Eden Lost

By Richard Taylor

Eden Lost is a romantic novel of 85,000 words cast in a historic setting of grand events and deep human adversity. This story will appeal to those who enjoy the panoramic sweep of history as seen through the eyes of lovers from diverse cultures. O

• Language: English
• Publisher: URLink Print & Media, LLC
• Release date: Jul 21, 2021
• ISBN: 9781647538620

Richard Taylor

Richard Taylor is Emeritus Professorial Fellow at Wolfson College, University of Cambridge

Book preview

ONE

Dateline Hong Kong—April 26, 1898. The United States has declared war on Spain in Cuba, but the British shoved eager Americans into the fight in the Pacific. As unbelievable as that may sound that is exactly what happened today in the British crown colony of Hong Kong. The Governor General reluctantly informed Rounseville Wildman, the American consul in Hong Kong, that British neutrality would not permit the berthing of belligerent ships of war in Victoria Harbor, compelling them to go elsewhere.

The American fleet has already repositioned warships to nearby Mirs Bay and is making final preparations to sail by provisioning the ships, recalling crews, and completing last minute maintenance. Their destination is a thinly veiled secret.

A very real probability has emerged that the first true engagement of an American war against Spain, only ninety miles from Florida in Cuba, will not occur there at all, but on another island half a world away.

This report filed by Hans Jordaens.

HONG KONG—APRIL 26, 1898

Azure undulations intensified by a striking sun dazzled, illuminating the natural beauty of Victoria’s breathtaking harbor at mid-day while emphasizing the wide expanse of the deep and choppy-topped waters between Victoria Peak and mainland Kowloon. The only link between the protruding heights is the customary and steady-running Star Line Ferry. In its wake, smaller fishing and trading boats bob about like paddling ducks in a sea of sharks, dodging apparently imminent collisions, miraculously escaping catastrophe in roiling waters by the short length of an oar. Chinese junks fan-dance atop choppy whitecapped breakers with brilliantly decorated sails proclaiming allegiance to flaming-tongued dragons, sleek shining fish, or other mysterious cryptic symbols of a vast Oriental empire of farmers, merchants, and warrior classes, while confusing observers by churning in mysterious circles under sway of a fickle Asian wind. British and American naval launches, official taxis to the men-of-war standing-by on the horizon, wait patiently at the docks to shuttle battle-ready but untested officers to steel-gray chariots of war anchored in deeper, bluer seas.

The United States’ consul general in Hong Kong, Rounseville Wildman, reveled in every aspect of international diplomacy— intrigue, splendid little wars, and a voguish life-style—manifest destiny his favorite cup of green tea. Especially appealing was upstaging arrogant British counterparts at lavish affairs in their own crown colony—yielding a satisfaction unmatched even by potent opium water pipes. An elaborate reception, penciled on the docket at the last minute by Wildman, ensured invited guests would pass the British China Fleet Club in rickshaws arranged under his auspices. The chosen route guaranteed upturned noses of naval officers and statesmen of the dwindling British Empire. America’s new empire was barely out of sight, just over the far horizon.

This event was certainly not to be a standard embassy bash, but a christening of Commodore Dewey’s armed fleet of steam-powered ships, heavy vessels of war, stretching America’s influence and sea power into a grandiose future still undefined. Wildman’s fete was organized as a simple, but bravado occasion to mark a fresh beginning. War with Spain was no trivial matter; war is always a weighty endeavor but the men gathering in the hotel ballroom would make it historic. This day had been hastily reserved on calendars as a sudden bon voyage for Commodore George Dewey and his stalwart band of seafaring fighters even as blue-jacket sailors labored to prepare the fleet to sail from twenty-six miles away in Mirs Bay. Winds of war swept over waves of the broad Pacific, swelling American pride and confidence in the navy’s supremacy on the high seas. An ad hoc fleet of privateer sailing ships from the first revolution against royal authority and many subsequent sea battles had yet to match the glory of the British fleet. Alfred Thayer Mahan, Teddy Roosevelt, and George Dewey were determined to change all that with the power of steam.

A white-frocked British officer peered over his spectacles at decked-out American naval officers passing his tea-time in radiant rickshaws drawn by coolies glistening with sweat, a parade streaming from the hectic harbor to the bustling reception. Fine chaps, he said sniffing his cuff, but I fear we’ll never see them again. They have first-rate vessels but their pride is swollen with false arrogance. They actually believe they are impervious to Spanish cannon—no different than the charging light brigade. Such foolishness!

Hans Jordaens, an independent but popularly read freelance stringer, arrived early to catch the story of Wildman’s celebration. He self-consciously pressed with his palms at embarrassing slept-in wrinkles covering his crumpled khaki gabardine suit, lastditch efforts no substitute for a hot iron in the hands of a well-practiced Chinese laundress. Hans transferred his almost-filled steno pad and dull pencil from a visible outside jacket pocket to one inside and out of sight. Wildman had made clear he could attend only as a guest, not as a reporter. The veiled efforts to protect the secret mission would only last so long, because a correspondent would always be just that. Hans kept a fully-loaded diary cocked and ready for potential essays and contemplative pieces for future publication. He wasn’t just an ordinary reporter, but a recorder of important historical perspectives and tales of significant human interest. His diverse international readers lapped it up.

Hold it! The Sergeant-at-arms stopped Jordaens short at the entrance with his palm against his loosened knit necktie. Lower-ranking riff-raff were subjected to a credentials check and the indignity of waiting behind the formal entrances of special guests. Dignitaries, according to specified times penned onto engraved invitations, made ceremonious arrivals announced by the official herald. Such elaborate protocol was necessary to upstage the haughty British. Some folks think they can just come any time they damn well please, the guard growled. I’m here to see that they don’t.

Hans intentionally arrived early and endured the harassment for a ringside seat to observe preliminaries, catch some notes on local color, and speculate about those effects that weren’t apparent to the untrained eye. He knew he was fortunate to be there at all. Commodore Dewey had added his name to the guest list, the only member of the press invited—Wildman wouldn’t have included him otherwise. Dewey needed an unbiased eye witness to history and got what he wanted. Hans never missed an exclusive.

Consul General Wildman took his post inside as host, glad-handing, back-slapping, and grinning widely from his position of bestowed authority. Hans craned his neck to see around the sergeant-at-arms until he nudged him aside again. British and American military officers and high diplomatic officials from the American consulate and British governor general’s staffs were announced formally by the herald, in inverse order according the established protocol. Unranked space-fillers had already been admitted en masse to lend credence to the base of applause. Hans saw Americans and Brits joining in convivial joviality, no obvious resentment toward the crown for booting their war ships from the colony’s harbor. War-thirsty sailors seemed to actually welcome the shove. Warrior comradery, perhaps some jealousy, prevailed on this extraordinary day for launching the fleet.

Hans recognized the next pinstriped arrival—Oscar Williams, the American consul general from Manila. His presence told the whole story in a nutshell—Spanish-held Manila was in Dewey’s crosshairs. Hans edged closer to trail him inside, following his nose for news, latching onto Williams like a leach. I was personally invited by Commodore Dewey, he pleaded with the door guard. Let me go through.

No! The sergeant-at-arms was still brusque and just as insistent, both feet firmly planted across the only way inside until the predetermined time. You’ll wait your time—and that just happens to be last. You missed going in early with the clappers and hooters so now you have to wait. Mind your Dutch manners or I’ll plant my hob-nailed boot in your arse.

Last and most prominent in the pecking order was Commodore George Dewey himself, the guest of honor, trailed by his staff. Dewey bypassed Wildman’s stuffy reception line and tromped straight to the center of the ballroom. His subordinates merged with the other guests draped around the periphery. The burly sergeant–at-arms finally stepped aside, and with a wave permitted Hans and others to trickle inside. Rounseville Wildman deserted his position to greet Dewey personally then raised his hand to silence the murmuring masses.

Wildman toasted the British occupiers of Hong Kong first, thanking the governor general for the crown’s hospitality during the navy’s stay—not mentioning the Queen’s silk pumps kicking them out of town. Next he raised a glass to General Emilio Aguinaldo in absentia, the Filipino rebel leader in exile in Hong Kong. Everyone, including Dewey, had expected him to be there, but he had sailed suddenly in the dark of night to parts undisclosed. Foremost and finally, Wildman sent the waiters scurrying to charge everyone’s glasses for a final toast. The pause allowed suspense to build as white jacketed waiters topped Champaign flutes. Visually checking the room, he raised his glass high. To the man of the hour—Commodore George Dewey and the irrepressible American fleet—officers, sailors, favorable seas, and good fortune. God speed you on your journey—a rendezvous with divine providence! A cheer rose from the good-natured British ranks first.

A cheer rose from invited bystanders. Hip, hip, hooray! And then a round of spirited applause escalated from all in attendance, some clearly jealous of those chosen to make history; some of those chosen to go wondering what they were in for.

Soaring spirits spiraled even higher, anticipating advent of high adventure. Champagne flowed freely over an ice-carving of an old-fashioned sailing ship, breaching bounds of excitement for sailors who might die for some cause, diplomats who might dodge some blame, and a solitary reporter who might write some untold story of ecstasy or anguish. Chinese servants in dinner jackets carried out their duties with unaffected aplomb, balancing silver trays arrayed with sushi or multiple glasses of intoxicants for those too involved to cluster around the same delicacies spread over white-clothed tables strategically positioned in the too-spacious ballroom. Ceiling fans strained overwrought, but even the bouquets of chrysanthemums had to be constantly refreshed under the over-heated air, white lotus blossoms drooped in bowls of tinted, scented water. Hans mopped his brow with a saturated linen handkerchief, the steno pad in a pocket pressed against his clammy chest too moist to scribble on.

Undaunted, Commodore Dewey held court in the center of the ballroom buzzing with chattering magpies. Well-wishers and admirers elbowed in to speak to the designated man, shake his hand, and offer congratulations for future greatness. Condolences, should he fail, went unspoken, unconsidered. Dewey seemed to be enjoying himself, sharing their perceptions of his appropriate station in life.

Hans remembered Wildman’s warning against reporting and steered his hand clear of his tucked-away pad, opposing all his ingrained instincts. Dewey, a man on a mission, had permitted him to sail with him aboard the Olympia—an eyewitness to history—and he wouldn’t jeopardize such a rare opportunity. As the only reporter on board he was assured a scoop of the big story. Hans, as an independent stringer, relied on enticing newspapers and news services to buy his work when he posted it, when he could manage to get it out from remote corners of the globe. News from Asia was always slow but now he had a step on the competition and his version would be in serious demand. Hans liked breaking news but his real avocation was writing thoughtful essays and editorials. And he was already thinking well ahead of the current news.

Hans bided his time, watching Manila’s Oscar Williams wrapping up conversation with a cluster of foreign attaches. The moment Williams broke free, Hans scrambled to his side. He had encountered Williams on many of his fact-finding trips to the Philippines and easily discerned his purpose in Hong Kong. He only needed to confirm it and pry loose some tidbit less obvious, something for his more creative juices. Hans approached, tapped the pad in his pocket but left it there, content to make copious mental notes.

Good day, sir, initiated Hans. You’re a long way from home, aren’t you?

I don’t consider Manila home, Mr. Jordaens, never have, never will, just my place of duty. Do have a home in Holland? You seem ubiquitous to me.

Hans latched on, undeterred. Home is anywhere there’s something to write about. Why are you here?

It’s quite obvious, isn’t it? Dewey’s leaving Hong Kong for the Philippine Islands. I work there. The Spanish are there. You can infer the rest but you can’t publish rumors; you might get it wrong. What more to you need to know?

But why are you here instead of waiting in Manila, your place of duty?

I’ve been updating the commodore on the situation in the islands ... and I had planned to talk to General Aguinaldo, but unfortunately he’s disappeared again.

Where is he?

I understand he left for Singapore, dodging a subpoena from his fellow rebels still in the islands. They’re suing for a share of the Spanish payments for his exile. I suspect he’s on a last-minute shopping spree while he waits for events to unfold.

Shopping? In Singapore? Whatever for? Hong Kong has everything anyone could possibly want.

Think about it. He’s a soldier, he has money. Singapore arms merchants do a large trade in weapons from around the world, the best prices anywhere.

Do you believe Aguinaldo would actually return to the Philippines? He was exiled on a promise not to return. The Spanish will kill him if he does.

You’re the reporter, said Williams. What do you think he’s doing with the four hundred thousand pesos the Spanish gave him? He’s not spending it on Hong Kong bargirls, I can assure you that. He doesn’t drink or use opium. And he isn’t afraid of the Spanish—he’s been fighting them his entire life.

I just assumed ... I mean it would be logical for him to stay here, being part Chinese and all.

Hans, Filipinos defy logic. You should know that by now. Remove your rose-colored glasses and look around.

Wait a minute; you said four hundred thousand pesos, I thought his deal was for eight hundred?

Ah, of course it was eight. But as soon as he was gone the Spanish stopped payments at four, so that offended his sense of integrity. But promises are only that—just promises. I intend to help him spend some of what he has for weapons. I believe that’s exactly what President McKinley would want me to do. I’m sure it’s what Dewey wants. I’m making special arrangements with a friend in Singapore to help him.

So he really is going back to Manila? How does the commodore view that proposition now?

Remember Hans, this is all off the record, only background. The commodore fully supports Aguinaldo’s return.

So Aguinaldo’s going back to build an army? What about the Americans going there? Won’t there be a conflict of interests?

War is conflict from the onset, Hans. Do you see any soldiers here? asked Williams. There are only sailors in the Pacific. We need an army to seize Manila and we can’t possibly raise one and get it there for months. We do have a nice little war in Cuba, you know, and it has first priority. Our brown brothers will just have to carry the burden, and they’ll be happy to do it until we’re ready to step in with our own infantry.

Hum, said Hans, thinking. I see. But will they be willing to submit to you Americans once they have an army of their own? They’ve been fighting Spanish occupation for centuries with sticks and stones.

Williams cleared his throat, seeing this conversation going far past what he had intended. Excuse me, said Williams dismissing himself. "I must shake a few more hands, business you know. I suppose I’ll see you on the Olympia. I saw you on the roster. I’m returning with Commodore Dewey as well." Williams deserted Hans in haste with his hand already extended to others. Hans slipped into the men’s room to jot down his mental notes on his damp pad, feeling giddy and wondering if from the campaign or the Champaign.

Hans rinsed his face in a basin of warm water, washed his hands with a bar of yellow soap and feeling refreshed left the men’s room looking for another target to exploit. He knew everyone who counted in Hong Kong but spotted a stranger who had arrived late and unannounced. The stranger was in civilian clothes but didn’t look like a diplomat, more like a sailor. He made a beeline to see what he could uncover. The striking outsider appeared self-assured, confident in himself but uncomfortable in a politically-charged atmosphere. Instead of trolling among the fan club, he gazed through an open window toward the harbor, ignoring pretenders and wannabees sucking down free wine, raw fish, and sweet pastries. In contrast to Hans, this guest’s white linen suit was lightly starched and carefully pressed, his blond hair slicked back and still damp, somehow cool despite the oppressive heat. He was well groomed, athletic, and carried that look only wealth affords. Hans caught a whiff of a different story, one more of his temperament.

Excuse me sir, interjected Hans to the broad back. I don’t believe we’ve met.

The taller man turned slowly, bringing his deeply tanned face into play, accented by a prominent chin, high forehead and straight nose carelessly spotted with freckles. Clear blue eyes disarmed but his gleaming smile said the intrusion was quite all right.

Joshua Armand—just call me Josh. He held a glass of champagne in his left hand and offered his firm dry right.

Hans shuffled his condensing beer glass to his left hand and rapidly wiped his wet palm on his pants leg. Josh waited with his hand still extended. Hans took it and his fingers that only wrote of history were engulfed in a stronger and larger one of action. The image of an apparently affluent man of healthy sports and infinite leisure was countervailed by his firm grip and rough textured palm of a steel worker. Hans grimaced under a wrenching handshake. Punished after all for meddling, he spilled his beer. A Chinese porter mopped up the mess in a jiffy with a linen napkin and vanished as quickly as he appeared.

Hans grimaced, embarrassed but persistent. You’re a … an American aren’t you? He stammered.

Yes, Josh said confidently. And, you’re not.

I’m Dutch, a reporter…actually an independent stringer. You’re not with the American consulate here, are you?

No, I’m an engineer, a sailor, and a merchant.

So you’re not with the navy or the diplomatic mission?

"I’m a steam engineer and a businessman. Our company bought a sailing ship, a commercial cargo carrier, the South China Queen, and I’m converting it from wind to steam power."

Well, it looks like the United States is actually going to war.

"We already are. We’ve declared war on Spain already. The Maine was sunk in Havana harbor as you must know. The circumstances were a bit strange but surely you know all that if you’re really a reporter."

Yes. I missed covering that one at Havana Bay but I won’t miss the next one at Manila Bay. I’m sailing with the commodore on his flagship.

Well, good luck, said Josh. Don’t forget to duck when the shooting starts!

Don’t worry about that, said Hans.

SINGAPORE

El presidente, General Emilio Aguinaldo y Famy was unhappy and unsettled, but unfazed in his mission even as he was spirited from Hong Kong under an assumed name. Spanish occupiers had negotiated his exile from Manila to Hong Kong for a stipend to end or at least slow guerilla resistance to oppressive rule. But the Philippine Interior Minister issued a warrant to abscond money the Spanish had paid Aguinaldo, the spirit of the revolution, to just leave. The Spanish had been desperate to get him out of the way to quell fighting but he intended to use that money to stage his return in a stronger position. He fully intended to reinvigorate the revolution. Timing was now critical with the Americans about to make an uncertain move.

Aguinaldo had reached Singapore by way of Saigon only hours before and was in hiding as a guest of Dr. Isidoro de Santos. But the door of the undisclosed private home was already approached by a wealthy English planter named Howard Bray. Bray asked to see Aguinaldo but was turned away as the hour was late and the visitor tired. Next day he returned to try again. Aguinaldo worried that if his presence had been exposed, his whereabouts already known to strangers, the summons would be served.

He listened intently to the conversation at the front door from the adjoining room. I’m not serving a warrant, Bray said. I fully support Don Emilio’s cause. I was sent by the American consul general here in Singapore to arrange a private meeting. Aguinaldo looked to his young confidant, Colonel Gregorio del Pilar, and nodded toward the door. Del Pilar understood and proceeded to intercede.

Del Pilar swung wide the double doors separating the library from the foyer and faced Bray, who appeared confused by such a young officer. Del Pilar was barely out of college and already a colonel in the revolutionary forces. He looked even younger but behind his boyish face and swashbuckling attire lurked the courage of a lion. Aguinaldo, a young man himself, knew del Pilar’s ferocity well and depended on him with his life. Del Pilar stepped to one side, placing Bray directly in line with Aguinaldo.

Bray recognized this one. General, he said. I’ve come from Spencer Pratt, the American consul here in Singapore. He’s asked me to arrange a special meeting that could well alter your life and the future of the Philippines.

Bray escorted Aguinaldo and del Pilar to the back entrance of a Singapore public house and bar. When they were seated around a table in a private room in back, Pratt entered with his hand out. Howard Bray stayed to translate.

General, began Pratt in his south Alabama drawl. Ah’m E. Spencer Pratt, United States consul general in Singapore. Ah’m real happy to finally meet you, suh.

Please excuse my cautious nature, Mr. Pratt, said Aguinaldo. Some people have wicked designs on my life. How may I be of assistance to you?

Actually, Ah think we can be of mutual assistance, suh said Pratt. As of just a few days ago, the United States and Spain are at war .…

Excuse me? Aguinaldo and del Pilar were surprised by that news. Did you say war has broken out between America and Spain?

Why yes suh, we are now at war with a common enemy. This is the right time for you to strike and strike hard. If you ally yourselves with us now, we’ll conquer the dreaded Spaniards together.

Aguinaldo sat calmly, meditating with his hands clasped, in an apparent spiritual moment waiting from word from higher authority. Meanwhile, del Pilar struggled to maintain his composure, the lion was ready to pounce on this apparent opportunity.

Pratt continued, We’ll help you ... if you’ll help us.

And just what can I expect to gain from helping America? Aguinaldo asked. His people had resisted and openly fought Spanish oppression for three hundred years and America had just entered that fray, interlopers in Aguinaldo’s revolution.

We’ll give you far greater liberty and more benefits than the Spaniards ever did.

Greater liberty? asked Aguilnaldo. "Why not just plain liberty?"

We’re talking about a ‘benevolent assimilation’ here, to use President McKinley’s own words.

Then let’s draw up a document to assure we all understand the meaning of those big words the same way. When the terms are clearly understood and decided, then we can have an agreement.

We’re at war! Ah’d like to proceed much more quickly before the initiative is lost. Strike while the iron’s hot! Laborious negotiations and agreements take considerable time and only Commodore Dewey could sign such an instrument anyway, insisted Pratt. But you need not worry about America. The American congress and the president have just made a solemn declaration disclaiming any desire to possess Cuba and promising to leave it to the Cubans after driving out the Spaniards. Cuba will be pacified, the intruders thrown out, and government left to Cubans to run. So it will be in the Philippines, even more if that’s possible. Cuba is at America’s back door while the Philippines are ten thousand miles away. You’ll certainly have your full freedom. Full freedom was precisely what Filipinos wanted as del Pilar’s broad smile revealed. Aguinaldo said, If Commodore Dewey will honor me with those same assurances then I will joyously return home and fight side-by-side with our American friends.

Pratt solemnly promised to contact Dewey with a full report that very day. Aguinaldo planted both hands on del Pilar’s shoulders. Gregorio, now we must prepare to do our duty. The freedom of our country is at last at hand.

Next day, Howard Bray again escorted Aguinaldo and del Pilar, this time into Consul General Pratt’s residence at the stately Raffles hotel in Singapore. Pratt was waiting with a telegram in hand. Bray translated the simple message: Send Aguinaldo at once. Dewey.

Aguinaldo was puzzled by the telegram and looked to Pratt for an explanation. Dewey’s willingness to meet you right away means that the United States will recognize the independence of the Philippines under the protection of the United States Navy, he adlibbed. "There’s no need for a formal agreement since the word of a commodore and an American consul