Chapter 377: The Castaway Chronicle of Reijersen

Fan Di had also fitted the convex lens with a wooden handle, making the whole thing in the shape of a magnifying glass.

Lin Qian picked up the magnifying glass and examined it. The convex lens glass was pale blue-grey, with a magnification of roughly three to five times, and very few internal bubbles. It was far inferior to top-grade Venetian glass, but already much better than the glass of Great Xia.

Lin Qian gave an order, and Lu Ruoteng at his side immediately tore a page from his notebook. Lin Qian took it, held it in his hand, adjusted the magnifying glass's focus, and soon a small, uniformly bright spot of light gathered on the paper.

This morning the weather was dry, cloudless for ten thousand li, and the sunlight was scorching.

After about a minute, white smoke rose from the spot, then the smoke grew thicker and thicker, until finally fire sprang up out of nowhere.

The tropics were humid and hard to ignite; a convex lens that could start fire by concentrating sunlight was of great significance for both sailing and daily life.

Lin Qian tossed the burning paper aside and nodded in satisfaction. Technology obtained by plunder was indeed much faster than developing it oneself — this was the victor's reward. Lin Qian praised him: "Well done. When you worked as a public engineer in Batavia, what was your annual salary?"

"Ah? About seven hundred Dutch guilders, Your Highness."

Lin Qian did the conversion in his head: Fan Di's monthly salary was roughly eleven taels of silver, equivalent to the wages of a top craftsman in Great Xia.

In Europe, this price was also nearly the top wage.

Lin Qian said: "Come back to Great Xia with me. Your wages will double, to fourteen hundred Dutch guilders a year, and the hundred-thousand-guilder draft in your hands will also be fully honoured by Great Xia."

Great Xia had just captured Batavia and replenished its wealth handsomely; an expenditure of a few hundred taels of silver a year was almost negligible.

Never mind doubling Fan Di's wages — even multiplying them tenfold or a hundredfold would be entirely affordable.

But if a foreign craftsman were paid ten times what local craftsmen earned, how would the local craftsmen feel?

Lin Qian offered fourteen hundred Dutch guilders a year because Fan Di was both a hydraulic engineer and a glass craftsman — doing two jobs and receiving two salaries was perfectly reasonable. The honouring of the hundred-thousand-guilder draft, meanwhile, was treated as a buyout of the glass patent.

A hundred thousand Dutch guilders sounded like a lot, but it was actually only about twenty thousand taels of silver, roughly equivalent to the reward for solving a difficult problem in Buddhist smelting.

And after honouring it, Great Xia would gain even more Amsterdam bank notes, making it easier to control the Dutch in the future — one could say it was a sure profit with no loss. Yet faced with the invitation, Fan Di was very hesitant.

Lin Qian said considerately: "No need to answer right away. After all, this is a foreign land — go back and discuss it with your family."

Fan Di let out a long breath: "Thank you, merciful Your Highness. I shall go back at once and consult with my wife. Yes, yes."

Lin Qian smiled slightly. With his wife's ambition, how could she possibly refuse when she heard such a high wage?

"In three days, Great Xia will hold a victory banquet at the Governor-General's residence in Batavia. You are welcome to bring your family. Give me your answer then." Fan Di was briefly stunned: "I — but I, I am…"

Lin Qian did not listen to what he was saying, and left with the convex lens in hand.

While the victory banquet was being prepared in Batavia.

On a deserted island four hundred and fifty kilometres due south of the Sunda Strait, another banquet was also being held.

The banquet had only one participant: the former naval commander of the Dutch East India Company, later captain of the Reef Rock, Reijersen.

At this moment he was unshaven, reeking of sour sweat, his clothes in tatters. He sat in the shelter he had built himself, his bloodshot eyes fixed on the coconut crab in the dying embers of the campfire.

Beneath the embers were buried wet coconut leaves, wrapped around a coconut crab.

Heated by the embers, the coconut crab gradually turned red, juices bubbling out from its mouthparts with a sizzling sound, wafting through the coconut leaves and embers. The sweet freshness of the crab and the clean sweetness of the coconut meat spread through the shelter built of palm leaves.

Reijersen had swallowed his saliva countless times, so hungry he could almost swallow his own tongue.

Around his crude shelter lay several sea turtle eggshells — that had been his dinner yesterday.

There was also a fishhook bent from a ship's nail, and fishing line twisted from plant fibres.

In a crevice in the rocks nearby was a rainwater collector made of canvas and a hollowed-out coconut shell.

Around the shelter was sprinkled a ring of plant ash to keep crawling insects away. The island had no large beasts, but it did have giant centipedes and venomous spiders. Inside the shelter, besides a bed built of palm leaves and wooden frames, there was also a small notebook and a small bottle of ink.

Every day Reijersen dipped a sharpened tree branch in ink and wrote in his journal. He had been doing so for over a month now.

After witnessing that scene of the doomsday sea of blood, Reijersen had led the Reef Rock westward. Knowing that the Strait of Malacca was held by Great Xia, he first resupplied at the port of Banten, then exited the Sunda Strait and sailed toward India.

If luck held, reaching the trading post at Pulicat would mean rescue.

But a man could not be lucky forever. No sooner had they exited the Sunda Strait than the Reef Rock ran head-on into a Sumatran squall. In the terrible storm, the Reef Rock was battered apart and broken up, and all the crew were swallowed by the sea.

Reijersen grabbed hold of a plank and drifted at sea for three days before reaching this island.

In history, this island was discovered and named "Christmas Island" by an English captain in 1643. But now, Christmas Island lay outside the civilised world, known to no one.

Reijersen realised he was utterly alone in a savage world and was about to kill himself in despair when he discovered that a wooden chest from the Reef Rock had also been washed up onto the beach by the waves.

Relying on that small stock of supplies, Reijersen had tenaciously survived to this day.

He judged the coconut crab was done, picked up a stick, fished the crab out, peeled away the somewhat charred coconut leaves, and — heedless of the burning heat — smashed open the crab's claws with a stone and wolfed the meat down together with the sea sand.

The big claw meat was sweet and springy, with clear fibres and a satisfying chew, plus a faint coconut fragrance. The texture was close to low-temperature roasted lobster meat, so delicious that Reijersen grinned foolishly as he ate.

When he had finished the entire coconut crab, a great satisfaction enveloped him.

Waking the next day, looking at the deserted beach and the mess of crab shells scattered about, loneliness and guilt surged over him again like the tide.

He suppressed his emotions, picked up his homemade spear, and went searching across the island. In the whole morning he did not find a single coconut crab. When he returned to camp, he found the fishhook had not only caught nothing — the line had been snapped, and the nail hook was gone.

He jumped down from the rocks and cut his foot again.

So deep frustration was added to his emotions. Thinking of how he would have to live like this for months to come, then one day die of illness or starvation, a profound despair welled up in his heart. Reijersen hopped back to camp on one foot, dug out his flintlock musket, loaded it, pressed the muzzle against his own forehead, and pulled the trigger with his toe.

"Click" — the hammer fell, but the musket did not fire.

He tried the same thing twice more; it still would not fire. The gunpowder had absorbed moisture.

"Aaaah—" Reijersen let out a heart-rending howl, draining all his strength, then collapsed onto the sand, weeping bitterly, recounting every evil deed he had done since birth and confessing to God.

After he had finished speaking to God, he inexplicably began muttering to himself again, listing all the ways he had never wronged the Han people, and begging Lin Qian to spare him. Lying there carrying on like a possessed shaman for a long while, Reijersen finally recovered his strength. He got up to tend the wound on his foot, when he happened to see what seemed to be a ship's silhouette in the distance. Reijersen rubbed his eyes and realised it was no illusion. His heart nearly leapt out of his chest with excitement. He waved both arms and, with all his strength, let out a piercing shriek. But he was too far away — his voice could not carry at all. Reijersen snapped back to his senses and rushed to the edge of camp, where he had built a signal pyre: firewood piled with wet coconut leaves, seaweed, seabird droppings, and humus on top. If he could light it, the smoke would rise, and he would be saved.

When he arrived ecstatically at the embers from last night, he found they had gone completely cold — not a single spark remained. He had slept too soundly last night and forgotten to get up in the middle of the night to add wood…

Reijersen felt as if a bucket of cold water had been dashed over his head, freezing the blood in his veins. He knelt and wept, pounding his head with his hands.

After crying for a moment, Reijersen suddenly had a flash of inspiration and looked at the flintlock musket.

Then he practically scrambled over to pick up the gun, turned the flint mechanism sideways, and repeatedly pulled the trigger over the tinder.

After several attempts, sparks finally fell, igniting the tinder, which then ignited the pyre. A column of black smoke shot into the sky.

Reijersen's heart blossomed with joy. He spread his arms wide and howled for help on the beach.

One great drawback of the Brouwer Route was that over the entire voyage of more than four thousand nautical miles from the Cape of Good Hope to the Sunda Strait, there was not a single stopping point — and in this era when calculating longitude was difficult, it was extremely easy to lose one's way.

In 1629, there had already been a tragedy of a ship sinking, with survivors stranded on a deserted island who then turned on each other.

Thus, in recent years, the Christmas Fleet had been accompanied by numerous survey sloops—one purpose being to clear the way for the fleet, the other to search for new islands. The ship in the distance was the Sunday, a survey vessel of the Dutch East India Company. It had been surveying the islands southwest of Java when it suddenly spotted a column of smoke rising from a deserted island, and immediately approached the island to investigate.

Two hours later, Reiersen lay on the deck of the Sunday clutching his castaway diary, weeping bitterly.

Before sunset, the Sunday returned to the main fleet. In the captain's cabin of the Christmas Fleet's flagship, Reiersen tearfully recounted his ordeal. From the siege of Great Xia, to the decisive fleet battle, to the apocalyptic sea of blood—Reiersen spoke with vivid detail, snot and tears streaming down his face.

The surrounding Dutch sailors wore expressions of utter astonishment, not daring to breathe too loudly.

When they heard of that doomsday scene, many clenched their hands tightly and silently prayed to God.

In his story, Reiersen portrayed himself as a hero who had broken through the encirclement to seek reinforcements.

"In that case, we must immediately reinforce Batavia!" said the commander of the Christmas Fleet.

Reiersen was startled out of his wits. He had barely escaped that hellish place with his life; even if it meant being stranded on a deserted island again, he had no desire to return. "No, no, no! The Great Xia fleet is far too powerful. The Christmas Fleet is no match for them."

The commander said, "The fleet carries ten homeward-bound great ships and five seven-gun hunter sloops. Is that still not enough?"

"Not enough, nowhere near enough! His Excellency the Governor-General's intention was to return to India and appeal to the Board of Directors—we must have true warships sent from the homeland!" Knowing that even if Lucaszon survived, Great Xia would never let him go, Reiersen freely fabricated orders in his name.

He was terrified of Great Xia and Lin Qian to the very marrow of his bones. As long as he could avoid returning to Batavia, he would say any lie.

In Coen's era, Reiersen had been commander of the Batavia garrison fleet, half a rank higher than the Christmas Fleet's commander.

The Christmas Fleet commander had never once considered that Reiersen might be deceiving him. Besides, if Reiersen were truly a coward, how could he have broken through the encirclement to seek help, and how could he have survived alone on a deserted island for a month?

Moreover, the homeward-bound great ships carried over a million Dutch guilders, along with European trade goods and bank drafts. If anything went wrong in a naval battle, he would have a hard time accounting for it.

So the fleet commander pondered for a moment, ordering three hunter sloops to pass through the Sunda Strait to reconnoiter Batavia's situation, while the fleet would first… The Christmas Fleet commander paused mid-sentence and looked at Reiersen: "Sir, that deserted island was discovered by you. Please, give it a name." Reiersen said offhandedly, "Just call it Christmas Island."

The commander said, "The fleet will first anchor at Christmas Island to replenish supplies."

The crewmen acknowledged in unison. The seven-gun hunter sloops departed from the fleet and returned several days later with shocking news: Batavia had fallen, all senior company officials had been taken prisoner, and the fleet, army, and wealth had all been reduced to nothing.

The Christmas Fleet commander felt as though struck by lightning. He had never imagined that Reiersen had not exaggerated—if anything, he had understated the situation.

The true state of affairs in Batavia was far more dire.

The commander dared not delay any longer. He ordered the fleet to set sail and retreat to the Pulicat trading post in India.

At the same time, he dispatched one homeward-bound great ship back to the homeland to report Batavia's situation to the Board of Directors immediately.

Reiersen, as a key witness, was also arranged to return home.

Reiersen rejoiced at escaping Lin Qian's curse on the one hand, yet worried about the Board of Directors' investigation and accountability on the other.

In his cabin on the voyage home, Reiersen tossed and turned, pondering how to clear his own name. His gaze fell upon the castaway diary, and a brilliant scheme surged into his mind.

He could transcribe the first half of the diary to defend himself.

The voyage from Batavia's waters back to the homeland took nearly eight to ten months—ample time to fabricate a perfect story. Reiersen picked up his quill, and inspiration flowed forth in an instant. Under the dim yellow lamplight, his pen flew across the page like a dragon dancing. He wrote in one breath until dawn the next morning, only setting down his pen when utterly exhausted.

He admired his masterpiece, finding it truly splendid. Using it merely as evidence would be a waste of its talent. If published as a book, it could earn him a fortune and also pressure the company through public opinion. So he picked up his pen again and wrote a title on the flyleaf of his notebook: *The Adventures of Reiersen*.

While Reiersen was surviving on his deserted island—

In the afternoon at the Governor-General's residence in Batavia, Lin Qian sat at his desk reviewing official documents.

He could leave Guangzhou, but he could not shake off matters of state. The eagle ships made the round trip every half month, delivering Guangzhou's official correspondence to him.

Most of the matters had already been annotated by Ye Xianggao, but Lin Qian still needed to be informed and give his endorsement.

Lin Qian picked up a document—a battle report from the Army Staff. Qin Liangyu and Fu Zonglong had advanced the front line to Xuzhou, Chongqing, Shizhu, Chenzhou, Baoqing, and Hengzhou.

In simple terms, the army had taken the entirety of Guizhou, southern Sichuan, and southwestern Huguang.

At present, south of the Yangtze, only central Huguang, southern South Zhili, and the whole of Zhejiang remained under Ming court control.

Lin Qian wrote "Noted" on it and set it aside.

The next document concerned the northwestern peasant army's campaign. Gao Yingxiang had led his troops into Shaanxi, planning to besiege Xi'an, but fell into an ambush at Ziwu Valley and was captured alive by Sun Chuanting, the Governor of Shaanxi. He was escorted to the capital and executed by slow slicing. The title of "Dashing King" was succeeded by Li Zicheng.

The Ming army's relentless encirclement campaigns had not only failed to damage the peasant army's vitality, but had instead allowed it to continuously absorb and consolidate, ultimately nurturing two great scourges: Li Zicheng and Zhang Xianzhong.

Li Zicheng now commanded a hundred thousand troops, active throughout Shaanxi and northern Sichuan.

Zhang Xianzhong commanded seventy thousand troops, locked in a tug-of-war with the Ming army at the borders of Huguang, Shaanxi, and Henan.

Additionally, there were Luo Rucai, Old Huihui, and a series of smaller rebel bands. All told, their combined forces numbered some five to six hundred thousand. Lin Qian's expression grew grave. Despite his best efforts to prop up the Ming court, Great Xia's occupation of the lands south of the Yangtze had dealt a devastating blow to the Ming's military and finances.

At this rate, the Battle of Tongguan Nanyuan might never come to pass. Li Zicheng and Zhang Xianzhong would smoothly breach the capital, forming a north-south standoff with Great Xia.

Of course, Great Xia was not without countermeasures. Great Xia would always hold the trump card of landing troops on the capital's shores by sea—in the end, it would surely be Great Xia's army that first occupied the capital. Yet seizing the capital first would not be enough to fully stabilize the northern situation. At that point, the capital's forces could easily find themselves caught in a pincer between the Li-Zhang peasant armies and the Jianzhou barbarians.

The great trends of the world were tangled and complex—pull one hair and the whole body moves. No one could see the full picture. Lin Qian could only grip tightly to the one crucial piece and await the shifting winds. He wrote "Noted" on the document and set it aside.

At that moment, Geng Wu knocked and entered, saying, "Your Majesty, the victory feast is prepared."

"Mm, two more documents. I'll come once I've finished them."

Lin Qian picked up the next document, sent by Mao Wenlong, reporting that Hong Taiji had changed his clan name to "Manchu," renamed the state to "Great Qing," and formally proclaimed himself emperor.

According to rumor, last year Dorji had led troops west to campaign against the Chahar tribe. The descendants of Ligdan Khan had surrendered with their tribe, presenting the Yuan dynasty's "Seal of Edicts and Mandates"—the imperial hereditary seal that the Great Yuan had seized from the Great Song.

This greatly bolstered the legitimacy of Hong Taiji's enthronement, making him the rightful lord of all under heaven.

Lin Qian let out a scornful laugh. As long as Great Xia's army was stationed in the capital region, the Jianzhou barbarians could never pass through the passes. The title of "lord of all under heaven" could only ever be a hollow dream.

Lin Qian looked at the final document. It was sent from the Hirado trading post, reporting a minor matter: the Satsuma domain of Japan had established a resident trading post on Ryukyu Island, jointly managing trade and taxation with the Kingdom of Ryukyu.

In plain terms, this was the institutionalized control of Ryukyu, fully incorporating it into the territory of the Shimazu clan of Satsuma.

Regardless of the complex political and economic implications, for Satsuma to dare swallow one of Great Xia's trading partners right before Great Xia's eyes was a challenge to Great Xia's maritime authority—a failure to know their place, a refusal to acknowledge Great Xia as the big brother.

Now that Batavia was gone and Lin Qian had gained the revenue of the Spice Islands, his economic dependence on Japan had diminished. Such provocations could no longer be ignored.

So Lin Qian annotated the document, instructing the Navy Department and the Hirado trading post to engage in diplomatic negotiations with the Satsuma domain, and ordering Chen Jiao to take thirty Sea Wolf ships to issue a show of armed force.

Having finished the last document, Lin Qian rose to stretch his limbs and said to Geng Wu, "Let's go."

Soldiers came to take away the documents Lin Qian had finished. They would be loaded onto ships tonight and shipped back to Guangzhou.

The victory feast was set in the large courtyard before the Governor-General's residence. Dusk had fallen, and the sky was tinged with a charming pale purple. The sea breeze was fresh and cool. Tallow candles and pine-branch torches dotted the perimeter of the tables, their flames illuminating the officers and soldiers filling the courtyard.

Batavia had fallen not long ago, and the defenses along the city walls had not yet been relaxed. Still, everyone at the feast carried a spirit of elation at having "trampled the red barbarians' lair." Lin Qian took his seat at the table, raised his cup, and said, "Cheers!"

There was no fussy ceremony. Officers of every rank and their personal guards sat scattered about, raising their cups together. After a cup of mead went down, everyone set to eating. All the dishes on the table were sourced locally, with no lavish presentation—only quantity and flavor mattered. Wooden basins and earthenware bowls held local green crabs stir-fried with ginger and scallion, along with white-boiled sea shrimp, lightly boiled clams, and coconut-scented free-range chicken.

In the center of the table were piled sliced mangoes, mangosteens, jackfruit, and other fruits.

At dawn, Bai Qing was quite curious about the cheese on the table, picked up a small piece to taste, and immediately frowned deeply before forcing it down.

Zheng Zhilong grinned wickedly: "How does it taste?"

Bai Qing said: "Both fragrant and stinky..."

Zheng Zhilong said: "These red barbarian devils—when it comes to waterworks and shipbuilding they might be decent, but when it comes to fine food, they're far behind us. Try this green crab, it's wonderfully fresh and tender."

Lin Qian drank a bowl of young coconut cup stewed with squab, feeling his appetite open wide. While peeling shrimp, he said to Zheng Zhilong: "How is the fleet coming along?" Zheng Zhilong spat out a chicken bone, wiped his mouth, and said: "Supplies are all loaded aboard. We can set sail tomorrow."

Bailangzai said in surprise: "Your Majesty, are we leaving in such a hurry?"

Lin Qian picked up a cracked crab claw, sucked out the meat, then joked: "The fighting is done. Drag it out any longer and this becomes a sightseeing trip." Bailangzai said: "Your Majesty has endured great hardship on the campaign. Even if you toured for a few days, no one could say anything."

Zheng Zhilong, who was slurping down clams one after another, said in between: "It's already June. If we delay until autumn, sailing will be difficult."

Bai Qing raised a cup of coconut wine and drained it in one gulp, then cautioned: "You must not slack off staying in Batavia. The Dutch on the Spice Islands haven't been driven off yet, and there's that so-called Christmas Fleet... This wine is interesting, another cup..."

Bailangzai nodded: "I'll remember that."

Lin Qian tossed a slice of braised beef into his mouth and said while chewing: "Speaking of which, any recent news on the Christmas Fleet or Mataram?" Bailangzai said: "Word came this morning—three Dutch cutters sailed into Batavia, and we drove them off using captured cutters paired with the Sea Wolf ships." Zheng Zhilong waved toward the distance. A Ban, holding a beggar's chicken, walked over and said: "You called for me?"

Zheng Zhilong said: "His Majesty asks whether Mataram has made any moves."

A Ban waved his big, greasy hand: "None. Too little prey—not enough to kill."

Zheng Zhilong raised his cup: "Then we'll just have to find another opportunity, Chieftain."

A Ban trudged back to his seat dejectedly. In the time it took to exchange those words, he had already eaten most of the fat chicken, the ground littered with gnawed chicken bones. Lin Qian inwardly lamented the loss. With the fleet returning north, Batavia's strength was bound to shrink, and the pressure of dealing with Mataram afterward would grow. The plan to install a puppet in Mataram would likewise have to be postponed.

But if they took the initiative to attack, first of all, they would not stand on moral high ground.

Second, the island of Java had vast stretches of tropical rainforest, swamps, and river networks. The forest paths were narrow and muddy, making it hard for large forces to deploy in formation, and transporting artillery and supplies was even more difficult. Moreover, Great Xia lacked intelligence and had limited knowledge of Java's terrain—the disadvantages of taking the offensive were simply too great.

Even if they were to fight, they would need to find a way to lure the enemy's main force out and force a decisive battle beneath the walls of Batavia.

Lin Qian considered several plans to draw the snake from its hole, but in the end, abandoned them all.

The Central Plains were not yet settled. Unifying China as soon as possible was the pressing matter—he could not afford to expend too much energy on Java.

Lin Qian stopped thinking about it and turned his attention to the coconut crab just set before him.

Soon, the sun set beyond the western hills. The soldiers all laughed and chatted to their hearts' content—the sounds of finger-guessing games and roaring laughter rose and fell in waves. A few sailors began singing sea shanties, their tunes melodious and lilting, lively and brisk. The nearby army soldiers joined in with raucous off-key singing, the discordant voices drifting far away on the sea breeze.

Fan Di cautiously approached Lin Qian's table, his expression hesitant. He glanced back, was glared at by his wife, and quickly said: "Your Highness, I..."

He was cut off mid-sentence by Geng Wu, who wore a grave expression and moved with swift strides. He handed over an official document and said in a low voice: "Your Majesty, urgent military intelligence." Lin Qian wiped his hands, took the document, scanned it, and said: "Understood."

Then he looked back at Fan Di and said: "What were you about to say?"

"After careful consideration, I accept Your Highness's work invitation. I am willing to go to Great Xia."

Lin Qian smiled: "A wise choice. I permit you to depart a few days later—take your time packing your things."

"Generous Highness, thank you. Yes, yes."

After Fan Di withdrew, Zheng Zhilong looked at Lin Qian and said: "Your Majesty, has something happened?"

Lin Qian gave a slight nod: "Good news."

Yahei

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