Idiots! he thought. If those are the Greek’s best men, I’ll make quick work of them. So they know we’re not Indians? One more reason to blow up this ship.
He waited a few more minutes, then, reassured by the deep silence that reigned over the pulwar, unfastened the box with one hand and placed the flint and tinder between his lips with the other, taking care not to let it get wet. Then he hung the bomb upon the shaft.
Once it was in place, he pressed both legs against the rudder and cautiously set fire to the tinder and lit the fuse.
The noise, though slight, produced by the flint striking the tinder, must have been heard by the two sentries, for he could hear the sound of bare feet running towards the stern.
He dipped his head underwater and quickly swam away. After he had gone fifty metres he rose for air, turned his eyes back to the pulwar and spied small sparks falling into the water just beneath the stern. The fuse was still burning.
“Soon,” he muttered and dove back underwater.
He swam another fifty or sixty metres, and this time when his head emerged from the water he heard loud cries sounding from the pulwar:
“Fire! Fire!”
Almost simultaneously a flash of light tore through the darkness, followed by an explosion that sounded like a cannon blast.
The vessel’s stern had been torn open by the bomb, and water stormed into the gaping hole. The rudder had been shattered.
That explosion echoed beneath the endless green vault that stretched along the riverbanks and as it faded the air filled with the frightened cries of the crew.
“We’re sinking! We’re sinking! Every man for himself!”
With a few strokes Sandokan reached the bagla, grabbed the rope that still hung over the side and pulled himself up onto the deck.
Surama and Tremal-Naik ran to meet him.
“That was extraordinary!” exclaimed the princess.
“Brilliant!” added the Bengali.
“And a trifle lucky,” smiled Sandokan. “Fortune favours the bold.”
The pulwar was sinking rapidly and had begun to list to one side. Several men jumped into the water and swam towards shore, while others scrambled up the masts crying out in terror.
“They won’t be following us anytime soon,” Sandokan said triumphantly. “Head for the canal, my friends.”
The Malays, who had watched the explosion impassively, took up their oars once more and the bagla quickly set off down the river, aided by the current.
The cries continued for a few more minutes, then vanished in an instant as the pulwar sank to the bottom of the Brahmaputra.
Sandokan went into the aft cabin, changed his clothes, then joined Surama and Tremal-Naik at the stern.
“As we suspected,” he told them. “There were Sikhs aboard spying on us.”
“How did you learn that?” asked the Bengali astonished.
“I overheard two men as I drew closer to the rudder. It was a miracle they didn’t see me.”
“They know who we are?” asked Surama.
“I’m not sure,” replied Sandokan, “but they know we’re not from here. There’s no longer any doubt, Surama, they must have drugged and questioned you.”
“What about Yanez?” exclaimed the beautiful Assamese, her eyes widening with fright.
“You shouldn’t start worrying just yet. You may have only told them about us, who can say for certain? Besides, it’ll be a lot harder for them to trap Yanez than they think. He’ll outmanoeuvre the Rajah of Assam as easily as he outmanoeuvred James Brooke, the Rajah of Sarawak. Once Bindar returns we’ll know better how to proceed.”
The bagla had quickly descended the river and had reached the mouth of the canal that led to the swamp. Kammamuri, who had once again taken the tiller, steered the boat into the passage, after first ensuring that no other vessel was about. Twenty minutes later it dropped anchor in the middle of the lagoon.
As the jungle was dangerous at night, they decided to remain aboard ship. Sandokan ordered everyone to get some rest, then stretched out on a mat upon the deck next to Surama and Tremal-Naik, laying his carbine by his side.
The next morning Sandokan and his companions covered the bagla with reeds and branches, then crossed the jungle and quickly reached the Benar pagoda. The Malays and Dyaks were all at camp, carefully keeping watch over the fakir and the Sikh jemadar.
Nothing of note had happened during the Tiger of Malaysia’s absence. A few tigers and panthers had been spotted in the jungle, but had not dared to approach the camp.
Sandokan had a few men prepare quarters for Surama in the old pagoda, and, once they had finished, all that remained was to wait patiently for Bindar’s return.
The loyal Assamese finally stepped into the camp seven days later. He had come up the river in a donga, a small dugout canoe carved from a single tree, and crossed the jungle before the beasts had risen to search for their morning meal. He bore terrible news.
“Sahib!” he exclaimed, addressing Sandokan who was smoking under a tamarind tree, enjoying the shade alongside Tremal-Naik, “There’s been a catastrophe!”
The two men sprang to their feet, anxious.
“What happened?” cried the pirate.
“The white sahib has been arrested and his men have all been executed!”
“What!” Sandokan roared.
“And they know you’re hiding here in the jungle and are preparing to attack. Come tomorrow, the pagoda will be surrounded.”
Chapter 21
The Hunt
WHILE SANDOKAN AND his men had been rescuing Surama, Yanez had been indulging in the pleasures of court, passing his time eating, drinking, smoking and watching the wrestling matches or the dance performances given in the grand courtyard.
Though he appeared to be enjoying his princely life, his thoughts never strayed far from the rajah’s favourite. Each morning he would enquire after the Greek’s health, knowing that Teotokris would try to settle the score at the first opportunity. One thing vexed him though, a certain coldness on the rajah’s part; after the play and the duel, the prince no longer visited his quarters or summoned him for an audience.
The Portuguese, unaccustomed to idling away his hours, was growing bored.
“By Jupiter!” he exclaimed on the morning of the third day, when the khansama informed him that the rajah still had not sent word. “How can this be? Are there no beasts left in Assam? Surely there must be at least one tiger hiding somewhere in this kingdom.”
Finally on the morning of the fourth day, one of the rajah’s officers called upon him in his quarters.
“My lord, the rajah needs his chief huntsman,” he said, coming directly to the point.
“Finally!” replied the Portuguese who was still in bed. “I was starting to think he’d forgotten all about me. What is it?”
“We’ve received a request from the headman of a small village on the banks of the river not far from here. Every night a rhinoceros ravages their crops. A large part of their indigo plantations, their main source of income, has been destroyed.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Those farmers will be avenged, you have my word. How far is it to the village?”
“About twenty miles.”
“Tell the rajah I’ll kill it and bring him its horn. Have the horses and elephants prepared. I’ll leave at once.”
“All has been readied, my lord.”
“Then I’ll just get my carbine,” said Yanez. “How is the favorite?”
“Last night, he got up for a few hours.”
“Of course he did,” muttered the Portuguese. “That man has a thicker hide than that rhino I’m going to kill.”
He jumped out of bed, summoned his khansama, relayed some orders, then quickly got dressed.
A chance to win back the rajah’s favour, he thought as he prepared to go out. Slaying the rhino will add to my fame and once the people are behind me, Sindhia’s days upon the throne are numbered and the Greek will get his due.
He took his carbine, the same one that had felled the terrible black tiger, summoned his Malays, and went down into the great courtyard, where he found twelve horses, two elephants, several dogs and twenty Sikhs ready to set out for the hunt. However, he was more than a little surprised to see one of the rajah’s senior officials there to meet him instead of a khansama or shikari.
“I’ll be in charge of the hunt, my lord,” the man said bluntly.
“Oh!” replied Yanez, crossing his arms. “And what should I do?”
“Kill the rhino.”
“You’re in charge, why don’t you kill it?”
“I’m not the rajah’s chief huntsman,” the official replied dryly.
“I see.”
“Are we clear my lord? I’m in charge. I’ll be giving the orders.”
“I hope you manage to put the beast within my sights.”
“Leave that to the Sikhs, my lord.”
Yanez walked to one of the elephants and climbed into the howdah, a deep frown lining his brow.
“Something’s not right here,” he murmured. “For whatever reason, it appears the rajah suddenly doesn’t trust me. I’d wager the Greek had a hand in this. Eyes peeled, my friend, best keep vigilant.”
He stretched out on the cushions, lit a cigarette, and feigning great calm, motioned for the mahout to set off, the elephant already beginning to show signs of impatience.
The caravan crossed the city, drawing crowds of curious spectators as it passed, the renowned hunter having already earned great respect among the masses, then began to advance up the right riverbank along the vast forest of teak, lacquer, ironwood and banyan trees that stretched west along the Brahmaputra.
The official, who rode on the second elephant, had put himself at the head of the hunting party, flanked by the Sikhs on their beautiful Arab horses. He appeared to give little thought to the chief huntsman and his men for he never once looked back at them.
For five hours, the caravan marched along the riverbank, from time to time passing clusters of thatched huts of mud and wood. Then at last the rajah’s official pointed towards a large village that stood in the midst of a vast indigo plantation. Large patches had been trampled into the ground, the crops ruined beyond salvation.
“The rhino’s handiwork no doubt,” said Yanez, addressing the mahout.
“Yes, sir,” replied the Indian. “The ugly brute has already destroyed more than six hundred rupees worth of indigo. You’ll kill it, won’t you sir?”
“I’ll try.”
“We’ll stop here, sir.”
The villagers had been waiting at the outskirts at the village. Led by their headman, a handsome elderly gentleman, they welcomed the hunters warmly.
“The rajah sent a courier to inform us of your arrival,” said the headman. “We built a small hunting lodge for you; I hope you find it to your liking.”
He led the party to a group of ten huts enclosed by a thick bamboo wall. Before the official could utter a word, Yanez selected the largest for himself and his men and bid them to follow him inside.
Breakfast was served shortly thereafter, the villagers providing an abundant meal that was washed down with several glasses of toddy. When all had eaten, the headman and the rajah’s official approached Yanez’ hut and entered.
“Do you have all you need, sir?” asked the headman.
“Yes, my friend,” replied the Portuguese. “But I do have a few questions about the beast.”
“Of course, sir, I’ll gladly answer any questions you have.”
“Do you know where its lair is?”
“Not precisely. But we know it lives in the forest near the crocodile pond.”
“Is that far from here?”
“A couple of hours march.”
“Has it ever attacked during the day?”
“Never, sahib. Only at night.”
“Have you seen it?”
“Yes, three nights ago. I fired two shots at it, but I missed.”
“Is it large?”
“I’ve never seen one larger.”
“I’ll bring it down, you have my word.”
“I’ll add to your reward if you succeed, sir.”
“Distribute whatever you wish to offer me among those that have lost their crops. Now, let me rest until after sunset; tell our guide to meet us then.”
“I’ll guide you there myself, sir.”
“Perfect.”
“A word, my lord, if I may,” said the rajah’s official. “How do you intend to kill it?”
“I’ll ambush it.”
“That may not work, my lord. Those beasts tend to run at the sound of gunfire and even if you strike it, one bullet won’t be enough to bring it down. The rajah has provided you with one of his best horses so you can chase after it if it attempts to flee.”
“I’ll put it to good use,” said Yanez. “Now if you’ll excuse me, my men and I would like to rest. This promises to be a very active evening.”
He waited until the headman and the official had left, then turned to his Malays who were sitting on the floor, along the walls.
“Once we get into the forest, keep an eye on the men and watch my back at all times, no matter what happens.”
“Do you suspect a trap, Captain?” asked Kechik.
“I’m certain that damn Greek is still plotting against me. Save for you six, I trust no one. It would be easy for them to stage an accident; a rhino charge is bound to cause havoc and a stray shot could put an end to my life without rousing much suspicion.”
“We’ll keep a close eye on the Sikhs, Captain, and attack at the first suspicious move.”
“One of you stand guard, the rest of us will try to rest.”
He stretched out on a mat and closed his eyes. The afternoon heat was rising and the villagers had all retired to the cool of their huts. Silence quickly descended over the camp and the Portuguese was soon fast asleep.
A cacophony of barking dogs, neighing horses, trumpeting elephants and shouted orders awakened him shortly before sunset. The Malays had already risen and were busily cleaning their pistols and carbines.
“Dinner first,” said Yanez. “Then off to find the beast.”
The evening meal had already been prepared and plates of food were immediately brought into the hut. Yanez ate quickly, grabbed his double-barreled carbine, loaded it with fresh elephant bullets, and went out to inspect the hunting party.
Five Sikh soldiers and the rajah’s official stood waiting by their horses, ready to depart. A seventh horse was riderless, a black stallion with an ornate saddle, a powerful beast that seemed to have fire in its veins.
“Is that one mine?” Yanez asked the official.
“Yes my lord,” said the Indian. “Do not mount it now though.”
“Why not?”
“Best to keep it fresh. Rhinos run like the wind when they’re charging; you wouldn’t want to be mounted upon a tired horse.”
“You’re right, of course. Where’s our guide?”
“Waiting for us on the other side of the plantation.”
“Let’s go then. Leave the dogs behind; we won’t have need of them.”
“Already taken care of, my lord. I knew you’d have no need of them when you said you intended to ambush the beast.”
They left the camp and took a path through the indigo plantations, the villagers watching them as they left from the edge of the fields.
It was a beautiful night, perfect for a hunt. A fresh breeze was blowing in from the Bhutanese highlands; the sky was filled with stars and the moon had just begun to rise over the majestic peaks off in the distance along the Burmese border.
Yanez, his cigarette pressed between his lips, and his carbine tucked under one arm, marched at the head of the group followed closely by his Malays. A few paces behind, the official led the Sikhs who had been given charge of the horses.
They spied the elderly headman as they emerged from the plantation.
“Have you seen
it?” asked Yanez.
“No, sahib, but I learned where its lair is. A nilgai hunter showed me.”
“Do you think it’s already come out to forage for its dinner?”
“Not yet; it’s too early.”
“Just as well; we’ll surprise it in its lair.”
They resumed their march, heading towards a large dark forest to the west of them, and reached its outskirts less than an hour later.
Large rubber fig trees rose before them, stretching up to a height of thirty or forty metres, their stout trunks almost two metres in diameter. Common in northeast India, these trees have broad shiny oval leaves and produce small yellow-green figs that are barely a centimetre long. The tree yields a white milky latex which the locals use to make rubber. In Southern Assam, people often guide the roots of the tree over chasms to eventually construct living bridges.
The old headman stopped at the edge of the forest for a moment and listened. All was quiet, not a single beast stirred among the vegetation.
“It hasn’t left its lair yet,” he said to Yanez as he stepped in among the trees. “You’d have heard it by now if it had.”
“All the better,” replied Yanez.
He cast away his cigarette, checked his carbine, motioned for his Malays to do the same, then followed the guide in beneath the vault of rubber trees. The headman advanced cautiously, his carbine level, though the bullets from the old gun would do little more than scratch the rhino’s armour-like skin.
The forest grew thicker with each step, large clumps of bushes festooned in nets of calamus and nepente vines often barring their path. The hunters had gone about a half mile, when the old Indian signaled for them to stop.
“Is this the place?” Yanez whispered.
“Yes, sahib. The crocodile pond is nearby. The rhino’s lair is on its banks. Try to keep the horses quiet; the beast may charge at the slightest sound.”
Yanez relayed the order to the Sikhs then said to the guide:
“Would you be willing to lead me there alone?”
“Just the two of us?”
“Just the two of us. We’ll make less noise and it’ll be easier to ambush it. The Sikhs and my men can shoot at it if I fail to bring it down.”
Sandokan: Quest for a Throne (The Sandokan Series Book 6) Page 22
