The preparations began. The swivel guns were taken down and set up behind the inner wall, on hastily constructed platforms, the farm being well stocked with lumber, then the bram was brought up into the courtyard that stretched before the bungalow. There were more than eighty barrels, each containing two or three hectolitres; enough liqueur to intoxicate an army, that fermented mixture of rice, sugar and palm wine, being highly potent.
Shortly before sunset, the garrison destroyed the terraces and knocked down one side of the wall, then ignited it to attract the Dyaks and make them believe that a fire had erupted from inside the kampong.
Once those preparations had been completed, mounds of firewood were piled beneath the storage huts and granaries and in the ground floor of the bungalow after having been soaked in resin and rubber so that they would catch fire more easily. When all was ready, the garrison withdrew behind the inner fence and waited for the enemy.
As Yanez had predicted, once the Dyaks had spotted the flames consuming the parapets and had learned that the walls had been breached, they immediately began to prepare for a final attack.
Caught between fire and kampilans, they knew the men in the kampong would soon be forced to surrender.
Darkness was falling when the sentries announced the enemy was approaching. The Dyaks had formed six small attack columns and were advancing at a run, whooping deafeningly, confident of victory. When they had reached the grove of thorns, Yanez ordered his men to set fire to the wood they had piled in the bungalow and beneath the storage huts. Then, once the last of his men had retreated behind the inner wall, he had the swivel guns fire a few rounds to make it appear as if they were attempting to put up a last desperate defence.
The Dyaks were then in front of the outer wall. Spotting the breach, they hesitated a moment, fearing a trap, then passed beneath the terraces and poured into the kampong, howling at the top of their voices, kampilans flailing.
Spying their enemies rushing towards the barrels, Yanez had ordered his men to hold their fire and let them advance.
At the sight of those containers, the Dyaks halted a second time, eyeing them distrustfully.
Some of the barrels had been opened and the smell of alcohol quickly reached their noses.
“Bram! Bram!”
A cry of joy escaped from every throat. They rushed towards the barrels, tore off the lids and plunged their hands into the liquid.
More cries of joy filled the air. A drink was in order; the defenders had suspended fire. A sip, only a sip and they would resume their attack! But that first taste quickly drew them in; the bram was sweet and inviting, infinitely better than dodging a rain of bullets.
Determined to take their enemies, their leaders shouted until they were hoarse, but their cries went unheard as more warriors thronged about the barrels.
Eighty barrels of bram! What an orgy! They had never seen such bounty.
They cast down their shields and kampilans and drank with great relish, deaf to the cries and threats of their leaders.
Yanez and Tremal-Naik laughed happily, while their men quietly removed a few planks from the kampong’s back wall to enable their escape.
Black smoke soon began to spew from the bungalow and the storage huts. Within minutes a wall of fire arose between besiegers and besieged, but the Dyaks drank on, their eyes riveted on the bram.
Howling, laughing, singing, they opened barrel after barrel, scooping out the liquid with their hands, some even using the head-baskets they wore at their side.
In the end, their captains had joined them. The sherip had remained behind in the camp. Why not share in that prize now that the enemy guns had fallen silent?
Soon the first men staggered from the barrels, their stomachs full to bursting, fell to the ground and drifted off to sleep, oblivious to the growing flames and the sparks raining down upon them.
The bungalow was ablaze, and the granaries, stocked with provisions, burned like matchsticks, bathing that drunken revelry in a fiery glow.
It was time to escape. The Dyaks had gotten so drunk they had forgotten all about their enemy.
“Time to make a run for it!” commanded Yanez. “Leave everything except the carbines, the ammunition and the parangs.”
Helping the wounded, they silently snuck out through the opening in the back wall, crept past the outer perimeter then ran at full speed through the field, Tremal-Naik, Darma, and Kammamuri on horseback, leading the way. The tiger bounded after them, frightened by the brightening firelight.
Once they reached the outskirts of the western forest, the small squad stopped to take a breath. Thirty-nine had survived the attack, seven among them wounded. All turned their eyes towards the kampong to take one final look.
The farm was a blaze of light. The bungalow that had cost its owner so much work, burned like a large torch, spewing thick clouds of smoke and sparks into the air.
The outer walls had caught fire and were slowly beginning to crumble, the abandoned swivel guns emptying their last rounds into the night as they struck the ground. Several men could be seen moving among the flames, dragging the drunken warriors off to safety. The sherip must have kept several squads back as a precaution and sent them out to scout the kampong once the battle cries had faded.
“May those scoundrels burn in hell,” said Yanez, mounted on one of the horses. “I only regret not having gotten my hands on that wretched sherip. Let’s hope we cross paths again!”
“You may get your wish sooner than you think,” said Kammamuri who had turned his eyes northward. “We’ve been spotted and they’re coming after us!”
Chapter 13
The Retreat through the Forests
THE FIRELIGHT ILLUMINATED the entire field, and the Maratha had spotted a column of Dyaks advancing at full speed along the edge of the forest, likely the last of the sherip’s reserves, trying to approach undetected. Someone must have noticed their escape and sounded the alarm before they could vanish into the trees.
With a glance, Yanez and Tremal-Naik quickly determined they would not give battle, for though the bulk of their enemies had been felled by the bram, they were still greatly outnumbered.
“There looks to be about a hundred of them, and they’re all armed with rifles!” exclaimed the Portuguese. “The horses will carry the wounded; the rest of us will run alongside them. Tremal-Naik, Kammamuri, and Sambigliong, take a few men and cover our backs.”
Six of the wounded men were helped onto the three horses; the seventh joined Darma on the fourth horse and the squad quickly rushed off into the forest, fleeing towards the west.
Sambigliong had selected eight men, and moved to the rear, rifles drawn and ready. Though their enemies were still more than a kilometre away, they were determined not to let them draw any closer, firing the odd volley as they raced to keep within sight of the horses.
That wild run through the jungle lasted an hour, then Yanez and Tremal-Naik, having spotted a large grove of durian trees, ordered a short rest so that everyone could catch their breath.
Silence had fallen over the forest; the cries of their pursuers having faded long ago. Had the headhunters given up or were they advancing stealthily, planning to surprise them at the first opportunity?
“We’ll wait for them here,” said Yanez. “Even if we’ve lost them, I doubt it’ll take them long to find our tracks. I’d rather shoot at them from behind these trees, than have to fend off an attack out in the open. If we can deal those scoundrels another lesson, they’ll leave us be until their companions sober up. It should take them a while to recover from a bram hangover.”
“At least twenty-four hours,” confirmed the Bengali.
“More than enough time for us to reach the coast. We’ll have a good lead on them by then.”
“Provided they don’t go down the Kabatuan in their canoes. Otherwise they’d be waiting for us.”
“I hadn’t thought of that! Bah, if they attack us at sea, we’ll defend ourselves. More importantly we’ve got
to figure out where we can get a couple of prahus.”
“I know where there’s a fishing village, Señor Yanez,” said Kammamuri. “I hired a prahu there to take me to Mompracem. It shouldn’t be difficult to convince the fishermen to sell us a couple.”
They waited in the grove for more than an hour, but the Dyaks did not reappear. Certain their pursuers had lost their tracks and abandoned the chase, they decided, after a brief counsel, to resume their march.
They placed Darma and the wounded in the centre of the column and determinedly headed further into the jungle.
They marched all night, weapons drawn, ready for an ambush. As dawn broke, they set up camp along the bank of a small stream, perhaps one of the Kabatuan’s many tributaries.
The day passed uneventfully without further sight of their enemies and their fears of attack soon began to subside.
They marched through that endless forest for three more days, not encountering a soul, save for a few tapirs and the odd pack of babirussas. On the fifth day, towards sunset, they reached the base of the Crisallo Mountains, the large chain that stretches along the island’s western shore.
By the next afternoon, they had reached the tallest peak from where they caught their first glimpse of the sea. After a short rest they began their descent into a narrow canyon that led to the coast.
They had been marching for four hours, silently making their way around the large boulders strewn before them, when a distant cry stopped them in their tracks.
“The Dyaks?” asked Yanez, quickly turning about.
A volley thundered above them then a large band of men suddenly appeared along the ridge and began to race down the canyon’s wooded slopes.
“Scoundrels!” Yanez exclaimed furiously. “They planned to ambush us up here all along!”
“Captain,” said Sambigliong, “take a small escort and head for the coast with Miss Darma, Tremal-Naik and the wounded. Kammamuri says we’re only three miles from the sea.”
“What about you?” asked Tremal-Naik and the Portuguese.
“The others and I will keep those rascals at bay long enough for you to find us some prahus. There’s no other way, if we all try to run, we’ll never leave this canyon alive. Hurry, gentlemen, the enemy is almost upon us.”
“Do you think you can hold them off for half an hour?” asked Yanez.
“Maybe even an hour, Captain, provided we can make it up there,” said the Marianna’s brave quartermaster, pointing to a large cliff that towered over the centre of the canyon. “We’ll be able to hold them off for quite a while.”
“Yes, my good friend,” said Yanez, moved. “Once we’ve found the prahus we’ll fire our carbines. At the sound of the blast, head towards the coast. How far is the fishing village, Kammamuri?”
“A few hundred metres from the mouth of the canyon, Señor Yanez. Now, gentlemen, best you set off immediately. The Dyaks will be here at any moment!”
The first bullets were hissing sinisterly into the canyon, strafing the nearby rocks.
“We’ll see you soon!” shouted Yanez and Tremal-Naik, running off after the horses that bore Darma and the wounded.
“To me, my friends!” cried Sambigliong, turning towards his men. “We’ll prepare a surprise for those scoundrels! Everyone up on that cliff! Come, Kammamuri.”
Twenty of them remained, eight having gone to assist Yanez and Tremal-Naik, all well armed and well supplied with ammunition.
Within minutes they had scaled the cliff and taken shelter behind the large boulders that lined its slopes. The tiger had crouched behind some rocks, ready to pounce on the first Dyaks that dared to attack.
The enemy forces had already descended into the canyon and were now five hundred paces from the base of the cliff. There must have been a hundred and fifty of them, most armed with muskets and carbines.
Spotting their prey, the warriors fanned out among the bushes lining the bottom of the canyon and immediately opened fire.
“My friends,” shouted Sambigliong, turning to address his men, “We have to hold our ground until we hear Captain Yanez’ signal. Make every shot count.”
“Fire!” Kammamuri howled from the top of the cliff.
A powerful volley thundered from the rocks, felling the first squad of Dyaks that had attempted to advance. Of those twelve men, not one had remained standing.
“An excellent start, Sambigliong!” shouted Kammamuri. “By Shiva and Vishnu, let’s hope they keep attacking a dozen at a time!”
Furious at the destruction of their vanguard, the Dyaks instantly replied with a shower of volleys that echoed darkly throughout the narrow canyon.
Shots thundered from both sides, then the Dyaks, realizing their rifles would never have driven the defenders from the cliff, gathered into several squads for a final assault.
They drew their kampilans and rushed forward, howling at the top of their voices, but just as they reached the base of the cliff, a volley of musket fire stopped them in their tracks.
“Men!” shouted Sambigliong, to those brave souls who valiantly refused to surrender, “This is it! Fight to your last breath!”
Carbines covering their attack, the Dyaks rushed forward a second time, firing relentlessly.
Though their casualties mounted with every step, they had begun to scramble up the rocks, howling at the top of their voices, determined to avenge their numerous defeats and take the heads of those obstinate men that had caused them so much suffering.
The squad led by Sambigliong and Kammamuri resisted tenaciously. The battle was intensifying, becoming savage, fierce, inhuman. Men fell with furious cries, as rifles, kampilans and parangs found their marks.
Sambigliong and Kammamuri could only watch in anguish as their numbers began to whither. The Dyaks had reached the centre of the cliff, slaying all before them, and still no signal! What could have happened to Señor Yanez? Could the fishermen’s prahus have not yet returned to port? Questions that Kammamuri and Sambigliong thought over anxiously, knowing they would not be able to hold back the attack for much longer.
The Dyaks drew nearer and nearer, undaunted by that desperate resistance, their kampilans gleaming in the sun as they made their way up the cliff. Their guns had almost fallen silent, so assured were they of victory.
Sambigliong, forced to watch them behead the men stationed two thirds up the mountain, had let out a thunderous cry:
“Kammamuri! Send out the tiger!”
“Now, Darma!” howled the Maratha. “Tear them to pieces!”
Throughout the battle, the great cat had remained hidden behind a rock, anxious to join the fray. At that command she jumped forward with a frightening roar and attacked a man as he was about to behead a Javanese, sinking her teeth into the back of his neck.
At the sight of that beast, the Dyaks retreated down the rock, quickly reloading their muskets.
Darma immediately dropped the first man and attacked. With one swift leap she pounced upon a fleeing warrior, knocking him to the ground with a single blow. But just as she was about to tear out his throat a sharp blast struck her in the side.
She reared up on her hind legs for an instant, then crashed heavily to the ground.
“Darma!” howled Kammamuri. “They’ve killed her!”
Three gunshots suddenly thundered off in the distance.
“The signal! The signal!” Sambigliong shouted. “Retreat!”
Only eleven men remained. The others had fallen to Dyak bullets and kampilans, their headless bodies strewn about the slopes of the cliff.
Sambigliong grabbed Kammamuri. Though the enemy continued to fire, the good Maratha was about to brave the bullets to reach the tiger’s side.
“She’s dead,” said the quartermaster, “leave her.”
They had barely begun their desperate run through the canyon, when a second volley echoed from the coast.
Yanez must have been in a hurry. Running at full speed, the squad raced through the canyon, dodging a hail of bullets,
the Dyaks hot on their trail. They emerged in a small field on the outskirts of a tiny village comprised of fifteen or twenty huts built atop large poles a few paces from the sea.
“Señor Yanez!” shouted Sambigliong and Kammamuri, spotting the small prahus anchored along the shore, their sails raised, ready to depart.
The Portuguese, Darma, and Tremal-Naik had just stepped out of a hut; their escort had already gone off towards the ships.
“Hurry!” shouted Yanez, spying the small band of men racing towards him.
They reached the shore within minutes, exhausted, skin glistening with sweat and blood.
“And the others?” asked Yanez and Tremal-Naik in unison.
“Dead,” replied Kammamuri, barely able to catch his breath. “Master, they killed poor Darma!”
“Damn that wretched sherip!” shouted the Bengali, his face contorted with pain. “They’ve killed my beloved tiger!”
“And the Dyaks?” asked Yanez.
“They’ll be here soon,” said Sambigliong.
“Then there’s no time to waste! Tremal-Naik, you’ll take the larger ship with Darma and the eight men that came with us. Kammamuri, Sambigliong and the rest of their men will come with me.”
They scrambled aboard the ships and immediately set off, as the villagers, frightened by the Dyak war cries, fled into the nearby forest.
The wind was favourable and with a few tacks the two prahus left the small bay and quickly headed southwest, keeping close to shore.
By the time the Dyaks had reached the bay, it was too late. The ships were out of range.
Enraged at being thwarted once again, they vented their ire by setting fire to the village.
“Scoundrels!” exclaimed Yanez, his arm on the tiller. “If I still had my Marianna, I’d give them a lesson they’d never forget. Let’s hope we’ve seen the last of them.”
Driven by a cool northern wind, the two vessels had already sailed a considerable distance and were rounding Tanjung Gaya, heading towards Sapangar Bay, and the mouth of the Kabatuan.
Sandokan: The King of the Sea (The Sandokan Series Book 5) Page 11
