When the Marquis of Hastings received Raffles’ letter announcing the establishment of a factory at Singapore, and the treaty with Sultan Hussein, he was furious that Raffles had overreached his instructions. He was on the point of recalling him, when his secretary drew attention to an editorial in the Calcutta Journal, which praised Sir Stamford Raffles’ establishment of the free port of Singapore and celebrated the future prospects for trade with China. It also reported on the favourable response of the merchant community in Calcutta, and praised the Governor-General’s own actions in helping to end the Dutch commercial monopoly in the Malay Archipelago. This quickly changed his mind about Raffles’ action, to what he now came to think of as his vision in sending Raffles to explore the prospects of a southern factory. He was certainly not reluctant to take his share of the credit when he met with a group of representatives from the Calcutta merchant community the following day.
He was consequently in no mood to receive Colonel Bannerman’s letter a few days later, condemning Raffles’ establishment of a factory in Singapore and his recognition of Sultan Hussein. Hastings wrote a scathing response, reminding Bannerman that his duty was to support Sir Stamford Raffles, who acted as agent for the Governor-General. He ordered Bannerman to immediately send reinforcements, money and supplies to Singapore, and warned him that he would be held personally responsible if as a result of his actions the Dutch were encouraged to attack an undefended Singapore.
He then wrote to Raffles praising his foundation of a factory in Singapore, while regretting his conflict with the Dutch. But he gave Raffles his provisional approval of the settlement, subject to confirmation by the Court of Directors.
* * *
Major Farquhar was out on his early evening stroll. He walked along the edge of the Rochor River, where it bordered Kampong Glam,[1] about two miles east of the Singapore River. He wore an old linen jacket, a dusty red sarong, and a pair of sandals. His Cairn terrier Paddie trotted along beside him. This was a walk he regularly took. It helped him relax as he thought over the affairs of the day, and his plans for the morrow. There had been a thunderstorm, and the ground and jungle steamed around him. But as the sun began to set against a dark blue sky streaked with red and gold, a light breeze cooled the sweat on his brow. It had been a busy––not to say expensive––few weeks.
First there had been the business of the rats. Hundreds of them, flocking out of the jungle as if some Pied Piper was calling them. They had attacked Lieutenant Ralfe’s cat––three of the buggers!––and his own poor dogs. The damned things had run all over his tent at night, making sleep impossible. You never knew when one of them would jump up on your bed and attack you! But he had put paid to them all right. He had declared a bounty of a wang[2] a rat. The Malays and Chinese brought them in by the dozen, and he had ordered a giant pit dug to dump them into. He had needed to up the bounty to two wangs the second week, when enthusiasm waned while the rats still ran about, but that had finished them well and good. Or at least for a time. Then he had had to do the same thing with giant centipedes the next week––hellish biting things that dropped off the roof onto your head. But he’d fixed them too, this time for only a wang––they were big centipedes but not as big as rats.
A pretty penny it had cost him all in all, drawn from the pittance that Raffles had allocated him to operate what he claimed would soon become the ‘greatest emporium in the East!’ Full of grand ideas was Raffles–and if truth be told he had to admit that some of them were grand–but he had no sense when it came to money. All well and good establishing a free port, but how was he going to pay for it? Raffles had told him not to incur any unnecessary expenses, as he was sure Hastings must have told Raffles, but where was he going to get the money for government buildings and roads? He would have to think of something.
But what a business! Talk about the seven plagues of Egypt. What next? A few minutes later he got his answer.
The terrier slipped into the water to cool itself, and paddled along the edge of the river, keeping pace with its master. Then in a sudden roaring rush of water, a huge crocodile rose from the river and snatched up the poor animal, whose panicked yelps quickly turned to plaintive whimpers, as Farquhar watched in dazed disbelief. He could hear the bones crunch between the powerful jaws, and his beloved terrier fell silent. The crocodile slipped back into the river and disappeared from view.
Farquhar was apoplectic with rage. Nobody had told him there were crocodiles in the river. The air was blue with his curses as he ran back along the path and the beach road. When he got back to his quarters, he called for the captain of the guard, and ordered him to organize a work party to dam the river and kill the crocodile. When he returned the next morning, he was glad to see that the men had cornered the beast and speared it to death. But his rage returned when he thought of his beloved terrier in its great jaws.
‘String the monster up,’ he cried to the assembled party. ‘Hang it up on yon great banyan tree aside the fresh water stream.’
The officer in charge of the work party looked at him quizzingly. Farquhar returned his look.
‘Ye can just forgit about any wangs for thae big bastards,’ he said, and stormed off.