Chapter 381: Withdraw troops? Too late

At dawn, the sounds of battle cries surrounded the city of Batavia.

Several hundred Mataram soldiers wrapped in black-and-white turbans emerged from the trenches near the moat carrying scaling ladders, charging fiercely toward the city walls while shouting battle cries.

They ran across the abandoned sugarcane fields on the outskirts, kicking up rolling clouds of yellow dust, looking like earth-yellow earthworms under the morning light.

The Mataram soldiers trampled over the bones of their fallen comrades and broken weapons, rushed to the edge of the moat, set up their ladders, raised their shields above their heads, and swiftly crossed the water, while their comrades behind brought up more ladders and set them against the city walls.

Atop the walls, soldiers of the Great Xia in crow-blue uniforms leaned out and fired their muskets down at the city below. Orange flames flashed, and in an instant the ramparts were shrouded in gun smoke. Lead balls pierced through the rattan-and-wood shields with ease. Struck soldiers toppled one after another into the moat, and soon a layer of corpses floated on the water, the river stained a pale pink.

Along Batavia's walls, a bastion was placed every few dozen meters. Soldiers standing on the bastions could fire unhindered at the base of the walls. Those who had first reached the wall's base and were picking up ladders that had fallen into the moat were hit by volleys from the bastions on both sides. Flesh and blood flew everywhere, and in moments they became a pile of corpses.

"Quick! Bring the great hook guns!" a squad leader shouted from atop the wall.

The so-called great hook gun was the Foye Type 02 flintlock musket. The name was a mouthful, so the soldiers had given it a nickname.

Hearing the squad leader's call, a dozen or so soldiers came forward bearing heavy flintlock muskets, hooked the boarding hooks at the front onto the parapet, and pulled the triggers. A squad of Mataram soldiers was charging with a ladder hoisted between them. The shield of the man in front shattered instantly—wood splinters flew as the soldier was punched through the chest, leaving a hole the size of a watermelon in his back, shredded lung tissue mixed with rib fragments splattering onto the soldiers behind him.

The scene was too bloody. The remaining black-turbaned soldiers, scared out of their wits, dropped their ladders and turned to flee.

"Boom, boom, boom..."

Cannon fire thundered endlessly from the walls. Solid shot struck the ground, bounced up, and blasted great clouds of dust into the air.

A squad of white-turbaned soldiers carrying a ladder was hit by heavy cannon fire. Four of them were instantly blasted into pulp, flesh and blood flying along with fragments of the ladder more than a dozen meters away.

Seeing this, the surrounding white-turbaned soldiers carrying ladders turned and fled one after another.

The red-turbaned officers supervising from the rear cut down several men, but still could not stem the tide of collapse. Cowardice spread through the entire battlefield like a contagion, and every soldier turned and ran.

Seen from above, Batavia was like a reef in the sea, with the black-and-white waters around it rapidly receding.

Sultan Agung withdrew his telescope, his expression tense. This was already the third time the Mataram army had failed to take the city.

Ever since learning that the Great Xia fleet had bombarded the three ports of northern Java, Sultan Agung had been eager to break through at Batavia. But three attacks, three failures. Batavia in the hands of Great Xia seemed even harder to crack than when the Dutch held it.

Sultan Agung's face betrayed nothing, but inwardly he was burning with anxiety.

He knew in his heart that if this campaign returned with nothing to show, combined with the two previous defeats, given Mataram's national strength, it would likely take decades to recover. In his lifetime, he would probably never again have the chance to march on Batavia. The grand ambition of unifying Java might never be realized, and the vengeance for his eldest son might never be achieved.

He was unwilling to accept it!

But after careful deliberation, his reason won out.

If he withdrew his troops now, he might suffer a great loss of prestige, but at least he could preserve his army. As long as he held the army, local patih rebellions could not shake Mataram's rule, and the standoff with Batavia could continue indefinitely.

Thirty years, fifty years, a hundred years.

The island of Java belonged to the Mataram people. Time was on Mataram's side. As long as the state endured, his descendants would one day achieve the great work of unification.

"Who commands the southeastern flank? Dismiss him and throw him in prison!" General-in-Chief Bahu was berating his subordinates.

This was already the third commander to be dismissed and imprisoned for failing to take the city.

After dealing with that matter, Bahu came to the Sultan's side, pressed his palms together, and said: "Your Majesty, two thousand catties of gunpowder arrived at the camp today. Tomorrow we will use gunpowder to blast the walls—we will surely bring down the southeastern corner!"

Sultan Agung was already considering withdrawing his forces and gave a noncommittal response.

Suddenly a commotion arose in the camp. Someone said: "What is that?"

"Look at the top of Batavia's walls!"

Sultan Agung looked up and saw a massive figure appear atop Batavia's walls. Judging by proportion, the figure was abnormally large—nearly one zhang tall—visible clearly even from the Mataram camp.

The faint sound of gongs and drums could also be heard.

"It's a puppet!" a sharp-eyed soldier cried out. "Hahaha, it's a puppet farce! Is Great Xia begging for mercy?"

The puppet could move, and was posturing and dancing a ridiculous dance atop the wall.

The soldiers in the camp burst into laughter. Someone called out: "Look at his clothes... they look like... they look like..."

The man fell silent, and the laughter gradually died down. The camp fell into a deathly stillness.

Because the puppet was actually wrapped in a golden turban, wearing a golden buttoned long robe—that was clearly the Sultan's exclusive...

The puppet was imitating none other than Sultan Agung himself.

The puppet was in fact the type of "divine general" effigy commonly used in Fujian's procession festivals, called "tagu" in the Minnan dialect—a carved wooden head on a body of woven bamboo strips. It looked tall but was actually light, with movable arms and legs, perfect for performing at a distance.

The Dutch called the Chinese "Hokkian" precisely because Batavia had so many Fujianese, so ready-made divine-general effigies and skilled craftsmen were naturally available. To provoke Sultan Agung into attacking and dying, Lin Qian had craftsmen hastily modify this Sultan puppet to play the fool. To make sure the Mataram soldiers outside the city could see clearly, a platform two chi high had been specially erected on the wall.

Below Batavia's walls, protected behind a wall of shields, Lin Qian said with a wicked grin: "Put a flowery cape on it."

"Hahaha... coming right up!" a Fujianese craftsman beside him replied.

The craftsman grabbed a piece of flowery cape fabric and climbed up to the ramparts.

After changing into the flowery cape, the puppet looked even more absurd. The performer kept making ridiculous gestures—pretending to trip and fall one moment, kneeling and begging for mercy the next—drawing endless laughter from the Great Xia soldiers.

Below the city, the retreating Mataram red-turbaned soldiers saw this and were so enraged that smoke seemed to pour from their seven orifices. Ignoring whether they were in range or not, they grabbed their matchlock muskets and fired wildly at the ramparts.

Bullets whizzed past overhead. The performer playing the Sultan was badly startled, nearly tumbling off the platform, his turban rolling away to the side. He barely managed to steady himself and, in an extremely sorry state, ducked behind a crenellation to hide.

If this were a procession performance, it would have been a complete flop—the whole act ruined.

But this act was meant to mock Sultan Agung in the first place. The puppet, frightened by the matchlock fire into losing its turban and scrambling away in panic, was simply an inspired touch. And the fact that those shots had been fired by the royal guard made it all the more satirical.

After firing a few rounds, the red-turbaned soldiers also realized something was wrong and hastily called for a halt.

After a while, seeing that the red-turbaned soldiers had moved off, the puppet put its turban back on and resumed its performance.

The moment it mounted the platform, the puppet Sultan knelt down, raised both hands high toward the Mataram camp, and kowtowed repeatedly, looking as if it were begging for mercy. The Great Xia soldiers around saw this and nearly laughed until tears came.

The puppet Sultan's turban was not securely fastened. The kowtowing movements were too vigorous, and the turban came loose, falling down to the foot of the wall.

The puppet Sultan rubbed its bald head, then laboriously reached down toward the base of the wall, its movements exaggerated to the extreme.

The surrounding Great Xia soldiers laughed until their abdominal muscles ached, clutching their stomachs and unable to straighten up.

Even the civilians inside Batavia stood on their rooftops to watch. Not only did the Chinese cheer, but the Dutch civilians applauded endlessly as well.

In the Mataram camp, the white-turbaned auxiliary soldiers watching the ridiculous performance wanted to laugh but dared not, stifling themselves with great difficulty.

The Sultan did not value their lives, so in their hearts they naturally held little respect for him.

Red-turbaned soldiers poured out of the camp, holding leather whips, and said brusquely: "No looking! Turn around!"

"Turn around, close your eyes!"

The auxiliary troops were all honest farmers who could only follow orders.

But some of the black-turbaned troops said: "Hey yo! I need to piss—the fake Sultan's over there, the real Sultan's over here—so tell me, which way should my bird point?"

No sooner had these words been spoken than the surrounding black-turbaned troops burst into loud laughter.

These black-turbaned troops had been conscripted from various patihs and received no pay from the Sultan. They had long resented being sent to die assaulting the walls while the red-turbaned troops supervised from behind—this was a perfect chance to vent.

"What did you say?"

"You dare mock the Sultan?"

"Tie him up and hand him over to the general!"

The red-turbaned troops roared and moved to act, but the surrounding black-turbaned troops immediately surged forward.

"Go on, try it!"

"Teach these noble lords a lesson!"

These black-turbaned troops normally would not dare provoke the red-turbaned troops, but having just suffered a disastrous defeat and withdrawn from the front lines today—having seen corpses and gore strewn across the ground without even touching a single hem of the Great Xia soldiers' clothing—their resentment was heavier than a ghost's, and they were looking for any excuse to vent. They truly were not afraid of the red-turbaned troops now.

Some had even already gripped their spears and shields in their hands.

Just as the conflict was about to erupt, a Mataram officer walked over and dispersed the crowd. The red-turbaned troops left cursing, and with no more restrictions, the rest continued enjoying the Sultan puppet show, snickering loudly.

Sultan Agung put away his telescope, his face livid with rage. Both hands clenched into fists so hard he nearly crushed the instrument.

The Sultan's ministers and generals around him all kept their heads lowered, not daring to look at the treasonous puppet show, nor at the Sultan's expression. The scene was quiet and awkward.

Just then, a palace guard came running at full speed and handed over a secret report.

Agung tore it open—it was a plea for aid from Yogyakarta. The letter said that Great Xia had landed five to ten thousand troops on the southern coast of Yogyakarta and was marching in force toward the royal capital, begging the Sultan to return immediately with reinforcements.

Agung felt his mind explode like a volcanic eruption—volcanic ash spread and built pressure inside his skull, molten lava seared his blood vessels. Suddenly his vision went black and his legs gave way.

"Your Majesty!" The ministers around him cried out in alarm and hurriedly reached out to support him.

Agung steadied himself and raised a hand to stop the ministers who came to help him.

"I am fine."

With that, Sultan Agung turned and returned to his command tent. After pondering for a long while, he summoned Grand General Bahu and ordered in a listless voice: "Make preparations—over three days, withdraw the troops in batches. Whatever you do, do not let the Great Xia people catch on."

Bahu was shocked by these words and cried out: "What?"

Immediately realizing he had breached decorum, he knelt and pressed his palms together: "Your Majesty, the outcome is still undecided—why withdraw? Besides, today those Great Xia people again—"

Sultan Agung handed him the plea for aid.

Bahu took the letter and glanced at it. His brow first furrowed slightly, then tighter and tighter. He read the letter over ten times and still could not believe it was real. "This... how is this possible? Five to ten thousand men, landing in the southern seas—this... but... how—"

Bahu was momentarily at a loss for words. Aside from the phrase "divine miracle," he could think of no other description.

Sultan Agung said: "Go."

A thousand words surged in Bahu's heart, but all he could say was: "As you command, Your Majesty."

After Bahu left, Sultan Agung seemed drained of all his strength, collapsing limply onto his throne.

He knew better than anyone what this retreat meant—it was a fatal blow to the Sultan's authority.

Facing the enemy's mockery, fleeing with his tail between his legs.

Being toyed with back and forth between Batavia and Yogyakarta by the enemy, like a child being teased, or a stupid donkey turning a millstone.

More than a decade of achievements—those great victories that unified Java—would all be erased by this one disgraceful flight.

His name would be forever linked with coward, deserter, and fool. All the patihs of Java would be shocked, and then begin to stir restlessly. But Sultan Agung had no choice—if the enemy broke into the royal palace, that would be the end of his divine mandate, the death sentence of his political life. Moreover, the families of the royal guard he relied on most were all in the Yogyakarta area. Once word spread that Yogyakarta was besieged, morale would waver, and those patih soldiers would seize the chance to rebel.

If he fled back now with his tail between his legs, at least the army would still be intact—he could be a mocked and foolish Sultan.

But if he lost the army, he would have nothing, and die without even a place to be buried.

At this moment of life and death, he could only trade a lifetime of reputation for a way to survive.

That night, the Mataram military camp was making preparations for retreat.

And in the city of Batavia, new puppets were being made.

Under Lin Qian's direction, the craftsmen worked through the night to make puppets in the likenesses of Dutchmen and Han Chinese.

The next morning, a new round of the show began. The Sultan puppet was still the protagonist, and then the Dutch puppet and the Han puppet took the stage in turn, holding whips and lashing the Sultan puppet repeatedly, while the Sultan kowtowed and begged for mercy without cease.

When this act grew stale, Lin Qian had a flash of inspiration and had the craftsmen make a white-turbaned puppet modeled on the Mataram auxiliary troops. These divine-general puppets were all ready-made—only the headdresses and clothing needed to be changed.

Soon a white-turbaned puppet also appeared, holding a whip and beating the Sultan.

In the Mataram camp, the white-turbaned auxiliary troops could no longer hold it in—they all burst into loud laughter.

The jeering laughter even faintly reached the Sultan's tent.

Bahu bowed as he entered the tent, glanced at the Sultan's expression, and ventured: "Your Majesty."

Sultan Agung rested one hand on his forehead, his voice full of exhaustion: "How are the retreat preparations coming?"

Bahu pressed his palms together and said: "Great Majesty, this humble minister has come precisely to report on this matter... The patihs who accompanied the campaign oppose the withdrawal... The royal guard also refuses to leave—over a hundred have already signed a joint petition to fight, and the remaining soldiers flatly refuse to pack their belongings.

There is also Great Xia—they have set up ambushes in the woods between here and the Cianjur River valley, specifically killing isolated soldiers and scouts. All the dead have had their... their—"

Sultan Agung rare in his anger, demanded: "Had their what?"

Bahu trembled in fright and hastily knelt: "All had their heads cut off..."

The tent fell into deathly silence—Bahu could even hear his own heartbeat.

The Sultan's eldest son—he was the one without a head.

After a long while, Sultan Agung spoke: "Send an envoy to negotiate peace with the Great Xia people."

Since he had already decided to discard his dignity to preserve his strength, he might as well do it thoroughly.

The army's mood was volatile right now, and the retreat was dragging. If he forced the withdrawal and the enemy pursued from behind, the consequences would be unpredictable. Better to first negotiate peace with Great Xia, then leave at leisure.

In history, Raden Wijaya, the founding monarch of the Majapahit Kingdom, first submitted to his enemies, then bent the knee to the Yuan army, enduring every humiliation before finally achieving his great enterprise—he was practically the Javanese version of one who sleeps on brushwood and tastes gall.

Sultan Agung intended to emulate the sages of old—endure for now to achieve his goal, build up his strength, and one day surely return to strike back.

At noon that day, the Mataram envoy Surya, holding a white flag, had already arrived beneath the walls of Batavia.

After entering the city, the envoy Surya discreetly glanced left and right, seeing that order prevailed within the walls—no corpses by the roadside, no doctors wearing crow masks, no quarantine houses with seals pasted on their doors, and no sounds of weeping, wailing, or pleas for mercy.

Surya could not help but marvel inwardly. They had been poisoning the Ciliwung River for nearly half a month now, and even people in the Mataram camp had fallen ill from it—so why was the downstream city completely unharmed?

This was utterly different from the situation in the previous two sieges!

Carrying his doubts, the envoy made his way toward the Governor-General's residence. Along the road he saw an execution ground, where a native covered in wounds was being led to be beheaded. When the native spotted the Mataram envoy, he hastily cried out for help: "Save me! I am a Talik! My lord, save me!"

The envoy's body gave a start, and he looked toward the man.

The Talik was a scout organization the Sultan had specially established for capturing Batavia, divided into two groups—one inside the city and one outside. The man before him was clearly from the city group. The Dutch called their city-group scouts "spies," while in Chinese mouths they were called "agents"—and those caught never met a good end. Surya was merely an envoy, powerless to save anyone; moreover, since the Mataram army was already preparing to withdraw, they would care even less about the fate of these scouts. Seeing Surya walking farther and farther away, the scout cried out in desperate supplication.

"Thunk!"

The executioner's blade fell, and the pleas ceased abruptly.

Surya continued onward and saw a crowd of Great Xia soldiers gathered around a small shop by the roadside, with natives being continuously escorted out. He looked up and saw the shop's name—"Daud's Stall"—which was precisely one of the Mataram scouts' operational bases in Batavia.

The earlier news that the Great Xia fleet had left port and the city's coastal defenses were empty had been transmitted from this very base.

During the Dutch period, the Dutch regarded the natives as inferior people and were unwilling to approach their shops, which was why this base had never been discovered.

But after Great Xia took over, the Han Chinese reported the agents one after another, and this base was rooted out.

Surya watched as more than a dozen people were escorted out in succession, many of them bearing wounds, with blackened eyes and swollen faces.

Presumably, the city scouts, upon learning of the Great Xia manhunt, had gathered here in despair—only to be caught in one sweep.

Watching his own people being marched to the execution ground, Surya could not help but feel a sense of grief at the fox's death mourning the hare.

"Stop looking. Let's go." The soldier following behind him urged.

Surya could only continue forward. Around the Governor-General's residence, Great Xia soldiers were especially numerous—several nearby blocks were entirely sealed off, and the streets were full of Great Xia troops in crow-blue uniforms.

Crossing the spacious plaza, Surya arrived at the meeting room of the Governor-General's residence. A soldier gestured for him to sit at the table, then poured him a glass of plain water. Surya instinctively raised the cup, wanting to take a sip to ease his nerves—then suddenly froze, remembering what was in Batavia's water.

Lin Qian's voice came from the other end of the long table: "Drink up, and then we'll talk."

No candles were lit in the meeting room; the other end was hidden in darkness. Surya looked up but could only see a vague shadow.

He recalled his mission, steeled himself, and downed the water in one gulp, showing the empty cup, then said: "I have come on the orders of the Lord of Java, Sultan Agung, to discuss matters of peace with your side.

This was all a misunderstanding—the Sultan hopes both sides can shake hands and make amends.

The Sultan is willing to relinquish his territorial claims over Batavia and the vast lands of its outer city…"

"Hah." Lin Qian let out a light laugh. "The Sultan is making demands now?"

Surya argued with all his might: "Batavia was originally Javanese territory, and your side also made promises to the Sultan."

Lin Qian said: "Correct, I did say that if Mataram stayed put while Great Xia fought the Dutch, I would give all the lands of Batavia's outer city to Mataram…

Surya felt a wave of relief in his heart.

Lin Qian paused, then continued: "When it's time to give, I naturally will. But if I don't give, you cannot take."

Surya was choked speechless. He wanted to utter harsh words, but remembering his mission, he could only forcibly change the subject: "As I said, this war is a misunderstanding. The Sultan is willing to withdraw his troops voluntarily.

As a token of apology, the Sultan is willing to lend territory in West Java and also open his ports to trade with Great Xia."

Opening ports for trade had been the Dutch's ultimate goal, but this tactic was useless against Great Xia.

Seeing this, Surya could only speak his final card in a low voice: "Mataram is willing to submit to Great Xia and pay tri—"

The moment these words were spoken, even Surya himself felt utterly humiliated, his face burning hot.

Surya continued: "…We only ask… only ask that when the troops withdraw, both sides can each maintain their dignity…"

Unexpectedly, Lin Qian did not take up the thread, but instead mocked: "It doesn't feel good to have your capital breached and your palace burned, does it?"

Surya was visibly stunned: "What did you say?"

Lin Qian understood in his heart—the Mataram people did not yet know this news.

Great Xia used eagle ships and falcon ships to relay messages, traveling from the southern shore of Yogyakarta through the Sunda Strait back to Batavia—a total journey of roughly sixteen hundred li, twice the overland distance.

Considering the speed of the eagle ships and the conditions of the rainforest roads, Lin Qian and Sultan Agung should have received the news at almost the same time.

It was only because Wang Ruzhong had burned a great number of government offices and documents, with the courier station's archive rooms also going up in flames—combined with the chaos of the assault—that Mataram received the news slightly later.

This also indirectly proved that Wang Ruzhong had indeed dealt a heavy blow to Mataram's administrative center.

Seeing this, Lin Qian laughed: "You heard correctly—the Yogyakarta palace has already turned to ashes."

"What? That's impossible!" Surya was fierce in appearance but weak within. He knew of the Great Xia surprise attack on the royal city—he just hadn't expected the city to fall so quickly, or the results to be so devastating.

A Sultan whose house was burned yet who lacked the courage to seek revenge—who would still follow him?

Lin Qian said: "True or false, you'll find out soon enough. Go back and tell your treacherous Sultan that at this point, he still wants to withdraw his troops safely? Too late."

Yahei

Pink Round

Pen