British consulate in Jemulpo: Bar with a view (2)

A postcard of Jemulpo in the early 20th century / Robert Neff Collection

In September 1884, the Royal Oak Saloon arrived in pieces and was laboriously carried up the hill to the consulate site. However, details of its reconstruction are agonizingly absent. The port was undergoing a building spree, and manpower was scarce. The American consulate had a team of builders from Nagasaki; did the British also have a team, or did they rely upon local labor?

Though the exact completion date of the Royal Oak Saloon and its transformation into the British consulate is unclear, records show that by June 1, 1885, the consul-general and his wife were able to rest there during a brief visit. About a week later, Edward Harper Parker replaced Carles as the vice consul. From the consulate’s window, not only were changes in the diplomatic corps witnessed, but also shifts in the political scene in Seoul.

By early October, the American consulate had faded from mention. Lionel F. Gowing, a former reporter for an English-language newspaper in Shanghai, visited Korea briefly and took note of the consulates. He remarked that the Chinese, British and Japanese consulates were perched on hills “standing high above the mean streets, [and] were conspicuous from every quarter” of the settlement. Of these, he found the Japanese consulate to be “by far the most important building in the Settlement.”

Gowing also witnessed the arrival of Heungseon Daewongun (King Gojong’s father) describing it as:

“[A] dense crowd of Koreans, with a sprinkling of Japanese, had collected in front of the [British] Consulate, where his Highness was staying, in the hope of catching a glimpse of the great man. Korean officials, wearing peacocks’ feathers in their hats, were hurrying to and fro, and a double line of marines from the Chinese man-of-war kept order and prevented the rabble from blocking up the path, along which officials were continually arriving to pay their respects to the Prince. It sounded very strange, and somewhat significant, to hear the words of command “shoulder arms,” “order arms,” “right turn,” and so forth delivered in the language of the Western barbarians and responded to with military promptitude.”

About a century later, a historian provided a little more insight as to what was going on in Seoul:

“The joy expressed by the populace at the return of the king’s father was mingled with apprehension as three officials, charged with having aided the Daewongun three years before in the attempt upon the queen’s life, were executed by her order, and many other persons, suspected of involvement in the affair, were rounded up.”

Foreign diplomats in Seoul warned the Korean government that such acts could incite violence among the general population. The dismembered bodies of the executed, which had been horrifically displayed in the streets, were soon cleared away.

At the same time as the Daewongun’s return, other prominent figures arrived in Korea: Carl von Waeber, the Russian representative; Yuan Shikai, the Chinese representative; Henry F. Merrill, the new commissioner of Korean Customs; and Calborne E. Baber, the new British consul general — Parker’s new superior.

A view of Jemulpo, possibly taken from the British consulate, showing the Korean Customs buildings / Robert Neff Collection

Not all of the consulate’s activities were strictly governmental. On Dec. 23, the Jemulpo community was saddened to learn of the death of Captain Frederick Crighton, a well-liked commander of a steamship that regularly sailed between Japan and China via Jemulpo. His funeral was held at the consulate on the following day, after which he was buried at the foreigners’ cemetery in the port.

A week later, Parker hosted a very successful New Year’s party at the consulate. It was quite an event. Among his guests were members of the diplomatic corps in Jemulpo, the commanders of the men-of-war visiting the port and the members of the Korean Customs Service. One guest wrote: “Every one of Consul Parker’s guests admired his great versatility as a philologue: it seems to be a matter of perfect indifference to him whether he speaks English to his guests, or their own native language; and there were representatives of at least a half a dozen different nationalities represented around his hospitable table.”

While modern historian James Hoare described Parker as “somewhat odd,” I find him to be fascinating and very bold. He was a skilled pianist who entertained the small community with his piano while stationed in Fusan (modern-day Busan) in 1884. He also had a wonderful and engaging writing style.

He referred to his consulate as “The Royal Oak,” an old pub that had been “brought bodily from Nagasaki,” which, according to one of his guests, Carl von Waeber, “didn’t have a single straight line in it, inside or out.”

Parker’s most important and decisive act while in Jemulpo (at least in his eyes) occurred on Jan. 25, 1886. He wrote: “I was sitting in the ‘Royal Oak,’ whilst Dr. Tanaka was prescribing a diet of raw eggs for my quinsy, and kerosene oil baths for my sciatica and lumbago… Just as the Japanese [servant] was offering me my first dose of raw egg and kerosene, the Chinese [servant] and the Korean [horse-handler] ran in to shout ‘murder.’”

Parker kept a telescope next to the window to monitor the comings and goings in the port. Through it, he spied a large group of Chinese merchants and laborers armed with clubs and other makeshift weapons roaming the streets. This “pitiful set of rascals” was part of the mob that had attacked several members of the Korean Customs staff who had accused the Chinese of trying to smuggle red ginseng aboard one of the Chinese warships.

In response, Parker requested 10 men from the British warship in the harbor to guard the consulate. Their arrival immediately caused a stir in the port, mainly due to their march up the winding trail to the consulate. “As they wound round into and out of view they looked as they passed and repassed more like a hundred.” According to Parker, the sight of the British marines quickly dispersed the Chinese mob.

The Chinese consul implored Parker to send the men back “so as to save ‘Chinese face,’” but he refused. It was only after the arrival of two Korean officials did he agree to send the marines back to their ship, but not until the following morning.

“Meanwhile, the British captain, who had been out shooting, arrived to take his usual afternoon cocktail with me, and was rather amused to find a lieutenant and ten of his men, the latter feasting, armed to the teeth, on chickens, beer, and other luxuries in my private office round a roaring fire, Old Daiboots, the jolly Japanese Brobdingnagian [giant] innkeeper, having volunteered to personally provide a glorious feast for the marines.”

03 Henry Bencraft Joly’s grave at Yanghwajin Foreigners Cemetery in April 2020 / Robert Neff Collection

The following morning, at the break of dawn, the British marines quietly returned to their ship. Their passage was so discreet that, according to Parker, many people believed the hill had a secret tunnel leading to the docks.

Though Parker’s narrative is somewhat self-serving, his summoning of the marines did help quell the violent riot. His decisive action, however, attracted unwanted attention from the Chinese representative to Korea, who happened to be good friends with Parker’s superior, Baber. Both the ginseng riot and the rivalry between Parker and Baber will be subjects for later articles.

In the years that followed, the British consulate faded from the pages of letters and newspaper articles, occasionally mentioned only as the venue for Jemulpo’s Municipal Council meetings.

When the iconic travel writer Isabella Bird Bishop arrived in the port in 1894, she noted the consulate, perched upon its hill, and denounced it as “a comfortless and unworthy building.” Perhaps her inability to stay at the consulate as a guest influenced her harsh opinion.

On the other hand, some share her biting assessment. On June 23, 1898, the consul, 40-year-old Henry Bencraft Joly, unexpectedly died in his bed. According to Hoare, Joly caught a chill in “his apparently unheated bedroom.” Considering the season and his recent trip to Pyongyang, I can’t help but wonder if something other than the drafty conditions of the Royal Oak contributed to his demise.

It is a shame that the Royal Oak is gone now — a victim of modernization and progress. Imagine what great stories its walls and ghosts could have whispered.

Robert Neff has authored and co-authored several books including "Letters from Joseon," "Korea Through Western Eyes" and "Brief Encounters."