“Quite a few, actually,” said Tremal-Naik.
“Well, then, it shouldn’t be hard to capture one.”
“And then?” asked Yanez.
“If they have returned to their old lair, we’ll set off on a hunting expedition in the Sundarbans. You said those swamps were infested with tigers so we’ll go kill ourselves a few, a little target practice before the main event. While we’re making our way towards Rajmangal we’ll gather information and plan our attack. Do you still hunt from time to time, Tremal-Naik?”
“It’s in my blood,” replied the Bengali. “But why a hunting expedition?”
“To fool Suyodhana. Why would he suspect hunters? Not a uniform among us. The jungles are full of wildlife, nothing could be more natural. The Thugs won’t be alarmed by our presence. What do you think, Yanez?”
“It appears there are no limits to the Tiger of Malaysia’s imagination.”
“We’re dealing with a clever opponent; we’ll have to outmanoeuvre him. How familiar are you with those swamps, Tremal-Naik?”
“Kammamuri and I know the area well. We’ve explored every canal and island.”
“And the rivers are navigable?”
“Yes, the water is deep and there’s a good roadstead at Rajmatla, about twenty miles from Rajmangal. The Marianna could shelter there if need be.”
“Excellent,” said Sandokan. “Aside from Kammamuri, do you have any other servants you can fully trust?”
“They’re all loyal to me.”
Sandokan reached into his jacket and drew out a large wad of banknotes.
“Have one of them hire two elephants and guides. Tell him there’s no need to haggle.”
“But… I…,” said the Indian.
“The Tiger of Malaysia has diamonds enough to blanket all the rajahs and maharajahs of India,” Sandokan replied with a smile. Then he sighed and added sadly: “Neither Yanez nor I have any children. What am I going to do with all the riches I’ve accumulated in these last fifteen years? Fate’s been cruel, taking my Marianna…”
The formidable pirate shot to his feet. An intense, indescribable pain had shaken the proud features of the man who had once spread terror throughout the Malay Archipelago. He paced round the room three times, lips parted, a frown upon his brow, hands clutching his heart, eyes dark with pain.
“Sandokan, little brother,” said Yanez, gently placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder.
The pirate halted, a sob dying on his lips.
“I’ll never forget the Pearl of Labuan!” he sobbed, wiping away, almost in anger, two tears forming beneath his thick lashes. “Never! Never! I loved her more than life itself! Fate has been too cruel!”
“Sandokan!” repeated Yanez.
Tremal-Naik had stepped to the Tiger of Malaysia’s side. His face bathed in tears, the hunter embraced his friend.
“Our wives are dead,” said the Bengali, his anguish as deep as Sandokan’s.
Yanez looked on in saddened silence, unable to speak, while off in a corner, Kammamuri was quietly drying his eyes.
Suddenly the two men parted; the Tiger’s grief had vanished, replaced by a calm determination.
“Once we’re certain Suyodhana has taken Darma to his old lair,” he said, “we’ll set off for the Sundarbans. Can you hire the elephants tomorrow?”
“It should be possible,” said Tremal-Naik.
“Perfect. We’ll stay in Calcutta until we capture a Thug. You should come back to the ship with us. You’ll be safer aboard our prahu than you would be here.”
“The Thugs are watching this place. We shouldn’t travel together. I’ll sneak out late tomorrow night.”
“Fine. We’ll see you then. Time to go, Yanez; it’s already two o’clock.”
“Why don’t you spend the night here?” asked Tremal-Naik.
“It’s too risky,” replied Sandokan. “The Thugs would surely see us leave in the morning and follow us back to the Marianna. Night will help conceal our tracks; if we’re spotted, we’ll row off into the darkness until it’s safe to head back to our ship. Goodnight, Tremal-Naik, we’ll send word tomorrow.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow night then.”
“Yes, make sure you’re not followed. Take whatever precautions are necessary.”
“They won’t even know I’ve left the house. Would you like Kammamuri to accompany you?”
“There’s no need, we’re armed and the jetty is nearby.”
They embraced once again then Sandokan and Yanez followed Kammamuri down into the courtyard.
“Keep your guard up,” said the Maratha as he unlocked the door.
“There’s no need to worry,” replied Sandokan. “We won’t let ourselves be taken by surprise.”
Once outside, the two pirates drew their pistols.
“Eyes open, Yanez,” said Sandokan.
“They’re open, little brother, but I confess I can barely see my hands. The night is as dark as pitch; perfect for an ambush.”
They stopped in the middle of the street and listened for a couple of minutes, then reassured by the silence, they set off towards the Maidan in front of Fort William.
They kept to the centre of the street, away from the houses that lined both sides, Yanez training his eyes to the right, Sandokan to the left. Every fifteen or twenty paces, they would stop, look over their shoulder and listen. Twice they heard footsteps behind them immediately fall silent. Someone was following them, perhaps the very man Sandokan had spotted running off as Kammamuri opened the door to the courtyard.
They reached the end of the street without incident and stepped onto the esplanade where it was not as dark.
“The river is just over there,” said Sandokan.
“I can hear it,” replied Yanez.
They quickened their pace and had almost reached the middle of the esplanade when something sharp sent them sprawling to the ground.
“Ah! The wretches!” shouted Sandokan. “Steel wire!”
Several men who had been lying among the thick grass immediately sprang to their feet and rushed towards the pirates. A sharp hiss sliced though the air.
“Stay down, Sandokan! Nooses!” shouted Yanez.
Two pistol shots thundered in swift succession.
Sandokan had fired immediately, just as a lead ball struck him between the shoulders. One of his attackers fell, crying out as he hit the ground. His companions scattered and quickly disappeared into the night.
A sentry shouted from atop the fort’s ramparts: “Who goes there?”
Then all fell silent.
Fearing a second attack, Sandokan and Yanez did not move.
“They’re gone,” said the Portuguese, after a few minutes had passed. “So much for the fearless Thugs. They ran off like rabbits at the sound of gunfire.”
“The trap was well set,” replied Sandokan. “If I hadn’t fired my pistols, they would’ve strangled us. Catching us off guard with a steel cable, well done.”
“Let’s see if that scoundrel is really dead.”
“He isn’t moving.”
“It may be a trick.”
They stood up and looked around, keeping an arm raised to protect themselves from an enemy noose, then cautiously walked towards the man lying among the grass and knelt down to examine him. His face was bathed in blood.
“He got a bullet in the head,” said Sandokan.
“Do you think he’s a Thug?”
“If he is, there’ll be a tattoo on his chest. We’ll carry him to the launch, the light is better there.”
“Shh!”
A whistle had sounded off in the distance; within seconds, another came in reply from Durumtolah Street.
“A signal,” said Sandokan, “Quickly, back to the launch! Leave him.”
They sprang to their feet, leaped over the steel wire and ran towards the river as a third whistle sounded in the darkness. The launch was anchored in the same place, half the crew stood on the jetty, rifles drawn and levelled.
> “Captain,” said the helmsman, at the sight of Sandokan, “was that you who fired?”
“Yes, Rangary.”
“We thought as much. We were about to come to assist you.”
“There was no need,” replied Sandokan. “Has anyone been nosing about our launch??”
“No, sir.”
“Back to the ship then, my Tigers. It’s already late.”
He ordered the stern lantern lit and the whaleboat quickly rowed off.
Seconds later, a small donga manned by two men pulled out from behind a sloop near the jetty and silently set off after them.
Chapter 4
The Mahant
THE NEXT MORNING, Sandokan and Yanez, after having slept for several hours, were enjoying their morning tea, discussing the previous night’s events, when the quartermaster, a well-built Malay, entered the room.
“What is it, Sambigliong?” asked Sandokan, rising to his feet. “Has Tremal-Naik sent a message?”
“There’s an Indian asking permission to come aboard.”
“A port official?”
“No, he says he’s a mahant.”
“What’s a mahant?”
“A type of witchdoctor,” said Yanez who had spent a good part of his youth in Goa.
“What does he want?” asked Sandokan.
“He says he’s come to perform a sacrifice; says it will bring us good fortune.”
“Send him off.”
“He’s been aboard all the surrounding ghrabs, Captain, and he’s with an Indian police officer who advised me it would not be wise to refuse him if we wish to avoid problems in the future.”
“Let him come aboard, Sandokan,” said Yanez. “Best to respect the local customs.”
“What kind of man is he?” asked the pirate.
“A handsome old man, Captain, with a majestic appearance.”
“Lower the ladder.”
When Sandokan and Yanez stepped on deck a short while later, they found the mahant already aboard. The police officer had remained in the donga, keeping watch over a small number of baby goats.
As Sambigliong had stated, the witchdoctor was a handsome old man with sharp features, bronze skin, and a long white beard. A simple dhoti barely covered his hips.
One could tell at a glance that he was a follower of Shiva for his arms, chest, stomach and forehead were streaked with ash. His dark eyes shone strangely as he watched the men approach.
“What do you want?” Sandokan asked in English.
“Today at the Kalighat we honour Draupadi; I’ve come to make a sacrifice in her honour,” the mahant replied in the same language.
“We’re not Indians.”
The old man’s eyes widened in amazement.
“Where are you from?”
“That’s none of your concern.”
“Have you come from far away? Do you plan to set off soon?”
“Perhaps.”
“I’ll perform a sacrifice to bless your journey home. No seafarer would ever refuse a mahant, it brings ill fortune. If you doubt my power, ask the officer accompanying me.”
“Very well, you may proceed, but quickly,” said Sandokan.
The old man had brought aboard a small black baby goat and a leather haversack. He drew from it a pan, some ghee[4], then two pieces of wood, one had a hole in the centre and was flat on one side, the other was a thin stick, pointed at one end.
“This wood is holy,” said the mahant, showing the two pieces to Sandokan and Yanez who were following the old man’s every move with great curiosity.
He inserted the stick in the flat piece of wood, then pulled out a small strap and wrapped it around the top of the stick. With one end of the strap in each hand, he began to pull back and forth, faster and faster, spinning the stick with dizzying speed.
“Looks like he’s trying to start a fire,” said Sandokan.
“A holy sacrificial fire,” Yanez replied with a smile. “Indians have a multitude of superstitions.”
Thirty seconds later a flame shot from the hole, the two pieces of wood caught fire and began to burn.
Chanting a prayer, the mahant slowly began to turn, first to the east, then to the west, then to the south and finally to the north.
“Surya! Agni! Gods of light and fire,” he repeated solemnly, “Accept this humble sacrifice and protect these men who stand before you.”
He crossed the two pieces of wood and let them burn a little longer, then placed them on a sheet of copper and poured some of the ghee in the small pan over them.
Once the fire had begun to blaze, the old witchdoctor seized the goat, pulled out a knife and cut off its head with one quick stroke, letting the blood flow into the sacred flames.
When the blood had drained and the fire had gone out, he gathered the red ashes, drew a mark on his forehead and chin, then walked up to Sandokan and Yanez and marked their foreheads in turn.
“You may set sail without fear; the gods are with you.”
“Are you finished?” asked Sandokan as he gave the old man a handful of rupees.
“Yes, sahib,” replied the mahant, fixing his dark eyes upon the Tiger of Malaysia. “When do you plan to set sail?”
“That’s the second time you’ve asked me that,” said Sandokan. “Why do you wish to know?”
“It’s a common question I ask aboard every ship. Goodbye, sahib, may Shiva watch over you. Safe journey.”
He gathered the remains of the baby goat and climbed down into his donga where the officer awaited him, sitting on a thwart, patiently smoking a palm leaf cigarette.
The small vessel pulled away from the ladder and set off, but instead of going downriver towards the other vessels, she tacked and headed in the opposite direction, passing beneath the prahu’s stern.
Sandokan and Yanez kept their eyes fixed on the boat and to their surprise saw the mahant lay down his oars, then turn and glance at the stern railing where the name of the ship shone in letters of gold. Satisfied, he picked up his oars and quickly rowed off, disappearing among the multitude of vessels crowding the river.
The two pirates exchanged a look.
“What did you make of the old man?” asked Sandokan.
“I think that little ceremony was merely an excuse to get aboard our ship and try to get some information,” replied the Portuguese, not hiding his irritation.
“I had the same thought.”
“Sandokan, we’ve been duped.”
“Those Thugs are demons! How could they know we’ve come to help Tremal-Naik rescue his daughter?”
“I have no idea,” replied the Portuguese. “Best to wait for Kammamuri.”
“You seem nervous, Yanez.”
“And with good reason. If the Thugs are already aware of our intentions, they’re even more formidable than I imagined.”
“We may have been mistaken, Yanez,” said Sandokan. “That mahant may just be a poor devil trying to earn a few rupees with his little sacrifices.”
“Maybe, but he asked us twice when we were leaving and he made sure to get a look at the name of our ship. Odd behaviour for a holy man.”
“What about the police officer? What did you make of him?”
“Now that you mention it, I find it strange that an officer should be accompanying a holy man. The more I think about, the more suspicious it all seems.”
Sandokan fell silent and began to pace about the quarterdeck. Suddenly he rushed towards the Portuguese, grabbed him by an arm and said: “Yanez, what if that was a Thug dressed as a police officer?”
The Portuguese’s eyes widened.
“Could it be?” he asked.
“I’d wager my narghila against one of your cigarettes that you’re starting to suspect as much,” said Sandokan.
“Yes, little brother, we’ve been outsmarted. My dear Sandokan, the Tiger of India has shown himself to be a little more cunning than his Malay counterpart. At least for the moment.”
“Yes, for the moment,” said Sandokan, fo
rcing a smile. “Bah! We’ll have our revenge soon enough. Even if that rascal of a mahant was one of Suyodhana’s spies, he learned nothing. He doesn’t know who we are, why we’re here and—”
He stopped suddenly and walked towards the starboard bulwark. His eyes appeared to be following a small boat weaving through the ships anchored in the centre of the river.
“I thought I spotted Kammamuri’s launch,” he said. “She’s disappeared behind those sloops and ghrabs.”
“He should have been here by now,” said Yanez, pulling out a magnificent gold watch.
They grabbed the ratlines, climbed up the bulwark and spotted a feal charra similar to the one that had brought the Maratha aboard the night before, skilfully manoeuvring among the ships.
She was manned by four oarsmen and guided by a man who was dressed in the traditional attire of a Muslim from Northern India.
“Could that be Kammamuri in disguise?” asked Sandokan. “That launch is heading right towards us.”
The feal charra, having deftly made her way through that chaotic maze of vessels, was flying towards the Marianna, swiftly advancing against the current. Within minutes she arrived beneath the prahu’s starboard side and came to a stop near the ladder.
Her commander exchanged a few words with the oarsmen then quickly climbed aboard, stopped before Sandokan and Yanez and bowed in greeting. Speechless, the two men could only stare in surprise.
“Don’t you recognize me?” the newcomer asked with a laugh. “Excellent, the Thugs should be fooled as well.”
“Well done, my dear Kammamuri,” said Yanez. “If you hadn’t spoken, I’d have ordered our men to escort you back to your launch.”
“An excellent disguise,” said Sandokan. “I never would have guessed it was you, my good Maratha.”
Tremal-Naik’s loyal servant was truly unrecognizable; anyone would have mistaken him for a Muslim from Agra or Delhi.
He had exchanged his dhoti and dupatta for a kurta, an outfit similar to those worn by Turks and Tartars: a short jacket, wide trousers and a turban. To complete the illusion the good man had donned a superb black beard that gave him an imposing appearance.
“Remarkable,” said Yanez. “You look like a pilgrim who’s just returned from Mecca. All you need is a little green in your turban.”
Sandokan: The Two Tigers (The Sandokan Series Book 4) Page 3
