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

by Emilio Salgari

  The Malay grimaced as if to hide a smile.

  “I’ve never given you any reason to doubt my loyalty, sir,” he replied, a note of resentment in his voice.

  “We’ll see soon enough,” replied Yanez. “Now while Sambigliong prepares our defences, I’ll pay poor Tangusa a visit.”

  Chapter 2

  The Sherip

  THE MARIANNA HAD been designed to rival even the most elegant yachts and her interior was nothing short of opulent. Her main cabin, which served as a mess hall and receiving area, had been decorated and furnished with no expense spared. The shelves, chairs and dining table were of the finest mahogany, trimmed with gold and inlayed with mother-of-pearl. The floor disappeared beneath thick Persian carpets, Indian tapestries hung from the walls and the windows were adorned with pink silk curtains embroidered with silver. A large Venetian lamp hung from the ceiling, and a magnificent collection of weapons from every corner of the world filled the spaces between the drapery.

  Tangusa lay on a green velvet couch, bandaged from head to toe and wrapped in a large white woollen blanket. His wounds had been fully tended to and his spirits quickly restored by a double shot of brandy.

  “How do you feel, my friend?” asked Yanez.

  “Kickatany’s ointments are miraculous,” the patient replied. “I started feeling better the moment he began applying them to my wounds.”

  “Then you can tell me what happened. Is Tremal-Naik still at Pangutaran’s kampong?”

  “Yes, Señor Yanez. When I left, they were strengthening their defences so they could keep the Dyaks at bay until your arrival. When did our messenger reach Mompracem?”

  “Three days ago, we readied our best ship and set sail immediately.”

  “What does the Tiger of Malaysia make of this sudden Dyak uprising? Up until three weeks ago, those headhunters treated Tremal-Naik like their guardian angel.”

  “We’ve talked about it at length and come up with various theories, but I doubt we’ve discerned their real motives. Why would the Dyaks rise up and destroy Tremal-Naik’s farms? After all the work he’s put into them. Six years of toil and more than a hundred thousand rupees spent in vain! Do you have any ideas?”

  “I can tell you what I know. A month ago, maybe earlier, a man disembarked on these shores. He was neither Malay nor Bornean. He wore a green turban, like all those that have made the great pilgrimage to Mecca and it was rumoured he was a sherip, a descendant of the Prophet Mohammed. As you may be aware, sir, the Dyaks in these islands do not believe in forest spirits, nor do they believe in the antus, the good and evil spirits worshipped by their brethren in the south, they’re all Muslims, as devout as any you’d find in Central India. I don’t know what he said to those savages, but he somehow convinced them to attack Tremal-Naik and destroy his plantations.”

  “What tale is this?” the Portuguese exclaimed in surprise.

  “Unfortunately, a true one, Señor Yanez. Tremal-Naik and Miss Darma are in grave danger; we must get to them immediately if they’re to escape with their lives.”

  “So this sherip isn’t just trying to run him off his land…”

  “He wants the Bengali’s head, Señor Yanez.”

  The Portuguese turned pale.

  “Who is he? Why would he lead an attack against Tremal-Naik? Have you seen him?”

  “Yes, I caught a glimpse of him shortly before I escaped from the Dyaks.”

  “Is he young? Old?”

  “Old, sir; and as tall and thin as a fakir. But there’s more to the mystery,” added Tangusa. “I’ve learned that two weeks ago a steamship flying British colours dropped anchor near here and the sherip had a long conversation with her commander.”

  “How long did the ship remain in these waters?”

  “She sailed off the following morning, but I suspect she may have unloaded arms during the night. Quite a few Dyaks now possess muskets and pistols whereas just a few weeks ago you would have been hard pressed to find one armed with anything other than a sumpitan or a kampilan.”

  “Could the British be behind all this?” wondered Yanez, visibly worried.

  “It’s possible, sir.”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me. There’s a rumour going round Labuan that they’re planning an attack on Mompracem. The British government suddenly feels we pose a threat to its colonies; it would like nothing better than to take our island and force us to resettle on some distant shore.”

  “One would think the British would be grateful; the Tigers of Mompracem did them a great service when they rid India of the Thugs!”

  “Would a lion show its gratitude to a monkey for having rid it of its fleas?”

  “No, sir, those beasts have no feelings.”

  “And neither does the British government.”

  “Are you going to let them chase you off Mompracem?”

  A smile appeared on Yanez’ lips. He lit a cigarette, took a few puffs, then said calmly:

  “It wouldn’t be the first time the Tigers of Mompracem took to battle against the British Lion. We made them tremble in the past, once we even forced the colonists of Labuan to take to the sea, they knew better than to try and fend off one of our attacks. Rest assured, they won’t take us by surprise.”

  “Has Sandokan sent prahus to Tiga to gather reinforcements?”

  “Yes, and they won’t be any less courageous than the Tigers of old,” replied Yanez. “If England tries to take that patch of land we’ve called home for the last thirty years, they’ll face our swords and cannons. We’ll set fire to all of Malaysia if need be. The old Lion may be insatiable, but we’ll give no quarter. The Tiger will never lower his flag in defeat.”

  Suddenly Sambigliong, the Marianna’ s quartermaster, cried out:

  “Captain on deck!”

  “Excellent timing, my Malay friend,” replied Yanez. “I’ve just finished my chat with Tangusa. What is it?”

  “They’re advancing.”

  “The Dyaks?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “That should make things interesting.”

  The Portuguese left the room, climbed the ladder and stepped on deck. The sun was setting behind a golden cloud, staining the sea red, a light breeze rippled across the waters.

  The tide was at its lowest ebb, and the Marianna, still stranded upon the sandbank, had listed slightly to port, her deck now sloping gently towards the water.

  The enemy had multiplied. Four double canoes and a dozen large launches had emerged from behind the small islands at the mouth of the river and were advancing slowly towards the middle of the bay. A small prahu led the attack, a meriam peering from her bow, a brass cannon slightly larger than a lela.

  “Ah!” Yanez said calmly. “So they wish to measure themselves against us? Well so be it; we’ll give them their fill of powder. I’d say we have more than enough to dispatch this lot, wouldn’t you, Sambigliong?”

  “We’ve got an ample supply, Captain,” the Malay replied.

  “They don’t appear to be in any hurry, my friend!”

  “They’re waiting for nightfall.”

  “Ah yes, of course. Well then, let’s get a look at them while we still have some light.”

  He picked up a pair of binoculars and pointed them at the small prahu at the head of the flotilla.

  She was manned by fifteen or twenty men dressed in Dyak battle attire. Each wore a rattan war-cap adorned with long black and white feathers, a sleeveless war-coat made of goat skin, breeches buttoned at the ankles and a short sarong about the waist. Some were armed with muskets; the majority carried kampilans, sharp heavy sabres, or pisau-rants, short single-edged daggers with long carved wooden hilts. All bore large square shields of buffalo hide.

  “A handsome group of foes,” said Yanez, unperturbed.

  “Are there many of them, sir?”

  “I’d say about a hundred and fifty, my friend.”

  He turned and scanned the Marianna’s deck.

  His forty men had gone to
their battle stations. The gunners had taken their place behind the two chasers and four swivel guns, the marksmen peered from behind the bundles of thorns now lining the bulwarks and the riggers and lookouts had scrambled up to the crow’s nest armed with carbines and grenades.

  “Should make for quite a visit!” he murmured, pleased with the way Sambigliong had arranged the ship’s defences.

  The sun was sinking beneath the waters, its last rays bathing the islands’ coasts and reefs in a golden-red light. It vanished in an instant, painting the clouds crimson as it set the horizon ablaze, then the light began to fade and darkness descended upon the bay.

  “That ought to give them the advantage… or so they think,” said Yanez, still marvelling at the beautiful sunset.

  He cast his eyes upon the enemy fleet. The small prahu, the war boats and the smaller vessels had quickened their pace.

  “Everyone ready?” asked Yanez.

  “Yes,” replied Sambigliong.

  “Then, Tigers of Mompracem, you may begin.”

  The small prahu was within range, the other ships advanced behind her in single file to better protect themselves from the Marianna’s artillery.

  Sambigliong bent over one of the chasers on the quarterdeck, took careful aim and fired. The prahu’s foremast came crashing down; its immense sail blanketing her crew.

  That marvellous shot was greeted by furious cries from the launches then a blast of smoke suddenly shot out from the bow of the damaged ship.

  The prahu’s meriam had thundered in response, but the ball, badly aimed, had done little more than pierce the jib sail Yanez had ordered hoisted.

  “Not much of a first shot,” said Yanez, calmly enjoying his cigarette as he leaned against the bow bulwark.

  A series of discharges followed that second shot as the four double canoes fired in unison.

  Fortunately their small cannons were still out of range, and those blasts did little more than fill the air with smoke and noise.

  “Destroy the prahu first, Sambigliong,” said Yanez. “Try to take out her meriam; it’s the only piece they have that can do us any damage. Six men to the chasers! Fire at will!”

  He stopped suddenly and quickly cast his eyes towards the stern.

  “Sambigliong!” he exclaimed, turning pale.

  “Don’t worry, Señor Yanez, within two minutes that prahu will be resting beneath the waves.”

  “Where’s the pilot? I don’t see him anywhere!”

  “The pilot!” exclaimed the Malay, rushing from the cannon. “Where is that rascal?”

  Shaken, Yanez quickly raced crossed the deck.

  “Find the pilot!” he shouted.

  “Captain,” shouted a Malay stationed by one of the swivel guns, “I spotted him earlier going below.”

  Sambigliong, who perhaps had the same suspicions as the Portuguese, quickly drew his pistol and rushed down the ladder. Yanez followed close behind as the chasers flashed and thundered at the approaching ships.

  “Ah! Dog!” the quartermaster shouted.

  Sambigliong had grabbed Padada as the pilot was emerging from a cabin with a bit of burning rope clutched in one hand.

  “What are you up to, you wretch?” howled Yanez, rushing at the Malay who was struggling to fend off the quartermaster.

  At the sight of the captain’s pistol, the pilot, realizing that he had perhaps just moments to live, turned pale.

  “Sir,” he said, trying to keep his voice even, “I came below to search for fuses for the swivel guns.”

  “Fuses!” shouted Yanez. “You scoundrel, you were trying to set fire to the ship!”

  “What!?!”

  “Sambigliong, tie him up!” the Portuguese commanded. “We’ll deal with him once we’ve beaten off the Dyaks.”

  “No need for rope, Señor Yanez,” the quartermaster replied.

  With one swift movement his hands slipped about the pilot’s neck, fingers pressing just below the jaw.

  Padada’s eyes widened, his lips parted, and he gasped for air, then his head fell back and he slumped in Sambigliong’s arms.

  “You’ve killed him!” exclaimed Yanez.

  “No, sir,” Sambigliong replied. “I just knocked him out. An old Javanese trick; a bit of pressure to his carotid artery and he’s out in an instant. He’ll come around in about twelve or fifteen hours.”

  “Really?”

  “You have my word.”

  “Toss him into a hammock and let’s get back on deck. Sounds like the battle is heating up.”

  Sambigliong picked up the unconscious pilot and placed him on a carpet then both men quickly returned above deck, arriving just as the two cannons resumed their fire.

  The battle had intensified.

  The double canoes had fanned out to divide the Marianna’s fire, while the smaller boats crowded with warriors had remained out of the fray, impatiently waiting for the order to attack.

  Shots thundered in rapid succession and a barrage of cannonballs, though all of small calibre, rained down upon the Marianna, blunting yards, piercing sails, mangling the rigging and splintering the bulwarks.

  Some men had been wounded and a few had been killed, but the gunners, undaunted, calmly returned fire.

  Now that the enemy had come within range, the swivel guns had also begun to voice their might, hurling volleys of grapeshot at the small fleet. A shower of nails sliced through the Dyaks’ skin, drawing howls of rage.

  Despite those formidable volleys, the ships continued to advance. Dyaks, as courageous as any Malay, do not fear death. The oarsmen rowed with all their might, while those armed with rifles fired incessantly, though ineffectively, not having had much practice with their new weapons.

  The launches had arrived to within five hundred paces, when the enemy prahu suddenly listed to one side. She had lost both her masts, her outrigger had been destroyed and her bulwarks had been smashed to rubble.

  “Destroy that meriam, Sambigliong!” shouted Yanez, spying a double canoe rapidly advancing towards the prahu, obviously intending to seize the cannon before the small vessel sank from sight.

  “Yes, Captain,” replied the Malay, from aside the port fore chaser.

  “The rest of you fire on the crew,” added the Portuguese, from atop the quarterdeck where he had been closely following the small fleet’s every movement, his cigarette pressed between his lips.

  A broadside from the fore chaser and the swivel guns knocked the meriam off its carriage, then a hurricane of grapeshot swept the deck from bow to stern, wounding most of the crew.

  “Nicely done!” the Portuguese exclaimed coolly. “They won’t be bothering us anymore.”

  The prahu was quickly filling with water. Those who had survived that tremendous broadside had jumped into the sea and were swimming toward the launches as the pontoons’ lelas covered their retreat.

  The small ship capsized minutes later, spilling her dead and wounded into the water. Fierce cries thundered from the launches as the Dyaks watched her disappear beneath the waves.

  “You squawk like geese,” shouted Yanez. “You’ll need to do better to defeat the Tigers of Mompracem, my darlings. Gunners, fire on those launches! Things are heating up.”

  Though having lost the prahu and her artillery, the enemy vessels had resumed their attack and were quickly advancing toward the Marianna.

  The Tigers of Mompracem did not hold back. Cannons, muskets and swivel guns thundered without pause, felling numerous foes with every blast.

  Those old warriors, who had once made the British of Labuan tremble, who had battled and defeated James Brooke, the Rajah of Sarawak, and who had challenged and destroyed the might of the dreaded Indian Thugs, defended themselves with admirable fury, not a man among them taking refuge behind the barricades.

  Ignoring the danger, they had climbed upon the bulwarks, and aided by the riggers in the crow’s nest, unleashed a deadly rain upon the launches, sparing none of their assailants.

  But the Dyaks did not
retreat. More launches continued to emerge from the river, swelling their numbers. Three hundred well-armed savages were soon moving towards them, determined to board the Marianna and slaughter her defenders. There would be no quarter from those bloodthirsty warriors anxious to add to their collection of human skulls.

  “The matter threatens to become serious,” murmured Yanez, at the sight of those new launches. “Keep firing, my Tigers! Don’t let up for an instant! That dog of a sherip has turned them all into rabid fanatics.”

  He walked to the starboard chaser and relieved Sambigliong, just as the quartermaster was taking aim.

  “Let me take the shot,” he said. “If we don’t smash their double canoes and sink their lelas, they’ll be here within three minutes.”

  “The thorns will hold them back, Captain.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it, my friend. They’ll put their kampilans to work.”

  “And our riggers will shower them with grenades.”

  “I’d rather they not reach us.”

  He fired a shot and, as always, struck his mark, destroying one of the advancing vessels. Her double bows, breached just beneath the waterline, quickly disappeared beneath the waves.

  A second vessel fared no better, but by the time Yanez fired his third shot the launches were almost upon them.

  “Draw your parangs and haul the swivel guns to the stern!” he shouted, abandoning the now useless weapon. “Clear the bow!”

  His commands were executed immediately. The marksmen flocked to the quarterdeck while the riggers and lookouts remained in the crow’s nest, ready to attack from above.

  Sambigliong and several men drew their axes and smashed open two crates, covering the deck with caltrops, small steel balls with four projecting spikes.

  The Dyaks, infuriated by the large number of casualties they had suffered, had surrounded the Marianna and were howling menacingly as they attempted to scramble up her sides, grabbing onto the launches, shrouds, backstays and the bowsprit to aid their advance.

  Yanez had drawn his scimitar and jumped in among his crew.

  “More men to the swivel guns!” he shouted.

  Rifles and carbines burning in their hands, the marksmen fired without pause, each volley felling more and more attackers.