ON THE JOURNEY THEY spoke about the island, a pinprick on the great body of Asia. Some now wondered why they journeyed towards it, thought that perhaps they had made a mistake. On the open deck of the ship the travellers sat pressed together, voices low, as if to contain their hopes. By day they watched the horizon and rushed en masse to the rail of the ship at the sight of a passing islet or even the fin of a whale, disappointed that days of sail still remained. They covered their heads against the sun, limbs roasting beneath their rags. Some journeyed from the west across the Indian Ocean, others from the east over the China Sea but, east or west, all remembered impoverished villages, a muddy bullock, an empty stomach, dung-strewn fields. Some said Singapore, the name of the island, was derived from the Malay for lion. There was talk that these creatures roamed the jungle along with tribes of ghosts. It was said the island was a haunted place of ancient executions.
In the silence of night each man, huddled unbearably close upon the open deck yet each separate in his own circle of thought, listened to the ship cutting through the waves, licked the brine from his lips and trembled. A light on the bridge swung loosely above while beneath them the ocean rolled, a great creature upon whose back they rode. Dark thoughts rose up then to shape the future, to clothe it in both terror and hope.
Singapore rested beneath the tongue of Malaya, fabled treasure of crystal seas, the Golden Chersonese. The island was diamond shaped, and its geographical placing at a point pinning down two oceans made it forever a transit stop for travellers and merchants alike. Stamford Raffles had seen the wealth convergent in these things when he took possession of the swampy region. Trade not territory, he famously declared, but these two words could not be parted. The island fulfilled its promise, never faltering in the flowering of prosperity. It became a place of dreams, holding the souls of men to ransom.