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Chapter 1: Batavia, 1550 AJ [1628]
The Tijgersgracht, a prominent canal in the 17th-century colonial city of Batavia. Within decades of taking control of the port, the Dutch East India Company built canals to divert the Ciliwung River.
* * *
Batavia, Java. Shaka year 1550 [1628 AD].
It was September, yet the day was still stuffy and sweltering. There are no seasons in Java, after all, just eternal alternation between dry heat and humid heat. And this month was when dry heat reigned over all. The sky was clear and blue; there were not the faintest traces of clouds in sight. Even the sun seemed bigger than usual, blazing in all his splendor as he rained down light so harsh and blinding that the troops struggled to keep their eyes open. Then there was the heat – the irksome and intolerable heat that slips into every corner of the body and saps the strength of every joint and muscle. They said that the sun-god Surya was a beneficent being, but sometimes General Baureksa could not help but doubt.
There were other things that Baureksa doubted. For one thing, why was he here? Yesterday he had reviewed the troops in the camps; with little surprise he noted that their faces were all thin and drooping, haggard with fatigue. And perhaps despair, too. The soldiers are peasants, simple men with simple lives whom we dragged in chains out of their little village lives. His men, he knew, did not want to come so west. Nor did he, really. Baureksa’s home was the quaint seaside town of Kendal, where he had reigned as lord for the better part of his life. If only he could lie and relax today under the shades of the coconut palms that lined Kendal’s streets, with his wife and children and no one else! If only he could leave his army here and now and ride back to Kendal, where he would climb the minaret and see the little boats sink beyond the horizon…..
But such thoughts were dangerous treason. If I leave now, what shall I tell my lord, the King of Mataram? Did I not swear my life to him? Did I not vow to him that the Dutchmen would be ousted before the end of this year?
Officials are born to serve. All power in the island of Java came from His Highness the King. Baureksa’s lands in Kendal were but a conditional loan, a gift from His Highness under the assumption of loyalty. How could he repay his lord for such generosity and favor if not by service? And lest one forget, service was a virtue in itself. The dry wind seemed to whisper faintly remembered words from his childhood: “there is nothing that can be compared to the service of the king; this is like being a piece of wood in the ocean, going where the waves bring you.” Baureksa had never been quite sure what that meant, but the saying always seemed to portend some mystic truth.
Desertion is futile, the general told himself. War, war, war – there would be war even if he mutinied this very moment. The only difference would be that the indomitable warhost of Mataram would be turned towards Kendal instead of Batavia. His beloved little town could hardly resist the thunder of Mataram artillery, and mercy was little known to the King.
So Baureksa would have to stay and fight and win.
What was there to be known about the infidels he was facing here, these people who called themselves the Hollanders? They had first descended Below the Winds some thirty years ago, in hot pursuit of their archenemies the Portuguese. They were an avaricious race with scant sense of honor. The general still remembered that day seven years ago when merchants from the east had arrived in Kendal. Their faces had been solemn, their words macabre. When he had gone down to meet them, they had whispered that they could bring no nutmeg from now on.
“Why?” Baureksa had asked. The reply was as short as it was shocking. Nutmeg, the finest of spices, was only found in the small Bandanese archipelago. Recently, thousands of Dutch mercenaries had descended upon Banda and massacred all its inhabitants. Then they built slave-run plantations on the isles. From now on, the Dutchmen alone would own the nutmeg trees. By the Immaterial, Baureksa had thought then, these Hollanders are an evil race. Woe that they have now come to Java.
That was not all. Strange rumors persisted and proliferated about this queer race of pale-skinned men (yes, men – unlike the Javanese the Dutchmen did not sail with their women). It was said that their cannons were more destructive than even those of the Romans, that the artillery in just one of their ships could fit in four Portuguese vessels, or that their forts were impregnable to every mortal weapon in existence and resistant to all but the greatest magical feats.
He had put some of those rumors to the test a few days ago, when his army and navy had congregated here. As it turned out, they were much too close to reality. He had tested the strength of Batavia’s walls with both the fury of Mataram artillery and the mettle of Mataram soldiers. The Dutchmen, the Javanese soon discovered, were much better shot than them; perhaps it was unavoidable, considering that the Company hired professional soldiers while His Highness raised peasant levies. Their artillery, too, was of a more powerful design than Baureksa had ever faced. In the end, the conclusion was unavoidable; the fort seemed nigh-impregnable without a lengthy war of attrition. But any war of attrition was in the infidels’ favor, for when the rainy season came in November, his army would have to retreat or starve.
To overcome any strong position, necessity demanded strong stratagems. But which one was right here? That was the question.
The general looked down at the little town which the infidels called Batavia. It was beautiful in a way, he supposed. The Ciliwung River gleamed and shimmered as it reflected the dry season sun, winding and meandering on its way to the coast like a thick yarn of thinly beaten gold. As it joined with the Java Sea, the yarn split into spidery shimmering threads, some unusually straight. He surmised that the Franks had diverged the Ciliwung into canals. Perhaps they had built them to facilitate their trade. Or maybe they were there just to make Batavia that much prettier, for they split the city into neat little districts and brought perfect symmetry – between land and water, between building and reflection – to so much of the town. Red brick houses lined the town in orderly rows, with palm trees waving their fronds right beside them. All around were the Frankish fortifications, so famous for their impregnability. There were some unfamiliarities. The houses were of brick, for example, and not of wood as was normal here. But the order inherent in Batavia’s design reminded him too uncannily of Javanese towns. A pity he would have to destroy it all.
Perhaps in some alternate timeline, the Dutchmen were busy burning Kendal.
Baureksa sat in thought for a long, long time. Then a bittersweet smile spread across his face. Batavia, and all its order and beauty that lay below him now, would be razed to the ground before the end of this year. For the general had a plan.
* * *
Hopefully this wasn't so bad.
I will use the Javanese era (Anno Javanico, AJ for short) throughout this timeline, a lunar calendar which follows the Islamic system of months but begins in the year 78 AD instead. However, for this very first post, I use the Indian-derived Shaka era because Sultan Agung did not create the AJ system until 1633 AD. AJ is essentially a variant of the Shaka era using Islamic months instead, to allow for easy conversion to the Islamic era starting from the Hijra.
We know very little about Baureksa, governor of Kendal and leading general of Sultan Agung; Javanese historical sources simply emphasize his bravery. IOTL he and his two sons were killed in a skirmish outside Batavia in October 21, 1628. Most of his personality here is a literary imagination.
The merchants' reference here is to the Bandanese genocide of 1621.
The Tijgersgracht, a prominent canal in the 17th-century colonial city of Batavia. Within decades of taking control of the port, the Dutch East India Company built canals to divert the Ciliwung River.
* * *
Batavia, Java. Shaka year 1550 [1628 AD].
It was September, yet the day was still stuffy and sweltering. There are no seasons in Java, after all, just eternal alternation between dry heat and humid heat. And this month was when dry heat reigned over all. The sky was clear and blue; there were not the faintest traces of clouds in sight. Even the sun seemed bigger than usual, blazing in all his splendor as he rained down light so harsh and blinding that the troops struggled to keep their eyes open. Then there was the heat – the irksome and intolerable heat that slips into every corner of the body and saps the strength of every joint and muscle. They said that the sun-god Surya was a beneficent being, but sometimes General Baureksa could not help but doubt.
There were other things that Baureksa doubted. For one thing, why was he here? Yesterday he had reviewed the troops in the camps; with little surprise he noted that their faces were all thin and drooping, haggard with fatigue. And perhaps despair, too. The soldiers are peasants, simple men with simple lives whom we dragged in chains out of their little village lives. His men, he knew, did not want to come so west. Nor did he, really. Baureksa’s home was the quaint seaside town of Kendal, where he had reigned as lord for the better part of his life. If only he could lie and relax today under the shades of the coconut palms that lined Kendal’s streets, with his wife and children and no one else! If only he could leave his army here and now and ride back to Kendal, where he would climb the minaret and see the little boats sink beyond the horizon…..
But such thoughts were dangerous treason. If I leave now, what shall I tell my lord, the King of Mataram? Did I not swear my life to him? Did I not vow to him that the Dutchmen would be ousted before the end of this year?
Officials are born to serve. All power in the island of Java came from His Highness the King. Baureksa’s lands in Kendal were but a conditional loan, a gift from His Highness under the assumption of loyalty. How could he repay his lord for such generosity and favor if not by service? And lest one forget, service was a virtue in itself. The dry wind seemed to whisper faintly remembered words from his childhood: “there is nothing that can be compared to the service of the king; this is like being a piece of wood in the ocean, going where the waves bring you.” Baureksa had never been quite sure what that meant, but the saying always seemed to portend some mystic truth.
Desertion is futile, the general told himself. War, war, war – there would be war even if he mutinied this very moment. The only difference would be that the indomitable warhost of Mataram would be turned towards Kendal instead of Batavia. His beloved little town could hardly resist the thunder of Mataram artillery, and mercy was little known to the King.
So Baureksa would have to stay and fight and win.
What was there to be known about the infidels he was facing here, these people who called themselves the Hollanders? They had first descended Below the Winds some thirty years ago, in hot pursuit of their archenemies the Portuguese. They were an avaricious race with scant sense of honor. The general still remembered that day seven years ago when merchants from the east had arrived in Kendal. Their faces had been solemn, their words macabre. When he had gone down to meet them, they had whispered that they could bring no nutmeg from now on.
“Why?” Baureksa had asked. The reply was as short as it was shocking. Nutmeg, the finest of spices, was only found in the small Bandanese archipelago. Recently, thousands of Dutch mercenaries had descended upon Banda and massacred all its inhabitants. Then they built slave-run plantations on the isles. From now on, the Dutchmen alone would own the nutmeg trees. By the Immaterial, Baureksa had thought then, these Hollanders are an evil race. Woe that they have now come to Java.
That was not all. Strange rumors persisted and proliferated about this queer race of pale-skinned men (yes, men – unlike the Javanese the Dutchmen did not sail with their women). It was said that their cannons were more destructive than even those of the Romans, that the artillery in just one of their ships could fit in four Portuguese vessels, or that their forts were impregnable to every mortal weapon in existence and resistant to all but the greatest magical feats.
He had put some of those rumors to the test a few days ago, when his army and navy had congregated here. As it turned out, they were much too close to reality. He had tested the strength of Batavia’s walls with both the fury of Mataram artillery and the mettle of Mataram soldiers. The Dutchmen, the Javanese soon discovered, were much better shot than them; perhaps it was unavoidable, considering that the Company hired professional soldiers while His Highness raised peasant levies. Their artillery, too, was of a more powerful design than Baureksa had ever faced. In the end, the conclusion was unavoidable; the fort seemed nigh-impregnable without a lengthy war of attrition. But any war of attrition was in the infidels’ favor, for when the rainy season came in November, his army would have to retreat or starve.
To overcome any strong position, necessity demanded strong stratagems. But which one was right here? That was the question.
The general looked down at the little town which the infidels called Batavia. It was beautiful in a way, he supposed. The Ciliwung River gleamed and shimmered as it reflected the dry season sun, winding and meandering on its way to the coast like a thick yarn of thinly beaten gold. As it joined with the Java Sea, the yarn split into spidery shimmering threads, some unusually straight. He surmised that the Franks had diverged the Ciliwung into canals. Perhaps they had built them to facilitate their trade. Or maybe they were there just to make Batavia that much prettier, for they split the city into neat little districts and brought perfect symmetry – between land and water, between building and reflection – to so much of the town. Red brick houses lined the town in orderly rows, with palm trees waving their fronds right beside them. All around were the Frankish fortifications, so famous for their impregnability. There were some unfamiliarities. The houses were of brick, for example, and not of wood as was normal here. But the order inherent in Batavia’s design reminded him too uncannily of Javanese towns. A pity he would have to destroy it all.
Perhaps in some alternate timeline, the Dutchmen were busy burning Kendal.
Baureksa sat in thought for a long, long time. Then a bittersweet smile spread across his face. Batavia, and all its order and beauty that lay below him now, would be razed to the ground before the end of this year. For the general had a plan.
* * *
Hopefully this wasn't so bad.
I will use the Javanese era (Anno Javanico, AJ for short) throughout this timeline, a lunar calendar which follows the Islamic system of months but begins in the year 78 AD instead. However, for this very first post, I use the Indian-derived Shaka era because Sultan Agung did not create the AJ system until 1633 AD. AJ is essentially a variant of the Shaka era using Islamic months instead, to allow for easy conversion to the Islamic era starting from the Hijra.
We know very little about Baureksa, governor of Kendal and leading general of Sultan Agung; Javanese historical sources simply emphasize his bravery. IOTL he and his two sons were killed in a skirmish outside Batavia in October 21, 1628. Most of his personality here is a literary imagination.
The merchants' reference here is to the Bandanese genocide of 1621.
- Every Grass in Java
- Word Count: 1.4k