Dasamuka

Chapter 1

RADEN WAHYANA

On August 3, 1811, a fleet of one hundred English warships entered the Sunda Kelapa territorial waters under the command of Admiral Stopford. I was on board of the HMS Harpy. If the sailors on the ship decks were under command of a high-ranking navy official, I had come to the island of Java under the direction of a scientist and motivated by a death wish.

Conquering the Dutch military, who had settled in Batavia, was not as difficult as I had expected. The English troops proved to be far superior to the Dutch. Because I had no previous military training, my bravery at the front line was considered impressive. I owed my courage to the fact that I had come to Java running from the mockery of people I truly loved, and I wanted to die. I did not want to die by committing suicide, however. I wanted to die honorably, as a warrior.

After the British navy claimed the harbor, I set foot for the first time on the island of Java, which experienced sailors believed to be the most fertile island in the world. Unlike most crewmembers, I was neither perplexed nor surprised by the lush greenery.

Setting foot on Java’s shore was like entering John Leyden’s magical world. The renowned scientist, who had seeded my curiosity about this part of the world, had told me of the tall, slender coconut trees with their fan-shaped fronds. Swaying in the brisk sea breeze, the trees seem to offer a gracious welcome by providing relief from the blinding sun. Shorter trees with sprawling canopies made the coconut trees seem even taller.

As I ventured away from the ship, I noticed groups of dark-skinned men sitting under the trees. Most of them wore only a loincloth; their protruding collarbones and ribs were clear signs of serious malnutrition. Remembering Leyden’s emphasis that Java was one of the most fertile places in the world, I figured they must be a part of the underprivileged that are found all over the world.

I wondered what the city would be like.

I had met Leyden at the University of Edinburgh. The first time I heard him explain his research, my friends roared with laughter. They would realize too late that the man who appeared disheveled and sounded boring was a genius.

I did not know what exactly Leyden meant by world view, but I was certain he would change my outlook on life. While the other students were busy covering their yawning mouths and wrinkling their foreheads, I raised my hand to ask a question.

Isn’t it a waste of energy, thought, and money to study an area notorious for its vicious mosquitoes, insects capable of taking the lives of a ship’s entire crew? I asked. My uncle had been residing in Java, and I had heard stories of the trials he had experienced, many of them having to do with local wildlife.

Leyden smiled. The future of our world, young man, can be found on an island where trees grow as tall as the sky, an island where sunshine shows its optimal usefulness. The future of such a region is the future that belongs to all of us.

This exchange started our relationship. Perhaps Leyden took a liking to me because I was the only student who showed interest in the paper he had so carefully prepared. Whatever the reason, I considered myself fortunate to have made the acquaintance of John Casper Leyden, a preeminent scholar of Far East studies.

Leyden approached me one afternoon, as I sat alone beside a pile of books on a garden bench in front of the university’s gate.

Only shortly before, I had sent a golden ring flying into the Water of Leith, the river that cleaved the city of Edinburgh. For a moment, the ring floated in the air. It did not last longer than a split second, yet the glitter burned an everlasting memory in my eyes. The token of my engagement to Ailsa now sank soundless into the calm, flowing water. If there were any sound, it would have come from my cracking chest, or perhaps from the muscle in my right arm, which trembled as I gripped the iron bridge rail.

I had wanted Ailsa to be honest with me. I had forced her to speak straight—not holding anything back, not covering anything up. But when she did, I was unable to listen to her frankness. I wanted to fling the cup in front of me at her, but my hands were paralyzed.

I have thought it completely through, she said. "I have thought not only for days, but for weeks before deciding. I must marry him. I must. I hope you can understand." She looked me straight in the eyes.

I felt as if I were looking at the marble statue of a Greek goddess, a beauty so distant it made the time we had spent together feel far in the past.

I wanted to respond, but my tongue had turned stiff, and I was speechless. Chewing my lower lip, I touched my frozen face with equally cold hands.

Ever since my mother passed away, my father had tried to fill the void by living the life of a rake. As I grew older, we had several confrontations regarding his debauchery, but I never thought he would make Ailsa, my fiancée, the object of his lecherous behavior.

I rose, staggering, then left hurriedly, walking backward. When I ran into a chair behind me and knocked it over, I turned around and I ran, out of breath, along the banks of the Water of Leith. My only haven was the University of Edinburgh, where John Casper Leyden found me sitting by myself on a garden bench.

Without any hesitation, he took a seat next to me and patted my shoulder.

I’ve struggled for quite some time to evoke students’ interest in my paper about the Far East. Alas, until now, I haven’t had a bit of success. Leyden had a concerned look, and his voice was hoarse.

I’m sure that, in the next few years, many students will be interested in knowing more about what you call ‘the emerald of the equator.’ I felt obligated to respond supportively.

Please join our expedition—if you’re interested, he said. "An organization is willing to facilitate students and scientists interested in Far Eastern affairs, especially the islands referred to as The Netherlands’ East Indies, and the Royal navy will give us free transportation."

I will join you, sir, I said, without a further word.

John Casper Leyden gave me a hard look.

Just call me John. The scientist smiled, his eyes boring into mine. "I have no right to ask why you suddenly decided to join this expedition. The important thing is that, after arriving on Java, you’ll proceed to write a complete description of bronjong—or is it branjang? Oh well, it is the Javanese way of punishing criminals that I explained in my paper." Leyden’s thin hair blew about his head as he spoke.

I agreed immediately. I was sure Leyden was aware that my mind was unstable. He had previously suggested I join his expedition, but I had told him I could not consider it for another year or two, until I was married and able to provide my wife with a home to live in. My change of heart certainly raised questions, but he was sensitive enough to not inquire further.

I did not know if joining Leyden’s expedition was the right decision. However, I was sure that if I did not leave quickly, I would be imprisoned for killing someone—or hospitalized for a failed attempt to commit suicide. Or I might be buried, after having been successful in my attempt.

I did not want to place myself into any of these situations, as each would prove my weakness. Those who considered me weak would certainly roar with laughter, and Ailsa and Jeremias would be among them. The thought of them together made me join the expedition.

I boarded one of the hundred warships that would journey to the island of Java. When we encountered violence, I ran amok, and fearlessly fought the Dutch soldiers who, to me, all represented Jeremias—the Dutchman who was my father and had betrayed me. My recklessness solicited admiration from a lot of British soldiers who valued their lives and had families they loved.

When an officer offered to enlist me with the British army on Java, I immediately accepted. I did explain, however, that I was a researcher for Doctor Leyden and had been assigned to work on Java. I was fortunate to be able to cite the University of Edinburgh as my alma mater. The soldiers respected Edinburgh academia like they respected their captain.

While the English prepared for further missions, I lived as a soldier on the British warship. The war had ended, and there were only minor battles still to be fought. The Dutch, who were believed to be very powerful in the Indian Archipelago, were as weak as a unit comprised of veterans. I wondered if this meant that the native kings and their armies were even weaker than the Dutch.

Before we were called to fight against the remaining stubborn Dutch troops in Semarang, to kill or to be killed, I received news that John Casper Leyden had passed away on August 28, and was buried in Batavia.

I heard from an officer that Leyden’s death had been caused by Batavian fever, which he had contracted while digging, with great enthusiasm, into the holdings of a library that was supposed to have a valuable manuscript about the Far East World. It took only three days for the fever to take the doctor’s life.

The death of the great scientist caused a commotion among the high-ranking officials, including the Governor General and Mrs. Raffles. The latter was deeply affected by the scientist’s death. She wrote a beautiful poem that was engraved on John Casper Leyden’s tombstone and made the governor jealous.

John Leyden’s death forced me to decide between returning to Edinburgh or staying in Java. While contemplating my decision, I saw a war prisoner who resembled Jeremias stagger as he was pushed into a detention room. I decided to stay on in Java; I had no desire to encounter my father or my fiancée.

I told the officer who offered me passage back to Europe that I planned to see my uncle in Rejawinangun, an area in Central Java that was under the jurisdiction of the Yogyakarta Sultanate, then under the reign of Sultan Hamengkubuwono II.

My connection with a respected British scientist, as well as being a young Edinburgh academic, gave me enough credibility for the government to provide me with a horse-drawn carriage and a coachman who spoke a little Dutch. During the four-day journey to the Yogyakarta Sultanate, I learned from my coachman that most Javanese disliked Dutchmen. I, too, disliked all Dutchmen, but could not deny that my hatred for them stemmed from the mere existence of a certain Dutchman I was related to.

My uncle’s residence, known by people living in the area as loji Tuan Thomson—Mr. Thomson’s mansion—was located about three miles east of the Keraton, the sultan’s royal palace. I had great difficulty finding the mansion, with its teak doors and a roof made of wooden shingles. If I had not mentioned John Leyden and the University of Edinburgh when asking for directions along the way, I am sure I would not have found it. Every British officer I met respected the two entities I mentioned. Even after his death, the famed scientist was still able to help me.

Uncle Thomson’s mansion looked similar to those of the princes in the Yogyakarta Sultanate, and I noticed the house was filled with various kinds of tropical plants. The greenery did not grow only in the front yard; plants also thrived on the porch and in the vestibule. Dogs, cats, pigeons, peacocks, and turkeys were allowed to roam freely in a yard spacious enough for a dozen children to play hide-and-seek.

Upon my arrival, Harvey Thomson treated me more as a guest than a family member. I had expected this. Our kinship was established by records rather than personal interaction—Uncle Harvey had left Scotland for Java when I was only a child. It took a few days before he was able to relax in my presence.

One morning during breakfast, Uncle Harvey peered over the rim of his coffee cup. At first I thought you had come here with the sole purpose of visiting your uncle, he said. He accentuated the words sole purpose, but indicated he was joking with a wink.

I really did only come here to see you, I fibbed, afraid that telling the truth might make him feel unimportant.

I heard that you came to Java to perform a duty for our kingdom. If nothing else, you came to assist someone who has a royal assignment. My uncle, the second husband of my mother’s eldest sister, took a few sips of his coffee, then leaned back in his chair. He folded his hands behind the nape of his neck and gave me a hard look.

It is more important to visit you, Uncle. Assisting Dr. Leyden was simply a means to bring me here. Perhaps I would not have said this if John Leyden had not perished from fever in Batavia.

Didn’t the British Empire sponsor your trip, and won’t you have to account to them regarding the use of the funds? Uncle Harvey asked. I could tell he was trying to find out why I was stranded on the other side of the world.

"The Edinburgh for Far East Club and the London Times sponsored me, I said, trying to set him straight. The British Empire only provided passage on one of their ships. Like you, Uncle, I want to live on this island."

I would not have spoken these words, had my heart not been destroyed by Ailsa’s marriage to my father, but my statement seemed to plunge my uncle into deep thoughts.

Daisy will be coming home tomorrow, he finally said. She’s been in Buitenzorg for almost a week. Governor Raffles is landscaping the area surrounding the palace, and she’s involved with starting a large botanical garden there. Uncle Harvey rested his hands on the arms of his chair. I kept silent, and my uncle continued talking about his daughter. She’s engrossed in tropical plants. That’s probably why she doesn’t want to go back to Scotland.

My mother had mentioned Daisy to me when I was much younger. From the tone of her voice, I knew she was very taken by her. Considering our ages and education, she figured Daisy and I would make a good couple. We were not blood related—she was a child from Uncle Thomson’s previous marriage. At the time, I had not paid much attention to my mother’s story, and Ailsa had erased what little interest I might have had in Daisy.

"Any educated person dreams of working in their field, Uncle. I’d like to get to work as soon as possible." I quickly tried to change the topic of conversation.

Uncle Harvey raised his eyebrows and smiled. See, I am right! You came to Java for your work, not to see your uncle.

I grimaced. Without my assignments to write reports for the club and the newspaper, it would be impossible to visit the territory of this sultanate for an extended time, let alone settle here.

In that case, I will arrange for you to see Resident Crawfurd, tomorrow. It will be easier for you to do your work if he is well acquainted with you. With a nod, my uncle ended the conversation.

It was easy for Harvey Thomson to connect me to the Resident of the Yogyakarta Sultanate. After I was introduced to John Crawfurd, it was not too difficult to sustain the relationship and nurture it into an even closer bond. As it turned out, Resident Crawfurd was a scientist who had also graduated from the University of Edinburgh. We had the same alma mater. Crawfurd was an academic, not a military man.

During a discussion of my plans, Crawfurd said, We need to prove that the British are different from the Dutch. We certainly support your research regarding the bronjong. Your findings about Dr. Leyden’s object of curiosity might very well prove to be valuable input for the manuscript of an agreement between the English government and the sultanate. This political document is currently being drafted. Crawfurd was clearly supportive.

I want to start my research by learning the Javanese language first, I explained, following the advice of the late John Casper Leyden. Can you recommend someone suitable to be my teacher? Crawfurd’s familiarity with the government community would enable him to point me in the right direction.

I’ll write you a letter of introduction and have an officer escort you to see Den Wahyana, an educated Javanese aristocrat. He’s a reliable interpreter. Resident Crawfurd walked to his desk. I knew he was in the process of writing a book about the islands in the Indian Archipelago and their inhabitants; a pile of manuscript pages covered his desk.

By the way, Crawfurd looked up from the letter he had just written, you’re staying with your uncle now, aren’t you?

Crawfurd had reminded me of an important thing: I needed to find my own place. Yes, I said sheepishly, I am. Hopefully, I’ll find a place of my own soon.

Crawfurd rose and handed me the letter. I believe there are a few empty houses in our government complex, he said. Let’s go take a look.

Will I be allowed to live there without being a government employee? I asked, as I followed him out the door.

Crawfurd threw me a scrutinizing look. You can help me edit my manuscript, he said dryly.

The house was less than half a mile away from Crawfurd’s office. "It’s not exactly a loji, or a puri, Crawfurd turned the key and pushed the door open, but it definitely is more than a gubug." He smiled.

He must have noticed my puzzled look and quickly explained, A loji is a mansion—like your uncle and many of the Javanese royalty live in. A puri is the next step up. It’s more castle-like; most princes and very wealthy noblemen live in puris. Now, a gubug is where you’d find the man off the streets. A gubug has no solid walls—the walls are woven bamboo mats, and the roof is made of rice- or coconut-leaf straw. It usually has a dirt floor.

I took a quick look around. The small brick house was furnished with the bare essentials and provided me with my immediate housing needs. Armed with the letter of recommendation, I was now set to embark on my adventure. I wanted to focus on my research of bronjong. I wanted to honor John Leyden’s request to study and describe whatever bronjong or branjang was. Hopefully, it would also help me forget Ailsa.

After waiting for almost a week, I finally met Den Wahyana, the interpreter Crawfurd had recommended. The educated Javanese I met spoke Dutch well—and although I did not speak Dutch fluently, I could make myself understood. Thus, it did not bother me that Raden Wahyana had a much better command over Dutch than English.

I was impressed by the way this nobleman carried himself, as well as with the manner in which he spoke. Unlike most Javanese, including the aristocrats, he did not bow when standing before me. He didn’t seem to have a problem looking me straight in the eyes.

I am not an expert in English—I speak only a little, just enough to prevent me from being a rude guest. Den Wahyana spoke English with a Dutch accent.

I speak just enough Dutch to keep me from being an inattentive host, I told him. Our conversation reminded me of Jeremias Kappers, a Dutch scoundrel who was my father and I felt a knot forming in my stomach.

I can look for an interpreter who is better than me, a competent linguist, Den Wahyana offered.

I don’t need a linguist. You’re good enough.

In that case, we can learn together, Den Wahyana said tactfully.

I speak a little Dutch, I repeated.

All right then. We will combine Javanese-Dutch-English. Den Wahyana smiled. It was the first Javanese smile I’d seen that felt sincere. I responded with a laugh and hoped he thought my laugh to be truthful.

Where do we start our lesson?

You definitely don’t intend to understand immediately all the different phrases the Javanese use in their daily conversation, do you? This would be impossible. Den Wahyana gave me a quizzical look, then continued. For the first lesson, let’s look at how to approach Javanese people in a manner acceptable to them. It is important to use the proper polite expressions when first meeting a Javanese person.

Den Wahyana taught me that Raden, or Den for short, was used to refer to address both royal men and women. If one needed to be specific, a woman would be Raden or Den Rara before marriage and Den Ayu after marriage.