Sandokan: Quest for a Throne (The Sandokan Series Book 6)

by Emilio Salgari

  The two flashes, however, had frightened the beasts and they retreated back into the tunnel before Yanez could fire. That brief lull in the attack gave Sandokan just enough time to reload his pistol.

  “Yanez,” said the pirate, “the tigers will be even more cautious now that we’ve halved their number. Quickly, into the well! You’ll need a head start; it’s not going to be easy for you to swim underwater with that chest strapped to your back.”

  “What about the two of you?”

  “Don’t worry about us. Give us your pistols, you won’t need them underwater; your kris will suffice. Leave your boots as well.”

  “I’d rather we kill them first. With three of us, the odds are in our favour.”

  “Tremal-Naik and I will handle them. We have seven shots left, counting the bullets in your pistols, more than enough. Is that stone truly vital to your plans?”

  “Yes, absolutely.”

  “Then dive into the water. The tigers are grumbling, but they haven’t moved. I’d wager there’ll be enough time for all of us to make our escape. Now hurry!”

  The Portuguese took off his boots and jacket, tucked his kris into the waist of his trousers and refastened the tiny chest to his back.

  “We’ll meet back at the Kariya pagoda,” he said as he began his descent into the hole.

  He walked down ten steps, stopped before the ink black river and dove into the water.

  The sound of the splash had barely faded, when the tigers announced their return with a pair of deafening roars.

  “Ready, Tremal-Naik?” said the Tiger of Malaysia.

  “Ready,” replied the intrepid Bengali. “Like old times.”

  The two large beasts emerged from the tunnel, growling fiercely. At the sight of the two men standing before them in the blood red glare of the torchlight, weapons leveled, they stopped, crouched down, and prepared to lunge.

  “Fire!” shouted Sandokan.

  The Bengali’s rifle thundered and one of the two tigers, struck in the face, reared up and collapsed to the ground.

  “Into the water, Tremal-Naik!” shouted Sandokan.

  The Bengali rushed down the steps thinking that the pirate was following close behind him, but Sandokan had remained in the chamber, eyes fixed upon the tiger that was slowly crawling towards him.

  “Come,” said the formidable man, “come measure yourself against the Tiger of Malaysia.”

  The beast growled in reply and fixed its eyes upon him.

  “Come,” repeated Sandokan, clutching a pistol in each hand. “I mustn’t keep my friends waiting.”

  The tiger eyed him fiercely, roared, and lunged.

  Expecting that attack, Sandokan jumped to one side and calmly fired his last four shots into the beast.

  “Not a bad start,” he said as a small, proud smile spread across his lips.

  He tucked the pistols into his belt, and as the tiger breathed its last, walked down the steps and dove into the dark waters of the Brahmaputra.

  Chapter 6

  On the Brahmaputra

  YANEZ BEGAN TO swim vigorously as soon as he struck the water, the strong current aiding his advance. Uncertain how long he would be forced to swim beneath the temple vaults, he had taken a deep breath before jumping into the river. A strong swimmer, he advanced quickly, the small chest fastened to his back not hampering his movements, but to his despair, his head repeatedly struck stone each time he attempted to go up for air.

  This could be serious, he thought, a slight doubt creeping into him, despite the assurances Bindar had given him.

  He advanced another fifteen or twenty paces, straining his muscles for every bit of strength, then just as his lungs began to burn, he tried to surface once again. This time his head broke through the water and he found himself in the middle of the river, more than two hundred paces from the island. He drew a deep breath then rolled over onto his back to rest.

  The sun had not yet risen, but the shadows were beginning to thin. Dawn was not far off.

  “Now to shore,” he mumbled.

  With a few strokes he would cross the river and emerge from the water long before the sky began to brighten; if his luck held he would reach the Krishna temple before daybreak.

  He was about to dive back beneath the surface, when he heard a splash.

  What was that? he wondered. A crocodile?

  He drew his kris and tried to remain still.

  Seconds later he spied a flat head, slightly smaller than a shark’s, emerge from the water a few paces before him.

  “By Jupiter!” exclaimed the Portuguese. “A goonch!”

  The beast that had just surfaced was a giant devil catfish[7] about two metres long with a large mouth, sharp teeth and a thin moustache. These great fish live in fast flowing water and prowl the rivers of India and South Asia. They are grey, scaleless and have a thick muscular body.

  Yanez knew those voracious beasts were as dangerous as any shark or crocodile. If it sunk its teeth into him, there would be no escape, for it was rumoured those river monsters could drag a water buffalo beneath the waves and devour it completely.

  The goonch eyed him for a moment, dipped back underwater, then came up once again. Yanez took a deep breath and let himself sink beneath the water’s surface. The beast followed, expecting a quick meal, but the Portuguese was ready. Before it could attack he lunged to one side and drove his kris between the goonch’s eyes, burying the blade to the hilt.

  The great beast thrashed for a moment then fell still as the waters reddened about it. Assured it was dead, Yanez closed his legs and let the current carry him forward for several metres, then with two swift kicks, swam back towards the surface. However, just as he was about to come up for air, his head struck against something hard that forced him back beneath the water.

  By the devil! he thought. What now?

  He swam a little further, holding his breath, went back up for air and struck something once again, this time with his shoulder.

  “By Jupiter!” he exclaimed as his head emerged from the water. “What is tha—”

  Four or five black-feathered birds with large beaks flew off as he emerged, voicing their displeasure with a few grunts.

  “Marabou!” exclaimed Yanez. “That can only mean…”

  Only then did he notice the plank floating by his side; it was about two metres long and a metre wide, a small clay lamp burned at the far end of it.

  “Well,” he muttered, “any port in a storm; at least it’ll help keep me afloat.”

  He grabbed the plank with both hands and pulled his head and shoulders onto the wood.

  The corpse of an elderly Indian man with a long white beard, clad in little more than a loincloth, lay before him. The marabou had torn out his eyes and devoured his tongue and intestines. A horrible stench wafted from a large gash in his stomach where the beasts had sliced it open to feast.

  “Sorry old man, I need this more than you do,” said Yanez.

  He pushed the corpse into the water, knocked the lamp in after him, then pulled himself up onto the board.

  “Now then, let’s try to figure out where I am,” he muttered.

  He studied his surroundings for a moment, then his eyes settled on a familiar point on the right bank.

  “That’s where I go ashore,” he muttered.

  He lay face down upon the planks and using his hands as oars, quickly steered the raft across the river. He stepped ashore a few minutes later, and to his good fortune found it deserted; not a soul or hut in sight.

  There was no time to waste; a barefooted white man out for a morning walk with a box strapped to his shoulders was bound to draw suspicion. He pushed the board back into the water then headed east, keeping close to the large trees that lined the shore. A dozen Assam macaques, short tailed monkeys with light yellow brown fur, watched him pass from the safety of the upper branches.

  As the sky grew brighter Yanez quickened his pace. Umanada Island had already disappeared from sight, and the Kar
iya temple was not much further. From time to time he would stop for a moment, hoping to spot the bagla, but the shore remained deserted, save for a few marabous waiting patiently for their next meal.

  The sun’s first rays were colouring the waters of the Brahmaputra, when Yanez reached the entrance to the underground temple. A man sat by the bronze door dressed in simple yellow robes with a staff and begging bowl at his side. His hair and beard had been shaved off and at first glance he appeared to be a Buddhist monk.

  “Señor Yanez!” exclaimed the man as he rose to his feet.

  “Kammamuri!” exclaimed the Portuguese. “I thought you were a bhikkhu come to beg for alms!”

  “I thought it would help me blend in,” laughed the Maratha.

  “Have the others returned yet?”

  “About half an hour ago, all safe and accounted for, sir. Sandokan and my master are inside with Kaksa Pharaum.”

  “How is our guest faring?”

  “As you left him; though I’m afraid the poor devil may die of fright.”

  “He’s probably more thick-skinned than he appears; I doubt he’ll be leaving us just yet.”

  He opened a path through the bushes that concealed the entrance and walked down the temple corridor, nodding to the Malays and Dyaks that stood guard as he passed.

  When, at last, he stepped into the main room, he found Sandokan, Tremal-Naik and the Minister seated at the table.

  “Finally!” cried the pirate. “I was just about to send some men out to look for you. What happened?”

  “I couldn’t make it to the boat in time. I’ll tell you everything later. Let me change first, I’m soaking wet. Ask our men to serve breakfast; that morning swim gave me quite an appetite.”

  “Hide that shell somewhere safe,” said Tremal-Naik.

  “After I show it to the Prime Minister.”

  He went into an adjoining room and changed into a white flannel suit.

  When he returned the table had been set with a tiffin of steak, beer and biscuits. The cook had added a bowl of fish curry for Kaksa Pharaum, the Prime Minister, as like all devout Hindus, he did not eat beef.

  “Breakfast is served,” said Yanez. “There’s no need to worry, Excellency, enjoy the meal; try some of this beer, I assure you it does not contain even a trace of cow fat.”

  The minister remained silent; however, he began to eat the curry and even accepted a glass of beer.

  As they ate the two pirates and the Bengali recounted what had befallen them after they had escaped from the temple. Sandokan and Tremal-Naik had also struggled somewhat in the river, but had eventually managed to reach the bagla where they found the Dyaks and Malays waiting for them. Afraid of being spotted by the priests if they waited about until dawn, they had set off immediately, convinced that Yanez would have no trouble returning to their hideout.

  When everyone had finished eating, Yanez lit a cigarette, set the small box before the minister, opened it and drew out the shell.

  “Is this the famous Shaligram?” he asked.

  Stunned, the Prime Minister nodded slowly.

  “I need words, Excellency. Is this the famous Shaligram?”

  “Yes,” the minister mumbled sullenly.

  “And the rajah would do anything to get it back?”

  “Yes,” replied Kaksa Pharaum. “It’s the pride of Assam. The envy of all our neighbours.”

  “And when is the stone scheduled to make its next appearance?”

  “The Mattu Pongal.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Part of our harvest festival,” said Tremal-Naik. “It’s the day we honour our cows and bulls with a celebration of gratitude.”

  “As he says,” said the minister.

  “When exactly?” asked Yanez.

  “In four days.”

  “Very well, the rajah will be presented with the Shaligram before then.”

  The minister started then looked at Yanez, eyes wide with amazement.

  “You went to all this trouble to take it and now you’re just going to give it back?” he asked.

  “Did you think I was lying when I said I only intended to borrow it?” replied Yanez. “I’m a man of my word, Excellency. Put your mind at ease. The rajah will return the Shaligram to the Umananda Temple on the day of the Mattu Pongal I assure you.”

  “I can’t begin to guess your intentions,” said Kaksa Pharaum.

  “Nor can I,” added Sandokan who had been peacefully smoking his chibouk as he watched that conversation.

  “Patience, patience, little brother,” said Yanez. “All will be revealed. Tell me now, Excellency, do you think the rajah will order a search for those despicable thieves who stole his sacred relic?”

  “His soldiers will scour every corner of the city,” replied Kaksa Pharaum.

  “Perfect,” smiled the Portuguese. “It’s already eight o’clock; let’s pay Surama a visit and go for a walk about the city. I’m curious to see what effect our little adventure has had. Sambigliong!”

  “Yes, Captain?” asked the old pirate, stepping into the room.

  “Have the cart readied; we’re going into the city.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He ran off to execute the order as Sandokan and Tremal-Naik stood up to collect their weapons. Yanez drew a pair of pistols from the wall and tucked them into his thick red sash, then donned a grey pith helmet with a long blue puggaree.[8]

  “My lord,” said the minister as the three were about to leave, “What about me? What am I to do?”

  “You’ll remain here, Excellency, under guard. I’m afraid we have no other option, if we were to set you free, you’d undoubtedly run to warn the rajah. We can’t have that now, can we?”

  “My lord, I have many pressing affairs of state I must attend to. I am the Prime Minister of Assam; my absence will be noted.”

  “I know, Excellency, and I sympathize. I imagine you must be bored, stuck here alone, but my hands are tied. You may of course eat, drink and smoke to your heart’s desire. You have but to ask.”

  The poor minister, realizing he would not sway his captor, fell back into his chair and sighed deeply, but the Portuguese remained unmoved.

  Moments later, when the three men emerged from the temple, they found Kammamuri sitting in front of a bush, still dressed as before.

  “Anything to report?” asked Yanez.

  “A few jackals; nothing more.”

  “Follow us into the city and then walk about to see what you can learn. We’ll meet back here again this evening.”

  “Yes, Señor Yanez.”

  The Portuguese and his two friends walked to a small grove of palm trees. A mail-cart had been parked before it, a red square box mounted on two large wheels, with four seats back to back, two in the front and two in the rear. It was harnessed to a team of three horses that were pawing the ground impatiently; a Malay stood to one side, tugging at their bridle reins to steady them.

  Yanez took the reins as he sat down in the driver’s seat; then, once Sandokan and Tremal-Naik had climbed in the back, the carriage tore off towards the city.

  The post in India travels at a frenetic pace; mail-carts race up and down the rugged mountains and cross the plains like a hurricane, leaping and springing as they barrel along, the courier never letting up on the whip until the horses reach their destination. The poor beasts are only allowed a brief respite at every relay station, then they are off again on their wild dizzying run.

  The horses sped along at a tumultuous gallop, the shocks and jolts so violent at times it almost sent Sandokan and Tremal-Naik flying into the air. They reached the main street of Guwahati less than ten minutes later and Yanez had to yank hard on the reins to bring them to a slow.

  News of the theft had already spread; the normal morning bustle of the shops and stalls was absent and the air was filled with anxiety so strong it was almost palpable. Everywhere along the street and in doorways, people talked of nothing else, the shock evident in their faces.

/>   Yanez stopped the cart for a moment and turned to his two friends.

  “Even better than I expected,” he said with a smile.

  “So far, so good,” smiled back the Tiger of Malaysia. “Where to now?”

  “Surama’s villa.”

  “And then?”

  “I’d like to get a glimpse of the rajah’s favorite if chance allows.”

  “You know the rajah doesn’t receive foreigners.”

  “He’ll receive me and with great honors,” said Yanez.

  “How?”

  “I have the Shaligram.”

  “If you’d only… what’s all this commotion?”

  Two Indians were advancing up the street, one sounding notes from a long brass trumpet and the other ringing a ghanta, a brass bell usually employed in temples to summon the faithful. A soldier followed close behind them, dressed in a red jacket with gold braid and white trousers, carrying the rajah’s standard, a white flag emblazoned with a four-legged winged dragon.

  “The rajah’s heralds,” said Tremal-Naik.

  “I wager I can guess what they’re going to announce,” said Yanez.

  A large crowd quickly gathered behind the trio and followed them to a small square a few yards from the mail-cart. The music continued for a minute or two more, then the man with the trumpet raised his arm to beckon for silence.

  “His Majesty Prince Sindhia, Rajah of Assam,” bellowed the soldier, once all were quiet, “announces to his loyal subjects that he will bestow honours and riches upon anyone who can provide information on the wretched thieves who stole our sacred Shaligram from the Umananda Temple.”

  “Honours and riches,” murmured Yanez. “A good start. The rest will come later, my dear Sindhia, I assure you. A gift for my future wife.”

  The heralds resumed their music and the crowd parted to let them pass. The Portuguese and his friends watched them continue up the street for a moment, then set off in the opposite direction.

  Five minutes later the mail-cart drew to a halt before a large white villa. It was a two-storey building shaded by a dozen large tara palms that grew on either side of it. A second floor veranda extended around the house, which likely was used as a sleeping terrace during the hot summer months.