Lands of Red and Gold

[Death]

How is the development of steel coming in the Yadji empire? Mixing carbon and iron together to make steel shouldn't be to hard for the Yadji to achieve considering they have already invented iron.

Is the old soldier mentioned in the update the only European advisor the Yadji have at the moment surely not?

 

[Jared]

Hrm. This one decided by the roll of a die too?

Nope. That time in DoD was only decided that way because I thought that both outcomes led to consequences which would be extremely interesting to explore.

This time, I've picked the one which I think will be most reasonable to describe, and which will have the most interesting (and entertaining) longer-term consequences.

The thing is, I think we have hints from earlier book-excerpts that the history of Aururia is also the history of the "Dutch-speaking world". There are implications in that for the long-term success of the various Aururian armies, whether they defeat Nuyts here or not.

A good point. Although if I were to be pedantic, I could point out that in that post (#32), the only parts of Aururia which are specifically mentioned are those inhabited by the Mutjing (ie *Eyre Peninsula) and Atjuntja (ie south-western Australia). As to whether that means that other parts of Aururia are covered too, well, time will tell.

How is the development of steel coming in the Yadji empire? Mixing carbon and iron together to make steel shouldn't be to hard for the Yadji to achieve considering they have already invented iron.

Historically, the development of steel took at least a few centuries after the development of wrought iron or equivalent. There's debate over the exact timeframes, but all of the sources indicate that at least a few hundred years passed between ironworking and the first reliable steels.

The Yadji have only had ironworking for about two centuries, having imported the techniques from the Atjuntja (via the Islanders). Even the Atjuntja have only had iron for about five hundred years by this point. So I figure that no-one yet will really have worked out how to create much in the way of steel. Perhaps the odd piece, but nothing consistent.

Is the old soldier mentioned in the update the only European advisor the Yadji have at the moment surely not?

The old soldier described in the last instalment is Bidwadjari, the senior Yadji general. In keeping with time-honoured Yadji tradition, he does not deign to give his name to inferiors.

The only European advisers which the Yadji have are Redman and the couple of other Englishmen who came with him. They are the only ones because, quite simply, they're the only Europeans (other than Nuyts's little expedition) who have visited the Yadji at this point.

The VOC has so far avoided the place because the Islanders and Tjibarr have both advised them, loudly and repeatedly, not to visit the place while a civil war rages. Baffin received the same advice, but he ignored it, and during his visit he left the outpost where Redman and his colleagues have come from.

 

[Analytical Engine]

Nice map. At some point I need to get around to describing the different borders in colonies and in the mess (aka Holy Roman Empire). Too many other things to do first...

Anyway, you know what my email is if you want a more detailed chat about world maps...

 

[TMS2224]

Luverly as always.

 

[Jared]

Lands of Red and Gold #44: Seeds of the Wealth-Trees

“Any weapon you hold at your death will still be in your grip when you step beyond the grave.”
- Batjiri of Jurundit [Koroit, Victoria]

* * *

25 January 1638
Near Kirunmara [Terang, Victoria]
Durigal [Land of the Five Directions]

Evening drew near its end, with the first stars appearing in the fading light. Proof that even the too-long summer days in this land of upside-down seasons did not last forever. The moon had not yet risen, but it was drawing near to the three-quarter mark which their Yadilli and Mutjing allies insisted was a sacred time of danger balanced with opportunity.

Hans Scheer sat holding a cup of the sweet lemony tea which the Yadilli had given to him [1]. He would have preferred ale or wine, but these South-Landers knew nothing of those beverages, and he could not stomach their spiced ganyu [yam wine]. The lemony tea was an acceptable compromise.

Eight other soldiers sat nearby, clustered around the very small fire which they had made for light and to brew the tea. The ground had been carefully cleared around the fire to make sure that the flames did not spread. They had witnessed only one of the wildfires which came to this land in summer, but it was not an experience he would ever want to repeat.

Someone strode up to the fire, and Hans stiffed when he recognised Colonel Michel.

“Easy, boys,” Michel said, holding up a hand. “No need for ceremony here. Just here to hear if you want to say anything before the morning.”

“Everyone’s ready, sir,” Hans said. He still missed Johan and Ludwig, one dead of swamp rash after the first battle, and the other dead in the second, but everyone else kept their courage.

“Excellent,” Michel answered. “It’s time to give these pagan kuros another dose. We’ve beaten them twice already, but it seems that they don’t learn their lessons easily.”

“We’ll teach them,” Hans said. “No better teachers than musket, pike, cannon and cold steel.”

The men laughed.

The colonel clapped him on the shoulder. “Too true. Rest well, men, and tomorrow we’ll kill thousands more of these pagans.”

He rose and strode off to the next fire.

Hans took another sip of the tea, and grinned to himself.

*

An assemblage of men, six hundred or so all told. Two banners worth of death warriors. Men who were dead in law, men who for one reason or another had taken the oath that could never be unsworn. Men whose faces were dyed white in a pattern which resembled a skull. Men whose ornamentation proclaimed them death warriors on the eve of a battle.

Batjiri of Jurundit stood among them, toward the front. He was one of the most senior death warriors, who had held to the oath for more than ten years. Much longer than he had expected, but then no man could second-guess fate.

Now, their prince addressed them for the first time in years. “My friends, I have erred,” Bailgu Yadji said.

Cries of denial rose from the throats of the assembled death warriors. Batjiri’s voice sounded loud among them.

Bailgu held up a hand. “Not in my choice of soldiers. I could have asked for none finer.”

This time, the death warriors cheered.

“For so long I have held your banners in reserve, awaiting the time of a final battle when you would be called to fulfill your oaths. This much of my anticipation was true: the final battle would be fought.”

Bailgu smiled. “My mistake was that I thought it would be against my cousin. That the final battle would be of prince against prince.”

The prince held up both hands. “It is not so. The final battle comes, but this is not a war between Yadji. The Cleansing is at hand. Time marches toward its end. The final battle will be of Yadji against the allies of the Lord of Night. In tomorrow’s battle, your deaths will prepare the way for the rise of the Neverborn.”

Shouts of acclamation answered him.

* * *

26 January 1638
Near Kirunmara, Durigal

Darkness still hung over the encampment when Hans Scheer rose. Dawn must be a ways off – he had no clock to be sure – but they would need to be prepared to move at short notice.

Dressing could be done in the dark, fortunately. Pants, shirts, boots, belt, blood-red tabard – Nuyts’s suggestion, to quickly tell their own side in the battlefield – and hat. The hat was perhaps what he valued most, save his musket itself. The sun in this land burned far too hot, especially in midsummer.

He had powder and musket ready where he had left them last night, but Hans did not move to pick them up yet. When it came time to move, that would be soon enough. This was his third battle on the soil of the South Land, and the eighth in his life, not counting minor skirmishes. He had learned the value of patience.

Raised voices carried to him, and he emerged from his tent. “What’s happened?”

A sergeant stood outside, surrounded by several of Hans’s campmates. “Water on the battlefield.”

“Rain?” Hans asked, before realising how foolish that sounded. The ground here was still dry.

“The God-damned Yadji have released one of their dams. That flooded the ground we need to fight on.”

“Those pig-faced eel-fuckers!” Hans paused a moment while he recovered his cool. “How bad is it?”

“Water’s gone down, but it destroyed some of the powder we had in place for the cannon. Ground’s still muddy, too, and it’s ruined the trench we had ready to protect us.”

“Christ. Does that change the battle plan?”

The sergeant shrugged. “Yes, but not sure how yet. Except that we need to be there first, in case the pagans try something clever. Grab your equipment; we’ll be marching soon.”

*

Night drew near to an end. Probably the last night Batjiri would ever see, unless he lost his Last Battle after death and was called to the minions of the Lord of Night.

He sifted a few ashes from the wealth-tree [wattle] ash in front of him, and rolled it into a ball with the crushed leaves of alertness-weed [2]. Soon it was ready to chew; he popped the ball into his mouth to start working on it.

The effects were quick: a slight deadening of his body, as the world became more distant. He still knew where he was and what he was, but he felt lighter, more alive. While it was not obvious yet, he knew that pain would we weakened if he felt it, and fatigue banished from him.

He rose, picked up the pages of his manuscript, and went to look for his fellow death warriors.

*

Mud underfoot in the blue hour [morning twilight] was not Hans’s idea of the best way to prepare for a battle, but it would have to do. They were almost in place at the low rise which the commanders had picked out to defend. Fortunately, the mounted scouts had reported that there were no other Yadji dams nearby which could be broken to flood the field again.

He had his musket in place beside him. His lovingly-treasured flintlock. All of the men in his ten-strong front rank of musketeers had these new, wonderfully fast muskets. Some of the musketeers still fought using the older snaphances, which was why they were deployed to the flanks and rear of the formation.

The pikemen were in the centre, twenty wide, with another rank of musketeers on the other side. More pikemen were on his left, and another group of musketeers further past that. The same pattern would be duplicated on the other side. He could not see that far, even with the higher ground, but he knew the deployment. It was the same that the Colonel had ordered in the last two battles, with the cannon on the even higher ground behind them, and the cavalry off doing whatever Nuyts deemed best.

Now all they had to do was wait for their allies to arrive – they would be delayed by their morning prayers – and then for the enemy to attack.

*

Raw mushrooms were being passed around. Batjiri took two of them, and sent the platter on to the next warrior. He popped the first in his mouth, chewing it quickly, and swallowed. Then he consumed the second.

His armour was laid out before him, as standard for a death warrior in preparation for fulfilling his oath. The writing table and pen beside it were not standard, but Batjiri wanted to write whatever inspiration came to him before his departure.

Chanting started up around him as the death warriors started to dress. He joined in with the familiar chants, the ancient words coming to his lips almost without conscious thought. Recited so slowly, oh so slowly.

“The path opens, the path opens...”

He put on the padded undershirt first, left sleeve first, then the right.

“The journey begins, the journey begins...”

He tightened and tied the strings at the front, those designed so that the wearer could fit them himself.

“The first step is the hardest...”

He picked up his armour, with fish-shaped scales fastened to a jacket of emu-leather hide. A weight of metal in his arms, his last great burden to be fastened to him in this life.

“To make your oath true...”

He fitted the left sleeve first again, feeling the weight on his arm and shoulder as the jacket settled into place.

“Once on the road, once on the road...”

He closed the right sleeve around his arm, and pulled the jacket tight as the armour fitted around him.

“You will walk ever onward, ever onward...”

He signalled for his neighbour to tighten the straps for his jacket now, to bring the armour into maximum protection.

“To the end that lies beyond...”

He closed his neighbour’s armour too, fixing it so that the straps closed at his back where they would be best defended.

“Go armed, go armed into the mist of decision...”

He pulled on the leather leggings, reinforced with only light scales which offered lesser protection, but which allowed freedom of movement and reduced weight.

“Battle to the death, battle to the death...”

He finished tying the leggings at his waist, and reached for his helmet.

“So that you can fight on after it!”

He placed the helmet on his head, his final protection, as the chant started again, the pace quickening slightly this time.

“The path opens, the path opens...”

He checked his shield, running his finger around the edge for flaws.

“The journey begins, the journey begins...”

He started to feel more detached now, as the mushrooms began to take effect inside him.

“The first step is the hardest, the hardest, to make your oath true...”

He strapped his shield onto his back, where it would be ready to carry into the battle.

“Once on the road, once on the road...”

He reached for the dagger and belt, and fixed them around his waist.

“You will walk ever onward, ever onward...”

He checked his sword too, blade and hilt, but did not move to put this on, not until he marched out.

“To the end that lies beyond...”

Words were being shaped by his lips, but others now brewing inside his head. Now, he knew how to finish his classic.

“Go armed, go armed into the mist of decision...”

He inked the pen and crouched over the table. Writing was awkward in armour, but he had written so many words during the long wait that he was sure he would manage now.

“Battle to the death, battle to the death, so that you can fight on after it!”

He wrote the words that concluded his work: Care not how you die. Care how you live.

The writing finished, Batjiri joined fully in the chanting, as the words were repeated again and again, gaining slightly in tempo each time.

*

The sun rose gradually higher in the sky as Hans waited with his compatriots. He silently blessed his hat. Back in Germany that would often have been merely decoration, but here it would be a stone-cold blessing as the day heatened.

Movement on either side showed him that the Mutjing and Yadilli allies were moving into place. Slower than he liked, on a day like this. The Yadilli in particular had always put him ill at ease, with their murderous ways and their persistent attempts to convert him and his fellows to their pagan faith. But he supposed it did not matter too much today. The Yadji were even slower to deploy, and no-one could doubt the Yadilli courage.

There would be no parley today. Perhaps demands had been heard discreetly over the last couple of days, but by now every man knew that the Yadji would never surrender until they had been utterly defeated. Today would have to be one more lesson.

As the sun rose higher, the Yadji eventually came. Units of the enemy marched across the open ground in front of them. Many units of men, seeming to stretch from horizon to horizon. As they neared, he could pick out the distinctive two-part Yadji banners, with a square section hanging from the top and a smaller downward-pointing triangle below. He had no idea what the different banner designs meant, but noticed how many of them were being carried.

“So it begins,” he murmured.

*

Drums beat to his left and his right, as Batjiri marched on according to the demands of their rhythm. He was in the front rank of the Spurned, his banner of death warriors.

But not in the front rank of the whole army, as he might have expected. Units marched in front of the death warriors. Not in the usual tight formations that prepared for a charge. Small columns of men, two or three wide, with gaps between each column. The units had been separated, as if to weaken them. Or to make space. Who knew why Gunya Yadji had given his orders?

The ground beneath his feet held some mud. But not enough that it troubled him. This part of the battle was one he understood. The order had gone forth that the muddy ground would weaken the Raw Men. That their thunder balls would be harder to fire, that their dog-riders would find manoeuvre more difficult, and that the eggs from their thunder-carts would be less effective in the mud.

The drums continued their slow beat, and the death warriors marched on toward the enemy.

*

Cannon belched somewhere behind and above him, their balls landing among the approaching Yadji. Faint words carried across the narrowing gap; the Yadji seemed to be singing as they charged. He had never heard that before.

Regardless of the enemy actions, Hans knew what he had to do. A discipline born of long practice consumed him. He bit down on his first paper cartridge, ripping it open with his teeth. He pushed the frissen [striker] forward and tipped a small dose of powder into the revealed flash pan.

The singing grew slightly louder as he pushed the frissen back to close the flash pan. He tipped the musket vertically, the barrel held upward, and emptied the main dose of powder into the barrel. The ball went in next, before he pushed in the wadding formed from the cartridge powder. He took the ramrod from its position beneath the barrel, and pushed it into the barrel to compact the wadding, powder and ball into a mass ready for firing.

Ignoring the sounds of the approaching enemy, he replaced the ramrod and raised the musket ready for firing. The butt fitted against his shoulder as he pulled back the hammer.

The mass of enemy soldiers were close enough now, despite the strange gaps in their ranks. He aimed as best he could, readying himself for the order.

“Fire!” came the cry, somewhere behind him.

Smoke belched from the musket as he and his fellow musketeers fired. The thunder of the powder firing was followed by some screams that carried across the gap from the charging pagans. He ignored that as best he could, kneeling down to let the second rank fire, and tried to keep the powder cartridges dry and clear of the mud while he repeated the process to reload.

When he stood to fire again, he vaguely glimpsed many of the front rank of Yadji down, but more of them kept coming. The gap closed, and he fired again.

A third volley followed, then a fourth. The Yadji died in numbers, but they kept coming. It was as if they cared nothing for whether they died.

“Pikemen forward!” came the order.

Pikes were lowered as the men stepped forward, around Hans and his fellows. The approaching Yadji were close, so close now, and breaking out of their columns now that the musket fire ceased.

With the first two ranks of pikemen in front of him, Hans reloaded at a less frantic pace, waiting to fire over their shoulders when an opportunity presented itself.

*

Soldiers ahead fought and died. Smoke rose like mist from the battlefield, obscuring the enemy ranks and those who had come closest to them.

A few regular soldiers broke and ran, but the death warriors paid them no heed. Batjiri and his fellows cared nothing for those who fled death. An ending came to all men. All that mattered was how they faced it.

The beat of the drums quickened, and Batjiri shifted from a walk to a jog.

Ahead, a few more of the thunder-sticks belched lead and smoke. More of the enemy seemed to be fighting in hand to hand, or at least as far as he could tell through the smoke.

The drum beat quickened again, and Batjiri shifted into a run. Thunder sounded, and somewhere off to his left, he heard screams as a large ball struck the ground. He focused more ahead than anything else, as between the smoke, he could see some of the enemy soldiers thrusting their very long spears to keep the regular soldiers at bay. Others fired more of their thunder-sticks.

The drum beat intensified, and Batjiri broke into a sprint. For now, he could concentrate only on frenzy and the charge.

*

Hans stood, waiting for a gap in the pikes, and fired. A Yadji soldier dropped to the ground. Whether dead, injured, or just out of fear, it mattered little. All that was important was keeping the enemy far enough away to keep the pikes intact.

So far, it remained unbreached, at least in front of him. He could not see or hear other parts of the battle, but since they were not being pressed from either side, events could not be going too badly.

As he crouched for yet another reload, he heard a sound which carried over the immediate clash of battle. Drums, growing louder and faster, and then a mighty shout that overcame even that sound.

When he rose again, he saw a fresh round of enemy soldiers drawing close. They carried two banners that he could see, and they moved at an incredible pace. He fired again, along with some other musketeers around him, but those two banners kept coming closer, and the drums kept sounding.

*

Nothing matters now, nothing except the charge. Other warriors march beside him, crying out fragments of one chant or another. He hears them not, his focus is on what lies ahead.

Many enemy long-spears, but not an unbroken wall. Enough of the regular soldiers have reached the enemy ranks that there are gaps here and there. That is all he needs, as he runs into one of those openings, right up to the spear-wielders.

The nearest soldier wears scale armour, but Batjiri hardly notices. He runs right up, with a thrust of his sword that brings down the scale-armoured man. The one behind him wears brighter colours, though that barely registers too. He has a sword, but still in position to fight the soldier who just died. Batjiri’s thrust catches the man in the shoulder, and the enemy falls. Batjiri’s boots land on the man’s jaw as he steps forward, to face another brightly-coloured enemy.

*

Hans drops his musket hurriedly, and reaches for his rapier. “God preserve me!” he says.

The second wave of Yadji soldiers have devastated the front ranks. He knows he shot at least one, and others within his sight fell from other muskets or impaled themselves on pikes. Even those gruesome deaths has served the enemy’s purposes, since others pushed into the gaps left when their fellows fell to the ground and carried the pike heads with them.

No matter how many of them died before they came close, once they reached the lines, the rest have fought with the fury of dragons. Nothing is left of the front two ranks of pikeman before him, and he has only been saved by other pikemen who pressed forward after dropping their pikes and drawing their swords.

Now, it is his turn. One of those frenzied maniacs is clashing with another German, sword on sword. Hans steps forward when he sees an opening, and strikes the maniac in the side. It does not kill him, or even pierce his armour, but the distraction lets the other German strike a deadlier blow.

“They die!” Hans shouts.

He never sees the blow that comes from his left. Or anything again after that.

*

Batjiri strikes again and again, sword on sword or armour or shield. He does not hear anything. Noise is naught but background in his frenzy. All that matters is what he sees, and what he sees, he attacks.

He is not capable of counting how many of the enemy have fallen. Or even of distinguishing between friends and enemies, except for those who wear the white dye. Anyone else is a foe to be cut down.

And cut them down he does, until a pistol shot he never sees blasts through his armour, and he falls to the ground. Even then, prone on the ground, he manages to draw his dagger and thrust it at the nearest foe, though he will never know if it causes any damage.

Behind him, as he the world fades around him, sounds register again. A fresh sound of drums.

Batjiri has gone to fight his Last Battle before a third wave of regular Yadji soldiers charges in. The embattled Raw Men are too busily engaged in melee to use their pikes or muskets to hold off this wave.

After that arrival, only one fate remains open.

* * *

27 January 1638
Kirunmara, Durigal

Row after row of soldiers, lined up for Gunya Yadji to inspect. His soldiers, now, one and all. Far too many have died in subduing the Raw Men and their allies and rebels. So many widows will weep tonight.

Yet for all of the cost, this is a victory he will treasure for ever more. The seemingly-invincible Nedlandj have been defeated, by the courage of the death warriors and by Bidwadjari’s cunning, and ultimately by weight of iron and blood. His cousin Bailgu is most lamentably not among the dead, too, but even the best of battle plans do not accomplish everything.

He completes his inspection of the soldiers, walking past the front rank of each unit, to cheers and acclamation. This is his victory.

Bidwadjari and his other senior commanders await him in the centre of the field. The other princes stand behind them, too, except for now-departed Bailgu.

After a moment, he shouts, “Bidwadjari, my right arm, and all of my soldiers: praise be unto you for the glory you have won.”

He waits, for the soldiers to shout on the message in relay until it has been carried to all units.

Before he can go on with his speech, Bidwadjari drops onto one knee. “The glory is yours, my Regent. Command me and I shall obey, in all things, until the Neverborn breaks free of the earth and reclaims his dominion.”

The ritual announcement leaves Gunya momentarily lost for words. The throne belongs to him, of course, but it is not something he has expected to claim just yet.

The commanders around Bidwadjari match the announcement, and then the soldiers behind. Making the most of the unplanned moment, Gunya turns to the princes, to await their response. One by one, they do the same. The slowest are those who had been backing Bailgu, but even they submit.

Such an acclamation expects that he will now give commands worthy of a new Regent. Fortunately, he already knows what he wants to order. One part had already been planned whenever he declared victory in this battle, while the other simply awaited his assumption of the Regency to say what has long been in his heart.

Gunya says, “Hear my commands. Prisoners we have seized from the Nedlandj and the rebels. When they captured honourable Yadji soldiers in their uprising, they slaughtered them. It is only fitting that our response be the same. Death for death, sword for sword. Kill all of the prisoners, sparing only those drove the thunder-carts [cannon].”

“It shall be done,” Bidwadjari says.

“For those few who escaped on their giant dogs, do not kill them all, so long as they flee,” Gunya says. “Harry them, chase them, kill a few, but do not destroy them. Drive them from the Land, and let them carry word of their defeat. Let them carry word of the might of the Yadji.”

That draws forth cheers, as the words are relayed to the soldiers.

After the orders have been relayed, Gunya speaks again. This time, he adopts his most formal tone. “Hear the words of your Regent: the Nedlandj are enemies of the Neverborn. They are not to be harboured. They must not be welcomed. The Nedlandj are to be killed on sight, by any man or woman who holds to honour. The Land of the Five Directions must be free of their taint. Never can they be permitted to set foot here, until the Neverborn comes and Cleanses all the world.”

* * *

Riding, endless riding, punctuated by moments of too-short sleep.

Twenty horses trail behind Pieter Nuyts. Only fifteen carry riders. The other horses are there as remounts and carriers of the few remaining provisions and other supplies which the escapees have managed to bring with them.

Worse, this small band of sixteen men are less than half of those who fled from the battlefield beside the Yadji capital. They had still numbered twenty-four when they reached Coonrura [Kingston SE, South Australia], only to find that their ships had fled before their arrival, giving up the promise of gold out of fear of the Yadilli. Now, they number only sixteen men fleeing north-west out of the Yadji lands, with the fear that every skirmish with their pursuers will cost them more blood.

Another hill, another declining slope, as they urge their horses on, with Nuyts still at the lead. Strength has failed them in the Yadji empire, but for now, he will run. After that... he will have to see.

On the downslope, the grass gives way to a scattering of these strange, sharp-smelling, fire-loving trees which are so characteristic of this land. The trees gradually grow closer together, but there is a trail through here, too. Not a well-used one, by the looks of it, but wide enough for two horses to ride side by side.

Further down, the ground flattens out, and the trees open up into one of those wide swathes of open, slowly-regrowing land which mark the passage of one of their wildfires. Nuyts signals for the horsemen to ride four abreast. Not that he expects much danger ahead, since the Yadji have been trying to pursue them on foot, but it will be safer nonetheless.

Or so he thinks.

When they are nearly across the open ground, men emerge from the trees beyond. Sunlight glints off metal as they emerge. Not scaled armour like the Yadji prefer, but something else. It looks like mail, with rings reflecting the light of the sun.

He almost signals for an attack, since there are only about two dozen men who have stepped out from the trees. Then he notices that more men are standing at the edge of the trees. Many more men, at least twice as many as the mail-clad warriors. Men who carry some sort of bows. Why didn’t he notice them earlier?

Nuyts has drawn his horse to a halt, as have those with him. The mail-clad warriors make no move to attack them, either, although the ones behind have their bows out where they can nock arrows quickly.

One of the mail-clad men steps forward slightly. His gaze lands on Nuyts.

“Pieter Nuyts, I presume,” the man says, his Dutch accented but understandable.

“So I am called,” he says. “Who are you, to ask that of me?”

“I am Wemba of the Whites,” the other man says, and sketches a bow with left arm across his stomach and right arm extended, for all the world as if he is a Dutch gentleman.

Nuyts wonders, almost abstractly, why the man calls himself a White. His skin is a few shades lighter than that of a typical Yadji, but still dark in comparison to any man not born in Africa [3]. “You are a... Gunnagal?”

The man nods. “Of course.”

It takes Nuyts a moment to realise that Wemba has nodded to mean the affirmative, something which no other kuro has ever done. And there is the bow, too. Just how much does this man know of Dutch ways?

Wemba says, “But the archers behind me are not Gunnagal. They are Palawa. One Palawa with a greatbow can hit a duck at two hundred paces. I have fifty Palawa behind me. Consider this carefully as you listen to my next words.”

A shiver passes through Nuyts, despite the heat. “I’m listening.”

“Pieter Nuyts, you are summoned to Tjibarr,” Wemba says. He holds up a hand, and the archers behind him move as one to seize arrows and nock them into the bowstrings.

Will those arrows pierce steel armour? If they are anything like the longbows which the English are said to have used in the past, they may well. Anyway, the horses have no protection.

Despite the danger, though, Nuyts still does not want to agree. Being ordered around so arrogantly grates at him. “And if I refuse to come?” he asks.

Wemba grins, or at least his mouth is open and his teeth are showing. “If you are summoned to Tjibarr, you will come.” His grin widens. “As to whether you are dead or alive when you arrive – that is your choice.”

* * *

[1] This is a “tea” made from the leaves from the lemon-scented tea tree (Leptospermum petersonii), which in historical Australia was used by early colonial settlers to make a substitute for tea. The flavour is reminiscent of lemon, though lacking some of the tartness. In allohistorical Aururia, this plant was cultivated by the peoples of the eastern seaboard (where it is native), and its use has spread to some of the Yadji lands. The ruling class and most of the dominant ethnic Junditmara do not care for it, but some of their subject peoples do, including the Yadilli in the west and the Kurnawal in the west.

[2] Alertness-weed is what the Yadji call a couple of the native Aururian species of tobacco (Nicotiana suaveolens and N. velutina) that the death warriors chew as part of their preparation for entering their battle trance. These are close relatives of domesticated tobacco, and which have stimulant properties.

[3] Strictly speaking, there are other non-African peoples whose skin tone could be considered as dark as the Gunnagal (eg some Melanesian peoples). Nuyts is not really aware of those, though; at this point New Guinea and the Solomon Islands had only limited contact with Europeans.

* * *

Thoughts?

 

[Death]

This is only the best ever battle scene i have ever read on AH and all of the other books i have read combined.

Thank you for your generous update Jared.

 

[FDW]

Interesting update Jared.

 

[Don Lardo]

This is only the best ever battle scene i have ever read on AH and all of the other books i have read combined.

I very much agree with that opinion. I'd also like to point out that Bidwadjari's tactics are going to work once because Europeans survived the battle. Also, many of the military assets (i.e. death warriors) used to achieve his victory have been lost and cannot be replaced.

This victory over the Dutch is going a pyrrhic one and any long term success for Yadji resistance to colonization is going to depend more on political concerns among the Europeans and less upon the Yadji's military might.

Thank you for your generous update Jared.

Again, something I very much agree with.

 

[Mark-ITSOT]

You forget. They have guns, cannon, powder and shot now.

And men they can force to show them how to make more

 

[Hendryk]

Superb battle scene.

 

[Don Lardo]

You forget. They have guns, cannon, powder and shot now. And men they can force to show them how to make more.

And you've forgot no "technology transfers" like that ever happened in the OTL despite plenty of captured arms and men over the centuries.

You've also forgot the English "ally" telling the Yadji during their interview of him that he doesn't know how to make gunpowder. If he can't make it, why would you think a few captured soldiers could? Or cast cannon? Or manufacture shoulder arms?

The Yadji are going to get their arms and powder the old fashioned way: Someone is going to sell it to them.

 

[sahaidak]

Firstly, I concur with previous posters saying that you pictured a really great battle scene, and made your TL even more interesting to read.

Secondly, I consider the new Regent's order to kill all prisoners except gunners to be a terrible, but completely understandable mistake (mistake of the sort that is worse than a crime). Gunners alone can't teach the Yadji all they need to fight off next European invasion. However, his victory will obviously be listed as one of the greatest events in historical memory of the Yadji, if not all Aururians, the final outcome of their struggle against Europeans notwithstanding.

Thirdly, that Gunnagalian noble's knowledge of European ways is fascinating. His nation's (if it can be called so) decision to contact/capture the fleeing Dutch is more expected, but still great. Of course, they risk conflict with the Yadji, but then, the Yadji-Tjibarr relations never were friendly to begin with, and now the Yadji are weakened by great losses suffered in defeating the Nuyts' invasion. On the other hand, the Yadji moral is at all-time high or near it, but still, Tjibarr (or some faction thereof?) looks completely correct in trying to use to its advantage the desperate remnants of the Dutch army.

There are some questions, too.

Did Lauren Nuyts die of swamp rash, as we don't see him fleeing with his father?

And, if I understand these passages correctly

“
The nearest soldier wears scale armour, but Batjiri hardly notices. He runs right up, with a thrust of his sword that brings down the scale-armoured man. The one behind him wears brighter colours, though that barely registers too. He has a sword, but still in position to fight the soldier who just died. Batjiri’s thrust catches the man in the shoulder, and the enemy falls. Batjiri’s boots land on the man’s jaw as he steps forward, to face another brightly-coloured enemy.
.........................
He is not capable of counting how many of the enemy have fallen. Or even of distinguishing between friends and enemies, except for those who wear the white dye. Anyone else is a foe to be cut down.

, death warriors kill their own regulars as well as enemies, because of their battle frenzy. Horrific people they are, I should admit. I'm not sure, though, that their enhanced battle capabilities are enough to offset their demoralizing effect on (more numerous) rank-and-file Yadji soldiers, who, after fighting enemy, are being killed by their own death warriors.

And a minor nitpick:

“
Worse, this small band of sixteen men are less than half of those who fled from the battlefield beside the Yadji capital. They had still numbered twenty-four when they reached Coonrura [Kingston SE, South Australia], only to find that their ships had fled before their arrival, giving up the promise of gold out of fear of the Yadilli. Now, they number only sixteen men fleeing north-west out of the Yadji lands, with the fear that every skirmish with their pursuers will cost them more blood.

In all probability, you meant the Yadji, as the Yadilli were Dutch allies before the defeat and were mostly destroyed after it.

 

[Roberto]

Awesome scene. Interesting that the Yadji declare the Dutch eternal enemies, implying that further on, once this war is over, trade and other relations will still be strained, at the least.

 

[Monty Burns]

Awesome scene. Interesting that the Yadji declare the Dutch eternal enemies, implying that further on, once this war is over, trade and other relations will still be strained, at the least.

Good point. As this ends the so far lucrative trade of the Dutch once and for all, it could be reasonable for the Dutch to try a second invasion.

I'd really liked the idea of Dutch "conquistadores"...

 

[Thande]

Were cartridges already in use back then? I thought the muskets of the early 1600s were still using those awkward gunpowder cartouches that meant the rate of fire was very slow. Mind you, I'm basing that off the English Civil War; things might have been more advanced on the Continent due to the needs of the Thirty Years' War.

Of course, the Dutch were defeated by natives in OTL as well: by the Chinese, by the Travancoreans, and by the Kandyans. What the Yadji have won is not a guarantee of their independence--the tides of history make that almost impossible--but something almost as important. They have ensured that they will be treated by Europeans on the same level as the states of Asia rather than as the natives of Africa and the Americas. So an end to conquistador'ing, and instead the extension of subtler influence through trade and residency. Paging the English East India Company...

 

[mojojojo]

So will the Gunnagal be the first Australians to start using horses?

 

[mojojojo]

also, what did the Yadji do with the horses they killed? Was there any curiosity about the "giant dogs"?

 

[Workable Goblin]

Good point. As this ends the so far lucrative trade of the Dutch once and for all, it could be reasonable for the Dutch to try a second invasion.

Well, it ends the Dutch ability to trade with a country they hadn't actually set up any formal contact with yet. Atjuntja and the Islanders quite likely will still be willing to trade.

 

[sahaidak]

also, what did the Yadji do with the horses they killed?

Ate them?
No, seriously, some of the Yadji might be hungry enough (what with battle effort and all that) and/or hate the Raw Men and their vicious beasts enough to eat meat of the slaughtered 'great dogs'...

 

[sahaidak]

Well, it ends the Dutch ability to trade with a country they hadn't actually set up any formal contact with yet. Atjuntja and the Islanders quite likely will still be willing to trade.

But if it will be so, the Nangu might be able to reap significant profits on interloping between the VOC and the Yadji. The Dutch will not like it.