Sandokan: The Pirates of Malaysia (The Sandokan Series Book 3)

by Emilio Salgari

“Thank heavens,” murmured Yanez. “A hunter who returns without so much as a parrot could raise suspicions in that distrustful old fox.”

  He placed his pistol and kris beneath his pillow, stretched out on the bed and closed his eyes.

  Chapter 6

  Tremal-Naik

  THOUGH TIRED, YANEZ could not sleep; his thoughts returned again and again to the old man Sambigliong had spotted near the village. Could it really have been Marianna’s uncle leading a band of Dyaks?

  He tried to dismiss the notion, to convince himself that the Malay must have been mistaken, that Lord Guillonk must have been somewhere far from there, perhaps in Java or India, or better yet in England, but no matter his arguments he simply could not put his mind at ease. His anxiety soon got the better of him; he thought he heard the old man’s voice in the corridor, then footsteps advancing towards his room, then gunfire echoing throughout the palace.

  He sprang out of bed repeatedly to peer through the door and windows to check if sentries had been posted to prevent his escape. At last towards dawn he fell asleep, but it was a short fitful sleep troubled by nightmares.

  He awoke to the peals of a gong sounding in the street. He jumped out of bed, and quickly got dressed, hid two small pistols in his pockets and went to the door. Just as his hand touched the doorknob, someone knocked.

  “Who is it?” he asked anxiously.

  “The rajah would like to see you in his study,” replied a voice.

  Yanez shivered. He opened the door and found an Indian servant standing there before him.

  “Is the rajah alone?” he asked, attempting to appear calm.

  “Yes, Milord,” replied the Indian. “He requests you join him for tea.”

  “I’ll go at once,” said Yanez, heading towards the study.

  He found the rajah sitting before a small table with a silver tea service set upon it. When Yanez entered, his host rose with a smile and proffered a hand.

  “Good Morning, Milord!” he exclaimed. “You got back late last night.”

  “Forgive me, Excellency, for missing our lunch appointment, it was not on purpose, I assure you,” said Yanez, drawing comfort from the rajah’s smile.

  “What happened?”

  “I got lost in the forest.”

  “Your guide was of no help then?”

  “My guide?”

  “I was told that you entered the forest in the company of an Indian, a man claiming to be a merchant supplying the placers in Poma.”

  “Who told you that, Excellency?” asked Yanez, struggling to keep his composure.

  “My spies, Milord.”

  “You’ve trained them well, Excellency.”

  “True,” smiled the rajah, “and well worth the effort. I take it you met the Indian by chance?”

  “Yes, Excellency.”

  “How far did you travel together?”

  “Just to a small Dyak village.”

  “Would you like to guess who that man was?”

  “What do you mean?” asked Yanez, trying to make his voice sound calmer than he felt.

  “A pirate,” said the rajah.

  “A pirate! Impossible, Excellency!”

  “Quite true in fact.”

  “But then why didn’t he try to rob me? Or slay me for that matter?”

  “The pirates of Mompracem can be generous at times, Milord, just like their leader.”

  “The Tiger of Malaysia is a generous man?”

  “So they say. I’ve been told he’s even given diamonds to those he’s defeated in battle.”

  “Not your typical pirate! Excellency, are you certain that Indian was from Mompracem?”

  “Positive! My spies spotted him talking with some of the Tiger’s men. But he won’t be doing that for much longer. My guards have probably arrested him by now.”

  At that instant, sharp cries emanated from the street, followed moments later by the loud peal of a gong.

  Yanez, pale with nerves, rushed to the window to see what was happening and to conceal his growing unease.

  “Good Lord!” he gasped as the last bit of colour drained from his cheeks, “Kammamuri!”

  “What’s happening?” asked the rajah.

  “They’re bringing my Indian friend here, Excellency,” he replied calmly.

  “I thought as much.”

  The Portuguese leaned over the windowsill and looked down.

  Four guards, armed to the teeth, were leading Kammamuri towards the rajah’s palace, his arms bound tightly with rattan rope. The prisoner offered no resistance, nor did he appear frightened. He advanced calmly, looking about indifferently as they advanced through the crowd of jeering Dyaks, Chinese and Malays.

  “Poor man!” exclaimed Yanez.

  “You feel for him, Milord?” asked the rajah.

  “A little I must confess.”

  “That Indian is a pirate.”

  “I know, but he was very kind to me. What are you going to do with him, Excellency?”

  “I’ll make him talk. Once I’ve learned the Tiger of Malaysia’s whereabouts, I’ll assemble my men and attack.”

  “And if the prisoner refuses to talk?”

  “I’ll hang him,” the rajah replied coldly.

  “Poor devil!”

  “The standard sentence for all pirates, Milord.”

  “When are you going to question him?”

  “I have to receive a Dutch ambassador this afternoon. But tomorrow I’ll be able to give him my full attention; I’ll make him talk, I assure you.”

  A light flashed in the Portuguese’s eyes.

  “Excellency,” he said after a brief hesitation. “Would it be possible for me to assist you? He may know the men who attacked my ship.”

  “If you desire.”

  “Thank you, Excellency.”

  The rajah picked up a small silver bell from the table and rang it. A Chinese servant dressed in yellow silk with a bianzi a meter long entered the room, carrying a porcelain Ming teapot full of hot tea.

  “I hope you like tea,” said the rajah.

  “As much as any Englishman,” smiled Yanez.

  They chatted a while longer, draining several cups, and when they had consumed the last few drops the two men rose to their feet.

  “What are your plans for today, Milord?” asked the rajah.

  “I thought I’d explore the city,” replied Yanez, “maybe even visit the fort, with your permission of course.”

  “You’ll find some of our countrymen there, Milord.”

  “Really!” exclaimed Yanez, feigning ignorance.

  “I rescued them a couple of months ago; the ship had crashed on a reef.”

  “Castaways?”

  “Precisely. I’ve put them up in the fort while they’re waiting for another ship to arrive from India. They were escorting a prisoner, an Indian Thug from Calcutta.”

  “What? A Thug! An Indian Thug!” exclaimed Yanez. “Oh! I’d love to see one of those deadly stranglers.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  The rajah reached for a sheet of paper, jotted down several lines, folded it and handed it to the Portuguese who took it excitedly.

  “Give this to Lieutenant Churchill,” said the rajah. “He’ll show you the Thug, and even give you a tour of the fort; there’s not much to see, but you may find it interesting.”

  “Thank you, Excellency.”

  “Will you dine with me this evening?”

  “I would be delighted to, sir.”

  “Excellent. Until this evening, then. Good day, Milord.”

  Yanez bowed and quickly returned to his room.

  “So far so good,” he murmured, once he was alone.

  His luck was holding but for how long? He needed to plan his next move carefully. He went to the window and began to think. Eyes fixed on the fort he stood there, stone still for ten or twelve minutes, frowning from time to time as he evaluated different options.

  “I’ve got it!” he exclaimed
at last. “My dear Brooke, if all goes well the escape will be a work of art.”

  He went to the table, picked up a pen and jotted the following words on a small piece of paper:

  Tremal-Naik,

  Kammamuri has sent me to rescue you. If you wish to regain your freedom and be reunited with your beloved Ada, swallow these pills at midnight.

  Yanez,

  A friend of Kammamuri’s

  He reached into his pocket and drew out two of the small black pills Sandokan had given him, wrapped them tightly in the note, and hid the tiny packet in his jacket pocket.

  “The British will believe he’s dead, take him out of the fort and bury him,” he murmured, rubbing his hands happily, “I’ll send Kammamuri to inform Sandokan! My dear James Brooke, I fear you’ve underestimated the Tigers of Mompracem.”

  He put on a straw hat, tucked his kris in his belt, then left the room and calmly walked down the steps to the floor below. As he advanced along the corridor, he spotted an Indian armed with a bayonet, standing guard before a door.

  “Is this where they’re keeping the pirate?” asked the Portuguese.

  “Yes, sir,” replied the sentry.

  “Take care he doesn’t escape, my friend. He’s a dangerous man.”

  “I’ll keep my eyes open, Milord.”

  “Well done, young man.”

  He saluted the soldier then descended another set of steps and emerged on the street, an ironic smile slowly spreading across his lips. Walking towards the hill, his eyes turned towards the fort, its imposing mass looming out of the dark green forest that grew along the slope.

  “Take heart, Yanez,” he murmured. “There’s a lot to do.”

  He calmly traversed the city, making his way through the thick crowds of Dyaks, Malays and Chinese, chatting in various tongues as they sold fruit, weapons, clothes and toys from Canton. When he reached the base of the hill he went up a path shaded by tall durian and areca trees that led into the forest and up to the fort. Halfway to the summit, he encountered two British seamen on their way to the city, perhaps to receive one of the rajah’s orders or to check on the arrival of any new ships.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” smiled Yanez. “Is Lieutenant Churchill up there?”

  “Last we saw of him, he was smoking by the main gate,” replied one of the two.

  “Thank you, my friends.”

  He resumed his march and after a long detour reached the top of the hill, the fort stood at the centre of a large clearing. Leaning on his rifle, a sentry stood guard at the gate, chewing tobacco. A few paces from him, a tall naval officer with a large red moustache sat upon the grass, smoking a pipe. Yanez halted.

  “A sahib!” exclaimed the lieutenant, as his eyes fell upon the newcomer.

  “You must be the man I’m looking for,” said the Portuguese.

  “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “I have a letter for Lieutenant Churchill.”

  “I’m Lieutenant Churchill, sir,” said the officer, immediately rising and moving towards him.

  Yanez pulled out the rajah’s letter and handed it to the British officer.

  “At your service, Milord,” he said, after carefully reading its contents.

  “Would it be possible to see the Thug?”

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  “Take me to him, then. I’ve always wanted to meet one of those terrible stranglers.”

  The lieutenant stuffed his pipe into his pocket and led Yanez into the fort. They crossed a small courtyard, walked past four old rusting cannons, and entered a building constructed of teak wood, strong enough to withstand a blast from a six or eight pound cannon ball.

  “Here we are, Milord,” said Lieutenant Churchill, halting before a sturdy door that had been double bolted. “The Thug’s in there.”

  “Is he fierce?”

  “Tame as a kitten,” smiled the Englishman.

  “Then we won’t need our weapons.”

  “He’s never harmed any of us; still, I wouldn’t go inside without my pistol.”

  The lieutenant drew back the two bars, opened the door a crack, and peered inside.

  “He’s asleep,” he said. “We may enter, Milord.”

  Yanez shuddered. A sudden thought had struck him. There was a slight chance the prisoner could accidentally give him away. The Indian could refuse to accept the note and the pills, and, in so doing, expose the plan to Lieutenant Churchill.

  He took a deep breath to steady his nerves then stepped through the doorway and entered the room. He found himself in a small cell; the walls were of teak wood, the only light came through a small barred window. In a corner, stretched out on a bed of dried leaves, wrapped in a small blanket, rested ‘the Thug’ Tremal-Naik, Kammamuri’s master, Ada’s fiancé.

  He was a handsome man, about five and a half feet tall, with skin the color of bronze. He had a strong chest, muscular limbs, and a proud face. Yanez had fought alongside Chinese, Malays, Javanese, Africans, Indians, Bugis, Macassars and Tagalis, but never, aside from Sandokan, had he met a man of such strength and noble bearing.

  Though asleep, the prisoner appeared tormented. His chest rose breathlessly, his lips trembled, his hands grabbed at the air.

  “Quite a specimen,” exclaimed Yanez.

  “Shh, listen,” murmured the lieutenant.

  A soft cry escaped the Indian’s lips.

  “Ada!” he exclaimed

  Then his brow darkened and the vein in his temple swelled to twice its size.

  “Suyodhana,” murmured the Indian, his voice filled with hatred.

  “Tremal-Naik!” shouted the lieutenant.

  At the sound of his name, the Indian awoke, sat up and fixed his eyes upon the lieutenant.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “You have a visitor.”

  The Indian’s gaze shifted to Yanez, who was standing a few paces behind Churchill. A disdainful smile spread across his lips, bearing teeth as white as ivory.

  “Am I a beast?” he asked. “What is—”

  He started and fell silent. Unseen by the lieutenant, Yanez had quickly signalled that he was a friend.

  “Why are you in here?” asked the Portuguese.

  “Why do you think?” Tremal-Naik replied sadly.

  “Is it true you’re a Thug?”

  “No.”

  “They say you’ve strangled several people.”

  “That’s true, but I’m not a Thug.”

  “He’s lying,” said the lieutenant.

  Tremal-Naik sprang to his feet in anger, but another gesture from the Portuguese quickly restored his calm.

  “If you allow me to raise my cloak, I’ll show you my tattoo; the mark of the Thugs.”

  “Stay back, Milord!” shouted the lieutenant.

  “What are you afraid of? I’m not even armed,” said the Indian.

  Yanez approached the bed of leaves and crouched down by Tremal-Naik.

  “Kammamuri,” he whispered.

  The Indian’s eyes flashed with understanding. With one sweep of his arm, he raised his mantle and picked up the small packet containing the pills the Portuguese had let fall to the ground.

  “Did you see the tattoo?” asked the lieutenant who as a precaution had drawn his pistol.

  “He doesn’t have one,” replied Yanez, standing up. “Would that mean he’s not a Thug?”

  “Who knows? It could be anywhere, on his arm, on his back—”

  “I don’t have one,” said Tremal-Naik.

  “How long has he been here, Lieutenant?” asked Yanez.

  “Two months, Milord.”

  “Where are they taking him?”

  “Norfolk. He’ll live there for the remainder of his years.”

  “Poor devil! Let’s go, Lieutenant.”

  The officer opened the door and stepped into the corridor. Pretending to take a final look, Yanez quickly turned and signalled Tremal-Naik a last instruction: obey.

  “Would you like a tour of
the fort?” asked the lieutenant, once he had closed and barred the door.

  “I think I’ve just seen the best part,” replied Yanez. “It was a fascinating experience. Thank you, lieutenant. I’ll be going now.”

  “My pleasure, Milord. Have a good day.”

  Chapter 7

  Kammamuri Escapes

  WHILE YANEZ WAS making preparations to rescue Tremal-Naik, poor Kammamuri, gripped by a thousand fears and anxieties, was plotting his escape. He did not fear being hanged or shot like a common pirate; he feared being subjected to some kind of terrifying torture and forced to confess all he knew, and, in so doing, put the lives of his master, his mistress, the Tiger of Malaysia, Yanez and all the intrepid men of Mompracem at risk.

  Once locked in the room, he had tried to escape through the window, only to be thwarted by thick iron bars impossible to cut through without a file or an axe; he then attempted to cut a hole in the floor, hoping to drop into a vacant room below, but after nearly breaking his fingers, he was forced to renounce that idea as well. As a last resort, he had attempted to strangle the Indian that brought him his food, but just as he was on the verge of success, other guards rushed in and hurled him to the ground.

  Convinced of the futility of his efforts, he withdrew to a corner and crouched against a wall, determined to die of hunger rather than taste food that could have been laced with some mysterious drug. He vowed to himself that he would not utter a word even if they flayed him alive, and then sat there in silence, stone still for ten hours, never moving a single muscle.

  The sun had set and darkness had invaded the room, when suddenly he heard a hiss followed by a soft thud. Without making a sound, he stood up, looked about and listened. He heard nothing but the chatter of Dyaks and Malays passing through the square.

  He silently approached the window and peered through the metal bars. There, near a giant areca tree that cast its shadow over much of the square stood a man wearing a large hat, clutching what appeared to be a stick. Kammamuri recognized him immediately.

  “Señor Yanez,” he murmured.

  He thrust an arm through the bars and made several gestures. The Portuguese raised a hand and signalled a quick reply.

  “Understood,” whispered Kammamuri. “Thank you, Señor!”