The Fall of Sultan Alif

 

When Sultan Alif’s heart stopped beating in 1680, all hell broke loose in the Minangkabau Kingdom. Three princes circled each other like hungry dogs around a single bone, each one convinced the throne was his by right. There they were—Raja Suruaso in his palace at Suruaso, Raja Gagar Alam holding court at Pagaruyung, and Bandahara Sungai Tarab lurking in Sungai Tarap—all of them preening in stolen royal titles like crows decked out in peacock feathers.

You could smell the coming bloodshed on the wind.

During those first fifty years of the 1700s, these princes took turns poking at the Dutch East India Company—the VOC—like boys with sticks at a sleeping bear. The Company had been squatting on Sumatra’s West Coast since ‘63, building their warehouses and that damn fort in Padang, acting like they owned the place.

By 1690, two of our power-hungry princes—Gagar Alam and Suruaso—started marching down from the mountains, bringing their followers like dark clouds rolling in before a storm. They wanted what they figured was theirs: control of Padang. Their real aim, if you believe old H. van Basel’s scribbling’s, was to drag those coastal folks back under the yoke of the Minangkabau King and kick the Company right into the sea where they belonged.

The Princes Descend

These mountain princes weren’t subtle. They’d come down carrying letters heavy with royal seals, the wax stamps changing depending on which faction’s banner they waved. The locals treated them like gods walking among men. There was even a saying: “seramai-ramainya pasar, anak raja lalukan juga.” No matter how packed the marketplace, the kings’ son still gets through. The crowd parts like the Red Sea for Moses.

Make no mistake—these weren’t just fancy boys playing at power. They commanded real muscle in those coastal settlements. As Andaya wrote, “they could muster troops and even threaten communities.” The kind of men who speak soft but carry a big stick, and everyone knows what that stick can do.

The Company saw these princes for what they were: a cancer growing in their side. Their reports claim Raja Gagar Alam had a mouth that worked magic—“With winged sentences to conceal his pretense,” they wrote, like his words could fly right into your brain and nest there. What he wanted was simple. Before the Dutch, the coast had belonged to Aceh (1620–1663), and Aceh had cut off the gold tribute that should’ve flowed to Pagaruyung. Now that Aceh was gone, Gagar Alam wanted that golden river flowing again.

The Company Refuses

The Company wouldn’t bow. They denied these princes any legitimacy, claimed the whole Minangkabau Kingdom had fractured like a mirror dropped on stone. The Padang penghulu and Sultan Indrapura backed them up, swearing they’d never heard of these so-called “Manicabouse” princes. The kingdom was dead, they said.

That denial was like a match to dry kindling.

Of the two princes, Raja Suruaso took it hardest. His pride was a raw wound, festering with each slight. He considered himself the supreme ruler of all Minangkabau—mountains and coast alike. When his grand envoy returned with nothing but cold shoulders and colder words, something in Raja Suruaso snapped like a dry twig. By early 1713, he was rallying his people, his voice rising above the crowd, his eyes burning with the fever of a man who’s been denied what he knows is his.

That same year, Suruaso and his mountain folk descended on Pauh—a place where pepper and rice grew thick, where hatred for the VOC ran even thicker. The locals, led by their chief penghulu Raja Putih, fell under Suruaso’s spell like children enchanted by the Pied Piper. By noon on February 24, 1713, Raja Putih had gathered a force of 500 ulamas dressed in white, clutching prayer beads in their right hands, following Suruaso like he was the second coming. They struck Padang hard, stealing 300 buffaloes and five herdsmen, dragging their prizes back to Pauh like wolves returning to their den.

Blood and Fire

The VOC’s response was swift and merciless. By month’s end, they’d assembled a force of Padang locals, 120 Bugis fighters, and pale-skinned European troops. They swarmed over the villages around Pauh, leaving nothing but ash and smoke in their wake—a tactic they’d used time and again, turning homes to cinders, lives to ruins. Raja Suruaso and Raja Putih scattered like roaches when the lights come on, fleeing back to the safety of the interior.

With the princes gone, Lieutenant Oenen turned his fury inward, hunting for traitors among his own. The Padang commander, Marah Laut, was accused of slipping information to Raja Suruaso. They dragged him and his aide, Penghulu Berbangsa, away in chains to Batavia. When their crime was confirmed, they were shipped even further to Banda—a one-way journey into exile. Ten penghulus deemed faithful to the VOC took control of Padang, their hands stained with the betrayal of their own kind.

By mid-1713, Raja Gagar Alam was planning his own descent, whispering promises of revenge for his brother’s defeat. He swore to coastal villages that he’d lead the charge against the Company. Like most promises made in the heat of anger, this one evaporated like morning dew.

An Uneasy Peace

A year later, peace envoys from the fractured kingdom shuffled into Padang, offering to end the bloodshed that was strangling coastal trade. No one knew which prince had sent them, but they begged the VOC to forgive Raja Suruaso, to accept him as an ally. The mountain communities were tired of war, but the princes remained like wounds that wouldn’t heal. The VOC figured the way to soothe these festering sores was with gold and treaties.

The coastal folk never stopped believing in the Minangkabau Kingdom’s dark magic. Its princes were still gods to them, holy men who carried power in their veins. Knowing this, the Company fed Raja Gagar Alam gifts like you’d feed scraps to a dangerous dog—about 60 rijksdaalders worth. The prince hoped these handouts would become regular tributes, but the Company made no such promise. It was enough to quiet the storm, for a time. Raja Gagar Alam’s rage cooled, and even his broken relationship with Raja Suruaso showed signs of mending.

In the years that followed, the Company greeted every royal visitor—be they envoys, princes, or princely sons from any faction—with the same calculated generosity. Small gifts for big egos. A cheap price for temporary peace.

The General-Priest Rises

1715 brought a new threat. VOC records call him “General-Priest Sejoenjoeng,” or Tuanku Sijunjung, a nephew of the Minangkabau King with fire in his blood. He gathered mountain troops in Pauh, united them with locals still nursing wounds from their previous defeat, and choked off Padang’s eastern and northern access like a hand around a throat. Trade between Padang and the interior withered and died. His forces pushed to the coast, planting their banners at Ujung Karang just north of Padang, their eyes fixed on the Company fort.

That afternoon, the Company unleashed its attack dogs—Bugis warriors, Nias troops, and Padang hulubalangs under the Padang commander. They drove Tuanku Sijunjung’s men back to Pauh by the next day. Bloodied but not broken, Sijunjung’s alliance built a defensive position inside a high stone basin at Pauh. From this fortress, they launched raids like wasps from a hive, stinging nearby villages, robbing mountain folk, and occasionally stinging Padang itself.

The Company’s patience snapped. They sent Second Lieutenant Creyn Haasbroek with European soldiers and native warriors to crush this nest of rebels once and for all. Tuanku Sijunjung fled eastward, abandoning his followers like a shepherd leaving his flock to wolves. “Losing their leader, the wandering Pauh folk were forced to return to the Company’s path,” wrote one VOC witness. The Pauh people, broken and leaderless, crawled back to Padang begging for mercy.

Sultan Abdul Jalil’s Gambit

On November 6, 1716, Sultan Abdul Jalil—Raja Suruaso’s elder brother—appeared in Padang with a small group of followers. He offered peace on three conditions: The Company could keep Padang, locals could join the Company’s administration, and exiles could return home. The Company agreed, not knowing that Abdul Jalil was merely bidding his time, a snake coiled and waiting to strike.

Twenty-five years later, in early September 1741, Abdul Jalil—now calling himself Raja Pagar-Ujong—came down from the mountains with blood in his eye. Supported by the Chief Penghulu of Pariaman and the Chief Penghulu of Sunur, he first went to Ulakan. There, he kicked out the local chief penghulu and his cronies, replacing them with Raja Muda, a man the locals worshipped but the Company had cast aside.

With growing numbers, he reached Sungai Rotan near Pariaman, leaving dead Company servants in his wake. He torched Company breweries and set his sights on Fort Vreedenburg at Pariaman.

The Padang Fort dispatched 68 soldiers—Europeans and Bugis under Second Lieutenant Derwaard—to stem the bloodshed. They landed on Sunur’s coast, immediately facing Abdul Jalil’s wrath. Eight Europeans and six Bugis died before they recaptured Pariaman Fort. Abdul Jalil and his men retreated inland, burning and looting Corretagie and other villages around Pariaman like demons on a rampage.

The Siege of Kota Tengah

Just as Pariaman’s wounds began to scab over, Bandahara Sungai Tarab appeared in Kota Tengah, Padang’s neighbor to the north, stirring a fresh pot of trouble. He whispered in the ears of Kota Tengah’s penghulu, urging them to join Abdul Jalil’s crusade against Padang. He worked the same magic on the penghulu of Pauh, promising liberation from the Company’s grip. Both villages fell under his spell.

On September 17, 1741, the Bandahara-Abdul Jalil alliance marched with a horde of armed men from Pauh and Kota Tengah toward Ujung Karang. Forces from Nanggalo and Tanjung Saba joined the swelling mob. They surrounded the Company post in Kota Tengah like wolves around a wounded deer.

Robert Muller, the post’s fiscal chief, prepared for the worst. He made ready to dump cannons into the water, bury weapons, and burn the post to ash rather than let it fall. Abdul Jalil and Bandahara’s forces circled day and night, their war cries echoing off the walls, a constant reminder that death was but a thin door away.

Muller knew his small force couldn’t hold out. “It seems,” he said, his voice hollow with resignation, “the natives are herding them into surrender.” Padang Fort, fearing they’d be next on the chopping block, begged Batavia Castle for 400 to 500 European or Bugis soldiers. But the Company was fighting fires on all fronts—Jepara in rebellion, Cirebon in flames. Batavia sent only ammunition and food; no reinforcements darkened Padang’s horizon that year.

The Tide Turns

By January 1742, Abdul Jalil’s forces had dug in deep at Pauh, Ujung Karang, Kota Tengah, and Ulakan. They were like ticks burrowed under skin—impossible to remove without tearing the flesh. The Company had just 108 Europeans and 81 Bugis in Padang, including sailors and craftsmen. Desperate for bodies, they reached out to Natal and Aceh, which sent 92 European soldiers with six cannons. Now 200 strong, they could match Abdul Jalil man for man.

The war’s momentum shifted like sand in an hourglass. Abdul Jalil and Bandahara suffered one defeat after another, each worse than the last. Finally, Abdul Jalil sent two envoys to the Company, seeking terms. The VOC urged him to restore peace quickly, sweetening the deal with small gifts and promises of more. They pledged ongoing tributes if Abdul Jalil would use his authority to smother the war and revive trade, which had withered on the vine during the conflict.

What the Company craved, above all, was stability—a smooth road for commerce, unbothered by tribal squabbles. To avoid further bloodshed with the interior Minangkabau Kingdom, they adopted a simple strategy: dodge direct confrontation, politely deny unreasonable demands, and constantly dangle gifts just valuable enough to matter. Through this careful dance, they manipulated these fractured princes—these broken shards of a once-mighty kingdom—to serve the Company’s true god: profit on Sumatra’s West Coast.

All kingdoms fall. Some collapse suddenly, like a man struck by lightning. Others rot from within, slowly, until one day they simply cease to exist—leaving only princes fighting over scraps, and foreign powers picking at the bones.