THE HUMBLE ADDRESS OF THE STRAITS CHINESE BRITISH ASSOCIATION, PENANG, S.S., PRESENTED TO HIS MOST GRACIOUS MAJESTY, EDWARD, KING OF GREAT BRITAIN AND IRELAND, DEFENDER OF THE FAITH AND EMPEROR OF INDIA, ON THE OCCASION OF HIS ACCESSION TO THE THRONE OF GREAT BRITAIN AND IRELAND, 1901.
May it please Your Majesty,
We the members of the Chinese community of Penang venture to approach Your Majesty and to offer our humble but earnest and heartfelt congratulations on Your Majesty’s accession to the throne of Great Britain and Ireland.
Many of us have the great fortune to be the subjects of your majesty while others have come from far and wide to make a home in this colony. We venture to say that no class or section of the inhabitants of Your Majesty’s widespread dominions have greater reason to rejoice on this occasion than we who live under Your Majesty’s wise and enlightened rule.
As the representatives of the British subjects of Chinese descent in British Malaya, we rejoice in the opportunity which is now afforded us, of giving expression to the strong feelings of loyalty, devotion and attachment to Your Majesty’s throne, as well as gratitude for the security and prosperity we enjoy under the aegis of the British flag.
We pray the God who is Lord of all nations upon the earth, that He may in His mercy bless Your Majesty’s reign and may your loyal subjects of all races and creeds continue to live in peace and prosperity!
And we, as in duty bound, will ever pray,
Ong Boon Leong, LL.B (Cambridge)
President, Straits Chinese British Association
Looking elegant in his formal attire of dark coat and dark grey trousers, Ong Boon Leong waited for the applause to die down before handing over to the governor the slim silver casket with its declaration of loyalty to the newly crowned British monarch. His speech in English had been impeccable, delivered with a distinctly Oxbridge accent, of which he was extremely proud for none in the colony could speak as well as he.
“But only so among Asians; only among us Asians,” he was usually quick to add in a soft self-deprecating murmur whenever he was praised by a member of the English community. His modesty added to his charm, so he was generally well-liked.
The Right Honourable Ong Boon Leong was a man of his time in a world that had been tilting westwards ever since the signing of the Pangkor Treaty at the end of the Perak wars, a quarter of a century ago. He was not only English-educated, but also the first Straits-born Chinese to cut off his queue and have his hair styled like an English gentleman.
Like most boys from wealthy Straits Chinese families, he and his two brothers had been educated by English schoolmasters who were the elite staff of the first English-language school in Southeast Asia, known ironically as the Penang Free School. The young Boon Leong, a keen student with an excellent ear for the nuances of the language of the empire builders, was one of the very few boys in the colony awarded a Queen’s scholarship to read law in Cambridge University. While at Cambridge, he stayed with the Reverend Dr James Graves and his family, and under the tutelage of Dr Graves, Boon Leong was inducted into the finer aspects of being an English gentleman.
Upon his return from England six years later, he had set up a law firm to help steer his Chinese clients through the maze of English laws and colonial regulations. He soon gained the confidence of the influential Straits Chinese and they chose him to be their leader and spokesman. This brought him to the notice of the governor. He was invited to serve in the colony’s Legislative Council and became a well-known figure in public and civic affairs.
“Thank you, gentlemen, thank you! A splendid gift and a most gratifying display of your loyalty!” The governor was effusive in his thanks. The Straits Chinese British Association had paid for the celebrations to mark the accession of Edward VII and had organised a garden party for Penang’s leading citizens.
“Thank you for your kind words, Your Excellency.” Boon Leong bowed. Then he led his delegation of English-educated lawyers and merchants to the red-carpeted area, gratified that they were to stand next to the representatives of the European community. It shows the world how highly we Straits Chinese are regarded, he thought.
Watching him, Inspector Ian Thomson was reminded of Boon Leong’s grandfather. That old Baba was a gentleman, he thought. Never before had he witnessed a grander funeral than the one Baba Wee’s family had arranged for him. As the inspector-in-charge, he had rendered invaluable service during that funeral. Well, let’s hope the Right Honourable grandson will remember that and find him a suitable position after his retirement from the police force.
The stocky man heaved a sigh as he mopped his shiny brow. Stout and red with too much beer and sun, he was no longer the young and dashing sergeant who had rushed headlong into a riot to save Baba Wee’s life twenty years ago. Neither was he the courageous officer who had led his police forces upriver to attack the Malay rebels in Bandong.
Now he longed for ease and comfort, preferring to let the young officers take charge while he busied himself with schemes to increase the size of his retirement fund. Officers in the colonial service were grossly underpaid; once a man was retired from the service, all his years of loyalty to the empire, his citations and decorations would count for nothing. A smart fellow had best look out for himself rather than depend on the big boys who ran the empire from London. A year or two in one of the rich Malay States would add a few more hundred pounds to his miserable pension, he calculated. And he would be able to provide for poor Molly in her twilight years and buy his long-suffering wife a comfortable cottage in Moreton Heath. That would be something to look forward to. He dreaded the empty existence of a retired officer from the colonies. On his last visit home, he had found the London clubs full of lonely grey men living in genteel poverty.
A roll of drums made him return to the festivities on the Padang. The huge lawn was thronged with loyal subjects of all races who had gathered to watch the royal regiments trooping their colours. Amid the gaiety and sunshine, the sudden realisation that he was going to miss such pomp and ceremony back home in the grey Midlands clouded his vision and dampened his pride. He blamed it on the heat that he was beginning to find unbearable. He took out a neatly folded handkerchief to soak up the beads of sweat gathering on his forehead.
The sun had dissipated the morning’s coolness and the ladies were shielding their faces with their lace parasols. No one was listening to the governor’s speech. He glowered at the shoving throng. Every goddamn race under the sun is fidgeting behind the rope, he thought. A good thing we used a thick rope. It wouldn’t do to have them jostle about the governor like so many heads of cattle.
“Damn this blasted heat!” he muttered to the young subaltern next to him. “Look at those Asiatics. No idea of orderly behaviour. A good thing we got the cordon up. Self-restraint is not in their blood, you know.”
He twisted the ends of his moustache and exchanged brief nods with the officials from the Colonial Office and the Federated Malay States who were standing stiffly in the red carpeted area. Next to them were the colony’s European lawyers, bankers, insurers, merchants and representatives of the major European trading houses. No cordon of rope kept this elite group away from the red carpet, and if anyone had asked why, Ian Thomson would have muttered “Simply wasn’t done, don’t need to” by way of explanation, if at all. However, since no European would have noticed it anyway and no Asian would have challenged such disparity of treatment, Inspector Ian Thomson was allowed to go on thinking that his cordoning off of the Asians, with the exception of the English-educated Straits Chinese, was entirely natural and in keeping with the scheme of things out in the East. Like thousands of his kind in the colonies, he subscribed to the use of ropes and canes for Asians and believed that these, together with red carpets, guns, drums and gold braids, were the essence of power, vital to maintaining public order in a colonial society.
“Carry a big stick and use it if you have to. The cane is something that all coolies understand.”
“That so, sir?”
“Why, Hennings, none of them speaks a known tongue.”
“I did pick up a few words of Mandarin before coming out here.”
Thomson chortled. “Old chap! Trouble is, these fellows don’t speak it. It’s mostly gibberish with them.”
“Look over there, sir. Who might that be?”
“Why, that’s Sir Hugh Low, Resident of the state of Perak. This man single-handedly tamed the Malays.”
“Those Malays beside him must be nobles. They’re splendid-looking in their rich baju and sarong.”
“Indeed they are! Look at them now. Wealthy beyond their wildest dreams. Pax Britannia did it.”
“I heard that these fellows are going with his excellency to a conference in Kuala Lumpur.”
“The poor sods! They wouldn’t understand a thing. If not for chaps like Sir Hugh Low, none of these royal buzzards would’ve known the meaning of conference! Why, they’d still be slitting each other’s throats.”
“But sir, shouldn’t we teach the natives to govern themselves?”
“Good Lord, Hennings! What made you say a thing like that? It’s contrary to their race and history!”
He stopped when he saw the Honourable Ong Boon Leong coming towards them.
“Good morning, Inspector Thomson.”
“Good morning, Mr Ong. This is Sergeant Hennings.”
“Pleased to meet you, Sergeant.”
“Any news on the Exchange, sir?”
“The price of tin is showing signs of rising even higher on the London Exchange. It’s good news all round, gentlemen. Have a good day.”
“Same to you, Mr Ong.”
They watched him walk over to the Straits Chinese delegation of traders and compradors. Like him, they were smartly attired in dark morning coats and silk cravats, looking much like their English counterparts from the Chamber of Commerce.
“Now that’s a civilised western oriental gentleman.” Thomson chuckled. His lobster-red face shone like a grotesque mask in the sunshine.
Tuck Heng, squeezed behind the rope cordon amongst the Asian traders, tried to catch the eye of the inspector. Clasping his hands together, he bowed several times. To his great mortification, Thomson did not acknowledge him with so much as a nod.
He was filled with shame. Dressed in the traditional robes of a Chinese mandarin, he had been conscious of his high rank. He had observed the ease with which Boon Leong had greeted the Englishman, as though they were equals. Self-contempt followed by resentment against his brother swept through him. Outwardly he remained a picture of calm and dignity. He glanced at his companions from the White Crane and wondered if any of them had noticed his humiliation. Fool! he berated himself. Only a fool would stoop so low as to bow to a low-ranking red-faced foreign devil such as Thomson! And just so that he could keep up the pretence that he was doing as well if not better than that English-speaking swine! Brothers in name and by adoption, they were like a chicken and a duck, each strutting in his own corner of the farmyard pretending the other did not exist.
He’d snorted before at the sycophancy of the likes of Boon Leong and his Straits Chinese British Association. He’d laughed at their ridiculous foreign attire, but he had also half-wished, especially on public occasions such as this, that he could speak the foreign devil’s tongue as fluently as Boon Leong and move among them with ease. He realised with a deep sense of failure that, despite his wealth, he could never speak like a high-ranking English gentleman. His English was that of a foul-mouthed sailor’s. A member of the lower classes. The riffraff despised by those of high rank, Boon Leong had told him in a moment of unthinking derision years ago. That barb had remained lodged in his heart to this day.
His ship chandling business had brought him into constant contact with English seamen and masters of vessels. In due course, he’d acquired a sailor’s rough speech. In those days, due to his ignorance of English society and manners, he’d been very proud of his achievement, uttering the seamen’s words in a clipped Cantonese accent.
He recalled with agony the day when he, like a vainglorious cockerel, had crowed in his newly acquired tongue in an attempt to impress Boon Leong and his brothers. Oh, how they had choked and doubled up in laughter when they heard his sailor’s talk! That was when he’d realised with intense shame that his speech was of such a low kind, no English gentleman would have uttered it. His shame was all the more heart-wounding for he’d always prided himself on being the son of a gentleman and a poet. From that day onwards, he’d studiously avoided Boon Leong and his brothers. “River water shouldn’t mix with well water,” he told his wife, and they stopped visiting Roseville, Boon Leong’s mansion.
That was years before. But his heart had never stopped yearning for recognition as a gentleman and not as the trader and shop proprietor he had become. The mandarin robes, the silk hat with its peacock feather and the jade beads he had donned for this occasion demonstrated the high rank he had attained, unfortunately not by a scholar’s learning. Merchant’s gold had turned him outwardly into a scholar-mandarin.
The band of the infantry regiment struck up. The governor was making his way through the crowd to receive their gifts and good wishes on behalf of the British monarch. Heart thumping, his excitement and expectation mounting as his excellency drew nearer, he stood stiffly at attention, eyes fixed on the representative of the British Crown, and waited like hundreds of others in the tropical blaze for his turn to touch the white god’s hand.