Chapter 361: The Execution Broadcast of the Dockworker

Hendrik was startled by the old soldier's appearance, hurriedly stood up, and peered over the edge of the watchtower—all he could see was a hazy expanse of greyish-white where sea met sky. In the fog far off, first a single point of dark brown poked out—the bowsprit of a warship—then a second, a fifth, a tenth...

Dense masts seemed to grow directly out of the mist, then massive bows emerged, every ship astonishingly huge, appearing and disappearing within the fog.

Twenty ships, thirty ships, fifty ships...

Hendrik dutifully counted the enemy fleet's numbers, growing more despairing with each count—every time he thought he had finished, more vessels emerged from the mist.

He gazed into the fog; countless more enormous silhouettes lurked within, stretching endlessly out of sight, like the countless tentacles of the Kraken. This was the largest, most magnificent fleet he had seen in his entire life.

Even counting every merchant ship in Batavia, none could match the sheer awe of this fleet!

"Th-this..." Hendrik's teeth chattered uncontrollably, his legs too weak to hold him up.

The old soldier just kept muttering: "Fire the cannon, fire the cannon!"

Ten minutes later, three dull signal cannon blasts rang out through the fog in the distance.

After a moment, more signal cannon sounds came from the island to the south, then the signal passed onward toward Batavia.

In the Governor-General's residence in Batavia.

Jan van der Velde, Minister of Justice of the Dutch East India Company, was reporting to the Governor-General on the spice anti-smuggling operations.

"Your Excellency, this year the nutmeg in the Spice Islands has seen a bountiful harvest, output up 20% from last year. But such high production is not conducive to maintaining our profits—compared to smuggling, this is the company's biggest problem at present."

Lucaszon said dismissively: "Cut down the excess nutmeg trees."

Velde noted the Governor-General's order with his pen: "Very well... One more matter—we captured a spice smuggling ship. The captain and first mate are English, the crew consists of six Huajian men and fifteen natives.

Under old judicial practice, the ship is seized, the Englishmen are sent back to India, and we may only choose three men from the crew to execute. Should we not avoid selecting the Huajian men, given that this is a sensitive period for peace negotiations?"

Lucaszon snorted coldly: "Three natives sailed a ship to steal spices? Is there a more absurd story than that?"

"Your Excellency, from what I know, the Huajian nation places great importance on their overseas subjects—in the Treaty of Manila, more than half of the clauses were established specifically for their subjects."

"Merely an excuse for extortion," Lucaszon said.

"But the peace talks..."

"Remember, there is no such thing as peace in this world." Lucaszon cut him off, his hoarse voice low and grave. "Only violence is the foundation of everything. The company's fleet is stronger than Daxia's—we are qualified to dominate these Huajian people."

Velde looked somewhat taken aback.

Lucaszon said: "To be honest, Daxia is the only obstacle to the company's development in East Asia. I have already submitted a formal proposal to the board of directors to assemble a fleet of maximum scale and crush Daxia in one blow.

If all goes smoothly, this year's Easter fleet should bring back the board's answer before year's end."

Velde oversaw Batavia's judiciary and inspection, and was also Lucaszon's confidant—that was why he was told the truth.

Velde felt a slight shock, but adjusted his composure in a moment and said coolly: "In that case, I know what to do."

"Very good." Lucaszon said with satisfaction, then picked up his quill again.

Velde rose, returned the chair he had sat in to its original position, meticulously adjusting it to align with the surrounding chairs—this was the Governor-General's habit. Just as he was shifting the chair over a centimeter or two of error, three signal cannon blasts suddenly sounded from the harbor.

"What does that mean?" Velde asked with a bewildered face, glancing at the Governor-General.

Lucaszon set down his pen, furrowed his brow, and paced to the window.

"Is that the harbor's warning signal?" Velde asked, knowing the answer full well.

Since Batavia's founding, a single signal cannon blast could be heard from time to time, two blasts had occurred only once, and three blasts had never happened—that signified the entire city faced imminent catastrophe.

Lucaszon did not answer him.

About fifteen minutes later, Roys, the Garrison Commander of Batavia Fortress, and Adriaan Bosman, the commander of the patrol fleet, pushed open the door and entered. Lucaszon's voice was steady: "What's going on?"

The two exchanged a glance, and the patrol fleet commander spoke: "These are warning cannon blasts relayed from the Thousand Islands. Three seven-gun sloops have already been dispatched to inquire. Per military regulations, a lookout will come to explain the situation within six hours at the latest."

"Withdraw all anchored vessels into the harbor, put all main warships on standby, place all of Batavia under martial law, cancel all soldier leaves, and summon the Chinese Kapitan to the Governor-General's residence—post men to keep watch on him."

Lucaszon issued the orders methodically.

"Yes, Your Excellency." The company's two military commanders answered together, then went out to make arrangements.

Velde's heart pounded, and he bowed as well: "I will go maintain order within the city." He then withdrew.

Only Lucaszon remained in the room. He returned to his desk, intending to continue reviewing documents, but noticed the chair Velde had sat in was not straightened. He rose, walked over to the chair, straightened it with his own hands, and only then returned to his desk to work.

About two or three hours later, another knock came at the office door.

"Enter."

The sandalwood door was pushed open—in came a white woman, around forty years old, wearing a dark grey linen long dress. This person was the personal maidservant of Lucaszon's wife.

The maidservant first bowed to Lucaszon, then asked: "Your Excellency, the lady sent me to ask whether any preparations need to be made?" "Nothing is needed." Lucaszon answered coldly.

"But those were three signal cannon blasts, and they came from..."

"Batavia is perfectly safe." Lucaszon replied stiffly again.

His marriage to his wife was a political alliance; they scarcely spoke on ordinary days. To him, his wife was merely a tool and an ornament for appearances—there was no real affection to speak of.

Seeing this, the maidservant had no choice but to return and report. When she reached the door, she stopped and asked in a trembling voice: "Master, is it the Daxia fleet? Have they come to attack?"

Since the Dutch had founded Batavia, they had won nearly every battle—except for suffering several major defeats at Lin Qian's hands.

Thus, ordinary Dutchmen held great contempt for the local Han Chinese, yet when mention was made of Daxia to the north, they were all filled with fear.

"You should be going back now." Lucaszon's tone was low.

In truth, he harbored the same suspicion—otherwise he would not have ordered the Chinese Kapitan placed under watch.

Realizing his attitude had been somewhat harsh, Lucaszon softened his tone and said: "Do not worry. Batavia possesses the most powerful fleet and the strongest fortifications in East Asia. We..."

"Boom boom boom..."

Mid-sentence, a continuous series of astonishing cannon fire erupted from the sea to the north—the density of the barrage was simply inconceivable.

The maidservant's face instantly turned ashen with terror; even Lucaszon knitted his brows tightly, his expression shifting between shock and uncertainty.

How long had it been since the signal cannon blasts? Four hours? How could the Daxia fleet have arrived so quickly?

Yet the cannon fire was nearly unbroken, continuing without pause for a long while—clearly the firepower of an entire fleet.

How was this possible?

Footsteps already sounded in the distant corridor. Lucaszon said to the maidservant: "Go back."

A maidservant hurriedly retreated, and a guard ran to the office door, his face full of terror, gasping for breath: "Your Excellency the Governor-General, on the sea—please come look quickly!"

Lucas Son rose and followed the guard out of the Governor-General's residence, galloping north toward the bastion. The bastion's walls were nearly eight meters high—the highest point in the entire city—and being close to the sea, it offered an excellent view.

After dismounting, he quickly ran up the wall, only to see a massive fleet already spread out across the distant shimmering sea. A Dutch armed merchantman had been slow to retreat from the anchorage and was caught by the tail by two enemy warships.

"The pursuers are two fully-rigged forty-gun warships!" Garrison Commander Royce said immediately upon the Governor-General's arrival.

The two ships he spoke of were precisely the Fifth-Rate vessels of the Great Xia Navy—the Lingcang and the Hengcang. Both were cruising frigates, very fast, designed specifically for commerce raiding—or to put it more bluntly, built to hunt armed merchantmen.

An ordinary armed merchantman, upon spotting a Great Xia cruising frigate in its field of vision, was essentially as good as dead.

And now the Dutch *Hauler* had run into two of them, one on each side boxing it in—truly the worst luck imaginable.

The *Hauler* carried only thirteen cannons, the largest being no more than six-pounders, and her holds were stuffed full of cloves and nutmeg, having just returned from the Spice Islands yesterday evening.

As Batavia's pier was completely full, she had been queuing in the anchorage, waiting to unload.

Nearly half the crew had slipped ashore under cover of night to carouse, and most of the rest were dead drunk. Even when the three-gun alarm signal sounded, they paid it no mind, unhurriedly raising sail and weighing anchor—only to be caught square by the scouting Lingcang and Hengcang.

Because the merchantman was fully laden, her speed was extremely slow, and since spices were enormously expensive in Europe, the captain couldn't bear to jettison them—and now it was too late to try anyway. The Lingcang and Hengcang, keeping two hundred paces' distance from the *Hauler*, opened fire furiously from their broadsides.

The continuous thunder of cannon fire nearly merged into a single hammer-blow, shaking the sea surface itself into ripples.

Forty twelve-pound solid shot came smashing in head-on, and the *Hauler's* waist took a solid, crushing hit.

Thick oak planking burst apart like flaky pastry, and splinters of white wood wrapped in broken timber shards blasted out through the gunports.

The *Hauler's* cargo hold was pierced through, and great quantities of orange-red dried mace were blasted out by the cannon fire, spraying forth like blood from a whale struck by a harpoon. On the *Hauler's* deck, crewmen screamed in terror, clutching their heads, while the captain roared hoarsely: "We're only five thousand paces from the harbor! If we can just hold out, we'll live! Get up, return fire!"

A few brave sailors scrambled up to man the guns, and six-pounders and three-pounders fired sporadically—but they couldn't even punch through the teak hulls of the two Fifth-Rates. Then came another round of fire from the two Fifth-Rates, and the *Hauler* shook violently, her hull sprouting over twenty holes, including three below the waterline. Seawater poured into the cargo hold, adding insult to injury to her already sluggish speed.

Meanwhile, the Lingcang and Hengcang kept closing the distance, and for their next volley, both ships independently chose chain shot.

The black iron balls flew into the air, then split in two, becoming spinning iron chains. Forty such chains converged overhead, weaving together into a dense black net that descended upon the *Hauler* with a low, humming drone.

The *Hauler's* topgallant sails were struck first—a dozen or more iron chains swept across the canvas, tearing gashes several meters long like blunt knives cutting paper. Tattered cloth fragments drifted through the air like snowflakes. The foremast's topgallant was hit by three chain shots simultaneously, and the yard was torn clean into three pieces, dangling down with the snapped halyards and slamming heavily into the mainsail below, ripping a great gash in it as well.

Then the mainsails and lower sails all met with catastrophe—nearly all the shrouds on both sides snapped, and the rope ends, whipping with tremendous force against the deck, filled the air with white smoke.

One gunner was struck across the waist, and like a ragdoll, he instantly lost all strength and collapsed, blood pouring from his mouth and nose—already dead. Seven or eight sail-handlers were dragged off the yards by the force of the chain shots, the lucky ones landing in the sea, the unlucky ones landing directly on the deck with a heavy, muffled thud like a giant drum being struck.

The *Hauler* had lost nearly all propulsion, gradually slowing to a complete halt—thoroughly dead in the water.

The Lingcang and Hengcang continued closing the distance and began sweeping the decks with grapeshot. Every volley raised a mist of blood over the *Hauler*. This utterly gruesome scene unfolded in broad daylight, less than five li from the harbor, broadcast live to all of Batavia. On the docks and atop the city walls—whether Han Chinese, natives, or Dutch—everyone stood frozen in shock.

Since the Dutch had founded this city, it had always been the Dutch slaughtering other peoples—never had anyone heard of anyone slaughtering the Dutch.

For the laborers of Batavia, let alone killing a Dutchman—even accidentally offending one, bumping into a Dutchman's womenfolk, or startling a Dutchman's horse would earn you a severe beating.

Who would have thought that the precious, exalted red barbarian masters of ordinary days were now being blocked at their very doorstep and butchered in droves.

The laborers couldn't snap back to reality for a moment, feeling as if they were in a dream, their minds completely blank.

On the bastion wall, Lucas Son clenched both fists, his voice low as he ordered his subordinate: "Go tell Commander Bosman—if he can't save the *Hauler*, he can write me his resignation himself."

"Yes, Your Excellency!" The guard ran off to deliver the order.

Even before Lucas Son had given the order, the patrol fleet commander had already sent men aboard to attempt a rescue. But the process of raising sail and turning a sailing warship around was complicated, and today the wind was blowing from the northwest—placing the anchorage upwind of the harbor—making maneuver difficult for the warships. That was what had caused the delay.

By the time Lucas Son sent his messenger, two Dutch Fourth-Rates were already sailing toward the scene of battle.

The Lingcang and Hengcang were using grapeshot to sweep the *Hauler's* open decks and cargo holds, level by level.

Since the cannons could adjust their firing angles left and right through the gunports, the two Fifth-Rates were actually positioned off the *Hauler's* port-quarter and starboard-quarter, firing from behind—avoiding any risk of friendly fire.

Seeing the Dutch fleet approaching, the two ships showed no urgency to flee—instead, they accelerated their bombardment.

At the docks, Dutch fleet commander Bosman was hopping mad, bellowing: "Damn it! How dare they show such contempt for the Dutch Navy—they're asking for death!" On the bastion wall, fortress commander Royce sneered: "These Huo-jian people are insufferably arrogant—they deserve to be fed to the sharks!"

Lucas Son, meanwhile, knitted his brows, his expression growing darker by the moment.

Only when the Dutch warships closed to within five hundred paces did the two Great Xia Fifth-Rates cease fire and turn about to withdraw.

The cruising frigates were fast, and being fully rigged, they were highly maneuverable even sailing against the wind—they executed a full one-hundred-eighty-degree turn right in front of the Dutch warships. At their closest, the two fleets were barely two hundred paces apart. The two Dutch Fourth-Rates could only stare helplessly from their sterns, while the Great Xia warships seized the T-cross, even firing off one full broadside before continuing their turn and sailing away in triumph.

Though that volley was fired from too great a distance and its accuracy was very low, it still landed a resounding slap across the proud face of the Dutch Navy. At the docks, fleet commander Bosman felt his face burning—and it was only then that the Governor-General's messenger guard finally arrived. Bosman glanced guiltily in the Governor-General's direction.

Out on the sea, the Lingcang and Hengcang were rapidly rejoining their formation.

The Great Xia fleet lay anchored in Batavia's anchorage—and beyond the anchorage, a vast number of additional ships sat in the main shipping channel. Gazing into the distance, their warships stretched endlessly, a magnificent sight.

On the sterncastle decks of every warship flew a dark-red shield-and-halberd banner, making their identity unmistakably clear.

The two Dutch Fourth-Rates could hardly charge forward to throw their lives away against the Great Xia fleet, but neither were they willing to lose face before the entire citizenry of Batavia. They made a show of pursuing for a thousand-odd paces before turning back.

Fleet commander Bosman breathed a sigh of relief—at least the *Hauler* was saved. Plenty of crew had died, true, but so long as the ship and the spices were intact, that was what mattered. The two Dutch Fourth-Rates then turned about, pulled alongside the *Hauler*, and sent men across to take possession of the vessel.

When the Dutch sailors boarded, they found the deck a bloody, mangled mess—ropes, splinters, and flesh everywhere, with scarcely a living crewman in sight. Not a single sail on the masts remained intact; even the mainmast and foremast had snapped off partway up. The deck listed at an unnatural angle. The ship's condition was a pitiful wreck. The sailors could only bail water on one side while securing lines on the other, towing her back to harbor.

Even as the Dutch sailors worked, the *Hauler's* cargo hold was flooding at a rapid pace, the entire ship slowly sinking.

By the time the towlines were finally secured and the drag toward harbor began, the lowest cargo hold was already completely submerged. Seawater gushed like fountains up through the vents and hatches into the upper holds.

The ship had been fully laden to begin with, riding deep in the water; now with this sudden heavy flooding, she was a third sunk within ten minutes. As the waterline crept ever higher, even the gunports that had been above the waterline began taking on water, and the ship sank faster still.

Ten minutes more, and even the upper cargo holds were flooded—more than half the hull was now beneath the sea.

The two Dutch Fourth-Rates were practically towing a corpse.

Five minutes after that, the stern was under water, and seawater washed over the open deck. Dutchmen who couldn't flee in time scrambled up onto the tow cables. To avoid being capsized by the drag, the two Dutch Fourth-Rates were forced to cut the towlines, and the crewmen on the cables plunged back into the water, requiring launches to be sent for rescue. And in the midst of this absurd farce, the *Hauler's* mainmast dipped beneath the waves, and she sank completely in waters two li from the harbor.

With that, all of Batavia fell silent.

Dutch citizens in the city who had witnessed the scene from their rooftops quipped: "What a splendid shipwreck! From today on, Lucas Son may well be the most ridiculous Governor-General in the Company's history."

Someone else mocked: "Between caution and courage, he firmly chose stupidity! Hahahaha..."

Batavia had just weathered two great sieges by the Mataram and still stood tall, so the Dutch citizens felt no panic at the enemy at their gates—because they sincerely believed Batavia could never be taken, and that the Huo-jian people were not much different from the Mataram.

Instead, their attitude was entirely one of watching the comedy.

On the bastion wall, Lucas Son's face was grim beyond measure. His left hand gripped the hilt of his dress sword, the muscles of his face taut.

He spoke coldly and hard: "The enemy lies at anchor in the outer roads, cutting off our connection to Onrust Island. If the shipyard falls, the loss is more than we can bear. Summon Bosman!"

On the sterncastle deck of the Zhulong, Lin Qian watched the *Hauler* sink and the Dutch warships slink back into harbor, then lowered his telescope.

Beside him, Zheng Zhilong said to the naval chief of staff: "You called it exactly right—this Governor Lucas is a turtle at heart, able to swallow even this humiliation." "Your Majesty, I count at least fifty or sixty cannons on Batavia's city walls, and there are also temporary batteries beside the harbor." Bai Qing put away his telescope. Clearly, charging the harbor head-on would be suicide.

Lin Qian gazed toward the shore, seeing a scene where civilization and savagery intermingled. About twenty or thirty li west of Batavia's harbor, a great river emptied into the sea, its mouth choked with silt that had raised the seabed, forming a vast underwater shallow delta, and further west it was much the same.

It was high tide now, so the mudflats were not exposed—only vast mangrove swamps were visible, clearly unsuitable for landing.

The geological conditions on the eastern side were somewhat better; near shore there was still mud and tidal-flat terrain, but the flats were smaller than on the west bank, and judging by the color of the water, it was deeper there. He Sai pointed to the east and said, "That stretch is called Ancol Flats. When the Mataram forces besieged Batavia the second time, their navy landed there."

If that was the case, the omen was not exactly auspicious.

Bai Qing said, "Your Majesty, what do we do?"

Lin Qian did not answer. He raised his telescope and gazed northwest, and indeed, more than ten li out to sea, he spotted a small inhabited island. From the layout of its bastions and the trestle bridge, it was unmistakably the Dutch repair yard.

Lin Qian lowered his telescope and said, "First, surround Onrust Island."

In the evening, the sun set in the west, bathing Batavia in a romantic pale red glow.

The meeting room of the Governor-General's residence had already erupted into heated argument. In the Company's Council of Deliberation, four standing commissioners were clamoring for peace with Daxia.

One of them pounded the table and shouted, "The two fleets have barely met, and we've already lost a merchant ship laden with spices! At this rate, even if we win, this year's report will look terrible!

When it comes down to it, we're only responsible to the shareholders for profit—let's sue for peace!"

Garrison Commander Reus said, "Just surrender to that bunch of Huojian people like that?"

"At Hoi An harbor, our people already surrendered to them long ago! Here in Batavia, you can call them Huojian people, but in Hoi An, they are the noble masters."

The veins bulged on Reus's shaved head as he rose and roared, "We haven't lost yet! Batavia will never fall!"

"Sit down." Lucasen's voice was not loud, but it was full of authority.

Reus sat down, seething with indignation.

Lucasen's voice was calm and steady: "If we surrender, what happens to the Huojian people under Batavia's rule?"

The peace-faction councilors fell silent.

The colony ran on exploitation and oppression. Counting the laborers, Batavia had nearly ten thousand Chinese—these people were Batavia's vital workforce and also its important handicraft workshop owners.

Half of Batavia's sugar-pressing workshops were controlled by the Chinese. Once they gained the same status as the Dutch, not only would the Company's tax revenue shrink drastically, but Dutch sugar mills would also be unable to compete with the Chinese.

Lucasen continued, "The Daxia fleet has nearly a hundred warships, crossing the equator on a southern campaign. How much profit would we have to concede to satisfy them? Would we have to slice off half the Spice Islands as well?"

Anger surfaced on the councilors' faces, and someone muttered quietly, "That absolutely cannot happen!"

Spices were the Company's lifeline—no one would be allowed to lay a finger on them.

Lucasen reasoned persuasively: "In this world, there is no trade divorced from war. Since the Huojian people want war, we have no choice but to meet it head-on! The Huojian people may have superiority in numbers of ships, but very few are truly equipped with cannons, and they still have dozens of old, outdated junks. Their real firepower is far inferior to the Company's fleet.

After all, we are the true overlords of the sea—no one can defeat us on the ocean! Victory will surely stand on our side!"

The councilors exchanged glances, and in the end, they all changed their minds, unanimously supporting war.

If things truly went as Lucasen said, and the Dutch defeated the Daxia fleet, then the Company could take full control of the Western Pacific—from Malacca to Hoi An, and then to Quanzhou, Guangzhou, and Hirado, all would become the domain of the Dutch East India Company.

The trade profits at that time would be enough to cover the losses of the war.

Reus grinned savagely and said, "We'll kill these Huojian people just like we killed the natives of the Banda Islands."

Someone asked, "What about Onrust Island? That's our only large-scale repair yard in East Asia—it absolutely cannot fall."

Lucasen said, "Don't worry. Commander Bosman has a way to relieve Onrust Island, don't you?"

Fleet Commander Bosman, whose face had been thoroughly disgraced, rose and declared loudly, "Your Excellency the Governor-General, honorable councilors, I guarantee that Onrust Island can hold out for at least three months—it will not fall within that time!"

Yahei

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