Among the ambassadors chosen for this ticklish task was Karel van Doorn, now twenty-five and with a solid reputation as a loyal Compagnie servant. He was severe, honest, humorless, and gifted with an understanding of finance and the profitable management of Compagnie slaves.
Such promotions as Karel had achieved were due principally to his mother, the stalwart widow of an official who had been killed while endeavoring to extend Compagnie holdings in the Spice Islands. He had been a man of enormous energy; by arrogance, bluff, courage and expropriation he had protected the Compagnie; by chicanery, theft, falsification and diversion he had at the same time built up his own clandestine trading interests—a thing severely forbidden—and in so doing, had accumulated a considerable wealth which he had been trying to smuggle back to Holland when he died. His widow, Hendrickje, now found herself with a growing fortune which she could spend only in Java.
Fortunately, she flourished in the tropics, and as soon as the Dutch destroyed the Javanese city of Jacatra and began building opposite its ruins their own capital, Batavia, she appropriated one of the choicest locations on the Tijgergracht (Tiger Canal) and there built herself a mansion. Curiously, it could have stood unnoticed on any street in Amsterdam, for it was done in massive Dutch style, with heavy stone walls and red-tiled roof protecting it from snows which never came. Thick partitions separated the rooms, which were illuminated by very small windows, and wherever a breeze might have entered, some heavy piece of furniture shut it out.
The only concession indicating that this massive house stood in the tropics was a garden of surpassing beauty, filled with the glorious flowers of Java and punctuated with handsome statuary imported from China. In this garden, to the sound of the tinkling gamelan comprised of eleven musicians, many decisions regarding Dutch fortunes in the East were reached.
Mevrouw van Doorn, a voluptuous blonde who might have been painted by Frans Hals, who did paint her mother, had arrived in 1618 when that notable administrator Jan Pieterszoon Coen was running affairs in his harsh, capable style, and she had quickly endeared herself to him, supporting him eagerly no matter what he did. She heard him warn the populace that acts of immorality among servants must cease, and when one of her maids became pregnant she herself dragged the frightened girl to Coen’s headquarters and was present in the square when the girl was beheaded. The young man involved was also sharply reprimanded.
Two obsessions controlled her life: business and religion. It had been she who goaded her husband into setting up his illegal private businesses, one after another. It had been she who supervised those operations, earning a profit of sixty percent a year when the Lords XVII could make only forty. And it had been she who sequestered the stolen funds when they reached Batavia. Indeed, her husband’s estate was now so complicated that she dared not risk returning to Holland lest it fall in chaos. As she reported to her younger sister in Haarlem:
I often think of coming home to live with you in our house on the canal, but I dread those cold winters. Besides, I am kept prisoner here supervising the sixty-nine slaves who work for me. By Haarlem standards I know this sounds a lot, but it really isn’t. When I go about Batavia, attending my affairs, eight slaves accompany me to assure that coaches, umbrellas and footwear are available. Seven girls tend my clothes, six watch over my retiring room. I need six cooks, nine serving men, eleven members for my orchestra, twelve to tend the grounds and ten for general services. So you see, I am kept quite busy.
Her devotion to religion contained no shred of insincerity, nor should it, considering her family history. Her grandfather, Joost van Valkenborch, had been executed by the Spaniards in 1568 when the great Count Egmont went to his death; both patriots had given their lives in defense of Holland and Calvinism. Her father, too, had died fighting the Spanish Catholics; Willem van Valkenborch had established the first Calvinist assembly in Haarlem, a clandestine affair whose members knew they would perish if caught. One of her first memories was of secret night worship when her father spoke eloquently of God and the nature of man. Religion was more real to her than the stars over Java, more encompassing than the canals that served Batavia.
Before her husband died they had shared the pleasure of receiving from the Lords XVII a Protestant Bible printed in Dutch, a massive affair published in 1630 by Henrick Laurentsz of Amsterdam, and together they had read in their own language the glowing stories that had sustained her father and grandfather in their martyrdoms. Despite all the wealth her husband had left her, she held her chief treasure to be this Bible; it was the light that ruled her life.
Her next treasures were her two sons, who lived with her and whose fortunes she supervised so carefully, nudging the local directors whenever she thought Karel merited an advancement. It was she who had proposed him for the embassy to governments neighboring on Malacca, and when the trip was in preparation it was she who suggested that young Willem go along so as to witness the vast extent of the Compagnie’s trading interests.
‘He’s only fifteen,’ Karel protested.
‘Proper time to learn what ships and battles are,’ his mother snapped, and on a very hot afternoon when flies buzzed in stifled air, members of the diplomatic mission were briefed by high officials of the Compagnie, who sat like gargoyles in the white-walled council chamber, nodding gravely as an old man who had been fighting the Portuguese for three decades spoke portentously: ‘A solemn moment approaches. We’re about to crush Malacca.’
Karel leaned forward. ‘Assault the fortress?’
The old man, clenching his fists and dreaming of long-gone defeats, ignored him. ‘In 1606 we tried to capture that damned place and failed. In 1608 we tried again, and 1623. In 1626 and ’27 I myself led the landing parties. We got to the walls but were driven back. During the last four years we’ve tried to blockade the Straits, starve them out, and always they’ve laughed at us. Now,’ he shouted, banging his frail hand on the table, ‘we destroy them.’
‘How soon do we sail?’
‘Immediately.’
Whe Karel showed disappointment at missing the siege, where promotions might come quickly, the old man said, ‘You’ll be back for fighting. We may not attack for at least a year. And remember what your job is. To assure all our neighbors that when we capture Malacca we shall seek no territory for ourselves.’
Another officer said sententiously, ‘All we insist upon is trading rights. We’ll take the fort but leave the land.’
And then a very large man with a voice that rumbled from much preaching added, ‘Explain to them all that if they do business with us, it’s only business. An honest deal for all. We will not try to Christianize them, the way the Portuguese have done with their oppressive Catholicism. Mark my words, Van Doorn, your strongest weapon could be religion. Tell them to watch our deportment when we capture Malacca.’
‘If we capture it,’ someone corrected.
‘No!’ a dozen voices cried. ‘Dr. Steyn is right. When we capture it.’
The minister coughed and continued: ‘When we occupy Malacca, nothing is changed. The sultan continues in power, freed of Portuguese influence, Muhammad continues as their God, freed of pressure from the Catholics. The Chinese, Arabians, Persians, Ceylonese, English—and even the Portuguese traders themselves—anyone with a business in Malacca will continue to own it and operate it as he wishes. All we seek is the right to trade, for all men. Tell the rulers that.’
In four days of concentrated argument this point was hammered until Van Doorn understood better than most of the Lords XVII back in Amsterdam what the practical politics of Jan Compagnie were. The Lords, representing all regions and aspects of Dutch life, had to be cautious, aware that whatever they promulgated enjoyed the force of law; indeed, their decisions were stronger than ordinary law because from them there was no appeal. But the governors in the field, who needed two years to send a query and receive an answer, had to be daring. On their own they could declare war, appropriate an island, or conduct negotiations with a foreign power
. The governor-general in Java could order the execution of anyone, slave or free, English or Chinese: ‘For stealing property belonging to the Compagnie, he shall be dragged to the port of Batavia and keel-hauled three times beneath the largest vessel. If still living, he shall be burned and his ashes scattered.’
The governor-general, accustomed to exercising these powers, glared at Karel and said, ‘We expect you to convince the nations that they have no reason to oppose us when we make our attack.’
‘I shall,’ Van Doorn assured him.
There was at this time riding at the port of Batavia a trading ship heavily laden with goods for China, Cambodia and the Dutch entrepǒt on Formosa, and free space for the stowing of such spices and metals as might be picked up in the course of a long journey. To this ship Karel, his brother Willem and their sixteen servants reported. Because of the importance of this mission, the captain had vacated his cabin and assigned it to the brothers, and there, surrounded by books and charts, they started the long voyage to the ancient ports of the East, sailing through waters that Marco Polo had known, past islands that would not be touched by white men for another century.
Wherever they stopped, they assured local leaders that the Dutch had no designs upon their territory, and that Java expected neutrality when the attack came on Malacca. ‘Won’t these people warn the Portuguese?’ Willem asked.
‘The Portuguese know. We’ve been attacking Malacca every ten years. Surely they expect us.’
‘Won’t they build their defenses?’
‘Of course. They’re doing it right now.’
‘Then why didn’t we attack right now?’ the boy asked.
‘Next year will be just as good. Our job now is to pacify allies.’ But later, when the Dutch were dining alone, Karel was inspired to raise his glass to the sailors and soldiers who would participate in the siege: ‘To that brave man amongst us who could well be the governor of Malacca before this year is out!’ And all the Dutchmen drank in silence, imagining the possibilities: in their army a man did not have to be a nobleman to become an admiral or a governor.
By late April 1640, when the Van Doorns returned to Batavia with assurances that no neighbors would interfere with operations in the Straits of Malacca, and when a fleet of war vessels had been assembled, Governor-General van Diemen decided that the time was proper for the major thrust.
‘Karel,’ he told the returning ambassador, ‘you’re to accompany the fleet. Take charge as soon as the fortress is secured.’
‘Looting?’
‘It will be a long, dangerous fight, Karel. Allow the men three days to capture what they will. Then establish order. After that, no one is to be touched, Muslim or Christian.’
‘The sultan?’
‘Protect him, by all means. The soldiers will probably loot his palaces and take some of his women. But let him know that he survives with our blessing … and only because of our blessing. He’ll prove our strongest ally.’
When the sails of the fleet were raised, they covered the sea like a sheath of white lace, and spies rushed overland to launch small boats in which they would scurry to Malacca to inform the Portuguese that the next siege was under way. It required thirteen days for the straggling fleet to reach the Straits south of the fortress, and when young Willem van Doorn looked up at the mighty battlements, thirty feet high, twenty-six feet thick, he gasped, ‘No one could break them down.’
He was right to be apprehensive, for the fortress was much greater now than when the Dutch had first assaulted it. Five large churches stood within the walls, two hospitals, granaries, many deep wells, accommodation for four thousand fighting men. The town outside contained twenty thousand people, the harbor and the river more than a thousand small boats. From five towers sixty-nine major cannon controlled all approaches, and most important, the battlements were commanded by a man who had withstood other sieges and who was determined to outlast this one.
For five long and terrible months he succeeded. Two thousand of his people starved to death, then two thousand more, and finally another three. But he exacted a fearful toll on the Dutch assailants; more than a thousand highly trained men died in their attempt to approach these mighty walls.
They did achieve a limited success: by heroic measures they wrestled their cannon ashore, protected them with abutments, and proceeded methodically to knock large holes in the fortifications. Now all that was required was for foot soldiers to charge through the holes and the fort would be theirs, because deserters assured them: ‘The Portuguese are eating rats and chewing upon the hides of horses.’
But to reach the holes, the Dutch would have to wade up to their armpits through malarial swamps, then swim turbulent streams while Portuguese on the walls shot at them, and this they were hesitant to do. So a kind of waiting war developed, during which yachts were dispatched regularly to Java seeking reinforcements and advice; in December, Willem van Doorn sailed on one of them, bearing messages:
Our predikant Johannes Schotanus was an excellent man while the first fighting was under way, but in this waiting period he is again proving most difficult and has had to be suspended. We are sorry, for he possesses wonderful gifts. His teachings are exemplary, if only he would practice them. He could accomplish so much if he stayed sober, but we must not let him act as predikant after we capture Malacca because he would disgrace the Compagnie by his wild insobriety.
In the sixth month of the siege young Willem returned to the fleet in a large ship, bringing fresh supplies, much gunpowder and instructions that the fortress must now be taken. So on a Sunday night in January 1641 every able-bodied Dutchman moved ashore, forded the swamps, and made a predawn attack, driving the Portuguese from the openings in the walls by means of a furious barrage of hand grenades. By ten that morning the keystone of Portugal’s empire in the East had fallen.
One of the most enthusiastic victors was Willem, who found that he did not fear gunfire or towering walls. Indeed, he was more resolute than his older brother and much more willing to press forward whether others accompanied him or not. He was among the first into the city, cheering wildly as cannon were drawn inside, lined up, and pointed down the narrow thoroughfares. Ball after ball, huge spheres of solid iron, leaped from the muzzles of the cannon, wreaking fearful destruction. Willem applauded the fires that raged and was in the forefront of those greedy soldiers who rampaged through the treasure-laden buildings that escaped the blaze.
It was a bloody triumph, but as soon as the looting was brought under control, the Dutch behaved with their customary magnanimity: the Portuguese commander was saluted for his bravery and given a ship in which he could transport his family, his slaves and his possessions to whatever haven he chose; the gallant captains who had defended the towers were permitted to accompany him with all they owned; and when an unsuspecting Portuguese merchant ship sailed into the channel laden with cloth from India, it was encouraged to dock, on the principle that since the islands under Dutch control produced little surplus cloth, trade with Portuguese India must not only be permitted but encouraged.
And so the vast eastern empire started by Magellan and Albuquerque dissolved. Only the village of Macao would be retained on the threshold of China, a part of tiny Timor in the waters north of Australia, the minute enclave of Goa in India, and the savage hinterland behind Moçambique Island—these were the remnants. All the rest was gone: Ceylon, Malacca, Java, the important Spice Islands. A man’s heart could break at the loss of such glorious lands.
While the fires still smoldered, the victors reported to the Compagnie managers in Batavia: ‘Noble, Valiant, Wise, and Honorable Gentlemen, Malacca has fallen and will henceforth be considered private territory and a dominion of the Dutch East India Compagnie.’ Now the eastern world was secured and time was ripe for the Dutch to think seriously about establishing a safe resting point between Amsterdam and Batavia where sailors could recover from scurvy. Logic dictated that it be located at the Cape of Good Hope, but its founding had nothing to do
with logic. It was sheer accident.
Batavia! This tiny enclave on the northwest coast of Java, this glorious capital of a vast and loosely held empire, had been named after the Batavi, those fierce, sullen men encountered by the early Roman emperors in the marshes that would subsequently become Holland.
It would always be a contradictory place, a walled fortress town perched on the edge of a jungle, totally Netherlandish in disposition, appearance and custom; but at the same time a garden-filled tropical escape from Holland, festooned with lovely flowers and strange fruits in great abundance. It was a heavenly place, a deadly place, and many Dutchmen who came here were dead within ten years, struck down by indolence, gluttony and drunkenness. It was in this period that Compagnie men, returning to Batavia from forced stints in the outlying Spice Islands, conceived the feast that would always be associated with Java.
It could be observed at its best in the spacious dining room of Hendrickje van Doorn, where fifteen or twenty guests would assemble to the playing of her musicians. Javanese slaves in sarongs would pass huge platters of delicately steamed white rice, nothing more, and each guest would form a small mountain on his plate. Then the first group of waiters would retire, and after an expectant pause Mevrouw would sound a tinkling Chinese bell, and from the kitchen out in the garden would appear a chain of sixteen serving men, some of the gardeners having been called to assist. Each carried in his open palms held waist-high two dishes, making a total of thirty-two: chicken bits, lamb cuttings, dried fish, steamed fish, eight rare condiments, ten fruits, nuts, raisins, vegetables and half a dozen tasty items that no one could identify.
As the sixteen servants passed along the table, each guest heaped edibles around his rice until the plate resembled a volcano rising high above the sea. But this was not all, for when these servants retired, others appeared with flagons of translucent gin, from which copious draughts were poured. Thus reinforced, the diners started on their meal, calling back the thirty-two little dishes from time to time lest the plate appear empty. This was ‘the sixteen-boy rice table of Java,’ and it accounted in some measure for the fact that many men and women who had lived rather circumscribed lives in Calvinistic Holland were reluctant to go home, once they knew Batavia.