Sandokan: The Tigers of Mompracem (The Sandokan Series Book 1)

by Emilio Salgari

  “Tigers of Mompracem!” thundered Sandokan. “Prepare to board!”

  Her sharp ram pointed forward, the cruiser advanced rapidly, shattering the silence with round after round of cannon fire. Flashes of light tore through the darkness. The prahu, a toy in comparison with the giant before her, would have split in two and sunk in a direct collision. Nevertheless, she advanced daringly, firing without pause.

  However, as every man aboard knew, the odds were against them. Their small wooden prahu could do little against that mighty, well-armed, iron ship. Despite the desperate bravery of the Tigers of Mompracem, it was not difficult to predict the outcome of the battle.

  Still, the pirates refused to yield and continued to fire shots in rapid succession, killing the gunners on the deck and cutting down the crewmen on the rigging. They showered the quarterdeck, forecastle and mast tops with bullets. Two minutes later, however, their prahu, hit repeatedly by enemy fire, could barely remain afloat. The masts had fallen, the bulwarks had shattered and the barricades could no longer shelter them from that barrage of shells. Water gushed in from all sides, flooding the hold. Still, no one spoke of surrendering. They were all prepared to die, so long as it was on the deck of the enemy ship.

  The volleys continued to intensify. Sabau’s cannon had been destroyed, and half the crew lay dead on the deck, massacred by grapeshot. The final bell was about to toll for the Tigers of Mompracem. Defeat was imminent. They could no longer hold their ground against that giant and her incessant rain of bullets. All they could do was attempt a boarding, pure madness, for victory would not smile upon them once astride their enemy’s decks.

  Only twelve men remained, but they were twelve Tigers, led by a captain whose bravery was legendary.

  “Stand ready, my brave ones!” he shouted.

  Seething with rage, eyes blazing, weapons drawn and ready, the twelve pirates regrouped, shielding themselves with the bodies of their slain shipmates.

  The warship was running at full steam towards the prahu, intending to ram her, but when she was just metres away, Sandokan drew the tiller to him with all his strength, avoided the crash and pointed the prahu towards the cruiser’s port wheel.

  The collision was violent.

  The pirate ship listed to starboard and filled with water, spilling her dead into the sea.

  “Launch the grapples!” thundered Sandokan.

  Two grappling hooks tore through the air and twisted about the cruiser’s ratlines. Thirsting for vengeance and almost mad with rage, the thirteen pirates rushed to attack. Clinging to the portals along the battery and to any cables or rope they could find, they scrambled up the cylinder box onto the parapet, then leaped onto the cruiser’s deck, before the British, surprised at such audacity, could move to block them.

  With the Tiger of Malaysia leading the way, his men rushed against the gunners, slaughtering them where they stood, routing the marksmen that had run to block their path; then with scimitars flailing, they advanced towards the stern.

  The men of the battery had gathered there at their officers’ command. Sixty or seventy determined foes stood before them, bayonets drawn, but the pirates, indifferent to their number, charged at them, howling for blood.

  Retreating and advancing, swinging desperately, lopping off arms and smashing in heads, for a few precious minutes the pirates were triumphant. But their bold attack could not endure. Dwarfed by that large crew, those brave men were quickly surrounded; many soon fell, unable to fend off the ring of bayonets tightening about them.

  With one final effort Sandokan and four others, covered in wounds, their scimitars and krises bathed in blood, opened a path and attempted to retreat to the bow, planning to use the ship’s cannons to stop that avalanche of men.

  Halfway along the deck Sandokan fell, struck in the chest by a bullet, but he immediately sprang to his feet howling, “Kill! Kill!”

  The British advanced, firing incessantly, bayonets levelled, determined to put an end to the battle. The four pirates rushed to shield their captain, but a volley of rifle fire quickly quelled that last act of resistance. The Tiger of Malaysia, however, proved to be more fortunate.

  Though torrents of blood gushed from his wound, with one last effort the formidable pirate reached the port bulwark, knocked over a topman and dove into the sea, disappearing beneath the ink black waves.

  Chapter 5

  Escape and Delirium

  DESPITE HIS WOUNDS, such a man, blessed with such prodigious strength, such extraordinary energy and such vast amounts of courage, could not die. While the cruiser continued on her course, driven forward by the last turns of her wheels, Sandokan, with a vigorous kick, resurfaced and swam away from the ship to avoid being cut in two by her ram. Ignoring his pain and stifling his rage, he dove beneath the water, waiting patiently for the right moment to attempt to swim to shore.

  The warship was still less than three hundred metres away and had begun to tack to starboard. She advanced toward the spot where the pirate had jumped into the water, hoping perhaps to crush him in her wheels, then tacked once again.

  She stopped for a moment to scan the battlefield, then began to crisscross that tract of water, while men at the gun ports and others lowered in fishing nets, shone their lanterns upon the waves. When at last her captain was certain they would not find their prey, she turned and sailed off towards Labuan.

  The Tiger let out a cry of rage, “Go, wretched ship!” he exclaimed. “Go, but take heed, I will have my vengeance!”

  He tied his sash about his wound, trying to stem the bleeding, then gathered his strength and began to swim toward the island.

  Twenty times the formidable man stopped to cast his eyes upon the warship, shouting his revenge as he watched her disappear on the horizon. Though perhaps fatally wounded and still far from shore, at times the pirate turned about and swam after the ship which had made him taste the bitterness of defeat, challenging her crew with frightening howls.

  Fortunately, reason soon prevailed and Sandokan turned towards Labuan, scanning the darkness that cloaked the island’s shores. He swam for a while, stopping from time to time to catch his breath and rid himself of the clothes slowing his advance. He could tell his strength was quickly fading. His limbs were stiffening, he breathed with difficulty and his wound continued to bleed, causing him sharp pain each time it touched the salt water. To rest and regain his strength, he curled into a ball and let himself be carried by the waves.

  Suddenly, he felt something brush against his back. The thought it could have been a shark made Sandokan shiver. He reached out his hand and touched something flat floating just beneath the water’s surface. He pulled it towards him and discovered it was part of his prahu’s deck; several cables and part of the yardarm still clinging to the beams.

  “Thank the heavens,” murmured Sandokan. “My strength was almost gone.”

  He slowly pulled himself onto the planks and examined his wound. It had become red and bloated from the salt water; blood gushed from it in streams. For another hour, that man, who was not yet ready to die, who did not want to admit defeat, fought against the waves. Then weakened and exhausted, he stretched out upon the wreckage, with barely enough strength to clutch the yardarm.

  Dawn was breaking when a violent knock tore him from that melancholy state. Sandokan slowly pulled himself up and cast his eyes about him. Writhing, foaming waves broke violently about his tiny raft. He appeared to be rolling on a shoal. Through a red mist, the wounded pirate could make out the coast a short distance from him.

  “Labuan,” he murmured.

  He paused for a minute, gathered his strength, and pushed himself off that tiny bit of wreckage that had saved him from an almost certain death. He felt the gritty sandbank beneath his feet as he cautiously made his way towards the shore. Waves attacked from all sides, pulling at him, trying to knock him down, attempting it seemed to prevent him from reaching that accursed island.

  He advanced slowly, barely keeping his balance a
s he walked over the sandbanks. He battled a last group of waves, reached the tree-lined shore, and dropped heavily to the ground. Though exhausted from the long struggle and the loss of so much blood, he unwrapped his wound and examined it. He had been struck by a bullet, most likely from a pistol, just below the fifth rib on his right side. That bit of lead had slipped between his bones and lodged somewhere inside him, but it did not appear to have damaged any vital organs. Though it was not a serious wound, it could quickly become so if not promptly tended to, and Sandokan, having been wounded several times, was well aware of this.

  Hearing the gurgle of a nearby brook, he dragged himself to its bank. The salt water had swollen his wound and sealed it shut. He sliced it open, washed it carefully, squeezed out a few drops of blood, then gently pressed it shut, wrapping it in a strip he tore from his shirt, which along with his sash and kris were all that remained him.

  “I’ll heal,” he murmured when he had finished, pronouncing those two words with such conviction, anyone listening would have assumed this man was indeed the arbiter of his fate.

  Though alone on an island where he could count nothing but enemies, bleeding, without food or shelter, without so much as a friend, the pirate was still certain of prevailing. He sensed a fever setting in and drank some water to calm his nerves, then dragged himself under an areca tree to rest beneath the shade of its giant leaves. He had just reached the foot of the tree, when his strength suddenly deserted him. His head began to spin; he closed his eyes and tried to stand, but collapsed and fell to the ground unconscious. He did not come to until several hours later, just as the sun was slowly beginning its descent.

  He awoke wracked with thirst, his wound no longer throbbing but the pain still unbearable. He tried to stand up and drag himself to the brook, but fell back down before he could take a step. Then that man, who so wanted to be as strong as the beast whose name he bore, with a mighty effort, rose to his knees and began to cry out with all the power of his voice.

  “I am the Tiger! I will not fall!”

  He grabbed the tree, pulled himself up, gathered his strength and slowly made his way to the small brook, falling to the ground just as he reached the water. Once he had slaked his thirst, he wet his wound, then rested his head in his hands, cast his eyes upon the waves and watched them crash upon the shore.

  “Ah!” he exclaimed, talking aloud as delirium slowly set in. “Whoever would have guessed the day would come when the Lions of Labuan would defeat the Tigers of Mompracem? Who would have thought that I, the invincible Tiger of Malaysia, would have landed here, on this shore, beaten and wounded? Make no mistake, I will have my vengeance! No matter the cost! My prahus, my islands, my men, my very riches to destroy those wretches that dare lay claim to these waters!

  “What does it matter if they’ve beaten me? In a month or two I’ll return here with my ships and unleash my men upon these shores! Who can withstand a legion of Tigers thirsting for blood and vengeance? Let the British Lions gloat if they must! They’ll all die before me! The British of Labuan will tremble when they see my flag flying proudly in battle once again!”

  The pirate had risen to his feet, his eyes aflame with hatred, his right hand menacingly slashing at the air as if he still clutched his terrible scimitar. Despite his wounds, he was still the indomitable Tiger of Malaysia.

  “Patience, Sandokan,” he said, as he fell to the ground once more. “I’ll heal, even if I have to live in this jungle for one or two months, eating nothing but fruit and oysters; and when I’ve regained my strength, I’ll return to Mompracem; I’ll build myself a raft or steal a canoe, I’ll slaughter an entire crew with my kris if I have to.”

  He remained beneath the areca tree for several hours, shaded by its enormous leaves, gazing gloomily at the waves as they came to die by his feet. He seemed to be scanning the waters for the remains of his slain crew and the remnants of his sunken ships. The fever grew stronger and waves of blood rushed to his head. The wound had begun to throb again, but not a single groan escaped his lips.

  At eight, the sun descended towards the horizon and, after a brief twilight, darkness fell over the sea and blanketed the forest. Inexplicably, Sandokan, who had never feared death, and who had faced the dangers and ravages of war with unmatched courage, turned pale.

  “Nightfall!” he exclaimed, clawing at the earth. “I don’t want the darkness! I don’t want to die!”

  He pressed his wound with both hands and quickly rose to his feet. Eyes fixed upon the waters, he scanned the black surface of the sea. He turned his gaze towards the trees, carefully surveyed their dark shadows, then taken perhaps by sudden delirium, he began to run through the forest, mad with fear.

  Strange sounds filled his head with every step: men shouting, dogs barking, the roar of beasts preparing to attack. His mind raced feverishly: He had been discovered! They were hunting him!

  His terror mounting, Sandokan ran with dizzying speed, barrelling through bushes, jumping over fallen timber, leaping over brooks and ponds. Cursing and howling, he swung his kris at every shadow, the diamonds in its hilt flashing in the moonlight. He ran for fifteen minutes, advancing ever further into the forest, his cries echoing among the dark trees until, exhausted, he stopped to catch his breath.

  His eyes were bloodshot; his lips covered with blood and foam. Blinding pain pulsing from his wound, he began to sway, his arms trembled violently and he crashed heavily to the ground. Heart pounding, temples throbbing, delirium soon took what remained of his reason.

  He spied his enemies all about him, beneath the trees, among the bushes, between the roots snaking along the ground, waiting to ambush him. Howling phantoms sprang from the soil, blood streaming from their severed limbs. Legions of ghosts swirled before him, filling the air with laughter as they mocked the impotence of the terrible Tiger of Malaysia. Sandokan rolled along the ground, got up, fell, clenched his fists and shook them threateningly.

  “Away you dogs!” he howled. “What do you want of me? I am the Tiger of Malaysia, I fear no one! Attack me if you dare! Ah! You laugh? You think the Lions have beaten the Tiger? Attack me! Attack me if you dare!

  “So, Patan, you’ve come to mock me? And Pagkon… you as well?… Damn you both, I’ll send you back to hell! And you, Kimperlain, what do you want? Another taste of my scimitar?… Be gone! All of you, back to the bottom of the sea… back to the kingdom of darkness… or I’ll slay you once again!

  “And you, Giro-Batol, what do you seek? Vengeance? You’ll have it! The Tiger will heal! He’ll return to Mompracem… arm his prahus… and come back to destroy the British Lions… all of them, to the very last man!”

  The pirate stopped, wide-eyed, features frighteningly contorted, his hands clutching his hair. Then, with one rapid movement, he resumed his wild run, howling, “Blood! I need blood to quench my thirst. I am the Tiger of Malaysia!”

  He ran for a long time, howling and cursing with every step. At last he emerged from the forest, crossed a small field at the end of which he thought he spied the dim silhouette of a wall, then stopped and fell to his knees, exhausted, gasping for air. He rolled into a ball and lay on the ground for several minutes, tried once more to stand, but this time, his strength failed him, a curtain of blood fell before his eyes, and he fell heavily to the ground, his last cry fading into the night.

  Chapter 6

  The Pearl of Labuan

  TO HIS IMMENSE surprise, when he came to, he was no longer in the little field he had crossed during the night, but in a spacious room papered with a Fung floral print, lying on a soft comfortable bed. At first, he thought himself in a dream and he rubbed his eyes repeatedly, trying to awaken, but he quickly realized everything was real and promptly sat up wondering where he was.

  He looked about but not seeing anyone, turned his attention to his surroundings. It was a vast room, elegantly decorated and lit by two large windows that looked out onto a garden.

  His eyes rested upon a piano at one end of the room, pages of mus
ic scattered upon it. An easel stood in the opposite corner, proudly displaying a drawing of a seascape. A mahogany table sat in the middle of the room. It was covered by an embroidered silk cloth, undoubtedly the work of skilled female hands. There was an ottoman by his bed, inlayed with ebony and ivory, on which Sandokan saw, to his surprise and delight, his beloved kris. A book lay next to it, open, a dried flower between its pages.

  He strained his ears, hoping to hear a voice, but the only sounds to reach him were soft and delicate, music made by someone playing a guitar or mandolin.

  Where am I? wondered Sandokan. In the home of friends or enemies? Who bandaged and tended my wound?

  His eyes rested once again upon the book lying on the ottoman. Driven by an irresistible curiosity, he reached out and drew it towards him. The cover bore a name imprinted in letters of gold: Marianna. He reread the name and was overcome by a strange sensation, an unfamiliar sweetness invading that heart of steel. It appeared to be a diary or journal of some sort for the pages were filled with beautiful calligraphy, but though the language resembled the Portuguese he had learned from his friend Yanez, he could not understand it.

  As if driven by a mysterious force, he took the delicate flower he had spied among its pages and examined it at length. He brought it to his nose several times and inhaled its fragrance, being careful not to damage the petals with those fingers more accustomed to wielding his scimitar. Once again, he felt a strange sensation, a mysterious thrill. Then that bloodthirsty man, that hardened warrior, was overcome by a strong desire to bring the flower to his lips!

  He put it back between the pages, almost with displeasure, closed the book and set it upon the ottoman once again. At the same moment the doorknob rattled and a man quietly entered the room.

  He was about fifty years of age, rather tall and vigorous, with deep blue eyes and a face framed by a ginger beard just starting to show the first traces of grey. One could see immediately he was a man accustomed to command.