“She will be restored to you …” he searched for a suitable word, and found one, “unblemished, you may be sure. Indeed, I am certain that her preservation must be his first concern, for he must know what a terrific retribution will follow if any harm should come to her, either in the violence of battle or … in any other way. And after all,” says he, apparently quite struck with the thought, “he may be a pirate, but he has been educated as an English gentleman, I cannot believe that he is dead to all feelings of honour. Whatever he has become – here, let me fill your glass, old chap – we must remember that there was a time when he was, well … one of us. I think you can take comfort in that thought, what?”
[Extract from the diary of Mrs Flashman, August—, 1844]
I am now Beyond Hope, and Utterly Desolate in my Captivity, like the Prisoner of Chillon, except that he was in a dungeon and I am in a steamship, which I am sure is a thousand times worse, for at least in a dungeon one stays still, and is not conscious of being carried away far beyond the reach of Loving Friends! A week have I been in durance – nay, it seems like a Year!! I can only pine my lost love, and await in Terror whatever Fate is in store for me at the hands of my heartless abductor. My knees tremble at the thought and my heart fails me – how enviable does the lot of the Prisoner of Chillon seem (see Above), for no such Dread hung over his captivity, and at least he had mice to play with, laying their wrinkly wee noses in his hand in sympathy. Although to be sure I don’t like mice, but no more than I don’t like the Odious Native who brings my food, which I cannot endure to eat anyway, although there have been some Pleasant Fruits added to my diet the last day or two, when we came in sight of land as I saw from my porthole. Is this strange and hostile tropic shore to be the Scene of my Captivity? Shall I be sold on Indian Soil? Oh, dear Father – and kind, noble, generous H., thou art lost to me forever!!
Yet even such loss is no worse than the Suspense which wracks my brain. Since the first dreadful day of my abduction I have not seen Don S., which at first I supposed was because he was so a prey to Shame and Remorse, that he could not look me in the eye. I pictured him, Restless on his Prow, torn by pangs of conscience, gnawing at his nails and Oblivious of his sailors’ requests for directions, as the vessel plow’ed on heedless over the waves. Oh, how well deserved his Torment! – and yet it is extremely strange, after his Passionate Protestations, that he should Restrain himself for seven whole days from seeing me, the Object of his Madness. I don’t understand it, for I don’t believe he feels Remorse at all, and the affairs of his boat cannot take all his time, surely! Why, then, does the Cruel Wretch not come to gloat over his Helpless Prey, and Jeer at her sorry condition, for my white taffeta is now quite soiled, and so oppressively hot in the confines of my cabin, that I have perforce discarded it in favour of some of the native dresses called sarongas, which have been provided by the creeping little Chinese woman who waits upon me, a sallow creature, and not a word of English, tho’ not as handless as some I’ve known. I have a saronga of red silk which is, I think, the most becoming, and another in blue and gold embroidery, quite pretty, but of course they are very simple and slight, and would not be the thing at all for European Wear, except in déshabillé. But to these am I reduced, and the left heel of my shoe broken, so I must put them both off, and no proper articles for toilette, and my hair a positive fright. Don S. is a Brute and Beast, first to wrench me away, and then so heartlessly to neglect me in this sorry condition!
Post merid P.M.
He came at last, and I am distraught! While I was repairing as best I might the ravages slight disorders in my appearance which my cruel confinement has wrought, and trying how my saronga (the red one) might fold most elegantly – for it is an excellent rule that in all Circumstances a Gentlewoman should make the best of things, and strive to present a collected appearance – I was of a sudden Aware of his Presence. To my Startled Protest, he replied with an insinuating compliment on how well my saronga became me, and such a Look of ardent yearning that I at once regretted my poor discarded taffeta, fearing the base ardour that the sight of me in Native Garb might kindle in him. To my instant and repeated demands that I be taken Home at once, and my Upbraidings for his scandalous usuage and neglect of me, he replied with the utmost composure and odiously solicitous inquiries for my Comfort! I replied with icy disdain. “Restore me instantly to my family, and keep your tiresome comforts!” He received this rebuff quite unabashed, and said I must put such hopes from my mind forever.
“What!” I cried, “you will deny me even some suitable clothing, and proper toilet articles, and a change of bed linen every day, and a proper variety in diet, instead of roast pork, of which I am utterly tired, and a thorough airing and cleaning of my accommodation?” “No, no,” he protested, “these things you shall have, and whatever else your heart desires, but as for returning to your family, it is out of the question, for the die is cast!” “We shall see about that, my lad!” I cried, masking the Terror which his Grim and Unrelenting manner inspired in my Quaking Bosom, and presenting a Bold Front, at which to my astonishment he dropped to his knees, and taking my hand – but with every sign of respect – he spoke in so moving and pleading a manner, protesting his worship, and vowing that when I returned his Love, he would make me a Queen Indeed, and my lightest whim instantly obeyed, that I could not but be touched. Seeing me weaken, he spoke earnestly of the Kindness and Companionship which we had shared, at which, despising my own Frailty, I was moved to tears.
“Why, oh, why, Don S., did you have to spoil it all by this thoughtless and ungenteel behaviour, and after such a jolly cruise?” I cried. “It is most disobliging of you!” “I could not bear the torture of seeing you possessed by another!” cried he. I asked, “Why, whom who do you mean, Don S.?” “Your husband!” cries he, “but, by h----n, he shall be your husband no longer!” and springing up, he cried that my Spirit was as matchless as my Beauty, which he praised in terms that I cannot bring myself to repeat, although I daresay the compliment was kindly intended, and adding fiercely that he should win me, at whatever cost. Despite my struggles and reproaches, and feeble cries for an Aid which I knew could not be forthcoming, he repeatedly subjected me to the assault of his salutes upon my lips, so fervently that I fainted into a Merciful Oblivion for between five and ten minutes, after which, by the Intervention of Heaven, he was called on deck by one of his sailors, leaving me, with repeated oaths of his Fidelity, in a state of perturbed delicacy.
There is still no sign of pursuit by H., which I had so wildly hoped for. Am I, then, forgotten by those dearest to me, and is there no hope indeed? Am I doomed to be carried off forever, or will Don S. yet repent the intemperate regard for me – nay, for my mere Outward Show – which drove him to this inconsiderate folly? I pray it may be so, and hourly I lament – nay, I curse – that Fairness of Form and Feature of which I was once so vain. Ah, why could I not have been born safe and plain like my dearest sister Agnes, or our Mary, who is even less favoured, altho’ to be sure her complection is none too bad, or …………d Oh, sweet sisters three, gone beyond hope of recall! Could you but know, and pity me in my affliction! Where is H.? Don S. has sent down a great posy of flowers to my cabin, jungle blossoms, pretty but quite gaudy.
[End of extract, which passes belief for shamelessness, hypocrisy, and unwarranted conceit! – G. de R.]
* * *
a Great lord.
b Blowpipe.
c “Wood devils”, i.e. users of the sumpitan.
d At this point a heavy deletion of two lines occurs in the manuscript, doubtless to excise some unflattering reference to Lady Flashman’s third sister, Grizel de Rothschild, who edited the journal.
Chapter 6
We dropped down Kuching river on the evening tide of the day following, a great convoy of ill-assorted boats gliding silently through the opened booms, and down between banks dark and feathery in the dusk to the open sea. How Brooke had done it I don’t know – I daresay you can read in his journ
al, and Keppel’s, how they armed and victualled and assembled their ramshackle war fleet of close on eighty vessels, loaded with the most unlikely crew of pirates, savages, and lunatics, and launched them on to the China Sea like a d----d regatta; I don’t remember it too clearly myself, for all through a night and a day it had been bedlam along the Kuching wharves, in which, being new to the business, I’d borne no very useful part.
I have my usual disjointed memories of it, though. I remember the long war-praus with their steep sheers and forests of oars, being warped one after another into the jetty by sweating, squealing Malay steersmen, and the Raja’s native allies pouring aboard – a chattering, half-naked horde of Dyaks, some in kilts and sarongs, others in loin-cloths and leggings, some in turbans, some with feathers in their hair, but all grinning and ugly as sin, loaded with their vile sumpitan-pipes and arrows, their kreeses and spears, all fit to frighten the French.
Then there were the Malay swordsmen who filled the sampans – big, flat-faced villains with muskets and the terrible, straight-bladed kampilan cleavers in their belts; the British tars in their canvas smocks and trousers and straw hats, their red faces grinning and sweating while they loaded Dido’s pinnace, singing “Whisky, Johnny” as they stamped and hauled; the silent Chinese cannoneers whose task it was to lash down the small guns in the bows of the sampans and longboats, and stow the powder kegs and matches; the slim, olive-skinned Linga pirates who manned Paitingi’s spy-boats – astonishing craft these, for all the world like Varsity racing-shells, slim frail needles with thirty paddles that could skim across the water as fast as a man can run. They darted among the other vessels – the long, stately praus, the Dido’s pinnace, the cutters and launches and canoes, the long sloop Jolly Bachelor, which was Brooke’s own flagship; and the flower of our fleet, the East India paddle-steamer Phlegethon, with her massive wheel and platform, and her funnel belching smoke. They all packed the river, in a great tangle of oars and cordage and rubbish, and over it rang the constant chorus of curses and commands in half a dozen languages; it looked like a waterman’s picnic gone mad.
The variety of weapons was an armourer’s nightmare; aside from those I’ve mentioned there were bows and arrows, every conceivable kind of sword, axe, and spear, modern rifled muskets, pepper-pot revolvers, horse-pistols, needle-guns, fantastically-carved Chinese flintlocks, six-pounder naval guns, and stands of Congreve rockets with their firing-frames mounted on the forecastles of three of the praus. God help whoever gets in the way of this collection, thinks I – noting especially a fine comparison on the shore: a British naval officer in tail-coat and waterproof hat testing the hair-triggers of a pair of Mantons, his blue-jackets sharpening their brass-hilted cutlasses on a grindstone, and within a yard of them a jabbering band of Dyaks dipping their langa darts in a bubbling cauldron of the beastly white radjun poison.
“Let’s see you puff your pop-gun, Johnny,” cries one of the tars, and they swung a champagne cork on a string as a target, twenty yards off; one of the grinning little brutes slipped a dart into his sumpitan, clapped it to his mouth – and in a twinkling there was the cork, jerking on its string, transfixed by the foot-long needle. “Ch---t!” says the blue-jacket reverently, “don’t point that b----y thing at my backside, will you?” and the others cheered the Dyak, and offered to swap their gunner for him.
So you can see the kind of army that James Brooke took to sea from Kuching on the morning of August 5, 1844, and if, like me, you had shaken your head in despair at the motley, rag-bag confusion of it as it assembled by the wharves, you would have held your breath in disbelief as you watched it sweeping in silent, disciplined order out on to the China Sea in the breaking dawn. I’ll never forget it: the dark purple water, ruffled by the morning wind; the tangled green mangrove shore a cable’s length to our right; the first blinding rays of silver turning the sea into a molten lake ahead of our bows as the fleet ploughed east.
First went the spy-boats, ten of them in line abreast a mile long, seeming to fly just above the surface of the sea, driven by the thin antennae of their oars; then the praus, in double column, their sails spread and the great sweeps thrashing the water, with the smaller sampans and canoes in tow; the Dido’s pinnace and the Jolly Bachelor under sail, and last, shepherding the flock, the steamer Phlegethon, her big wheel thumping up the spray, with Brooke strutting under her awning, monarch of all he surveyed, discoursing to the admiring Flashy. (It wasn’t that I sought his company, but since I had to go along, I’d figured it would be safest to stick close by him, on the biggest boat available; something told me that whoever came home feet first, it wasn’t going to be him, and the rations would probably be better. So I toadied him in my best style, and he bored me breathless in return.)
“There’s something better than inspecting stirrup straps on Horse Guards!” cries he gaily, flourishing a hand at our fleet driving over the sunlit sea. “What more could a man ask, eh! – a solid deck beneath, the old flag above, stout fellows alongside, and a bitter foe ahead. That’s the life, my boy!” It seemed to me it was more likely to be the death, but of course I just grinned and agreed that it was capital. “And a good cause to fight in,” he went on. “Wrongs to punish, Sarawak to defend – and your lady to rescue, of course. Aye, it’ll be a sweeter, cleaner coast by the time we’ve done with it.”
I asked him if he meant to devote his life to chasing pirates, and he came all over solemn, gazing out over the sea with the wind ruffling his hair.
“It may well be a life’s work,” says he. “You see, what our people at home will not understand is that a pirate here is not a criminal, in our sense; piracy is the profession of the Islands, their way of life – just as trading or keeping shop is with Englishmen. So it is not a question of rooting out a few scoundrels, but of changing the minds of whole nations, and turning them to honest, peaceful pursuits.” He laughed and shook his head. “It will not be easy – d’you know what one of them said to me once? – and this was a well-travelled, intelligent head-man – he said: ‘I know your British system is good, tuan besar, I have seen Singapura and your soldiers and traders and great ships. But I was brought up to plunder, and I laugh when I think that I have fleeced a peaceful tribe right down to their cooking-pots.’ Now, what d’you do with such a fellow?”
“Hang him,” says Wade, who was sitting on the deck with little Charlie Johnson, one of Brooke’s people,24 playing main chatter.a “That was Makota, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, Makota,” says Brooke, “and he was the finest of ’em. One of the stoutest friends and allies I ever had – until he deserted to join the Sadong slavers. Now he supplies labourers and concubines to the coast princes who are meant to be our allies, but who deal secretly with the pirates for fear and profit. That’s the kind of thing we have to fight, quite apart from the pirates themselves.”
“Why d’you do it?” I asked, for in spite of what Stuart had told me, I wanted to hear it from the man himself; I always suspect these buccaneer-crusaders, you see. “I mean, you have Sarawak; don’t that keep you busy enough?”
“It’s a duty,” says he, as one might say it was warm for the time of year. “I suppose it began with Sarawak, which at first seemed to me like a foundling, which I protected with hesitation and doubt, but it has repaid my trouble. I have freed its people and its trade, given it a code of laws, encouraged industry and Chinese immigration, imposed only the lightest of taxes, and protected it from the pirates. Oh, I could make a fortune from it, but I content myself with a little – I’m either a man of worth, you see, or a mere adventurer after gain, and God forbid I should ever be that. But I’m well rewarded,” says he blandly, “for all the good that I do ministers to my satisfaction.”
Pity you couldn’t set it to music and sing it as an anthem, thinks I. Old Arnold would have loved it. But all I said was that it was undoubtedly God’s work, and it was a crying shame that it went unrecognized; worth a knighthood at least, I’d have said.
“Titles?” cries he, sm
iling. “They’re like fine clothes, penny trumpets, and turtle soup – all of slight but equal value. No, no, I’m too quiet to be a hero. All my wish is for the good of Borneo and its people – I’ve shown what can be done here, but it is for our government at home to decide what means, if any, they put at my disposal to extend and develop my work.” His eyes took on that glitter that you see in camp-meeting preachers and company accountants. “I’ve only touched the surface here – I want to open the interior of this amazing land, to exploit it for the benefit of its people, to correct the native character, to improve their lot. But you know our politicians and departments – they don’t care for foreign ventures, and they’re jolly wary of me, I can tell you.”
He laughed again. “They suspect me of being up to some job or other, for my own good. And what can I tell ’em? – they don’t know the country, and the only visits I ever get are brief and official. Well, what can an admiral learn in a week? If I’d any sense I’d vamp up a prospectus, get a board of directors, and hold public meetings. ‘Borneo Limited’, what? That’d interest ’em, all right! But it would be the wrong thing, you see – and it’d only convince the government that I’m a filibuster myself – Blackbeard Teach with a clean shirt on. No, no, it wouldn’t do.” He sighed. “Yet how proud I should be, some day, to see Sarawak, and all Borneo, under the British flag – for their good, not ours. It may never happen, more’s the pity – but in the meantime, I have my duty to Sarawak and its people. I’m their only protector, and if I leave my life in the business, well, I shall have died nobly.”
Well, I’ve seen pure-minded complacency in my time, and done a fair bit in that line myself, when occasion demanded, but J.B. certainly beat all. Mind you, unlike most Arnoldian hypocrites, I think he truly believed what he said; at least, he was fool enough to live up to it, so far as I could see, which is consistent with my conclusion that he was off his head. And when you remember that he excited the wrath of Gladstone25 – well, that speaks volumes in a chap’s favour, doesn’t it? But at the time I was just noting him down as another smug, lying, psalm-smiter devoted to prayer and profit, when he went and spoiled it all by bursting into laughter and saying:
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