1821 - The Battle for Palembang

25: To the Stakes (Gombora Island, 1821)

Muntinghe's Town, 1821

The fire became larger and larger as James Simpson rode his pony down close; houses were being burnt, and both combatant and civilian were cut down. His shock overtook him, as he saw a group of villagers running away, being pursued by a mad-eyed Palembangese lancer, and thus were cut down by his great curved sword. Simpson could see that some musket shots were being fired, albeit not in order: the village garrison was quickly overrun and if any resistance existed from the company of soldiers guarding Muntinghe's Town, the field hospital, and the supply depot, they would be piecemeal and inconclusive. Even if van den Bergh's hussars had dealt with the damage somewhat, they were too late.

The Palembangese had won that day.

And Muntinghe's Town was burning.

What had been a cool afternoon breeze had turned hot with the burning air; the smell was that of burning wood, and the sound, aside from that idle noise that arson made, was that of shouts and screeches of pain. Little order was made and chaos ruled the day.

And as the moon went up to apogee, the fires turned louder, and the shouts died down with every man killed. Simpson saw it with his own eyes, the terror: he sat upon his horse, the horror unfolding before his eyes. There was nothing he could do, and if he would help, he would die. But why would that matter? Especially under such harrows?

James Simpson readied his pony, so ill-fitted for battle especially against the grand Arab horses the lancers rode. But regardless, he unsheathed his blade and like knights of old, charged into the fray.

There, James Simpson was prepared to die.

Into the fire, into the flames, sword raised and horse at the gallop. He found a man to strike, a horseman, his eyes fixed upon two dead bodies. Perhaps he too was in contemplation; perhaps he too was terrorised by the horror; perhaps he too, was like Simpson, a human, with a long story and a struggle. But Simpson did not think about it then, and with the determination of a thousand souls, he raised his sword arm to strike him, his weakened left hand on the reigns. But there, there he realised, he was too late. The lancer looked at him and answered the challenge.

He wore a turban, unlike the Palembangese. He was large and bearded and shouted in a language that was not Malay: Arabic. What would an Arab do so far from his home? A member of the great trading houses? To fight for a master that was not truly his own? Then Simpson thought, that he and the man he was about to kill, were exactly the same.

They charged against each other, shouting, swords out, souls out, hearts drumming, and then, and there, they clashed. Simpson slashed high, but it was to no effect, and there, he too, was ways late. He saw the Arab horseman strike him, and did it terribly out of convention: he struck low and did not aim for Simpson. He lowered himself to the spurs of his mount, and attacked Simpson's slower and shorter horse. He struck the poor pony on the head, and Simpson saw the top of the steed's head being cut open. The Arab horseman then galloped through: the Arab had won the duel, and he rushed away, amidst the fire, jumping over a set of burning wooden pillars that had fallen over the ground, and into the darkness.

Simpson's horse kept running for a couple of steps until it struck to a halt and ran into the ground, causing him to fall on his head and left arm. He rolled on the ground, and found himself too weak to move, blood going down his forehead. His wound soon began to pain again, and he was there, paralysed. All around him, was fire and smoke, and he could breathe no longer. He felt warm blood on his forehead.

He tried to drag himself with his good arm, the sword still attached by a strap to his wrist but alas, his head spun, and his bodily coordination halted. Through blurry eyes, he told himself: