The Portuguese had purchased two small fishing prahus, low-hulled vessels, each fitted with an outrigger and large wicker sails. Tremal-Naik’s ship, the larger of the two, was armed with a lela; the other, under Yanez’ command, had an old swivel gun mounted on her bow.
“A couple of old scows,” said Sambigliong after a quick inspection. “They’re as old as I am.”
“They’re the best we could find, my friend,” replied Yanez. “And it took a lot of convincing to get those fishermen to sell them to us.”
“Are we sailing for Mompracem immediately?”
“We’ll coast to Nosong then make our way across. These old ships are barely seaworthy; best we stick close to shore for as long as we can.”
“I’m impatient to get back, Captain.”
“As am I, Sambigliong. Who knows what’s happened since Kammamuri set off.”
“The Tiger may be fighting the British.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me! Sandokan would never surrender to the Governor of Labuan without a fight. How I regret losing my ship! With both our Mariannas leading our prahus, we could have given the governor’s gunboats quite a battle.”
“I did all I could to defend her, Captain,” said Sambigliong.
“I know, my friend,” replied Yanez. “I’d never question your ability. Now let’s keep to the coast and try to sail as far from here as we can. If the wind holds, we’ll make Mompracem by tomorrow night.”
The sun had just set and night was rapidly descending over the waters. The sea was calm; the ships advanced towards the southwest, keeping no more than two or three cable lengths apart.
Sitting at the stern, on a large stone that served as the anchor, Yanez kept his hand on the tiller, a cigarette between his lips, while the bulk of his crew slept soundly, stretched out along the planks. Four men stood guard and tended to the rigging.
The darkness was thick about them, the waters black as night save for a tiny red speck off the shore of Sapangar, a small island to the west of the bay, likely a torch, perhaps a fisherman out for an evening catch.
The wind had fallen once they had rounded Tanjung Gaya, and the two ships now advanced at a crawl.
“Let’s hope we don’t get stuck here,” murmured the Portuguese. “This breeze would favour their attack.”
He stood guard until long past midnight, then not spotting anything suspicious he gave the tiller to Sambigliong and stretched out on an old wicker sail.
He was abruptly awakened a few hours later when the quartermaster cried out:
“To arms! On your feet!”
The two prahus had not advanced much during the night, and as it grew light the crews found themselves within sight of the northern tip of the island of Gaya.
At the sound of Sambigliong’s voice, Yanez sprang to his feet.
“Well, what is it?” he asked. “Can’t a man get some sleep? I—”
He fell silent as an uneasy look spread across his face.
A jong, a large ship fitted with two triangular sails, was just emerging from the bay, followed by a steam launch and a half dozen war canoes.
“This doesn’t bode well,” the Portuguese murmured.
As if to confirm his thoughts, a warning blast thundered from the jong’s meriam, a command for the two prahus to halt.
“The Dyaks, gentlemen!” shouted Sambigliong, having rushed to the bow to get a better look at the men aboard those ships. “Señor Yanez, tack to port and head toward the coast!”
The Portuguese cursed loudly.
“Again!” he exclaimed. “This is the end!”
It was folly to try to undertake a battle against such an overwhelming force, armed with lelas, meriams and perhaps even a few swivel guns. Escape was impossible: the steam launch, also manned by Malays and Dyaks, would quickly overtake the two old ships.
Retreating towards the island of Gaya and attempting to find shelter in its thick forests was their only chance.
“Head for shore!” shouted Yanez. “And arm your rifles.”
Tremal-Naik’s prahu which was seven or eight cable lengths from Yanez’, had already tacked to port and begun to sail toward the island.
But it was too late. Having immediately grasped the fugitives’ intentions, the jong had tacked and manoeuvred between the two prahus, firing her lelas at the enemies’ rigging, as the steam launch rapidly drew nearer.
“Ah! Scoundrels!” shouted Yanez. “Divide and conquer is it? Tigers of Mompracem, draw your weapons! We’ll fight ‘til our last breath!”
He grabbed the carbine and opened fire, shooting at the jong’s deck. His men were quick to follow, filling the air with musket fire.
Though trapped between the large sailing ship and the steam launch, Tremal-Naik’s prahu had immediately joined the fray, the crew’s carbines thundering furiously as they attempted to ward off their attackers.
But though they struggled valiantly, they stood little chance against such powerful foes. A broadside of grapeshot fired at the Bengali’s prahu brought the mast crashing down and stopped her in her tracks. The steam launch followed with a round of volleys, smashing a hole through the ship’s side.
“Tigers of Mompracem!” shouted Yanez, having noticed Tremal-Naik’s desperate situation. “Our friends are in danger!”
The steam launch and the two war canoes were closing in on the Bengali’s vessel, determined to board her. Yanez’ prahu tried to sail to the rescue, but the jong quickly moved to block her path.
“Fire at her deck, my Tigers!” the Portuguese shouted. “We’ll go down fighting!”
A metallic voice suddenly thundered from the jong’s stern:
“Surrender and I’ll spare your lives!”
The sherip had appeared on the quarterdeck, wearing his green turban, his right hand resting on a talwar.
“Ah! Dog!” howled Yanez. “Here’s my reply!”
He levelled his carbine and fired.
The sherip clutched his chest and fell upon the helmsman as a cry of fury erupted from the jong’s crew.
“Finally!” shouted Yanez. “And now for my last cigarette...”
Chapter 14
The American Ship
DEFEAT WAS IMMINENT. Though Tremal-Naik’s crew had put up a valiant resistance, his ship had been boarded and the hunter and his daughter had been dragged aboard the steam launch just moments before his prahu disappeared beneath the waves.
Yanez could only look on helplessly as the ship sped off towards the south, unconcerned it seemed, with the outcome of the battle.
Only seven men remained aboard the Portuguese’s ship, the jong had three times as many and her weapons were far superior to the prahu’s old swivel gun. The war canoes advanced from all sides, anxious to end the battle and finally take their prey.
The choice was simple: surrender or go down with the ship. Though the island was only eight to ten cable lengths away, a broadside of grapeshot had destroyed the prahu’s two sails and dashed any hope Yanez had had of reaching the shore and escaping into the forest.
The seven brave men had not stopped firing, coolly burning through their last cartridges. The Portuguese led the fight, shooting without pause, undaunted by their impending defeat, his last cigarette pressed between his lips.
The jong raced toward the prahu at full sail, intent on ramming the tiny ship. Assured of victory, she had suspended fire, her crew preferring not to waste ammunition on a handful of men.
“Tigers of Mompracem,” shouted Yanez, watching the enemy ready their grapples. “Fire another volley then draw your parangs! We’re going to board her!”
Those seven demons who preferred death to surrender, had just executed that order, when a powerful discharge thundered from behind them.
Seconds later the jong’s mainmast, severed by that unexpected blow, crashed down to the deck, blanketing the crew beneath its immense sail.
Surprised by that unexpected assistance, Yanez quickly turned about.
An enormous steamship manned
by what appeared to be a large European crew, was rounding the northern tip of Tanjung Gaya, sailing towards them at great speed.
“We’re saved, my friends!” he shouted as a second shell smashed the jong’s rudder and a third sliced one of the war canoes in two.
He leapt onto the aft bulwark, cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted:
“To me, my countrymen!”
A fourth cannon blast thundered in reply, tearing an enormous hole in the jong’s starboard side just below the waterline; the men manning that great ship must have realized a fellow countryman was in extreme danger and, without need of further explanation, continued to fire at the Dyak attackers.
Several officers could be seen gesturing from the bridge, attempting to reassure the Portuguese.
At the sight of that iron colossus advancing towards them, the war canoes quickly turned and began to row back toward the island, abandoning the jong to her fate, certain of defeat now that the steam launch had disappeared with her prisoners.
Struck by three cannon balls, the jong was listing badly; water roared through the breach in her starboard side. Her crew fired one last volley at the advancing foe, then jumped into the water.
“Tigers!” shouted Yanez. “Man the oars! Let’s go look for the sherip!”
While the steamship was lowering two launches into the water, the pirates of Mompracem quickly rowed the prahu to the sinking jong’s side.
Only the dead and wounded remained aboard. All those who had survived the blast were swimming desperately toward the war canoes that had retreated to the island.
Yanez, Kammamuri and Sambigliong quickly climbed aboard the ship and rushed toward the quarterdeck where they had last seen the old man.
The sherip lay on an old sail, his fists clutching his chest, attempting to stem the blood gushing from his wound. At the sight of those three men, he rose to his knees, and drew a long-barrelled pistol from his belt. But before he could fire, Kammamuri rushed forward and tore away the weapon.
“I thought you were dead,” said the Maratha. “No matter, we’ll send you off to hell.”
He pointed the pistol at the sherip’s head, but Yanez quickly stayed his arm.
“He’s worth more to us alive than dead,” he said. “Best not be too hasty. Sambigliong, take him aboard the prahu. Hurry, the jong will be underwater in a few minutes!”
Listing ever more dangerously, the ship threatened to capsize at any moment. Yanez and his men jumped back aboard the prahu, just as one of the launches cast a tow rope.
The great steamship had come to a halt two cable lengths from them; her crew had gathered upon her bulwarks, watching that rescue with great curiosity.
“They’re European!” exclaimed Yanez, as his men bound the sherip’s arms and legs. “Are they British?”
“They speak English,” said Kammamuri, having heard an order given by the officer in command of the launch.
“It’d be ironic if we owed our lives to our enemies,” Then, with a heavy sigh, he added: “What of Tremal-Naik and Darma? Did you see what happened to them?”
“The steamer headed south, Señor Yanez.”
“You’re sure she didn’t head back towards the mouth of the Kabatuan?”
“Positive; they weren’t delivered to the Dyaks.”
“The mystery deepens. Where have they been taken?”
A thud interrupted him. The prahu had come up against the bottom rung of the steamship’s companion ladder. A well-built man, about fifty years of age, with a close-cropped grey beard, wearing a white hat and a dark blue uniform, stood waiting for them at the top.
Yanez was the first up the rungs.
“Thank you for your help, sir,” he said in English. “You arrived in the nick of time.”
“My pleasure, sir,” the man replied, vigorously shaking the Portuguese’s hand. “Any of your countrymen would have done the same. You shouldn’t show those savages any mercy once they’re on the attack.”
“Have I the honour of addressing the commander?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yanez de Gomera,” the Portuguese replied.
The commander started. He took Yanez by the arm and led him onto the deck just as Sambigliong and the others carried the sherip aboard.
“Yanez de Gomera! Yanez de Gomera…” he repeated, studying the Portuguese closely. “That name isn’t new to me, sir. By God! The same Yanez de Gomera that fought alongside the Tiger of Malaysia those many years ago?”
“The very same.”
“I was in Sarawak the day your forces took the city. Those Tigers were invincible; I’ve never seen their equal. It was an honour to have come to your aid. Why were those men after you?”
“It’s a long story. Tell me, sir, you aren’t British, are you?”
“No, sir. American. Californian. Commander Harry Brien at your service. Welcome aboard the Nebraska.”
“Well, Commander, allow me to compliment you on your ship. She’s truly first class.”
“I doubt you’d find her equal anywhere in the Pacific,” the American replied with a smile. “She’s a mighty vessel, almost indestructible, armed with the latest weaponry and as fast as an arrow.”
He turned towards the crewmen standing nearby. Many had gathered about the Portuguese’s crew, plying them with questions while the ship’s physician tended to the sherip, trying to stem the blood streaming from his wound.
“Find some breakfast for these good people,” he said. “Mr. de Gomera, come with me, sir. Ah! What should I do with your prahu?”
“Leave her be, Commander,” the Portuguese replied. “She’s served her purpose.”
“Where would you like me to take you, sir?”
“As close to Mompracem as possible, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“No trouble at all, sir, it’s on our way. Truth be told, I’ve always wanted to pay your island a visit. Come, Mr. de Gomera, you must be hungry.”
They walked towards the stern and went below. Moments later the two launches were brought aboard, and the prahu was cut loose and abandoned to the waves.
Once the ship had set off again, the commander ordered breakfast to be served in the aft quarters.
“We can talk while we eat,” he said graciously. “My kitchen and my wine cellar are at your disposal, Mr. de Gomera.”
By meal’s end, Yanez had related every detail of their adventures: the sherip, the battles against the Dyaks, even touching on Sandokan’s plight.
“Mr. de Gomera,” said the commander, offering his guest a Manila cigar, “I’d like to make you a proposal.”
“By all means, sir,” the Portuguese replied.
“Care to guess why I’m in these waters?”
“I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
“I’m heading for Sarawak to try to sell this ship.”
Yanez shot to his feet excitedly.
“Sell your ship!” he exclaimed. “Isn’t she a naval vessel?”
“Not at all, Mr. de Gomera. She was built in a shipyard in Oregon, for the Sultan of Samarinda. I’ve been told that he planned to avenge his father who was killed by the Dutch in a bloody attack several years ago.”
“In 1844,” said Yanez. “I remember it.”[4]
“The sultan had already paid the builders an advance of twenty thousand pounds, promising the remainder upon delivery and a bonus if he defeated the Dutch in battle. As you can see, we haven’t skimped on the weapons; she can take on several cruisers at once. Unfortunately, when we reached the mouth of the Koti, I was informed that the sultan had been assassinated by one of his relatives. Seems the Dutch have been doing a little scheming behind the scenes, a few well placed bribes quickly brought the vendetta to an end. His heir did not want the ship, and decided to forfeit the advance.”
“He’s a fool,” said Yanez. “With such a ship he could have made even the Sultan of Varauni tremble.”
“I telegraphed the builders from Ternate and they instructed me to offer her to the
Rajah of Sarawak or some other sultan. Would you like to buy her, Mr. de Gomera? You could rule these waves with her.”
“How much?” asked Yanez.
“Fifty thousand pounds, sir,” said the American.
“Let’s make it sixty, provided the engine crew remains aboard at double their present salary.”
“I’m sure they’ll all accept. Every one of them is an adventurer at heart, as good with a rifle as they are with a monkey wrench.”
“It’s agreed then?”
“By God! I’d be a fool to refuse, Mr. de Gomera. It’s a golden offer.”
“Where should I drop you and your crew?”
“Labuan if possible, we’ll book passage on the next P&O ship for Shanghai. Once there, it’ll be easy to find a ship heading for San Francisco.”
“As soon as we reach Mompracem, I’ll have one of our prahus take you there directly,” said Yanez.
He drew out a small book that he always kept hidden in a pouch under his shirt, asked for a pen and signed his name on a slip of paper.
“Here’s a cheque for sixty thousand pounds, payable on demand at the Bank of Pontianak. Commander Brien, from this moment the ship is mine and I assume command.”
“And I, Mr. de Gomera, am but a passenger,” replied the American, putting the cheque into his pocket. “Now, let’s inspect your new ship.”
“That won’t be necessary. I have a pretty good idea of what she can do. How many cannons does she have?”
“Fourteen pieces in all, four thirty-six pounders among them. The artillery is absolutely formidable.”
“Perfect. Now, I must deal with the sherip. He’ll either tell me where the launch took my friends, or I’ll torture him until he takes his last breath.”
“I’ve just the thing, something I learned from a soldier back home. Guaranteed to loosen even the most stubborn tongue,” said the American. “Shall we keep her on course for Mompracem, Mr. de Gomera?”
“At full speed,” replied the Portuguese. “The British may have already moved against Sandokan.”
“This ship could sink their entire squadron, Mr. de Gomera. The thirty-six pounders alone could blast the Governor’s gunboats out of the water.”
Sandokan: The King of the Sea (The Sandokan Series Book 5) Page 12
