In Court and Kampong / Being Tales and Sketches of Native Life in the Malay Peninsula

by Sir Hugh Charles Clifford

IN THE DAYS WHEN THE LAND WAS FREE

Alas, the shifting years have sped, Since we were hale and strong, Who oft have seen the hot blood shed, Nor held the deed a wrong; When the flames leap'd bright, thro' the frightened night, When the sćrak rang thro' the lea, When a man might fight, and when might was right, In the Days when the Land was Free.

The Song of the Fettered Folk.

In 1873 the people of Pahang who, then as now, were ever ready to go upon the war-path, poured over the cool summits of the range that forms at once the backbone of the Peninsula and the boundary between Pahang and Sĕlângor. They went, at the invitation of the British Government, to bring to a final conclusion the protracted struggles, in which Malay Râjas, foreign mercenaries, and Chinese miners had alike been engaged for years, distracting the State of Sĕlângor, and breaking the peace of the Peninsula. A few months later, the Pahang Army, albeit sadly reduced by cholera, poured back again across the mountains, the survivors slapping their chests and their kris-hilts, and boasting loudly of their deeds, as befitted victorious warriors in a Malay land. The same stories are still told 'with circumstance and much embroidery,' by those who took part in the campaign, throughout the length and breadth of Pahang even unto this day.

Among the great Chiefs who led their people across the range, one of the last to go, and one of those whose heart was most uplifted by victory, was the present Mahrâja Pĕrba of Jĕlai, commonly called To’ Râja. His own people, even at that time, gave him the title he now bears, but the Bĕndăhâra of Pahang (since styled Sultân) had never formally installed him in the hereditary office of which he was the heir, so by the Court Faction he was still addressed as Pănglîma Prang Mâmat.

On his arrival at Pĕkan, the Pănglîma Prang, unmindful of the fate which, at an earlier period, had befallen his brother Wan Bong, whose severed head lay buried somewhere near the palace in a nameless grave, began to assert himself in a manner which no Malay King could be expected to tolerate. Not content with receiving from his own people the semi-royal honours, which successive To’ Râjas have insisted upon from the natives of the interior, Pănglîma Prang allowed his pride to run away with both his prudence and his manners. He landed at Pĕkan with a following of nearly fifty men, all wearing shoes, the spoils of war, it is said, which had fallen to his lot through the capture of a Chinese store; he walked down the principal street of the town with an umbrella carried by one of his henchmen; and he ascended into the King's Bâlai with his kris uncovered by the folds of his sârong! The enormity of these proceedings may not, perhaps, be apparent; but, in those days, the wearing of shoes of a European type, and the public use of an umbrella, were among the proudest privileges of royalty. To ascend the Bâlai with an uncloaked weapon in one's girdle was, moreover, a warlike proceeding, which can only be compared to the snapping of fingers in the face of royalty. Therefore, when Pănglîma Prang left Pĕkan, and betook himself up river to his house in the Jĕlai, he left a flustered court, and a very angry King behind him.

But at this time there was a man in Pahang who was not slow to seize an opportunity, and in the King's anger he saw a chance that he had long been seeking. This man was Dâto’ Imâm Prang Indĕra Gâjah Pahang, a title which, being interpreted, meaneth, The War Chief, the Elephant of Pahang. Magnificent and high sounding as was this name, it was found too large a mouthful for everyday use, and to the people of Pahang he was always known by the abbreviated title of To’ Gâjah. He had risen from small beginnings by his genius for war, and more especially for that branch of the science which the Malays call tîpu prang—the deception of strife—a term which is more accurately rendered into English by the word treachery, than by that more dignified epithet strategy. He had already been the recipient of various land grants from the King, which carried with them some hundreds of devoted families who chanced to live on the alienated territories; he already took rank as a great Chief; but his ambition was to become the master of the Lĭpis Valley, in which he had been born, by displacing the aged To’ Kâya Stia-wangsa, the hereditary Chief of the District.

To’ Gâjah knew that To’ Kâya of Lĭpis, and all his people were more or less closely related to Pănglîma Prang, and to the Jĕlai natives. He foresaw that, if war was declared against Pănglîma Prang by the King, the Lĭpis people would throw in their fortunes with the former. It was here, therefore, that he saw his chance, and, as the fates would have it, an instrument lay ready to his hand.

At Kuâla Lĭpis there dwelt in those days an old and cross-grained madman, a Jĕlai native by birth, who, in the days before his trouble came upon him, had been a great Chief in Pahang. He bore the title of Ôrang Kâya Haji, and his eldest son was named Wan Lingga. The latter was as wax in To’ Gâjah's hands, and when they had arranged between themselves that in the event of a campaign against Pănglîma Prang proving successful, Wan Lingga should replace the latter by becoming To’ Râja of Jĕlai, while the Lĭpis Valley should be allotted to To’ Gâjah, with the title of Dâto’ Kâya Stia-wangsa, they together approached the Bĕndăhâra on the subject.

They found him willing enough to entertain any scheme, which included the humbling of his proud vassal Pănglîma Prang, who so lately had done him dishonour in his own capital. Moreover the Bĕndăhâra of Pahang was as astute as it is given to most men to be, and he saw that strife between the great Chiefs must, by weakening all, eventually strengthen his own hand, since he would, in the end, be the peacemaker between them. Therefore he granted a letter of authority to Wan Lingga and To’ Gâjah, and thus the war began.