Chief of Police Francis Bernard walked through the bazaar to the edge of the river, where a large hut constructed of planks and attap had been raised. It was rectangular in shape, and about the size of a small barn. Above the open door hung a sign made from a length of black teak, whose neat white painted letters inscribed the legend ‘Captain Kelly’s Bar, Restaurant and Games Room’.
‘My goodness,’ said Bernard, chuckling to himself, ‘and a purveyor of fine wines, spirits and Belhaven’s Best Bitter, no doubt.’ He knew that Colonel Farquhar had given Captain Kelly permission to locate his premises there, at least on a provisional basis, but he thought that as chief of police he ought to check it out.
He stepped through the doorway and looked around. To his right a long bar made out of rough planks stretched the length of the wall, behind which stood a stout middle-aged man with curly black hair and a thick black moustache. He wore a grey flannel shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, and tipped his battered straw hat to Mr Bernard as he entered. There were a number of tables and chairs spread across the packed dirt floor, and at the back of the room stood a magnificent mahogany billiard table, the green felt shimmering in the sunlight that filtered in through the attap roof and open windows. Two artillery officers were playing a quiet game, no doubt for a wager, thought Bernard, wondering idly whether Sir Stamford Raffles’ objections to gambling extended to these harmless flutters. He recognized John Morgan sitting at a table at the far left of the room. Morgan had his back to him, but had turned when Bernard had entered. Bernard touched his head in acknowledgement, and Morgan returned the greeting with a slight wave of his hand.
Across the table from Morgan sat one of the strangest figures Bernard had ever seen. He was a slim built young man, no more than twenty-five years of age, to judge by the smoothness of his clean-shaven face, but with long thin hair that hung over his shoulders, and which was as grey as that of a man three score years or more. He wore a smart black frockcoat with a clean white collarless shirt, and a magenta waistcoat, from which hung an ornate silver watch and chain. He held a glass of red wine in his left hand while his right hand rested upon his silver walking cane. Behind him sat a large Negro, dressed in blue cotton overalls, who stared at him with bloodshot eyes. The young man continued his conversation with John Morgan with scarcely a glance at Bernard, but the Negro did not take his bloodshot eyes off him.
‘Good afternoon,’ Bernard said to the proprietor, whom he presumed to be Captain Kelly, as he approached the bar. ‘I’m Mr Bernard, the chief of police in this fair city of Singapore’
‘And to you, y’r honour. My name is Captain Kelly, who was the skipper of the Aurora, and now owner of this ’ere hostelry. I hope we done nothing wrong––I got all the proper papers from the colonel, and I can show ye them right now.’
‘No, no,’ Bernard assured him, ‘no need for that. I was just dropping by for a friendly visit, to see how you were getting along.’
‘Well in that case, what’s your fancy, Mr Bernard? Would you like a Belhaven’s or a Guinness? Something stronger, perchance? All a bit warm, I’m afraid, since we have no ice. But we do our best––we keep them in the river, with a big Kling watching over them with a big stick.’
‘I’ll be damned,’ said Bernard, pleasantly surprised to hear that they had his favourite beer. ‘I’ll have a Belhaven’s then! It’s thirsty work walking around keeping the peace in the hot sun!’
The captain signalled to a Malay boy who stood waiting at the end of the bar, who quickly disappeared outside. A few minutes later he returned with the bottle of beer, which the captain poured into a pewter tanker.
‘Your health, Captain Kelly, and may your business prosper,’ said Bernard, raising his drink.
‘And yours, Mr Bernard,’ replied the captain. ‘Now how about something to eat? I’ve got a Chinaman back o’ the house can rustle ye up some fresh chicken and rice, quick as you like and as hot as you want.’
Bernard declined, and also declined to inquire what other services Captain Kelly might provide. There were no women on the premises, but he knew well enough that there was already a lively trade in prostitution in the settlement, given the terribly low ratio of women to men for all races, except among the Malays.
‘Chief of police, you are then. Well, we certainly need some law and order around here. I saw a Malay cut down dead in broad daylight the other day, and nobody paid a bit of attention.’
‘Very likely the sultan’s men fighting the Malaccans,’ Bernard replied. ‘They seem to hate each other with a vengeance. We don’t get much trouble from the Chinese or the Klings; the Bugis look a fearsome bunch, but they keep to themselves. Glad of it, since you and I have more fingers on our two hands than I have peons.’
‘Maybe things will get better as the place grows, as it surely will,’ the captain suggested.
‘Well, I’m sure of that, Captain Kelly, but it will probably be faster than John Company’s payroll,’ Bernard responded, finishing his drink. ‘How much do I owe you?’
‘On the house, Chief,’ said the captain, ‘and we hope to see you back again soon.’
Before he left, Bernard walked across to where John Morgan was sitting.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Morgan,’ he said. ‘How goes your trade with Siam?’ Bernard knew that Morgan had made a great success of a trading mission to Siam that Colonel Farquhar had sent him on, with his ship loaded with cotton goods and ironware, and bearing gifts from Farquhar for the King of Siam as a token of their good will. Morgan had contracted with a local Siamese merchant to act as a comprador, and had made a great deal of money on his subsequent voyages.
‘Excellent, Bernard, truly excellent,’ Morgan replied, beaming with pride. ‘I’m planning a return trip, just as soon as I can organize new cargoes.’
‘While you’re here, Bernard, I’d like you to meet Mr Harry Purser, a gentleman from the American south, from Savannah in Georgia. He’s thinking of starting up a plantation here, gambier or perhaps nutmegs.’
Mr Purser rose and learned across the table to shake Bernard’s hand. The man was thin as a rake, but nearly six foot tall, and the grip of his pale white hand was like an iron vice.
‘Pleased to meet you, sir,’ he said in a slow Southern drawl. ‘I understand you are our new chief of police, whose duty it is to protect from danger the citizens of this wonderful new eastern emporium. But I assure you we have all been behaving ourselves, so you need have no concern on behalf of our good selves,’ he continued with a thin smile. His eyes were blue, not the deep blue of the sky, or the warm blue of the lagoon, but the thin cold blue of the assassin’s knife. They were mesmerizing, like a cat’s eyes, and sent a cold chill down Bernard’s spine. This was not a man with an interest in gambier or nutmegs, he thought.
He wished them both well, and left Captain Kelly’s establishment. He had planned to continue to walk up High Street to visit Mr Johnson, but returned to his office. He told Constable Ramaswamy to position himself near one of the shops at the end of the bazaar, and to keep an eye on Captain Kelly’s bar. When a young man in a black frockcoat and long grey hair came out, likely accompanied by a large Negro man, he was to follow him discreetly, and then report back to the office. Since Bernard’s peons wore no official uniform, there was little likelihood of him being detected. Bernard then left to visit Mr Johnson.
The following day Constable Ramaswamy reported that the man had left the bar in the early evening, and travelled with the Negro to the sultan’s compound in Kampong Glam. He had stayed about an hour, and then returned to town, where he had taken an Indian lighter out to a Malay prahu in the harbour.
‘Damn him to hell,’ said Mr Bernard, although Constable Ramaswamy did not know which gentleman he was wishing to send to that place.
* * *
Captain Pearl returned to Singapore in the Indiana. After he had seen to the unloading of his cargoes, he rode out to his new house on the hill overlooking the western shore. He had completed his final sale with the last of the Chinese gambier farmers on his previous voyage. It has cost him a pretty penny, but now he owned the whole hill, which his coolie labourers had planted with the nutmeg and coffee vines that he had brought from Sumatra.
Pearl leaned back in his chair on the verandah of his newly completed house at the summit of the hill, and surveyed the scene below him with satisfaction. He could see the bustle of the town and the river, the merchantmen and native craft in the bay and roads, including his own Indiana. He sighed with satisfaction, and lit a fine cigar that he had been saving for the occasion. He was now a plantation owner as well as a ship’s captain. He wondered whether he should sell the Indiana, or keep on trading a little longer. After all, he thought to himself, business had never been so good.
To celebrate the occasion, he invited Ronnie and Sarah Simpson to dinner. Pearl admired Ronnie’s new wife Sarah, and wished he could find himself a woman to match her. But women, especially European women, were as scarce as cold mornings in the settlement. Perhaps he should import a Chinese concubine, like the rich Peranakan merchants, he joked to the couple.
‘Or a Malay princess,’ suggested Sarah, ‘I’m sure the sultan has plenty to spare.’
Captain Pearl told them of his plans to name the hill Mount Stamford, in honour of his good friend Sir Stamford Raffles, whom he had heard would soon be returning to Singapore for a final visit. He would host a grand party then to celebrate the occasion. Ronnie told Captain Pearl about the brick house he was having built by Naraina Pillai next to his godown.