Chapter 140: The Governor-General's Last Day

The Tianyuan and the Batavia were now sailing parallel, heading southeast.

If Lin Qian's judgment proved wrong, the Batavia could immediately turn its helm to port and seize the weather gauge.

Sure enough, at the same moment the Tianyuan turned to starboard, the Batavia was also turning to port.

Bailangzai looked anxious: "Helmsman, should we turn back?"

Lin Qian stared hard at the Batavia. Though she had turned, the angle of the turn was very small, and her hull was heeling sharply to port — she must have deployed her emergency rudder.

Lin Qian shook his head: "Keep turning. Sail to the enemy's stern."

Aboard the Batavia, sweat stood thick on Coen's brow.

On the ship's port side, a spare yard wrapped in heavy canvas had been thrown into the water, connected by a rope to the capstan.

This was the emergency rudder.

Once the emergency rudder entered the water, it produced enormous towing resistance, dragging the ship around to turn her.

The Batavia had now sailed out of the range of the firelight. Coen ordered: "Douse the ship's lanterns!"

After that, all he could do was hope that turning with the emergency rudder would fool the enemy ship.

Minute by minute passed. The Batavia's bow gradually swung toward due east, then northeast, then due north, and finally to the northwest — she had seized the weather gauge.

The smile of a man who had won a desperate gamble spread across Coen's face. Now it was his turn to strike back.

But when he looked toward the ship's port side, he saw nothing at all on the pitch-black sea.

Coen's heart gave a lurch. A sense of foreboding gripped him. This enemy ship appeared and vanished without a trace — could it truly be a ghost ship?

Every crewman aboard was searching for the enemy vessel. A strange silence fell over the Batavia, broken only by the distant rumble of cannon fire.

Suddenly, the lookout's terrified voice shattered the calm: "Off the quarter! Fifty paces!"

Coen whipped his gaze toward the quarter. At that distance, by the dim starlight, he could make out a huge shadow floating on the sea.

Coen's eyes went wide. For the enemy ship to appear in this position without a sound meant her captain had not only seen through the Batavia's method of turning, but had also predicted her track.

What was more, the Batavia had merely turned in place, while the enemy ship, following her turn, had also brought her broadside to bear on the Batavia's stern.

The complexity of this maneuver was astonishing. The enemy's sail-handlers and helmsman had to be extraordinarily experienced.

Even the enemy ship's performance exceeded the Batavia's!

For the first time, fear touched Coen's heart, and in that instant he felt the call of the Lord.

The muzzles of the enemy ship flashed in succession — this time they were firing chain shot.

In the next moment, catastrophe struck the Batavia's rigging. The mizzenmast took five hits in a row and was blasted clean through.

Sailors screamed as they fell from the yards, smashing onto the deck into pulp with a sickening thud.

All the starboard shrouds of the mainmast snapped. Three sails took seven or eight hits in succession and, tangled up with chains and rigging, were ruined beyond use.

The foremast had two masts shielding it from the cannon fire and suffered little damage.

But with only the foremast for power, the Batavia might as well have dropped anchor on the spot.

Coen's fear reached its peak. The enemy ship had switched from round shot to chain shot with such speed — the proficiency of her gunners was astonishing as well.

Ship, captain, sailors, gunners — from top to bottom, the enemy vessel was already at the level of the finest European navies.

Among Coen's opponents, only the English and the Spanish could compare with this enemy ship.

Could it be the Spanish navy that had come?

Coen's mind stirred. Macao was under siege, and the Spanish, fellow members of the House of Habsburg, coming to its aid — that would indeed make the most sense.

Soon the enemy ship loosed a second volley of chain shot. This time, the Batavia's port shrouds on the mainmast all snapped as well.

The mainmast's upper, middle, and lower yards all crashed down onto the deck, crushing more than a dozen sailors beneath them, who let out piercing screams.

The foremast was also badly hit. Of its three sails, two were torn apart, leaving only the topgallant sail intact.

Even the bowsprit was blasted through by a single shot, and the spritsail yard, along with its canvas and rigging, plunged into the sea.

The Batavia had lost nearly all her power and gradually came to a dead stop on the water.

Coen shouted orders for the crew to adjust the ship, using the last bit of momentum to point her bow toward the northwest.

That way, for the enemy ship to fire perpendicularly into the Batavia, she would have to point herself into the teeth of the northeast wind and be unable to maneuver — or else make another full turn, bringing her bow around to the southwest.

Either way, it would at least buy Coen himself a chance to escape.

Under Coen's orders, the first mate and the boatswain were on deck, directing the lowering of the longboat.

A few minutes later, the Batavia came to a complete stop, and the Dutch sailors strained desperately to bring her bow around to the heading Coen had specified.

But what Coen had not anticipated was that the enemy ship would rather point herself due north, giving up the optimal firing position, than stop pouring in oblique fire.

Solid iron shot and grapeshot came at the Batavia as if they cost nothing.

Watching his beloved flagship — this pride of the Dutch East India Company — being ravaged so wantonly, Coen's heart felt as if it were being twisted with a knife.

This behavior of the enemy ship, pouring out firepower heedless of expenditure as if venting rage, made Coen all the more certain that the attacker was the Spanish navy.

Only the Spanish bore the Dutch such a deep, burning hatred.

"Your Excellency the Governor-General, the longboat is ready — get aboard now!" The first mate, crouching low to dodge the hail of shot and flying splinters, hurried to Coen's side and shouted.

Coen took one last look at the riddled, battered Batavia, then resolutely followed the first mate down into the longboat.

Even after the longboat had rowed out several hundred meters, the enemy ship was still pounding the Batavia without mercy.

Solid iron shot entered through the Batavia's starboard quarter and burst out through her port bow, sending splintered planks flying a dozen meters into the air.

The Batavia was like a wounded whale, stabbed again and again by harpoons, its blood already drained dry, dyeing a vast stretch of the sea red.

Coen stared blankly at the scene before him.

Further off, the fireships had nearly burned themselves out. The remaining Dutch warships had either been reduced to charred hulks, shattered into driftwood, or surrendered outright.

By now the morning sun was just rising, and in the faint light of dawn, the battle at sea was drawing to a close.

Coen understood: he had lost. This defeat was devastating, a total loss that would cost him his post as Governor-General.

Half an hour later, the cannonade against the Batavia ceased. This flagship, symbol of the Dutch East India Company's pioneering spirit, now looked no different from a hornet's nest.

Hundreds of holes riddled its entire hull, with no possibility of repair whatsoever—it seemed as if a single gust of wind could blow it apart on the spot.

The crewmen left aboard leaped into the sea one after another, while some raised their guns and shot themselves.

The Spaniards' hatred ran so deep that they surely wouldn't rescue anyone in the water; rather than freeze to death in the cold sea, better to give oneself a quick end.

In the faint light, Cohen made out the appearance of that "ghost ship"—a three-masted heavy galleon with two gun decks; by conservative estimate, each broadside carried around thirty cannons.

The hull was thick and stout, with a slightly raised deck, clearly retaining some traces of the carrack design.

In all of Europe, no one but the Spanish could have designed such an ugly hull shape.

Further off on the battlefield, Cohen also spotted several yachts—the Dutch armed merchantmen that had been captured earlier.

There were also two Ming warships, presumably Spanish mercenaries.

Cohen smiled bitterly. Over a year ago, he had heard that a Spanish treasure ship in Manila had been seized from the harbor in broad daylight, right before everyone's eyes.

When he heard of it, he had found it both absurd and amusing.

He never imagined that the former hegemon of Europe would sink to such a state, robbed by pirates right under their noses.

That was why, in his operational plans against Macao, Cohen had never factored the Spanish in at all——

He hadn't expected that he had ultimately underestimated the depths of the empire on which the sun never set.

At this moment, Cohen regretted it so deeply he could almost vomit out his heart, lungs, and guts.

"Governor-General, which way do we go?" the first mate couldn't help asking.

There were ten men total in their launch; rowing back to Batavia was out of the question.

Cohen was a strong man. Despite suffering such a crushing defeat, he did not lose composure and weep—he merely swallowed the bitterness into his belly, forced himself to stay alert, and pondered his options.

"Head south for now—perhaps we'll run into Dutch warships that escaped."

With a single glance, Cohen noticed that several Dutch warships were missing from the sea; they must have slipped away amid the chaos last night.

Gazing behind him at the battlefield, which was gradually shrinking and vanishing at the horizon, Cohen drew his dagger with a scrape.

"Governor-General!"

The cold gleam of the dagger startled the crewmen in the launch, who rose to their feet, ready to snatch the blade away.

Cohen said calmly, "Don't worry, I'm just carving some characters."

The men aboard exchanged dubious looks, then sat back down.

Cohen took off his outer coat and rolled up his sleeve, revealing a left arm thick with muscle and hair.

Then, gritting his teeth, he drove the dagger hard across his left arm.

When the men aboard saw what Cohen was doing, they all frowned and averted their eyes.

Cohen used the dagger to carve characters into his left arm. He cut with great force, and within moments his forearm was covered in blood; the blood ran down his arm, pooled at his elbow, and finally dripped drop by drop into the launch.

What Cohen carved was a date: "1622.1.13."

That date corresponded to the second day of the twelfth lunar month in the first year of Tianqi.

It was the date of the Battle of Macao, when the Dutch forces suffered their disastrous defeat.

Cohen used this very method to make himself remember the humiliation, to accumulate strength, and to take revenge a thousandfold in the future.

Though he had suffered a crushing defeat at Macao, he still had the achievement of conquering the Spice Islands, and he had struck at the trade routes of the English and the Portuguese.

All things considered, he was still the Company's finest Governor-General.

Once he returned to Batavia, with a little maneuvering, he was confident he could keep his position as Governor-General.

A year later—two at most—he would assemble an even more powerful fleet and come seeking vengeance against the Papist faction of the House of Habsburg.

And while he was at it, he would use force to pry open the gates of the Great Ming. Since they refused to trade freely with the Dutch, he would have no choice but to resort to violence.

To carry out his grand plan of revenge, the next step was to recruit more Ming laborers to replenish the colony's workforce.

With that thought, Cohen had already recovered from his crushing defeat and began to carefully consider his plans for the future.

His shipmates helped bandage his arm.

Just then, one man stood up and said, "A ship!"

Everyone looked where he pointed and indeed saw a three-masted sailing ship floating on the sea at the horizon.

This sea area was not far from the battle zone; local fishermen and merchant vessels, having heard the cannon fire, would surely not dare put to sea. That ship was either a Dutch warship or a Spanish warship.

At the same moment Cohen and his men spotted the three-master, they too were spotted by it.

The three-masted ship turned around and changed sails, heading straight for Cohen and his men.

When it had covered half the distance, the men aboard saw the form of the approaching vessel, and their hearts sank halfway.

It was a Haicang ship of the Ming navy.

Facing a three-masted Haicang ship, rowing to escape was impossible—they could only wait where they were.

"Lord, forgive my sins——I need your grace——" Already some crewmen had pulled out crucifixes and begun to pray.

Half an hour later, the Haicang ship drew near.

Cohen discovered in despair that the Haicang ship had three Folangji cannons on each side, and every crewman aboard held a Portuguese matchlock musket, all aimed at his launch.

"Don't shoot! We surrender!" The first mate was the first to raise both hands.

Seeing this, the other crewmen also ceased their resistance.

But the Han men on the Haicang ship couldn't understand Dutch, and the Dutch couldn't understand Chinese—with no common language, both sides remained on guard.

Cohen had no intention of waiting for death. In his view, whether this Haicang ship belonged to the Ming navy or was crewed by Portuguese mercenaries, he could not allow himself to be taken prisoner.

He was the hero of the Netherlands! He bore the glory of the Netherlands!

How could he end his life this way? Even if he had to exit the stage, it must be with a blaze of glory!

With that thought, Cohen quickly bent down and picked up a matchlock musket from the launch.

The moment he bent over, guns and cannons fired in unison from the Haicang ship.

The standing first mate and the other crewmen were instantly blasted into shredded flesh and blood.

Cohen took several bullets, feeling the strength rapidly drain from his limbs. The matchlock musket felt heavier than a thousand jin—he could no longer lift it.

He straightened up, looking around with difficulty, seeing only the vast and desolate sea.

Was this his whole life?

A hero of the Netherlands, the Governor-General of the East India Company who made Spain, Portugal, and England tremble—to die on such a small boat.

Cohen forced a bitter smile. Ambition, vengeance, dreams, and regret all faded away with his life.

The light gradually left his eyes. His body fell backward and splashed into the cold seawater with a plop.

Eternal darkness descended.

Aboard the Haicang vessel, the shipowner confirmed that everyone in the small boat was dead, then ordered his men: "Cut off all the red-haired barbarians' heads and bring them back to the helmsman for the reward!"

Three nautical miles south of here, four battered Dutch yachts gathered.

The four ships lingered for several hours. Seeing no more Dutchmen escaping, they finally turned south and sailed back to Batavia.

On the sea east of Macao, the battle had completely ended.

Four Dutch ships had been sunk, two burned, and two surrendered.

Crews from the Changfeng and Yunfan were being dispatched to the two surrendered ships to take them over and secure their crews.

On the beach, the Dutch soldiers and mercenaries, seeing the Dutch navy's disastrous defeat, realized that holding Macao alone with no hope of survival had lost all meaning. Their will to resist collapsed, and they surrendered one after another.

A Portuguese priest, leading several dozen defenders, effortlessly captured six or seven hundred Dutch troops.

On General Mountain, Xu Zhaokui, the Governor-General of Guangdong and Guangxi, wore an extremely complicated expression.

The red-haired barbarians' crushing defeat should have been a cause for joy—but what identity did that victorious fleet on Lingding Bay truly hold?

Although the fleet had two large Fujian junks, all the rest were uniformly Western vessels. Especially that flagship—its hull was tall—

—and its firepower was ferocious. It had two full gun decks, and its performance surpassed even the Dutch warships.

Since when did the Great Ming possess such warships?

He simply could not believe this was the Nan'ao naval force under Ma Chenglie's command.

"Colonel Zhou!" Xu Zhaokui said in a deep voice.

"Your Excellency." The Guangdong Regional Military Commissioner responded with a cupped-fist salute.

"Send men to ascertain the fleet's identity!"

"Yes!" The Guangdong Regional Military Commissioner was about to relay orders to his personal guard when he casually glanced toward Lingding Bay and stopped. "Your Excellency, look."

Xu Zhaokui followed his gaze and saw that every ship in the fleet was slowly raising a square flag—blue with a red border, embroidered with flame patterns along the edges, and a sun-and-moon design stitched in white thread in the center.

It was the battle flag of the Ming naval forces!

Xu Zhaokui was stunned, dazedly wondering if he was dreaming!

The scene carried an absurdity akin to the Tartars of Liaodong suddenly donning Han robes and proclaiming themselves the orthodox heirs of Chinese civilization.

"It must be Commander Ma's forces." The Guangdong Regional Military Commissioner spoke with conviction, yet his tone was hollow. He himself had no idea how he managed to say those words—he didn't even believe them.

While all the officials stood frozen in shock—

—the flagship of that "Ming naval force" was already sailing toward Macao's harbor. This move made the officials' hearts leap into their throats.

Macao was nominally Ming territory, but in practice the barbarians of Macao had been tacitly permitted to govern themselves.

The Great Ming sent no soldiers to Macao and moored no warships in its harbor—this was the tacit understanding between the Ming government and Macao's Senate.

And now Ma Chenglie dared to openly sail into Macao's harbor waters, exposing his hull to the fire of the shore batteries—had he grown a bear's gall and a leopard's courage?

Then, at the stern of that "Ming naval force's" flagship, five-colored signal flags fluttered. Four Western warships followed in escort. The five ships formed a line, all broadside gun ports open, black cannon maws protruding, swaggering past Macao's beach in a display of might.

The "Ming naval force," riding the momentum of its great victory, was overbearing and aggressive, its spearhead aimed directly at Macao—carrying the domineering air that if the Macao barbarians dared make the slightest move, they would be bombarded flat along with the city.

Although everyone, including Xu Zhaokui and the Macao garrison, knew that ships could hardly contend with shore batteries—

—not a single shore cannon dared to fire.

Not only because the fleet flew the banner of the "Great Ming Navy," but even more because last night's sea battle had left too deep an impression on everyone.

The Dutch had lost too miserably!

So brutal it didn't resemble a naval battle—it was more like a one-sided slaughter.

Who could guarantee that the "Ming naval force" wasn't baiting the people of Macao into opening fire, giving them an excuse to flatten Macao as well?

Everyone in Macao, high and low, had been utterly cowed by last night's sea battle. Not a trace of resistance remained in their hearts.

Under the watchful gazes of Macao's garrison and citizens, the Tianyuan slowly sailed past the Burning Lime Kiln Battery and the Guia Battery, reaching Macao's eastern shore, then continuing to the southern shore.

A clerk burst out of the Senate building, mounted a horse, and galloped through the city, racing up to each battery while shouting: "No firing!

No firing!"

"Everyone, extinguish your match cords! Do not approach the cannons! All garrison troops and militia, withdraw from the battery areas immediately!"

"But—the cannon barrels still have loaded shells inside."

"Damn it, leave them there! Do you want to get us all killed? I'll say it again—no one is to approach the cannons! Extinguish your match cords and withdraw from the batteries, all of you!"

The defensive batteries on Macao's southern shore were even more numerous, but having received the orders early, they were already deserted.

The Tianyuan swaggered into the harbor and anchored, seizing the best berth in Macao.

The other four ships stopped in the nearshore waters, gun muzzles trained on the city of Macao.

The gangplank was laid down, and a large number of crewmen and soldiers armed with matchlock muskets surged onto the pier, seizing the harbor.

Unexpectedly, the citizens of Macao were not afraid—if anything, even more gathered to watch.

Thanks to the priest's words last night, the defeat of the Dutch was divine punishment, the wrath of God.

Now everyone wanted to see what kind of hero the executor of God's will and the protector of Macao City truly was.

After soldiers cleared the way, Lin Qian, surrounded by his guards, stepped out from the Tianyuan and walked slowly onto the pier.

The citizens saw a young, valiant Han Chinese general descending from the warship. His bearing was tall and imposing, his presence overwhelming. As his gaze swept across the crowd, his eyes were like blades, sharp and piercing.

The general wore cotton armor, his arm guards reflecting cold glints of light. His left hand rested on his saber, his helmet tucked under his right arm. He looked both majestic and composed, and as he strode with a dragon's gait and tiger's step, his armor plates clinked with a crisp ring.

The guards flanking him were all uniformly clad in cotton armor, the cold gleam of their armguards striking fear into onlookers. Especially the young officer at his side, who cradled a massive miao saber in his arms, radiating murderous intent.

As the general and his party walked toward the wharf, the citizens of Macao could smell the heavy scent of sulfur from afar, and in a daze, it seemed as if the brutal naval battle was right before their eyes.

Though there were only a dozen or so guards, varying in height and armed with different weapons, their march carried the momentum of an army of thousands upon thousands.

Lin Qian walked up to a high platform by the shore, and with a single sweep of his gaze, the surrounding citizens fell silent of their own accord.

For a moment, the Macao wharf, packed with over a thousand people, was so quiet that only the howling of the north wind could be heard.

Lin Qian took a deep breath and shouted in a deep voice: "People of the Great Ming, citizens of Portugal! From this day forward, this stretch of sea is guarded by the Great Ming Navy! You are safe!"

Zheng Zhilong translated Lin Qian's words into Portuguese.

The surrounding citizens and common folk immediately erupted in earth-shaking cheers.

Having said his piece, Lin Qian stepped down from the high platform, and with soldiers clearing the way, headed toward the city's council hall.

The citizens rushed into the streets, crowding both sides of the main road so tightly that not a drop of water could pass through.

Along the way, whenever Lin Qian saw damaged houses, lost and crying children, or passersby collapsed on the ground of unknown condition, he would send his men to help.

In the early seventeenth century, when soldiers and bandits were one and the same, this act struck the citizens of Macao with no less shock than soldiers entering a city and sleeping on the streets would have struck the people of Shanghai.

On the road, Lin Qian passed by a church, its great doors slightly ajar, with several women walking out, staring blankly at the scene in the streets.

Among them, a Han Chinese woman holding her daughter drew Lin Qian's attention.

This woman had very fair skin and an elegant bearing—one could tell at a glance she was different from the ordinary citizens, and she must have come from a distinguished household.

Lin Qian whispered to Bailangzai: "Send a few men to guard the church."

Bailangzai relayed the order, and soon two men were standing at the church entrance.

This place was already close to the council hall, where the Macao councilors, led by Andre, were waiting.

The council president spoke on behalf of all the councilors, welcoming Lin Qian's arrival and expressing gratitude for his courageous act of saving Macao.

Then, with tears in his eyes, the council president asked sincerely: "May I ask the general's name?"

Lin Qian replied with a smile: "He Ping, Battalion Commander under the Vice Regional Commander of Nan'ao, Great Ming."

"Please, General, stay in Macao for some time and enjoy Macao's gratitude and hospitality."

The council president knew well that a Battalion Commander was a low-ranking military officer.

But circumstances were stronger than men—Lin Qian was the leader of this fleet, and whether he was a Battalion Commander, a mere Company Commander, or even just a common soldier, he was an honored guest of the people of Macao.

Add to that the means Lin Qian had used to win hearts when he entered the city.

Compared to the councilors' incompetent performance when the Dutch army attacked the city.

The council president had no doubt that if they showed this "Great Ming Battalion Commander" the slightest disrespect at this moment, the council hall would be torn apart by the furious citizens.

"Please." Lin Qian exchanged a polite word and walked into the council hall first.

Just then, a fast rider came from the north of the city, reined in his horse as he approached, and shouted loudly: "Where is the commander of the naval forces? His Excellency Governor Xu summons you!"

Yahei

Fenyuan

Pen