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

by Emilio Salgari

  “What were you doing in the forest?”

  “I was heading towards the coast, going to check on a canoe I’d hidden not far from the shore, when I was suddenly attacked by that soldier.”

  “You have a canoe?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “And you’re planning to set off for Mompracem?”

  “This very night.”

  “We’ll go together, Giro-Batol.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight.”

  “Would you like to rest in my hut for a while, Captain?”

  “You have a hut as well!”

  “An abandoned shack.”

  “Lead the way. Best we set off before that light horseman returns.”

  “Do you think he’ll come back?” Giro-Batol asked apprehensively.

  “You can count on it.”

  “Let’s fly, Captain.”

  “There’s no need to fear. As you can see, I’ve recently become a sergeant in the Bengali infantry, I’ll protect you.”

  “You stripped a soldier?”

  “Yes, Giro-Batol.”

  “Ingenious, Captain.”

  “Yes, now best we get going. Is your hut far from here?”

  “We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “Excellent. We’ll rest for a while. Then later, we’ll plan our escape.”

  After having ensured the path was clear, the two pirates left the grove, swiftly crossed the field and reached the edge of another forest. They were about to head in among the trees, when Sandokan heard the sound of a horse galloping furiously towards them.

  “Again with that nuisance!” he exclaimed. “Quickly, Giro-Batol, into the bushes!”

  “Hey, Sergeant!” the light horseman howled angrily. “Is this how you help me capture that wretched pirate? I’ve almost ridden my horse to death, and you’ve barely even moved.”

  The soldier spurred his horse as he spoke, making it rear and neigh in pain. He had ridden through the field and had stopped near a clump of trees.

  Sandokan turned to him and said, “I found the pirate’s tracks and thought it unnecessary to chase him through the forest. I was waiting for you to return.”

  “You found his tracks? For a thousand demons! How many tracks did that rascal leave? He must have enjoyed making fools of us.”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “Who showed them to you?”

  “I found them myself.”

  “Come now, Sergeant!” the light horseman exclaimed mockingly.

  “What do you mean?” asked Sandokan, a frown forming upon his brow.

  “Someone must have shown them to you. I saw you with a native.”

  “I met him by chance and he kept me company for a while.”

  “Are you certain he was an islander?”

  “I’m not blind.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “Into the forest. He was tracking a babirusa.”

  “You should not have let him wander off. He could have given us some valuable assistance and helped us earn those hundred pounds.”

  “Hmm, I think we may have lost our chance, my friend. I’m giving up and heading back to Lord Guillonk’s villa.”

  “Well, I’m not afraid, Sergeant.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m going to continue hunting the pirate.”

  “As you like.”

  “Happy trails!” the light horseman shouted mockingly, as he turned his horse and rode away.

  “May the devil take you,” muttered Sandokan.

  The light horseman was already far off, spurring his horse furiously, and heading toward the forest he had so recently traversed.

  “Let’s go,” said Sandokan once he was out of sight, summoning the pirate from his hiding place. “If he returns, I’ll start the conversation with a blast from my rifle.”

  He walked to Giro-Batol’s side and the two men set off into the jungle. They crossed another clearing then headed into a patch of thick vines, making their way with great difficulty through the chaos of calamus and rattans, their advance slowed by the intricate tangle of roots twisting along the ground.

  They walked for a quarter of an hour, crossing several brooks and streams, often spotting fresh boot prints along the banks. They soon arrived before a thick grove so overgrown with vines that only a dim light filtered through the leaves. Giro-Batol stopped for a moment and listened, then turned toward Sandokan.

  “My hut is in there, just behind those trees.”

  “A safe refuge,” the Tiger of Malaysia replied with a smile. “I admire your caution.”

  “Come, Captain. No one will bother us here.”

  Chapter 12

  Giro-Batol’s Canoe

  GIRO-BATOL’S HUT STOOD in the middle of that thick forest, between two large pomelo trees that shaded it from the sun. Barely the size of a shed, it was just large enough to shelter a couple of men. Narrow and low to the ground, it had been built out of branches and thatched with banana leaves. It had no windows; the only opening was the door. Its furnishings were minimal: a bed of fresh leaves, two crude clay pots and two rocks that served as a hearth. A small mound of fruit had been stacked against a corner and half a babirusa hung from the ceiling.

  “It’s a modest hut, Captain,” said Giro-Batol. “But, you can rest here for as long as you wish. I promise no one will disturb you. Even the Dyaks don’t know of this place. Use that bed if you wish to sleep, I just cut the leaves this morning. There’s water in those pots if you’re thirsty, and if you’re hungry, help yourself to some fruit or meat.”

  “I couldn’t have asked for more, my good Giro-Batol,” replied Sandokan. “I never expected to find so much.”

  “Give me half an hour to roast up a bit of babirusa. In the meantime, help yourself to some fruit. I have some excellent pineapples, some delicious bananas, several durians, a few coconuts and a couple of succulent pomelos the likes of which you’ve never seen on Mompracem. Take what you like.”

  “Thank you, Giro-Batol. I’m as hungry as a tiger that hasn’t eaten for a week.”

  “I’ll go start the fire.”

  “Won’t the smoke be detected?”

  “Don’t worry, Captain. The trees provide a thick screen. No one will notice.”

  Sandokan, who was starving after that long march through the forest, attacked a coconut that weighed no less than twenty pounds and quickly devoured its sweet white pulp. In the meantime, Giro-Batol had gone off to gather a bunch of dried branches and a few bits of bamboo.

  The Malays have developed a quick and ingenious method for creating a fire in less than a minute. A section of bamboo is split lengthwise, and a notch is cut across the back of one piece. Bark, twigs, grass or other tinder is placed below the opening then the thin edge of the second piece is rubbed against the notch, the sawing becoming more rapid with every stroke. Soon, enough heat is generated to set the tinder afire, the whole operation needing less than sixty strokes.

  Once the fire had been started, Giro-Batol took a large piece of babirusa meat, threaded it onto a green bamboo skewer and began to roast it over the flames, the stick held in place by two forked branches stuck into the ground. While the meat was cooking, he went and rummaged beneath some fresh leaves and drew out a jar that emitted a strong unpleasant odour but which made his nostrils flare with pleasure.

  “What are you making, Giro-Batol?” asked Sandokan.

  “Roasted belacan, Captain.”

  Sandokan made a face.

  “I prefer the babirusa ribs, my friend. I’m not one for belacan. Thanks all the same, I appreciate your intentions.”

  “I was saving it for a special occasion, Captain,” said the Javanese, mortified.

  “You know I’m not Malay. Please take my share; I’d hate to see it go to waste. The fruit will do me fine.”

  The good man did not have to be told twice, and doubled the portion he intended to sprinkle on his food.

  Belacan is avidly sought after by Malays, who, in
terms of their menu, rival the Chinese in creativity. They are by far the most open-minded gourmets in all humanity. They do not turn their noses at worms, snakes, rotting meat, or termite larvae, which they consider a delicacy to be fought over.

  Belacan surpasses all imagination. It’s a brown paste made of tiny shrimp mixed with salt and left to ferment in the sun. The fermented paste is then ground smoother, dried, and shaped into blocks. Its pungent odour is hardly bearable, but Malays and Javanese love that foul concoction. They use it their sauces and curries and to spice their meat, preferring it to any other seasoning.

  While they were waiting for the meat to cook, the two pirates resumed their conversation.

  “We’ll leave tonight then, Captain?” asked Giro-Batol.

  “Yes, as soon as the moon sets,” replied Sandokan.

  “What about the soldiers?”

  “Don’t worry, Giro-Batol. They’ll never suspect a sergeant.”

  “And if someone should recognize you despite your disguise?”

  “There are only a few people who can recognize me and I’m sure we won’t find them where we’re going.”

  “You made some friends then?”

  “Some very important friends: barons, lords…” said Sandokan.

  “You, the Tiger of Malaysia!” exclaimed Giro-Batol, stunned. He fell silent for a moment then asked hesitatingly, “What about the Pearl of Labuan?”

  The Tiger of Malaysia quickly raised his head, fixed a sullen look upon the Malay, sighed deeply and said, “Enough talk for now, Giro-Batol. There are some things I do not wish to discuss.”

  He sat in silence for a few minutes, eyes fixed on the distance.

  “I must return to this island,” he mumbled as if to himself. “Fate is stronger than my will… but even on Mompracem, among my brave Tigers, how can I forget her? Defeat wasn’t enough? I had to leave my heart on this wretched island!”

  “What are you talking about, Captain?” asked the pirate, surprised.

  Sandokan covered his eyes with his hands as if trying to block out a vision, then visibly shaken said, “Don’t ask me any questions, Giro-Batol.”

  “But we are going to come back here, aren’t we?”

  “Yes.”

  “And we are going to avenge our men?”

  “Yes, but perhaps it would be best if we never cast eyes upon Labuan again.”

  “What are you saying, Captain?”

  “This island could prove fatal to Mompracem; perhaps even slay the Tiger of Malaysia.”

  “You? So powerful and ruthless? You can’t possibly fear the British Lion.”

  “No, not them, no, but… who can foretell my future!?! My arms are still powerful, but my heart is no longer invulnerable.”

  “Your heart! I don’t understand, Captain.”

  “It’s better that way. Let’s eat, Giro-Batol. Let’s not dwell on the past.”

  “You’re frightening me, Captain.”

  “That’s enough, Giro-Batol,” Sandokan commanded.

  The Javanese dared not continue. He picked up the roast, placed it in a large banana leaf and offered it to Sandokan. Then moving off to the corner of the shed, he reached into a hole and drew out a half-broken bottle capped with a small rattan bag.

  “Some gin, Captain,” he said, beaming proudly. “It was hard to persuade the fisherman to part with it and I was saving it to restore my strength once I was out at sea, but you can have it all if you wish.”

  “Thank you, Giro-Batol,” replied Sandokan as a sad smile spread across his lips. “We’ll share it, of course.”

  Sandokan ate in silence, appearing to enjoy the meal a lot less than Giro-Batol had hoped he would. He gulped down a glass of gin, then spread out on the fresh leaves and said, “We’ll rest until dark, once the moon has set, we’ll head for the shore.”

  The pirate carefully closed the door to the hut, put out the fire, finished what remained of the gin, then curled himself up in a corner, and fell asleep, his mind filled with dreams of Mompracem.

  Sandokan, however, though exhausted from the previous night’s march, could not close his eyes. Thoughts of the young woman kept him awake.

  What had happened to Marianna? What had transpired between her and Lord James? What pacts had been made between that old sea dog and Baron Rosenthal? Would he find her in Labuan, still free, upon his return? What incredible jealousy pulsated through the formidable pirate’s heart! He was powerless to help the woman he loved. Unable to do anything but flee from his wretched enemies!

  Sandokan stirred on his bed of leaves. How he longed to be near the woman who made his heart beat so wildly! He would have given his treasures, his ships, his islands, to be able to tell her that the Tiger of Malaysia was still alive and that he loved her!… Tonight he would leave this wretched island, taking her promise with him. He would return at the head of his men, ready to battle the powers of Labuan, ready to make any sacrifice, whatever it took to have her by his side.

  With these thoughts racing through his head, Sandokan waited for the sun to set. Once darkness had descended over the forest, he roused Giro-Batol from his snore-filled slumber.

  “Time to go, my friend,” he said. “The clouds are so thick, there’s no need to wait for the moon to set. Come, if I remain here another hour, I may refuse to accompany you.”

  “You’d abandon Mompracem for this wretched place?”

  “Enough, Giro-Batol,” said Sandokan, almost in anger. “Where’s your canoe?”

  “A short distance from here.”

  “Are we that close to the sea?”

  “Yes, Tiger of Malaysia.”

  “Do we have enough supplies?”

  “I thought of everything, Captain. I’ve equipped her with a sail, four oars and enough fruit and water to last the entire journey.”

  “Then let’s go, Giro-Batol.”

  The Javanese took a piece of roast he had put aside, armed himself with a large club and followed Sandokan out of the hut.

  “We could not have asked for a better night,” he said, casting a glance at the clouded sky. “We’ll be able to escape unseen.”

  Having crossed the forest, Giro-Batol stopped to listen for a moment, then reassured by the silence reigning over the canopy, continued his march westward. Darkness was thick beneath those immense trees, but the Malay was familiar with his surroundings and had eyes as sharp as a cat’s. Crawling over roots, jumping over fallen timber and fighting through thick nets of calamus and nepenthes, Giro-Batol continued to advance through that dark jungle without ever once losing his bearings. Sandokan, panting and taciturn, followed close behind, copying his every move.

  If a ray of moonlight could have illuminated the pirate’s face, it would have revealed features ravaged by intense pain. That man, who only twenty days ago would have given anything to be on Mompracem, now found it difficult to abandon the island and leave behind, alone and undefended, the woman he loved so madly. His pain grew as he advanced toward the water, the distance that separated him from the Pearl of Labuan increasing with every step.

  He stopped from time to time, uncertain whether to return or proceed, but the Malay, who felt as if the ground burned beneath his feet, his thoughts fixed on escaping, forced him to advance, pointing out that even the slightest hesitation could be dangerous.

  “Did you hear that?” he asked.

  “I hear it, it’s the sea,” replied Sandokan. “Where’s your canoe?”

  “Near here.”

  The Javanese guided Sandokan through the last thick patch of vegetation and their eyes soon fell upon the sea breaking on the island’s shore.

  “Do you see anything, Captain?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” replied Sandokan, his eyes rapidly scanning the horizon.

  “Luck is with us, not a cruiser in sight.”

  He walked down the shore and pulled aside a few branches to reveal a boat hidden in a small cove, a large dugout canoe, carved out of a tree trunk with fire and a hatchet, similar
to the ones used by the Indians of the Amazon River and the Polynesians of the South Pacific. Challenging the sea in that tiny vessel was reckless. A few large waves could easily have capsized her, but the two pirates were not the kind of men to shrink from the risk.

  Giro-Batol jumped in first, raised the mast and hoisted a small sturdy sail.

  “Come, Captain,” he said, taking up the oars. “A cruiser could appear at any moment.”

  Sandokan, sullen, had not left the shore; arms crossed his eyes scanned the east, as if trying to spot the home of the Pearl of Labuan through the dark jungle. He appeared unaware that the time to escape was at hand and that a delay of even a few minutes could be fatal to their chances.

  “Captain,” repeated the Malay. “We can’t risk getting caught! Come, before it’s too late.”

  “I’m coming,” Sandokan replied sadly. He jumped into the canoe, closed his eyes and sighed.

  Chapter 13

  Sailing Towards Mompracem

  THE WIND BLEW from the east, favouring the tiny vessel. Her sail taut, the canoe flew rapidly over the waters, placing the vast China Sea between Marianna and the extremely miserable pirate. Sandokan sat silently at the stern, his head resting in his hands, his eyes fixed on Labuan as it slowly disappeared into the darkness. Giro-Batol sat at the bow, smiling happily and talking enough for ten men, his eyes scanning the west in the direction of Mompracem.

  “Captain,” he said, unable to remain silent. “Why so sad? We’re on our way home! If I didn’t know better, I’d say you missed Labuan.”

  “I do, Giro-Batol,” Sandokan replied dully.

  “Have those British scoundrels bewitched you? Captain, they hunted you through jungle, determined to hang you as soon as you fell into their hands. How I’d love to see their faces tomorrow when they learn you’ve escaped, the men biting their lips in rage, the women howling in anger.”