The Shallow Seas

by Dawn Farnham

  No sooner was the Pangeran seated, once again with his entire retinue crouched behind him, than he attacked the food on the table as if this meal were the first he had encountered in a long month. He stuffed everything into his mouth at once—two plates piled high in front of him—without ceasing, occasionally lounging on the table or drawing up his legs to crouch on the silver throne which had accompanied him to the table. From time to time, he would climb up to reach a piece of fruit which caught his fancy, throwing the peels around him without troubling where they fell. Toasts were called, of which he took not the slightest notice.

  Throughout this entire escapade, the Resident and his wife acted as if absolutely nothing untoward was happening, and Mevrouw Snitjhoff kept Charlotte engaged with questions about fashions in Batavia. Now sated, the young prince jumped from his chair and began running about the rooms, examining each object which caught his fancy. He jumped on the sofas to examine all the pictures on the wall, asking questions of the Resident, who was kept busy following His Majesty from place to place. A set of French table clocks drew his curiosity; he took off their glass covers, turning the hands round and round and making them strike the hours. A pair of porcelain vases next caught his fancy and, without consulting the Resident, he ordered them to be taken to his palace.

  His curiosity and his appetite assuaged, the Pangeran promptly departed without taking leave of either the guests or the Resident. Charlotte and Nathanial nearly wept with mirth, not only at these antics but at the face of the Duke, who, after all, had no reason to be appalled since he, in almost all but age and agility, resembled the young prince in every degree.

  20

  The trip to Kartasura, the ancient Mataram capital, proved both a failure and a success. The old palace had been a graveyard for many years, and it was here that Takouhi hoped to find her mother’s tomb. They entered the massive, moss-encrusted brick walls and searched amongst the fragrant frangipani trees.

  But their attempts to find the burial place proved fruitless. The tombs were old; many headstones had collapsed, and Takouhi admitted her written Javanese was poor. Eventually they gave up, sat on the mats the maids had spread and simply enjoyed the quiet peace of this shady and antique place, knowing her mother was here. Takouhi left a great garland of jasmine on one of the trees, lit incense among the tombs and watched the birds flitting from place to place. The graveyard was, ironically, filled with life: lizards, crickets, insects of all kinds and thick-striped wild cats made their home here too.

  When they returned to the hotel, Charlotte was annoyed to see that the Americans were occupying the front verandah and were in heated conversation with Nathanial. Their guards, too, had seen Palmer and took up a position under the banyan tree. Takouhi wanted some tea, and Charlotte, against her will, joined her at a distant table. Not so distant, however, that they could not hear the conversation.

  “For make no mistake, gentlemen,” Nathanial was saying, “all the Javanese peasantry are Dutch subjects, the Dutch king is their king, the descendants of their ancient sovereigns are Dutch officials, promoted or demoted by the Governor-General in the name of the king. They live under laws made in Holland and pay taxes which benefit only the treasury and people of Holland.”

  Palmer blew out smoke from a cigar and eyed the men with the krisses who were watching him. “Naturally,” he said. “If you Europeans must have your blasted colonies, it makes sense that they must exist for the benefit of the mother country.”

  This utterance was delivered in a low drawl, laconically, as if Nathanial were an idiot.

  “No, sir, I disagree. You, an American, should know it better than I. It does not make sense to turn one of the richest and most productive countries in the world into a land of famine. I have seen the cadavers who walk the tracks of the provinces where forced labour and forced growth of export crops has reduced villagers to starvation, epidemics rife, illness and death everywhere. They try to flee this so-called Cultivation System, which is no system at all but merely slavery.”

  Roberts had looked on with surprise at Palmer’s words. Violent objection to the idea that a colony existed only for the mother country was what had led to their own revolutionary war. Roberts was from the free state of Massachusetts. Slavery was a Southern disgrace and the subject of constant and emotional upheaval at home. He felt uneasy at such notions.

  “Slavery, Mr Fox. Surely you go too far. The Javanese are not slaves.”

  “Why, sir, what do you call it when a people have no say in their own lives? The Dutch force the planting, fix the prices, tax the peasant. The Regent then taxes the rice again, and the omnivorous Chinese charge the peasant for transporting and selling goods and practise hideous usury, lending money they know can never be repaid, forcing the Javanese peasant into a yoke of unending debt. On top of this, the villager must give his corvée labour for free, making the roads and canals, walking hours from his village each day to work in indigo farms and sugar factories with no remuneration. Even the fruits of the forest, free to him since time immemorial, are forbidden. It is abominable. Only the Dutch demand this. Before they came, the regents demanded their share of the rice crop, the labours of their peasantry and a crawling obedience. The Dutch demand their whole lives—and for whom? For the civilians of Holland! If this hideous burden is not slavery, sir, then I do not know what is.”

  Nathanial drew breath, agitated.

  “All this unending and unendurable labour means that the rice fields are neglected. There is famine in Java, sir, and it is a disgrace,” he said more calmly.

  Roberts frowned. Palmer, blowing smoke rings, looked as if he could not care less.

  Mr Rauschenberger, who had until then remained discreetly silent, annoyed by Palmer’s extraordinary and ungentlemanly behaviour and apparent ignorance, now spoke up.

  “It appears that Great Britain made a great mistake in the Treaty of 1824 by ceding all these islands to the Dutch in return for obtaining Malacca, which had become useless to them in any case. Raffles did his best, but he was ignored. One can only wonder at the great lack of knowledge respecting the resources and geography of these islands. Not only was it prejudicial to the interests of Great Britain but entailed upon Borneo, Celebes, Banka and all the other islands, the extreme and benighted policy of Holland. Why, Banka is supposed to contain the richest tin mines in the world! The Dutch policy, as most men who have travelled here must agree, has had no beneficial effect. They have been in possession of these islands for nearly two hundred years, yet the natives are not to be found advanced in education, arts or sciences, nor are their comforts and conveniences of life in any degree improved by Dutch influence, though thousands of Europeans have grown rich upon their labours.

  “Yes, sir, thank you,” Nathanial said, grateful for a man of sense and experience. “Before the Dutch, the people of Java had for a millennium carried on a vast and lucrative commerce trading in the rich produce of these islands. Java was the natural emporium of insular Asia. Vessels from the Red Sea to Japan visited its ports. It is humiliating to the civilisation of Europe to see how completely the establishment of its influence in Java broke up this free and thriving commerce. The restrictions of the Dutch destroyed the native trade, turning former traders into pirates, to add to the vast number already marauding the seas. Having destroyed the sailors, they are now well on the way to destroying the peasant as well.”

  Roberts said nothing. Palmer thought Nathanial an ass and smirked and cast a glance in Charlotte’s direction. Nathanial saw it and rose. He had had more than enough of Palmer’s attitude and could feel his anger rising. He saluted Roberts cordially and bowed to Rauschenberger; then he joined Charlotte and Takouhi. In his pocket was a letter he had been handed for her, which Charlotte opened quickly.

  “News”, she said. “Tigran has heard from Billy Napier that George is returning. The house is awaiting him; it is definite. He is expected in November. Oh, Takouhi, what good news!”

  Takouhi smiled, and Charlotte could
tell she was pleased. This visit seemed to have been good for her, helped her in some small way to find peace of mind about her mother.

  “Tigran has written to Billy not to renew the lease on Tir Uaidhne and given the tenant notice to quit.”

  Tigran’s letter contained, as well, his passionate expressions of love, missing her, wanting her to come home. She, too, had had enough. Palmer had soured everything. She wanted to return to the safety and love of Tigran’s care. It was time to go back to Batavia and plan the voyage to Singapore.

  21

  Charlotte and Takouhi were filled with happiness as the brig set its course.

  Charlotte sensed a reticence in Tigran, but he was gracious, for news of the baby had filled him with joy, and he was glad for his sister in particular, hoping she could find contentment with George again. The weather held fine, the wind filled the sails and they skimmed over the shallow turquoise waters, the sleek Queen of the South pushing the sea aside, rolling on the waves as if she, too, was filled with the joys of the ocean.

  The call of “Land ho!” brought them all to the rail, straining for the first glimpse, while gulls swooped and squawked overhead. As she caught sight of the distinctive red cliffs, Charlotte let out a whoop of pleasure. When they landed, finally, to be met by Robert and Billy Napier, Charlotte embraced this man she hardly knew as strongly as she had her brother. She looked over the Plain. Little had changed, other than an ugly steeple which had been added to St. Andrew’s church. Her first thought was that George would be annoyed at such a hideous desecration. Tir Uaidhne welcomed them into its gracious charms and Charlotte left Takouhi and Tigran together to quietly rediscover Meda’s home.

  Meanwhile, Charlotte and Robert walked to the river, down High Street, slowly savouring the sounds and smells of the town, enjoying each other’s company after so long, chatting, talking of past pleasures and future hopes. Charlotte leaned on her brother’s arm, suffused with happiness at being with Robert. They passed the Court House, and Robert showed her the new police house next to the post office and the old fives court, a building of no distinction. Their home on the beachside was to be demolished to widen the rivermouth. Robert had moved to an old house on the corner of Beach Road and Middle Road. Their talk turned to Shilah, Robert’s nyai of more than four years.

  “I care for her still of course, but I cannot leave Teresa waiting much longer. And,” he added in an afflicted tone, “Butterpot is not Bonham. It would not do to be seen to keep a mistress. He is the most appalling stickler for morals and etiquette and all that rot. Dreadful man.”

  Charlotte took Robert’s hand. “Do you still … visit Shilah, Robbie? You know what I mean.”

  Robert nodded, embarrassed. “I still care for Shilah in the way you mean. It is difficult to give her up. I would much rather not, you know. But I think … she will not like any news of my marriage.”

  Charlotte shook her head. Robert was a brave man and a good policeman, but his knowledge of women was mystifyingly poor.

  “No,” she said, patting his hand. “She will not.”

  “I do love Teresa, Kitt, really. But I love Shilah too. It is a horrid muddle. I’d much rather do like the Chinese and have a wife and a concubine. They have the best ideas on this sort of thing. But I am quite certain Teresa would not like it either.” He sighed. “Or Butterpot.”

  Charlotte smiled. “No,” she said and for the very first time thought what life was like for Zhen’s wife, what Chinese wives had to endure. Robert’s words were utterly simple and true. Men, if they could, would rather have many women than one and, preferably, a system in place which kept them all quiet and obedient. Even dear, sweet Robert.

  Sensing a change of mood, Robert dropped the subject. They gazed along the river. The familiar sights came flooding back: the river filled with boats, the constant industry of Boat Quay. Johnston’s ancient house and godown at Tanjong Tangkap were still standing but, Robert told her, they were riddled with white ants.

  Then Charlotte realised that something was missing. The river seemed bigger somehow. The bridge! Monkey Bridge, which had spanned the river linking North and South Bridge Road, was gone. She looked at Robert. “Heavens, Robbie, where is the bridge?”

  “Oh, yes, I forgot to tell you. Knocked down, too dangerous. Two months ago, and the fuss over a new one is still going on. Butterpot, in his usual high style, says there will be no bridge; Coleman’s will do very well. He has land to shift down there, we all know. One bridge is enough, and we might as well accept it. Pompous ass. Everyone’s in high dudgeon, including all the Chinese, for the market gardens are this side and the market over there. They must take the long way round or pay the sampan.”

  Charlotte gazed at the Chinese town. Somewhere in there was Zhen.

  Within a few days, they were invited to a reception given by Colonel Butterworth and his wife on Government Hill. Charlotte loved the ride, for gradually the view opened out and displayed the entire town below. From the verandah of Government House the eye was naturally led up the river, along the rows of houses and out into the harbour, with its tall-masted toy ships and junks and further, over the sea, now shot with the fiery sunset turning the water to gold.

  The reception was in honour of Captain Keppel and James Brooke, whose ships were then berthed at Singapore, resting from pirate hunting in the waters of Borneo. Keppel was a small, stout man, prematurely balding, with a thick orange moustache. Colonel Butterworth introduced him as the son of the 4th Earl of Albermarle through marriage to the daughter of Lord de Clifford. A man who looked less like a romantic and dashing hunter of pirates it was hard to imagine.

  James Brooke, however, was entirely different. He looked the very part: curly brown hair, tall and slim, dressed informally with a white shirt, short black naval jacket and a soft, loose cravat. He was around Tigran’s age with tanned skin and brown eyes. It was impossible not to like him for he was easy of manner. Colonel Butterworth introduced him grandly as the Rajah of Sarawak and was clearly as much in awe of him as the rest of the room. Titles, she surmised, were rather a hobby of the Governor’s.

  In conversation with the Rajah later, she discovered, to her pleasure, that he adored Miss Jane Austen’s novels and nurtured an ambition to meet Miss Austen’s brother Charles, a naval officer. He was so unexpected that she found herself charmed. Nathanial’s assessment of him she now dismissed as jealousy, for she could see how such an adventurer, a successful adventurer, could arouse strong feelings of envy in men. When Robert told her that it was Brooke who had dubbed the Governor Butterpot the Great, his place in her esteem was fixed.

  The Rajah seemed to work the same magic on the other ladies in the room, who engaged him in constant conversation. Most of the gentry of Singapore were present, and she was happy to renew acquaintance. They would all meet again at Whampoa’s, for he, too, was holding a lavish dinner party in honour of the Rajah and Captain Keppel.

  Of her former acquaintance she was delighted to see Munshi Abdullah, who was accompanying the new Temmengong, Daeng Ibrahim. Abdullah had been her Malay teacher, a man for whom she had the greatest affection.

  Of those she met for the first time, she immediately liked Miss Arabella Grant, who had come as agent for the Society for Promoting Female Education in the East and was assisting Mrs Dyer of the Missionary Society in running a boarding school on North Bridge Road for Chinese girls. Charlotte had met, through Takouhi, the Society’s agent in Batavia, the rather valiant Miss Thornton.

  To Charlotte’s surprise, Mrs Butterworth turned out to be a pleasant and unusually informal woman. Charlotte wondered how her nature agreed with that of her haughty, snobbish and somewhat ridiculous husband. Mr Thomson, Singapore’s new architect and surveyor, she liked instantly. He spoke in glowing terms of George’s architecture, his work in building the town and his ready wit. He was looking forward to renewing his acquaintance with Mr Coleman. Charlotte wondered aloud then why on earth he had ruined the church with such an ugly addition, for she had di
scovered, upon mentioning it, that he was its creator. He begged forgiveness; it had been a commission from the Bishop of Calcutta who, during a visit to Singapore, had found the design of St. Andrew’s to be “civic” and, worse, “popish”, and had demanded a good English spire. Thomson shrugged, and she forgave him. No man could be blamed for the architectural vagaries of an English prelate.

  She tried to remain patient, but after a few days felt she could wait no longer. Her natural curiosity and desires had begun to overwhelm her. She wanted to see Zhen. She waited until a time when Tigran was engaged in business in the town, for he was talking of taking leases on some properties. She took up her parasol and left the house, walking quickly up Coleman Street to Hill Street and turning towards the bridge. She had discovered that this bridge which he had built, formerly named New Bridge, had, on George’s departure and in his honour, been renamed Coleman Bridge.

  It was with pleasure then that she made her way across it to see all the new roads that had been laid out. Where before had been marshy swampland, now New Bridge Road stretched into the distance. She could have turned immediately into Upper Circular Road, but she wanted to savour this moment and continued, looking down the new streets on the left, Carpenter Street and Hong Kong Street; then she turned onto North Canal Road, one of the two roads which now framed the old creek. She thought of turning into Lorong Teluk but demurred, nervous suddenly, and walked as far as Philip Street.

  She looked down Circular Road. A gentle curve in the road meant she could not see his shophouse. She gripped her parasol and began to walk. As the building came into view, she stopped and gazed. It had been improved: new tiling on the upper walls, the paint fresh on the shutters. There was now a shop on the ground floor, a medicine shop, she could see. It was painted outside in black and gold, a deep board across the door with four heavily carved gold characters. She wondered what they meant.