“It’s them,” said Sandokan. “Come!”
He helped Surama out the window and led her to the rope, the young servant following behind them.
“You’ll climb down first,” he said to the servant.
“Yes, master.”
“Hurry.”
The young man grabbed the rope, hopped over the parapet and disappeared into the night.
“Give me your silk scarf, then cross your arms around my neck,” Sandokan said to Surama, “I’m going to bind you to me.”
“That won’t be necessary,” replied the princess. “I’ll be able to hold on until we reach the ground.”
“You never know what can happen; I prefer to be cautious.”
He took the scarf, bound Surama against his back, then stepped onto the parapet.
“Hold on tight,” he said.
He drew his kris and placed it between his teeth, then grabbed the rope and began his descent. A veteran seafarer, that maneuver caused him no great effort, his steely muscles barely straining. Seconds later, he reached the lower veranda. Unfortunately his foot struck the edge of the awning and knocked loose part of the gutter rail; the piece of tin fell and clattered loudly on the stones below.
Sandokan muttered a curse beneath his breath then pointed his feet towards the ground and slid down, ignoring the friction scorching his hands.
He was only a couple of metres from the pavement when a voice cried out from the veranda:
“To arms! To arms! The prisoner is escaping!”
A gun shot immediately thundered from above, but the bullet went wide, missing them both.
Guards and servants rushed onto the veranda bellowing:
“Halt! Halt!”
Two guards, having spied the rope still hanging from the veranda, quickly climbed down it, but by the time they reached the ground the Malays had already surrounded Sandokan and Surama.
At the sight of those two guards advancing with their talwars drawn, Tremal-Naik drew his double-barrelled pistols from his sash and fired four shots in rapid succession, knocking them both to the ground.
“Back to the villa!” commanded Sandokan, unfastening the scarf that bound Surama to his back and taking her in his arms.
They had barely taken a step when the door to the Greek’s bungalow opened and a dozen men dressed in little more than loincloths stormed into the square.
“To arms! To arms!” they howled, firing their pistols. “After them!”
Sandokan ran with the speed of an arrow, Kammamuri and Tremal-Naik on either side of him, the Malays bringing up the rear. The chase was furious, relentless, the Greek’s men always keeping them in sight.
Pistols and carbines thundered back and forth, drawing people to their windows, but not a man fell in that exchange, the fugitives and pursuers firing blindly and in haste.
With each glance back Sandokan grew more anxious. His pursuers were rapidly swelling in number, their shots and cries drawing more people to their ranks. They had to enter Surama’s villa undetected, otherwise…
“They’ll lay siege to us if we don’t shake them,” said Tremal-Naik, giving voice to the same thought.
“We’ll try to scatter them with a volley before we reach the building. We can’t let them see us go inside. Faster, men! Faster!”
Muscles straining, they ran ever forward, down one street and then another, the path before them fortunately deserted. With every block they gained some ground, and by the time they reached the villa’s street they were two hundred paces ahead of their pursuers.
Surama still in his arms, Sandokan halted suddenly and turned to his men.
“Attack, my Tigers!” he shouted.
Fifty or sixty men were rapidly advancing towards them; the pirates, undaunted, aimed their carbines and fired, knocking a dozen to the ground. Then they drew their scimitars and charged, howling furiously.
Their pursuers, frightened by that lethal volley, quickly scattered and disappeared back down the street before the Malays could draw near.
“Kammamuri, open the door before those scoundrels come back!”
“It’s already open, sir!” shouted Bindar.
“To me, Tigers of Mompracem!”
At that cry the pirates turned as one man, ran back up the street, and rushed into Surama’s villa, quickly closing and barricading the door behind them.
“I hope no one saw us,” said Sandokan, letting out a deep breath as he put Surama on the ground.
“Thank you, Sandokan,” said the young woman. “Once again, I owe you my life.”
“Nonsense, quickly now, let’s get a look at what’s happening on the street. Rouse your servants and tell them to grab their weapons. I’m afraid we’ll be in for a battle.”
He gestured to Tremal-Naik and Kammamuri, and the three rushed up the steps and peered out of one of the second-story windows.
“Great Shiva!” exclaimed the Maratha. “They’ve already found us!”
“But they haven’t caught us yet,” replied Sandokan. “And we’ll be gone long before the rajah’s soldiers get here!”
“What do you mean?” asked Tremal-Naik.
“Surama!” shouted Sandokan.
The young Assamese woman was just then coming up the stairs.
“Yes, sir?” she asked, quickly approaching.
“The street behind the villa, are there any buildings on it?”
“Yes, a small pagoda and a few villas and bungalows.”
“How wide is the street that separates your house from the pagoda?”
“About a dozen metres or so.”
“Gather every rope you can find and meet us on the roof. Hurry! Bindar!”
The Indian, who had climbed to the adjoining veranda, immediately rushed to his side.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
“Gather the servants and my men and tell them to open fire upon the attackers as soon as they’re within range. They’re not to spare powder or bullets. Tremal-Naik, Kammamuri, with me!”
They ran up the steps to the second floor, rushed into the garret, and pulled themselves onto the roof; it was flat with a gentle slope, easily traversable.
“Let’s get a look at the pagoda,” said Sandokan.
They dropped to their knees and were about to crawl towards the edge of the roof when a deafening clamour erupted from the street before the villa.
“It sounds like our enemies have found reinforcements,” said Tremal-Naik.
The pirates’ guns, however, were still silent; Bindar had likely thought it wise not to open hostilities.
The three men quickly crawled to the far edge of the roof and cast their eyes upon the pagoda. It was an old, modest-sized building with a flat terraced roof that bristled with iron spires capped by elephant-shaped weathervanes.
“It’s as tall as this house,” said Sandokan. “It will serve our purpose perfectly.”
“What do you intend to do?” asked Tremal-Naik.
“Get onto that terrace,” said the Tiger of Malaysia.
The Bengali’s eyes widened.
“How? That street is more than ten metres wide.”
“With a rope bridge. It shouldn’t be difficult to cast a rope about one of those weathervanes.”
“Allow me, master,” said Kammamuri. “I spent a year among the thugs of Rajmangal; no one here can wield a rumaal better than I can. It’ll be child’s play.”
“And once we’re atop the pagoda, then what?” asked Tremal-Naik.
“We’ll go from rooftop to rooftop until we find a place where we can climb down to the ground.”
“Won’t they just try to follow us?”
“Not after we—”
A volley of carbine fire cut off his words. The battle had begun.
“If our men can hold them off for ten minutes, we’ll be safe,” said Sandokan.
He heard something move on the tiles, turned and saw Surama cautiously crawling towards them, accompanied by two servants and a Malay carrying silk curtain cords
they had collected from the bedrooms and thick hemp ropes they had taken from the verandas.
“Who opened fire?” asked Sandokan, helping the young woman to her feet.
“Your men; the attackers tried to break down the door.”
“Are there any Sikhs among them?”
“About a dozen; they led the charge.”
“Kammamuri, choose a rope. Quickly.”
“Leave it to me, sir,” said the Maratha.
He scanned the ropes that had been laid out on the roof, picked up a silk cord and examined it closely; it was fifteen metres long and as thick as a finger.
“This will do nicely,” he said. “It could easily hold two men.”
He fashioned a noose, walked to the edge of the roof, swung the rope three or four times over his head, and cast it.
The chord hissed through the air and the noose fell about one of the iron spires at the centre of the terrace.
“And done,” said Kammamuri, turning to Sandokan. “Hold this end and I’ll climb across.”
“Are there any people below?”
“No, sir. Even if there were, it’s too dark for them to see us.”
Sandokan, Tremal-Naik, the Malay and two servants grabbed the end of the rope.
“Good luck, my friend,” said the pirate.
“No need,” smiled the Maratha. “I’ve been in far more dangerous situations.”
He grabbed the rope, kicked up his legs, and suspended by hands and heels began to advance boldly over the street, untroubled by the thought that if he lost his grip he would plunge eighteen or twenty metres to his death on the ground below.
Sandokan and Tremal-Naik nervously watched his every move, their eyes never straying from him for an instant, their escape hinging on his success.
Kammamuri had barley gone halfway when the rope suddenly began to sag and crackle.
“Stop!” shouted Sandokan.
The Maratha froze.
He had also heard the crackling sound and feared the rope would snap. An anxious moment passed, Kammamuri almost daring not to breathe. Fortunately, the rope held; the silk had merely stretched a little as it adjusted to his weight.
“Ready to continue?” said Sandokan.
“Just waiting for your command,” Kammamuri replied calmly.
“Continue, my friend,” said Tremal-Naik.
The Maratha resumed his advance, proceeding with caution, and soon reached the pagoda’s terrace. He carefully dropped down and let out a deep sigh of satisfaction.
“Toss me the other ropes!” he shouted.
Sandokan had already chosen the longest and thickest ones. He fashioned a noose for each and hurled them to the Martha. Kammamuri quickly secured them about two other spires, one to the right, the other to the left of the rope he had used, but a metre and a half higher. They would serve as handrails and make it easier for the others to cross.
“Tremal-Naik,” said Sandokan. “Help everyone across. Surama, you’ll go first.”
“Just give the word,” replied the young woman.
“What about you?” asked the Bengali.
“I’ll cover our retreat and prepare a final surprise for our enemies.”
He crawled back across the roof and climbed down into the villa.
The battle continued to rage, drawing more combatants from the neighboring streets. The Malays, hidden behind the veranda’s parapets, which had been reinforced with mats, pillows and mattresses, fired furiously, pushing back their attackers with every volley, knocking many to the ground.
Undaunted, the crowd replied in kind, their pistols and carbines firing without pause. Some of the Sikh soldiers, hoping to get a better shot at the men on the veranda, had gone into the house opposite and fired from its second story windows.
Sandokan, crouching to avoid the rain of bullets, rushed in among his men.
“Everyone onto the roof!” he shouted. “I’m going to set fire to the building! Women and servants first; men you’ll cover their retreat.”
He snatched one of the torches that lit the veranda and set fire to the coconut mats, then ran to Surama’s bedroom and set fire to the silk curtains, bedclothes, carpets, and furniture.
“This should slow them down a bit,” he said as the flames spread and filled the room with smoke.
He returned to the veranda to ensure all had left; smoke had already begun to pour out through the windows. His men were gone, having run off after firing one last volley; and the flames had started to spread to the mats, columns and floorboards, bathing the villa in a sinister light.
“Perfect,” muttered Sandokan. “This will turn into a blaze in no time.”
He ran to the garret window and pulled himself onto the roof. One by one, men and women rushed across the rope bridge to the pagoda, while the Malays, crouched by the edge that looked onto the street, showered their enemies with volleys of carbine fire and a rain of tiles.
As the servants stepped onto the pagoda’s terrace, Bindar, Tremal-Naik, and Kammamuri directed them towards the nearest rooftop. When the last of them had made it across, Sandokan ordered his Malays to retreat one by one, then severed the ropes that had been fastened about a chimney to hide all trace of their escape.
“Now just one last effort,” Sandokan muttered to himself.
Before setting off, he cast a last look back towards his enemies. Cries and shouts filled the air as clouds of smoke and sparks poured from the garrets.
“Come after us now,” the pirate muttered with a wry smile.
He grabbed one of the ropes, went to the edge of the roof, leaped and swung over the street, his mighty legs absorbing the impact as they struck the eaves beneath the pagoda’s terrace.
He hung there for a moment, gathered his strength, then slowly pulled himself up to the terrace. His friends were already fleeing onto the rooftop of the nearest house. Surama was leading the small band forward alongside Tremal-Naik and Kammamuri. Sandokan, advancing cautiously, joined them minutes later.
“Finally!” exclaimed the Bengali. “I was getting worried.”
“I just needed to take a few last precautions,” said the Tiger of Malaysia.
“I wish you hadn’t needed to set fire to my villa,” said Surama. “A fortune up in smoke.”
“You’re worth far more to us,” replied Sandokan. “Besides, it won’t be long before you’re living in the palace.”
“Are they following us?” asked Tremal-Naik.
“No, I doubt anyone was brave enough to charge in among the flames.”
“I wouldn’t have either. Where are we headed?”
“We’ll go forward for as far as we can. Then we’ll climb down to the ground, head for the river and return to the jungle.”
The small band advanced rapidly, quickly crossing from one rooftop to another, scrambling over parapets, some so high the Malays had to form human pyramids to scale them.
Shouts and gunfire continued to fill the air about the villa; flames now blazed in the garrets and cries of “Fire! Fire!” could be heard issuing from the neighbouring houses.
The fugitives, afraid of being surprised at any moment, quickened their pace. If the fire grew brighter, someone might spot them on the rooftops and sound the alarm, something Sandokan wanted to avoid at all costs.
“Hurry! Faster!” he commanded.
Suddenly the men in the vanguard came rushing back towards him.
“What is it?” asked Sandokan.
“This is as far as we can go,” said Bindar, who was leading the squad. “The street below is too wide to jump.”
“Did you spy any windows?”
“There are two just below this terrace.”
“We’ll go in from there. I’m sure the owners of this house won’t mind letting us use their stairs to go down to the street.”
Chapter 20
On the River
AS BINDAR HAD said, there were two small windows shaded by a pair of coconut mats about a foot beneath the terrace, just large enough
for a person to pass through.
Sandokan, standing alongside Tremal-Naik, Kammamuri and Surama, studied them for a moment, then drew his kris from his sash, cut a hole in one of the mats with a couple of swipes of his blade, and peered through the opening.
“Do you see anyone?” asked the Bengali.
“No,” replied Sandokan. “It seems they’ve all slept through the commotion. Does anyone have a torch?”
“I do, sahib,” replied Bindar.
“Light it and pass it to me.”
“At once, sir.”
The Tiger of Malaysia tore away the mat, took the torch, loaded a pistol and climbed down into a tiny room filled with old furniture.
“Come,” he commanded, “and keep your weapons ready.”
He pushed open the door, found the steps, and began to walk down them as calmly as if he were in his own house. There were many doors to the right and left of him, but all were closed and not a sound emanated from behind them.
“The house appears to be deserted,” muttered Sandokan.
He was mistaken, for just as he reached the top of another staircase, two Indian servants appeared before him, menacingly brandishing heavy wooden clubs.
“Halt!” they shouted.
“Move!” thundered Sandokan, pointing his pistol at them. “There are forty of us and we’re all armed.”
“What do you want?” asked the eldest. “How did you get in here without our master’s permission?”
“We mean you no harm; we’re just going down to the street.”
“Are you thieves?”
“No, no one here has taken anything. Come now, pull out the key, open the door for us, and we’ll be on our way.”
“I’m not allowed to open the door without my master’s orders.”
“I see.”
He turned to the Malays who had just then drawn up behind him and said:
“Take them.”
A dozen men immediately pounced upon the servants and relived them of their clubs.
“Give me the key or they’ll throw you down the steps!” commanded Sandokan in a tone that indicated this was no idle threat. “We’re in a hurry.”
The two Indians, fearing for their lives, quickly handed him the key.
Sandokan led the small band down the steps and opened the door. The street was deserted.
Sandokan: Quest for a Throne (The Sandokan Series Book 6) Page 20
