The Hills of Singapore

by Dawn Farnham

  She was sitting in the garden, attempting to determine where Jeanne might be now. The Peninsular and Oriental Steam Navigation company would carry Jeanne from London via Gibraltar to Alexandria. Thence the passengers travelled Mr Waghorn’s route down the Nile from Cairo to Luxor to view the ruins, then across the desert by camel train to the Red Sea port of Quesir. From there a ship went to Pointe de Galle in Ceylon.

  The final part of Jeanne’s journey was on the Lady Mary Wood, which carried mail and passengers from Ceylon to Singapore and Hong Kong. How much this journey had changed since her own, a mere ten years ago! It was nothing short of wondrous. What had been long, dangerous and fearful was now short, enjoyable and romantic.

  She looked up as Robert walked quietly over to her table and sat down. “Robbie,” Charlotte said, surprised to see him.

  Robert said nothing, and Charlotte frowned. She rose and went to him, kissing his forehead, pushing away a stray lock of his hair. Robert put his arm around her waist and pulled her into him, holding her. Charlotte knew something was very wrong.

  “Teresa knows,” he said simply, his voice muffled against her dress.

  Charlotte stroked his hair and was silent a moment, thinking of her words.

  “It was inevitable, Rob. People talk. Women talk. The da Silva women are numerous, and all watch each other’s business. It was only a matter of time.”

  Robert released her. “Teresa asked me straight out. She said I must choose. She was planning to come back to Beach Road next week with Andrew, but she told me she would not bother if I was going to continue with what she called a “disgusting affair”.

  Charlotte regained her seat opposite her brother. “I see. What do you intend to do?”

  “I don’t know. Apparently it has come by some mischievous means to the ears not only of Teresa but of Butterpot, and he has called me to make an account. I am to present myself after his return from Prince of Wales Island next week.”

  Charlotte nodded calmly, but she was alarmed. Robert had recently been appointed as Superintendent of Police for Singapore. After a year of the increasing and freakish eccentricities of a Mr Hammond, appointed by the Indian government to this post as well as that of Police Magistrate, his doings, reported widely in The Free Press, had caught up with him and, following an outcry, Hammond had been recalled. Robert had finally received long-overdue justice.

  Now though, if the Governor was calling Robert to account it was very serious. If Butterworth considered Robert’s behavior immoral and harmful to his office, Robert could lose his hard-won position and status in Singapore.

  “Rob,” she began, unsure what advice to offer. She had not fully formulated her thoughts when Malik came into the garden and stood by her side and she looked up. “What is it, Malik?” she said irritated at the interruption.

  “Reverend Moule is here to see you, Memsahib,” Malik said with the utmost dignity.

  Charlotte frowned, looking to Robert. He shrugged. Reverend Moule was pastor of St. Andrew’s Cathedral. Charlotte met him from time to time at dinners and church functions, but he had never called on her.

  “Doubtless he wants a contribution of some sort,” she said as Malik disappeared to fetch the prelate.

  Moments later Henry Moule appeared on the lawn, trailed by Malik. Robert rose to greet him. The two men had cordial if distant relations, Moule could be long-winded and pompous.

  Today Henry looked immensely pleased at seeing Robert and shook his hand vigorously. “I’m so very glad you are here, Robert. So very glad.” He mopped his brow with a large handkerchief, then bowed over Charlotte’s hand. She motioned him to sit and asked Malik for refreshments.

  “Reverend, to what do I owe the pleasure of this unusual visit?”

  “Forgive me, ma’am, for not calling on you before. You are not a frequent visitor to the church, and I do not like to impose. On occasion it has given offence.”

  Moule might have continued in this vein for some time, but a thought seemed to cut him short. “Mrs Manouk, I come to you today as the bearer of sad news. Please prepare yourself.”

  Charlotte half-smiled. Prepare herself indeed! Was the church fund in grave need? Was God not in his heaven and all not right with the world?

  “Ma’am, I have received a communication from Mrs Harriette MacDougall in Sarawak. She did not feel able to write to you directly and has asked me to convey the contents of her letter.”

  Charlotte was growing annoyed. Harriette could not write to her directly, when they corresponded regularly? What nonsense was this?

  “Well,” she said, “go on.”

  “Mrs Manouk, Harriette has asked me to convey her deepest sadness at the death of your fiancé, Charles Maitland. God bless his eternal soul.”

  Charlotte rose as if pulled from her chair by a mighty force. She looked down at Henry Moule, her face filled with alarmed misapprehension. She could not have heard right. “What?” she said, shaking her head.

  Robert rose quickly and came to her side.

  Henry rose too. He threw a beseeching look at Robert, who took his sister’s waist in his arm.

  “Mrs Manouk, Charles died one week ago. He seemed well recovered from the wounds of his attacker, with only the occasional lapses, but succumbed to a sudden and violent fever. Reverend MacDougall strove with all his skill to save him, but he died on Monday last.”

  Moule took a letter from his pocket and put it on the table. “Harriette has sent this letter. Charles’s last words were for you. Please accept my deepest condolences, and if I may offer you any spiritual comfort, the church is always open to you.”

  Henry bowed deeply and departed quickly. Charlotte stood looking at his receding back, then shook her head, standing silently. Robert dared say nothing. He held her and when, suddenly, her legs failed, he helped her sit in the chair.

  Charlotte tried to understand this. Charles was dead? Charles, her Charles, the man she was going to marry. The man she was ready to love to the end of her days. This man, was it? There must be some mistake.

  Robert waited. He drew his chair near Charlotte’s in alarm. Her face showed not the slightest expression.

  “Kitt,” he said softly.

  Charlotte turned her face to Robert’s, and she put her hand on his cheek.

  “I’m very tired,” she said.

  “Yes, Kitt, let’s go inside. It’s late, time for bed.”

  Robert felt his throat thicken with grief for her. He put Harriette’s letter in his pocket and helped his sister into the house. Malik was waiting inside the door, anxious. Robert whispered quickly to him, and Malik went to seek Charlotte’s maids.

  Robert waited whilst the maids changed her clothes and helped her to the bed. She fell instantly into a deep sleep. It was the shock, Robert knew, and sent a message to Shilah. He sent a boy for Dr Oxley and then a message to the police house saying he would not be back today.

  When Shilah arrived, Robert took her into the living room and closed the door. He took her silently into his arms and kissed her. Shilah responded, winding her arms around his neck. She loved Robert with every part of her body and soul. She knew that his wife had found out about them. She could do nothing but wait for Robert to decide what to do. But it made her afraid, and she kissed him with terrible desire, an awful thought that this might be their last kiss. Why else had he asked her, so unexpectedly, to come to him here?

  When he released her, she felt tears waiting behind her eyes. Robert could see them and took her hand. “Shilah, my love, my decision is made. I’ll not leave you again. Come what may.”

  Shilah took Robert’s hand and put it to her lips. She felt relief flood her body, but alarm too.

  “But the Governor. Your position? And what of Andrew?”

  Robert raised his hand in dismissal of these thoughts. “I have other interests. I will not be ruled by the damned East India Company. Whatever Teresa says, Andrew is my son, I shall see plenty of him. Leave this for now. At this moment, we are here not for
us but for Charlotte.”

  Shilah listened with mounting distress as Robert told her of Charles’s death. The fact of Charlotte’s engagement to him had not been universally known. Charlotte had planned to tell her children and make a grand announcement when Charles returned to Singapore; he had been due in two weeks time. But Robert had known, for Charlotte had confided her growing affection for this man, her impatience at his return. And so Shilah had known also.

  Now, filled with grief for her beloved friend, Shilah went immediately to Charlotte’s bedside.

  43

  Robert was at the police office contemplating his meeting with Butterworth at three o’clock that afternoon when John Hale, one of his constables, burst into the room.

  “Come quick, sir. Argument in the Chinese town which is getting out of hand.”

  Hale was sweating and breathless. It was evident he had run from Chinatown. He was not a man given to exaggeration, and Robert rose and took up his rifle and signalled to two peons to come with him.

  “Need more men, sir,” Hale said as they left the precincts of the Court House and headed towards Thomson’s Bridge.

  Robert swiftly ordered one of the peons to get a contingent together as quickly as possible and wait for him at the bridge. He needed to see what was going on.

  As they strode over the bridge, Hale filled Robert in. “Around midday a dispute began between two Chinese over a catty of rice. Apparently one is a Hokkien man and the other from Macau, and the argument got out of hand. When I was called from the Telok Ayer station, the quarrel had come to blows and the two men had been joined by their countrymen on either side.”

  Robert was alarmed. These disputes between rival factions of the Chinese community had been simmering for a long time. As he, John and the peon approached Amoy Street, the noise of ferment could be clearly heard. Robert was appalled. Several hundred men were attacking each other with staves, stones and knives along the length of the street. The lower shops were shut, but from the upper floors, men were hurling bricks, sticks and furniture down on the men below. Dead and wounded men were lying in profusion, and blood spattered the street. More men were arriving at every minute, and the fight was being carried with the ferocity of hate to the surrounding streets. Shops had been plundered and destroyed.

  “There must be five hundred men here. We can do nothing. This is a gang war. We need military force.”

  Robert and Hale withdrew to the bridge. “I am going to see Butterworth,” Robert told Hale. “Stay here and keep me informed.”

  Robert raced back to the Court House. Butterworth was in session in the Magistrate’s Court, so Robert sent in a note and waited. There was no reply. Clearly Butterworth had not grasped the seriousness of the situation.

  It was not long before John Hale had sent a peon with news. The riots had spread all over Chinatown from Telok Ayer Street to Circular Road. Pillage and murder was rife. Robert knew he could wait no longer. He rose and opened the door of the sessions court.

  The Colonel was expounding on a point of law and glared at Robert.

  Robert hardly cared. He strode to the bench and confronted Butterworth. “Sir, your order for military action in the Chinese town is urgently required. The place is amuck with murder and plunder.”

  Butterworth was red with anger, Robert could see. “How dare you break in, sir. I am in session,” Butterworth said furiously.

  “With respect, Governor, the Chinese town is about to go up in flames, and you will soon have Chinese thugs beating down this very door.”

  Butterworth rose. He signalled to his clerk to suspend the session and, without a word to Robert, left the court. Outside the Court House, he called for his horse, a white mare, upon which he pranced at every occasion around the padang. As he mounted he turned to Robert.

  “This is gross dereliction of duty, Mr Macleod. What with this and the other moral question, I think your days as Superintendent of Police are done.”

  “Sir, do not go down to the town. It is too dangerous. Be warned.”

  Butterworth snorted his disdain and urged his horse forward. Robert and the peon stepped away as Butterworth trotted up High Street with all the ease of a man on military parade.

  “The man’s an idiot,” Robert hissed, as Mr Church, the Resident Councillor, came to his side. Together they followed Butterworth’s horse. As they turned into Hill Street, Church let out a cry, for there was Butterworth, surrounded by a mob of angry Chinese men at the junction of Hill Street and River Valley Road. They were screaming and pelting him with rocks and mud. Butterworth was turning his mare round and round, panicked, the mud on his face obscuring his vision. In a moment he would fall, Robert was certain, and be trampled.

  The Chinese had no quarrel with the European town, but the Governor had foolishly got into the riot, and things had become so heated that the men hardly knew what they were doing or who they were attacking.

  Robert ran forward, his rifle to the ready, and fired a shot over the crowd. The peon, his stick raised, advanced with Robert. The men began to scatter back to the bridge, but further they would not go. Fighting was raging on the other side. Robert took the mare’s reins and quickly led Butterworth back down the street and turned the corner.

  “Are you hurt, William?” he said as Butterworth got off the mare.

  Butterworth wiped the mud from his eyes and glared at Robert.

  “Shut up,” he hissed and turned to Church. “Get the army. Send word to Cameron to send in the troops.” He thrust the reins of his horse at the peon and strode back to the Court House. Robert watched him depart, Church on his heels.

  Within half an hour, Robert saw the troops marching in a body into the town. He gathered his contingent of policemen and crossed the bridge. As soon as the troops appeared, the fighting stopped and the men ran off down the side streets, only to begin again as they passed.

  Attempting to bar their passage was pointless, and Robert called on the captain of the troops to split them up and send them in different directions. This request was met with cold indifference.

  Soon the Governor, cleaned up, appeared with Mr Church and several of the magistrates and passed along the streets where the rioting had been greatest. The sight of armed troops and the gathered European contingent, by degrees, produced an air of quietness, and the streets became calm. As the evening began to fall, the disturbances seemed over.

  Eventually Robert joined the Governor and the captain of the troops. “That’s put an end to that,” Butterworth said and the captain nodded.

  “Yes, sir. The sight of the red coats and your esteemed authority has brought the situation under control,” the captain said, saluting Butterworth.

  Robert raised an eyebrow and looked at the Governor, who only an hour or two ago had been covered in mud. “For now,” he said.

  Butterworth turned to Robert, glaring. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, sir, that this calm is only temporary. The Chinese do not like to fight in the dark, but there are forces at work which make me certain that the morning will bring a renewal of violence.”

  “Rot,” the captain said, and Butterworth smiled. “The Governor has judged the situation very well. There’ll be no more nonsense now, sir, I’m sure.” He saluted Butterworth again.

  “Yes, quite. Thank you, Captain, your gallantry will not be forgotten this day. Dismiss the troops back to barracks.”

  The captain saluted again, and Robert sighed. “I would strongly advise troops staying overnight, Governor,” he said.

  “Alarmist nonsense, Superintendent. The matter is under control. You may post your men if you like, but the troops will go. I will judge the situation in the morning.”

  He eyed Robert. “I do not forget that we have business to be discussed.” Butterworth raised his hand in dismissal and set off back to the riverside, flanked by the magistrates.

  Hale came up to Robert and the two men looked at each other. Hale shook his head. “John, set a guard,” Robert said, “kee
p vigilant. At dawn tell me what is going on.”

  Hale nodded, and Robert went home to Beach Road.

  44

  Robert rose before dawn. He had passed a fretful night. It was hot, and sleep had been difficult.

  He went downstairs, roused one of his peons and sent him to the Telok Ayer station for a report. As soon as he was dressed he rode to Charlotte’s house.

  Malik was already on duty. The man was a paragon. No change, he reported. The memsahib had woken and drunk some tea. Dr Little had come by and prescribed a sleeping potion.

  Robert climbed the stairs and opened Charlotte’s bedroom door. The room was dark and stuffy. He went to the window and opened it. He looked at his sister. She was asleep, curled like a child, and his heart went to her.

  He took up the potion on her table. Madragore and opium. He frowned. Charlotte had spoken to him of her addiction in Batavia and warned him of his own prolonged use of it for his injury. He would not have her at risk of such a dangerous habit again. He took the bottle and put it in his pocket.

  He left the house and rode swiftly to the police station. Light was just beginning to appear as he arrived. Hale reported no movement in the night. Bodies had been removed to the dead house in the Chinese hospital grounds at Pearl’s Hill. Tan Kim Ching had been consulted, and he was dealing with the situation. Robert nodded. Perhaps Butterworth was right. Perhaps calm had been restored.

  Within the hour, this conjecture was proved very wrong, and Robert’s initial prediction was justified. At daybreak, pillaging began in a far more organised manner. Wherever a Hokkien store was located within a predominantly Teochow area, the shop was looted, set alight and the shopkeeper either beaten or murdered. Upon reports of the renewed violence, Robert gathered his entire force and went from place to place, breaking up the gangs and removing the wounded and dead to the hospital.

  Within an hour it was obvious his force was too small. Three of his men, including John Hale, had been beaten and had retired, bloody, to the European hospital.