Beiyang Dream

Chapter 78 Borneo's "Rapolon": Tonight I'm sleeping in Little Lanfang

March 8, 1891, 3 PM.

There are still about two hours until the "Little Lanfang's crushing defeat" occurs.

On the north bank of the Pontianak River, at the head of the Great Wooden Bridge, Sultan Rahman, riding a pure white Arabian horse with a scarlet parasol above his head, squinted as he surveyed his army.

"Captain Hermann," the Sultan said in French to his Dutch advisor beside him, his tone carrying a Napoleonic arrogance, "what do you think of my army?"

Hermann van der Kemp, a former captain in the Royal Dutch East India Army, was in his fifties and as tall as a flagpole. He wore a crisp uniform, his hand resting on the sword at his waist, his face expressionless.

What he was really thinking was: A large army? A bunch of natives with a bunch of random weapons, plus a thousand guards who had just learned how to pull the trigger, can this be called a large army?

But he wouldn't spoil the fun of this Borneo "Laboron".

He earned in a month working for "Lapoleon" what he earned in a year in the Dutch army. The Sultan pays, the advisors keep quiet! He understood this principle all too well.

Moreover, if the Sultan of Pontianak really has a "large army," he might just become the second Sultan of Aceh!

The Aceh War has been going on for twenty years and it's still not over.

"It's magnificent, Your Highness," van der Kemp replied in Dutch. This "Lapoleon" had studied in Batavia and could understand Dutch.

"Of course." Sultan Rahman was very satisfied with this advisor. He raised his hand and pointed to the Xiaolanfang walled village, which could be vaguely seen on the other side of the river. "There are mountains of gold and silver in there. The Luo family's wealth accumulated over a hundred years is all there."

"And women," he added, his eyes narrowing to slits. "Chinese women, with their delicate skin... no less beautiful than European women!" Van der Kemp didn't respond. He looked at the neat rows of fortified houses and walls across the river, mentally calculating: this fortification would require at least a thousand guns, plus several real cannons, to take it down. And on the Sudanese side…

He glanced at the "army" behind him.

A thousand royal guards, dressed in uniform blue cloth uniforms and carrying Dutch-made 1871 breech-loading rifles, stood in fairly orderly ranks. However, Van der Kemp knew that these guards were only mediocre at loading ammunition, firing, and firing in volleys. As for skirmish tactics or artillery-infantry formations... those were far too advanced for them.

As for the Sultan's cannons, the two Napoleonic cannons are true treasures, highly collectible—12-pound muzzle-loading smoothbore cannons discarded by the French army during the Franco-Prussian War. The Sultan entrusted French merchants to transport them to Borneo, spending 20,000 taels of silver. The cannons are jet black and shiny, in excellent condition, with original wheels half a person's height, and pulled by twelve tall horses, looking very imposing.

It would be perfect if it could be displayed outside the governor's palace in Batavia to enhance the impression.

However, on the battlefield, the effective range of this cannon would not exceed a thousand yards... ...it would be enough to aim at the Chinese walled houses, unless the Chinese side also had cannons, but that was impossible.

Smuggling a few guns is one thing, but cannons? The customs officials in Pontianak aren't blind!

Behind them was the tribal coalition. Three or four thousand people, a dark mass. Most were shirtless, and half of them carried Borneo's machetes—those curved knives, swift as they cut coconuts, and swift as they cut people. About a third of them had flintlock pistols, heaven knows where they got them from, and it took them half a minute to reload each shot.

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Morale was high. They were all yelling and shouting, their eyes bloodshot. The Sultan had promised that after the village was breached, whatever they seized would be theirs, including the women.

Moreover, "Lapolon" didn't expect them to fight a hard battle. His plan was to use the allied forces of the indigenous tribes to drive the Chinese in Pontianak to crash into the gate of Xiao Lanfang. Once the gate was broken open, they would bring in two Napoleon cannons and bombard the three walled buildings.

"Use the lives of Chinese to break down the defenses of Chinese." The Sultan suddenly spoke, his tone smug. "Captain Herman, what do you think of this move?" Van der Kemp paused. "Brilliant, Your Highness."

"Brilliant my foot," he muttered to himself. Using civilians as human shields—anyone could think of that. But this tactic worked—it was incredibly effective. If the defenders didn't fire, the refugee tide would overwhelm the gates; if they did fire, it would be a massacre of their own people, and morale would collapse instantly. After this battle, I'll have to write a report to Batavia, suggesting they use this tactic in Aceh as well!

"Just now at the big wooden bridge," the Sultan continued, looking across the river, "our warriors drove the Chinese refugees across, and the dozens of Chinese guarding the bridge didn't even last an incense stick's time."

He paused, mimicking Napoleon's tone, and pointed to Xiao Lanfang: "Tonight, I will sleep in the Luo family mansion." Van der Kemp was silent for two seconds, then saluted: "Yes, Your Highness."

Sudan waved his hand.

Van der Kemp took a brass whistle from his waist and blew a long note.

"Beep beep beep"

As soon as the whistle blew, a roar like a thunderclap erupted from the riverbank. Bare-chested tribal warriors, brandishing swords and spears, surged onto the wooden bridge like a tidal wave. The bridge creaked and swayed under their weight, as if it might collapse at any moment.

But nobody cared; they just rushed across the wooden bridge and continued to surge forward.

Next came the royal guard. A thousand men, arranged in four columns, marched with somewhat disordered but still powerful steps, carrying guns, and crossed the bridge in a grand procession, looking rather impressive.

Then came the two Napoleonic cannons. Twelve horses struggled to pull the cannon carriages, their wheels churning over the wooden bridge with a dull thud. Each cannon was accompanied by six native artillerymen and two Dutch gunners—these were "technical advisors" that van der Kemp had brought from Batavia, paid a monthly salary of one hundred taels of silver, which the Sultan paid with the silver he had plundered from the Chinese.

Finally, there was the Sultan himself, van der Kamp, and about twenty guards.

The wooden bridge swayed violently as they crossed. Van der Kemp instinctively tightened his grip on the reins and glanced at the open space at the bridgehead.

"Your Highness," he hesitated for a moment before speaking, "should we leave a company at the bridgehead? What about...?"

"No need," the Sultan interrupted him, his tone resolute. "I have Napoleon cannons."

He pointed in Xiao Lanfang's direction, his eyes shining: "Xiao Lanfang is mine."

At the same time, Xiao Lanfang was on the roof of the Luo family compound.

Chang Desheng held up the binoculars, his palms sweaty.

He watched the tide of refugees surging in from the direction of the wooden bridge, a vast, dense mass of at least tens of thousands. Men, women, and children were all there, their cries and screams mingling together.

Behind the refugees followed one or two thousand local soldiers. These soldiers followed at a leisurely pace, occasionally firing a shot or an arrow into the air, followed by strange cries. They were driving the refugees, using them as human shields, and using them to charge into enemy lines.

"This is fucking..." Chang Desheng put down his binoculars, licked his slightly dry lips, "This is just too shameless."

Standing beside him were Hessmann and Rolandchen. Hessmann also held up binoculars, but his expression was calm, as if he were watching a military exercise. Rolandchen's face was pale, and his fingers gripped the blue bricks of the battlements tightly.

"Commissioner," Hessman said in German, putting down his binoculars, "the refugee tide will reach the stockade walls in fifteen minutes. The caravan leader's decoy force is retreating, and I'm afraid they've suffered considerable losses."

Chang Desheng nodded without saying anything.

Luring the enemy deep into our territory was part of the plan!

As for losses... what war doesn't involve death? When losses are inevitable, they must be borne, otherwise the losses will only be greater! He was the one who proposed at the Prussian War Academy that "victory depends on who can endure more suffering!"

"Eight machine gun positions," Chang Desheng turned to look at Hessman, "all arranged?"

Hessmann nodded: "It's all arranged. For each Maxim gun, there will be one German sergeant and two Chinese militiamen. The sergeant will be responsible for firing, and the militiamen will be responsible for supplying ammunition and providing cooling water. There will be enough ammunition, two thousand rounds per gun."

Eight Maxim guns, each with 2,000 rounds, totaling 16,000 rounds. The theoretical rate of fire is 600 rounds per minute, but the actual rate of fire... even if it's only 100-200 rounds per minute, with all eight firing at once, that's over 1,000 rounds per minute.

Sixteen thousand rounds, enough for more than ten minutes of shooting.

Ten minutes is enough to turn the rubber drying area into a meat grinder.

"I personally commanded the machine guns at the Luo Family Enclosure," Chang Desheng said. "Once I fire, the other seven points can open fire. If I stop, the others stop too. Don't rush to fire. Wait until the enemy soldiers have all poured into the rubber drying yard and their formation is dense before firing."

"Understood," Hessman said.

"Where is Wolfgang's squad?"

"They've already set off. They've all changed into Dutch East Indies uniforms and brought explosives. If all goes well, they should be able to seize and blow up the bridge an hour after the fighting starts here."

Chang Desheng nodded: "Okay. That lousy bridge should have been blown up long ago."

No sooner had he finished speaking than Duan Qirui ran up to the roof of the building, panting heavily, his face ashen.

He walked up to Chang Desheng, gave him a military salute with perfect form, but there was a burning fire in his eyes.

"Committee member," Duan Qirui said through gritted teeth, "Miss Qingzi is settled in the inner quarters of the Luo family, and is being watched over by someone."

Chang Desheng grunted in response, but didn't look at him. He continued to look into the distance through his binoculars. "Thank you for your hard work."

"Is that hard work?" Duan Qirui cursed inwardly: "You bastard, are you using me as bait? I almost lost my life!" Chang Desheng pointed to a watchtower in the southeast corner of the outer wall: "Zhiquan, your artillery unit is over there. Just one 80mm mortar, six men, you're in charge."

Duan Qirui was greatly encouraged.

We're really going to the battlefield!

"According to intelligence, the enemy troops have two Napoleonic cannons," Chang Desheng said. "They are 12-pound muzzle-loading smoothbore cannons with a range of about 1,000 yards. They fire solid shot and can blast through earthen walls. Your mission is to take them out."

Duan Qirui opened his mouth, as if to say something.

Chang Desheng didn't give him a chance: "If you fight well, you'll be the one who gets the most credit in this battle."

Duan Qirui stared at Chang Desheng for two seconds, saluted, and turned to leave.

As he descended the stairs, he cursed inwardly: "Top merit? You fucking started this war without my permission! Did Li Hongzhang approve it? Did the Beiyang government approve it? I'll expose you when I get back! I'll accuse you of instigating this border conflict! I'll accuse you of…"

No sooner had Duan Qirui left than gunshots rang out outside the North Gate.

Cracking and popping.

Chang Desheng quickly raised his binoculars to look over.

At the north gate, a wave of refugees was surging in. The militia guarding the gate were trying to maintain order, but there were too many people, and they couldn't keep up. Suddenly, several short men in the crowd of refugees pulled out pistols and opened fire on the militia guards!

The distance was too close; there was no way to dodge. A militiaman's chest erupted in a spray of blood, and he fell backward. The other militiamen reacted, raising their guns to return fire. Bullets flew wildly through the crowd, and it was unclear who they hit.

Chaos erupted. Refugees screamed and scattered in all directions, while the militiamen guarding the gate retreated inside, firing as they went. The short men who had been firing continued to do so, blending into the crowd.

"Damn it!" Chang Desheng cursed, turning to look at Hessman.

Hessmann's expression remained unchanged. He said, "Leave it to me," and then led the three German mercenaries guarding the side down from the tower.

Those three men, along with Hessman, were all sharpshooters. For this trip to Borneo, they brought four specially made Mauser 1871 hunting rifles, 11mm caliber, with recoil so strong it could hurt your shoulder, but extremely accurate, and equipped with scopes mounted on the top of the barrel. These were used by German nobility for hunting, and could easily be used as sniper rifles.

Chang Desheng continued to keep an eye on the North Gate with his binoculars.

He saw Hessman and his three companions climb the stockade wall and set up their guns behind the crenellations.

Very quickly, just a few seconds later, a short man wearing a Chinese-style short jacket and carrying a revolver raised his pistol.

"Bang!"

The gunshots were muffled.

The short man's head exploded like a watermelon, spraying red and white matter all over the ground. The corpse swayed and then collapsed to the ground.

Then the second one. The third one.

Four shots rang out, and four gunmen fell.

The chaos within the refugee camp subsided slightly. Taking advantage of the situation, the militiamen guarding the gate shouted, "Come in quickly! Quickly!"

The refugees started pouring through the door again.

Chang Desheng breathed a sigh of relief, but his heart was still pounding. He looked further into the distance—the dark mass of the tribal coalition army was already pressing in. Those shirtless men brandished knives and spears, howling like a pack of ravenous wolves.

In ten minutes at most, they will be able to reach the stockade wall.

"Brother Zhenbang!" Luo Lanxing suddenly spoke, his voice trembling, "Is the door...is the door still open?"

Chang Desheng glanced at him.

"Open," Chang Desheng said. "Open the village gate wide... but don't open the gates of the walled compound. Also, except for the main road leading to the rubber drying yard, block all the other alleys with barbed wire... Don't block the roads on both sides of the Luo family walled compound either, let our people pass through there." Luo Lanxing received the order, nodded, and turned to leave the walled compound.

Chang Desheng continued to hold up the binoculars.

He saw Shang Dequan leading his men back. There were thirty-nine men when they went, but less than thirty came back, all covered in dust and bruises. Shang Dequan himself had a bandage wrapped around his left arm, bleeding, but he still held his gun, firing back as he retreated.

Chang Desheng thought to himself that this fellow Tianjin native was someone who could handle things.

The first time I went to the battlefield, it was a mission to lure the enemy, and it was a terrible battle of "driving civilians to charge into the enemy lines." It was not easy to survive.

Shang Dequan retreated to the vicinity of the North Gate. Instead of rushing in, he squatted behind a stone by the roadside and peeked out to look around.

He's looking for a target.

Chang Desheng followed his gaze and saw a barbarian dressed in black, carrying a pistol, hiding among the refugees and aiming his gun at the militia on the village wall.

Shang Dequan saw it too. He raised his gun, aimed, and put his finger on the trigger...

"Bang!"

Those people's heads exploded first.

Shang Dequan was taken aback, then realized that it must be Hessman's men.

He breathed a sigh of relief, jumped out from behind the rock, and shouted at the chaotic refugees, "Quick! Get in! Don't stop!"

The refugees poured into the North Gate like a tide.

Shang Dequan followed him inside, glancing back every now and then as he went in.

In the distance, the dark mass of the tribal coalition had already charged within dozens of steps.

He could see their faces clearly—each one dark, grotesque, with bloodshot eyes and howling like wild beasts. They seemed drunk. Shang Dequan quickened his pace and rushed into the north gate of Xiaolanfang.

Beside a rubber plantation on the south bank of the Pontianak River, Sultan Rahman put down his binoculars and smiled.

"Captain Kemp," he said in Dutch, "do you see? The north gate of Little Lanfang is still open."

Van der Kemp was also holding up his binoculars. He saw it.

The north gate was indeed open, and refugees were pouring in. The garrison seemed to be maintaining order, but with little effect. Further away, the vanguard of the tribal coalition had already reached the north gate of Xiaolanfang.

"They're in complete chaos," the Sultan said, laughing. "They can't even close the gates!"

He paused, then pointed at Xiao Lanfang: "Send the order, all troops, charge! The first to storm the Luo family mansion will be rewarded with a thousand taels of silver and any woman he may choose!" The messenger blew the horn.

"Waaaaah!"

The sound of horns echoed along the riverbank. The tribal coalition, already across the river, roared at the sound of the horns, raised their swords and spears, and charged forward like madmen. The royal guards also quickened their pace. They advanced in columns, trotting forward, rifles slung over their shoulders, bayonets gleaming coldly in the sunlight. The two Napoleonic cannons, pulled by horses, creaked and groaned as they moved forward.

As Van der Kemp watched this scene, he suddenly felt a little uneasy.

Everything went too smoothly.

Why didn't the defenders close the city gates? Why didn't they fire? Why didn't they offer any decent resistance?

These Chinese people really only know how to make money, they don't know anything about fighting!

They deserve to be treated like punching bags.

At this moment, "Rapolon," imitating Napoleon's pose in the picture book, pointed at Xiao Lanfang, his eyes gleaming: "Pass on my order: tonight, I will sleep in the best bed and play with the most beautiful women in the Luo family mansion!"

"Rush!"