Let This Be My Honor — Sample
A Historical Fiction on Colonial Indonesia
This is a sample for my upcoming historical short fiction , previously awarded Best Short Fiction in the 6th University of Indonesia Art War (2019). This story is both available in English and Indonesian.
Let This Be My Honor will be published on Karyakarsa, Google Books, Trakteer, and Amazon Kindle in the near future.
Java, the East Indies, 19th century. A family in the Central Javanese frontier is changed forever by a roving group of bandits; Hussars Cornet Robert van Holt’s quest of revenge is carved in the cold steel of Dutch blood in the bloodiest civil war Java has seen.
A realistic depiction of the controversial and deadly yet unexplored Java War, based on historical and contextual research.
Enjoy!
The van Holt family gathered to eat the final meal of the day. Sunset came close, and, as Mother loved enjoying the sunset and the evening breeze, they set the table outside, by the front porch of their two-storey wooden house. The field-workers who worked the van Holt fields had already gone home, and they were left alone, all three. It should’ve been four, but for the presence of a younger sister, Cornelia, who was sent to Batavia to Julius van Holt, Cornelius’ brother, for caring and education. Frontier life with so little infrastructure did not suffice to raise a young European lady, Mama had said, and she had to learn at least three languages, play music, and read philosophy, things that would be difficult here, and with so many things to do..
Dinner was Robert’s favourite time of the day. The food was always sublime, and after they had all helped to prepare the food–that being fried dove and a large chunk of skewered venison, seasoned in delicious Javanese spice… Rice was its companion, for potatoes were not the custom of this land, Java, where Robert had been born and raised as Dutchman and Javanese both.
Where his father was a strong, broad-shouldered man, Robert’s mother was a delicate and beautiful Javanese woman, who had the softest of skins and straightest of noses, bordered by perfect eyebrows, and the most passionate and lovely of smiles. She cooked very well, but there had also been a day where she too hunted, especially when he was but a babe. Mama took pride in her culture and refused to wear anything but the traditional kebaya on normal days; and she was unmatched in one. Robert was a beautiful combination of both. He had the physique of a European man and the grey of his father’s eyes, but of olive skin and black hair, which made him look like a Spaniard.
They all sat around the table; Cornelius sat at the head, Mama to his right, and Robert across her. Robert was about to munch into his meal but Cornelius stopped him. “Pray first, my boy, and ask God and the spirits of these lands for blessings.”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Oh you must be terribly hungry, Robert.” Said Mama. Robert nodded with a wide smile; the young boy, thirteen years of age now, and in three years, a man. Mother worried about when he grew up, what he will do later, and whether he will leave her and Cornelius alone forever… She was afraid he might be too much like his father, and thus seek for adventure while young. She dismissed the thoughts and joined in prayer.
Then they ate, and ate aplenty; the dove was wonderfully fried, and so was the venison, ample and rich at medium-rare. Robert’s smile was larger after eating, which pleased Mama. “And I,” said Cornelius, grinning. “Will take the wine.”
The crickets were alive that night and the breeze was lively, creating a soundly ambience of windly and constant, calming noise. Mother and Robert talked about earlier today as they picked up the plates to be carried to the back so they could be washed, a job they would do later and quickly so before the sun set. “Did you know I got the dove?” asked Robert. “It was my first time taking game for myself, and I got him right through!”
“And it was a very delicious dove indeed, young Robert. You will grow into a fine man yet, I promise you. Now, you must resume your reading. What are you having now?”
“The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire, Mama.”
“Ah, yes. The Crisis of the Third Century, yes?”
“Yes, Mama. But why are the Romans so… keen for power, Mama?”
“Because humans are born with both vice and virtue, my son. It is a matter of balance, a battle between good and evil. And the good must always outweigh the bad; the Romans had a terrible balance of that, I can assure you!” she said, and laughed. Robert was dumbfounded by the statement, somewhat clueless to what Mama had said. “Very well, please pick up the plates and we’ll read together.”
“Oh, Mama! I’d love that, surely!”
Robert took the dirty plates and carried them off, leaving Mama alone. She sat on the porch, looking into the open. Cool air began to come in with a gentle breeze, and such was paired with with the tune of crickets and the frogs and the owls. Mama was one to sing, and she sang very well. Robert could hear her humming even from the back and did so with an exactness of tune and rhythm little could match. She hummed with the crickets. But as Mama looked into the distance, enjoying her evening, the world suddenly turned into silence. The crickets had stopped. Feeling something was off, she looked at the field before them, a piece of land that they had rented off a Javanese lord, as was the practice of the time.
A bird flew from a tree that was not so distant, into the darkness, as if something alerted it. And surely, something alerted her. She attempted to run or shout to warn Cornelius, but it was too late.
The silence of the night broke with the sound of gunpowder igniting, and a ball of lead twisted and struck right through her chest. Her body dropped, though her soul had left it even before it hit the ground. Surely, if the house did not hear the sound of the gun, they had heard the sound of Mama’s body hitting the floor.
Cornelius came swearing, a bottle of wine still in his hand, and as he saw his beloved wife’s dead body, his mind came into shock… “No, no, no…” he dropped too the bottle, and ran for his son. “Robert! Boy! Where are you!” he was almost in tears now, his spirit shattered, his mind splintered like cannon splintering timber.
“What happened, Papa?” Said he, his innocent grey eyes ignorant of the fact.
“Go upstairs and hide. Now! Now!”
He nodded and ran, and hid within his cupboard, between his shirts and jackets, which hung about him. He heard boots thumping the wood work, a sword unsheathed, and shadows walking. Then the shouts of men in the distance, from outside the house. They were yelling in Javanese, but as well as in Melayu, whom he could recognise as his father’s.
Steel clashed and gunpowder erupted his ears, and Robert could not help but want to see what was going on. He was sure his father could win, he was a soldier, a hussar in Napoleon’s Grand Armee… And he wanted to see, he wanted to see… and he regretted it. He went out of the cupboard and onto the window, where he peeked over it, hiding himself in a piece of bed-sheet.
And there he saw what honour meant. There was five or six of them, all either shirtless or dressed in some easy white fabric with ruined trousers. Three of them had fallen, one bled with a cut throat, the other with a severed leg, cut clean by his father’s curved light cavalry sword. The other’s body was distant from the melee, his body hanging by the low gates.
His father, however, was less than well. There were cuts about his left arm, and it bled profusely. On his right arm was a sabre, on the other a pistol of which he held by the barrel, the grip he used as a hacking tool. “Come at me, scum. Come at me, godverdomme! I’ll eat you all alive!” yelled he.
“Just surrender, meneer. Leave and we will let you live.” Said one in broken Dutch. He was different from the others. He was bald and moustached, but a piece of cloth was tied above his right eye. Papa could take on a cripple, worry not! He told to himself, but Robert could not deny that he had a bad feeling about what was going to happen next.
“I’d rather die than give up my home.” Said Papa.
One of One-Eye’s henchmen then struck at him with a machete, but was parried by his father clean, then he swung the pistol at him, which took him by the skull, and took him out of the fight quick. Then another one came at him, with a hatchet this time, and so did the sword’s blade catch the wood, but the hatchet locked onto it. The axeman pulled it, and Cornelius was too weak to hold the large man’s power off, and so he was pulled into his big frame, but just before the brigand could have him, he smashed his neck with the grip of his pistol; but there came the catalyst, One-Eye ran to his back and with the swirly-looking blade they called a keris, ran him through the flank, and Cornelius shouted in pain and shock. Then, he stabbed him over again and again, the unique shape of the blade causing more and more blood to spring out of his side, ripping his organs apart with little else to live for. But even then, Cornelius fought back. His white shirt red with blood, he took his sword again, and cut into the axeman’s stomach, which caused him to gasp for his life.
Though all that, to no effect. He was just as good as dead, and he fell on one knee, too weak to live, too weak to hold the pain. No! Robert wanted to yell, but he held himself in, and began to weep.
Another half-dozen brigands came over the fences, two of them with muskets, and came to One-Eye’s flank. “You killed all of my men, Wachtmeester. But not enough, yes?” he laughed.
Cornelius shook, his muscles weak and his insides destroyed by the stab. Blood was springing out of his mouth and he could not even talk now, for his lungs were perhaps filled too with blood. A newly-arrived brigand went by One-Eye, a shocked look on his face. They conversed in Javanese. Then One-Eye issued orders; from his gestures, it seems like he told them to go around and check the place for valuables. “But do not destroy the house.” — those were the only words he understood. The rest nodded and spread out, leaving One-Eye and Cornelius alone.
“You fight good, Wachtmeester van Holt. Now you die.” Said he, and he pulled out from a leather holster by his side a pistol, something he pointed at Cornelius’ head. With tired but hopeful eyes, of a face marred with sweat and mouth dripping with blood, he looked at his house, and Robert found his father’s eyes. He muttered something under his breath, a prayer, or hope. And the trigger was pulled; the bullet blowing through the other side. And like his wife, Wachtmeester Cornelius van Holt, once of Napoleon’s hussars, lay dead in a puddle of his own blood, guts, and brains.
And Robert cried, and Robert hid… revenge, revenge he swore, as an honourable man should, for Robert, at thirteen, had become, truly, a man.
#
Eight Years Later
Java, the East Indies, 1825
Dearest Cornelia, my beloved sister.
I know you shall never agree with my decision, but I have requested for a transfer to the battlefields in Java rather than stay on the staff of General van Geen. Prince Diponegoro has ruined the balance of our world and I cannot stand aside to merely watch; many of my friends have died and many a village have burnt. It is impossible for me to only look and do nothing while Mama’s homeland, her blood and soul, be raped as so by these zealots.
You need not worry nor fear, Cornelia; we hussars will fight alongside the famous Mangkunegaraan Legion, the regiments who conquered Palembang, and the Yogyakartan Royal army… Even if Diponegoro is indeed a skilled commander with many loyal followers, many of my comrades are veterans of the war in Europe, who had fought for Napoleon or against him. One battle and he shall be done.
Take care, Cornelia. You are always in my prayers.
With love,
Robert van Holt, Kornet, Koninklijke Batavia Huzaren
30 October 1825
