The Hills of Singapore

by Dawn Farnham

  Alexander knew his way home but he knew too, despite his young years, that if he was lost Tarun would suffer, and Alex would not be permitted to roam any more. So he lingered longer than usual in front of Whampoa’s emporium, looking at the shipping tackle, the infinite variety and sizes of cords and rope; the tools, the axes and chisels, lanterns, nails, spikes and hooks. A family of kittens had made a home in an old basket, future mousers for the godown, and he played with them for a little while. It was a boy’s dream, a ship’s chandler, and he inhaled the musty and pungent odours of turpentine, tar, pitch, linseed oil, tallow, lard and varnish.

  In the back were a vast variety of livestock: poultry, pigs and sheep in pens, parrots and cockatoos in cages, ducks and geese below them on pools of water. There were ovens for baking bread, and aromas of fresh bread mingled with the dirt and smell of the animals. The noise of cackling, bellowing, braying and bleating simply added to the appeal, and Mr Whampoa’s godown was Alex’s idea of paradise. He never tired of exploring it.

  Two Chinese boys he knew from the town came up, and they all chattered. Then one of the boys took out a woven rattan ball, and they began a game of sepak raga, moving swiftly to keep the ball in the air. Two old men yelled at them. Alex could play sepak raga well, for it was a schoolyard game, but the two boys were much better, and they laughed as he fell over, lunging for the ball. Alex laughed too and let out a string of swear words in Hokkien, which provoked sudden uproarious laughter from the shopkeepers and coolies. The sight of this young white boy, dressed in European clothes, swearing like a Hokkien sailor, could only cause merriment. And Alex played to his audience, pleased with himself, knowing it was unusual.

  He felt rather than saw the presence of a large Chinese man approaching him and looked up. The two other boys ran off. Alex had not seen this man before. He would have noticed, for the man was tall and strong, unlike most of the Chinese men in the town who looked skinny. He was a towkay, Zan knew, from his dress.

  His eyes met Zhen’s. Alex bowed as Chinese manners required. The man stood stock still, saying nothing and Zan frowned a little. His hair had fallen around his face, and he was hot and brushed it back around his ears. Actually he thought the Chinese bare head must be cool and sometimes wanted to lose all his hair entirely. Of course his mother was horrified but, Zan had begun to discover, mothers had most peculiar ideas.

  The man, finally, spoke up in Chinese. “Hello,” he said. “What is your name?”

  “My name is Ah Rex,” Alexander said, enunciating his name in the Chinese manner.

  Zhen was bewildered. He tried again in English. “Are you an English boy?”

  Zan smiled, surprised the man spoke such good English. “I am half-English and half-Dutch, sir. I am Alexander.”

  Before he could continue, Tarun rushed to Zan’s side and, throwing a glance of deep suspicion at the big Chinese man, he took Zan’s hand and pulled him away. Today they were supposed to visit the Indian temple in South Bridge Road, where devotees were preparing for the festival of Thimithi, the fire walking ceremony.

  Zan bowed briefly to the man. Zhen watched as the Indian guard walked quickly away with the boy and disappeared. He could not quite organise his thinking. This boy, this English boy, looked like Xia Lou’s dead husband, the way his hair was braided, long, to his shoulders, with jet beads. Yet something in his size, the shape of his jaw, in the tilt of his eyes, was different to the second son he had seen. He could not put his finger on it. But that this was Xia Lou’s first son, Zhen was almost certain.

  Within him awoke a fervent desire, a desire he had not thought about before this moment. He wanted a son. He was still annoyed at Noan. Tomorrow he must return to her and this time, he wanted a child. He would not be cold and quick as he knew she feared. Nothing would change. He wanted a child conceived in the joy of passion, of her desire and his. His thoughts, thus diverted, turned to Xia Lou. This was her son. He smiled inside his mind. Such a good-looking boy, strong and tall, clever and polite.

  Can I meet you? he thought, Can I talk to you? About children, about life. He missed her, suddenly, in a completely unexpected way. He wanted to talk to her, to a woman full of intelligence that he loved and trusted. He wanted to share something of his life with her, his thoughts and dreams. The way it had been before they had ever made love, getting to understand each other in the old orchard on the hill. Yet it was so hard. There was this ultimatum standing between them. He wished, at that moment, that he had never voiced it.

  18

  The Temenggong’s village was a surprise. His house, the Istana Lama, was not the large, straw-roofed ramshackle wooden hut which she had heard about but a whitewashed European villa with green shutters and roof tiles. Similar buildings and pavilions stood all around the main palace. It was unexpected though she could not now think why. Singapore was full of surprises of the architectural kind.

  Telok Belangah meant “cooking pot bay”, some said from the belangah or clay cooking pots used by the southern Indians, which were made there from the local red clay, others said from the shape of the land itself, which resembled such pots. Charlotte had sailed many times around the stilt houses of Pulau Brani but had not ventured into the area where the Temenggong and his followers lived between the north side of Pulau Brani and the mainland, nestling into the foot of what was now, incongruously known officially as Mount Faber, though no one ever called it that. The waters, she had been told, were dangerous; the Temenggong’s men were all pirates and cut-throats. The sight, therefore of a neat village surrounding a small mansion was unexpected to say the least.

  Prahus and boats of many kinds lay idly in the bay or drawn up on shore. The number and variety of native craft was astounding, and many visitors here remarked upon it and sketched the boats. The bay itself was large and serene, the waters a limpid blue. A series of attap houses on stilts marked the residences and fishing stakes of the orang laut, the sea people who were the Temenggong’s men.

  The day was exceptionally fine, the sky filled with small white clouds like powder puffs. Occasionally they would pass across the sun, casting black shadows on the water, allowing one to perceive the crowds of bright fish flitting just beneath the surface.

  On a high promontory stood a fine mansion. This was Mr Kerr’s residence on Bukit Chermin. William Kerr, Charlotte had discovered, was a close friend and confidant of the Temenggong. He had purchased this land from the Malay leader and was a principal business colleague in the increasingly profitable gutta-percha trade.

  Behind the village rose the wooded slopes of the newly named Mount Faber, covered in pineapple trees. A rough track was just visible, running around the hill. John Thomson, who was sailing the boat and who was generally a mild-mannered and polite young man, was fulsome in his criticisms of the engineering abilities of Edward Faber.

  “Look at the pathetic thing. It is stupidly narrow, so narrow that two persons meeting can barely pass each other. When it rains it is washed away. The flagstaff has been repaired a dozen times but still persists in marching down the slope. And for this marvelous feat of engineering, the entire area has been named for Faber. Such are the advantages of being the Governor’s brother-in-law.”

  Charlotte smiled. She knew of the ridiculously low bridge over the river, so low the boats could not pass under it at high tide. Faber had suggested a remedy in the permanent dredging of the river bed—a suggestion received with scorn. His reputation had been established at a stroke. She knew that the roof of the new Ellenborough Market building at Kampong Malacca had proved too heavy for its sides, and great cracks had appeared. Also, the remodelled landing stage on the bank of the river had collapsed. Faber was currently commissioned with building the new gaol and bets were being taken on how long it would remain standing. Faber was the butt of every joke, and John Thomson, as an architect and engineer, found his patience tested at the mere mention of the man’s name.

  Soon their craft came to rest against the small jetty, and a handsome young boy w
ith a small entourage came forward. He was perhaps thirteen years old. Tucked in his belt was a kris in its scabbard; the large, ornate handle protruded from the belt. Charlotte knew well the importance of the kris to a Malay man. It represented authority and virility. From the heavy silver gilding and the size of the kris, Charlotte deduced that this was either a son or nephew of the Temenggong. The boy raised his hands charmingly to John and Charlotte and said, in good English, “Welcome to my father’s house. You are most welcome indeed. Welcome, welcome. How do you do?”

  Charlotte realised that this boy was Abu Bakar, Ibrahim’s son. She knew he attended Benjamin Keaseberry’s Malay School at River Valley Road, where the Munshi gave instruction. He had spoken to her of this boy, of whom he had high hopes. The Temenggong sent two of his sons there. She knew that Butterworth had encouraged him but still, it was such an unusual and enlightened action that Charlotte was predisposed to like him. She had seen the Temenggong only once before, and he had appeared haughty and unapproachable, surrounded by hard-eyed men with weapons.

  The boy suddenly took up Charlotte’s hand and began pumping it up and down and laughing with delight, until John stepped between them and directed a hard stare at the boy, who, seemingly unaware, now jumped and skipped ahead of them towards the white villa which lay nestled into the slope of the hill. Other than the Temmengong’s guardsmen, there seemed to be no men in the village but the women and children all came crowding out down to the beach to see this white woman who was here to visit their chieftain. They watched silently as Charlotte and John passed between them, not unfriendly but curious and unsmiling. Charlotte was glad to reach the smooth terrain before the house and see emerge from it two men.

  One was European, small, mouse-like, with slightly buck teeth and a very pale complexion. The other she recognised immediately as the Temenggong. She remembered his slimness and his height but had not recalled his extreme good looks. His face was well-shaped, with high cheek bones, an aquiline nose, shapely lips and piercing, dark, intelligent eyes. He looked almost Roman in his features. His dark hair was short and slightly wavy, and over it he wore the elaborate and elegant tengkolok, the rakish silk turban of the Malays. His tight-fitting long coat of green silk was threaded with silver and fell over loose silk trousers; his undershirt was pure white, setting off his fine brown skin. His kris, silver and studded with diamonds, was tucked into his fringed black waist sash. He looked every inch the powerful leader of warring and piratical men, and Charlotte was struck.

  She curtsied very low to him and he smiled at her, a smile of brilliance and she could not help smiling back. He was utterly unexpected.

  The Temenggong too seemed to find Charlotte’s looks appealing, leisurely examining her and smiling until she blushed slightly. John glared and frowned at William. He understood why Charlotte seduced every man she met, but for goodness sakes, the man was a chieftain and a Mohammedan. He should be more circumspect.

  William stepped forward and introduced Daeng Ibrahim to Charlotte formally in Malay, and Charlotte made the usual politesses. Then the Temmengong unexpectedly held out his arm to Charlotte to accompany her into the house.

  Charlotte hesitated. She knew that Mohammedans were very careful around women. Certainly their own were kept well out of the way, in harems, she had heard. Of course this harem business was very intriguing. She had glimpsed it only once in Java. Apparently, however, the Temenggong did as he pleased, and she smiled her thanks and took his arm.

  “Do not be alarmed,” he said to her in Malay in a low voice. “I have learned something around the English for so long and understand how to be the English gentleman when it suits me.”

  They entered the house and she found it to be the epitome of a grand English country manor, complete with Queen Anne chairs. The Temenggong’s place was usually, evidently, a raised dais covered in green velvet cushions. This he did not use, however, and, motioning everyone to sit, he took up a chair next to Charlotte’s and murmured to a servant at his elbow.

  An elaborate ritual followed. Porcelain teacups arrived with an English silver teapot and English tea. Plates of macaroons, seed biscuits and gingerbread were laid out on the table. However, with the arrival of the magnificent silver and lacquer tempat sireh, the table departed from England and arrived on Asian shores. Since her previous encounter with the chewing of the betel, Charlotte had learned the proper etiquette for refusal. When offered, she smiled and put out her fingers to touch the betel box, recognising the hospitality of her host.

  She noticed that the Temenggong took nothing, and she remembered, suddenly, that it was Ramadan, the fasting time for Mohammedans. He would take nothing until after sunset.

  A great deal of small talk followed, the Temenggong asking about her family, her late husband and her children. They discussed Robert and his difficult job policing the settlement. He asked John about his surveying work and the prospects for a lighthouse at Pedra Branca. They talked of the Dutch at Batavia and, with William, his plans to settle a new town at Johor, over the straits. The Temenggong was easy to speak to, and she enjoyed re-using her Malay which had grown a little rusty. The announcement of further guests interrupted them. It was probably just as well as John appeared to be becoming red faced.

  The Temenggong went to greet his guests, and William and John approached Charlotte, who said, “What a fascinating man. Tell me something of him, William, please.”

  “With pleasure Mrs Manouk. Daeng Ibrahim is a most delightful and clever individual. In business he is shrewd; in personal dealings, charming.”

  John snorted slightly, and William threw him a sharp look.

  “Well, well, John. Do you not agree?” Charlotte said.

  “He is charming of course and shrewd. He is also head of a piratical band of fiends.”

  William put up his hand in protest. “That is over. The Temenggong has but recently received the highest award from Queen Victoria for his help in eradicating piracy in these waters.”

  “Such nonsense. It suits him now, but for years he has had the blood of many good men on his hands.”

  “Times change, John, and the wise man changes with them.”

  Charlotte was mystified at this debate and she listened carefully, trying not to be distracted by the muffled sounds of greetings from an outside hall somewhere. William looked annoyed.

  “Allow me to explain, Mrs Manouk. What John will not understand is that it is we Europeans who have interfered for centuries with the legitimate trading of the Malay chieftains. Since before recorded time, the Malays traded with each other and with China. When the Portuguese came, they disrupted this trade and organised monopolies. The Spanish followed, then the Dutch, now the English. What were these people to do? Down the years, the taking of plunder, the controlling of the seaways, became a legitimate means of business. Not a worthy one by our more enlightened times, I grant you.”

  William put out his hands and shrugged his shoulders, and John snorted his disdain.

  “William is in business with the Temenggong, you understand—the gutta-percha business. His interests are entwined with Ibrahim’s. He is bound to defend him. And Ibrahim is not Malay anyway, he is Bugis. He calls himself Daeng, which is a Bugis title, and they are the most fearsome cut-throats who ever roamed the seas.”

  This was getting interesting. Gutta-percha had been discovered in Singapore, and Charlotte knew it was a kind of malleable resin which the Malays had used for centuries as handles for their parangs and for whips. It had been introduced to the English world by Dr Montgomerie, the settlement’s chief surgeon. It was used to mould decorative and household items and tubes, but she had not realised it had become such a valuable commodity.

  “Gutta-percha has recently been used as insulation for telegraph cables under the Hudson River in New York and across the English Channel with great success. Its protective properties in water are second to none. With the inevitable spread of the telegraph, its potential seems limitless,” William said and smiled. “And
the Temenggong has lots of it.”

  “And William is his agent and adviser,” said John.

  John claimed that the Temenggong’s new-found respectability relied on this trade, which had rapidly made him extremely rich. His lands in Johor were filled with gutta-percha, and he controlled, by fair means or foul, the trade and the prices of this article. This was an example of his shrewdness, for few Malay chieftains would demean themselves to the business of trade.

  “Since, however,” John added, “the gutta-percha usually arrived in the Temenggong’s hands through robbing ships and stealing cargoes, perhaps he finds it fits very well with his former way of life.”

  William made a moue and frowned. “Ibrahim is a quite remarkable individual. When his father died he was but fifteen years of age and his resources were slight. The pension his father had negotiated with Raffles and this kampong here at Telok Belangah were all the family had. He was cut off from the traditional Johor court at Rhio and so had no title. He was not recognised officially as Temenggong until 1841, when he was thirty years old. To survive as ruler he had two unappetising alternatives: he could be a puppet or a pirate.”

  Charlotte listened raptly. William had a way of telling this story which was gripping.

  “For many years in his youth, times were very hard. Personal power and prestige are what keep seafaring people loyal to a leader. He had none. Sultan Hussein of Singapore, the ostensible leader of the Singapore Malays, was disgraced and fled to Malacca, where he died. Hussein’s son was unrecognised and weak. Ibrahim’s followers drifted into piracy.”

  It was all so fascinating. John however, was annoyed; he put down his glass and said contemptuously, “Drifted indeed.”

  Charlotte looked sharply at him. She wanted to hear this story and John, who sensed her interest, looked annoyed but said nothing more.

  “It was Samuel Bonham, the governor in 1835, when Ibrahim was in his twenties, who realised that without a strong Malay leader in Singapore, the piratical hordes which roamed the Straits would never be brought under control. No Temenggong, no Sultan—these bands of men held allegiance to no one. They marauded south of the Straits of Singapore, fleeing to Dutch waters whenever chased by the British.”