued. It was a small island with low hills; even if the natives fled into the mountains, there was nowhere to hide.

Then came the sound of footsteps in the woods, and over a thousand natives burst out of the forest like beasts chased by hounds.

The ronin behind them formed a wide net, driving the natives toward the beach like a flock of sheep.

Yamamoto could have killed these natives in the mountains — but if the employer couldn't see it, wouldn't it all be for nothing?

So he deliberately chose the beach as the killing ground, so the Dutch masters could see it clearly.

The ronin were all battle-hardened veterans. They appeared to fight individually, in chaotic disarray, but in truth they coordinated seamlessly with flexible tactics. The natives could not escape the encirclement and could only huddle together like a flock of frightened sheep.

At the edge of the encirclement, one native saw his chance and made a dash for a gap. A ronin stepped out, drew his blade in an instant, and delivered two slashes swift as lightning.

The native's right arm was severed cleanly and flew to one side. Blood gushed like a fountain from the wound. His face twisted in agony, but he could not cry out — his other hand clutched his neck, bright red blood seeping through his fingers, running down his arm and chest, staining the sand red, until he slowly toppled over.

The ronin still held his cutting stance. Only when the native fell did he flick his katana, blade pointing up, shift his stance, and slowly sheathe the sword.

Yamamoto saw this and cheered: "A fine iaijutsu cut! Hirata, how many have you killed?"

The ronin called Hirata said: "Counting this one — seventeen!"

Yamamoto: "Good. I'm at fifteen. How about we have a contest — see who kills more?"

Hirata's interest was roused: "Fine! We'll count the whole island's population as our limit!"

With that, the two ronin charged into the crowd of natives, blades swinging. Immediately, the natives erupted in miserable wails and screams.

The other ronin, their bloodlust roused as well, charged into the crowd together.

About two hours later, not a single native remained alive on the beach. The entire stretch of white sand had been dyed dark red; stepping on it, blood squeezed up between one's toes — a horrifying sight.

Yamamoto and Hirata were both drenched in blood from head to toe. Every part of them was crimson except the black and white of their eyes.

Yamamoto, hands on his knees, gasped for breath and asked: "I've killed forty-one. What about you?"

"Thirty-nine." Hirata raised his hand and looked at his blade, its edge already rolled from use, and gave a bitter smile.

Seeing this, Yamamoto drew his spare sword from his waist and offered it to Hirata, saying: "You're a fine warrior. Use my sword from here on. This one doesn't count — there are still natives in the mountains. Let's compete again!"

Hirata took the sword, feeling a surge of valor, and declared loudly: "Good!"

The slaughter on the Banda Islands lasted two full days.

Not just the beaches and soil of the island — even the surrounding seawater was tinged light red.

By rough estimate, over fifteen thousand natives were killed. There were simply too many dead; the Dutch soldiers could barely keep up with hauling and burning the bodies.

Every native on the island was dead, and half the corpses had yet to be disposed of.

Coen ordered that the remaining corpses not be burned—instead, dig a large pit and bury them all, so the ground would be fertilized and nutmeg would grow better, serving the Dutch.

The two ronin's killing contest ended with Hirata at one hundred thirty-one and Yamamoto at one hundred twenty-nine.

Six yachts returned to Batavia.

Coen had harvested the spice-producing lands and trade routes.

The Dutch soldiers had harvested nutmeg.

The ronin had harvested battle merits, reward money, and friendship.

Only the natives of the Banda Islands had harvested slaughter and extinction.

But so what? A bunch of East Indies savages—who would care about their fate?

On the night of the return voyage, Coen was flushed with success and deliberately ordered the steward to bring out liquor and distribute it to all the sailors on the ship.

The ronin, serving as mercenaries, also received coconut wine.

Under the tropical starry sky, the sailors carried their drinks up to the deck, cranked the reed organ, beat hand drums, and sang, drank, and laughed.

"Weigh anchor, farewell to Amsterdam's frost and gale!

Through the Cape of Good Hope's storms, to the bountiful East we sail!

The star charts will point the way to spice and gold.

Sailors, either die beneath the waves, or fill your purses bold.

All for the glory of the Netherlands! For the glory of the Netherlands!"

The song ended, and the sailors raised their cups in cheers, laughing with abandon.

Under the starlight, Yamamoto was repeatedly polishing his blade with a silk cloth. Hirata brought over coconut wine and handed it to him. Yamamoto sheathed his sword, took the coconut wine, and drank a sip.

The alcohol was faint, with a hint of sweetness and the fragrance of coconut flesh.

"How wonderful!" Hirata sat down beside Yamamoto and sighed with emotion. "Fighting, slashing, celebrating victory, drinking—it's as if the Warring States era has returned."

Yamamoto was somewhat dismissive: "That was merely slaughtering a herd of livestock-like natives. It's still far from the battle I pursue."

Seeing this, Hirata leaned close to Yamamoto and said in a low voice: "The Governor-General keeps attacking the Portuguese strongholds in the South Seas. One day, we'll be able to attack Macao!"

Yamamoto drank his wine in silence.

Hirata said slowly: "My father died in the Battle of Noryang. If in this lifetime I can fight the Great Ming…"

He paused, turned his hand into a blade, and slashed the air: "I will make the people of the Great Ming pay blood for blood!"

After a long while, Yamamoto said flatly: "It seems I'm not the only one who lost family in the Battle of Noryang…"

Hirata was startled: "Yamamoto-kun, what do you mean?"

Yamamoto's voice was low, like a beast's growl: "Hirata-kun, if there's a chance, let's compete once more."

"Fine. What shall we compete in?"

"If there's a Battle of Macao, we'll compete in kill counts again!" Yamamoto's cold, piercing gaze looked into the distance. "Staking the honor of the samurai!"

After a night of revelry, the fleet continued sailing the next morning.

Finally, half a month later, they arrived at Batavia.

As the ships docked, Coen received a hero's triumphant welcome.

The moment he stepped off the ship, a crowd of attendants, guards, and secretaries surrounded him.

"What happened at the Company while I was away?" Coen asked after sitting down in his office.

The secretary handed over official documents.

"Your Excellency the Governor-General, this is the colony's sugar production statistics for this month. Our white sugar output has increased another 5% compared to last quarter."

"This is a report just received from Ceylon. The English have been making constant moves in India recently, but they've been much more docile at sea."

After listening to more than a dozen more reports, Coen narrowed his eyes in satisfaction and asked: "What about Japan? Have the merchant ships from Hirado returned?"

The secretary said cautiously: "They've returned… but only the Vlut merchant fleet came back. The others…"

Coen opened his eyes and said sternly: "What about the others? Speak!"

"None of the other merchant ships returned… Conservative estimates put four to five ships missing…"

Coen's eyes widened in utter disbelief. Ships lost at sea meant shipwrecks or hijackings.

Since the founding of the Hirado trading post, never had such an outrageous ship-seizing incident occurred!

"Who did it? The Portuguese?" Coen asked rapidly.

On the East Asian shipping routes, the only ones capable of intercepting so many Dutch merchant ships were the Portuguese.

The secretary kept his head lowered, avoiding Coen's gaze: "According to the sailors who returned, the enemy ships flew Portuguese flags, the hulls were Great Ming seagoing vessels, and they used large-caliber cannons."

Coen: "Where did the hijacking take place?"

"In the Great Ming's waters off Guangdong."

Everything fit. Macao was in Guangdong. The Portuguese had a precedent of purchasing Great Ming seagoing vessels, and only the Portuguese had the motive to engage in such shameless pirate deeds!

He hadn't expected that just as his plan to attack Macao was finalized, the Portuguese would make the first move.

Coen said: "Notify the expedition fleet. The plan is moved up—we set sail immediately!"

Coen was an old hand at seafaring and naturally knew that setting out in winter meant unfavorable winds, but there were advantages to doing so.

First, reversing the conventional mindset—the Portuguese would never guess he would attack against the wind, catching them completely off guard.

Second, since the Portuguese dared to plunder Dutch merchant ships so brazenly, their defenses must be tight. If the battle turned unfavorable, Coen could ride the northeast monsoon to quickly return to Batavia and retreat safely.

Finally, and most importantly, the Portuguese would assemble trade convoys in winter to sail south to Malacca and Goa. Sailing north now would let him intercept them head-on and avenge the plundering of Dutch merchant ships!

Coen's authority in Batavia was immense. Whatever he decided, no one could oppose.

The secretary could only carry out the orders.

On the tenth day of the tenth month in the first year of Tianqi, Jan Pieterszoon Coen, Governor-General of the Dutch East India Company, personally boarded the flagship Batavia and led twelve yachts sailing due north.

On the fifteenth of the tenth month, Coen's fleet arrived in the waters east of Malacca, intercepted two Portuguese merchant ships, killed forty-five Portuguese crewmen and mercenaries, and captured two sailing vessels.

On the thirteenth day of the winter month, the fleet arrived off the Indochina Peninsula and intercepted a British merchant ship heading south. After a thirty-minute cannon battle, the merchant ship was sunk, and all the British crew froze to death in the icy seawater.

On the twenty-seventh day of the winter month, the fleet sailed to a point ten nautical miles east of Qiongzhou Island, where it collided head-on with a Portuguese fleet heading south.

After two full days and nights of cannon battle, two Dutch yachts were severely damaged and forced to turn back to Batavia for repairs.

The Portuguese fleet, meanwhile, had three ships sunk and one captured, while two more warships escaped back to Macao with light damage.

News of the Dutch attack swept through all of Macao like a typhoon with the return of the two damaged ships.

The Portuguese, from top to bottom, had always harbored a fear of the Dutch. Now, hearing that the Dutch fleet had sturdy ships and powerful guns and that their own fleet had suffered heavy losses, panic spread through every street and alley of Macao.

The Senate Hall sent requests for aid to the Guangzhou authorities on one hand, while holding meetings all day on the other, debating countermeasures.

"Order! Order!"

The president's gavel pounded on the table without cease, but the burgher councilors paid him no mind, splitting into two factions hurling accusations at each other.

"How do we defend? With Macao's few forts? Let me tell you a truth—forts are fixed to the ground. The Dutch have ships; they can land anywhere there are no forts, you fools!"

"In the harbor, we still have the Portuguesa and the Andalucía, with our proud Portuguese navy aboard! There are guards in the city too, and we can mobilize the citizens!"

"Two broken ships, fifty guards, and a rabble of craftsmen and citizens—with these, you'll resist Dutch cannon? According to the Portuguesa's reports, the Dutch have fully twelve ships!"

"Twelve ships? God damn it, Macao can't even survive a single broadside!"

"What about the Ming government? Can we get reinforcements?"

"According to the reply from the Governor-General of Guangdong and Guangxi, the Ming navy will not participate in our war with the Dutch."

"These ignorant Ming people—can't they see that the Dutch cannons will be pointed at them next?"

"Order! Ord—hey, Councilor Andre, what are you doing? The Senate Hall is still—"

Andre no longer cared. Dragging his obese frame, he stumbled and lurched toward the doors of the Senate Hall.

Outside the doors, dozens of Macao citizens had gathered, holding up placards demanding resistance and opposing surrender.

Andre pushed through the crowd and rushed toward his carriage.

His secretary, seeing the councilor in such a flustered state, was greatly puzzled but hurriedly helped his master into the carriage.

Once aboard, Andre instructed his secretary: "Three things! First, return to the residence and pack up all valuables for loading onto carts. Time is short—only take what's worth money!"

The secretary pulled out a small notebook and scribbled rapidly, while hesitating: "Councilor, if others find out about this, it may affect—"

Andre's expression was frantic: "No time to worry about that! Second, send someone to the Bocarro foundry to place an order—twelve eighteen-pounder Siren cannons!"

"Third, send someone north along the Fujian-Guangdong coast to find Lin Qian. Tell that damned sea bandit chief that I accept his terms!"

Having given all his orders, Andre urged the coachman to drive back to the residence.

Along the way, Andre's guts were green with regret. When Zheng Zhilong had come before, he had clearly told him that the Dutch would attack Macao—how could he have been so blinded by greed that he hadn't believed it?

Then again, how did that damned pirate Lin Qian know the Dutch movements? Was the bastard some kind of prophet?

Through the carriage window, Andre saw that merchants along Macao's streets had already closed their shops one after another, and many common folk were boarding up their doors and windows with planks—a scene of utter desolation.

For the Portuguese, Macao was merely a trading post, and not many warships were ever stationed there to begin with.

Add to that the sea battle east of Qiongzhou Island, which had dealt a heavy blow to Macao's naval strength—at sea, they had no ability whatsoever to fight the Dutch.

And the Dutch—especially Governor-General Coen's cruelty—Andre knew all too well. At that moment, he only wanted to flee for his life as fast as possible.

The Dutch had already reached Qiongzhou Island. Given sailing speeds and the time it took for news to travel, reaching Macao's waters would take only a day or two.

There was no time left for hesitation or second thoughts.

At Andre's demand, the servants at his residence needed only a single morning to pack up all the valuables.

Without even eating lunch, Andre personally led men to escort the goods, heading for refuge in the Ming territory.

Unfortunately, when he arrived at the Lotus Stem Pass connecting to the mainland, the sight before him made him despair.

Hundreds upon hundreds of people had already clogged the place solid.

At the pass, an official shouted: "By order of the Governor-General of Guangdong and Guangxi, the Lotus Stem Pass is hereby sealed as of today. No one shall enter or exit!"

Most of the people at the Lotus Stem were Ming citizens who worked in Macao for a living. In ordinary times, the Lotus Stem Pass only prevented Macao barbarians from entering Ming territory; it never blocked Ming citizens from coming and going.

Now, suddenly sealing everyone inside Macao naturally provoked dissent. Someone called out loudly: "We are all Ming citizens! On what grounds won't you let us return!"

Before the pass, some citizens argued their case, some begged incessantly, all pushing and shoving forward.

The official ordered his subordinates to draw their blades, and the gleaming steel forced the crowd to fall back again and again.

Too many people had gathered at the Lotus Stem. In the sudden crush, people fell, were trampled underfoot, and screams of agony rang out one after another.

Andre knew the land route was hopeless. He could only risk the sea route—fortunately, he still had a merchant ship in the harbor. He ordered his servants to escort the goods to the port.

The large procession of carts and horses was too conspicuous, and people in the crowd soon recognized him.

Someone shouted: "He's a Frankish councilor! Beg him to make things right and let us through!"

Hearing this, citizens swarmed around them. Andre's convoy could not break free, so he had his guards draw their matchlock muskets and fire into the air, which finally scattered the crowd.

Councilors were supposed to be elected by the people. By firing on the populace, his political career was finished.

But Macao itself was about to be finished now, so Andre couldn't spare a thought for politics.

When he finally reached the harbor, he found it was just as chaotic.

Fleeing crowds surged onto the piers, climbing onto boats without a care. There were so many people that ships were pressed over onto their sides, and several sections of the piers collapsed under the weight.

At his original berth, Andre's merchant ship was nowhere to be seen.

No doubt the captain had seen the chaos and fled on his own.

Andre's last hope of escape collapsed with a crash. He dredged up every venomous curse he had ever learned and hurled them at that fleeing captain.

"Councilor, what do we do now?" the secretary asked.

Andre said helplessly: "Back to the residence first."

Contrary to everyone's expectations, after the battle east of Qiongzhou, the Dutch seemed to vanish from the sea. Days passed without them appearing off Macao.

During this time, the pro-war councilors of Macao repaired warships, requisitioned and armed merchant vessels, recruited militia, built temporary fortifications, and actively prepared for battle.

Only five days later, when news arrived from Qiongzhou Island, did everyone learn what had happened to the Dutch fleet.

The Dutch fleet had been sailing at sea for nearly two months, and their supplies were severely depleted. Governor-General Coen ordered that they purchase provisions locally on Qiongzhou Island.

The Dutch mercenaries had terrible discipline, and especially once the ronin came ashore, they clashed with the local people, and what began as purchasing soon turned into plunder.

The Dutch soldiers and ronin, acting in concert, looted three villages around Wanzhou county town. Had it not been for their mission to attack Macao, the county town itself would likely have been stripped bare.

When word reached Macao, it immediately stirred the people to unite in righteous indignation.

The Ming commoners of Macao had originally been unwilling to involve themselves in the disputes between the Macao barbarians and the red barbarians, but upon hearing that the red barbarians were mixed with Japanese pirates, their blood boiled and they flocked to join the militia to defend their homes.

Even Xu Zhaokui, the Governor-General of Guangdong and Guangxi, far away in Guangzhou, was shocked and enraged upon hearing of this. He slammed the table and rose, saying: "How dare the red-haired barbarians be so insolent! Send orders to all the naval stations of Guangdong—dispatch the troops!"

(End of chapter)

Yahei

Fenyuan

Pen