Beiyang Dream

Chapter 80 This is not independence, it's a small internal strife!

March 8, 1891, 4:30 PM.

There was still more than an hour until sunset.

The stone-paved road south of the Pontianak River was now crowded with people fleeing in panic. Sultan Rahman lay sprawled on his horse, his sword missing, his turban askew, his usually well-maintained face now as white as a corpse. He was still muttering to himself.

"To Batavia... I am going to Batavia! Order the governor to send troops! Send a large army!"

Captain Kemp, standing next to him, was a little more lucid than him, but not much more so. This captain, an advisor in the Dutch East India Army, had two buttons undone on his uniform, his face smeared with blood and mud, and the mane of his Andalusian horse was almost bald from pulling it out. He had only one thought in his mind: Lanfang.

Lanfang Republic.

That Chinese "republic" that was gradually eroded by the Dutch through treaties, cannons, and sowing discord; that country that has disappeared from the map.

Now, it's going to crawl out of its grave.

Moreover, it has people behind it—no, it has a country behind it!

Otherwise, where would it get its machine guns and cannons?

And this country could be the Qing Dynasty, it could be Britain, it could be... other countries, or even some of them!

It must have been that the Dutch East Indies, bogged down in the Aceh War for twenty years, had created an opportunity for covetous surrounding powers. …“Run! Run!”

"Devil! Chinese people use sorcery!"

"Oh God... save me."

Along both sides of the road, in the rubber plantations, gunshots rang out like popping beans, a constant crackling and popping. Kemp didn't need to turn around to know that it was Xiao Lanfang's militia "harvesting"... using those damned, inhumanly fast-firing new rifles. He had led troops against the Acehnese before, seen their volleys of gunfire, but he had never seen them shoot like this. No lines, no showing their faces, just hiding behind trees, calling out names one shot at a time.

This is hardly a war.

This is fucking hunting.

Occasionally, there would be a muffled "boom," followed by a cloud of black smoke and screams as it exploded—those were black powder grenades. Kemp had seen these things on the training grounds; the Dutch army didn't use them much—they were unreliable, and getting three out of ten to detonate was considered lucky. But now, even one detonation was bad enough. He had personally witnessed a royal guard soldier being thrown into the air by the blast wave, his legs already gone when he crashed to the ground.

"This is a really heavy loss..." The word flashed through Kemp's mind, and then he couldn't help but laugh.

heavy?

They're almost completely wiped out.

Even if it hasn't been completely destroyed yet, it's not far from being destroyed... The world of Pontianak is about to change!

"Captain! Captain!" one of his bodyguards suddenly shouted, "The bridge! The bridge is just ahead!"

Kemp looked up.

Saw.

The large wooden bridge over the Pontianak River was just 500 paces away; it was the only way to survive.

Once you cross the bridge and enter Pontianak, you can go to the dock and take a boat to escape!

Kemp's hopes had just begun to rise when they quickly stalled.

The bridge was packed with people.

They were all soldiers of the royal guard. Wearing their rather respectable blue uniforms and carrying 1871 breech-loading rifles (some had lost their guns, but most did not), they were crowded on the bridge, some crying and some shouting, but they just wouldn't cross.

"What's going on?!" Kemp roared.

No one cares about him.

He kicked the horse's belly hard, squeezed to the bridgehead, and craned his neck to look at the opposite bank.

Upon looking at it, I was stunned.

A line of soldiers stood on the opposite bank.

Ten men, standing in neat rows, dressed in blue uniforms of the Dutch East India Army, wearing cylindrical military caps, and holding rifles with bayonets fixed, the muzzles of their guns pointed directly at the bridge.

Kemp's first thought was: a task force sent by Commissioner of State Van der Pohl.

Yes, definitely. The Dutch did this kind of thing countless times on the battlefields of Sumatra. When the local troops retreated, they would set up Gatling guns behind them, shooting anyone who dared to retreat. Under such formidable pressure, the local people in various regions would tremble at the sight of Dutch uniforms; how could they dare to charge?

Kemp, however, felt a sense of relief.

"Great...great..." He dismounted and grabbed Rahman, who was still stunned on horseback. "Sultan! They're our people! The political commissioner has sent someone to meet us!"

Rahman then came to his senses, a little color returning to his face: "R-really?"

"Look!" Kemp pointed to the opposite bank, "Dutch uniforms! Come on, come with me and explain!"

Surrounded by dozens of guards, the two struggled to squeeze onto the bridge. But the bridge was too crowded, completely jammed. In desperation, Kemp shouted in Dutch, "Make way! I am Captain Kemp! The Sultan is here!"

But no one was willing to move aside.

The other side of the river.

Wolfgang crouched behind ten men, his right hand resting on a brass button on top of a wooden box, his left hand gripping a crank, which he was slowly cranking. The crank was connected to a hand-cranked generator inside the box, which creaked and groaned.

His eyes were fixed on the bridge.

More and more people.

The fleeing soldiers surged across the stone path, crowding onto the bridge like a tidal wave. On the other side of the bridge, the Sultan and the Dutch advisor had already squeezed onto the bridge deck, inching forward under the protection of their personal guards.

almost.

Wolfgang heard the shouts of battle growing closer behind him; it was Wu Dingyuan, Kong Qingtang, and their two hundred-plus men catching up. Gunfire, roars, and cries mingled together, like a large net, circling in from the south.

He licked his chapped lips and pressed his right thumb onto the brass button.

Then, press it hard!

Three consecutive booming sounds.

The sound was not loud, but muffled.

Then, the bridge collapsed.

It didn't break in the middle; it collapsed simultaneously from several key support points. The cracking sound of the breaking timbers was louder than an explosion. The three or four hundred people on the bridge fell like dumplings being dropped into a pot.

Kemp suddenly felt his feet sink into the ground.

He was pulling Sultan along, squeezing to the middle of the bridge. Suddenly, the people in front of him seemed to shrink—no, the bridge suddenly tilted. Before he could react, he was plummeting downwards.

"Ah..."

Rahman's screams were right next to my ears.

Kemp instinctively closed his eyes, his last thought being: This bridge is so dilapidated, it should have been reinforced long ago…

puff.

The water was very cold.

Kemp could swim, but he was wearing a military uniform and his boots were filled with water, making him very heavy. He kicked his legs desperately and finally managed to float to the surface, spit out some water, and opened his eyes.

The bridge is gone.

The river was covered with wood, debris, and... people.

They were thrashing about, struggling, and sinking. Their cries and pleas for help were even more pitiful than those on the shore.

Kamp wiped his face and saw Rahman beside him, being supported by two bodyguards, barely floating on the water. The Sultan's face was now worse than that of a dead man.

"Swim...swim over there!" Kemp roared.

He unbuttoned his military uniform, took off his heavy woolen coat, threw it into the water, and then dragged the Sultan across to the other side. His personal guards followed, seven or eight men protecting their master, paddling desperately.

On the bank, more soldiers saw the bridge collapse, froze for a few seconds, then shouted, dropped their guns, and jumped into the river.

For a time, the Pontianak River was filled with splashing heads.

Kemp was a good swimmer and quickly swam to the shallow water on the other side. He staggered to his feet and, dragging the soaking wet and shivering Rahman, stumbled ashore.

Looking up, the ten "Dutch soldiers" were still standing there.

The gun barrel was still pointed at the river.

Kemp breathed a sigh of relief, coughing as he called out, "I...I am Captain Kemp of the Dutch Army! This is the Sultan of Pontianak! Quickly! Take us to see the Political Commissioner!"

Nobody listens to him.

The gun barrel slowly lowered, aiming at him.

Kemp was taken aback.

Rahman was stunned, and stammered in Dutch, "I...I am the Sultan! You..."

"Bang!"

A shot rang out.

It wasn't aimed at them, but at their backs. A Sultan's guard who had just swum ashore had a burst of blood on his head and fell straight back into the water. Then came the second shot, and the third.

Seven or eight of the guards who rushed forward fell instantly.

Kemp froze.

He looked at the "Dutch soldiers," then at his personal guards lying in pools of blood, and immediately understood what was happening.

"You..." his voice was dry, "you are not Dutch."

Behind the ten "Dutch soldiers," a man emerged. He was in his forties, tall and thin.

It was Wolfgang.

He walked up to Kemp, smiled, and said in heavily accented Saxon Dutch, "Captain, you guessed right."

He paused, then added:

"You've been captured. We're mercenaries hired by Mr. Luo."

Before he could finish speaking, machine gun fire erupted from the opposite bank again.

"Da da da da."

It was still a Maxim gun. The same old tune. But this time it wasn't sweeping fire, it was bursts of fire. One burst after another, aimed at the soldiers huddled on the bank, who hadn't yet had a chance to get into the river.

Blood and flesh flew everywhere.

Kemp turned around and saw a man severed at the waist by several bullets, his upper body falling into the river while his lower body remained on the bank. He saw another man trying to run back, but as soon as he turned, a cloud of blood exploded from his back.

Then, the pursuers arrived.

Nearly two hundred men, armed with Type 1888 rifles, rushed to the riverbank. Their eyes were bloodshot, their faces were covered in blood and sweat, and they exuded an undisguised murderous intent.

There's no need to give an order at all.

Upon seeing the heads thrashing about in the river, they raised their guns and fired.

"Bang! Bang! Bang!"

The gunfire was more frequent than firecrackers during the Lunar New Year. Clumps of blood exploded on the river. Screams and cries, mixed with the gunfire, drifted far across the river.

Kemp's legs went weak, and he almost knelt down.

He had been a soldier, fought in wars, and killed people. But he had never seen such killing.

This is not a war.

This is slaughter.

Rahman was sprawled on the ground, his crotch soaked—it was unclear whether it was river water or something else. He opened his mouth, trying to shout, but no sound came out, only a "hoarse" sound from his throat.

Soon, the river water changed color.

It changed from a muddy yellow to a dark red.

At that moment, a flag was raised from the woods on the opposite bank.

Red background, black text.

Two Chinese characters: 兰芳.

Wolfgang pointed to the flag and said to the two men slumped on the ground with pleading eyes, "Don't beg me, beg him." Kemp followed his finger and looked over.

On the opposite bank, three people emerged from the woods.

The man in the middle, around fifty years old, wearing a silk robe and with a serious expression, is Luo Zhenxing, Xiao Lanfang's Kapitan, and the leader of the Chinese in Pontianak. The man on the left is a German, Hessmann, the mercenary leader.

The one on the right... is Chang Desheng.

Pontianak, the Chinese quarter, the Kapitan's office.

This place was ransacked by the natives this morning; tables and chairs were overturned, screens were broken, and broken porcelain shards and torn account books were scattered on the ground. Now it has been tidied up a bit, and three chairs have been placed there.

Luo Zhenxing sat in the middle, Chang Desheng sat on the right, and Hessman sat on the left.

Below, Kemp sat on a chair. Rahman Sultan knelt, not because he wanted to, but because two mercenaries pressed him down by the shoulders. Wolfgang and his men stood guard at the door, guns slung over their shoulders, their eyes fixed on the room.

The room was very quiet.

It was so quiet you could hear Rahman's heavy breathing.

Luo Zhenxing spoke first in heavily accented Dutch, his voice deep: "Sultan, Advisor. Let's be frank. The war is over, and you've lost. Utterly lost!"

Rahman jerked his head up, a little color returning to his face, and hissed, "Luo Zhenxing!! You, how dare you! You dare to rebel, Batavia will not let you off! The Kingdom of Holland will send a large army..."

"A large army?" Luo Zhenxing laughed, a cold laugh. "Sultan, how many of your thousand palace guards are left? One hundred? Two hundred? How many troops do the tribes that depend on you still have? Can you still be a lackey for the Dutch?"

How many troops will Batavia send? Five thousand? Ten thousand? Do you think the Dutch Parliament would send ten thousand troops to Borneo for a nobody like you?

Rahman choked.

Kemp took over, his voice trembling slightly: "Mr. Luo, are you trying to create a Lanfang Kingdom? Insist on independence? Think carefully. You should know better than anyone how Lanfang disappeared. The Dutch East India Company will not allow a second Lanfang to appear."

Luo Zhenxing remained silent.

He looked at Chang Desheng.

Chang Desheng then spoke, in German, with Hanoverian pronunciation:

"Mr. Consultant, you've misunderstood."

Kemp was taken aback.

German... and that tall, thin guy also speaks with a Saxon accent!

Could it be that Luo Zhenxing is backed by Germans?

This is as hard as Krupp steel!

Chang Desheng continued, "What just happened wasn't an independence movement, nor was it any kind of restoration. It was...

He paused, looked at Rahman kneeling on the ground, and smiled:

"It was a civil war in the Dutch peninsula of Pontianak."

The room fell silent for a moment.

Kemp blinked, thinking he'd misheard: "Civil...war?"

"Yes, a civil war." Chang Desheng looked at Kamp. "Sultan Rahman was brutal, licentious, corrupt, and incompetent. During his reign, Pontianak suffered from poverty, trade declined, and tax revenue was insufficient year after year. More importantly..."

He leaned forward, staring at Kemp:

"He failed to provide any substantial assistance to the Kingdom of the Netherlands in its war in Aceh. Instead, he secretly colluded with the Aceh rebels, smuggling arms and enriching himself. You, sir, should know this better than we do."

Kemp's expression changed.

What Chang Desheng said was half true and half false. The true part was that Rahman was indeed incompetent, and Pontianak's tax revenue was indeed poor. The false part was that he colluded with the Aceh rebels... This was a smear campaign, and also a matter of class.

This is exactly what the Dutch need now.

"So," Chang Desheng sat up straight, spreading his hands, "Mr. Luo, as the leader of the Chinese community in Pontianak, launched a just war with the tacit approval of the Dutch East Indies government, overthrowing the tyrant Rahman and quelling the chaos in Pontianak. This is not independence, this is... a small internal conflict! It will absolutely not affect the stability of the Dutch East Indies or your just war against the Sultan of Aceh! Now, Mr. Luo has won... He is willing to replace Sultan Rahman, establish an autonomous state under the leadership of the Dutch East Indies Governor-General, and serve as its governor. He is also willing to provide a one-time military expenditure of 30,000 guilders for the Dutch East Indies' war in Aceh!"