The wind and the weather being in their favour, their boat went down the Kinta River speedily. By evening they had reached a small village where Tai-kor Wong hoped he would find Musa Talib and the supply boats.
“I’ll wring the Mamak’s neck if he doesn’t give me a good excuse,” Tai-kor Wong muttered as he stepped ashore.
The sky had turned crimson with the sun sinking behind the bank of coconut trees beyond the wet rice fields. A lone buffalo turned lazily on its side in the soft grey mud. A cool breeze from the river sent ripples of darkening water across the flooded fields. The unfamiliar aroma of tropical spices wafted by as he and the White Cranes drew nearer to the attap houses.
“The Chinese are here!”
Half-naked children raced towards them, laughing as they shouted to their friends. The headman of the village and his men met them.
“Tok Penghulu,” Tai-kor Wong spoke in formal Malay, “we’re looking for the trader, Musa Talib.”
“Why do you seek him?”
“Pak Mus is my trading partner, Tok, and his supply boats are late in bringing rice to Kinta Manis, the new mining village.”
“Aaah.” The penghulu’s dark face broke into a smile. “You must be Che’ Wong.”
“I am, Tok Penghulu.”
“Welcome, welcome! Come with me. Pak Mus is waiting for you.”
They were taken to an open space of hard beaten earth in front of the penghulu’s house. A big buttressed rain tree with a high canopy of dark aged boughs and thick green leaves arched over the courtyard like a huge umbrella. The penghulu’s men squatted in groups of threes and fours beneath its spreading branches. Here and there, wood fires had been lit. The penghulu’s female slaves were bent over the cauldrons of rice and spicy curries as their doelike eyes darted mischievous glances at the men.
“Please come with me, Che’ Wong. Your men can stay in the compound. They will be fed.”
“Thank you, Tok.”
“Let’s go to my house. Musa is there.”
“My friend, I thought the pirates had gotten you this time!” Tai-kor Wong hollered when he saw Musa.
“Not the pirates. The white Resident’s soldiers. Those pigs found out that I was the Datuk’s trader and confiscated my boats and supplies!”
“Why would the English soldiers do this to you?”
“Always behind the news, my friend!” Musa slapped his forehead. “The whole of Perak knows that Maharaja Lela’s men have killed Resident James Birch.”
“We’re cut off from the world in Kinta Valley. Not a single supply boat in the last three months! How to get news?”
“All Malay supply boats are not allowed to go upstream. Allah is my witness! Perak is in a state of war!”
“It began in Pasir Salak, the village of Datuk Sangor,” the penghulu added in his low gravelly voice. “The Resident was killed in Che’ Kong’s bathhouse.”
“The heavens, ah! A disaster! A terrible disaster!” Tai-kor Wong exclaimed in Cantonese, forgetting where he was in his distress. His agitated eyes travelled round the room. But the faces in the lamplight revealed nothing. He mopped his brow as the enormity of the deed sank in and he wondered if the White Cranes were implicated in the killing of the British Resident: Ah Kong was a member of the White Cranes, the sole Chinese living in Pasir Salak. He had lived there for many years and could speak Malay like a native. He had even married a Malay woman.
“Che’ Kong, did anything happen to him?”
“Don’t worry, Che’ Wong, His Most Gracious and Compassionate protected your friend. When the killing took place, your friend was inside his house,” the penghulu told him. “He and his family are staying with his wife’s relatives in a village not far from here. I’ve sent a messenger to bring him here. Insya Allah, you’ll see him tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Tok Penghulu.”
The White Crane kongsi would be in serious trouble with the British authorities in Penang if it was implicated in any way in the killing of a representative of the British Crown. Visions of gunships and soldiers loomed before his eyes.
“How did Maharaja Lela’s men get to the Resident? And how did the Datuk get mixed up in this?Is he well, my friend?”
“He’s well.”
“I thought I saw Ibrahim, his son, outside. Is the Datuk in hiding?” He looked at Musa.
“Come, my friend, let’s have dinner and I’ll tell you the whole story.”
They sat on the mats in a circle. Some women brought in oil lamps.
“It’s going to bring us misfortune. The pigs have already captured the honourable Siputam, one of the men involved in the killing,” Musa Talib replied, shaking his head before lapsing into a long silence during which he fixed his eyes on the floor. When he spoke again, it was with a sigh. “To think that His Most Merciful had spared the Datuk’s life and mine during the battle with the Black Flags! Was it for this? May Allah forgive me my regrets.”
Tai-kor Wong looked at the solemn faces of the penghulu and the village elders. He had lived and traded in the region long enough to know that appearances often belie reality. He would have to wait and listen patiently to many formal and often flowery speeches before the truth unfolded.
“I hope—no, I pray, Tok Penghulu, that all will be well with the Datuk and Maharaja Lela. I’m just a Chinese miner and trader who knows little about your troubles with the white men.” He turned to the village elders. “But honoured Tuan-tuan, together with my friend, Musa, I’ve gotten to know and respect the Datuk. And I know that the Datuk loves his valley. His heart is in the land.”
The penghulu and village elders nodded so he knew he had said the right thing.
The slave girls brought in bowls of curries and rice heaped on banana leaves.
“Eat, my friend,” one of the village elders murmured. “Any friend of the Datuk is also our friend. You’re like a brother to him. And a brother to Musa. Praise be to Allah!”
May Lord Guan Gong protect me! Tai-kor Wong smiled and nodded as he prayed to his ancestral gods. This was what he had secretly feared. That his well-known friendship with the Datuk would implicate the White Cranes and get him into trouble with the English authorities. And yet, he thought, his astuteness as a trader battling with his conscience, how could he, in all fairness, abandon the Datuk who had been sorely used as a pawn by a rogue member of the White Crane? And yet ... he struggled for a way out ... and yet the pressing necessity of the present times and his responsibilities as the head of the White Cranes demanded that he distance himself from those whom the English authorities had deemed rebellious and treacherous. A sigh escaped him as he tried to swallow his rice. His thoughts and inclinations were swinging back and forth like a pendulum. The barbarians are the new rulers. To survive, a wise Chinese must work with and not against the new powers that be, he thought, his shrewd eyes darting from one Malay face to the other, seeking a clue as to what they expected of him.
“Honoured Tuan-tuan, forgive my frankness. But I fear that Maharaja Lela’s deed will bring the wrath of the white governor upon your heads.”
“Che’ Wong, what choice do we have? Swallow it, the mother dies; spit it out, the father dies. Poison has already entered our land through that Birch. The war has already begun. Many chiefs and their men have fortified their villages,” one of the elders told him.
“If a tree has many roots and is firmly rooted to the land, why should the tempest be feared?” another village elder added.
“The Datuk and Maharaja Lela have many followers. They will fight.”
“Pardon me, honoured Tuan-tuan. But I worry for the chiefs. How can they expect to win? The English have many guns and soldiers.”
Silence greeted his question. He swallowed hard and tried again. “Honoured Tuan-tuan, I beg your indulgence and forgiveness. I don’t mean to doubt the ability of the chiefs. But I worry because I come as a friend. I pray you won’t take offence.”
The men nodded encouragement so he went on. “Sultan Abdullah has signed the Pangkor Treaty and asked for a British Resident. The white men want to rule this land.” More nods from the elders. “Now I speak as a brother and as a friend. Your spears, your poisoned arrows and cannons are not enough to secure victory.”
“Che’ Wong, what you’ve said is true. But the monkey and the mousedeer see things differently: the monkey from the treetops and the mousedeer from below. The white men want to rule this land but can you tell me,” Tok Senik, the oldest of the village elders, asked him, “do you think the people of this land, the trees in the jungles and the beasts of the forest know the name of this white ruler? Do they care to know? Do they want to be ruled by the white men? In my aged heart and in my aged soul, I know that they don’t. For thousands of years since the time of Solomon, the jinns of the forest, the people and the beasts of the land, and the birds of the air have risen out of our rich brown earth without the white man. Brown earth, not white, Che’ Wong. This brown earth is ours. Defend it we must!”
Marked upon their sun-browned faces was the pride they took in the wisdom of Tok Senik, the most respected man in these parts. For a while, no one said anything. They concentrated on the excellent meal, savouring the sweet-sour pickles which went with the rice and beef curry. As they ate, a jingle sung by the young warriors in the compound drifted into the verandah and their words seemed to fill the room with a bittersweet irony.
If you have no guns, better hold your tongue;
If you’re without a kris, better be contented;
Avoid your enemy if muskets and cannons
you’ve none;
Avoid a war if rice and padi you’re without.
“Sultan Mahmud of Malacca and his warriors died fighting the Portuguese,” Tok Senik murmured under his breath at the end of the song. “We’ve warriors willing to shed their blood still.”
The slave girls brought in silver pitchers of lime water for the men to wash their hands after the meal.
“Thank you, Tok Penghulu. Excellent dinner.”
“You’re very welcome.”
“I beg your forgiveness if I’ve given offence.”
“Nothing to forgive, Che’ Wong. You spoke from your heart.”
He was acutely aware that Malay custom demanded polite and carefully worded speech, especially on subjects that touched the heart.
He had long known that many of the Malay chiefs in that area had no love for the white intruders seeking trade and gold or tin ore. And yet the temptation had been too great. There was revenue to collect and money to be made, and their wealth had increased with the opening up of the country for trade and mining. But this very openness led to unhappiness, jealousy and rivalry among the chiefs. And this rivalry was cited as a reason to impose white rule. As a Chinese trader, he had come to view the white man’s rule in Perak as a good thing—peace was good for trade and mining. Wisely he kept such thoughts to himself.
Musa offered him a rolled cigar. He lit it and inhaled its pungent fragrance. Soon tobacco smoke enveloped each man seated on the matted floor and for a long while no one said a word. Tai-kor Wong smoked his cigar and waited patiently. After some time, Musa coughed and spoke in a low serious voice.
“My friend, we appreciate your frankness and we know that what you’ve pointed out is true. We’re no match for the white men’s cannons. But,” he paused and flicked off the ash on his sarong, “who knows this land better? Our warriors can melt into the jungle like shadows but the white soldiers can’t.”
“Pak Mus has spoken well,” the headman added. “But you, Che’ Wong, have also spoken well and from your heart.”
“Aye!” the village elders agreed.
They pulled at their cigars and each man seemed sunk in thought again. It was another long silence before the penghulu spoke again.
“Although we sons of the soil know this land from the time we were born, we cannot overcome the white men whose hearts are hard and greedy.”
“Several lives have already been lost since this war began,” Tok Senik added. “It has divided us. Some support Sultan Abdullah, some support Raja Ismail and some support Raja Yusoff. It’s a sad day for this land of grace when brothers fight against brothers and chiefs against chiefs. May Allah forgive us all!”
“Maharaja Lela’s men have fled Bandong Valley. But the Datuk and his men are still hiding in the jungles of Bandong. Their supplies are running out.”
The penghulu turned to him and, looking straight at him, continued in his slow deliberate way, “You, Che’ Wong, are a son of the land from a faraway country but you understand how we feel. We speak to you as a brother of the Datuk. He needs your help. Your boats can bring food to his men. Musa can’t do it alone for the white men won’t let him go up the Bandong River. We realise this is a grave matter. Give us your reply tomorrow. Perhaps after you’ve heard what Che’ Kong, the jeweller, has to say. Insya Allah, your answer will gladden our heavy hearts, Che’ Wong.”