Chapter 384: Executing the Sultan by Cannon, Returning in Triumph

A long trail of white smoke spread along the river channel as the broadside cannons of twenty warships spat tongues of fire without cease. Orange-red flashes rose and fell amid the gunsmoke, like a madly writhing golden giant serpent.

Grapeshot swept across the Mataram left-wing formation. At the raking angle, the Mataram ranks were packed extremely dense, and the grapeshot punched deep into the column, each volley felling at least five or six men.

The royal guard's rattan shields and armor could not stop the grapeshot at all. Lead shot pierced shields, pierced men, then pierced the men behind them. Blood mist rose in sheets along the shot's path as broken spears, shattered rattan, and severed limbs splattered blood everywhere.

Soldiers on the left flank only heard thunder erupt behind them; before they could even turn their heads, their comrades beside them were already screaming and toppling over.

Some had rows of bloody holes punched across their backs and pitched straight forward; others had arms sheared off at the shoulder and rolled in the mud clutching their stumps. Still more never even saw where the cannon fire came from before being knocked flat by the dense hail of shot.

In the span of a few short moments, as if a sickle were reaping wheat, deep red furrows of blood were plowed through the tawny-brown human tide.

The killing efficiency was simply horrifying beyond belief.

The left wing of the Mataram army suffered utter catastrophe. Soldiers fell in batches and swaths, blood mist thickened until it formed a fine drizzle that splashed down. The Mataram soldiers were stunned senseless by the sudden cannon fire, some even standing dumbfounded for a moment, forgetting to flee.

When the soldiers finally saw where the fire came from, they collapsed and scattered like an avalanche. Nothing remained on the battlefield but a sea of fleeing backs, and the entire left wing's offensive vanished in an instant.

And the rout kept spreading, transmitting all the way to the center army.

On the assault route, Sultan Agung halted his steps and looked toward the army's left wing. Seeing the Great Xia fleet perched on the Ciliwung River, bombarding with wild abandon, he was instantly stricken with terror.

"What is that? What is happening?" he shouted, eyes bulging wide.

So shaken was he that Sultan Agung lost the power of speech, unable even to articulate his own question clearly.

The Mataram had besieged Batavia twice; they knew the Ciliwung River intimately. In the dry season the river was barely a meter deep, navigable only by small boats. How had Great Xia warships gotten in?

If the Ciliwung could carry seagoing vessels, the Dutch would have sailed their ships in long ago, and Sultan Agung would never have chosen to fight a decisive battle with the Great Xia army by the river. But what the Dutch could not do, Great Xia had done.

Sending in one ship would have been one thing, but Great Xia had brought in twenty at once, bow to stern, cramming the entire river channel full.

Other than divine power, Sultan Agung could think of no other explanation.

The gunfire, screams, and battle cries around him were nearly deafening. Amid the din, someone shouted: "Your Majesty, retreat at once!" Sultan Agung roared back: "Not one step back! Charge forward!"

Grand General Bahu, drenched in blood, pushed his way before the Sultan and said: "Your Majesty, our army is defeated. Withdraw."

"Nonsense!" Sultan Agung roared in despair, shoving Bahu aside with one hand.

The next instant came a sharp "whoosh" — a twelve-pound solid shot plowed through the crowd, flying straight at Bahu.

In a flash, the cannonball struck Bahu's head. His cheekbones shattered instantly, bloodied teeth flew from his mouth, splintered orbital bones stabbed deep into his eye sockets, his eyeballs were crushed into paste on the spot, then his skull cracked open and brain matter and blood sprayed wildly in every direction from the impact.

It all happened so fast that by the time Sultan Agung recovered his senses, Bahu's head had already burst like a water-filled bladder.

The headless corpse collapsed limply, blood and brains splattering across Sultan Agung's face.

Jolted by the blood drenching him from head to toe, he gasped desperately for air and looked around.

That shot had come from directly ahead. It had carved a hundred-pace-long furrow of deep red through the Mataram army, countless wounded soldiers lying on the ground, clutching severed limbs and wailing.

Sultan Agung followed the bloody furrow toward the Great Xia lines. The muzzle of the twelve-pounder still trailed wisps of blue smoke as its crew cleaned the bore. Around the gun crew, Great Xia infantry stood like ferocious asuras, raising their muskets and firing without cease. Amid the gunsmoke, a dark-red great banner stood against the wind. Beneath it, a man sat astride a horse, arm extended, pointing directly at Sultan Agung.

The next moment, seven or eight cannons fired in unison from the Great Xia formation, all loaded with solid shot.

Sultan Agung was still three hundred paces from the battle line. Ordinary grapeshot was blocked by the wall of Mataram corpses and could never reach that far.

But solid shot had tremendous penetrating power, punching straight through the corpse wall and carving furrows of blood around Sultan Agung.

With the Sword-Moon banner marking his position, and the royal guards packed densely around him, Sultan Agung's location became a perfect target for the artillery. Soon, another five or six cannonballs came flying in.

The solid shot was devastatingly powerful. A corpse wall piled half a man high was blasted apart in a single hit, flesh and blood riding the cannonballs as they rampaged through the Mataram ranks, riddling the dense royal guard with holes.

At the same time, the infantry line, having gradually broken free of melee and steadied its formation, resumed firing. Rows of Mataram soldiers fell one after another.

Under this saturation strike of firepower from front and flank alike, the Mataram army finally collapsed along its entire line.

Vengeance, homeland, duty — all crushed in an instant by fear.

The soldiers still alive turned and ran like headless flies, scattering shields, spears, and matchlock muskets all over the ground.

Even the Mataram right wing, which had advanced most smoothly and suffered the fewest casualties, joined the stampede.

Amid countless terrified fleeing faces, Sultan Agung stared blankly at it all.

The collapse had happened too fast. Sultan Agung could not yet believe it was real.

He had taken command of Mataram, tucked away in a corner of the interior, at the age of twenty. He had put down princely rebellions, destroyed the powerful neighbor Surabaya, conquered the entire island of Madura, and subjugated the states of Cirebon. In dozens of battles great and small, he had repeatedly overcome superior forces with inferior ones, his martial glory unmatched across the archipelago.

From the fractured lands of Java where heroes contended, he had carved out an unprecedented and magnificent enterprise.

Even after two failed sieges, the Dutch had been too terrified to step outside their city walls, and his army had withdrawn in good order. When had he ever faced such a catastrophe of total collapse?

While he stood stupefied, many royal guards around him fled as well.

"Your Majesty, Your Majesty, go now, go!" A minister tugged desperately at Sultan Agung's arm.

Suddenly, a black dot grew larger in Sultan Agung's vision. Before he could react, he heard the shrieking whistle, and the black dot swelled abruptly... Sultan Agung was struck square in the chest by a cannonball. Ribs, organs, and flesh snapped and tore inch by inch; his entire chest caved inward and burst apart, dissolving into scattered gore. His limbs blew apart in an instant, hurled in every direction by the tremendous force.

Only half an arm remained, clutched in the hand of the minister who had urged him to flee.

Drenched in the Sultan's pulverized remains, the minister stood slack-jawed, watching the severed arm fall to the ground. He let out an inhuman scream, his mind shattered on the spot, and collapsed onto the bloody mire, scrambling away on all fours.

The Sultan was dead. The last shred of the royal guard's morale vanished like smoke. Everyone fought to flee, and the great banner of crossed Malay kris and crescent moon fell to the ground.

The Great Xia army erupted in thunderous cheers.

In less than an hour, every surviving Mataram soldier had fled clean away, leaving only mountains of corpses piled across the battlefield.

This battlefield, not far from where Great Xia had built its dam, had originally been a vast expanse of flat sugarcane fields.

Now it was completely covered by corpses, forming rolling hills of the dead. In front of the Great Xia lines especially, bodies were piled nearly man-high, even blocking the view.

After the corpse wall was pushed down, an endless sea of bodies stretched out, covering everything within sight.

Blood pooled into streams, streams gathered into rivers, pouring into the Ciliwung and tingeing the whole river pale red.

Some also flowed into the approach trench, which was already piled with earth and corpses; with blood pouring in ceaselessly, it was nearly overflowing. Lin Qian ordered the soldiers to treat the wounded and clean the battlefield, while Bailangzai labored to turn the ship around on the river and head back to Batavia.

But the Mataram's nightmare was not yet over. Aban had already reached the edge of the rainforest with the battle cries, waiting.

Two hundred Siraya warriors spread out in defensive positions, occupying more than a li of forest.

Every fleeing soldier who reached that spot was mercilessly beheaded.

Aban killed until dusk, until both arms were spent, his whole body drenched in cold sweat, his palms skinned raw. His scabbard had become a bloody mop, blood streaming from it without cease, even the camouflage on his body washed thin — he looked as if he had been soaked in blood.

As for exactly how many men he had killed, he could no longer remember at all.

At first, he would kill a man and cut off a head, but soon he found there were too many targets and no time for such work, so he simply killed without bothering to collect. Later, when his arms were spent from the hacking, he tossed away the net sack of heads altogether.

By dusk, his fine steel Siraya war blade was badly nicked and blunted, ruined from the slaughter, and his three javelins had long since been lost somewhere.

By then there were no living Mataram men left in the forest—only an endless expanse of corpses.

Great numbers of bodies also lay in the river, drifting downstream past the twenty Sea Wolf galleons trapped in the channel by their difficulty turning around, floating all the way until they stopped before the Batavia sluice gate.

In the moonlight, Fan Di stood on the sluice gate looking south, and saw the corpses bobbing up and down like duckweed, covering the surface in an entire layer.

Two groups of Great Xia soldiers stood on either bank of the Ciliwung River, hauling up corpses. There were so many that a small hill of them piled up on each bank... Fan Di could bear it no longer. With a "wah," he vomited and had to be helped home.

The other Dutchmen in the city who witnessed the scene were also shaken, their legs trembling. Although Mataram was the Dutchman's mortal enemy, seeing their old foe come to such an end, they could not help feeling a fox's grief at the death of the hare.

For the next three days, Batavia enjoyed remarkably good public order—not only was there no crime or disturbance, but no one even went out into the streets.

Though Lin Qian had issued no curfew, the entire city's populace spontaneously imposed one upon themselves.

Two days later, old Pai, the former royal line of Surabaya and now the leader of the Mataram rebels, arrived in Batavia by ship.

With the fighting at the front so intense, he ought not to have left his post, but a few days earlier, Great Xia had delivered Sultan Agung's personal sword and reported the situation at the front.

This made old Pai unable to sit still any longer, and he hurried to pay his respects to his new master.

On the island of Java, Sultan Agung had the greatest strength; even when the Sultanate of Surabaya still existed, old Pai could not contend with him.

Now Great Xia had defeated Sultan Agung as easily as crushing a bedbug, thoroughly frightening old Pai out of his wits.

According to Javanese historical records, three hundred years ago the Mongols had sent a thousand seagoing ships across the sea to invade; tens of thousands of northern soldiers came ashore, throwing all the states into terror, and only by a ruse of pretended surrender and turning their coats were the mighty foe barely driven back.

Having now seen them with his own eyes, Great Xia's troops were fewer than the Mongols' had been, yet their edge in battle was a hundred times sharper than the Yuan army of old.

He suddenly understood a truth: whether his great undertaking of raising an army to restore his kingdom could succeed had nothing to do with himself, nor with the numbers on either side, nor with righteous cause, nor with the blessings of the gods.

Whether it succeeded or not was entirely a matter of a single word from Great Xia.

The gap in strength between him and Great Xia was so vast that there was no point in discussing equality, cooperation, trade, or contracts—he would simply be their dog. Thus, this trip was purely to pledge his loyalty.

On the southern city wall, old Pai finally saw Lin Qian leisurely sipping tea. He hurried forward, knelt, and pressed his palms together in salute.

Ancient Indian culture had a tradition of revering the feet: when a subordinate had an audience with a superior, he had to bring his head close to the superior's feet in a touching-of-feet obeisance. The lower and closer the head pressed, the greater the submission shown. Old Pai therefore walked extremely close, wishing he could go right up to Lin Qian's front, until Geng Wu blocked him.

Old Pai could only kneel at a distance and say: "Great conqueror, lord of Java, lord of the seas, king of the earth and volcanoes, ruler of the Central Plains dynasties, immortal..."

Lin Qian cut him off: "Enough. The city wall can't hold that many people."

Zheng Zhilong, Bai Qing, Bailangzai, and the others could not help chuckling at this.

Lin Qian raised a hand, and old Pai rose awkwardly. Lin Qian pointed to the southeast: "Look there."

Old Pai followed the direction of Lin Qian's finger and saw that the nearby abandoned sugarcane fields were all yellowish-brown earth, while in the distance dark brown soil abruptly appeared, stretching all the way to the edge of the rainforest—the colors sharply divided. That was soaked in by the blood of the Mataram army.

Five days had passed since the great battle, and the corpses had mostly been buried, but the bloodstains could not be cleaned away, leaving this dark imprint of nearly a hundred mu permanently stamped into the earth. A light breeze blew, and old Pai could still smell the blood in the wind. He trembled all over and immediately lowered his head and eyes.

"Do you know what that is?" Lin Qian raised his teacup and stirred the leaves as he spoke.

"Y-yes... Great King of Xia, the Sultanate of Surabaya awaits your command." Cold sweat kept beading on old Pai's forehead.

Lin Qian said: "The tyrant Agung is dead. The island of Java needs a new ruler to maintain order. You are the one I have chosen. Do not disappoint me." "I wouldn't dare, I wouldn't dare. I, Banggelan Pekik, swear before Allah that for generation after generation, I will be the most loyal servant of the King of Xia, and Java shall forever be a vassal of Great Xia."

Lin Qian smiled: "No need for such a heavy oath. Geng Wu, bring him a stool and serve him tea."

After Geng Wu brought the stool, old Pai would not sit. He lowered his head and said: "In this world there is no principle of servant and master sitting together. Your Highness's gift of a seat to this humble servant is a kindness this humble servant will remember forever, but to actually sit—this humble servant would never dare."

His words were spoken with the utmost humility, and not entirely out of flattery—Java's hierarchical order had always been this strict.

In their culture, there was no "Are princes, dukes, generals, and ministers born to their station?" nor the integrity of "A scholar may be killed but not humiliated." Instead, they placed extreme emphasis on rank and obedience. Before a sovereign, subjects had no dignity whatsoever; they were expected to speak in this utterly servile tone.

For a superior to be too lenient and kind to inferiors was instead seen as an act of cowardice, and would earn the contempt of one's subjects.

So Lin Qian did not press the matter and directly gave his orders: "From this day forward, all ports on the island of Java shall be open to Great Xia. Tariff rates shall be agreed upon by both sides. The six categories of goods—grain, teak, sulfur, saltpeter, cane sugar, and rattan—may only be traded with Great Xia merchants.

Great Xia shall station troops in the three towns of Surabaya, Semarang, and Yogyakarta, and shall build trading posts and bastion forts.

Java shall not engage in diplomatic relations with the Netherlands, Spain, Portugal, England, Japan, the Great Ming, or the other thirteen neighboring states." Hearing this demand, even one as humble as old Pai could not help his expression changing drastically.

If these conditions were accepted, Great Xia would be able to control Java from the four aspects of politics, economy, military, and diplomacy.

From then on, Java could no longer be called a country—it would be even worse off than a vassal state.

Even the submission terms Sultan Agung had proposed when he occupied Surabaya had not been this harsh.

Yet faced with such power, old Pai dared not refuse. He wanted to agree but feared becoming a traitor condemned through the ages, so he could only stand frozen on the spot, his lips trembling.

Lin Qian took a sip of tea and said: "What's the matter?"

"Your Highness, I, I, I..."

Lin Qian said: "Rest assured. Great Xia will help you maintain your rule and preserve your dignity as Sultan of Java. We will not alter your laws, faith, or customs."

"I, I, I..."

Zheng Zhilong gave a cold snort: "Don't be ungrateful! You're not the only one who wants to be our dog!"

Lin Qian gently rebuked him: "Speak more politely. That's called cooperation."

Zheng Zhilong clasped his hands and said: "Yes, my King."

Old Pai's heart waged a long war within him, and in the end he could only say helplessly: "As you wish, Your Highness."

Lin Qian said: "I hear your side's military situation has not been going smoothly lately."

Old Pai admitted it with a bitter face.

As the saying goes, a centipede of a hundred legs, though dead, does not topple. A strong state like Mataram could not be killed with a single cut—it still had a great population in central Java and patihs whose interests aligned with its own.

And the Sultanate of Surabaya, having been occupied for so many years, with swords stored in the armory and horses turned out to pasture, no longer had its old valor, and could only fight the badly wounded Mataram to a draw.

Lin Qian said: "I'll give you a powerful reinforcement. Geng Wu."

Geng Wu clasped his hands: "Yes!" Then he said to old Pai: "Please follow me."

Old Pai saluted Lin Qian and followed Geng Wu away, but halfway there Lin Qian called him back.

"One more thing. I hear there are quite a few Han Chinese slaves on the island of Java? What to do about that, I shouldn't need to spell out?"

Lin Qian stirred his tea leaves and said slowly and deliberately.

"Your Highness, once I return I shall issue a decree restoring freedom to all slaves."

Lin Qian paid no heed and kept fiddling with the tea leaves.

Old Pei gritted his teeth and said: "We also need to give them compensation according to the time they were enslaved."

Lin Qian smiled and said: "Go on, then."

Only then did Old Pei follow Geng Wu down the city wall. The two walked to the South Gate, mounted their horses, and rode straight toward the forest in the southeast.

The more desolate the surroundings grew, the more alarmed Old Pei became. But looking around, there were more than twenty riders following behind — escape was impossible, so he could only press on with his head down.

After a long while, the riders plunged into the rainforest, twisting and turning until they reached an open clearing beneath the shade of the trees.

Old Pei felt the place was eerily sinister, and the air carried a stench of rot. When his eyes adjusted to the light, he was instantly struck with terror.

He let out a scream and tumbled straight off his horse. Fortunately, the ground was covered in moss and rotting leaves, so he was not injured.

His eyes wide, he looked around in fright — everywhere were countless skulls, most of them strung up by vines and dangling in midair, some still bearing flesh and blood on the bone.

The vines entered through the eye sockets and came out through the back of the skull, preserving the craniums intact.

All around this clearing were such vine-strung skulls. By a conservative estimate, there were nearly a thousand of them. When the wind blew through the forest, the skulls clattered against one another, a truly hair-raising sound.

Deep within the skull grove, figures stirred. Old Pei was so terrified he clamped his hand tightly over his mouth.

Geng Wu, however, walked up to greet them: "Headman, the King sent me to ask — is this batch of prey enough?"

Aban nodded with a beaming smile: "Enough, enough! With this haul, I can decorate ten more sword scabbards. My trophy rack is about to overflow!"

"The fleet will be heading north in a few days, and there won't be much jungle fighting in the coming years. The King fears the Headman's hands will get itchy, so he's specially found you a hunting ground — right on his own territory."

As Geng Wu spoke, he pointed at Old Pei, whose face was full of terror.

Geng Wu then lowered his voice: "This man can't be fully trusted. The Headman should be careful when dealing with him. The South Sea Fleet will also send men to Surabaya and Semarang to back you up."

Aban clasped his hands in gratitude: "Thank you, good friend!"

That afternoon, Old Pei and the Siraya mercenaries took a ship back to Surabaya.

A few more days passed, and it was early July when the fleet headed north on its return voyage.

Bailangzai personally led the South Sea Fleet to see them off. After escorting them past the main shipping lane, he turned northwest and accompanied them for another ten nautical miles before firing the signal cannons and turning east, heading straight for the Spice Islands.

The fighting on Java was not yet over, and the Dutch forces in the Spice Islands had yet to be cleared out, so the marines and Li Yu's new army remained in Batavia. Accordingly, half of the shark ships and whale ships also stayed in Batavia.

Only three ships truly returned north — the Zhulong, Tianyuan, and Zheng He — plus three fourth-rate ships, three fifth-rate ships, eight sixth-rate ships, and a small number of transport vessels and sea-wolf ships.

On the stern deck, Lin Qian said: "Now that we have the South Sea Fleet, the remaining ships have no organization, which isn't fitting. Let's just consolidate them into the North Sea Fleet, with Bai Qing as fleet commander."

Bai Qing was still immersed in the sadness of parting with her younger brother. Hearing this, she clasped her hands in acknowledgment, though her spirits were low.

Zheng Zhilong said: "On this trip we defeated the Dutch and the Mataram, and we've taken nearly the whole island of Java. When we set out, our holds were stuffed with cannonballs and gunpowder; on the return, they're all filled with gems, gold, and spices. You could say we're returning with a full load — why not celebrate tonight?"

It was now the typhoon season in the South Sea. For navigational safety, the fleet hugged the coast, and the next stop was Palembang, where they could resupply — no need to worry about wasting wine and meat.

So Lin Qian nodded and said: "Notify the whole fleet — tonight, wine and meat for all, no limits!"

Everyone let out a cheer.

Right after lunch, the kitchen began bustling. The sailors smelled the aroma wafting from the smokestacks and drooled all day, barely managing to wait until evening. The sun set in the west, dyeing sea and sky a soft purple — a breathtaking sight.

On deck, the sailors ate with grease dripping from their mouths and drank themselves tipsy, gathering in twos and threes to chat and laugh without restraint.

The noise startled the scavenging seagulls, which circled and cried incessantly.

After the feast, Bai Qing took a cup of mead and walked alone to the ship's rail, gazing out at the sea.

Seeing this, Lu Ruoteng came out to console her: "Both you and your brother have been promoted, each commanding your own force. Commander Bai should be happy — don't be sad." Bai Qing turned her head, looking utterly baffled: "What nonsense are you talking about?"

She was the type to take things in stride. Having witnessed partings of life and death since childhood, she had long stopped worrying about Bailangzai commanding troops in a distant land.

Lu Ruoteng was greatly puzzled: "Then what's the matter, Commander Bai?"

Bai Qing said: "Oh, I'm looking for the whale — the minke whale, as His Majesty calls it. These things are everywhere usually, but now that I actually want to find one, it's nowhere to be seen. Could it be because the waters here are too warm? What a pity, what a pity—"

Yahei

Fenyuan

Pen