In The Footsteps of Stamford Raffles
Page 5
Raffles was totally in awe of him and his official, shop-bought scholarship, and it must have been his encouragement that drove Raffles on in his own studies; for through his friendship with John Leyden, Raffles first became part of an academic community. After Leyden, Raffles’ scholarship changes as if to a higher gear. One pictures Raffles with the lord and the scholar, listening all agog, learning, laying down the attitudes and principles that would guide him for life.
Leyden had met Raffles in Penang and learned Malay with contemptuous ease. They had become close friends and, more than that, he had also fallen – poetically – in love with Olivia. Now he was to accompany the fleet to Java and was destined for high office there. The three felt like little boys whose parents were away for the weekend. Lord Minto spoke gleefully of them ‘frisikfying’.
‘Dr Leyden’s learning is stupendous and he is also a very universal scholar. His knowledge, extreme and minute though it is, is always in his pocket at his finger’s end, and on the tip of his tongue. He has made it completely his own and it is all ready money. All his talent and labour indeed, which are both excessive, could not, however, have accumulated such stores without his extraordinary memory. I begin, I fear, to look at that faculty with increasing wonder; I hope without envy, but with something like one’s admiration of young eyes. It must be confessed that Leyden has occasion for all the stores which application and memory can furnish to supply his tongue, which would dissipate a common stock within a week. I do not believe that so great a reader was ever so great a talker before. You may be conceited about yourselves, my beautiful wife and daughters, but with all my partiality I must give it against you. You would appear absolutely silent in his company, as a ship under weigh seems at anchor when it is passed by a swifter sailer. Another feature of his conversation is a shrill, piercing, and at the same time grating voice … If he had been at Babel, he would infallibly have learned all the languages there …’
– Lord Minto
‘… You always said I was a strange, wild fellow, insatiable in ambition, though meek as a maiden; and perhaps there is more truth than otherwise in what you said; but with all, I will assure you this, that although, from want of self-confidence and from natural shamefacedness (for I will not call it modesty or bashfulness), I am as unhappy at times as any poor wretch need be, I have times in which I am as happy as I think it possible for man to be; and it is one of these life-inspiring moments that I now purpose passing with you à la distance … We are now off the coast of Java, having come ahead of the fleet; but we expect them tomorrow, and the attack will be made in the course of the week … Conquer we must.’
– T. S. Raffles to William Ramsay
The breathy excitement of a young man before the battle comes across. But there was another reason for trepidation. By now he also knew that if they conquered Java, Thomas Raffles would rule it and Leyden would be his secretary.
* * *
When the fleet reached Java, Leyden would be the first to land at the village of Cilincing, ten miles east of modern Jakarta – Batavia as it then was. Before 11,000 baffled troops, he had rifled the costume box to appear dressed in the charade outfit of a pirate, complete with red tasselled cap. After all, Cowboys and Indians had not yet been invented as a game, being still a minor matter of distant American foreign policy. Fortunately, there was no one on the beach for him to fight with his cutlass except a very large cockerel and several hens. It was a jaunt.
* * *
‘Cilincing? It is not there any more. It has all been improved. It is part of Ancol – you know – the pleasure park. They have dolphins and boats, a swimming pool and at night there are women who …’
‘Are you sure?’ We pored over the copies of the old British campaign maps. After their unopposed landing, the British had dragged their field guns up from the ships and driven the Dutch, under their French officers, back to the new fortress at Meester Cornelis. ‘Surely it’s the other side of the river nearer Tanjung Priok?’
Agus sucked on his lip. ‘Mmm. Maybe. Why don’t we go to Ancol? We will have a good time. Tanjung Priok is no fun.’
Could this be the Agus I had known in London? For three years he had doggedly eaten halal food, never gone to the cinema because it was wicked, made no close English friends. After gaining the worst possible degree ever seriously awarded by the University of London he had returned to work for the oil company that had sponsored him and become – overnight – exotically Westernized. He ate hamburgers, played golf, lived in a compound with security men on the gate and servants washing cars in front of the houses. The words ‘When I was in London’ were always on his lips and he insisted on speaking a version of English with absurdly long vowels where even the Prince of Wales has short ones. He was embarrassed because I did not have matching luggage. When I arrived he had given me his card and was upset that I did not have one to give back so he could put it in the large bowl of cards he kept on his desk. The bowl was, I noted, a hideous but expensive Asmat container of the sort in vogue in Jakarta. In Jakarta, ‘primitive peoples’ were a fashion accessory, like Gucci labels.
‘You go to Ancol. I’ll go to Tanjung Priok. How do I get there?’
‘Oh, by taxi of course. No wait, I’ll borrow a company car – and a driver. We have a refinery up there. We can call it work. No one goes to Tanjung Priok for fun. I’ll lend you a tie.’ It would, I knew, be a fake Christian Dior, locally made. ‘I shall bring some friends. Kita pergi main-main.’ That would have to be translated, ‘It’ll be a jaunt.’
* * *
The 11,000-strong British army was a mixture of European and battle-hardened Indian soldiers. They faced a force of some 18,000. Only a small part of these were efficient French troops. The rest were a mixture of locally recruited Dutch whose allegiance to France was doubtful and Indonesian ‘volunteers’ whose allegiance was so beyond all doubt they were delivered to the army in chains. Batavia swiftly surrendered, but since all Dutch males had been driven like livestock into the fortress of Cornelis, the city was wide open for the expression of popular discontent. Martial law was declared.
The British, which is to say Indian, army was furious to find the streets of the capital ankle-deep in sugar and coffee. That would have been valuable prize money. Leyden, on the other hand, was interested in a different sort of booty and rushed off to rummage through the manuscripts of the archives. In the cold storerooms he caught a chill that rapidly became a fever. His death followed shortly afterwards. It was a bitter blow to Raffles, who was devastated at his loss. Over the years he would become more inured to death. One by one he would see almost everyone to whom he grew attached picked off.
Yet Leyden’s influence lived on. Amongst his papers was a translation of the Malay Annals that Raffles would publish as a memorial to his friend. It brought to his notice an ancient city that would later be of importance in his life – Singapore.
* * *
Agus’s friends were recognizably drawn from the gilded youth of Jakarta, masters of the arts of leisure. They could do barroom tricks with playing cards and matches. They beat all comers at computer games and tennis. They knew the composition of fifty different cocktails. They brought with them the latest cassettes for the car, fearful lest they have to listen to something out of date, and they were vaguely ‘students’ of some unrevealed subject. They had names like Beni and Rudi and their lady companions giggled and wore too much makeup. I found it impossible to tell them apart. Agus had once confided to me that, as a small boy, he had lived in a village and kept goats. That should clearly never be mentioned again.
* * *
The assault on the citadel at Cornelis began with a typical fuddling of orders. People got lost, rendezvous were missed. Ultimately, only a small part of the force ended up in the middle of enemy lines with the rising sun about to give them away. They stormed on and took the fort by sheer old-fashioned heroism. The man of the day was Gillespie, a name that would one day scald Raffles’ ears. Lord Minto, typically,
was struck by other matters.
‘The humanity of the men to the wounded prisoners on that day was admirable. No distinction of colour on that occasion. Our soldiers picked up English, Dutch and Malay, without distinction, in the jungle and carried them with great labour to the hospital … Next morning I went, before daylight, to visit all the works – our own as well as the enemy’s. A field of battle seen in cold blood the day after is a horrid spectacle, but is too horrid for description. The number of the dead and the shocking variety of deaths had better not be imagined.’
– Lord Minto
Raffles found himself, then, at thirty years of age almost sole ruler of a fertile, delightful island of six or seven million inhabitants whose civilization he found enchanting. The Honourable, the Lieutenant-Governor had a free hand. He was eager to make his mark, full of good intentions. What on earth should he now actually do?
* * *
The road to Tanjung Priok was one of those heartless roads, long and straight and narrow, a metaphor of virtue. It was a hot day and the sun hit me like an iron bar. There was room for two lanes of traffic so four had formed, jostling and honking. Beni/Rudi took the wheel himself and drove with consummate ease and fashionable panache. On the back of his trousers was a large label: ‘This pant was own by genuine American officer. Wearing it make you genuine American hero.’
When the Dutch built Batavia they had diverted half the river into the town to form sluggish canals and so bring malaria direct to the heart of their new city. The canals are still there as open sewers, clogged with all manner of nameless filth and, during the dry season, lying like pools of septic ink, bubbling with various gases of putrefaction. In Raffles’ day this was the ‘miasma’, known by all to cause malaria.
Men were working by the roadside, shovelling ooze from the canals onto the verge. With the heat, the car exhaust and the stench, it would be hard for a theologian to design a vision of hell for such people that was worse than their current circumstances. Beni/Rudi was telling us about a new Japanese restaurant he had discovered. As he slowed the air-conditioned car to circumvent a particularly large heap of sludge, the men leaning, panting on their shovels looked in the window, waved and smiled. Had our positions been reversed, I am not sure that would have been my instinctive reaction.
Tanjung Priok was a place of scabby warehouses and factories linked by intestinal pipes. Big ships stood off in deep water. Agus looked ill at ease. It was a place to make money in and then withdraw to sweeter climes.
‘The people here are tough,’ he explained. ‘Whenever the government raises taxes or devalues the currency they’re straight out on the streets, rioting. Usually they kill a couple of policemen.’
‘Here, everybody is poor,’ Rudi/Beni explained happily. ‘Even the Chinese are poor.’ In support of the assertion a Chinese rickshaw-driver cycled mournfully past in torn shorts. His rickshaw was empty. It looked as if it was always empty, covered with dust. We drove on over a pot-bellied bridge onto a mudflat where reeds sprouted resentfully like beard stubble.
‘Cilincing,’ said one of the girls emphatically, as if she came there very week.
It was like the marshes around London, characterless, cheerless, unredeemable wasteland, blasted by a chemical wind. If this was where Leyden had stormed ashore and the British had trundled their heavy cannon, they had been asking for trouble. The road petered out. A faded sign said ‘Access for project vehicles only’. We drove on. The only project seemed to be more mud.
We came to an unbridged river and stopped. I got out and looked over the sea. A man appeared at my elbow. He pointed to a small island.
‘That’s the old fort that was converted to a mosque. The people go there to fast and pray all night. There are many ghosts. They have visions.’
‘What sort of visions?’
‘They dream of the number that will win the state lottery. Lots of people have made money that way. You will want to see the house.’
‘What house?’
‘Si Pitung’s house.’
‘Tell me about him.’
He looked shocked, the way Beni/Rudi did when I did not know the name of a Western popsinger they wanted to talk about.
‘Si Pitung? He was a hero. He fought the Dutch and gave money to the poor people who lived here. He was betrayed by his friend who told the Company men they could kill him by shooting him with a golden bullet. They had quarrelled; it was a matter of some woman.’
He scowled at the girls as if they were to blame for all women coming between all men. Unwisely, they giggled. The story had doubtless been told with greater artistry, but I got the drift.
‘When I was in London,’ said Agus, ‘I heard much of Robin Hood in Shakespeare’s plays. Si Pitung was the same – only a Muslim. We shall go to his house.’
The man paddled us across the river to the village. The girls refused to come, afraid – cat-like – of the water, and stayed squealing on the bank. Beni or Rudi stayed to comfort them. Simple houses were constructed on stilts by the water’s edge so that at every tide the water flushed under them. People stood around examining fish. It was not clear whether they were buying or selling or just comparing fish. They seemed surprised we had not brought fish too.
Si Pitung’s house was a simple Malay dwelling, though with an elaborate set of bars and aged watchmen to protect it. Inside it was totally bare, but the centre of the floor was not the usual thick, dusty planks – rather a wickerwork of rattan. Sea air and a wonderful golden light were thrown up in our faces.
‘Natural air-conditioning,’ said the watchman with relish.
‘The British,’ I ventured. ‘Raff-lesh – when they came to Jakarta, they landed here.’
The man shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, ‘you’ve got it all wrong. It was the Dutch who were here. Si Pitung fought the Dutch. He was a friend of the people.’
‘Raff-lesh too.’ I insisted. ‘He fought the Dutch. He too was a friend of the people.’
‘No,’ he insisted. ‘It was the Dutch. Si Pitung fought the Dutch.’
‘Right.’
* * *
The first thing Raffles had to learn was to disobey orders with upper-class arrogance. Lord Minto taught him. Minto had been clearly instructed to take the island, dismantle the Franco-Dutch defences, arm the natives and withdraw. But he had decided on the invasion before the orders came, while it was all still a dream to Raffles. Neither he nor Raffles had the least intention of doing as they were told, nor did they intend to return their conquest to Holland at the end of the war. Their ultimate aim was that Britain should retain Java permanently. Minto had taken to the place. He wrote to his wife explaining that the only word he could use of Java was ‘civilization’, a concept Raffles was to make great use of.
In those days it took seven months for a letter from England to arrive in Indonesia, longer if it were routed via India. The scope for prevarication, misunderstanding, taking-initiatives-that-regretfully-could-not-be-reversed-at-this-late-date, was enor-mous. Minto showed Raffles how to use all this to the full. He never looked back. He became a master of the instrument.
Java, it was discovered, could under no circumstances be simply abandoned. The whites would all be massacred, as indeed some were later in Palembang. There was no financial cause for alarm. Minto and Raffles were convinced Java would make a huge profit. The British were reluctantly forced to stay. They were sure the Company would agree.
The Company was furious.
* * *
‘Please, we must stop here.’ Beni/Rudi was pointing excitedly through the windscreen. ‘It will not take long, half an hour.’
What was it? An ice-cream parlour.
‘Palang Merah,’ he explained, suddenly serious. ‘Red Cross. I give blood every month, good Indonesian blood. You do not get paid. You do it for love of country. If you do it fifty times, you get to shake the President’s hand and you get a medal. Afterwards, they give you a plate of noodles with an egg.’
* * *
It is hard to know where an idea begins. That certain plans appear in the letters of Minto is no evidence that they did not originate in Raffles’ head. That Raffles argues forcefully for the limitation of slavery or the reform of land-tenure is no proof that this did not come from Minto. They had been collaborating together for over a year, discussing, planning. They probably no longer knew themselves whose idea was whose. Both knew the importance of producing paper justifications to be quoted at the Company in the inevitable disputes that would follow the annexation of Java. They covered for each other.
They were intuitively in agreement – more, in sympathy. The Dutch administration was wicked, based upon vicious exploitation and corruption. In the government coffee warehouses, for example, different measures were used to weigh the coffee coming in and going out. From a delivery of 240-270 pounds the Company received merely 126 pounds, and the native grower was paid for just fourteen; the rest ‘disappeared’.
The British would be humanitarian and work for the benefit of the natives. To extend British dominion over them was an act of liberation, an act of charity. Once the natives had come to understand this, they would be loyal and grateful. This was obvious to both of them. Dutch historians always accused Raffles of deviousness. In fact he was somewhat naive, expecting human motivations to work in simple, straight, predictable lines.
For once in his life Raffles could trust the man immediately above him. He knew he could rely on him for the protection that would be essential. A caretaker, after all, is not normally expected to start a revolution in government.