“My heart dropped! Surely I will die! The fighting and gunfire! Like the battles in Bandong all over again!
“I knew trouble was coming. The Resident’s boat. It was anchored near my place. You know, the day before my left eye was twitching the whole morning. I said to my wife, ‘This twitching’s no good. Not a good sign.’ True enough, the very next day there was the Resident’s boat and his policeman was coming towards my shop. My wife was so scared. She called out to me. The Malay policeman was a foreigner, not from these parts. Maybe from Singapore. He came into my shop and told me that his tuan besar wanted to use my bath hut by the river. Could I say no? I just nodded. But inside my heart, I said to myself, trouble. This English foreign devil would bring me trouble. The Malays hate him. People in Pasir Salak have been talking bad about him for weeks. And they talked openly. I heard what Datuk Sangor said and what Tok Pandak said. ‘Dog,’ they called him and all sorts of other vile names.
“That morning when I stepped out of my shop, a crowd had already gathered. Sixty or seventy men, all armed with spears and guns. They were shouting, ‘Infidel! Dog! We don’t want you here!’ But the Resident was deaf! The crowd was yelling and there he was, just walking past them like he was the king of the deaf! His own guards were Indian sepoys, not from Perak. They didn’t tell the Resident what the crowd was shouting about! And his Malay interpreter. He too didn’t tell the Resident. I looked at the white man’s face. Like a mask with a beard.
“I saw him walking towards my shop. He gave some papers to his Malay interpreter. And the fool pasted the Resident’s proclamations on my shutters. They were written in Malay! So why did he choose a Chinese shop? He could’ve gotten me killed! The villagers were already armed. Now I know many of them and they know me. But still I was scared. They might think that I support the Resident! Angry men can’t think straight. Right or not? The people were so worked up by these proclamations. Telling them to obey the Resident. Not their sultan. How can? The sultan is their king!
“Tok Pandak tore down the proclamations. He shouted to his men, ‘We don’t recognise white rulers here! If they put these up again, we’ll kill them!’ Tok Pandak was furious. His men smashed down my windows. My wife and I were shaking inside my shop.
“Now any fool would’ve seen the angry faces of the villagers and sensed trouble. Even if you couldn’t see their anger, you could see their spears and knives and guns! Right or not? But the Resident was blind. And stupid! Before that day, I’ve always felt that the English barbarians were much cleverer than us! But no more! My eyes opened that day and saw how stupid and foolish an Englishman can be! Maybe he was too proud. He thought the Malays wouldn’t dare to attack him. He ignored the threats. That’s why he’s dead.”
Berita Peranakan, a weekly paper written in Malay and published by Baba Wee’s brother for the Malay-speaking Straits-born Chinese:
We regret to report that the first British Resident in Negeri Perak, Inche J.W.W. Birch, has been killed in the village of Pasir Salak. It appears that Inche Birch was killed by angry villagers while he was taking his bath. His Malay interpreter is reported to have been killed too, while four of his guards were wounded and two are missing. All the Malay chiefs and rajas are suspected of complicity in the murder and the British authorities are investigating the matter.
Raja Ismail is reported to be amassing his forces for the purpose of expelling the British from Perak. Last week the British residency in Bandar Bharu was besieged by Malay forces, but our correspondent reports that it has since been relieved by British troops. Other Malay chiefs are reported to have built stockades and fortified their villages. According to the servants of the late Inche Birch, the Malay chiefs have accused the British Resident of being highhanded in the matter of their runaway slaves and the collection of revenue. They have also accused him of trying to take over their country.
The Straits Chronicle, published by Englishmen for the British community in Penang:
The government has received further information about the murder of Mr Birch. The majority of the Malay chiefs are unshaken in their loyalty to us and the disturbances are confined to a limited area controlled by brigands and outlaws.
1,500 British troops are on their way from Calcutta and Hongkong to take part in further operations against the Malay rebels. The trading community here urges the government to take stern action against all those who disrupt the peace in Perak and to send a strong message to the Malays that all rebels and murderers will be severely punished.
Some of our men have already lost their lives in the fight to restore law and order in this troubled region. We regret to report that Major Hawkins was killed in action together with two sailors and one Gurkha guard during an engagement on the banks of the Perak River. Our troops, in retaliation, ascended the riverbanks and destroyed the village of Enggar. They burned the village and all the adjoining houses after the Malay rebels had fled.
Berita Peranakan:
British troops are using guns and rockets to destroy several stockades in Bandong Valley in an attempt to dislodge the menteri of Bandong and his men. All mining operations in the area have ceased. No riverboat is allowed up the river. Chinese miners, as well as Malay villagers trapped in the valley, are in danger of starvation.
We appeal to the authorities to permit our supply boats to go up the Bandong River to bring supplies to our starving miners who are caught in the crossfire through no fault of theirs.
From his corner of the supply boat where he sat plaiting his queue, Tuck Heng was watching the impassive face of Ibrahim. A stony silence hung between them. One chicken, one duck, he thought, how to talk? And what could he say? The Malay lord might flash his kris again. He wasn’t going to risk getting his arm slashed for nothing. Then again, why should he fear him? His father, the big chief, is in trouble with the English and needs Chinese help. Tai-kor Wong is surely going to earn a huge sum of money or a large piece of land as a reward for helping the chief.
He glanced at Ibrahim’s mute brown face again. It seemed to have lost its proud lordliness. Not wishing to be unfriendly, he ventured a tentative smile. But Ibrahim pointed to something coming towards them. Gods in heaven! Moments later a small flotilla of light steam launches carrying British troops and Sikh guards was passing by them. Ibrahim squeezed between the sacks of rice, not daring to move. Tuck Heng held his breath and prayed that the British officer, on seeing the Chinese faces on board, wouldn’t stop to search their boats. The sigh of relief that they let out after the launches had passed brought them closer in spirit, if not in speech. They smiled at each other sheepishly.
On their second night on the river, they heard an exchange of fire on the riverbank. A loud explosion of rocket fire sent some of the boatmen scrambling into their boat shed for safety. They huddled among the sacks of rice and refused to continue rowing. It looked as if a mutiny might break out. When the rocket fire finally subsided, Tai-kor Wong had to promise the rowers more money before they would pole their boats upstream again.
“Money! Give!” Tuck Heng shouted in his fractured Malay.
Ibrahim nodded and smiled for the first time, and so began the painful process of nods and the exchange of fragments of Hokkien and Malay words accompanied by gestures, grins and more shouting.
After four days of rowing and poling, their boats finally reached Kuala Bandong. But only a few women, children and old men came out to meet the boats.
“Where’s everybody?” Ibrahim raced towards his father’s house. Several Malay warriors stepped out of their hiding places to greet him.
“Tell my father that Che’ Wong and Pak Mus are here with the supply boats,” Ibrahim said, his dark eyes eager and anxious. “Where’s my mother? My sisters and brothers?”
“They’re in a safe place, protected by His Most Compassionate, my lord.”
Ibrahim raced up the steps of his home and entered the dim interior of his father’s beautiful house. The first brick house in Perak. A house grander than the palace of the sultan. The pride of Bandong. He ran his hands over the carved teakwood, the ornate decorations of vines and flowers on the balustrades and pillars. His feet felt his father’s handsome rugs from Persia and his hands touched his mother’s curtains of stiff batik woven by the family’s slaves. He walked through the house, going from room to room; beneath his look of lordly restraint was a gleam of pride and eagerness to reassure himself that what he held dear was still there. His honoured father’s house. He walked over to the window and looked out at the green rice fields and the blue hills rising behind the thick belt of jungle in the distance. His land, he thought, dreaming of his own distant hills till sudden shouts sent him racing outside to the compound.
“My honoured Father!” Kneeling, he kissed his father’s outstretched hand. “Allah be praised! You’re safe.”
“Allah be praised that you’re safe too, my son. But you must leave with Che’ Wong and Musa as soon as the boats have been unloaded.”
“But your son would like to stay here with you to fight the infidels.”
“I will permit no such thing, my son. Your duty is to the family. I’m counting on you to take care of them should anything happen to me. Your heart is known to me, my son. May Allah watch over you and guide you always. Insya Allah, we will meet again.”
The Datuk turned away and started to give orders for the unloading of the boats. Ibrahim, head downcast, walked back towards the house.
“Tuck Heng! Help them!” Tai-kor Wong ordered. “Hurry! We must not get caught!”
The jetty was swarming with Malay villagers who seemed to have appeared from nowhere. Just as he flung a sack of rice onto the jetty, gunshots rang out. Speeding towards them were two steam launches carrying British and Indian troops. By the time they landed, the Datuk and his men had melted into the jungle.
He stood with Tai-kor Wong and the Chinese boatmen on the jetty, their hands above their heads. The British officer in charge came up to them and demanded in halting Malay, “What place is this?”
“Kuala Bandong, Tuan,” Tai-kor Wong replied in Malay as he executed a low and humble bow.
The officer, his face flushed with heat and exertion, towered above him in his uniform of starched khaki cloth.
“What are you doing here?”
“We ... collect rice supplies ... for our miners in the tin mines upriver.”
“Is this the village of the rebel chief?”
“So very sorry, honourable Tuan! We came to buy rice. We don’t know the chief. So very sorry.”
“Move aside!”
“Thank you, honourable Tuan.”
The soldiers fanned out to search the huts and attap houses. They stomped up the rickety stairs with their guns and bayonets.
At one of the huts near the Datuk’s house, six or seven young Malay men, armed with knives and parangs, blocked the soldiers’ way and refused to move aside. Affronted, the Indian troops stormed the hut and a fierce fight broke out. Two Indian soldiers were killed and another two wounded. The Malay warriors fled into the jungle as the British troops opened fire.
“Round up everybody! Every stinking man, woman and child! Teach these damn brigands a lesson!”
The soldiers fired a volley into the air. The children started to wail. All the women, children and old folks were rounded up and herded into the forecourt of the Datuk’s house.
“Burn down that damn building!”
Indian troops lit flaming torches and flung them onto the verandah of the house, setting the curtains ablaze. A breeze fanned the flames and the wooden walls soon caught fire. Suddenly a bloodcurdling cry silenced the soldiers’ whoops.
“Infidels! Dogs!” Ibrahim ran out of the building and let fly his dagger. It struck one of the soldiers on the shoulder. Then he raced down the steps and charged at them.
Tai-kor Wong, Tuck Heng and the other Chinese men flung themselves to the ground as Malay warriors streamed out of nowhere and hurled themselves fearlessly into the mass of British and Indian troops.
From where he was crouching with Musa, Tuck Heng saw some of the soldiers running back to their steam launches. Minutes later rockets were fired into the jungle. Cries of pain and anguish filled the air. Another rocket was fired towards the house.
“Filthy dogs!” Ibrahim screamed as another part of his once beautiful home burst into flames. He lunged at the nearest white soldier with his deadly kris. Tai-kor Wong leapt up and tried to pull him back. Rapid gunshots were fired in their direction and in the ensuing confusion Tai-kor Wong was shot in the back.
“Father!”
Tuck Heng sprang up and raced towards the English soldiers.
“Kill them all!” he bellowed in Cantonese, hot tears streaming down his face. “Kill them! Kill them!”
He was berserk with anguish and fury. Another father had been snatched from him. Musa Talib grabbed his queue and pulled him to the ground. Then the buffalo sat on him. He kicked and struggled to free himself.
“Don’t move, you fool!”
From where he was, pinned under Musa’s body, he saw the Datuk and his men charge out of the jungle in full force. The Malays let off volley after volley of arrows and spears, wounding and killing several soldiers. In retaliation the steam launches fired round after round of rocket fire, killing the Malays like flies.
The Datuk raced up the steps of his residence in a desperate attempt to save his home from the raging fire.
“My house! My beautiful home!” was his last anguished cry before he fell on its stone steps, killed by rocket fire.
The Malays were surrounded and overwhelmed. Ibrahim was captured and bound. British and Indian troops set fire to every Malay hut in sight. The whole village went up in flames. From the billowing clouds of black smoke rose the wails of widows and orphans. Their cries filled the air. But to Tuck Heng’s dismay, the gods in heaven were deaf that day.
He saw Ibrahim herded onto one of the steam launches. The young chief turned and watched, stony-faced, as the roof of his father’s house crashed to the ground.