I'm pleased to host Tom Williams on my blog this week - he's a smashing writer, historian, and tango dancer! I discovered his books quite by accident and was hooked. I love historical fiction, especially fiction that has loads of historical detail - it makes the time come alive. Tom Williams has a definite flair for capturing the thoughts and feelings of his subjects, and also writes with authority about battles and politics. Try his James Burke series (a Napolean era spy!) or dive into this fascinating true story about a man who becomes de-facto ruler of a providence in Borneo!
Many,
many years ago – decades, in fact – I found myself spending a few
days on a holiday in Sarawak. We had signed up with a company that
took you up river from Kuching, then a really small town, to visit
the famous longhouses. Here we met the indigenous Dyak people who,
not that long ago, had been headhunters and many of whom still lived
on the most basic slash and burn cultivation and the food they could
catch in the jungle. We even caught a tiny mouse deer ourselves and
contributed it to the collective pot. It was a magical few days and
almost certainly unrepeatable, for the last couple of decades have
seen logging destroy much of the habitat the Dyaks rely on to live
while mass tourism means that trips like those we made then are
probably by now impossible.
It was on that trip that I
first came across James Brooke. The museum in Kuching had an
exhibition of Sarawak's history with a large display on 'The White
Rajahs' next to a much smaller display on 'The Colonial Era'. I was
confused. The White Rajahs were clearly, well, white. Why was it that
while the tone of 'The Colonial Era' was rather disapproving (it
mainly seems to have consisted of killing the Governor), 'The White
Rajahs' display hinted at a Golden Age?
The answer seems
to have been the extraordinary relationship the first White Rajah,
James Brooke, had with the people of Sarawak. Sarawak then was a
province of a much bigger country ruled by Muda Hassim in Brunei.
Hassim gave the rule of Sarawak to James Brooke as a reward for
Brooke's help suppressing a rebellion there. Brooke insisted that
Sarawak was not part of the British Empire and he set out to rule as
an enlightened despot.
At the centre of the exhibition was
a portrait of James Brooke. It was a copy of the one in London's
National Portrait Gallery.
Portrait of Sir James Brooke by Sir Francis Grant
National
Portrait Gallery London.
I
saw it and just wanted to know more about this astonishingly
handsome, dashing man who had taken a tiny country halfway round the
globe from his home and made it his own. When I got back to England I
started to read all I could find about him. It wasn't that difficult.
His diaries were published, as were those of Keppel, the admiral who
helps him defeat the pirates. I found myself getting more and more
caught up in his story and, because I had always wanted to write, I
decided to turn it into a novel. What I aimed for was an
old-fashioned yarn with an old-fashioned hero and, up to a point, I
succeeded. But in the end, although it got representation by a
well-known agent, it really wasn't good enough for publication. I put
it away and forgot about it.
Years passed and I found
myself writing lots of non-fiction, often anonymously. I decided that
I owed it to myself to write the novel I'd always planned for. We
were moving into an age when Western armies were invading remote
countries, often with noble intentions but sometimes with terrible
consequences. I wanted to write about how good people could end up
involved in questionable wars and horrifying massacres. I remembered
that James Brooke had himself been involved in a massacre which, at
the time, had horrified liberal opinion in Britain and resulted in a
Commission of Inquiry in Singapore. I decided to go back to my
original novel and rewrite it as a much darker piece with a flawed
hero.
I wanted to get close to Brooke as a man, rather
than just as a historical figure, and I thought this could best be
done through the eyes of someone who knew him and shared his
experiences. I tried to think who this could be and came to the idea
that the story could be told from the point of view of a sailor on
his ship, the Royalist. And that was how John Williamson came
into being. Unlike Brooke, who is very closely based on the
historical figure, Williamson is almost entirely fictional. The real
James Brooke had an interpreter called John Williamson and I just
borrowed the name. (The real Williamson was half-Malay and died quite
early on.)
Once Williamson came into the story, his role
just grew. He had started out as a narrative device but, as time went
by, he became central to the story. Partly, I think, this is because
everything was seen through his eyes and so I found myself thinking
more and more about how he felt about things and partly because I
tried to use Williamson as a figure who reflected Brooke's
relationship with the Dyaks. So Brooke 'educates' him but at the same
time Williamson finds that the relationship stops him developing
fully as his own man. By now, what had started as a historical novel
with a bit of romance became much more a romance set in a historical
story.
The whole 'gay' bit never seemed that important. The real Brooke was
almost certainly gay, all the characters around him were men: if he
was going to have a relationship, it was always going to be a gay
relationship.
When I decided to write a sequel to The
White Rajah, I didn’t stay with James Brooke. Even though the
original story concentrated on his early years in Borneo and there
was lots more that could be written about his life, it was John
Williamson I wanted to follow. Fortunately the date on which
Williamson departs Singapore at the end of The White Rajah
meant that I could put him in India just before the Indian Mutiny
breaks out. So that's what I did: Williamson travels to India, falls
in love (again) and is once more caught up in historical events that
leave him making uncomfortable choices about who he is and where his
loyalties lie.
The
Indian story (Cawnpore) is my personal favourite, but I wanted
to write one more story about John Williamson to round off his life
with a return to England. In Back Home he discovers that the
struggle between the powerful and the powerless is every bit as
vicious in London as in the Far East. 1859 was a period of enormous
change. It was fun setting a story in part of London that I know well
(Seven Dials) which is so easily recognisable in 1859 yet so
dramatically different.
Endeavour
have just published all three John Williamson stories as a Kindle
bundle (amazon.co.uk/dp/B07MS8WRVH ).
Each story can be read separately but if you read all three I hope
you, like me, will grow to know John Williamson and to respect his
attempt to be a decent person in a troubled world.
Excerpt
Though
I had seen him in dark moods before, I had never seen him sunk as low
as this. There were marks of tears on his face. It was then I began
to realise just how set he had been on the success of his Borneo
venture. More, seeing him alone in his distress, I realised that, for
all his easy ways, there were none on board who could come close to
him and comfort him. Among the others, he always played a part: the
gallant captain, the good comrade, the diplomat, or the man of
business. To none was he simply a friend and, though there were many
who would say they loved him, there was no one to whom he could turn
for simple comfort when he needed that above all else.
In
England he had no position, no friends, no purpose in life. The
Findlay expedition had been an attempt to fill these lacks but
the voyage had ended in disaster. Back in England, he had returned to
his family home in Bath, surrounded by old men who had served in
India and now sat out their days, like his father, waiting for death.
With nothing to do, he could but sulk and fret until, in time, his
father passed away, leaving the young Mr Brooke sick with guilt and
sadness but a wealthy man. All his inheritance was spent on the
Royalist, and now this venture was to join the Findlay
in failure.
Yet,
for the sake of his position on the ship, he could never show his
fears. Instead, he would always endeavour to be cheerful, encouraging
the men in any wild venture that might cheer their spirits.
At
that time, I knew nothing of this. I saw only a man who had been good
to me, sitting alone in the twilight gloom of his cabin, his face
streaked with his tears.
I
do not know now what made me do it, for it was not my place, but I
knew where the brandy was kept and the glasses. I poured a healthy
swig of drink and placed it before him. He looked up at me and
smiled. “Pour one yourself, John.”
It
was the first time he had ever called me by my name. Later, he was to
joke about us as James and John, the disciples of Borneo. “We are
the sons of thunder, John,” he would say. “Look it up in the
Bible.”
That
evening, though, I had not been certain he knew my baptismal name
until he said it.
I
poured myself a drink. I was nervous, the situation being unusual for
me, and my hand may have shaken. Perhaps I poured myself rather more
brandy than I had intended.
Mr
Brooke told me to sit down at the table with him. I did as he asked
and we drank, and as we drank, he talked. He told me of his hopes
when he had come out to the Far East, of how he had heard tales of
Borneo, a land of rhinoceros and elephant and strange, man-like apes.
Above all, he had heard of the native people, the Dyaks, living in
the jungle in a state of nature.
“They
are like children, John,” he said. “I had thought I might do some
good if I should meet them.”
We
drank some more. Now his discourse turned to the rule of the East
India Company and his experiences in its employ. “They are not men.
They are machines to calculate profit and their rule is naught but a
means to enrich the plutocrats of the City.”
He
scowled at his glass, raised it to his lips once more and, after
drinking, suddenly looked me in the face and almost shouted, “But
they are Englishmen. As are we, John. And we English have a great
duty. We are privileged, but our privilege brings a responsibility,
for if we cannot help these people, who can bring them help?”
Then,
his mood changing and the liquor working on him, he started to laugh
and to sing Rule Britannia. When I did not join the song, he
cursed at me and swore I should sing with him. I joined him in a
chorus distinguished for its enthusiasm rather than its tunefulness.
As I drew breath for another verse, he fell silent, set his head on
his arms, and slept.
I
remember standing for a moment, watching over him. Then, closing the
door quietly behind me, I withdrew.
The story of James Brooke is the story of a man of his times - a man who, through idealism, determination, and sheer luck became the ruler of his own small country. Told through the eyes of his companion and lover, John Williamson, this tale seems too outrageous to be true - but except for the character of John, it's all true! James Brooke is a fascinating character. His idealism leads him to become a beloved ruler - but his human frailties make him also a tyrant. I like the author's straightforward approach to the story. His descriptions of battles and the jungle are rich but not overwhelming to the story about a man who had a key role in shaping the trading port that is now Kuching, the capital of Sarawak in Borneo, Malaysia. I would have liked more romance between the characters, but that part of the story was discreet, in keeping with the Victorian sentiments of the time. All in all, a much enjoyed read about a little-known historical figure.
