Voyage East
By Tom Williams
Published by JMS Books LLC at Smashwords
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Copyright 2010 Tom Williams
ISBN 978-1-61152-158-0
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Cover Photo Credit: cliffwass
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NOTE: Voyage East is the opening of Williams’ book, The White Rajah, published by JMS Books LLC. If you enjoyed reading this excerpt, visit jms-books.com to purchase the full book.
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Voyage East
By Tom Williams
I can still remember the very first time I saw James Brooke.
It was in the Goat and Compasses, a low dive of an inn, even as sailors’ taverns go. I was there because I wanted to be alone to drink away the last of my pay and decide what I was to do for the future when the door was thrown open and in he came.
He was so much younger in those days, of course. We were all so much younger. I was scarcely a man, really, for all I thought myself cock o’ the walk. He was in his middle twenties, tall, good-looking with dark curly hair blowing untidily. I say good looking but, in truth, he was one of the handsomest men I had ever seen. He was of medium height but slim and swift in his movements, and he carried himself with the easy confidence that comes with wealth. It seemed to me he brought an energy and enthusiasm into the room with him. At first I thought it was because of the red soldier’s coat he wore over civilian trousers. (It was the coat of an officer of the East India Company and he had no business wearing it, having resigned his commission the previous year, but all this I was to learn later.) As he and his friends fairly skipped across to the bar, though, his gaze caught mine and the fire that glinted and shone in that glance was brighter than any red coat.
Since that night, I have seen him pass into all sorts of company—joining a seaman’s mess, bursting into an Admiral’s cabin, being ceremoniously ushered into a throne room—and I have so often seen the way the room lights up, charged as it were by an almost mystical energy he brings with him. By now I hardly notice it, but then I was caught staring in that light the way I have seen rabbits trapped in a lantern’s beam on those nights I went lamping back in my farmhood days.
Besides him, the others seemed almost shadows. I am not even sure who was there and whom I met later. Colin Hart, I remember—another lively man of about Brooke’s age but more solid and with the bearing of a sailor (which, indeed, he was). John Kennedy was there, too. Kennedy was an older man, dressed carefully in decent but slightly shabby clothes which told of a person in whom taste and ambition outstripped income. His bearing, though, suggested a strong man who saw life as a battlefield on which he marshalled his legions with every hope of success. There were two or three others but they were younger and, I think now, of no account. That is not to say I thought them of no account at the time, for they were clearly gentlemen, both by their clothes and by their manner. I, you must remember, was amongst the humblest class of sailors in the tavern and my experience of gentlefolk was scarce.
The party was well in drink but not, in my book, drunken. They all seemed merry, even Kennedy, in whom a certain caution sat, calculating, even in the midst of celebration. They seemed to be celebrating some good fortune and coins were hammered impatiently on the bar as ale was called for. Someone shouted for food and it was agreed they should eat in the tavern. The young gentlemen, I remember, thought this a great joke, a sailors’ inn being apparently somewhat inferior to their usual haunts. Brooke, though, drew Hart and Kennedy to him, an arm around each of their shoulders, and said they should break bread together in an honest meal with honest seamen and this was a fine way to celebrate a venture which would see them dining in many stranger places than this.
I had been quietly finishing my ale as I watched them. They were so alien to the world I inhabited, I was fascinated by them but, at the same time, nervous of having them about me. I decided that once I had supped my pint, I would take myself away to some lodging house and leave the gentlemen to their pleasures with their own sort.
Meanwhile, Mr Brooke’s party was calling for a table to be moved and more chairs to be brought up against others who, they said, would follow them. There was a great hustling and bustling and all at once one fellow, turning to gesture to a friend, struck my arm and caused me to spill my drink. I bit back my oath, for it would do me no good to swear at one of his station, and I drew myself together to depart. It was then Mr Brooke clapped me on the shoulder and set his own jug in front of me.
“I will not see a fellow without a drink on our account,” he said. “Tell me your name.”
“Williamson, sir,” I said, knuckling my forehead. “John Williamson.”
“Well, Williamson, don’t mind Richard. He’s a clumsy fellow at the best of times.”
Richard laughed as someone started a long, disjointed story about a vase Richard had broken in some Chinese temple on a voyage they had undertaken together, and then someone else was telling a story of a Chinese temple he had seen, and all at once food was being set out and some other gentlemen were coming into the inn to join them. Someone set a slice of beef before me. I started to push it away, for clearly I was served in error, but Brooke looked up and said I was to eat. “We are celebrating the purchase of a ship,” he said. “We are to set out for the Far East on our nautical venture and if we cannot have a sailor join our feast, then I would hazard we are in the wrong line of business.”
There was more laughter at this. One or two gentlemen slapped me on the back, saying they should be proud to eat with me. More ale arrived at the table and we settled together to our meal.
Roast beef and ale have a wonderful way of hastening good fellowship, even amongst those who would not expect to keep the same society. Certainly the ale was plentiful, yet the principal actors were never drunk. Kennedy maintained always a reserve of sobriety that watched and calculated as the others talked louder and laughed longer with the passing of the evening. Brooke, although flushed and noisy, was ever aware of what was said by everyone enjoying his hospitality and moved among them with a word here and a smile there, ensuring harmony among all his guests.
I sat quiet at first, minding my station, but as the meal progressed I found myself joining in the cheer. They were, as Mr Brooke had said, celebrating the purchase of a ship, the Findlay, in which Mr Brooke hoped to make his fortune as a trader. Mr Brooke had served in the East India Company’s army and was something of a hero, having been shot whilst charging at the head of his men. His injury had necessitated his leaving the service but, before he returned to the land of his birth, he had taken ship with some of the fellows met with us in that inn and had sailed the South China Seas, tasting adventure on the ocean. Now recovered of his wound, he declared nothing would suit him so well as to return to that part of the world in his own trading venture. To that end, he had prevailed upon his father to sponsor his purchase of a brig and had assembled together some of his old comrades who would be his officers.
I understood Mr Hart was a particular friend of his and beery toasts were drunk to him. Then Mr Brooke rapped sharply on the table with his tankard and proposed a toast to Mr Kennedy. “For he is to be our Master and the success of our venture is in his hands. Let us, then, drink to Mr Kennedy’s success!”
Mr Kennedy stood and bowed slightly. There were cheers and much banging of tankards but, it seemed to me, Mr Kennedy was not overly impressed with the company—soon after, he made his departure.
While Mr Kennedy had been with us, the mood had been excited enough, but with his departure, it was as if the schoolmaster had abandoned his charges and riot was the result. Jugs of ale were passed ever more quickly around the table, bawdy songs were started and forgotten in mid-verse, and quarrels flared and died, ending in laughter and mock blows. Most of what was said was of no import but at one point Mr Hart fell to complaining that none of his colleagues in the venture was ready to dirty himself with the menial work of a ship. Several voices rose to deny this, but Mr Hart would have none of it.
“What man is there here who can loose a top-mast halyard in a gale?” he demanded. At this, there was a quietening from those who had declared themselves handy, and Mr Hart laughed. “I’ll give ten guineas to any of you who can tell me they’ve run a spar when the ship is pitching more than enough to spill a jar of ale.”
He had spoken without thought and at least partly in jest but, as no one spoke up to respond to his challenge, there was an uncomfortable pause in the talk around the table.
I looked about at the flushed faces of these gentlemen and thought that, for all their money and fancy clothes, none of them could hold a candle to me aboard a ship. My experience was confined to the North Sea trade, carrying piss to Whitby and coals to London, but I believed myself one hell of a fellow in those days. I had left farming for the sea just two years earlier but I had every confidence in my ability to sail any ship in any ocean. You must remember, too, that like them, I had taken drink. This made me more forward than I would otherwise have been for, clearly, his money was not intended for me. Still, ten guineas was a lot to be had for the asking.
“I will take your money, sir,” I said.
As the words left my mouth, I realised I had spoken out of turn. But then Mr Brooke laughed and told Mr Hart to give me my money. At this everyone else fell to laughing and the moment passed and the talk turned to other things. As the night’s drinking drew to its close, though, Mr Brooke took me aside from the others.
“You are handy aboard a ship, then, lad?” he asked.
“I have not travelled the oceans like you, sir,” I replied, “but I have been a sailor these past two years and am as handy afore the mast as any other of my age.”
“Mr Hart is correct in his complaint,” said Mr Brooke. “We are all enthusiasts here but most of us know all too little about the practicalities of ocean life. Mr Kennedy is a good master and, of course, he will procure us a good crew. But I would like to think that I, too, can spot a good man and have someone aboard who can be my own choice. Would you work for your ten guineas, Williamson?”
So, from a chance meeting in a tavern, I found myself on the crew of the Findlay and favoured by the man who owned the best part of her.
* * * *
We sailed in May.
It was a fine spring day as we eased our way from St Katherine’s dock and started down the Thames to Tilbury. By dusk we were in the Channel, with fresh winds filling our new canvas. For the canvas was new. Everything about the Findlay that could be improved had been improved. Every detail had been gilded, every rail burnished, the decks themselves scrubbed until it seemed a shame to step upon them. A great deal of money had been spent on the Findlay and she was a vessel of which any gentleman could be proud.
And therein lay the germ of all that followed. For the Findlay was to be no gentleman’s pleasure yacht but a working ship, paying her way on the short but busy passages between the islands of the Indies. With all her pretty paint, her toil would be much the same as that of the colliers I had sailed forever to and fro between Newcastle and London. Such work could well be handled by a schooner, but the Findlay was a brig. The square rigging took a full crew to handle. There were thirty-two seamen and a full complement of officers and officers’ servants, making the Findlay an expensive ship to run.
To start with, at least, the Findlay was a happy ship. The officers were, with the exception of Kennedy, gentlemen, and they saw the venture as an escapade. The ship was their toy; they took pleasure in her and their pleasure was reflected in their treatment of the crew. We were lucky, too, in that the weather was kind and the ship made good way. Gibraltar passed, then for weeks Africa lay to port. We would lounge at the rails, watching the dolphins playing alongside or the flying fish breaking the water ahead. Life was easy and the pay was good.
It was not until we came to round the Cape that the reality of life on an ocean-going ship was brought home to me. Remember that, save for the odd run to France, all my experience had been in the coastal trade. Life aboard the Findlay, ploughing its way through a blue ocean under a tropic sun, was for me the essence of romance. Now, for the first time, I was to face the Southern gales.
We were a day out of Cape Town when the storm hit. We were running before the wind, strong westerlies carrying us toward our destination with all the speed we could wish. The waves were rising higher—twenty or thirty feet, often breaking across the deck—but we kept our canvas on in the hope we could outrun the foul weather.
When the storm clouds arrived, rushing toward us faster than anyone could imagine, we had hardly time to prepare. We furled the sails on the main mast but kept enough canvas on the fore mast to hold our heading, for if we were to lie at the mercy of such a storm, the wind would turn us side on to the tempest and we were sure to founder.
As the sails were furled, we started scrambling down the rigging. Already the rain was beating at us with such force, it was as if we climbed down a waterfall. The rigging was slippery with the rain; it beat against our faces so we could hardly open our eyes to see. We grasped at the lines as the deck swayed perilously below us. I jumped the last ten feet and fell, careering across the deck until I crashed against a hatchway and finally had a chance to stagger to my feet.
Although it was but mid-afternoon, the clouds all but blocked the sun . We were sailing through a perpetual gloom that was now and again relieved only by stabs of lightning. All those with no immediate business on deck ran to shelter below, but Mr Kennedy shouted to me and three others to stand by lest we needed to trim sail. So we stood, holding desperately to anything we could grasp as the world turned about us.
There was a crack as the topsail canvas stretched past breaking point. There was no time to think of the danger. I scrambled upward as if the devil was at my heels and, reaching the yard, tied back the loose sail and unfurled the canvas below to let us keep our headway.
The rain was blowing near horizontal and the Findlay, with not enough canvas to control our direction, was beginning to swing around for all the efforts of the helmsman lashed to the wheel forty feet below me.
I fumbled at the rigging with numbed hands. I worked on one side of the mast while another seaman—a big chap called, I think, Malcolm—worked on the other. The strength of the wind and the noise of the storm meant we could not hear each other, however hard we shouted, but we both knew our work and, by each watching what the other was about, were able to complete our business safely.
With the extra canvas spread, the ship was brought more steadily under control, but she still pitched from side to side with the motion of the waves, which now broke steadily across the bulwarks. Malcolm and I struggled to make our way down the rigging, but no sooner had he reached the deck than a wave knocked him off his feet. He was carried to the rail before I could move to aid him and would have been lost overboard but for a figure roped to the rail who threw himself forward to catch him up in his arms.
I struggled across the deck toward them, slipping on the wet timbers and terrified I would lose my footing and be swept away as Malcolm so nearly had been. I came safe to them, though, and saw Malcolm’s saviour had been none other than Mr Brooke himself. Although he had no business on deck, he had roped himself up and joined us there. Looking at his face, his eyes sparkling, his teeth glinting white as he opened his mouth to laugh, it seemed he was there just for the thrill of it.
Whatever his reason for being there, he had saved Malcolm’s life.
Mr Brooke put his head to mine. His mouth was just inches from my ear, but still he had to shout for me to hear him over the storm.
“Get him below. Mr Kennedy will send someone up to relieve the two of you.”
I nodded my assent and wrestled open the door to our quarters. As we collapsed into the warm fug within, I glanced back. Mr Brooke was still on deck. And he was still laughing.
* * * *
We survived the storm with remarkably little damage and no loss of life or limb. It blew itself out the next day. We sailed on in suddenly calm waters, northeast to India.
Mr Brooke was visibly excited as we drew nearer to the subcontinent. His father had been a judge in the employ of the East India Company. He had been born in Madras though he had been sent to school in England for his education, returning to India as a young man. He loved the East and his enthusiasm transmitted itself to the crew. By the time we finally arrived at Bombay and docked to re-provision, we were all desperate to get ashore and see India for ourselves.
My first experience of the Orient gave me some idea of why men like Mr Brooke were so taken with the place. I was amazed at the sight of so many people, at the smells and sounds of their markets—or bazaars, as I was to learn to call them. It was the first time I had been among natives whose skin had been darkened by the harsh sun of those regions and I found them strange but beautiful. Some of the men, as is too often the case after a long voyage, entertained a good many of the women of the poorer sort and were loud in praising them by comparison with other women they had known. It is not my way to take my pleasures in this manner, so I cannot speak from my own observation, but I did notice that both the women and the men were more graceful than Europeans.
From Bombay, we sailed South and then directly across the Bay of Bengal to Singapore. The City of Lions, for that is what the name means, was already established as a thriving European settlement where but a few years before there had been only swamps and wild beasts. It was a busy port, full of all types of vessel from Chinese junks and rickety Malay dhows to the latest clippers, with the majestic bulk of British men o’war standing offshore on their regular patrols. Singapore was a gateway for all the commerce of the region and a natural base for our enterprise.
Although Singapore was a European city, the Chinese were to be seen everywhere, for they were cunning merchants who had established themselves well with the native people of the islands thereabouts. Several of the Findlay’s early ventures were therefore taken on the part of Chinese merchants, carrying out huge vases which the natives greatly value, simple tools, and some dyed cloths, then returning with rice, tapioca, and sugar cane.
These trips took us to various of the islands that fill these seas. Each voyage would last only a few days, and usually ended with the Findlay feeling her way uncertainly up some muddy creek to find a few ramshackle huts clustered at the water’s edge. Even to the crew, it was clear that the few such commissions we received could not be profitable and, for a square rigged vessel such as ours, this coastal trade would never make a sensible return on the costs of running her. Life on board, though, remained pleasant enough. I may have been an impudent rascal to boast of my prowess in London but, as the weeks passed, I was turning into a true sailor and proved as handy in a tropical storm as I had been rounding the Cape. We saw nothing else as fearsome as that night at the Cape, but there was many a time I would be near washed overboard by the waves. I grew used to falling asleep in my hammock, my clothes still soaked with salt water, for there was no way to dry them till the storms abated.
As the Findlay made more and more runs for less and less profit, the officers began to scowl and mutter amongst themselves. Carelessness was more likely to receive a rebuke from the poop deck than had been the case in the past. My efforts, though, seldom gave any cause for complaint. I even felt I earned the grudging respect of Mr Kennedy.
As to Mr Brooke, although he was the principal in this adventure and thus the person with most to lose, still he seemed less troubled than the other gentlemen. He would often leave the poop and move among the men at work on the main deck, stopping every now and then to exchange a word or even to put his hand to a line, hauling in a way that showed a raw strength under the easy charm.
I came to feel he would look out for me especially. He would call me over to enquire as to how the men were feeling—were our victuals adequate? Was the crew satisfied with their conditions? True enough, it was in his own interests we were happy with our lot, for we were forever in and out of port and any man who was unsatisfied could easily jump ship and find another craft to work his passage home. Even so, Mr Brooke’s concern with the welfare of his crew seemed real enough and I felt, also, he took a true interest in my own well-being.
It was in October the tensions among the officers first became clear to the crew. I was, indeed, witness to some of the warning signs of the tempest to come. I had been given the task to wait on the officers at table, as their steward was ill. (The steward was a servant of one of the gentlemen and had not sailed before. He was careless of himself with the native women and died some months later from the pox.) One evening—it must have been a Friday, for we served fish—I entered the cabin as Mr Kennedy was speaking. His tone was, as always, precise and his manner condescending, but there was a tinge of colour in his cheeks that suggested he was as near as he ever came to passion.
“I tell you again, sir,” he was saying, “we can make no decent profit from such limited commissions as these. We must seek the sort of work we might find from Jardine Matheson who—”
Mr Brooke had been lounging back in his chair affecting a casual air that failed entirely to mask his irritation. At the name of Jardine Matheson, one of the largest and most respected firms amongst the Singapore merchants, he was unable to control himself. He leaned forward and interrupted Kennedy. “I did not leave the East India Company, sir, to be the servant of another cabal of old men with no greater ambition than to exploit their position in the service of avarice.”
Kennedy gave Mr Brooke such a look as a schoolmaster might cast at a particularly stupid pupil. “Avarice has much to recommend it, when the alternative would appear to be penury.”
“For God’s sake, man! I am not offering penury but a chance for glory. I have come here to find adventure in new and undiscovered lands and you would have us simply plying for hire from one established trading post to another. I could have found more interest driving a hansom cab around London.” He paused, visibly trying to control his temper. “John, I know you are worried about the money. But if we lay in a mixed cargo—opium, muskets, gunpowder, broadcloth, even some of these damned vases—then we can make a profit by trading on our own behalf. We can dash into the Straits and find vast returns in the remoter islands where the people are yet barbarous and have not been cowed into trade agreements with the Chinese…or Jardine and Matheson, come to that.”
The other gentlemen had been sitting quietly watching. From their manner, it was clear this was an argument they had heard before. Now Colin Hart winked at the man next to him and in a stage whisper, behind his hand, intoned one word. “Smuggling.”
Someone sniggered and Mr Brooke opened his mouth to reply, but Kennedy was the first to speak.
“Smuggling seems to be a very fair word for it, sir. I have been a sailor for thirty years and have not attained the position of Master to see my command running contraband. You may have a share in the ownership of this vessel, sir, but I would thank you to remember I am her captain.”
I had stood quiet near the door, waiting for them to finish so I might start to serve. Several of the gentlemen now looked pointedly at me. Mr Brooke and Mr Kennedy fell silent and I served them their fish. No more was said on the matter—or no more while I was in the cabin.
In the years to come, I heard much from Mr Brooke about the differences he had with Mr Kennedy. At the heart of the problem was the difference in the character of the two men. For Mr Brooke, the venture was the chance to explore new lands, meet with the uncivilised inhabitants, and build trade with them upon his own terms. This, he argued, was how the great merchant dynasties of the Empire had all started. I think he saw himself alongside these merchant princes, carving out his own little kingdom in the archipelago. Mr Brooke was a gentleman and knew he would inherit money. For him, commercial success was incidental.
For Mr Kennedy, things were very different. Older, perhaps wiser in the ways of the world and, most important, with no prospect of wealth other than that he created by his own efforts, Kennedy saw the voyage as a straightforward commercial enterprise. The Findlay was a fine ship, but expensive to run. Therefore, he reasoned they must find a mercantile house big enough to be able to charter the vessel for regular work and thus recover their investment by steady toil.
The argument between the two came to a crux some five or six days after the incident I have just related.
None of the crew was present in the officers’ quarters, but Jeb North—one of the older hands—was scrubbing the deck aft and said he heard a deal of shouting followed by a crash as if something had fallen. That afternoon, the officers were little seen on deck and, when they were, they were abrupt about their business. Mr Kennedy kept to his cabin and when he appeared the next morning, his face was marked. The officers put it about that he had fallen with the movement of the vessel, but it had been calm all that day and no one believed this for a moment. Instead, the word spread about the ship that Brooke and the Master had quarrelled violently and Brooke had struck him.
I do not know how the story got about, but I know now it was true. When Mr Brooke talked about the incident, he would say only he had lost control of himself and had been very wrong. It left him feeling he could no longer argue with Mr Kennedy; the Master now carried an absolute moral authority aboard. James Brooke knew his plans for adventure and glory on the Findlay were now in tatters. The little brig that had been his pride and joy was now an irksome reminder of his failure.
Mr Brooke stuck it out for three months after that fight. Three months which, I see now, must have been misery for him. At the end of that time, he came down to the low-beamed mess deck that I and the rest of the crew called home. Gathering us around him, he told us he was to leave and return to England.
We heard the news in silence. Then Malcolm called, “Huzzah for Mr Brooke!”
We cheered and sang, “For he’s a jolly good fellow,” and he smiled—although it was obvious the smile was an effort. He thanked us and wished us well. Then he moved among us, shaking each man by the hand. He had some private word for every one of us. He told me he would remember me kindly and I should seek him out if I ever needed employment back in England.
I mumbled some reply but, in truth, had trouble in speaking for I was so distressed. When he offered me his hand, I clasped it as if holding fast to all that could save me from drowning. He released himself, moved away among the hammocks, and was lost in the gloom. That was my last memory of him for the next five years.
* * * *
James Brooke told me, years later, he had thought of leaving the Findlay to rot in Singapore, but his sense of honour acknowledged that Kennedy should be allowed the chance to make a profit. The ship, together with her crew, was chartered to Jardine Matheson and Co., as Kennedy had wished. Most of the officers left her and returned to England with Mr Brooke, but Kennedy stayed on as Master. I stayed on with him. The Findlay was never the same ship after the others left but I did well enough.
I crewed on her for two years. She worked mainly on the China coast, making occasional voyages south, back to Singapore, but we rarely ventured into the archipelago. The work was, as James Brooke had complained, dull trade, but it was profitable and Kennedy eventually saw the return on his capital he had so desired.
For myself, I found I shared Mr Brooke’s feeling that there should be more to life than a dull berth and a safe profit. I remembered the villages we had seen in the islands, the sense of wonder as we worked our way up the muddy rivers to the jungle settlements, the cries of the monkeys shrieking their defiance as we passed in the morning mists. I wanted to go back to the archipelago.
With money saved from my pay, I decided to leave the Findlay on one of her increasingly infrequent visits to Singapore. With two years' experience of the seas of East, I had no trouble getting a position on a little schooner, the Lady Irene. She ran from island to island carrying rice, cloth, knives, tapioca, sugar, spices, the occasional small chest of gold to settle a debt, letters, tea and, from time to time, merchants with business at one outpost or another of their enterprises. The crew was mainly Malay and the Master, an elderly Scot named Paterson, gave me authority over them. I had already picked up a smattering of their language and, in my time on the Lady Irene, I learned to speak fluent Malay.
Life on board was far from ideal. The ship was small but under-crewed. We worked at full stretch in all but the calmest weather and, in the sudden tropical storms that were the bane of Far East shipping, we were often in real danger of wreck. Paterson, though a decent enough man, was distant and could be surly.
Paterson and his mate were the only two officers aboard. We had discharged our surgeon as an economy and Paterson himself gave such medical attention as the crew needed. As I became better acquainted with the ship and its crew, so I found myself increasingly given the responsibilities of an officer. I still messed with the men and had no particular privileges to attend my responsibilities but, nonetheless, it was pleasant to be invested with some measure of authority. Without an education, I could not get regular papers, so this position was as good as I might reasonably expect. Indeed, when I looked about at other vessels, I saw I would not find such a good berth elsewhere, so I stayed with the Lady Irene, for all her faults.
In June of 1839, almost five years after I first arrived at Singapore in the Findlay, James Brooke came back into my life.
I heard the news almost as soon as I stepped ashore after three months of shambling from island to island in the Lady Irene’s everlasting attempts to sail at a profit. Mr Brooke, it seemed, was still the charismatic figure he had been when I first knew him and, only days after his arrival, he was already the talk of Singapore. Though he was now in his early thirties, all the evidence was that he still retained the enthusiasms of his youth and, apparently, his latest enthusiasm was for Borneo.
The mysterious island of Borneo was a nine day wonder in Singapore just then because of the behaviour of the Sultan of the place, one Muda Hassim. Only a few months previously, a British brig had been wrecked there. She was called the Napoleon and any British crew sailing in a vessel with such a name deserved all they got, I shouldn’t wonder. But this Sultan Hassim had treated them with every courtesy, fed and clothed them at his own expense, and arranged for their safe return to Singapore.
In a part of the world where piracy was still widespread and where a lost sailor was an easy victim for all manner of thieves and rascals, this was more than a common politeness. It reinforced suggestions that the Sultan was tired of the way the Dutch were lording it over the South China Seas as if they had a divine right to colonise the place. If he were cooling toward the Hollanders and turning toward Britain, as the rumour said, then Borneo offered wonderful opportunities for trade…opportunities the merchants of Singapore would be anxious to exploit.
At just this moment, Mr Brooke arrived on the scene, claiming he was there with the primary purpose of exploring the island of Borneo. He would, he promised, raise the Union flag in some remote jungle settlement and spread the benefits of civilisation to the most benighted corners of the globe. And, as if as an afterthought, he promised a good return on any trade conducted through such an enterprise. No wonder, then, that though he was but one man with a small vessel, he seemed to take Singapore by storm.
To me, the exploitation of Borneo was a matter of indifference—although, like all British sailors, I welcomed the chance to give the Dutch a bloody nose. The return of Mr Brooke, though, stirred feelings I thought I had forgotten in the years of his absence.
There is no harbour in Singapore and shipping must lie to in the Roads, an anchorage just off the shore, with Chinese junks scurrying back and forth with their cargoes. So it was that, travelling to and from the Lady Irene, I could see his vessel, the Royalist, bobbing on the waves but a quarter of a mile from our station.
He had obviously learned something from the disaster of the Findlay, for the Royalist was not a brig but a schooner and as trim a craft as you could wish, ideally suited to trading in these waters. As if to demonstrate she was no mere merchant, though, she mounted six six-pounders and a number of swivel guns. Most important, her mainmast carried the White Ensign, for though she was a private vessel, the Royalist belonged to the Royal Yacht Squadron and, in foreign ports, she had all the privileges of a man-of-war.
I started to enquire amongst the idlers around the port if anyone knew of Mr Brooke or his plans. I had no difficulty in finding out all I might want to know, for it seemed everyone from the harbourmaster to the local whores had a tale to tell of him.
He had arrived in Singapore with a total complement of just nineteen hands, but this was more than ample for the handling of such a vessel. The Master was the same Colin Hart I remembered from the Findlay. His adventures then had given him a taste for the sea and he had spent the past few years gaining his papers. His new status, it seemed, had not changed him; the reports I heard suggested he was still the competent officer and kindly man I remembered.
At first, I thought I might just report aboard the Royalist and ask Mr Hart to take me on. More than once, I set out to find a boat to have me rowed across to her, but every time I stopped and turned back. Why should either Mr Brooke or Mr Hart remember me? And, if he did remember me, why would Mr Brooke show me that same consideration he had when I was younger? Better to mind my own business aboard the Lady Irene and leave the Royalist alone.
About a week after the Royalist’s arrival and my incessant havering, I told myself I should, once and for all, try to forget about her. The easiest way to do this seemed to involve drink. So I found myself in the ramshackle shed where the English sailors would congregate in Singapore. It was run by a Chinaman and should, by rights, have been known as Lee Foo’s or Lung Fut’s or whatever, but we all knew it as the St George. This distinguished it as the English bar, as against the Clogs, where the Dutch sailors would meet and drink, or one of a dozen other grog shops, each with their own style and their own favoured customers.
Harry Flood, a crewmate from when I had first joined the Lady Irene, pushed his way over to where I was sat minding my own business and jerked his head toward a burly, red-haired fellow who had just sat himself down with a mug of what passed for ale in Singapore and, a wiser choice, a tot of rum.
“That’s Will Spence, off of the Royalist.”
He raised his eyebrows at me, sipped his ale, grimaced—not surprisingly, for it was foul stuff—then stared before him as if he had said something of great moment and now waited for my reply.
I remembered Harry Flood as a provoking shipmate who could never come straight to the point of anything. So I remarked that it was a fine day, that the weather was as ever as hot as Hades, that the Lady Irene was still afloat and that trade was good, so long as the Dutch didn’t establish a foothold ahead of you. Then I bought him a drink.
He sniffed at it, as if daring it to taste as foul as the last jug. It did, of course. He took a swig, then grimaced at me again and said, “He’s been asking whether there be anyone around who sailed with the Findlay.”
When I did not reply immediately, he grunted and, after another pause, added, “Mentioned your name especially, I hear.”
That was pretty well it. I introduced myself to Spence and was told Mr Brooke was looking for a reliable man who spoke the local lingo. He wanted someone who could handle dealings in those smaller ports where Dutch, not English, was the language of commerce and where we, having no Dutch would have to get by in Malay. There were clear advantages to rehiring someone he knew from the Findlay, assuming any of his old crew had stayed in the region and learned the language. And, yes, he had let it be known he was particularly anxious to learn of my own whereabouts.
The next day I presented myself to Mr Hart and officially joined the company of the Royalist.
* * * *
We lay at Singapore for some weeks. Mr Hart had command of us aboard and his governance remained far from harsh, although he did indeed seem somewhat more reflective than I remembered him. Perhaps this was because of some unhappy romance, as the rumours claimed. If so, I never heard him speak of it, then or later, but Mr Hart has always been a man who keeps his own counsel, and it may be his heart was broken. I suspect, though, it was more that he now had the responsibility of his own vessel.
Whatever the truth of it, the only concerns he allowed expression to were those immediately relating to the care of the Royalist. The deck was always immaculately clean, the lines neatly coiled, and the brass work shining in the tropic sun. For all that, it was an easy time, with plenty of shore leave and good food aboard when our pay was spent on drink and there we had no money left for food ashore.
I did not see much of Mr Brooke in those first weeks. He would rise early to carry out an inspection of sorts, greeting each man by name and always finding a kind word about the state of the ship or the turnout of the crew. We would stand to and smile and nod but, even after his experience with the Findlay, he knew practically nothing about the running of the craft and the real inspection would be carried out by Mr Hart once our owner was safely off the ship.
In those days, I had never seen Mr Brooke in Society. I can only imagine how he must have charmed all those who met him. Even today, with all that has passed, he can still infect an audience with his boyish enthusiasm. He must have swept through the stuffy atmosphere of Singapore society like a tropical storm, tumbling everything about him and leaving the place sparkling and refreshed by the memory of his passing. Men would have thought him daring and wished they had his confidence and ready wit. Women would have been charmed and many a friendship will have foundered as merchants’ daughters vied for his attention. Mr Brooke would have moved from serious meetings with the great merchants of the Colony to dances organised by their wives. He was a welcome guest at the meanest tavern and in the Governor’s mansion. In less than a month, Mr Brooke learned more of Singapore life and politics than some who had lived there half their lives.
All of Mr Brooke’s researches, as I learned later, confirmed his belief that Borneo would be the right setting for the adventure of his life. It was an as yet unexplored jungle paradise, but one that offered plentiful opportunities for trade, coal to attract the new generation of steam vessels, and a favourable political situation.
Knowing Mr Brooke as I now do, I think it was the Sultan’s kindness to the wrecked sailors of the Napoleon that finally decided him. His whole voyage was, I now see, built on the purest romantic whimsy, and the tale of the noble Sultan dealing honourably with poor British tars was irresistible to him. He came up with the idea that the Sultan should be thanked in a formal letter, beautifully penned by one of the Governor’s clerks on the finest parchment available—which in Singapore, in those days, was probably not saying much.
The letter was produced and ceremonially signed by the Chairman of the Chamber of Commerce and half the nabobs of the European community. Mr Brooke undertook to deliver it personally and, on the strength of the goodwill generated, persuaded the Governor to produce an official introduction for him which, taken together with the White Ensign fluttering proudly from the Royalist’s mast, was likely to suggest his expedition had more authority than an impartial judge might understand to be the case.
I write now with an understanding I did not have then. In those days, when it all began, there was an innocence to all of us. We did not think of politics. If Mr Brooke may sometimes have given the appearance of cunning, it was the guileless cunning of a child who, seeing some sparkling gee-gaw so tantalisingly close, will by some innate understanding, say and do simply that which is required so that those in authority move it within his reach. For Mr Brooke, the island of Borneo—mysterious, rich, and fantastical—was as sparkling a toy as he could wish. He had longed for it from even before the disaster of the Findlay voyage. Now it was within his grasp.
Five weeks after I rejoined the Royalist, all shore leave was cancelled. Half a dozen chickens were brought aboard and stocks of fresh fruit were re-provisioned. Of dried food, we already had more than enough in our hold, but the water casks were all checked and refilled as required.
This all happened on a Thursday. On the Friday, Mr Brooke had the men assemble on deck so he could address us. I can’t recall much of what he said, but I know there was some stirring stuff about “noble purpose” and “great adventure,” and then there was a rum issue. The men all cheered and I remember Mr Brooke, done up in the green uniform jacket of the Royal Yacht Squadron, grinning like a little boy and waving as the men cheered and cheered again.
On Saturday, 27th July 1839, the Royalist slipped quietly away from Singapore and headed East to Borneo.
* * * *
Voyage East is the opening of Williams’ book, The White Rajah, published by JMS Books LLC. If you enjoyed reading this excerpt, visit jms-books.com to purchase the full book.
* * * *
ABOUT TOM WILLIAMS
Tom Williams’ writing career started at about the age of 10, when he won a book in a national competition organized by a tea company. But, despite the student magazine publishing a piece of his at Oxford, there was no serious creative writing for decades after that. Instead, he wrote books for business covering everything from the gambling industry to new developments in printing technology.
It was on a trip to Sarawak, visiting Dyak longhouses, that Tom discovered James Brooke, and he spent far too much time in libraries over the next few years until he felt he had some understanding of the man. He also started collecting South East Asian weapons and now knows an unhealthy amount about how to behead someone with a parang. These interests combined to produce The White Rajah.
Tom lives in London. His main interest is avoiding doing any honest work and this leaves him with time to ski, skate, and dance the tango, all of which he does quite well. He is also working on another novel, again a historical story, but this time set in Argentina during the Napoleonic wars.
ABOUT
JMS BOOKS LLC
Founded in 2010, JMS Books LLC is owned and operated by author J.M. Snyder. We publish a variety of genres, including gay erotic romance, fantasy, young adult, poetry, and nonfiction. Short stories and novellas are available as e-books and compiled into single-author print anthologies, while any story over 30k in length is available in both print and e-book formats. Visit us at jms-books.com for our latest releases and submission guidelines!