John Morgan went to visit Father Docherty, an Irish priest who was staying at a boarding house on Hill Street. He introduced himself as a merchant and magistrate, and Father Docherty invited him into his room.
‘Father Docherty,’ he said, ‘I’ve come to ask you a favour. I believe you can read and write the Siamese language.’
‘That I can, Mr Morgan. I’ve got translations of the Bible, which I’m going to deliver on my next visit, and a printing press with their letters. Can I print something for you.’
‘Well, not exactly, but I would like you to translate a letter for me into Siamese.’ He drew a sheet of paper from his inside coat pocket. ‘But I must first ask you to swear not to divulge its contents.’
‘My, my,’ replied Father Docherty, with a crooked grin. ‘Now I’m asking myself what could be in such a letter?’
‘Oh, nothing very exciting,’ said Morgan, ‘just a list of the cargo.’
‘You can put your trust in me, Mr Morgan,’ Father Docherty replied. ‘I’ll do it tonight, in return for a small donation to my mission. Shall we say ten dollars?’
‘Done,’ said Morgan, who normally haggled over money but not in this instance. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, then, Father Docherty,’ he said, before he took his leave.
Father Docherty sat down to translate the letter John Morgan had given him. As he transcribed its contents, he frowned and scratched his head vigorously. And this man a magistrate, he thought to himself. When he was done, he poured himself a whisky from a bottle he kept hidden in his case of Siamese bibles, and let out a low whistle. ‘Holy Mother of Jesus,’ he said to the empty room.
The next day Father Docherty handed over the letter to John Morgan without comment, and thanked him for his ten-dollar donation to his mission. Then he left his room and went into town.
* * *
Ronnie Simpson met John Morgan the following day as he walked along Boat Quay.
‘Good tae see you, Mr Morgan,’ Ronnie said, walking towards the other man. ‘I’ve been meaning to hae a word wi’ you. I still havna been paid for that shipment o’ nails I delivered to you. Going on six weeks it is now, if I’m nae mistaken.’
Morgan did not reply. He grabbed Ronnie by his shirt and brought his knee up sharply into his groin.
‘You fucking highland scum! Don’t you dare talk to me like that,’ he screamed, as he punched Ronnie sharply on the side of the head.
Ronnie fell down on his knees to the packed earth. His head spun and his groin was racked with stabbing pains, but he struggled quickly to his feet before Morgan could strike another blow, and raised his fists ready for the fight. But as he stepped forward, he was stopped in his tracks by a silver cane that was thrust across his chest like an iron bar. At the same time he noticed that a large Negro was holding Morgan’s arms.
Ronnie turned towards the man with the cane. He was about his own age, with long grey hair and cold blue eyes. He looked a bit of a dandy, with his black frockcoat and magenta waistcoat, and his silver watch and chain. In an easy Southern drawl, he told them both to cease and desist.
‘What business is it of yours,’ snarled Ronnie, looking the man straight in his cold blue eyes.
‘I make it my business, sir,’ he replied. ‘I intend to keep Mr Morgan ship shape and Bristol fashion, as you fellows say. My name is Harry Purser, at your service.’
But Ronnie’s blood was up. He snatched the end of the cane, and pulled it from Purser’s grasp. Then he swung it in an arc and brought it down hard across the man’s left cheek. Purser staggered back, but did not fall, and his eyes flashed like cold steel.
‘Keep out of my business,’ Ronnie said, flinging the cane to the ground.
‘It is my business now,’ Purser replied in a measured tone, as he bent down to retrieve his cane. Then in a flash he drew a concealed blade from inside the silver cane, and pressed it to Ronnie’s throat. ‘I demand satisfaction,’ he whispered aloud, like the hissing of a snake. ‘Name your weapons. The Negro will be my second.’
‘Pistols,’ replied Ronnie, without hesitation or thought. ‘I’ll meet you tomorrow night at seven. Take the road out past Bukit Selegie, and follow the path into the jungle. In about fifteen minutes you’ll come across a clearing. Captain Pearl will be my second.’
‘Agreed. I’ll meet you there, at seven sharp. Make your peace with your God before you come.’ He bowed, and then motioned his companion to release John Morgan.
Morgan adjusted his coat and turned to Ronnie with a nasty smile. ‘A big mistake’ he said. ‘Purser’s killed about a dozen men in duels, and a dozen more on the side. You’re a dead man, Simpson.’
* * *
The next morning Ronnie went out to his ship, the Highland Lassie, to supervise the unloading of a cargo of rice and sago. He intended to spend the day in as ordinary a way as possible, so as not to dwell on his evening assignation. He would work the morning, and spend the afternoon with Sarah and his father. It was too late for practice or prayer––what he needed was a calm spirit and a steady hand. He cursed Morgan for starting the fight and getting him into this mess, but the thing was done and there was nothing he could do about it. He wondered whether Morgan had been trying to scare him when he told him that Purser had already killed a dozen men in duels, but when he remembered the cold blue eyes of the man he was to fight he did not doubt it.
Suddenly he heard one of the deck hands calling out a warning. He looked around but saw nothing, but then he noticed that the man was pointing upwards. Too late he saw the heavy rope that had come loose from the foresail, as it came snaking down towards him. It missed his body, but one end of it slammed into his right hand, which had been resting lightly on the starboard rail. He winced as the burning pain shot through his hand. He immediately went below deck and plunged his hand into a bucket of water, and then wrapped it in a bundle of wet rags. He called for the longboat, and was taken ashore, where he went to his house.
When Sarah saw him, she gave a short gasp of horror at his bandaged hand.
‘It’s your right hand,’ she exclaimed, ‘you can’t fight a duel with that man tonight.’ She began to unwrap the bandage carefully to take a look at his hand, and told him she would ask one of the boys to fetch Dr Montgomerie.’
‘You know I can and will,’ he replied, in a tone that she knew meant that he could not be persuaded otherwise. These Scots were as stubborn as mules at times, although she had no doubt he would consider it a matter of honour.
Ronnie told her there was no need to send for Dr Montgomerie. ‘I’ve had worse afore,’ he said, ‘and the bones are nae broken. I just need tae to keep the swelling down until tonight.’
‘God, I wish I was back in Ardersier just now,’ he joked. ‘I could stick it in the Moray Firth and it would be down in no time. Cold as ice a’ year round.’
Sarah looked at his hand. It was turning black and blue from bruising, and was beginning to swell, although Ronnie could still move his fingers.
‘I know the best thing for this,’ she said. ‘Camphor, but we’re out of it. You stay here and rest. Keep these bandages wet, and I’ll be back as soon as I can. I’m going across to the Chinese apothecary.’
Ronnie’s father came in. ‘Whit’s up,’ he said, as he saw his son sitting in the chair with his bandaged hand. ‘Oh my God!’ he exclaimed, when he recognized the implication of what had happened.
‘You stay here with him, John,’ Sarah said, ‘I’ll be back within the hour.’
‘Where’s she off to?’ John Simpson asked his son.
‘Gone for some camphor, I believe,’ he replied.
‘Best thing for it,’ his father agreed, ‘but why no send one o’ the boys?’
But Sarah was already gone.
* * *
Sarah managed to catch a dhoni[1] that had just deposited a passenger on her side of the river, and which took her back across to Boat Quay. She asked the ferryman to drop her off at Alexander Johnston’s jetty, and after she had paid him his one doit[2] fare, she ran straight into Johnston’s office. She begged him for the loan of a horse or pony, which he readily granted, although he was somewhat taken aback by her urgency. He told her there were two mares stabled in his yard, and that she was welcome to take her pick.
Sarah rode off towards Telok Ayer Road and past the new fish market, then turned north towards Pearl’s Hill. She urged the horse up the winding road to Captain Pearl’s house, praying he would still be at home.
He spied her coming up the hill, and went out onto the verandah to greet her.
‘Is anything wrong?’ he cried out. ‘Is Ronnie all right? I thought the thing was not until tonight.’
‘He’s all right,’ she replied, ‘but he’s hurt his hand. I came to talk to you about it.’
She dismounted, and Captain Pearl told one of his servants to look after her horse.
‘Please come in,’ he said, ‘and tell me what I can do to help. Would you like some lemon water?’
She accepted, and they went into his house. Then she told him her plan. At first he was shocked and refused to cooperate, but she eventually persuaded him.
As Sarah prepared to leave, and waited for her mount to be brought up, she suddenly turned to him and said, ‘Do you have a bottle of camphor I could borrow, Captain Pearl? It would save me some time.’
Pearl raised his finger and nodded his head, then stepped briskly back into the house and reemerged with a shiny glass jar with a Chinese inscription upon it. Finding Sarah already mounted, he handed it up to her.
‘I keep a stock of the stuff. Best thing for my aching bones. I’ll see you at five, then, Mrs Simpson,’ he said.
‘Thank you, Captain Pearl. At five,’ she replied.