“Oh!” he exclaimed.
He placed his fingers to his lips and replied in kind.
“Yes, Señor!” shouted the tavern keeper, skinning a large dog whose throat he had just slit.
“May Confucius hang you!”
“Did you call, monsieur?”
“Quiet. Skin your dog and leave me be.”
A tall, well-built, bare-chested Indian with a silk kerchief fastened about his waist and a kris tucked against his right hip, entered the room, his large dark eyes scanning the interior.
At the sight of the newcomer, the European who had just reached for a fried cat leg, stood up and murmured, “Kammamuri!”
He was about to go to meet him, but a quick gesture from the Indian warned him not to move.
“Understood,” he murmured. “Eyes peeled, we may be in danger.”
A moment later, the Indian sat down at an empty table next to him. The tavern keeper immediately rushed to take his order.
“A glass of tuak!” said the newcomer.
The tavern keeper turned about and gestured for a glass and a jar of tuak to be brought to the table then returned to his counter.
“Are they spying on us?” the European whispered to Kammamuri, as he swallowed a bite of mouse meat.
The Indian nodded almost imperceptibly.
“What an appetite you have, sir!” he exclaimed.
“I haven’t eaten in over twenty-four hours, my friend,” replied the man who, as the reader may have already imagined, was none other than Yanez, the Tiger of Malaysia’s faithful and inseparable friend.
“Have you come from very far?”
“From Europe. Hey! Wretched barkeep, some tuak!”
“Take some of mine, sir.” said Kammamuri.
“I accept, young man. Won’t you join me? Try a bit of all this food they brought me.”
The Maratha did not wait to be asked twice; he sat down beside the Portuguese and began to eat.
“We may speak freely,” said Yanez. “No one will suspect we’re friends. Is everyone alright?”
“Yes, Señor Yanez,” replied Kammamuri. “Shortly before dawn we left the forest and hid in a large swamp. The rajah sent soldiers to search along the mouth of the river, but they did not find our tracks.”
“We were lucky, Kammamuri.”
“I know. If we’d stayed aboard thirty more seconds, we would’ve blown up along with the ship. Fortunately, it was too dark for the soldiers to spot us swimming ashore.”
“What about Ada?”
“She’s fine, Señor Yanez. Not so much as a scratch; Sambigliong and I brought her ashore.”
“Where’s Sandokan now?”
“Deep in the forest, about eight miles from here.”
“Safe then.”
“I hope. I spotted some of the rajah’s guards patrolling the forest.”
“Damn!”
“What about you? Venturing into the city alone; you’re putting your life at risk.”
“What fool would mistake me for a pirate? We Europeans are highly respectable.”
“Keep your guard up, Señor Yanez. I hear the rajah is a cunning man.”
“I know, but we’re just as cunning, even more so.”
“Any news on Tremal-Naik?”
“I’ve asked several people, but no one has seen or heard anything.”
“Poor master,” murmured Kammamuri.
“We’ll rescue him, you have my word,” said Yanez. “It begins tonight.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Try to get close to the rajah and become his friend.”
“How?”
“I have an idea; it’s simple but effective. I’ll start a fight, make a lot of noise, threaten to kill someone and have myself arrested by the rajah’s guards.”
“And then?”
“After they’ve arrested me, I’ll invent some fabulous tale and pass myself off as a noble lord...”
“What should I do?”
“Nothing, my good Maratha. Go back to Sandokan and inform him that all is proceeding according to plan. Come buzz about the rajah’s palace tomorrow. I may have need of you.”
Kammamuri stood up.
“Just a moment,” said Yanez, drawing a heavy purse from his pocket and offering it to the Indian.
“What’s that for?”
“For my plan to work, I can’t have so much as penny in my pocket. Give me your kris; it isn’t worth much, now take mine, the gold and diamonds in its hilt could purchase this tavern let alone the meal. Hey! Infernal barkeep, six bottles of Spanish wine.”
“You intend to get drunk?” asked Kammamuri.
“Leave it to me; I’ll give them quite a show. Goodbye, my friend.”
The Indian tossed a shilling onto the table and left as the Portuguese began to uncork the expensive bottles. He drained two or three glasses and gave the remainder to the Malays sitting nearby, who, though quick to accept, were stunned at finding such a generous European.
“Barkeep!” the Portuguese shouted again, “Bring me some more wine and one of your best dishes.”
The Chinese tavern keeper, more than delighted to comply, and in his heart begging the Great Buddha to send him a dozen such clients every day, brought forth more bottles and clay pots filled with delicate birds’ nests seasoned with salt and vinegar, a dish only wealthy men could afford.
Despite already having eaten enough for two, the Portuguese continued to finish dish after dish, drinking heartily and offering wine to all those seated about him.
His exotic banquet finally came to an end a half hour after sunset; large talc lanterns had been lit in the tavern, bathing the drinkers in the soft light dear to the sons of the Celestial Empire.
He lit a cigarette, examined his pistol then rose to his feet, murmuring, “Time for the show, Yanez.”
It was simple; he would leave without paying. The tavern keeper would make an infernal racket, he would be even louder, the rajah’s guards would rush in to quell the disturbance and he’d be arrested. Sandokan himself could not have devised a better plan. He blew out three puffs of smoke and walked calmly towards the door. He was about to cross the threshold, when he felt a hand upon his jacket.
“Monsieur!” said a voice.
Yanez turned with a frown and found the tavern keeper standing before him.
“What can I do for you, you scoundrel?” he asked, feigning offence.
“Your bill, Señor.”
“For what?”
“You have not paid me. You owe me three pounds, seven shillings and four pence.”
“Go to hell. I haven’t so much as a penny in any of my ten pockets.”
The Chinese tavern keeper’s face turned ashen.
“You will pay me,” he shouted, grabbing the Portuguese.
“Unhand me you scoundrel!” howled Yanez.
“You owe me three pounds, seven shillings and—”
“Four pence, I know, I know, but I’m not going to pay you, you wretch... go skin your dog and leave me be!”
“You’re a thief, sir! I’ll have you arrested!”
“Try it! I dare you!”
“Help! Arrest this thief!” howled the furious tavern keeper.
Four scullery boys armed with saucepans, pots and skimming spoons rushed to help their boss. Things were unfolding as planned. The Portuguese could not have asked for a better reaction.
With a firm hand he grabbed the tavern keeper by the throat, picked him up and threw him out the door, the poor man smashing his nose against one of the large rocks lining the path as he hit the ground. Then he turned and with a few swift kicks sent the four scullery boys flying to their master’s side.
A torrent of angry cries filled the air.
“Help!” howled the tavern keeper.
“Thief! Assassin! Kill him! Murder him!” howled the scullery boys.
Chapter 2
A Night in Prison
SUCH CRIES EMITTED by Chinese men in the Chinese quarte
r, had the same effect as a gong sounding in a street in Canton or Peking. In less than two minutes, about two hundred of the tavern keeper’s countrymen, armed with bamboo sticks, knives, rocks and umbrellas, had gathered in front of the tavern door, howling and shouting at the top of their lungs.
“Get the thief!” shouted some, waving their clubs and umbrellas menacingly.
“Hang the white man!” shouted others, brandishing their knives.
“Throw him in the river!”
“Quarter the scoundrel!”
“Kill him! Drown him! Burn him! Hang him!”
Frightened by that noise and afraid of being stoned to death, the drinkers quickly fled from the tavern, some through the door, elbowing their way through the throng, others through the windows, which fortunately were close to the ground. Yanez, however, had not moved, standing there alone before the crowd he laughed heartily, as if he were taking part in a grand comedy.
“Bravo! Excellent! Encore!” he shouted, loading his pistol and drawing his kris from his belt.
A Chinese shopkeeper at the front of the crowd cursed him loudly and hurled a large stone at him, but his aim was off, and the rock struck a large straw covered bottle of sam sciu, which shattered, spilling the liquor onto the floor.
“Ah! Rascal!” shouted the Portuguese, “You’ll be the tavern keeper’s ruin.”
He picked up the stone, flung it at his assailant, and smashed in one of the man’s teeth. Loud cries rose from the crowd, drawing still more Chinese, several armed with old harquebuses. Encouraged by the tavern keeper and his companions, three or four men attempted to enter the tavern, but at the sight of the Portuguese’s pistols, they quickly turned and ran off.
“Stone him!” shouted a voice.
“No!” wailed the tavern keeper. “My—”
The crowd roared in agreement. Before the tavern keeper could stay their arms a barrage of stones rained through the tavern door, smashing lanterns, bottles, dishes, bowls and vases. Realizing that the situation was becoming dangerous, Yanez fired his pistols into the air. Seven shots thundered in reply, missing the Portuguese but adding to the commotion.
Suddenly several voices shouted, “Make way! Make way!”
“The rajah’s guards!”
Yanez let out a sigh of relief. Just in time, he thought. The crowd had been growing larger and his foes were becoming bolder with their knives, clubs and muskets, he might not have fared well if they decided to attack.
“Well, now that I’m out of danger,” he murmured, “I’ll give them even more of a show.”
He rushed towards a table and knocked it over, shattering the flasks, jars and plates upon it.
“Arrest him! Arrest him!” howled the tavern keeper. “He’s destroying everything I own!”
“Make way! Make way for the guards!” shouted several men.
The crowd parted and two tall, well-built, dark-skinned men marched to the door. They were dressed in white uniforms and had drawn their swords.
“Back!” shouted the Portuguese, aiming his pistols at them.
“A European!” exclaimed the two guards in amazement.
“An Englishman,” corrected Yanez.
The two guards sheathed their blades.
“We wish you no harm, sir,” said one. “We serve your countryman, Rajah Brooke.”
“What do you intend to do with me?”
“To escort you to safety.”
“And to some jail cell no doubt!”
“That rajah will determine that.”
“You’re going to take me to him?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Fine; lead the way. I have nothing to fear from Rajah Brooke.”
The two guards placed the prisoner between them then unsheathed their swords to protect him from the throng of angry men outside the tavern.
“Make way!” they shouted as they stepped through the doorway.
The crowd did not move, determined to hang the European at all costs.
The two guards, however, were equally determined. With a few vigorous kicks and several well-placed blows with the flat of their swords, they opened a path and led the prisoner down a narrow lane, threatening to kill anyone who dared to follow.
After having shouted all manner of curses and imprecations at Yanez, the guards and even the rajah himself who they accused of sheltering thieves and scoundrels, the crowd dispersed, leaving the tavern keeper and his four scullery boys to tend to the damage.
Sarawak was not a large city. It took less than five minutes for the two guards to reach the rajah’s palace. It was made of wood, just like all the other Western style houses that crowned the surrounding hills. The British flag fluttered from the rooftop, an Indian armed with a rifle and a bayonet guarded the main entrance.
“Are you taking me to see the rajah?”
“Not at this hour,” replied one of the guards. “His Excellency is asleep.”
“So where am I going to pass the night?”
“We have a room for you, sir.”
“Not a cell?”
“No, sir. We’d never do that to one of the rajah’s countrymen.”
The Portuguese was led up some stairs and into a small room. It contained a hammock made of coconut fibres and a few pieces of European furniture. Mats of nipa leaves covered the windows; a lamp hung from the ceiling, bathing the room in a soft dim light.
“Good Lord!” he exclaimed, rubbing his hands happily. “I’ll sleep like a babirussa.”
“Is there anything else we can do for you, sir?” asked one of the guards.
“Just let me sleep,” replied Yanez.
One of the guards left the room, the other sat down beside the door, took out an areca nut wrapped in a betel leaf and popped it into his mouth.
An opportunity to get some information, thought Yanez.
He rolled up a cigarette, lit it, took a few puffs and stepped toward the guard.
“Young man, are you from India by chance?” he asked.
“Bengal, sir,” replied the guard.
“Have you been here long?”
“Two years.”
“Have you ever heard speak of a pirate known as the Tiger of Malaysia?”
“Yes.”
Yanez barely suppressed a cry of joy.
“I’ve heard a rumour the Tiger is somewhere near the city?” he asked. “Is it true?”
“I cannot say for certain. The rajah took his soldiers to battle some pirates on the river about twenty or thirty miles from here. Some of the pirates managed to escape, but I don’t know if the Tiger was among them.”
“Do you know where they are hiding?”
“Not yet, but we’ll find out soon enough.”
“How?”
“The rajah has excellent spies.”
“I heard a British ship ran aground near Tanjung Datu a few months ago.”
“Yes,” replied the Indian. “A warship from Calcutta. The rajah himself went to assist her.”
“Did he rescue the crew?”
“Yes, everyone, including an Indian prisoner bound for the Isle of Norfolk.”
“An Indian prisoner!” exclaimed Yanez, feigning surprise.
“A strangler named Tremal-Naik. They say he killed several Englishmen.”
“The wretch! Is he still here?”
“They’re holding him in the fort.”
“Which one?”
“The one on the hill. There’s only one fort in Sarawak.”
“How large is the garrison?”
“There are about sixty men there, including the crew from the shipwrecked vessel.”
Yanez grimaced.
Sixty men! he thought. Not to mention cannons.
He finished his cigarette in silence, mulling over what he had just heard, then when he had taken his last puff he stretched out on the hammock, asked the guard to dim the lamp, and closed his eyes. Despite the many thoughts swirling through his head, the Portuguese slept as deeply as if he were aboard the Pearl o
f Labuan or in the great hut on Mompracem. When he awoke, a ray of sunlight was beaming through the nipa mats.
Yanez glanced at the door; the guard was no longer there. Once his prisoner had fallen asleep, he had left, certain that such a man would not have attempted to escape through a window.
“Excellent,” murmured the Portuguese. “Let’s take advantage of the situation.”
He jumped down from the hammock, washed his face, raised the mats covering the window and took a deep breath of the cool morning air.
Sarawak was quite picturesque with its wooden villas and lush green forests; its large river, shaded by superb trees, bustled with prahus, canoes, and longboats. Chinese, Dyaks, Bugis, and Macassars crowded the streets and lanes as they busily went about their day.
The Portuguese quickly scanned the city, his gaze passing from the exotically shaped houses and brightly coloured rooftops of the Chinese district, to the towering nipa huts mounted on posts in the Dyak quarter. At last his eyes came to rest upon the hills, where he spotted a small church and not too far from it, a fort of solid construction.
The Portuguese studied it for a moment, taking in every detail.
“If that’s where they’re keeping Tremal-Naik,” he murmured, “how are we going to free him?”
At that same moment, a voice from behind him said, “The rajah will see you now, sir.”
Yanez turned and found the Bengali standing before him.
“Ah! It’s you, my friend,” he smiled. “How is Rajah Brooke this morning?”
“He’s waiting for you, sir.”
“Let’s go shake his hand then.”
They left the room, went up another set of stairs and entered a type of drawing room whose walls were adorned with weapons of all shapes and sizes.
“The rajah is in the study,” said the Bengali.
The Portuguese shivered.
What am I going to say? he thought. Watch your step, Yanez. You’re dealing with a cunning old wolf.
He braced himself, opened the door and entered the study; there in the centre of the room, at a table strewn with maps, sat the Rajah of Sarawak.
Chapter 3
Rajah James Brooke
JAMES BROOKE, to whose bravery all of Malaysia and the maritime fleets of the east and west are deeply indebted, deserves a few lines of history. This daring man, who through tremendous efforts and countless bloody battles earned the title ‘Exterminator of Pirates’, descended from the family of Sir Robert Vyner, baronet, Lord Mayor of London during the reign of Charles II. When he was still a young man, he enrolled in the Indian army as an ensign standard bearer. Gravely wounded in a battle against Bornean forces, he resigned his commission and retired to Calcutta. A quiet life, however, did not suit young Brooke, a cold and practical man with incredible energy and an appetite for danger.
Sandokan: The Pirates of Malaysia (The Sandokan Series Book 3) Page 8
