SQ 04 - The English Concubine

by Dawn Farnham

  After Charlotte had rejected his proposal, he had lost himself in the sea. The long voyage back from Calcutta to England was wretched, a minute and hideous torture, the memory of her everywhere on the Madras, and once home, he had sought a different ship, a different life, one full of even more danger than this. He had joined the Royal Navy and his experience on board armed Company vessels had led to rapid advancement. He had served in the suppression of slavery in the Atlantic, captained many hydrographic expeditions to map the seas and seen active service in the Crimea.

  He forgot Charlotte, sometimes for a long time. But when the ship was on calm waters and the moon floated its silver rays on the ocean, he remembered her and missed her to his soul. For almost ten years he had settled for the uncertain pleasures of casual liaisons in ports all over the world and the camaraderie of the sea. Then in Hong Kong he had met Lucy, the daughter of an English merchant and his Chinese female companion. The father, as many before him had done, had departed back to his home and an English wife. But he had done a decent thing and left funds for his daughter to be raised properly, and this had come to pass. She had been raised by her mother, who sought a husband for her amongst the English naval officers. Edmund had been perceptive enough to see that Lucy reminded him of Charlotte with her willow figure, the beauty of her eyes, and her long black hair, but he had chosen to embrace it and pour the pent-up well of love he had guarded for so long onto her. She had been just seventeen when they married and he had loved her as tenderly and as passionately as any man could. She had died only two years ago, barely twenty-one years old.

  He told Charlotte some, but not all, of this. The servant brought coffee.

  ‘You have had an extraordinary life.’

  ‘These are extraordinary times. No more than any other. No more than you. You became the wealthiest woman in the Indies. Imagine my surprise.’

  ‘I did little to deserve it. Women do not make their own lives.’

  ‘You deserve everything. And you seem to have made a life for yourself.’

  She smiled at his kindness. He poured the coffee and handed her a cup. The aroma was delicious and she inhaled it.

  ‘You didn’t answer my question, Kitt. Are you happy?’

  She sipped the coffee and put down the cup. ‘Happy? Yes, I believe I am happy. My children are healthy though of course there are always worries of some sort or other. I have security and wealth, and …’

  Charlotte hesitated and he waited, wanting to know this more than any other thing. The servant lingered, clearing the table and a silence fell.

  Happy? Was she happy? She had thought herself so, certainly. Life with Zhen was not in any degree conventional and provoked public censure. Could she imagine herself without him? The weeks ahead loomed and she hardly knew how to answer Edmund.

  She felt his gaze and looked over at him.

  He had feelings for her still, she could see it and she was moved. She had feelings for him too, stronger than she could have imagined. But what could she do about them? They felt disloyal to Zhen. Yet she could not answer him.

  ‘I …’ she began.

  He frowned and she felt her heart beat very fast. What am I doing, she thought.

  ‘I …’

  A knock came to the door and the First Officer entered.

  ‘Sir, the Admiral has sent for you instantly.’

  Edmund turned, annoyed, to the First Officer. ‘A moment, James.’

  Charlotte rose. ‘I must go. Your duty calls.’ She felt an immense relief, as if she had stepped away from an abyss.

  As the boat pulled away he watched her and she looked back at him, once, and waved her hand. What had she meant to say to him? Damn James for coming in like that. But he would write to her. She had not told him absolutely. Hope long extinguished in his heart sprang forth. He had to leave for battle, but he went no longer quite so indifferent to death.

  9

  Cheng watched from the edges of the room as Zhen was declared Mountain Lord of the Singapore Ghee Hin Kongsi and of the Grand Triad. It was midnight and the flickering candles threw shapes against the faces of the gods which adorned the walls.

  The Incense Master put the ceremonial objects around him and Zhen bowed low to Guan Di, Emperor Guan, the Taoist god of war, a giant, nine-feet tall, with a two-foot long beard, a scarlet face, the eyes of a phoenix and eyebrows of silkworms. He sat on his throne in full armour brandishing his halberd. He gave the kongsi its spiritual tenor and its martial spirit. On either side images of his blood brothers, Liu Bei and Zheng Fei who symbolized undying loyalty and courage.

  The ceremony was intimate, only the officers and some important brothers, including Ironfist Wang, were present. In this way was the mystery of the society maintained. A proclamation would be issued tomorrow and all the hundred thousand members in Johor and Singapore would know whom their new leader was. Usually this would be followed, at a propitious time, with a great gathering of the brotherhood, far away, in the jungle, when all the brothers would swear allegiance to Zhen. But this, they had all agreed, would be unnecessary since Zhen’s leadership would be of short duration.

  Cheng went forward as the others had done and bowed to Zhen, repeating the oath of loyalty. Cheng had his spies and knew that Zhen had stayed away from the English concubine. After the experience of their meeting at the governor’s ball, Cheng knew he had felt humiliation. To his credit, he had not shown it. This was how it was, Cheng felt, when one did not have control of one’s women. They made a fool of you. Cheng also knew the woman had gone to the ship of the very man who had humiliated Zhen. He was not sure what to do with this information at the moment.

  Cheng stepped away and Wang, solid, hard and serious, stepped forward, took his sword and laid it at Zhen’s feet. Wang viewed Zhen with awe. One of them, a Red Rod, had risen from lowliness, so young, to this exalted position. Wang fell to his knees and put his head to the floor, kowtowing to his master and repeating the oath of fealty with intensity. The Incense Master exchanged a glance with the Vanguard.

  The cock was brought out. Its throat was slit and the blood mixed with the wine. All present drank, raising their cups to Zhen.

  A small repast had been placed at the table before the altar and the men sat.

  Zhen remained silent and did not take up his chopsticks.

  ‘Zhen,’ Cheng began.

  Zhen shot his head up throwing a sharp glance at Cheng.

  ‘Shan Chu, do you mean?’ he said and kept his eyes on Chang’s. ‘In this place.’

  ‘Well,’ Cheng began.

  The door opened and four Red Rods entered and stood menacingly in each of the corners. Cheng and the others stared at them, their chopsticks in mid air. Wang signalled to them and they bowed to Zhen.

  ‘Be careful,’ Wang said. ‘Those who control the Little Brothers are the Big Brothers, the Red Rods. They are its swift power and they do my bidding. I obey only the Lord of the Kongsi. This is how it is written and always has been so.’

  The Incense Master, the Deputy and the Vanguard instantly put down their chopsticks and bowed low to Zhen.

  ‘Shan Chu,’ they said.

  Zhen turned his gaze onto Cheng. For the first time Cheng felt the great power of the oath he had made. He had sworn fealty to this man, loyalty or death, and suddenly realised what he had done. The instruments of swift justice for any deviation from the oath stood before him. Things like this did not happen in Riau.

  Wang’s eyes drilled into Cheng.

  Cheng bowed his head, suddenly fearful.

  ‘Shan Chu,’ he said.

  The meal came to a rapid end. No-one was hungry. Zhen picked up his cup of rice wine and tossed it back.

  ‘I am the Lord. You have willed it. Do we understand each other?’

  Zhen sent a piercing gaze onto Cheng. The Red Rods gathered behind their Lord. Wang rose and stood next to them, all of their eyes on Cheng.

  ‘I have sacrificed much for you,’ he said. ‘I know what you want. But be
wise how you act or you will know the consequences.’

  Zhen walked out of the room followed by his soldiers, leaving the others to gaze at each other uneasily.

  Zhen ordered his driver to take the carriage not to his home on Bukit Jagoh or his mansion on Market Street. Instead, he went to the shophouse on Circular Road which was the place of his medicine shop and above which he kept, still, the old apartments where he had first lived in Singapore. Baba Tan had installed him here to prepare for his wedding to his daughter, Noan. He dismissed the guard. As Shan Chu he was entitled to a guard at all times but this was the last thing he wanted.

  He climbed the stairs to the upper rooms. Little had changed in many years. The same furniture, including the canopied iron bed. This was a place of significance. When he was able he had bought it outright, and as he walked around he felt Xia Lou here as in no other place. He went to the bathroom and stripped, pouring streams of water over his head and body. He lay half-damp on the bed and looked up at the iron circle which formed its centre.

  The man, the naval officer, had shocked him. Her attitude to this man had shocked him. He had never seen Xia Lou look at any other man like that. Everyone knew his relations with her. In front of the entire Chinese community as well as the Europeans, he had been utterly humiliated. The letter she had written was of shock and apology. The man was an old, old friend. He meant nothing. She loved him alone. But he had not replied, too angry.

  He turned to sleep, willing sleep to come and put his hand to the sheet, feeling her there. His anger had evaporated. Here in this bed he could not be cold with her. But the loss of face and damage to his authority felt tremendous and he hardly knew what to do about it. He knew what Wang would say and that worried him too. Wang was loyal and obedient, tough and hard. He had come from China only two or three years ago. He didn’t understand the world here, his head was back there, in the way they did things there. A place where women did not go out and make fools of their men or, if they did, received swift justice.

  He tossed. He had to speak to Wang about this.

  10

  ‘Sit down, gentlemen.’

  Temenggong Abu Bakar walked slowly into the room and looked around at his assembled guests. He was slender and handsome, with a small dark moustache. His clothes were simple and brilliantly white.

  ‘I have come from the mosque,’ he said. ‘I am purified and think fondly of my friend Wei Sun Wei, who was beloved of us.’

  He sat on the green velvet throne all set about with gold and precious stones.

  ‘I knew him all of my life. He sold cloth here, a humble man of such integrity and honesty that he won my father’s heart. He spoke excellent Malay, you know, which was rare for a Chinese man. When we needed his aid, he raised an army to pacify the rebellion in Maur. I mourn him very much.’

  Mohammed Salleh, the minister of the new town being build at Tanjong Puteri in Johor, stepped forward. He put his hands to the air, in an attitude of Muslim prayer.

  ‘Allah is well acquainted with what we do,’ he said.

  William Kerr rose.

  ‘On behalf of your European friends here present, please accept our deepest condolences, your highness,’ he said.

  The European friends, William Napier, his lawyer, and David Paterson, his trade agent, murmured in agreement.

  Zhen rose next.

  ‘On behalf of your Chinese friends, accept our condolences, highness. Wei Sun Wei died in China and rests in the bosom of his ancestral home.’

  ‘Yes,’ Abu Bakar said, looking at Zhen and smiling. ‘That is a comfort. Thank you.’

  Cheng, who could not understand a word, turned to Zhen. Abu Bakar looked at Cheng indulgently.

  ‘Please explain to Wei Sun Wei’s son-in-law, that we are saddened at his loss.’

  Zhen translated quickly and Cheng bowed. He had never learned to speak the correct form of Malay in this sort of company and dared not use inappropriate language. In any case, the discussion was being held in English of which he understood not one word.

  Abu Bakar clapped his hands and three servants appeared instantly.

  ‘Some refreshment. English tea, what do you say?’

  Zhen smiled. Abu Bakar was born and raised here in Telok Blangah. He had attended the Malay Boys’ School of Benjamin Keaseberry with all his brothers. He spoke excellent English and had adopted many of the habits of the English gentlemen.

  He was young, charming, ambitious and politically astute. When his father’s health had begun to fail he had taken the reins of state without the slightest hesitation.

  Once tea, impeccably served in the finest English bone china, had been poured and distributed, Abu Bakar turned to Kerr.

  ‘William,’ he said, ‘what do you make of this letter from the governor?’

  ‘He has decided to split the farms, sir. The papers have railed at you for waging war under the Union Jack, claim that the British government loses prestige in the eyes of the Malays by supporting you, and insist you have too much revenue from the Treasury.’

  ‘Yes, that is what I understand too.’

  Zhen expressed no surprise but he felt it. Cheng, sensing something, turned to Zhen.

  ‘The governor has split the farms,’ he whispered. Cheng looked shocked.

  ‘What does it mean for us, William?’

  ‘The governor means to drive competition. He sees this as a way to force syndicates to outbid each other and raise the revenue. If you accept less, perhaps a quarter of the bid, he might reconsider but I doubt it. He has been stung by the paper’s editorial. As a new governor, he feels he needs to stamp his mark.’

  ‘Yes, I see that. I too am very new in my position.’

  Abu Bakar looked at Zhen and Cheng.

  ‘Please translate, Master Zhen. Wei’s son-in-law is heir to his chukangs. I understand he wishes to bid for the opium farm.’

  Cheng listened to Zhen’s translation.

  ‘Yes, sir, I do, but I had understood it would be the two farms combined.’

  ‘The governor has ruled that that is no longer possible. I can attempt to dissuade him but William seems to think the governor will not be obliging for this year at least. Will you bid for Johor or Singapore in that case?’

  Cheng felt utterly on the spot. The Singapore farm was, by far, the most lucrative of the two.

  ‘I would need time to consider, Highness,’ he said.

  The Temenggong nodded and set his teacup on the saucer.

  ‘Well, this is most interesting. Perhaps the governor is right. Perhaps new syndicates with better offers will emerge on both sides of the Straits.’

  Zhen sensed Cheng’s mistake. He had not immediately offered, as Wei Sun Wei would have done, to take the Johor farm, even at a reduced amount. Wei’s loyalty and trust in the Temenggong, both the father and the son, had been absolute and mutual and Wei had profited by it. He had become the Kang Chu of all the best river properties and built great wealth and position as a direct result. He would have backed him no matter what. Cheng had missed his chance to prove that kind of loyalty. He was an outsider and could not read the situation. Abu Bakar knew that Cheng had inherited his plantations from the goodwill the Johor leaders had shown Wei, yet he had not given back what was needed from him.

  This was a dangerous situation for Cheng, for the Surat Sungei, the ‘river documents’ which gave him the monopoly to exploit these lands, were renewable every few years. Cheng could find himself quickly dispossessed of the Johor properties. His inexperience here was so obvious, Zhen almost felt sorry for him.

  Doubtless, Tay Ong Siang, the deputy, would make a bid for the Johor farm and the Temenggong would look favourably on it for he knew Tay well. Cheng must now outbid Hong Boon Tek for the Singapore farm and that would not be easy. But if Tay got Johor and Hong got Singapore there would be a turf war and that was not in anyone’s interest, although the government would be quite happy at getting a great deal more revenue than they had expected and the rest be damned.
/>   When the meeting came to an end, the men walked to their carriages.

  ‘I don’t understand what is happening here,’ Cheng said. ‘It is much more complicated than I expected.’

  Zhen contemplated Cheng. He was a decent man, it seemed. Certainly not as foul as Hong who dealt in the shipment of girls for prostitution and packed the coolie junks so tight that the men hardly had air to breathe. Zhen remembered his own voyage to Singapore very well. It had been difficult but not like now. The demand for berths out of China because of the civil war was vast. But how much should he be telling this man his business?

  He was resentful, he knew, of the threats the man had made, being put in this difficult position. But Cheng was at least sixty-five years old and Zhen quite liked him. He was vulnerable and out of his depth here in Singapore.

  ‘You should have bid for Johor. You must tread carefully there. How much money can you put together? Hong certainly wants the farm in Singapore. He runs the traffic of the girls for the whorehouses and the coolie trade, both extremely lucrative. He has a lot of capital and will offer high. He wants to be the Shan Chu and will know you have thwarted him by backing me.’

  Cheng listened carefully, grateful for this advice.

  ‘The joint farms were rented for $15,000 a month to Wei. The rent has not shifted for five years, but the price of opium has increased. I can continue to offer $ 15,000 for the Singapore farm, but more would return a poor profit until the price of raw opium comes down.’