by Dawn Farnham
A CHINESE TALE OF LOVE AND FATE IN 1830S SINGAPORE
{ THE STRAITS QUARTET VOL.1 }
DAWN FARNHAM
Contents
Glossary
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
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17
18
19
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26
27
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31
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44
About the Author
The Shallow Seas
The Hills of Singapore
Glossary
Ah ku: Polite Cantonese term for Chinese women brought from China to Singapore to work as prostitutes
Ang mo: A Hokkien term literally meaning ‘red hair’ that is used to refer to Caucasians
Baju panjang: Popular in the nineteenth century among nonyas, it was a loose, calf-length tunic, with sleeves tapering at the wrists that was worn over a sarong. A more conservative precursor to the shorter baju kebaya blouse popularised in the early twentieth century
Bangsal: The Malay word for shed or jungle lean-to
Batik: A wax-resist dyeing technique used on textiles,especially sarongs, and the name for the textiles it has been applied to
Cha-li: Betrothal gifts from a groom’s family to a bride’s family usually contained tea, money, cakes, poultry, sweetmeats and wine but the gift of tea was such an important part of this ritual that the gifts became known collectively as cha-li, or ‘tea presents’
Chandu: The Malay word for processed opium ready for smoking
Cherki: Card game popular in the Peranakan community
Chinchew: Chinese middlemen who traded regionally, travelling from port to port
Chunam: A fine stucco based on very pure or shell-lime, used for the highest quality finishes, often to external walls and roofs
Jamu: Traditional herbal medicine from Indonesia and Malaysia
Munshi: A degree in South Asia, that is given after passing a certain course of basic reading, writing and maths.The word munshi also became the name of a profession after munshies were hired as clerks in the government in British India
Orang laut: The Malay term orang laut means sea people.Historically the orang laut were principally pirates
Pak chindek: Wedding master of ceremonies who would accompany the groom and help him with the many marriage rites
Peranakan: Descendents of intermarriages between early Chinese male settlers in the Straits Settlements (Penang, Malacca and Singapore) and local Malay women. This Chinese sub-ethnic group adopted some cultural traits from the Malay community, as seen in their cuisine, dress and language, but also adopted many European customs thus elevating their social standing in relation to the singkeh or China-born immigrants.Also known as Straits Chinese. The men are known as Baba, the women as Nonya (or Nyonya)
Sampan: A relatively flat bottomed Chinese wooden boat. In Cantonese the term literally means ‘three planks’
Sangkek um: Wedding mistress of ceremonies who would accompany the bride and help her with the many marriage rites
Tao: Chinese character often translated as ‘way’ or ‘path’.It is based on the understanding that the only constant in the universe is change
Tongkang: Bumboats, lighters or sea-going barges used in the Malay Archipelago for transporting goods from ship to shore and vice-versa
Towkay: Chinese merchant
Wayang kulit: Shadow puppets that are prevalent in Java and Bali
Wu wei: Important tenet of Taoism that involves when to act and when not to act. The aim of wu wei is to achieve a state of perfect equilibrium
Prologue
‘An invisible red thread connects those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place or circumstance.
The thread may stretch or tangle but will never break.’
—The Legend of The Red Thread
The wind tasted red. Pu-erh tea, sorghum liquor, dark vinegar and schisandra.
Red aromas on the air. Smoke of aloe’s wood and dragon’s blood. Incense in the mind.
Their skin felt seared by cool rays, brushed by the wet silk of the sun’s sleeve.
Thunder rolled far away, its growl rippling and fading beyond their ears. Red chi dragons playing.
Eyes, pinpricks, rising and falling on the enchanted swell, filled with hues. Squinting light.
The coolies sat, hushed, flushed.
Two crimson suns moved in the coral sky, one rising astern and the other dripping into the blood-red sea ahead of the junk. Land and sky blurred into all the shades of fire.
So it was true.
The slanted sails were redder than the sea, the colour of vermillion seals, stretched and straining on the wind. Scarlet pennants on the top gallants of the masts danced in the gusting breeze. The captain stood like a mandarin on the high prow, his long robe stained magenta.
No sound could be heard now, save the groaning of the heavy rigging, the sigh of the wind and the deep splashes of the unnatural sea.
The junk had left China from the port of Amoy and headed down the southern coast past the Zhenyantou pillar of rock, which stuck like a white needle straight out of the sea. Junks had followed this route for thousands of years. The captain’s maps were ragged copies of copies of the charts of maritime passages of long-dead Chinese sailors. The sea deepened where the Pearl River emptied into it, as the junk followed the Kwangtung coast, before turning south to pass east of Hainan Island.
Here a storm had caught the ship, testing its crew to the breaking point, each man holding fast to ropes, to spars, to life, as best he could.
When it calmed, bodies were dropped overboard into the deep sea, cooked rice in their mouths against hunger in the underworld, heads and arms wrapped in white cloth covered in twisted, red cloud-shaped characters that were talismans against their return as vengeful demons. Flames licked the joss paper hell money burning in the brass censer on the fore deck. Smoky sandalwood swirled round the beams and ropes of the rigging, the breath of the dead mounting skywards.
The captain carried a stock of these funereal items in a chest in a storeroom far from his cabin. In his years in this pig trade, he had used them at least once on every voyage. If it wasn’t storms it was sickness. The coolie agent in Amoy was supposed to weed them out, but some made it past him, desperate to be taken, for there was hope on the ship and none on the land. Each man touched his amulet and gave silent thanks for his life. Copper cash, mirrored pa kua, carved peach stones, small Buddhas or tiny Kuan Yin, the compassionate ones; whatever it took to ward off evil.
Some of the ballast had been used to weigh down the corpses; their feet were tied to the ingots of pig lead. One ingot per pig was all the captain allowed, which meant that the bodies sometimes stood to attention in the water a little longer, the shrouded heads bobbing in a line in the ship’s wake as the junk pulled away. But he and the crew were used to it.
The coolies’ eyes were fixed on the blue paper-cuts of Zhong Kui, powerful queller of demons, which a crewman was busy pasting to the masts. Or they watched as the sailors purified the ship, sprinkling the decks and rails with realgar wine. Finally the c
aptain poured a cup of the ruddy liquid over the bow as an offering to the Dragon King of the South Sea and his duty to the dead and the ocean was done.
He would have liked a rest, but not yet, for now he must navigate his ship between the long and deadly reefs and shoals of the Xisha Archipelago and the coast of Cochin China. At a small bay near the promontory of Cape Varella, he dropped anchor and waited until morning.
From here the junk must leave sight of land and head out across the open sea to the twin dragon horn peaks of Tuma Shan, the island the Malays called Pulau Tioman. This route, though perilous, would be safer than the pirate-infested coasts of the South China Sea. His ship was large and carried cannon: attack was unlikely, but this was pirate season. An old friend had perished in these waters only last year, cargo taken and thirty-three of his crew dead or sold into slavery. They’d been no match for the sixteen boats rowed by cut-throats who emerged swiftly from the dense mangrove swamps off Pahang, cutting them down as they drifted, windless. Better to take his chance with the pirate chief who had taken residence on Tioman. For trade in sea cucumbers and bird’s nests—goods the Chinese prized—he offered a haven to the big junks from his own fleets, which regularly plundered the islands of the surrounding seas. For this reason the captain displayed prominently on the foremast a large and ornate kris. It had been given to him by the Raja of Pahang, to whom the chief owed some kind of allegiance.
It was always a risk. These islands could change hands at any time, but everything in these seas was a risk. This was the price they all paid for profit. In the green waters of Juara Bay, the ship dropped anchor for the night, the watch armed and ready despite the chief’s assurances, for his human cargo was as attractive as silk or opium in the slave market at Endau. This night, though, passed quietly, only the snores and snuffles of his little piglets disturbing the peaceful swishing of small waves on the shore. The captain took on fresh water and, as the dawn crept up the sky, set sail for Point Romania and the vicious rocks of Pedra Branca. Here, where the South China Sea meets the Straits of Singapore, the five towering curved vermillion sails swung sharply to his order and the junk swept due west into the lowering sun.
The captain had seen the sky signs as they headed south. He knew his passengers were as superstitious as only ignorant Chinese coolies could be. It was near the mid-month, and here on the Equator the full moon chased the sun from east to west. At this time, he knew, the moon might appear aflame right in the middle of a clear blue sky. He deemed it wise to calm fears and avoid trouble by giving an explanation they would understand.
‘The dragon is chasing the flaming pearl. It is a good sign. One of the special sights of the Nanyang, the southern seas. Here are the Vermillion Hills, where the red phoenix, bird of peace and wisdom, guards the quadrant. She has brought this ship through its perils.’
The men were reassured; the captain was the man who had saved them from the deadly storm. They were alive; the flaming pearl was the jewel of good luck, the magic granter of all wishes. It meant hope, potential for the new life they were beginning in the fabled Nanyang, a place where their fortunes would be made, the coolie agents at home had assured them. They would be guarded by the gentle phoenix, sovereign of the feathered world, the bird that never dies. The towering ring of fire surrounding the ship told them it was true.
‘Nuts.’
Zhen turned and murmured to his friend. Qian looked at him quizzically.
‘A pretty speech from our admiral, eh? He is a sage.’
Qian shook his head, not understanding. Sometimes Zhen could be infuriatingly cryptic. Zhen smiled.
‘Once there was a monkey keeper handing out nuts. He said to the monkeys, “Three every morning and four every evening.” The monkeys were all in a rage. “All right,” said the keeper. “Four every morning and three every evening.” The monkeys were all delighted. The captain, doubtless unawares, had harmonised with the monkeys’ perspective. You see? These coolies are the monkeys. Say the right words, and they will believe anything. Tell ’em we’re floating on the elixir of immortality, and they’d all jump overboard.’
Qian smiled, but in his heart he was like the monkey coolies. He wanted to believe that they were secure in the bosom of a benevolent power, not merely drifting like so much flotsam and jetsam on the surface of this ruby sea.
The colours began to change as they pursued the setting sun. The persimmon moon gradually became a saffron moon. Even the captain, with his long experience in the South Seas, had not seen such light. The flying fish that dashed along beside them flashed coral, apricot, peach. When the sun had fallen below the horizon, the sky and sea turned slowly from pale rose to purple; the rising amber moon was now their sole companion, before and aft, lighting both the way back to China and the way forward, to their new home.
Not until the moon was high in the darkened sky did it turn a pearl white and throw its silver light over the sea, bathing the waters around the hull in a pale, translucent glow. The junk slid its two great anchors into the depths. The men from the east had arrived in Si Lat Po.
Zhen and Qian leaned over the rail and gazed at the harbour. All around lay the paper-cut silhouettes of ships. A forest of masts bathed in moonlight spread to the shore. On each craft, the lights of the night watch flickered like fireflies, the dark sea glittering like a starry mirror of the Milky Way. Zhen whispered the words of a long-dead, homesick poet:
‘Athwart the bed
I watch the moonbeams cast a trail,
So bright, so cold, so frail,
That for a space it gleams
Like hoar-frost on the margin of my dreams.
I raise my head
The splendid moon I see,
Then drop my head
And sink to dreams of thee
My homeland, of thee.’
Qian felt tears caught in his throat. Despite his relief at this safe arrival and the flickering beauty of the scene before his eyes, thoughts of his family filled his mind. He said the poem again in his head. This same moon hung like a bright eye over his village, casting its hard, white gaze on a place of walking dead, of decayed and rotten fields, a wasteland where parents abandoned their babies and sold their daughters into slavery for a pittance. He had seen things he could not speak about, monstrous hunger turning men into fiends. He thought of his wasted mother, his desperate brothers, his young, sickly sisters (at least they had not yet been given up) and his father’s grave. He thought of how all of them had placed their hope in him, the scholar, and sorrow overwhelmed him.
His reverie was interrupted abruptly by Zhen, who nudged him and pointed to the west.
The billowed white sails of a schooner leapt from the curtain of darkness like a fox spirit from a wood. The burnished prow cut through the dark waters of the roads. His thoughts of home disappeared as they watched this fairy craft approach, drop anchor and lower sails. The watch was set. Between the junk and the schooner a glittering ribbon of silver formed a watery path.
A small figure moved forward to the bowsprit. She had watched as the schooner neared. She had never before seen such a monumental vessel. The heavy carved wood and the thick trunks of the masts made the schooner look plain and puny.
In the glow of the moon it looked unreal, like a dream of wizard’s invention, too huge for mortal men. Charlotte raised a finger and traced the outline of the moon with its misty white halo.
A thunderclap of voices erupted from across the water, and she started, becoming suddenly aware of hundreds of eyes turned upon her.
For a brief moment Charlotte froze, then shrank back into the shadows.
From the high deck of the junk, Zhen and Qian stood looking down on the foreign ship. The men pushed and shoved to get a glimpse of this woman who stood so brazenly in the open night. Was she a ghost? A loud murmur went round the ship.
Qian, the smaller of the two men, turned to his companion. ‘Ma Chu, the Sea Goddess; she is like Ma Chu, no? She has appeared at the moment of our safe arrival. She’
s greeting Ch’ang O, the Moon Goddess.’
Zhen shook his head. ‘No, blockhead, she is the Moon Goddess and I am Yi, her husband. She wants to hold me in her tender embrace.’
He stepped up higher onto the ship’s rail and, leaning precariously over the edge, threw out his arms. ‘Ch’ang O, my little lady of the moon. I’ll come soon darling.’
The words were rough, slang and full of innuendo. The ship erupted in laughter.
From the shadows Charlotte saw the man step into a pool of pale light and hold out his arms towards the schooner. Strange sounds fell on her ear, and she heard the roar of laughter roll over the water. She could just make out his silhouette, and she guessed that this laughter and his gesture were aimed at her. Astonished, she remained in the shadows, watching, until Mr Dawson came suddenly to her side.
Mr Dawson had paid her the most exquisite and pointed attentions since he had come aboard at the Cape. She had learned that he was taking up an appointment with the British and Foreign Bible Society. During his many years in Asia he had tried a handful of professions, but none had served him well. His employers had been difficult and overbearing, his capacities unappreciated. He reckoned that God could not be more difficult than the directors of the East India Company.
Now, Charlotte was much more intensely curious about the junk.
‘Where does it come from, this ship?’
‘China.’
He was from Bristol and pronounced it ‘chainarr’. He waved vaguely to the East. ‘The cargo is human mostly. They are called coolies.’
China? Charlotte knew little about China. It was a mystical land of silk and tea. Her aunt possessed a Chinese bowl covered in designs of charming pagodas, pretty gardens and crooked bridges, exotic birds and graceful ladies with parasols. What did he mean, human cargo?
‘Are they slaves?’ she asked.
‘No, but as good as. They are labour for the plantations and tin mines or in the town. For at least a year they must work to pay back their passage. Then they are free, so it is said, but by then most of the wretches are indebted from gambling or addicted to the opium which the bosses sell them. The Chinaman loves these pursuits, you see, and cannot give them up.’