Sandokan and Tremal-Naik sat at the stern beneath an awning the fishermen had erected to shelter them from the sun. Yanez, the Frenchman and the mahout went below deck to get some rest in the cabin the pilot had placed at their disposal.
The sloop, which appeared to be a good vessel, pulled away from the shore and set off towards a group of islands that were just barely visible through the thin fog rising over the lagoon.
A terrible stench rose from the water. Numerous corpses floated about the ship, dragged there by the many canals that emptied into the Sundarbans. Marabous and buzzards sat perched upon them, greedily tearing at the skin and swallowing mouthfuls of rotting flesh.
“One of our floating cemeteries,” said Tremal-Naik.
“Not a very happy place,” replied Sandokan. “The government of Bengal would be better served if it buried the dead beneath three metres of dirt. It would put an end to the cholera epidemics that rage through its capital almost every year.”
“The Ganges carries the dead to heaven.”
“Is that where it empties?” laughed Sandokan.
“I can’t say for sure,” smiled Tremal-Naik, “I do know that it empties into the Bay of Bengal.”
“Do all Hindus go to heaven?”
“Oh no! The Ganges may be sacred, but its waters will not purify the soul of any man that has killed a cow.”
“A harsh crime in this part of world?”
“Almost unforgivable. The man’s soul will be cast into Naraka, our hell. He’ll suffer constant thirst and hunger; snakes will prey on him endlessly, until eventually, after thousands and thousands of years, he’ll be reincarnated as a cow.”
“A frightening place your hell,” said Sandokan.
“Our holy books say it’s a land of eternal darkness, filled with the sounds of tortured souls screaming in terror. Yama, Lord of Death and Justice, dispenses punishment for every kind of sin. Some souls are boiled in oil, some crushed beneath mountains, others beheaded, over and over again. Souls can be attacked by vultures, snakes, reptiles… The list is almost endless.”
“And those punishments are eternal?”
“No, but they last for thousands of years. Then, once the soul has completed its penance in the Underworld, it’s reborn as an insect, bug or bird. It’ll live several lives as higher beasts, until, at last, it’s born a human and starts climbing through the castes.”
“What about heaven?”
“We have more than one,” Tremal-Naik replied. “Indra is Lord of Svarga, home of all righteous souls; Vaikuntha is Vishnu’s paradise; Shiva lives atop Mount Kalaish; Brahmins have satyaloka, the highest heaven, where they live with Brahma and Sarasvati.”
Suddenly a rifle thundered and a bullet hissed past their ears. The two men instantly sprang to their feet.
One of the eight Indians at the bow had fired at them. He was crouched behind a wooden crate, partially engulfed in a cloud of smoke, still clutching the weapon in his hand.
Sandokan and Tremal-Naik had been so taken by surprise that they still had not moved, believing in good faith that the rifle had gone off accidentally, unwilling to imagine that it could have been a shot fired in betrayal. A cry from the pilot, however, suddenly confirmed they were in grave danger.
The old man had quickly abandoned the tiller and was racing across the deck howling:
“Attack! Attack! Draw your knives and attack!”
Sandokan roared.
He reached for his carbine, which he had leaned against the bulwark and discovered it had disappeared along with Tremal-Naik’s.
Quick as thought he grabbed the tiller rod, tore it from its socket and rushed towards the bow where the crew had gathered to make their stand.
“We’ve been betrayed! Yanez! de Lussac! On deck!” he thundered.
Tremal-Naik had been quick to follow, armed with an axe he had found wedged in a barrel lying among some rope.
The Indian crew had pulled out their knives and drawn the rumaals they had concealed in their large canvas jackets.
“Attack!” repeated the pilot who had armed himself with a talwar, a short scimitar popular among the Marathas. “Kill the young girl’s father, Suyodhana’s enemy.”
“Ah! Wretched old man!” shouted Tremal-Naik. “You recognized me? You’ll die!”
The eight Indians rushed forward, eager to do their master’s bidding. Strong and extremely loyal, they had been selected with great care from among the bravest men on Rajmangal. Three attacked Sandokan; the others, led by the pilot, rushed at Tremal-Naik.
The Tiger of Malaysia moved to assist his friend, but the Thugs, guessing his intentions, immediately blocked his path.
“Head for the stern, Tremal-Naik!” shouted the pirate. “Hold them off for as long as you can. Yanez, de Lussac, mahout, we need your help!”
The three drew nearer; Sandokan leaped to one side, raised the heavy rod, and swung at his closest adversary.
Struck in the head, the Thug crashed to the ground, spattering the bulwark with brains and blood.
At the same moment a rumaal hissed towards the pirate captain and tightened about his right arm.
“Got you!” shouted a strangler. “Throw him to the ground, Fikar.”
“Take this!” shouted Sandokan.
He dropped the rod, rammed his head into the Thug’s chest and sent the man reeling towards the opposite end of the deck, gasping for breath. Then he turned to face his last attacker, and with a mighty kick knocked the man’s knife from his hand.
Unfortunately the Indian was stronger and more courageous than Sandokan had anticipated. He lunged at the pirate’s throat but lost his grip as a large wave smashed against the sloop and knocked them to the ground.
In the meantime, Tremal-Naik, attacked by the pilot and five other men, was desperately defending himself, swinging fiercely with his axe as he retreated towards the stern.
He had avoided the rumaals and escaped a blow from the old pilot’s talwar, but the six were closing in and he knew he would not be able to fend them off much longer. One was about to lunge at him from behind when Yanez, de Lussac and the mahout charged onto the quarterdeck.
Awakened with a start by Sandokan’s cries, they had immediately jumped out of their hammocks and searched for their carbines, but like Tremal-Naik and Sandokan, their weapons were nowhere to be found.
One of the Thugs, taking advantage of their slumber, had probably sneaked off with them and tossed them into the lagoon.
De Lussac and the mahout, however, were still armed with their hunting knives. Yanez had drawn his navaja from his sash, a folding knife with a blade as long as a sword’s.
Armed and determined the Portuguese quickly raced up the stairs yelling: “Attack, my friends! We’ve been betrayed.”
At the sight of the newcomers, five of the Thugs surrounding Tremal-Naik immediately rushed towards them, two going to challenge the Frenchman, while the other three moved against Yanez and the mahout.
The pilot and one of his men continued to attack the Bengali, forcing the hunter back towards the port bulwark.
“Ah! Scoundrels!” shouted the Portuguese, leaping towards the awning that stretched over the stern. With one blow he knocked it down and quickly wrapped the canvas around his left arm. “Is this how you treat your guests? I’ll take these two, you take the other, mahout, let’s teach them a lesson they won’t forget.”
The battle grew fiercer, each of the twelve men fighting for their lives, while the sloop, left unattended, drifted across the lagoon, rolling and pitching with the waves.
The Thugs, had cast aside their rumaals and were now fighting solely with their knives; the two Europeans, Tremal-Naik and the mahout held their ground bravely, matching them blow for blow.
Sandokan was not as fortunate. Hands at his enemy’s throat, the two rolled about the deck locked in struggle. The Thug resisted tenaciously, managing repeatedly to squirm free from that deadly grip, however, each time he rose to his knees, the pirate knocked him down
with a powerful blow.
Just as he had grabbed the man by the neck again, he felt the tiller rod against his leg, the rocking of the ship having rolled it to his side. With one swift movement he let go of his adversary, sprang to his feet, grabbed the rod and brought it crashing down upon the Indian’s head.
The Thug fell still without a sound, dead.
“That’s two,” shouted Sandokan. “Hang on, my friends! I’m coming to help!”
He was about to rush to the stern, when he was attacked from behind.
Despite several fractured ribs, the Indian he knocked down earlier with a blow to the chest, had gotten up and come to aid his friend in battle. His arrival, however, had been ill timed for now alone he was no match for the terrible Tiger of Malaysia.
“What!” exclaimed the pirate. “Still alive? Well, not for much longer.”
He grabbed the man and hurled him into the lagoon with such speed the poor wretch struck the water before he could take another step.
A cry of pain erupted from the stern, followed by a curse from Yanez. The mahout, battling a Thug a few paces from the Portuguese, had fallen, stabbed through the chest.
A triumphant cry filled the air as the poor man hit the deck.
“Forward! Kali protects us!”
That cry, however, almost immediately gave way to howls of fear and agony. Seconds after the mahout had fallen, his hands trying to stem the torrent of blood gushing from his wound, the pilot collapsed four paces from him, his skull cleaved in two by an axe.
The ship had pitched suddenly and knocked him off balance, and the hunter had been quick to strike. The old man dropped his talwar, took two steps forward then crashed to the deck, spreading blood and brains across the planks.
One Thug now stood before Tremal-Naik, but the battle would not last long for the man’s knife was no match for the Bengali’s axe.
Sandokan quickly scanned the deck and saw that Yanez ran the greatest risk, for the Portuguese was still battling three attackers.
Though outnumbered two to one, the lieutenant handled his knife well, keeping his adversaries at bay with a combination of quick attacks and sudden retreats.
“Yanez first,” said Sandokan.
In an instant, he was at the scoundrels’ backs and shouted:
“Die you dogs!”
Two Thugs turned about and rushed towards him shouting:
“Death to the infidel!”
With a swing of the heavy rod, Sandokan separated the two, then swung again at the closest and knocked him to the ground with a lethal blow to the temple.
Frightened, the second Thug was about to turn and run towards the bow when the rod came crashing down between his shoulders. He fell to his knees, then got up again, jumped over the bulwark and dove into the lagoon.
Sandokan was about to attack the man fighting Yanez when the Indian suddenly fell still and collapsed to the deck, run through the heart by the Portuguese’s navaja.
With defeat imminent, the two Thugs battling Lieutenant de Lussac fled towards the bow and dove into the water, disappearing among the reeds and lotus leaves lining the shore of a small island.
Only one Thug remained aboard, Tremal-Naik’s adversary, the strongest and perhaps bravest member of the crew; he fought ferociously, dodging the Indian’s axe with the agility of a primate.
Sandokan, still clutching the heavy rod, had drawn closer and was about to deal him a deadly blow when Yanez quickly shouted:
“No, spare him, we’ll make him talk.”
The two pirates and the lieutenant sprang at him simultaneously, knocked him down and tied him up with the very rumaal he had cast away just minutes earlier.
Chapter 22
Sirdar
THE PRISONER, THE only Thug to have survived that bloody battle, for the three who had jumped into the lagoon had not resurfaced, was a handsome young man with a Herculean build. Though dark skinned, he carried himself with the dignity of one of high caste.
As his arms and legs were being bound, he turned his head towards Tremal-Naik. The hunter was watching his every move, ready to use the axe that was still red with the old pilot’s blood.
“Kill me, I do not fear death,” he said. “We lost, I expect no mercy.”
He fell silent then lay down on the deck and calmly awaited his fate.
“Lieutenant de Lussac,” said Sandokan. “Keep an eye on him. If he attempts to escape, kill him. We’ll tend to the dead. Is the mahout still alive?”
“He breathed his last a few minutes ago,” said Yanez. “Poor man! The knife is still in his chest.”
“I avenged him,” said Sandokan. “Dogs! The trap was well executed; it’s a miracle we’re still alive.”
“They even stole our carbines.”
“How did they know we were here?”
“The prisoner will tell us all in time. Best tend to the dead, Sandokan.”
With Tremal-Naik’s assistance, they threw the Thugs’ lifeless bodies into the river then carried the mahout into the stern cabin and covered him with a cloth. They would bury him later, after they had rejoined their men.
Once the sails had been set, the tiller rod had been put back in place, and several buckets of water had dashed the blood from the planks, they dragged the prisoner to the stern.
The Thug offered no resistance, but as his enemies drew round him his eyes grew wide with fear.
“Young man,” said Sandokan, “I’ll give you the chance to decide your fate. Freedom or death. The choice is yours. Be warned, we will not tolerate deception. Lie to us, and you’ll suffer the worst tortures imaginable.”
“What do you want of me?” asked the prisoner.
“Information. Answer our questions.”
“Thugs cannot betray the secrets of their cult.”
“Have you ever heard of yuma?” asked Tremal-Naik.
The Thug started as a look of terror swept across his face.
“Ah, I see you’ve heard of it. Then you must know that it can loosen the tongue of even the most stubborn mule. I know how to make it, yuma leaves, some lemon juice and a bit of opium; I have it all at hand. Best you answer our questions. Remain silent, and we’ll force you to drink.”
Sandokan and Yanez smiled in agreement.
“You have a minute to decide,” said Tremal-Naik. “We have no time to waste.”
Instead of replying the Indian fixed his eyes upon the Bengali and asked:
“You’re the little girl’s father, aren’t you? You’re that tiger hunter from the Black Jungle who years ago kidnapped the Priestess of the Eastern Temple.”
“Who told you that?” asked Tremal-Naik.
“The old pilot.”
“Who told him?”
The young man did not reply. He lowered his eyes; and then suddenly his face grew dark as if a battle raged within him.
“What did that miserable wretch tell you?” asked Tremal-Naik. “Are you all scoundrels?”
“Scoundrels!” exclaimed the young man, drawing himself up to his knees. “Yes, they’re scoundrels! That’s what they are! They’re vile murderers and I hate myself for being one of them!
“My father was a Brahmin,” he sobbed. “That I should have fallen so low… So much blood and slaughter… Curse them all! I renounce them!”
Tremal-Naik, Sandokan and the two Europeans, stunned by that sudden outburst, had remained silent. They had noticed, however, that a sudden change had come over that man, who until moments ago, had appeared to be one of Kali’s most fanatical followers.
“So you’re not a Thug?” asked Tremal-Naik after a few minutes had passed.
“My chest may bear the mark of that vile cult,” said the young man bitterly, “but in my heart I am still a Brahmin.”
“What tale is this?” asked Lieutenant de Lussac.
“May I be reborn as the vilest insect, if I’m lying,” said the young man.
“So how did you end up among those scoundrels? How did you turn from Brahma to Kali?” asked
Tremal-Naik.
The young man fell silent for several minutes, lowered his eyes and began to speak.
“I come from an old noble family. My ancestors were rajahs, and my father was a rich and powerful Brahmin. Like them, I should have held a good place in society, worthy of our name. But my vices were my downfall. I gambled away my riches and became more wretched than an untouchable. One day, I met an old man who claimed to be a mahant...”
“A mahant?” asked Tremal-Naik.
“Let him finish,” said Sandokan.
“He found me among a band of street performers,” continued the young man, “who I had joined so as not to die of hunger. Impressed perhaps by my uncommon strength and agility, he offered me food and shelter if I promised to embrace Kali and agreed to do her bidding. I learned later that the Thugs were recruiting a number of select men to spy on the Bengali authorities, who were threatening to destroy them.
“I had no choice. Poor and miserable, I accepted, and the son of a Brahmin became a wretched Thug. They forced me to kill, and made me offer the blood of my victims to their goddess. I know you’re planning to attack their lair. I, Sirdar, place my strength and courage at your disposal.”
“How did you know we were headed for Rajmangal?” asked Tremal-Naik.
“The pilot told me.”
“Who was that man?”
“The commander of one of the two ghrabs that attacked your ship.”
“He followed us?”
“Yes, with twelve of his crew, the strongest Thugs he had aboard. We suspected that you were heading for Khari; we’d learned that one of your servants had acquired two elephants.
“We watched your every move. We knew of your connection with the men aboard the small ship and that you’d captured the mahant, the very wretch who convinced me to join the Thugs.
“We followed you across the jungle, spying on you from among the reeds, and kidnapped the devadasi to prevent her from leading you to our lair.”
“Surama?” exclaimed Yanez.
“Yes, that’s the young woman’s name,” said Sirdar.
“Where is she now?”
“Rajmangal more than likely,” replied the young man. “They were afraid she’d lead you into the caverns beneath the island.”
Sandokan: The Two Tigers (The Sandokan Series Book 4) Page 17