“For a few hours. The governor of Tamitave, up the coast, is a fairly civilised savage—all the ruling class are, including the queen: Bond Street dresses, as I said, and a piano in the palace. That’s a remarkable place, by the way—big as a cathedral, and covered entirely by tiny silver bells. G-d knows what goes on in there.”
“You’ve visited it?”
“I’ve seen it—but not been to tea, as you might say. But I’ve talked to those who have been inside it, and who’ve even seen Queen Ranavalona and lived to tell the tale. Europeans, some of ’em.”
“What are they doing there, for G-d’s sake?”
“The Europeans? Oh, they’re slaves.”
At the time, of course, I suspected he was drawing the long bow to impress the visitors—but he wasn’t. No, every word he’d said about Madagascar was gospel true—and not one-tenth of the truth. I know; I found out for myself.
But from the sea it looked placid enough. Tamitave was apparently a very large village of yellow wooden buildings set out in orderly rows back from the shore; there was a fairish-sized fort with a great stockade some distance from the town, and a few soldiers drilling outside it. While Haslam was ashore, I examined them through the glass—big buck niggers in white kilts, with lances and swords, very smart, and moving in time, which is unusual among black troops. They weren’t true niggers, though, it seemed to me; when Haslam was rowed out to the ship again there was an escorting boat, with a chap in the stern in what was a fair imitation of our naval rig: blue frock coat, epaulettes, cocked hat and braid, saluting away like anything—he looked like a Mexican, if anything, with his round, oily black face, but the rowers were dark brown and woolly haired, with straight noses and quite fine features.
That was the closest I got to the Malagassies, just then, and you may come to agree that it was near enough. Solomon seemed well satisfied with whatever business he had done ashore, and by next morning we were far out to sea with Madagascar forgotten behind us.
Now, I said I wouldn’t weary you with our voyage, so I shall do no more than mention Ceylon and Madras—which is all they deserve, anyway, and take you straight away across the Bengal Bay, past the infernal Andamans, south by the heel of Great Nicobar, and into the steaming straits where the great jellyfishes swim between the mainland of Malaya and the strange jungle island of Sumatra with its man-monkeys, down to the sea where the sun comes from, and the Islands lie ahead of you in a great brilliant chain that runs thousands of miles from the South China Sea to Australia and the far Pacific on the other side of the world. That’s the East—the Islands; and you may take it from one who has India in his bones, there’s no sea so blue, no lands so green, and no sun so bright, as you’ll find beyond Singapore. What was it Solomon had said—“where it’s always morning.” So it was, and in that part of my imagination where I keep the best memories, it always will be.
That’s one side of it. I wasn’t to know, then, that Singapore was the last jumping-off place from civilisation into a world as terrible as it was beautiful, rich and savage and cruel beyond belief, of land and seas still unexplored where even the mighty Royal Navy sent only a few questing warships, and the handful of white adventurers who voyaged in survived by the speed of their keels and slept on their guns. It’s quiet now, and the law, British and Dutch, runs from Sunda Strait to the Solomons; the coasts are tamed, the last trophy heads in the long-houses are ancient and shrivelled,13 and there’s hardly a man alive who can say he’s heard the war gongs booming as the great robber fleets swept down from the Sulu Sea. Well, I heard ’em, only too clearly, and for all the good I’ve got to say of the Islands, I can tell you that if I’d known on that first voyage what I learned later, I’d have jumped ship at Madras.
But I was happily ignorant, and when we slipped in past the green sugar-loaf islands one fine April morning of ’44, and dropped anchor in Singapore roads, it looked safe enough to me. The bay was alive with shipping, a hundred square-riggers if there was one: huge Indiamen under the gridiron flag, tall clippers of the Southern Run wearing the Stars and Stripes, British merchantmen by the bucketful, ships of every nationality—Solomon pointed out the blue crossed anchors of Russia, the red and gold bars of Spain, the blue and yellow of Sweden, even a gold lion which he said was Venice. Closer in, the tubby junks and long trading praus were packed so close it seemed you could have walked on them right across the bay, fairly seething with half-naked crews of Malays, Chinese, and every colour from pale yellow to jet black, deafening us with their high-pitched chatter as Solomon’s rowers threaded the launch through to the river quay. There it was bedlam; all Asia seemed to have congregated on the landing, bringing their pungent smells and deafening sounds with them.
There were coolies everywhere, in straw hats or dirty turbans, staggering half-naked under bales and boxes—they swarmed on the quays, on the sampans that choked the river, round the warehouses and go-downs, and through them pushed Yankee captains in their short jackets and tall hats, removing their cheroots from their rat-trap jaws only to spit and cuss; Armenian Jews in black coats and long beards, all babbling; British blue-jackets in canvas shirts and ducks; long-moustached Chinese merchants in their round caps, borne in palkis; British traders from the Sundas with their pistols on their hips; leathery clipper men in pilot caps, shouting oaths of Liverpool and New York; planters in wideawakes making play among the niggers with their stout canes; a file of prisoners tramping by in leg-irons, with scarlet-coated soldiers herding them and bawling the step—I heard English, Dutch, German, Spanish, and Hindi all in the first minute, and most of the accents of England, Scotland, Wales, Ireland and the American seaboards to boot. God knows what the native tongues were, but they were all being used at full pitch, and after the comparative quiet we’d been used to it was enough to make you dizzy. The stink was fearful, too.
Of course, waterfronts are much the same everywhere; once you were away from the river, out on the “Mayfair” side of the town, which lay east along Beach Road, it was pleasant, and that was where Solomon had his house, a fine two-storey mansion set in an extensive garden, facing the sea. We were installed in cool, airy rooms, all complete with fans and screens, legions of Chinese servants to look after us, cold drinks by the gallon, and nothing to do but rest in luxury and recover from the rigours of our voyage, which we did for the next three weeks.
Old Morrison was all for it; he had gluttonised to such a tune that he’d put on flesh alarmingly, and all he wanted to do was lie down, belching and refreshing his ill nature in a hot climate. Elspeth, on the other hand, must be up and doing at once; she was off almost before she’d changed her shift, carried in a palki by menials, to pay calls on what she called The Society People, find out who was who, and squander money in the shops and bazaars. Solomon pointed her in the right directions, made introductions, and then explained apologetically that he had weeks of work to do in his ’changing-house at the quays; after that, he assured us, we would set off on our tour of his possessions, which I gathered lay somewhere on the east coast of the peninsula.
So there was I, at a loose end—and not before time. I didn’t know when I had been so d---ably bored; a cruise of wonders was all very well, but I’d had my bellyful of Solomon and his floating mansion with its immaculate appointments and unvarying luxury and everything so exactly, confoundedly right, and the finest foods and wines coming out of my ears—I was surfeited with perfection, and sick of the sight of old Morrison’s ugly mug, and the sound of Elspeth’s unwearying imbecile chatter, and having not a d----d thing to do but stuff myself and sleep. I’d not had a scrap of vicious amusement for six months—and, for me, that’s a lifetime of going hungry. Well, thinks I, if Singapore, the flesh pot of the Orient, can’t supply my urgent needs, and give me enough assorted depravity in three weeks to last the long voyage home, there’s something amiss; just let me shave and change my shirt, and we’ll stand this town on its head.
I took a long slant, to get my bearings, and then plunged in, slaverin
g. There were eight cross-streets in the Mayfair section, where all the fine houses were, and a large upland park below Governor’s Hill where Society congregated in the evening—and, by Jove, wasn’t it wild work, though? Why, you might raise your hat to as many as a hundred couples in two hours, and when you were fagged out with this, there was the frantic debauch of a gig drive along Beach Road, to look at the ships, or a dance at the assembly rooms, where a married woman might even polka with you, provided your wife and her husband were on hand—unmarried ladies didn’t waltz, except with each other, the daring little hussies.
Then there were dinners at Dutranquoy’s Hotel, with discussions afterwards about whether the Raffles Club oughtn’t to be revived, and how the building of the new Chinese Pauper Hospital was progressing, and the price of sugar, and the latest leaderette in the “Free Press”, and for the wilder spirits, a game of pyramids on the hotel billiard table—I played twice, and felt soiled at my beastly indulgence. Elspeth was indefatigable, of course, in her pursuit of pleasure, and dragged me to every soirée, ball, and junket that she could find, including church twice each Sunday, and the subscription meetings for the new theatre, and several times we even met Colonel Butterworth, the Governor—well, thinks I, this is Singapore, to be sure, but I’m shot if I can stand this pace for long.14
Once, I asked a likely-looking chap—you could tell he was a rake; he was using pomade—where the less respectable entertainments were to be found, supposing there were any, and he coloured a bit and shuffled and said:
“Well, there are the Chinese processions—but not many people would care to be seen looking at them, I dare say. They begin in the—ahem—native quarter, you know.”
“By George,” says I, “that’s bad. Perhaps we could look at ’em for just a moment, though—we needn’t stay long.”
He didn’t care for it, but I prevailed on him, and we hurried down to the promenade, with him muttering that it wasn’t at all the thing, and what Penelope would say if she got to hear of it, he couldn’t imagine. He had me in a fever of excitement, and I was palpitating by the time the procession hove in view—twenty Chinks beating gongs and letting off smoke and whistles, and half a dozen urchins dressed in Tartar costumes with umbrellas, all making a h--l of a din.
“Is that it?” says I.
“That’s it,” says he. “Come along, do—or someone will see us. It’s—it’s not done, you know, to be seen at these native displays, my dear Flashman.”
“I’m surprised the authorities allow it,” says I, and he said the “Free Press” was very hot against it, but the Indian processions were even worse, with chaps swinging on poles and carrying torches, and he’d even heard rumours that there were fakirs walking on hot coals, on the other side of the river.
That was what put me on the right track. I’d seen the waterfront, of course, with its great array of commercial buildings and warehouses, but the native town that lay beyond it, on the west bank, had looked pretty seedy and hardly worth exploring. Being desperate by this time, I ventured across one evening when Elspeth was at some female gathering, and it was like stepping into a brave new world.
Beyond the shanties was China Town—streets brilliantly-lit with lanterns, gaming houses and casinos roaring away on every corner, side-shows and acrobats—Hindoo fire-walkers, too, my pomaded chum had been right—pimps accosting you every other step, with promises of their sister who was, of course, every bit as voluptuous as Queen Victoria (how our sovereign lady became the carnal yardstick for the entire Orient through most of the last century, I’ve never been able to figure; possibly they imagined all true Britons lusted after her), and on all sides, enough popsy to satisfy an army—Chinese girls with faces like pale dolls at the windows; tall, graceful Kling tarts from the Coromandel, swaying past and smiling down their long noses; saucy Malay wenches giggling and beckoning from doorways, popping out their boobies for inspection; it was Vanity Fair come true—but it wouldn’t do, of course. Poxed to a turn, most of ’em; they were all right for the drunken sailors lounging on the verandahs, who didn’t care about being fleeced—and possibly knifed—but I’d have to find better quality than that. I didn’t doubt that I would, and quickly, now that I knew where to begin, but for the present I was content to stroll and look about, brushing off the pimps and the more forward whores, and presently walking back to the river bridge.
And who should I run slap into but Solomon, coming late from his office. He stopped short at sight of me.
“Good G-d,” says he, “you ain’t been in bazaar-town, surely? My dear chap, if I’d known you wanted to see the sights, I’d have arranged an escort—it ain’t the safest place on earth, you know. Not quite your style, either, I’d have thought.”
Well, he knew better than that, but if he wanted to play innocent, I didn’t mind. I said it had been most interesting, like all native towns, and here I was, safe and sound, wasn’t I?
“Sure enough,” says he, laughing and taking my arm. “I was forgetting—you’ve seen quite a bit of local colour in your time. But Singapore’s—well, quite a surprising place, even for an old hand. You’ve heard about our Black-faced gangs, I suppose? Chinese, you know—nothing to do with the tongs or hues, who are the secret societies who rule down yonder—but murderous villains, just the same. They’ve even been coming east of the river lately, I’m told—burglary, kidnapping, that sort of thing, with their faces blacked in soot. Well, an unarmed white civilian on his own—he’s just their meat. If you want to go again”—he gave me a quick look and away—“let me know; there are some really fine eating-houses on the north edge of the native town—the rich Chinese go there, and it’s much more genteel. The Temple of Heaven’s about the best—no sharking or rooking, or anything of that kind, and first-class service. Good cabarets, native dancing…that order of thing, you know.”
Now why, I wondered, was Solomon offering to pimp for me—for that’s what it struck me he was doing. To keep me sinfully amused while he paid court to Elspeth, perhaps—or just in the way of kindness, to steer me to the best brothels in town? I was pondering this when he went on:
“Speaking of rich Chinese—you and Elspeth haven’t met any yet, I suppose? Now they are the most interesting folk in this settlement, altogether—people like Whampoa and Tan Tock Seng. I must arrange that—I’m afraid I’ve been neglecting you all shockingly, but when one’s been away for three years—well, there’s a great deal to do, as you can guess.” He grinned whimsically. “Confess it—you’ve found our Singapore gaiety just a trifle tedious. Old Butterworth prosing—and Logan and Dyce ain’t quite Hyde Park style, are they? Ne’er mind—I’ll see to it that you visit one of old Whampoa’s parties—that won’t bore, I promise you!”
And it didn’t. Solomon was as good as his word, and two nights later Elspeth and I and old Morrison were driven out to Whampoa’s estate in a four-wheel palki; it was a superb place, more like a palace than a house, with the garden brilliant with lanterns, and the man himself bowing us in ceremonially at the door. He was a huge, fat Chinese, with a shaven head and a pigtail down to his heels, clad in a black silk robe embroidered with shimmering green and scarlet flowers—straight from Aladdin, except that he had a schooner of sherry in one paw; it never left him, and it was never empty either.
“Welcome to my miserable and lowly dwelling,” says he, doubling over as far as his belly would let him. “That is what the Chinese always say, is it not? In fact, I think my home is perfectly splendid, and quite the best in Singapore—but I can truthfully say it has never entertained a more beautiful visitor.” This was to Elspeth, who was gaping round at the magnificence of lacquered panelling, gold-leafed slender columns, jade ornaments, and silk hangings, with which Whampoa’s establishment appeared to be stuffed. “You shall sit beside me at dinner, lovely golden-haired lady, and while you exclaim at the luxury of my house, I shall flatter your exquisite beauty. So we shall both be assured of a blissful evening, listening to what delights us most.”
&nbs
p; Which he did, keeping her entranced beside him, sipping continually at his sherry, while we ate a Chinese banquet in a dining-room that made Versailles look like a garret. The food was atrocious, as Chinese grub always is—some of the soups, and the creamed walnuts, weren’t bad, though—but the servants were the most delightful little Chinese girls, in tight silk dresses each of a different colour; even ancient eggs with sea-weed dressing and carrion sauce don’t seem so bad when they’re offered by a slant-eyed little goer who breathes perfume on you and wriggles in a most entrancing way as she takes your hand in velvet fingers to show you how to manage your chop-sticks. D----d if I could get the hang of it at first; it took two of ’em to show me, one either side, and Elspeth told Whampoa she was sure I’d be much happier with a knife and fork.
There were quite a few in the party, apart from us three and Solomon—Balestier, the American consul, I remember, a jolly Yankee planter with a fund of good stories, and Catchick Moses,15 a big noise in the Armenian community, who was the decentest Jew I ever met, and struck up an immediate rapport with old Morrison—they got to arguing about interest rates, and when Whampoa joined in, Balestier said he wouldn’t rest until he’d made up a story which began “There was a Chinaman, a Scotchman, and a Jew”, which caused great merriment. It was the cheeriest party I’d struck yet, and no lack of excellent drink, but after a while Whampoa called a halt, and there was a little cabaret, of Chinese songs, and plays, which were the worst kind of pantomime drivel, but very pretty costumes and masks, and then two Chinese dancing girls—exquisite little trollops, but clad from head to foot, alas.
Afterwards Whampoa took Elspeth and me on a tour of his amazing house—all the walls were carved screens, in ivory and ebony, which must have been h---ish draughty, but splendid to look at, and the doors were all oval in shape, with jade handles and gold frames—I reckon half a million might have bought the place. When we were finished, he presented me with a knife, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, in the shape of a miniature scimitar—to prove its edge, he dropped a filmy scrap of muslin on the blade, and it fell in half, sheared through by its own insignificant weight. (I’ve never sharpened it since, and it’s as keen as ever, after sixty years.) To Elspeth he gave a model jade horse, whose bridle and stirrups were tiny jade chains, all cut out of one solid block—G-d knows what it was worth.
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