Sandokan: The King of the Sea (The Sandokan Series Book 5)

by Emilio Salgari

  Infuriated by such obstinate resistance, two or three hundred men stormed towards the wall, raising large bamboo poles against the parapets in an attempt to climb up to the terrace. At a cry from Yanez and Tremal-Naik, the men in the kampong rushed to fend off the attack, leaving only a few gunners at the swivel guns.

  They had cast away their carbines, of little use in that downpour, and had drawn their parangs, heavy knives more than a half metre in length.

  The Dyaks advanced with desperate courage, ignoring the rain of boiling rubber, filling the air with their war cries.

  The first to reach the parapets fell back into the ditch below, their hands severed or their heads broken, but others immediately took their place, kampilans flailing, determined to slay the kampong’s defenders.

  They scrambled up the bamboo like monkeys while others climbed human pyramids, edging closer to their prey despite the endless torrents of rubber.

  Whooping and howling, their skin burned and seared, they advanced without pause, spurred on by the sherip, his voice bellowing from among the thorns.

  Though others may have panicked, the kampong’s defenders bravely held their ground, determined not to yield.

  Their parangs, wielded by strong arms, flailed wildly, slaughtering those that reached the parapets. While the Dyaks were attacking to the cry of “Allah! Allah! Allah!” Yanez’ men replied with the battle cry of old:

  “Long live Mompracem! Long live the Tigers!”

  Blood flowed in rivers, dripping from the walls into bushes below. Both sides fought with fury as the hurricane raged about them, flashes of lightning illuminating their battle.

  But despite the Dyaks’ courage, the kampong’s defences proved difficult to breech. Three times the sherip’s warriors reached the parapets and three times they were forced to retreat, falling back into the ditch below that brimmed with the dead and wounded.

  “They’re starting to waver,” cried Yanez, seeing the attackers hesitate. “One last push and we’ll be rid of these brutes.”

  The swivel guns doubled their fire, the Malays and Javanese readied their parangs as the servants began to pour the last of the rubber.

  As Yanez had noted, the Dyaks had lost some of their zeal. Fear had started to set in among them and their battle cries no longer filled the air.

  Weariness was also starting to take its toll on the kampong’s defenders, the enemy marksmen hidden among the bushes had greatly thinned their ranks, and those remaining found the rifles and parangs were growing heavy in their hands.

  Once the Dyak forces had been rallied, the fourth attack came swiftly, two columns leading the charge, one attempting to breach the gate while the other scrambled up the bamboo.

  As the climbers drew nearer Yanez ordered his men to fall back, grabbed the swivel gun and opened fire, sweeping the parapet from corner to corner, cutting down the first wave of Dyaks to come over the wall.

  The smoke had hardly cleared when a large tiger landed upon the parapet with a mighty roar, lunged toward a Dyak clinging to the wall, and bit into his head with her sharp teeth.

  The sight of that beast filled the attackers with terror. If the jungle cats were rushing to aid the Bengali and the white man, they were clearly more powerful than the sherip.

  Within minutes the Dyaks scattered in retreat, casting away shields and kampilans to increase their speed. No one obeyed the captains or the sherip who howled out in vain:

  “Storm the wall! Allah protects you!”

  Their cries fell upon deaf ears.

  While they raced off at full speed, trying to dodge the last few blasts from the swivel guns, a man leapt onto the terrace and rushed towards Yanez and Tremal-Naik.

  He was a handsome Indian around forty years old, well built, with dark bronze skin, proud black eyes and fine energetic features.

  At the sight of him, Yanez let out a cry of joy:

  “Kammamuri!”

  “My good Maratha!” exclaimed Tremal-Naik.

  “I’m afraid I’m too late,” the newcomer said.

  “Just in time to watch the Dyaks retreat,” replied Tremal-Naik.

  “You just got here?” the Portuguese asked.

  “Yes, Señor Yanez, it’s a miracle your men didn’t kill me. I scrambled up the rope just as they began firing those volleys of nails.”

  “Did you make it to Mompracem?”

  “Yes, Señor Yanez.”

  “Then you’ve seen Sandokan?”

  “Seven days ago.”

  “And you returned alone?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “No reinforcements?”

  “No.”

  “Go get something to eat; you must be starving after such a long journey. We’ll join you momentarily. Yanez and I are going to fire off a few more rounds, just in case there are a few Dyaks still hiding in the bushes,” said Tremal-Naik. Then he turned towards the tiger and shouted, “Darma, leave that man be and go with Kammamuri.”

  Chapter 12

  The Dyaks’ Binge

  TEN MINUTES LATER, Yanez and Tremal-Naik, assured that the attack had ended and the Dyaks had gone back to their camp, left the wall and went to join the Maratha.

  The hurricane was subsiding, the clouds had begun to part and the field was now bathed in moonlight. Thunder could still be heard off in the distance, its fading roar mixing with the howls of the wind.

  They found Kammamuri sitting at the table in the dining hall, sharing a roast chicken with the tiger.

  “Are they gone, master?” he asked, turning towards Tremal-Naik.

  “For now,” replied the Bengali. “Let’s hope they think twice before they attack us again. That’s their second defeat.”

  “What news do you bring from Mompracem?” asked Yanez, as he took a seat opposite the Maratha. “I’m amazed you returned without an escort. Mompracem has no lack of men.”

  “True, Señor Yanez, but they’re all needed there,” replied the Maratha.

  The Portuguese and Tremal-Naik exchanged looks of surprise and amazement.

  “Master, Señor Yanez, I bring grave news from Mompracem.”

  “Grave news?” asked the Portuguese. “Who could possibly pose a threat to the Tigers of Mompracem?”

  “An enemy as mysterious as the sherip; he’s supported by the British government in Labuan and by James Brooke’s nephew, the new Rajah of Sarawak.”

  Yanez smashed his fist on the table, rattling the bottles and glasses.

  “Mompracem threatened as well!” he exclaimed.

  “Yes, Señor Yanez, and it’s more serious than you think. The Governor of Labuan has notified Sandokan that he must prepare to leave the island.”

  “Leave Mompracem? Why?”

  “He’s written to the Tiger that his presence constitutes a danger to the peace and development of the British colony; the island is too close and too well defended; its very presence encourages Bornean pirates to take to the sea, knowing they can count upon Sandokan’s support.”

  “Lies! We put an end to our raids years ago and we do not advocate acts of piracy, no matter who commits them.”

  “A fine reward!” shouted Tremal-Naik. “After all you’ve done for them. The Thugs would still be murdering in India had it not been for the Tigers of Mompracem. Is this how the British Lion shows its gratitude?”

  “What was Sandokan’s reply?” asked Yanez.

  “That he was ready to defend his island and would not bow to any threat.”

  “Has he called for reinforcements?”

  “He’s already enlisted a hundred Dyaks from Sarawak; they should be there by now. He still counts many friends among Pangeran Macota’s old allies. No one has forgotten how you defeated James Brooke.”

  “Yes, many still remember how we brought the Exterminator’s reign to an end and sent him back to England without a guinea,” replied Yanez. “And it’s starting to look like we’ll need their help. Someone is plotting against us, that much is certain. These attacks on Sandokan and Trema
l-Naik are no mere coincidence. We’re up against someone powerful, powerful enough to convince the British to attack us. Up until a few weeks ago we had an excellent rapport with the Governor of Labuan. The question is who?”

  “I don’t know, but it appears that Brooke’s nephew, the new Rajah of Sarawak, is also involved somehow,” added Kammamuri. “One of his ships recently attacked one of Sandokan’s prahus without provocation. It blasted a hole in her side then looked on as she sank with all hands. Not a man was rescued. When he got news of what had happened, the Tiger of Malaysia himself set off with the Marianna and tracked down the ship. But when he demanded an explanation from her commander, his words were received with indifference and he was ordered to follow the ship to Sarawak.”

  “Advice he did not follow I imagine,” said Tremal-Naik.

  “No, and before he could press the issue, a steamship flying the rajah’s colours suddenly appeared to provide reinforcements. Outgunned, Sandokan and his men fled back to Mompracem under heavy fire.”

  “Tremal-Naik,” said Yanez who had gotten up and was nervously pacing about the room, “I have a suspicion.”

  “What?”

  “The rajah may be attempting to avenge his uncle; that would explain all these attacks. He’s probably made some kind of agreement with the British government. We’re a thorn in Labuan’s side, it’s too close to Mompracem and many years ago we came close to taking it.”

  “There’s more, Señor Yanez. There’s another player in the game,” said Kammamuri.

  “Who?”

  “The man that helped me sneak through the Dyak lines gave me some important information.”

  “What?” asked Yanez and Tremal-Naik in unison.

  “The sherip isn’t an Arab, he’s Indian.”

  “Indian!” the two friends exclaimed.

  “And that’s not all. We’re dealing with a dangerous enemy. The man who helped me said that one night he entered the sherip’s hut and found the old man kneeling before a basin full of water that contained a small red fish, a rhoti from the Ganges, no doubt.”

  “By Jupiter!” exclaimed Yanez, as Tremal-Naik sprang to his feet.

  “That means—”

  “He’s a Thug!” exclaimed Tremal-Naik in terror.

  “There can be no other explanation. Who but an Indian strangler believes those fish harbour the soul of Kali?” replied Kammamuri.

  A deep silence fell over the room. Even Darma, the tiger, had looked up from her meal, as if she understood the gravity of that new information.

  “Who told you all this?” asked Yanez after a few minutes had passed.

  “Karia, a Dyak that was once in our employ and who now serves our enemy; he’s an intelligent man that pirated the seas for several years. I saved his life once, just as a tiger was about to devour him. He’s been grateful to me ever since, and he helped me sneak through the enemy lines.”

  “Where did you meet him?” asked Tremal-Naik.

  “In the forest, as I was trying to make my way towards the kampong undetected. Instead of betraying me and handing me over to the sherip, he led me here. He’s the one that fired the arrow with the note I’d written you.”

  “Can we trust his story?” asked Yanez.

  “Fully; he’s never heard of the Indian Thugs and could never have invented such a tale. Like everyone else he thought the sherip was a Muslim, he was shocked to learn otherwise.”

  “Yanez,” Tremal-Naik said nervously, “What are we going to do?”

  The Portuguese, leaning against the table with his head lowered and a hand against his forehead, appeared in deep contemplation.

  “We’ve been fools,” he said. “It all seems so obvious now. Your suspicions were correct. The sherip’s a Thug. We should have realized it immediately. Why else would he hate you so? You took their priestess, and when they kidnapped your daughter, you attacked their island and destroyed them.”

  Then, after a brief silence, he added:

  “If we hadn’t seen Suyodhana die with our own eyes, I’d swear he was behind this. But we all know he’s buried in the mass grave for the fallen rebels in Delhi. The sherip must be one of Suyodhana’s lieutenants.”

  “What are we going to do, Yanez?” Tremal-Naik asked a second time. “Now that we know the Thugs are involved, I fear for my Darma’s life.”

  “We’ll leave for Mompracem immediately. We’ll take only what’s necessary; Sandokan and I will compensate you for everything you leave behind.”

  “There’s no need for that, I have more than enough money; I still have my farms in Bengal. How are we going to sneak past our enemies?”

  “We’ll find a way. They say the night brings counsel. Now that the attack is over, let’s get some sleep. I doubt the Dyaks will be back tonight, but I’ll have Sambigliong post a few more guards just in case. With any luck, by tomorrow my brain may have worked out a solution.”

  Certain that after such a terrible defeat their enemies would not have attempted another attack; the three exhausted men withdrew to their rooms, less than pleased by the shocking turn of events.

  The night passed uneventfully. The Dyaks, discouraged by the heavy casualties they had suffered, had not dared to leave their camps.

  The kampong’s sentries listened to the drums beat until morning as relatives mourned the dead that lay in the ditch about the wall, no warriors having dared to remove them.

  Troubled by the Maratha’s news, Yanez had slept poorly and awoke shortly before dawn. But instead of going down to the dining room for tea as he did each morning, he went out to the terrace and carefully made his way up the battered remnants of the tower. When he reached what remained of the platform, he stopped and turned his gaze to the view below.

  The kampong was laid out like a large parallelogram, divided into two equal sections by a thick wall.

  The bungalow, granaries, and storage huts stood in the section nearest the gate; the second section contained the threshing floor, the servants’ quarters, the farmhands’ huts and the animal pens. That layout, unnoticed until then, gave the Portuguese a sudden idea.

  “By Jupiter!” he murmured, rubbing his hands happily. “I think I’ve just come up with the perfect plan. Wretched sherip! Have I got a lesson for you!”

  Pleased with himself he went down to the dining hall where he found Tremal-Naik and Kammamuri drinking their morning tea.

  “Have you thought of any ideas to get us out of here?” he asked, turning to the young woman’s father.

  “I wracked my brain all night, but in vain,” Tremal-Naik replied sadly. “There’s only one thing I can think of, and we’d have a desperate chance at best.”

  “What?”

  “Open a path through the enemy lines with our parangs.”

  “We’d be slaughtered,” replied Yanez. “Thirty against three hundred, with a dozen or so wounded men. A nasty business.”

  “I haven’t come up with anything better.”

  “How much bram do you have?” asked Yanez.

  “Bram?” asked Tremal-Naik and Kammamuri in surprise.

  “The more you have, the better our chances of escaping.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, Tremal-Naik. I’m dead serious. How much do you have?”

  “A cellar full, I used to supply all the tribes in this area.”

  “Do the Dyaks drink a lot?”

  “As much as any other savages.”

  “If they were to find a hundred barrels of liquor scattered along the path before them, what do you think they’d do?”

  “A cannon blast couldn’t prevent them from having a drink,” replied Tremal-Naik.

  “Then, my good friends, we’ll outfox that sherip by turning their weakness against them,” said Yanez.

  “I don’t quite follow you.”

  “Doesn’t the inner wall divide the kampong in two?”

  “Yes, I had it specially built as a fallback position in the event an enemy managed to force the gate,” replied T
remal-Naik.

  “It was an excellent idea, my friend, and it’ll serve us magnificently. We’ll abandon the bungalow and storage huts and assemble our defences near the threshing floor and the servant’s quarters. That’ll give the Dyaks a clear path.”

  “What!” exclaimed Tremal-Naik. “You’d let them breach the wall?”

  “We won’t be here for much longer,” replied Yanez. “I plan to knock down part of the wall by the gate to lure in the Dyaks.”

  “Fortunately the inner wall is just as sturdy.”

  “We just need it to hold for a few hours; shouldn’t be difficult, I doubt the Dyaks will be trying very hard to knock it down. They’ll be drinking your bram,” said Yanez with a laugh. “We’ll fill the yard with every drop in your cellar; the sight of all those barrels should stop those savages in their tracks.”

  “They’ll get drunk, I’m certain of it.”

  “That’s my plan; once they’re drunk, we’ll set fire to the bungalow and granaries and escape into the forest. With the fire protecting our backs, I doubt anyone will even notice we’ve gone.”

  “Tippo Sahib himself couldn’t have devised a better plan.”

  “He wasn’t a Tiger of Mompracem,” smiled Yanez.

  “The Dyaks will fall into the trap.”

  “I’m sure of it. As soon as they realize the gate has been breached and that the parapets have been abandoned, they won’t hesitate to attack. There’s no shortage of spies hiding among the groves of thorns that will rush off with the news.”

  “When should we do this?” asked Kammamuri.

  “Tonight. After nightfall.”

  “To Yanez’ plan,” said Tremal-Naik, raising a cup of tea. “I have complete faith in you.”

  “Do you have a horse for Darma?”

  “I have four, all excellent mounts.”

  “Perfect, we’ll give the Dyaks quite a chase. How long did it take you to get here from the coast, Kammamuri?”

  “Three days, sir.”

  “We’ll try to move a little faster. With any luck we’ll find a prahu or a launch in one of the fishing villages.”

  The audacious plan was immediately relayed to the kampong’s defenders and all approved it without objections, everyone determined to make any sacrifice to escape.