Malay sketches

I came across the above passage in a Blue Book, and I will explain why Captain Speedy had every reason to believe in the certainty of my death, and how it was that my remains were not to be collected just then.

In the preceding sketch I mentioned that I left Bandar Bharu at noon on the 28th October with two boats, and intended, if it were possible, to meet Mr. Birch at Pâsir Sâlak about the 3rd November.

Besides the Malay boatmen, I had with me a very celebrated Selangor chief named Raja Mahmud, a man whose whole life had been passed in jungle warfare, and as he had come through it scathless he was regarded by Malays as invulnerable and respected accordingly. His latest exploit had been to take command of a body of Malays in an engagement with Her Majesty’s troops in a neighbouring State (Sungei Ujong), and as I had subsequently persuaded him to go to Singapore and give himself up to the Governor, he had attached himself to me and thoroughly enjoyed the possibility of trouble in Perak.

Then I had a Manila boatman, one of the best coxswains on the river, a marvellous dancer of hornpipes and no less courageous than Raja Mahmud himself—more so he could hardly be. Lastly, Mahmud had a couple of men devoted to himself, and I had a Chinese servant.

This being the wet season the river was high, poling difficult and progress slow, so that it was not till the morning of the 30th that we reached Blanja, the village of Sultan Ismail. As Ismail had been elected Sultan by a number of influential chiefs who declined to recognise either Jusuf or Abdullah (though both of them had far superior claims), and, as by the Pangkor Treaty and recognition of Abdullah, Ismail no doubt felt aggrieved, I did not expect a very friendly reception from him, nor did I suppose that I should be specially welcome as the bearer of proclamations which could not be otherwise than distasteful to him. It was only six weeks since I had been at Blanja with the Governor, and again a fortnight later I went there alone. Since then Ismail (or his advisers in his name) had summoned nearly all the principal people of the upper country, and a very large number of boats had arrived at Blanja, bringing all the chiefs and their retainers. Moreover, to increase his following the ex-Sultan had resorted to an expedient not unknown in England; certain high offices of State were vacant, and into these he inducted his own adherents—in fact, created peers, to give himself a majority in the Upper House.

I waited half the day hoping to see Ismail, but failed. They said he was asleep and meant to remain asleep a long time. That is a common form of Malay diplomacy, and, as I could not afford to delay longer, I explained the proclamations, left a number of copies and said I would call on Ismail on my way back in a few days. As a piece of news they told me a customs station had been established at Blanja, and everyone who passed would be taxed, white men or Malays. I said I should be glad to see the collector, and he was introduced, but seemed embarrassed, and assured me he was only carrying out his master’s orders, so I continued my journey. If any conclusion could be drawn from the conversation and manner of the Blanja people, disturbances (war, they called it) were imminent.

The next day I was at the Raja Muda’s village, and had a long talk with him. He also was for war, but did not think the Malays would begin it. He said no good would be done in the country, till “the malcontents” had been taught a lesson. Unfortunately, as far as could be seen, all the chiefs with very few exceptions, were in that category. The people hardly count, they are passive and recognise that they live to obey their leaders.

That night I reached Kuala Kangsar, and the then important personage of the place, an old lady who lived on the hill where now the Residency stands, informed me that she had been living in daily fear of attack by the people of a neighbouring village called Kôta Lâma. The shops in Kuala Kangsar were all closed, and everyone was waiting for the bursting of the storm.

The latest excitement here was that a notoriously bad character named Raja Alang, living in a house by the path which led from Kuala Kangsar to the neighbouring district of Larut, saw a foreign Malay (a man of Patâni) walking past with his wife and two children. When the man got opposite Raja Alang’s house he raised his trousers to keep them out of the mud, and as Raja Alang considered this disrespectful to him, he called to the man and told him he must pay a fine of a hundred dollars. The man was of course unable to comply with this monstrous demand, so the Raja took him, his wife and children, into the house, and said he would keep them there till the money was paid. After a couple of days, during which they were given no food, Raja Alang said he would sell the woman and children to raise the amount of the fine. Just at dawn on the following morning the Patâni man got up, took from a Malay lying near him a kris, and with it stabbed the owner to death. Then he struck out wildly, killing another man, a woman, his own two children, and a child of Raja Alang, while he wounded his own wife. Raja Alang hastily left the house, hurting himself considerably, for he forgot the steps in the hurry of his exit. The murderer went next door and killed two more women and then escaped. Altogether he killed nine people and wounded three. It is a detail, I mention it only as showing the state of society, and because this incident, at the time of my arrival, was, with rumours of war, dividing the interests of the people of Kuala Kangsar.

On the 1st November I read and posted the proclamations in Kuala Kangsar, and on the following day I went to see the Raja Bĕndahâra, the third highest officer in the State. He lived across the river, and to him and a large crowd of his followers I read the proclamation, and gave the Bĕndahâra some copies, which I asked him to have posted.

Amongst the crowd was Raja Alang, who gave me his version of the âmok, and denied that he had ill-treated the Patâni man. I see from the journal I kept in those days that I expressed my surprise that such things were not of daily occurrence, looking to the infamous way in which the people were treated by the Rajas, to which he replied that he had done wrong but was now taubat (a reformed character), that he wished to go to Mecca (the desire of all Malays who want to wipe out a bad record and rehabilitate themselves with society), and would be obliged if I would lend him a thousand dollars for the purpose!

On the 3rd November I distributed the proclamations in villages between Kuala Kangsar and Larut, and in the afternoon went with Raja Mahmud and one boat up river to Kôta Lâma. This village had then, as indeed it has still, the unenviable reputation of being the most impossible place in Perak. It was a very large village, and the people in it prided themselves on their independence; their neighbours called it impudence. A few months before Mr. Birch had visited Kôta Lâma, but the people turned out with firearms, and said that if he landed they would shoot him. He had no means of forcing a landing then, nor of compelling an apology later, and, therefore, he had not since been to the place.

I had been in Kôta Lâma a month before this; I went to see a man who had been shot through the shoulder the night before by two men who had a grudge against him, and had settled it in a truly Irish fashion. They called at his house, and while engaging him in conversation and eating his sîreh, had measured the distance of his sleeping mat from the walls of the house. It was a wooden building, and, like all Malay houses, the floor was raised high above the ground. That night they had got underneath it, and, having carefully calculated their host’s position, they fired simultaneously and decamped. One bullet missed the victim’s head by an inch or two, and the other went through the floor and the mat and penetrated his shoulder.

I now went to see this man again and found him doing badly, and advised his relatives to send him to Kuala Kangsar. Then we walked about the village, talked to the people, and in the absence of the headman I sent for his deputy. He came accompanied by four or five men all armed to the teeth, and we had a conversation wherein I think each side did its best to “bluff” the other. It so happened that we had come away without the proclamations, and I asked the headman to send to Kuala Kangsar, when I got back, and I would give the papers, that he might post them in Kôta Lâma.

He said they only acknowledged one chief in Kôta Lâma, and he was the Raja Bĕndahâra, and they would do nothing without his orders. I told them I would ask the Bĕndahâra to give the necessary instructions, but inquired, “What about the Sultan?” To which they replied that he lived a long way off. They added, “We won’t hinder you if you want to post the proclamations,” but they did not say it in the politest fashion, and I told them the permission was unnecessary, as, if I had had the proclamations, I should have posted them. After this we had a long and comparatively friendly talk, and it was nearly dark when I left them.

Raja Mahmud stood by and said nothing, but they knew well enough who he was, and it is possible they might have acted differently had he not been there. On our way back he told me he was so amazed at the way the Kôta Lâma men talked that he felt it wiser not to join in the conversation.

Arrived at Kuala Kangsar, I found the Raja Muda Jusuf, and told him the result of my visit to Kôta Lâma. The Raja Muda’s feelings towards the Kôta Lâma people were quite beyond expression, and they were very cordially reciprocated.

The next morning, the 4th November, my work being done, I started down river at 8.30 A.M. I saw the Raja Muda before I left, and, again referring to my journal, I find that he said: “No early or permanent settlement can be made without force, without making an example of some of the opposition. They are quiet now because you are here; as soon as you go they will begin again. If you and Raja Mahmud will come, and we may use force, we can settle the matter in a fortnight.”

Little as he thought it, the time for force was at hand, for some was already past; but if his prediction was right, his estimate of the means required to settle matters was over-sanguine.

Stopping only for breakfast, my boats reached Blanja at 4 P.M. It was my intention to spend the night there, interview ex-Sultan Ismail, and continue my journey the next day.

The river at Blanja shoals rapidly towards the left bank, which is bordered by a long and wide strip of sand. The boats of those who call here are dragged as close in as possible, and while our men were engaged in doing this, and still some distance from the shore, a man called Haji Ali waded out to my boat and came on board. We had noticed the unusual number of people on the sands—not less than two or three hundred—and of boats alongside there were at least fifty, but we were hardly prepared for the news that awaited us.

This Haji Ali, a tall, well-made man in the prime of life, was the genial person of evil reputation who, with Pĕnglima Prang Sĕmaun, had already distinguished himself by murdering one of the low-country chiefs. Notwithstanding this fact the Haji was always anxious to convey the impression that he was entirely friendly to me, but I distrusted him in common with the rest of the Blanja faction.

Haji Ali seated himself in my boat and at once stated that Mr. Birch had gone to Pâsir Sâlak, that there he and sixteen of his people had been murdered by the Maharaja Lela, who had then attacked and captured Bandar Bharu, killing all the Sikhs who had not saved themselves by flight. This news was so startling that I could not believe it and said so, but the man assured me it was true, and added as a proof that the Maharaja Lela had sent Mr. Birch’s own boat to Blanja to prove to Ismail the truth of his statement. Ismail, he said, had declined to receive the boat, telling the men who brought it that as the Maharaja Lela had killed Mr. Birch he had better keep his boat, and the messengers had accordingly left with it only two hours before our arrival.

At Haji Ali’s first words Raja Mahmud had caught up his kris, and was now tightening his waist-belt and preparing for instant trouble.

The Haji completed his information by considerately telling me that the Maharaja Lela and his people had staked the river right across at Pâsir Sâlak, making it impassable for boats, that they knew I was returning, and were waiting for me, it being their belief that when once they had got rid of Mr. Birch and myself they would have no further interference from white men, as no one else knew the country. He concluded with an invitation from the ex-Sultan to go and see him on shore.

I thanked him, and to get rid of him asked him to go back and say that I was coming.

As soon as he had left the boat I held a hasty consultation with Raja Mahmud, who said it would be madness to land at Blanja, where we should be like rats in a trap, and the only course was to go on at once and at all hazards before they had time to stop us.

The idea of returning up-river was unpleasant and well nigh impossible, it was therefore discarded at once.

All the men in both my boats had heard what Haji Ali said, and as some of them did not relish the prospect of trying to run the gauntlet, I decided to leave one boat and only take those who volunteered to go. That question was very soon settled, every Perak man declined the journey; my Manila boy took the rudder, three foreign Malays and Mahmud’s two men formed the crew, and Mahmud and I were the passengers. There was my Chinese servant, he was not a man of war, and I thought he would prefer to remain where he was, for they all realised that the danger would be in staying with me. When I asked him, however, he smiled a not quite pleasant smile, and producing a long knife said he did not mean to move. It was quite clear that if it came to close quarters he would give a good account of himself.

By this time we were ready to start, but just as the men were preparing to get the boat out into the stream, Haji Ali appeared again to take us on shore. I at once told him that if his story was true I could not stop at Blanja and must go on at once. How far he had been acting before was doubtful, but his surprise now was genuine enough. He said, “It is impossible, the whole country down stream is in arms, you cannot pass, it is certain destruction.” We told him that whatever it was we were going, and we pointed out to him that as the boat was moving into deep water he had not much time to get out if he wanted to return to the shore. He got out, and it was rather deep, but he stood there and shouted, “No doubt you think yourselves very fine fellows, but you will be killed all the same.”

He was still standing in the same place when we had gone some distance, and as we passed outside the long line of boats the many people on shore realised that we had started again and were rapidly dropping down stream. It seemed to us that for them the unexpected had happened.

The pleasure of thinking that we had at any rate cheated the Blanja people did not last us long and I believe every man in the boat—certainly I can speak for myself—believed that he had started on a journey of which sudden death was the inevitable bourne.

The Resident, we were told, had been murdered at Pâsir Sâlak, and we could not well doubt the truth of that report. Then the people on both banks of the river for miles above and below Pâsir Sâlak were on the watch for us; the Residency was in the hands of the Maharaja Lela’s people, the Sikhs killed or fugitives in the jungle; worst of all, the river at Pâsir Sâlak was staked from bank to bank, and if so no boat could pass that barrier.

There were two points of minor moment—first, that the Residency boats were all painted white, we had one of them, and no native-owned boat in the country was white. That fact made us so conspicuous that we did not think it worth while to lower the Union Jack we carried at the stern. Secondly, up to that time no house-boat had ever made the journey from Blanja to Pâsir Sâlak in anything like twelve hours, and we calculated, therefore, that we should reach the point of greatest danger in broad daylight, probably about 9 A.M. the next morning. Speed was our best chance, but here again we were handicapped by the fact that our men had been paddling since 8.30 A.M., they had had one meal, and now there was a night’s work before them and no time to stop for cooking.

If the conditions were as they had been stated, and as we believed them to be, nothing could save us, for with two rifles and a shot gun we could hardly hope to force the barrier unless aided by a miracle.

The river was high, the current strong, and just at dusk we reached Bota. Fastened by an island opposite the village we saw Mr. Birch’s own boat, the “Dragon,” and with that all doubt as to his fate was at an end. Raja Mahmud suggested that we might stop and attack the people in charge. The idea was attractive and no doubt it would have been a surprise to them, but we decided that it was unwise to waste the time and rouse the whole village. As we passed the boat we could see no one in or about it.

The night was moonless but starlit, fine and clear enough for our purpose, dark enough to conceal us when we were in the middle of the stream. But the Perak is a river where the navigable channel wanders from side to side in a way that often baffles the most skilful pilot. The height of the water lessened our difficulties, but for all that we were driven at times very close to the banks. Between 9 and 10 P.M. a thick white mist came down and enveloped the river in impenetrable fog. This was very confusing, for, while it lasted, it was impossible to see half a boat’s length in any direction. The mist lifted and fell again at intervals all through the night, and so dense was it that at one time we lost our way, and at last discovered by a snag that we had got the boat completely round and were paddling up stream!

That discovery gave us rather a bad shock, for we calculated that we had lost half an hour of precious time, and if we could make such a mistake once it might occur again. It was possible because we dared not have any light, and only smoked with the utmost precaution.

I was so tired that about half-past ten I could no longer keep awake, and several times the wearied boatmen dropped asleep over their paddles. We were not at all certain of our whereabouts, but some time after eleven o’clock we realised, by the succession of watch-fires on the banks and the numbers of men moving about, that we were getting into the zone of danger. It seemed to me, dozing and waking, that this lasted for a long time; we were getting callous of the people on the bank when we found that no one seemed to observe us however close we were forced to go.

I had told them to rouse me when we got near to Pâsir Sâlak, for now, to our great surprise, it seemed evident that we should reach the place hours before dawn. About 1.30 A.M. Mahmud quietly woke me, and the boatmen nerved themselves for the final effort.

We knew that to get past Pâsir Sâlak it was necessary to go right under one bank or the other, and the deepest water was on the left or Kampong Gâjah side. That we decided to take. Huge fires were blazing on the bank, and round each were grouped a number of armed men—indeed, the whole place was apparently on the qui vive. As noiselessly as possible, but none the less vigorously, the men plied their paddles, and we made for the deep water under the bank. Just at this moment the thick white veil of mist came down over the river, and under its sheltering cover we glided swiftly down, the light of the blazing logs, close though they were, shining vaguely through the fog, while now and then a man’s figure, of seemingly gigantic proportions, loomed out from the fire-lit haze.

Every instant we expected to feel the shock of the boat against the barrier, and we had determined that when that happened we would push our boat along it till we found the usual opening closed by a floating log and guarded, as we supposed, by boats. In the darkness we meant to try and force our way through or take one of the enemy’s boats on the down-stream side of the stakes.

We could hardly realise the truth when we found ourselves at the lower end of the village without having encountered any obstruction. The barrier never existed in fact—only in the imagination of Haji Ali, or, more probably, the Maharaja Lela had intended to make it, but the Malay habits of laziness and procrastination defeated his plan.

Just as I was thinking a very sincere thanksgiving, the bow of the boat suddenly ran on the shore and stuck there fast. We were so close to the bank that this happened without the slightest warning. For an instant the steersman had given the rudder a wrong turn, and we were stranded. To my dismay, I saw on the high bank, exactly over us, a large fire with eight or ten men round it. I seized the shot-gun, Mahmud had a rifle, and we knelt with fingers on trigger covering two of the figures that were distinct enough in spite of the mist, for we were hardly ten feet distant from them.

Two of our men with poles were making superhuman efforts to push off the boat, when a man on the bank called out, “Whose boat is that?” One of our men replied, “Haji Mat Yassin’s,” having seen his boat at Blanja. “Where are you from?” was the next inquiry, and the reply was, “Blanja.” “Where are you for?” and other questions followed, but by this time the bow of the boat was off and we were drifting stern-foremost out into the stream and the sheltering fog. As the distance widened and shouts came to stop, the answers returned were derisive and misleading, for everyone felt that the real danger was past and the life he had made up his mind to lose would not be required of him that night after all.

It was true that we had yet to pass the Residency at Bandar Bharu, five miles lower down, and we had been told this was in the hands of the Maharaja Lela, but there at least there was no barrier, and we were confident that we had nothing more to fear.

We passed Bandar Bharu quietly, we saw a light on each bank and a man on watch by the light, and we said to each other that it would be very easy to shoot the men as they placed themselves so conveniently en évidence.

Ten miles lower down the river, it being then only 3 A.M., we were suddenly hailed by a voice threatening death and other penalties if we did not immediately declare who we were. That was a very welcome challenge, for I recognised the voice, and in a few seconds we were alongside a Selangor steam-launch.

Only then we learnt that Bandar Bharu had not fallen into the hands of the enemy, and we had therefore come ten miles further than was necessary; but we congratulated ourselves on the forbearance we had shown in not shooting the sentries, and later in the morning, when we got up to the Residency, suggested that if the Sikh felt lonesome in the night watches it would perhaps be wiser for him not to stand in the full blaze of a large lamp.

The Maharaja Lela and his friends professed themselves both surprised and disappointed when they found I had arrived at Bandar Bharu, having passed Pâsir Sâlak without their knowledge. I daresay, however, that some of them were not altogether sorry that they had been spared a meeting with Raja Mahmud, for he was reckoned a mighty man of valour. In my case he was also a wise counsellor, for subsequent disclosures proved that had I landed at Blanja the intention was to immediately attack and murder me, and when we so abruptly left that place the ingenuous Haji Ali and his friend the Pĕnglima Prang Sĕmaun with a number of their men were sent after us in fast boats on a mission similar to the one they had previously undertaken and successfully carried out. As we saw nothing of them I conclude they did not exert themselves to overtake us.

During the subsequent military operations in Perak, Haji Ali fell into our hands, and, after some weeks spent on a British man-of-war, he became quite a reformed character. I occasionally see him now, but he seems depressed, and when I find him looking at me there is no anger in his face, only a great sorrow as of a man who is misunderstood by the world and who suffers without resentment.

I don’t know why, but this expression is a source of unfeigned amusement to the Malays who happen to see it. It is very unfeeling of them.