1821 - The Battle for Palembang

26: Engagement (Gombora Island, 1821)

When Captain R.M. Bimasena woke up from that harrowing night, and too, he had been surprised that his nerves had let him sleep, he smelled a grand scent of smoke. And death. And so he put on his uniform that day with the conviction that he had let many die. Yet, he had been in a position to do nothing.

At this point, so many people he knew had been taken away by this war; his heart and senses had become numb to the idea, and he admitted: people die no matter their deeds in life. And the good oft interred with their bones, said he, in his contemplation.

He knew what today meant, for word of the date had circulated amongst the officers for the last several days, and with the redoubts having been taken by the Brigade yesterday, the rumours were now almost truths. There was no reason to delay charging the breach and storm Fortress Gombora.

And so, that morning, Bimasena decided to head off on his horse, away from the redoubts, and to the landing spot, where Wisanggeni's grave lay. As he rode, the smoke from last night's fighting in Muntinghe's Town could be seen, and the skeleton of the destroyed Dutch vessels were seen being excavated by soldiers and surviving seamen alike.

Reaching Wisanggeni's grave, he sat by the water, and by the grave, marked only by a plank of wood of which he had planted some time ago. He put his hand upon the wood, then, and he closed his eyes. And there, he prayed.

He prayed to nature, to God; for his friends, his family; and finally for himself. He took his hand away then, and sat, and closed his eyes. So deep was his efforts in attempting to create his own inner peace, that the sound of cannon had become unnoticeable to him. What did disturb him, however, was the presence of humans, something he felt under his feet, under his skin. They wore rags and broken clothes; their souls exhausted and broken. Muskets and spears were in their hands, their eyebrows shut and curled... furious hearts, only seeking vengeance, or release from the world. Then, amongst them, he felt one: someone he knew. He opened his eyes then, only to find no one. Until he turned his eyes to the great tides of the Musi.

Figures appeared from what had been the morning mist. Shadows, on boats, rowing, pushing away the tides, and indeed, they made it: they were what he imagined they would be. Ragged, tattered clothing, though all with muskets, with shakoes, or without... hard, bearded, tired... And at their head, a ghost.

And the ghost stepped off the boat with empty eyes, and marched forward, towards the encampment ahead, which had started to show its life, to prepare for what was to come. Bimasena rose from his meditation and walked to that man, that ghost. "James Simpson? Is that truly you?"

And Simpson turned to him. His forehead was bandaged and that denied him to wear any kind of headcover. His uniform was dirty, even his white trousers. His sword, however, shone in its scabbard.

"Lord Bimasena. It is Captain Simpson now. Whatever that bloody means." Said he, though his words only reflected his nonchalance, his emptiness. Like Bimasena, the sounds of cannon were now deaf to his ears, it seems.

"I thought you were dead. Good God." Bimasena. "If so, your arm–why do you come here and not simply retire from your wounds?"

"Even if I did retire from my wounds, and take rest instead, I would have been a dead man. Muntinghe's Town has been burnt to ash, along with the doctors, its nurses, the villagers. All good of these damned shores had burnt down with Muntinghe's Town, and I remain alive–I have indeed, not been chosen by the reaper last night."

"But you are alive. Do you not find any relief in that?"

Simpson walked in silence, and chose not to reply the man. He turned to him, then, finally. "Where is Captain Raimbaud?"