Surabada’s visit highlighted our vulnerability in Kuching. Budrudeen, on his return to the town, admitted there was not much Hassim would be able to do to defend Sarawak. Indeed, this was part of the reasoning behind his allowing the pirates to travel freely on the river. It seemed, then, that if we were to be able to protect the people of the province, we would have to make our own arrangements for our defence.
Some of the immediate measures we took were simple enough. The doors to the house were reinforced and thick mahogany shutters were fitted. With the doors bolted fast and the shutters closed, the house would withstand attack long enough for reinforcements to be sent to relieve us. A flagpole was set on the roof and an agreed system of signal flags enabled us to communicate with vessels on the river and other key points in the town, including Budrudeen’s compound. An armoury was installed and the servants, as well as James and myself, drilled with the muskets until we were confident we could give a good account of ourselves.
The other changes took longer to arrange. As the Royalist and the Swift voyaged to and from Singapore, they brought, in addition to their regular supplies, new armaments for our defences. Six months after Surabada had first arrived in Kuching, a battery of five ten-pounders was set up overlooking the quayside, defending the town against attack, and offering a formidable obstacle to any fleet attempting to pass upriver. The temporary boom that had served so well in holding back the pirates was replaced by a massive cable and wood construction projecting from the far bank, forcing any vessels travelling upriver to pass close to the town, under our guns, and through a gap that we could easily defend with one ship.
The artificial constriction of the river had an additional advantage – it made it easier to stop every vessel passing the town and thus to institute a tax on the produce going to or from our port. We already gathered a harbour fee that paid for the improvements to the quayside but now we could raise some small revenue from all those visiting the market. These measures, though resented by some, were generally seen as fairer than the predations of the Malay officials and we had no choice but to impose them for we were sorely in need of the money.
The trade in antimony was profitable but it did not yield as much as James had hoped. He decided he had to travel to Singapore and ascertain whether he could improve the terms on which we traded or, failing that, secure some of our immediate needs by an arrangement with one of the banking houses there. He would have had me travel with him but I knew my ignorance of Society could not fail to be an embarrassment to him. Indeed, though I know he did not mean to distress me, it was clear he was not anxious to have me known as a friend until I had more the manners of a gentleman. So it was agreed I should remain in Kuching to exercise a stewardship on his behalf while he was away. Even so, given that I was officially only an interpreter, Mr Hart was to have nominal charge until James’ return.
This was to be our first separation since we had acknowledged our love, and the night before he was to leave I realised how much I had come to cherish him. I think he, too, realised how much we meant to each other, and he was especially tender with me. Before dawn I clung to him as a child to its mother but he, kissing me gently, slipped from my embrace and left me alone as he went about his business abroad.
It was lonely in that house without him. Singapore was but four days away with a fair wind but it might as well have been the other side of the world. The first evening after his departure, I sat looking out over Kuching and suddenly it struck me how alien was the land where I found myself and how far from the West Country of my childhood.
Such pining, though, could not help in doing all that was to be done and the work before me seemed likely to offer the best cure for any transient unhappiness I might be feeling.
Business took up much of my time. Mr Hart was, I think, sensitive to my situation and he took care not to impose his authority. I was therefore left to deal with the realities of administration which meant, as often as not, dealing with the antimony trade. The metal was mined by Dyaks from the interior of the country but the mines were owned by Malays. Many owed their allegiance to Makota and almost every day, it seemed, there would be someone of Budrudeen’s faction petitioning on one ground or another that a mine should be transferred from its current control to his.
Although I would try to postpone these decisions until James returned, this was not always possible. On one occasion my petitioner told me there was already actual fighting at the mine, with some Dyaks insisting they represented the new owner and those already employed there defending the site against the usurpers at sword-point. It seemed they fought with more enthusiasm for their livelihoods than they had ever done in the recent war, and three or four men had already been killed. I had to make a ruling before there was more bloodshed and I deemed it politic to find for Budrudeen’s allies, as they were most like to be our allies too. Thus did we find ourselves enmeshed in the coils of court intrigue.
At a more mundane level, problems would occur when several mines brought the ore to Kuching on the same day. They would all demand payment immediately and none was prepared to wait while other loads were weighed and tallied, a procedure that could take some hours. The labourers would be exhausted from their work upon the river and unprepared for a long wait, with nothing to eat or drink and the prospect of a long journey against the current before they would be back at their homes. Their overseers would worry about the cost of delay and the work left undone at the mines while men were idle at the docks. Mr Brooke had arranged a rota to avoid such delays and Mr Hart had his men travel from mine to mine, explaining the days on which ore should be transported, but the system was honoured more in the breach than in the observance. I would often be called upon to negotiate between three or four angry crews, all insisting their vessels should be the first to be unloaded.
Mr Hart had appointed a quartermaster, one Wilkins, who was responsible for ensuring there were sufficient provisions for all Mr Brooke’s men in Kuching. This meant the crews of Royalist and Swift and a party of around a dozen who were seldom aboard either craft but ran here and there in the Lily. The Royalist’s gig was kept almost permanently busy on Sarawak’s rivers by now, either surveying with Mr Murray or carrying messages to the various villages of the interior. Our own establishment had grown, too. We had hired a general factotum whose Malay name defeated most Western tongues and who was generally known as Freddy. On his recommendation we had also taken on a girl – some member of his extended family – who cooked for us. Both lived under our roof and Wilkins was responsible for our household supplies as well as those of the crew.
Wilkins had acquired a fair understanding of both Malay and the main Dyak dialects but when there was a dispute – and disputing was lifeblood of Kuching’s commercial life – then I would be called for. I do not flatter myself that my diplomatic skills were so valued. Rather it was the presence of an official interpreter that would elevate their haggling into trade negotiations and, by satisfying their pride, we were able to strike a better bargain than Wilkins would achieve alone, however shrewd his judgement.
Even with all these matters to attend to day by day, yet still I had time at leisure and I resolved I would make a garden around our house. This would offer a useful distraction and, I hoped, please my James on his return.
Murray had started to collect examples of the native flora on his surveying trips, and I asked him for such of his specimens as I thought would make an interesting and attractive display. He supplied me with a beautiful gardenia bush, just a foot or so in height and covered in pure white blossoms that yielded a powerful aromatic odour, filling the air with fragrance. Rhododendra grew in profusion around the jungle clearings and I was able to plant bushes along the side of the house so that, wherever the eye fell, their brilliant colours would lift the spirit. In a spot separate from the other bushes, I planted a yellow-flowered cinquefoil, as high as myself, but Murray assured me it would grow to more than fifteen feet in a few years’ time.
These bushes, with their bold colours, seemed to reflect something of James’ character, but I planted other flowers for myself. Here and there beside the house or nestling in the shade of their brash cousins, I set a variety of the native orchids. Mr Murray has already identified fifty or more of these delicate plants and I was able to grow five or six varieties around the house – some lemon yellow, some purple, some with spectacular blotched markings of orange and black, but all with the remarkable pendulous shape and powerful scent of this family.
So the time passed pleasantly enough, the mornings toiling at my stewardship, then a rest in the heat of the day before I spent some time planning the garden and arranging for the plants and shrubs to be laid out and tended. In the evening I might be visited by some Malays from the town or Dyaks who had travelled up from the interior. They would sit and drink sweet tea or chew betel nuts, talking of nothing in particular until they were relaxed enough to let me know the real reason for their visit. Thus I would receive news of intrigues in Budrudeen’s household or some story passed on from Hassim’s court in far-off Brunei. The Dyaks would tell me of the latest swindle practised by the Malay mine owners, and which chiefs were loyal and which could not be trusted. I, in turn, passed on such stories as I thought fit about James Brooke’s doings, news of the Empire and the movements of our British forces about the world, and accounts of the wonders of the age as reported to me from Singapore and the Straits Settlements. And so we spun our web of politics and innuendo and, when it seemed best to do so, outright lies, all under the brilliant tropic moon.
James returned at last, his enthusiasm buoyed by new funds to keep our venture solvent and new buyers for the produce of our country. I scarce had time to open my mouth, let alone show him the garden I had laboured on, before he was telling me how he had spent his time in Singapore.
‘You should have seen me, John,’ he said. ‘I decked myself out in a new jacket and a fine beaver hat and I was quite the hero of the hour.’
He must have discerned some hint of irritation in my face, for he cast his eyes down like a chastised schoolboy. ‘I had to do it, John. I don’t seek glory for myself but if we are to keep this place going, the world must believe in Sarawak. And, as all the world sees of Sarawak is my poor self, they must believe in me.’
I could not deny the truth of what he said. I smiled and kissed him, and for a while he was silent. But soon he was again describing his adventures while he had been away. He had, it appeared, not only charmed the traders into providing us with the commercial support we needed but had also spent much of his time at Government House, explaining to anyone who cared to listen that Sarawak could be a valuable British outpost and a check on Dutch expansion in the East Indies. The Governor of Singapore himself was prepared to make time to talk with Rajah Brooke and James felt his activities had at least the tacit support of the British government.
He talked for an hour without pause and only then did he think to ask how I had occupied myself in his absence. Scarce had I drawn breath to answer him, though, than he pulled me to him.
‘I’ve been too long away,’ he said. ‘Let’s go to bed.’
And so we did.
The backing of the Singapore merchants relieved us of our immediate concerns about the finances of the country. James even relaxed enough to enjoy the garden I had made for us.
The money he brought back with him allowed us to pay our men and buy hoists and cable to improve the docks. Until now every delivery of antimony had been loaded by men carrying it on their heads along a wooden gangplank. Once we were able to hoist a cargo net to load antimony a ton at a time aboard our vessels, we could clear the docks so much more quickly that the amount of antimony passing through Kuching more than doubled. Our main concern became to make the mines more efficient and produce more ore. All too soon James was back in Singapore to raise yet further funds so we could invest directly in the mining, bringing European tools and expertise to the business and improving the yield.
Strange to say, although it seemed sometimes my life revolved around antimony, I had never seen any of the mines, the nearest of which was a two days’ journey away. It seemed to me foolish that James should invest so heavily in something neither of us had seen with our own eyes so, about a month after his second visit to his bankers, I set off upriver on a tour of inspection.
We started with the Lily heading for Siniawan. The journey was familiar from the days of the war but when we disembarked at Siniawan, all was very different. Although James had been able to save the lives of their leaders, the town of Siniawan had been razed to the ground and its population had drifted into the jungle to start their lives again at some more discreet location. Now the place was a small Chinese settlement with neat wooden houses facing onto carefully tended plots. It even boasted a small temple, from which the smell of incense carried to the river on the evening breeze.
Despite the evidence of agricultural activity, it was clear the Chinese lived mainly by trade. Facing the river bank, where the Lily scraped ashore, were a row of tiny shop-houses supplying the needs of travellers, be they the crews of the antimony miners transporting ore downriver or the native people of the region. Inside you could scarcely move for goods of all kinds: native medicines, tinned provisions shipped from Singapore or Java, clothes and clothing materials of every description, and the tall Chinese pots so valued by the native peoples here that they had almost become a currency. Why these last things should be so ubiquitous was a mystery to me but it was so. The Dyaks had neither potter’s wheel nor firing ovens to make glazed ceramics such as these and seemed overwhelmed by such items, valuing them far beyond their simple utility as storage vessels.
I had often had cause to deal with the Chinese merchants of Kuching who would come to James’ house with one complaint or another as they saw his regulation of business in the town restrict their absolute freedom to profit from the place. I recognised their industry as allowing some progress in a country whose character might otherwise be determined entirely by the indolence of the Malays or the ignorance and backwardness of the Dyaks. Yet I think it was the sight of the Chinese settlement at Siniawan that first made me realise how tightly they had woven themselves into the fabric of Sarawak.
The next morning I woke early and, with an escort from the Lily’s crew, set off away from the river toward the Singè mountains and the antimony workings.
We skirted the jungle, climbing for several hours along a path across rocky ground where grew just scrub and stunted trees. Ahead of us, the mountains drew almost imperceptibly closer.
Finally we arrived at a steeper slope where, all at once, we were surrounded by bustle and activity. Trenches had been dug into the earth and these ran into the hillside. Some were so long they ended up as tunnels, cut horizontally into the steeper ground ahead of us, propped up precariously by rough-hewn trunks of wood.
In the trenches Dyak labourers were hacking at the ground with what looked for all the world like primitive hoes, leaving broken rocks to be shovelled into great woven baskets which could be slung on carrying poles to transport the rock to the river at Siniawan.
Malay overseers wandered here and there among the toiling Dyaks but, to my surprise, there seemed almost as many Chinese on the site as there were Malays.
I enquired as to who was in charge and a shortish Malay hurried over from the shade of one of the stunted trees on the boundaries of the site, where he had apparently been resting from the sun. He introduced himself as Anwar Ibrahim and he explained he represented the owner, whose name I vaguely recognised from Hassim’s court and whom I was confident was now ensconced with Hassim in Brunei.
When I expressed interest in the workings, Ibrahim started to show us around, but as soon as I had any questions as to the mechanics of the operation, he would beckon to one of the Chinese to explain the details of the work. So Li Tun explained how much rock they would extract in a day, Lon Soo told me how many men worked on the site, and Tu Zo described the mechanics of grinding the rock and washing it in a spring half a mile away to separate out the ore. It was all too evident that, though the mines were owned by Malays, they were run by the Chinese. This fact, so obvious on the ground, had been quite concealed from me in Kuching and I felt this intelligence alone had more than justified the time and effort of the trip.
My visit to the mine not only gave me a better understanding of the place of the Chinese in the economic life of Sarawak but it confirmed James’ belief that European investment in the workings would bring significant rewards. Simply replacing the rough tools with well-made picks and shovels would improve production, and if we installed tracks to move the boulders about the site by truck, rather than in baskets carried on men’s shoulders, more ore could clearly be handled with less use of labour. These and a myriad other improvements were essential if James were to meet his commitments to his backers, for the Sultan had a nominal monopoly on antimony and any increase in production would enable us to renegotiate the terms on which the mine owners held the mines from us.
I returned to Kuching full of enthusiasm for the improvements we were planning to introduce. James was determined I should acquire such skills as would enable me to take my proper place as his man of business. I had always had a head for such arithmetic as was needed to buy and sell and keep our domestic economy afloat, but now James was determined I should learn to reckon like a clerk, keeping proper accounts in a ledger book. ‘For if you can never be a gentleman, John, at least I will have you fit for a decent place in the world.’
It was unkind of him to remind me so often of the difference in our stations. In truth, when we were about the house no difference existed. We were equals then and he would be as likely to bring me a cup of tea, bestowing it with a fond kiss, as I might perform some small domestic service for him. When Freddy brought in dinner or prepared our clothes, he did not distinguish between us. Yet to the wider world, I was marked out as his inferior and, for all James would swear he had an honest admiration for my skills, I believe he was not himself unconscious of the difference in our status.
Still, any bitterness I felt about my situation was not allowed to fester into a canker but, rather, was diverted into a ferocious energy with which I pursued my education. Soon I was a competent bookkeeper, able to keep a decent record of the state of our Treasury. James applauded my success and I basked in his praise, but no sooner did he feel I fully understood the mysteries of his accounts but he had to explain to me the basis of economic theory and the works of such thinkers as Adam Smith. I had come a long way from Mother Goose and now sat up reading The Wealth of Nations, until James complained I was turning into a bookworm and a bore and, laughing, pulled me away from my library and into bed.
My studies were not wasted, though. I came to see how our efforts in Sarawak illustrated perfectly the arguments of the great economists. Surely there was no clearer case of the benefits trade could bring to the inhabitants of a country than we could show here before us. The Dyak labourers would benefit as their work would be more productive and they would not need to toil so long in the heat of the day simply to extract enough ore to pay for their subsistence. The mine owners, franchised by our government, would benefit from their share in the increased profit of the mines. We would be enabled to pay our debts and support ourselves, and the people as a whole would benefit from the improved governance we could impose with the surplus profit of our endeavour.
All would have been well had it not been for Surabada and the pirates.
We had thought Surabada’s enforced retreat would have taught him a lesson and we would hear no more from him. Our mistake was to have underestimated the scale of piracy in Borneo and the lengths to which the pirates would go to maintain their hold over the country. When James Brooke forced Surabada to quit Kuching, he was, unbeknownst to him, declaring war on all the pirates of Borneo. So they gathered and plotted secretly with the aim of driving the British from Sarawak and demonstrating their power against us.
At first we were unaware of any organised campaign. Pirate raids had been a fact of life for coastal settlements for as long as anybody could remember. We would send the Lily to the site of each reported outrage but this was just a gesture on our part. It might take days to reach some of the farther villages and, in every case, the pirates would be long gone. All our men could do was to search the smouldering ruins and bury the dead.
It was only as the months passed and we received increasing reports of attacks on isolated communities that we realised this was more than just the regular reality of life on the frontiers of civilisation.
By now, a dozen villages had been destroyed and we had yet to see a single pirate, let alone apprehend them. James called a council of war at the house, attended by myself, Hart, and Murray. James also asked Budrudeen to join us, as his knowledge of the history of the pirate tribes and their political relationships was likely to prove invaluable.
Budrudeen’s presence meant the meeting had a certain air of formality. Though he was by now regarded by us all as close to a friend, still his status as a member of the Royal household meant the proprieties had to be observed. We all wore the jackets which had become almost our uniform for such occasions. Instead of lounging comfortably in the study, we sat in state around the mahogany table in the dining room. Servants, hired especially for the day, bustled in with tea and the sticky sweetmeats the Malays enjoyed so much, though James drew the line at introducing betel nuts into his residence.
Once all the proprieties had been observed, the servants were ordered to withdraw and we soon settled down to business. Budrudeen spoke first, explaining the realities of piracy with a brutal frankness that surprised us. ‘You think of these pirates as mere brigands but you do not understand them at all. The Dyaks are a warrior people and for the Sea Dyaks, piracy is the way of life of whole communities. Their fleets are the armies of their tribes. When you forced Surabada to turn away from Sarawak, you struck the first blow in a war. Now he has found allies – for the other pirate tribes fear if they are to be denied Sarawak then, in time, they will be driven from the rest of Hassim’s lands. So they mass against you. That is why the number of attacks upon our land is increasing.’
Murray, as ever, had to disagree. He did not care for the subtleties of politics. As far as he was concerned, a pirate was a pirate. The idea they might form alliances and develop strategies would be strange enough if they were Europeans. The thought that mere natives might plan like this was patently absurd to him. ‘If they have a grand alliance to attack Sarawak, why do we just see these few raids here and there? Why do they not attack the rich inland villages, as Surabada threatened?’
‘Because you have closed the river to them at Kuching. They have been defeated here once – they will not try again. Therefore they attack coastal villages in force or march inland to mount smaller raids as and where they can strike.’
Murray looked sceptical but, before he could respond, James spoke. ‘Mr Murray, your work has given us some splendid maps to work with. Why don’t we use them?’
The flattery was effective. Murray pushed aside the plates littering the table and unrolled his maps. Budrudeen leaned forward. ‘You see. The pirates have struck here. And here. And here.’ Again and again he stabbed his finger at the charts and now the pattern of predation became clear. They had already destroyed the larger coastal settlements and were now working their way inland. With this understanding of their strategy, we could fairly predict where they would strike next.
We agreed nothing could be achieved from the approach we had taken to date. If we responded only to the attacks after they had happened, we would always be too late. Our only chance, it seemed, was to provide guards for those villages at most risk and thus to be able to put up a resistance to the attacks when the pirates first struck. Now that we saw the pirate strategy, we could identify the places we most needed to protect.
Our problem was we could not spare the men from our crews to keep guard in three or four of the likeliest villages for as long as might be necessary. Nor did Budrudeen want to send the warriors of his own household away from Kuching on such a duty. The only solution we could see was to hire some of the natives to do the business and train and equip them at our own expense.
In contemplating such an expedient, we realised we were effectively setting up our own army. This was not a step we undertook lightly, as our exchequer had made no provision for such a measure. Yet James was passionate that as he ruled the country, so it was his duty to protect his subjects. The money must therefore be found.
Budrudeen declared firmly it would not be possible to raise the money by a levy on the Malays and if we were to take a greater share of the revenue from antimony, then the mines would not be profitable enough to persuade the owners to operate them. The Dyaks lived simply and the possibilities for raising money from them were limited. Our only choice, it seemed, was to levy an additional tax on commerce, taking one percent of our estimate of the turnover of every trader in Kuching and the major settlements.
Mr Hart protested that any such impost would fall heavily on the Chinese. ‘The Chinese live by trade and therefore will bear the burden of any such tax while the Malays will maintain their wealth and the Dyaks, whose defence will be the principal business of any army we form, will pay scarcely anything.’
‘In fairness,’ James responded, ‘the Dyaks do not yet have such an economy as will allow us to expect a contribution in cash.’
Mr Hart could not accept this line of reasoning. ‘The Dyaks have no money because the interior is still scarcely opened to trade. You have said yourself, James, it is by trade that we will raise these people from savagery and introduce them to the benefits of civilisation. Yet when the Chinese trade, they are to be penalised for it.’
I wished Mr Hart had not described the Dyaks as existing in savagery, for I considered there was a lot of truth in what he said. Yet James would turn against any argument that, as he saw it, denigrated their way of life. He loved the people of the jungle with a boyish enthusiasm as closed to rational debate as his dislike of the Chinese.
Unfortunately for Mr Hart, James’s opinion was shared by Budrudeen. The Prince, like most of the Malays, felt no affection for the Chinese but tolerated them for the services they provided to the indigenous peoples of the country. ‘They are not bumi putrah,’ he said, using the Malay term for ‘a son of the soil’. For him, only the Malays and the Dyaks, as bumi putrah, were worthy of consideration in planning the future of the country.
Murray, of course, disliked all foreigners on principle and, as the Chinese seemed to him more foreign than most, he was happy to subscribe to this view.
It seemed to me, at the time, that singling out the Chinese in this way would end badly and I ventured to say so, but James’ mind was made up. Indeed, when I tried to put the argument more forcibly, he grew sharp and so I held my peace.
Thus it was we established our army. On the Swift we had one Patterson, who had served with the Marines before jumping ship in Hong Kong and then gradually worked his way through a succession of craft until he had ended up with us. He had a useful knowledge of matters military and was transferred from his regular duties and put in charge of training our new recruits. These were made up mainly of young Dyak warriors. It is a tradition among these people that a young man should travel away from his tribe and demonstrate his prowess in the wider world before returning home to settle down. James’ army therefore appealed greatly to these people and we were soon able to recruit a force of some fifty men, which we armed with old muskets purchased from Singapore. After Patterson had drilled them to his satisfaction and we had established they had a reasonable skill with the muskets, the force was split into four groups and taken, each in turn, to the four villages we thought most at threat.
Barely a fortnight later, a young boy from one of the villages arrived in Kuching and demanded of the first person he met that he should, as he expressed it, ‘Have audience of Rajah Brooke.’
It was early afternoon when he arrived at the house. James and I were in bed. We had separate rooms but there was a connecting door and our man Freddy was clear we should not be disturbed during our siesta. However, the boy was so agitated and his cries for audience so persistent that he knocked timorously on the door of James’ room and asked if the Rajah Brooke might be roused. In fact James was already roused and cursed the servant fluently for a full minute while I shoved a sheet into my mouth and tried not to laugh. Poor Freddy! He knew perfectly well how much a disturbance would annoy James and, though he would die rather than admit it, knew why. But at the same time, he was a soft-hearted man with a particular fondness for children and could no more have driven away our visitor than could James himself.
Eventually, with much muffled laughter and the odd slap, I was driven back into my own room and James pulled on his dressing gown to go and find out what all the fuss was about. This splendid garment of red silk was bought from a Chinese and the back was covered with an embroidery of the most magnificent dragon, so James in his dressing gown looked more the Rajah than most men would have looked in far more conventional attire. Meanwhile I had pulled on a suit of more unadventurous clothing to take up my position as interpreter, advisor, and aide de camp to Sarawak’s ruler.
It was a glorious day. The rains were coming to an end and we had the benefit of brilliant blue skies without the desperate humidity that could make every move an effort until the weather broke. Through the windows came the sound of a woodpecker and, from the river below, the gentle splash of oars as a boat pulled toward the jetties. It was one of those days that made you feel glad to be alive and confident in the goodness of our Creator.
Waiting for us on the veranda was the Dyak boy.
He was about ten years old, naked except for a loincloth. His right arm hung loosely at his side and from that shoulder, downward across his chest, was an open gash, no longer bleeding but already showing pus around the raw edges of the wound. He was squatting on his heels with his good arm hugging himself across the chest while he rocked back and forth, as if to comfort himself.
We sent straight to the town to get a doctor while James knelt beside the lad to ask who had attacked him. It was clear that he had been attacked – the wound was certainly the result of a back-handed slash with a parang, one of the deadly jungle swords the Dyaks wielded. It was claimed the heavy blade of the parang could sever the head from the shoulders with one blow. Certainly I had seen it used to hack through vines as thick as a man’s arm. The boy was lucky to have survived at all.
By the time the doctor arrived, we had heard the boy’s story. In truth, there was little to tell. Patterson had dispatched his men – a dozen of them – to the village, where they had arrived safely and been welcomed at a feast. They had spent the next day at ease but their sergeant had established a proper routine by their second day, with the men divided into watches to keep guard and the men off duty resting or helping with chores around the longhouse. The village was responsible for feeding them while they were billeted there and it was natural they would be asked to help with the carrying of wood or the gutting of animals slaughtered for their meals. Even at such times, though, the men kept their weapons readily to hand and their ears alert for any warning from those on guard.
For just over a week, this routine was maintained. Then, an hour or so before dawn, the pirates arrived. There was, said the boy, no warning from the guards. He saw one of those who would have been on duty that night lying with his throat cut. We reasoned the pirates must have crept up on the guards and killed them silently before the alarm could be raised.
The rest of the men had camped in two groups, four bivouacking on the ground outside the longhouse and four sleeping inside with the people of the village. It seemed one of those outside was able to raise the alarm before they were slaughtered. The four inside took up position to defend the entrance to the hut and, according to the boy, they may have killed one or two of the enemy who tried to storm the place. In any case, the pirates soon gave up any idea of seizing the longhouse by assault and, instead, set fires against the supports and burned the place to the ground. Those who tried to escape were either killed or taken as slaves.
A few made it to the cover of the jungle, but the pirates had pursued them. Some of the raiders appeared skilled in tracking – as many of the Dyaks were – and the trails left by the panicking survivors were easy enough to follow. Our informant had barely escaped with his life and he was, as far as he knew, the only one to do so.
A doctor arrived from the town, a Malay with a good knowledge of Eastern remedies, and a man I trusted to do his best by the child. The wounds were cleaned and dressed and he was given a draught of honey and opium to help him sleep. A bed was made up in our guest room and he was laid there with the greatest care as Freddy appointed himself to watch over him.
James and I sat out on the veranda and looked out over the town. The scene was little changed from that of an hour before but I no longer noticed its beauty. We sat in silence for some time. Then, as if to himself, James said just one word.
‘Keppel.’
That was the moment the pirates’ fate was sealed.
Of course I had heard of Keppel. Everybody had heard of Keppel. Henry Keppel was everyone’s favourite sea-dog. Although only in his early thirties, he was a bluff, ‘hail fellow, well met’ chap with a red face and a solid build – the very picture of a jolly naval officer. It was only as you got to know him better that you realised his easy-going manner disguised a ruthless ambition. He was already writing the diary of his voyages that was to be published in so many volumes of heroic tales, resulting in a grateful British monarch awarding him a knighthood.
But when Henry Keppel first came into my life, he was just starting his climb up the greasy pole. He was a Rear-Admiral, certainly, but as Commodore of the Straits Naval Squadron he was losing his way in an obscure outpost of the British Navy. We were not at war with the Dutch, the only other significant European power in the area, and none of the native rulers had anything remotely resembling a navy. So Keppel was reduced to sailing aimlessly around the islands of the archipelago looking for someone to fight. And now James offered him the chance to lead his ships into battle against our pirates. For Keppel, it was the answer to a prayer.
Barely a month after James had first sent word that we would appreciate the assistance of the British Navy, Keppel’s flagship was in Kuching.
The Dido was an 18-gun clipper, impressive even to our own crew, who were familiar with ships of the line. To the people of Kuching, she was a visitation from another world, and Keppel made the most of his chance to awe the natives. She came in under tow with her sails furled and 150 tars lining her yards. As she dropped anchor, the guns sounded out the salute – all eighteen firing in turn and then the first three firing again, having reloaded as the later guns discharged. For those who had any understanding of naval warfare, the lesson was not lost. These were gun crews who knew their business.
Nor was the show over with the salute. The decks were lined with a Marine band, at attention in their red coats, and as the echoes of the cannon died away, they regaled us with ‘Rule Britannia’ and the National Anthem, all of us very still and sombre as that played. James did not generally play the Anthem in Sarawak, saying we were no part of the Empire but owed our allegiance to the Sultan who had given the rule to him personally and not as a representative of the British Crown. Now, though, we stood at attention as the band played and the White Ensign hung on the mast above our heads. I felt the arms of our Empire were reaching out across the thousands of miles of ocean between us.
Henry Keppel wasted no time in arranging a meeting with James. I had assumed he would call on us at the bungalow, but he specified a meeting aboard the Dido and on the afternoon of his arrival James, Colin Hart, Mr Murray, and I were rowed across to his flagship. We were shown into Keppel’s stateroom, where he rose quickly and strode across to James, arm outstretched.
‘Mr Brooke, I am so very pleased to meet you at last, sir. I have heard so much of your endeavours and am delighted to offer you every assistance in my power.’
James and Keppel exchanged handshakes and then James introduced us. Mr Hart and Mr Murray were easily explained and, indeed, Keppel expressed particular pleasure in meeting our surveyor as he had a professional interest in Murray’s work of mapping the coastline. When James came to introduce me, though, there was a perceptible pause. In Kuching I had at first been introduced as his interpreter and, as time had passed, my status had become so well known to all those of significance in our modest kingdom, it was no longer necessary to give me any title at all. But here ‘interpreter’ was an obvious nonsense and, faced with the uniformed splendour of the social order we had left in England, it was necessary I have some title.
‘Mr Williamson is my … assistant.’
Keppel bowed slightly in acknowledgement and, dismissing me in an instant, turned back to James and the business in hand. ‘My intelligence is that these pirates have camps both on the coast and in the interior of this island. From these lairs, they have preyed on merchant vessels travelling to and from Singapore. My efforts to deter them by patrolling the Straits are ineffective. The chances of our intercepting an attack are minimal. Our only course is to strike at the root of the evil and destroy them in their haunts. In this way, we can rid the British Merchant Navy of their present peril and, I hope, offer you valuable service.’
James demurred somewhat, suggesting it would be enough to provide increased patrols with the aim of breaking up any attacking force moving into Sarawak.
Keppel, though, would have none of it. ‘Your coastline is long, the rivers innumerable, the tracks these vermin can follow through the forest near invisible to Western eyes. Our only chance, sir, is to destroy them in their strongholds.’
And so it was decided. Mr Murray sat down with his charts and he and Keppel discussed where these strongholds might be and the best routes to them. Mr Hart was consulted as to the mechanics of navigating the rivers and James talked about the forces we might have available to assist with any military activity.
Meanwhile, I sat quietly, watched, and listened.
It was clear Henry Keppel had no interest in the people or politics of the country. His interest was solely in extirpating the pirates by military force, and James was swept along by the promise of action and excitement and a rapid conclusion of his troubles with the pirates.
So it was that, only a week later, we sailed East along the coast of Sarawak, heading for the mouth of the Saribas River. The Dido led our little flotilla, with the Royalist astern and then a dozen prahus, hurriedly assembled from Budrudeen’s allies and carrying a force of some three hundred men. Several Dyak chiefs had also turned out, mainly those whose villages had suffered the depredations of the pirates and who eagerly welcomed this opportunity for revenge. Admiral Keppel apparently shared James’ distrust of the Chinese and none of that race accompanied our troops.
The Sarawak River gives its name to the country because it runs through Kuching, which is not only the capital but easily the country’s largest town. The Saribas, though, is a far mightier river than the Sarawak. We entered the estuary at midday and sailed until evening before it narrowed to the point where we were within cannon shot of both banks at once. Not that there was anything to shoot at on either shore, for the river wound through scores of miles of mangrove swamp before it reached the sea. The mangrove trees grew out from the banks, giving the impression the jungle was moving forward into the water. Their roots trapped the mud and, with it, the stink of the marsh gas. The smell was revolting, even in the middle of the channel. The dark ranks of trees, their twisted roots reaching out toward us, combined with the foetid stench to give an aura of menace I did not feel in other parts of the jungle.
Whether the others in our party were affected by the evil spirit of the place or whether they were more concerned we were moving steadily into the territory of the pirate tribes, the men had grown noticeably quieter throughout the day. By the time we stopped for the night, there was a perceptible tension about our force. The Dido and the Royalist dropped anchor, and the smaller vessels secured themselves to the clipper as best they could, clustering for protection beneath her 32-pounders.
The next morning we progressed only a few more miles before Keppel ordered a halt. Although the channel was still navigable, the Dido and the Royalist were too big to manoeuvre in the limited space available. This would leave them vulnerable to fire from the shore, where the trees were thick enough to provide useful cover for any attack. We therefore transferred ourselves from our ships to the Skimalong and the Dido’s boats to continue our journey upriver.
As the river narrowed, the smell from the banks worsened and mud spits reached out toward the channel. Often we would scrape perilously onto swampy ground before swiftly reversing our strokes to push clear into the swirling tide. By now we were well into hostile territory, far beyond any point where Kuching’s rule had ever been acknowledged. Those of us who were not at the oars nervously scanned the jungle, hands gripped firmly on spears and muskets.
Again, as night fell, we rested as best we could in the river. By now the mud had given way to firmer river banks but the possibility of attack meant we did not dare venture ashore to make camp. Sleeping in the boats was difficult at best, but added to our physical discomfort was the nervousness that had us start awake at every nocturnal cry from the creatures of the jungle. By morning we were tense with fatigue, yet we still had to row another three or four hours to our destination.
Eventually the order was given to ground our craft on a narrow beach formed in one of the many bends of the river. In planning our expedition, Mr Murray had met with anyone I could find who had any knowledge of the territory where the Saribas Dyaks had established themselves. He was confident their longhouses were near the river and only a few miles upstream of our present position. Small groups of Dyaks, each representing one of the pillaged villages, slipped silently into the jungle to reconnoitre. We remained on the beach, the Redcoats mounting a picket in case of surprise attack.
It was some hours before our scouting parties returned, but they came to report success. The Saribas pirates were, indeed, based some five miles upriver. They lived in two longhouses of conventional design, but their warlike mode of life had encouraged them to defend their homes with a palisade some eight feet high, which ran along the riverbank and extended around them, demarcating the clearing they inhabited from the surrounding jungle.
Mr Murray set out his charts upon the ground and I interpreted, explaining his maps to the Dyaks and their excited comments to him until we were all sure we understood the lay of the land and the fortifications we would have to overcome. At this point Mr Murray took his charts to the Admiral, and Mr Hart and James joined him to plan the details of their attack.
It was by now late in the afternoon but Keppel was determined we should see action as soon as possible. He was anxious not to spend the night encamped where we were. The beach was crowded with our men and an overnight camp, with the practicalities of cooking and ablutions, would be difficult. There was also the danger that, so close to our enemy, our presence would be detected. Even if the pirates did not take the opportunity to mount a night attack, we would still lose the element of surprise. Keppel also explained that an attack late in the day would have practical advantages. The enemy would be relaxing, for the Dyaks typically ate at dusk, and the evening shadows would protect us in the shadow of the trees while the pirates, caught in the open, would still be clearly visible to us.
We had expected some measure of defensive work around the pirates’ homes so Keppel had brought with us a six-pound carronade, which was normally mounted on the fo’castle of the Dido. Smaller and lighter than the cannon we had used at Siniawan, the carronade was still a fearsome enough weapon deployed against an enemy whose heaviest artillery would be a musket, and its design made it especially suitable for the destruction of a wooden palisade. Keppel had had the weapon mounted in the bow of one of his boats and it was resolved that this vessel, commanded by the Admiral himself, would lead the attack by water. James meanwhile, was to lead the men under his command through the jungle into position on the landward side of the settlement.
I would have as soon not accompanied them, for I was unhappy with the idea of such slaughter as was planned, but I feared I would seem a coward if I did not join in the enterprise. So, reluctantly, I found myself following as the Dyaks led us silently through the trees. We did not have to worry about forcing our way through undergrowth for, in the shadows of the jungle, nothing grew beneath the arboreal canopy, so we were able to make good time. We were in position well before the hour appointed for Keppel’s attack. Now any pirates fleeing from the Marines would fall into the hands of our Dyaks and Malays.
In the event, the plan worked perfectly. Hidden among the trees, we looked out toward the pirates’ palisade as we listened to Keppel’s carronade open fire from the river. Then came the cries of the Marines as they stormed ashore through the wreckage of the village’s defences and, minutes later, we heard the pirates fleeing into what they thought was the safety of the jungle. As they ran toward the trees, our force emerged to meet them.
Unprepared for our attack and already running from the British, they put up no effective resistance. The Dyaks moved forward, swinging their heavy jungle swords, while the wavy blades of the Malays’ kris were soon coated in the blood of the dead and dying. The pirates ran hither and thither, seldom even attempting to return the blows aimed toward them. I stood, dirk in hand, but could not bring myself to join in the killing as scores of pirates were felled before my eyes.
Those who escaped with their lives fled into the jungle, where we did not pursue them. Instead our men clambered over the palisade to meet the Redcoats in the village.
We found the Marines rounding up the women, children, and old people of the place who had sheltered in their homes as the fighting men had fled. James made a speech, which I duly translated, explaining our invasion of their country was not for the purpose of pillage or gain to ourselves but as punishment for their repeated and aggravated acts of piracy. Our followers then herded them away from the two great longhouses which, with all their material possessions, were ceremoniously put to the torch. We seized their chickens and drove their pigs with us as we set off back to our boats and, despite Keppel’s previously expressed concerns about a night camp, we disposed of the livestock in a great victory feast on the river bank.
The Dido’s crew formed a separate group from the rest of us, organised with military precision around their own fire, on which they were roasting a pig. The Admiral swaggered around his men with a handshake here and a comradely buffet there, and as soon as he saw James, he called for him to join them. James was more than happy to do so. I think that in that martial band he relived his youth with the irregular troops of the East India Company. Also, it was plain the younger officers, especially the midshipmen, idolised him and he was vain enough to enjoy this.
I did not begrudge him their company for I was more than happy to have some time quietly sitting among the Dyaks, trying to come to terms with what I had just seen – what, indeed, I had been party to. For that evening I had seen a different James Brooke from the man who had gone almost reluctantly to war at Siniawan, who had seemed to understand Dyak ways and had pleaded with the Sultan to minimise the deaths that followed his victory. Instead, in the company of a British Admiral, surrounded by British troops flying the White Ensign from their boats, he seemed to act instinctively as a British officer, clearing the natives from their village as an act of cold calculation, having already killed any who might resist.
Yet for all my doubts about the wisdom of this course, the Dyaks I feasted with that evening were more than happy with the day’s work. Many had taken heads and they boasted of their prowess, holding their grisly trophies by the hair and recounting details of how they had made their kills. Others sat quietly, wiping their parang swords clean of blood, smiles playing quietly on their lips. I remembered the boy who had arrived bleeding in our home, what had happened to his people and to the troops we had sent to protect them, and I understood how the Dyaks around me felt. I resolved not to judge James but to wait until we were quiet and safe at home, where we could talk together of all that had been done in the Rajah’s name.
Avoiding James as we rowed our way back was easy. The natives in our force, both Dyak and Malay, were happy to talk to me about what had happened and to speculate as to what actions we might take against piracy in the future. I stepped precariously from boat to boat, exchanging a few diplomatic words with all the captains and chiefs as our fleet made its way back to the Dido. James, by contrast, concentrated his attentions on the sailors and their officers and, even had we sought each other out, it was likely we would not have exchanged a dozen words together on the journey.
On the Royalist we were inevitably thrown closer together but James was full of himself, congratulating each of the crew and interfering abominably with Mr Hart’s running of the ship, until Colin practically ordered him to get to his cabin and stay there. I, on the other hand, went quietly about my business, taking the opportunity to discuss with Mr Wilkins the economics of his provisioning the ship and making some suggestions as to which of his suppliers might perhaps be encouraged to reduce their charges. I spoke to Mr Hart about the general costs of the venture, which he considered minimal, the Dido having contributed the artillery and the Royalist being in port in any case. We discussed what arrangements we should make for loading the ship ready for her next trip to Singapore and whether we could do any of the loading at night to have her the sooner back in commercial service. I even managed to exchange a few civil words with Mr Murray, who was delighted to have had the opportunity to extend his maps of the Saribas.
With such conversations and the natural bustle of a ship under way, I managed to avoid any serious discussion with James until we were back in Kuching. There, I had resolved, we would talk over what had happened and what were to be our plans for the future.
When we arrived in the house, though, James seemed quite unaware there was anything untoward in my manner. Rather, he was so excited, he seemed to notice very little. He greeted Freddy with a breezy ‘Salamat pagi’ then, though it was still morning, practically dragged me to the bedroom.
Normally James was very gentle in the physical side of our relationship. Indeed, when I think of his loving caresses, I cannot wholly believe what we did was absolutely wrong in the eyes of a forgiving God. But that day he seemed almost like a stranger. Though he professed his love, even in terms more extreme than he was wont to use, still he took me without any gentleness at all. And though I know he intended me no harm – and, indeed, gave me much pleasure – yet he was rough with me and hurt me.
Afterward he held me in his arms and we lay for a while together. In time, when he seemed calmer, he spoke of his feelings about what had happened. ‘It is a terrible thing to say, John, but – God help me – it was such fun. They were wicked men and they had done so many foul things, and then to have them at our mercy and to cut them down …’ His voice trailed off and he held me again, his arms gripping me until I thought my ribs would crack.
Despite the earliness of the hour, we slept for a while after that and when we woke, his wild exuberance was gone and his dark eyes seemed darker than usual, as if the events on the Saribas had left a mark upon his soul.