“You may be right, but whatever the truth, your situation is getting worse. What happened to your farms?”
“They’ve all been ransacked and burned to the ground.”
“You should have stayed with us on Mompracem.”
“I thought I could help these people attain a better life.”
“A noble cause, but sadly it appears to have been a waste of effort.”
“Yes, unfortunately.”
“Bah, at most you’ve lost a few hundred thousand rupees. Nothing your farms in Bengal can’t cover. When shall we set sail?”
“I just need twenty-four hours to gather my belongings,” replied Tremal-Naik. “Once everything is ready, we’ll set fire to the kampong and set off for your ship.”
“Then it’s back to Mompracem as fast as the wind can take us,” said Yanez. “We have a few troubles of our own.”
His tone was so serious the Bengali started.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Well… we’re not sure yet. Certain rumours have reached the Tiger’s ears.”
“Rumours?”
“There are whispers that the British are planning to drive us off Mompracem. For a while now they’ve been blaming us for every act of piracy that occurs along their coasts, even though our prahus have been years. They say our very presence incites attacks on all ships bound for Labuan. It’s pure nonsense, but then you’re no stranger to British duplicity.”
“The ingrates,” said the Bengali. “So that’s how they reward us for having rid India of the Thugs. Does Sandokan intend to surrender?”
“Surrender?! Ah! He’d draw his scimitar and set off to challenge England before he—”
He fell silent, his words cut off by distant thunder.
“Did you hear that?” he exclaimed nervously, springing to his feet.
“A cannon blast, somewhere to the south of here by the sound of it.”
“The Dyaks are attacking the Marianna!”
“Come, we’ll go up to the tower,” said Tremal-Naik. “We can see the river from up there.”
Chapter 8
The Marianna
STILL STUNNED BY the blast, the two men raced up to the terrace then up a flight of narrow steps that wound up the tall wooden lookout tower.
Minutes later they were standing at the top, on a small circular platform armed with a large long-barrelled swivel gun.
The sun had already risen, casting its golden rays upon the plain and quickly heating the morning air.
As dawn broke, the Dyaks had moved back six or seven hundred metres, taking shelter behind a wall of trunks they had cut down and converted into barricades.
“Their numbers appear to have swollen since last night,” said Tremal-Naik as he quickly scanned the field.
Yanez was about to reply, when a second cannon blast thundered off in the distance.
“That came from the river!” the Portuguese exclaimed. “Those were the Marianna’s chasers. The Dyaks have attacked my ship!”
“Yes, sounds like they’re preparing for battle on the Kabatuan,” confirmed the Bengali. “Do you think your men can withstand the attack?”
“It depends on the number of attackers. How many men does that wretched sherip have?”
“He’s turned four tribes against me. I’d guess he has about a hundred and fifty warriors at his disposal.”
“Armed with rifles?”
“Yes. He’s brought an arsenal with him; he’s even got lelas and meriams. Listen! Another blast!”
“The swivel guns!” Yanez exclaimed angrily.
A few discharges sounded from beyond the vast forest to the south of them, then swelled into a roar as swivel guns and chasers began firing in unison.
Pale and uneasy, Yanez began to pace about like a caged lion, darting anxious looks at the horizon. Tremal-Naik also appeared worried.
The volleys continued, growing more intense with each round. The battle was heating up.
“It’s getting worse!” exclaimed Yanez, no longer able to contain himself. “What I’d give to be there!”
“I’m sure Sambigliong can handle the attack,” replied Tremal-Naik. “That old Tiger has led his men through worse.”
“Provided he isn’t greatly outnumbered. There are only sixteen men aboard; he could be facing three or four hundred well-armed Dyaks.”
“You don’t think the Marianna can hold them off?” Tremal-Naik asked anxiously. “If they take her, we’re done for. What will happen to my daughter?”
“No need to panic just yet, my friend,” replied Yanez. “The Dyaks will have their work cut out for them. These walls are sturdy; they won’t be breached that easily. By Jupiter! The cannons are still firing! It sounds like they’re tearing each other to pieces down there. How many men do you have?”
“Twenty.”
“Malays?”
“A mix of Malays and Javanese,” replied Tremal-Naik.
“That makes forty in all, more than enough to keep our enemies at bay. How do we stand for supplies?”
“We have enough food and ammunition to last for a couple of months.”
“Good morning, Señor Yanez!” interrupted a voice.
The Portuguese turned towards the steps.
“Darma!” he exclaimed.
A beautiful young woman about fifteen years old, tall, slim, with long wavy black hair and light bronze skin stood before the Portuguese, her dark black eyes fixed upon him.
She was dressed in a mix of Indian and European clothes: a brocade corset embroidered with gold, a long cashmere sash that came down to her ankles, a short skirt, white silk stockings and small red leather curled toe shoes.
“It’s nice to see you again, Señor Yanez,” resumed the young woman, pressing his hand. “It’s been almost two years.”
“Too long by far, sadly, life on Mompracem keeps us busy.”
“Is the Tiger of Malaysia planning another campaign? He’s always so restless,” smiled Darma. “I heard several cannon blasts; who’s firing, father?”
“The Tigers of Mompracem.”
“They’re defending my ship,” added Yanez. “Hear that? What I’d give for a clear view of the river!”
They bent over the parapet, listening anxiously.
The thunder of the swivel guns and chasers was slowly fading, the intervals lengthening between volleys. A few minutes later all fell silent, as if the battle had finally come to an end.
“Victory or defeat?” asked Yanez, his brow bathed in perspiration.
A formidable blast tore through the air, shaking the tower to its foundations. Yanez let out a cry.
“What was that?” asked the young woman, her face turning pale.
“They must have blown up the Marianna,” sobbed Yanez. “My poor men!”
Pain flashed across the Portuguese’s face, his eyes grew damp.
“Yanez,” Tremal-Naik said bracingly, “we don’t know for certain that she’s been destroyed.”
“That was the sound of her powder magazine blowing up,” the Portuguese replied. “I know it well; I’ve sunk too many ships to be mistaken. It matters not, she’ll be easy enough to replace; I just hope my men managed to escape.”
“They may have jumped ship in time. They may have set fire to the powder themselves to avoid capture.”
“You could be right,” replied Yanez, his voice calm once again.
“Is there anyone aboard that could lead them to my kampong?”
“Yes, the messenger we sent you six months ago.”
“So if your men managed to escape, they’ll undoubtedly make their way here.”
“It’ll be difficult for such a small band of men to pass through the Dyak lines. And if they do manage to get here, what then? What are we going to do?”
“Right,” replied the Bengali. “How are we going to get down the river without your ship?”
“We’ll look for some rowboats, father,” said Darma.
“They’d open fire on us as soo
n as we set foot outside the fort. I doubt we’d make it to the river alive.”
“Our enemies are on the move,” said Yanez at that moment.
The Dyaks had abandoned their barricades and were withdrawing to the nearby forest.
“They’re leaving, father!” exclaimed Darma. “Have they just given up?”
“Yanez,” said Tremal-Naik, “what if the sherip has been defeated? They may have been ordered to withdraw.”
“It’s more likely to be a trap,” the Portuguese replied.
“A trap?”
“They want to make us believe they’ve withdrawn, then once we’ve left the camp, they’ll attack us in the middle of the forest. No, my dear Tremal-Naik, we won’t be foolish enough to take the bait. If my men have been killed, we may be here for quite a while. We won’t set foot outside these walls until we’ve learned what’s happened to the Marianna. For now we’ll post sentries and await their next move.”
“In the meantime, Señor Yanez,” said Darma, “come have some breakfast.”
Though troubled by the fate of the Marianna’s men, the forest having fallen silent once again, they descended back into the bungalow where the servants had prepared dishes of meat, butter, tea and biscuits.
Once they had eaten and dispatched Tangusa to the lookout tower to keep an eye on the Dyaks, Tremal-Naik and Yanez set off on an inspection of the kampong to assess the fort’s strengths and weaknesses.
Three hours had passed since the blast, when they heard Tangusa cry out: “To arms!”
Several gunshots thundered in response.
Yanez and Tremal-Naik rushed toward the highest parapet from where they could take in most of the field. Seconds later they spotted a small band of men charging out from the forest, firing at the Dyaks that had swarmed to block their path.
Two cries immediately escaped the Portuguese’s lips:
“Sambigliong! My Tigers!”
“Fire the swivel guns!” thundered Tremal-Naik. “Raise the gate!”
Their friends under attack, the pirates that had accompanied Yanez rushed to the three swivel guns on the southern wall and unleashed a volley of fire.
Several Dyaks fell to the ground as others quickly scattered to the shelter of the forest.
Their path now clear, Sambigliong and his squad rushed toward the kampong at full speed, the men at the rear firing round after round back into the trees.
The gate had been raised and part of the garrison had gone to guide them through the grove of thorns and help fend off a second attack in the event the Dyaks decided to strike.
Only half-a-dozen men had survived the battle aboard the Marianna, Tremal-Naik’s messenger among them. Their clothes were torn and bloody, their faces black with powder. They had run at full speed from the river, racing through the forest for the last three hours. Bathed in perspiration they halted inside the walls, panting heavily as they attempted to catch their breath.
“My ship?” Yanez shouted, running to meet Sambigliong.
“Destroyed, Captain,” the quartermaster replied sadly. “There were just too many of them. We held out for as long as we could, but once the majority of our men had been killed and it seemed like defeat was imminent I set fire to the powder.”
“You’re a brave man,” said Yanez, deeply moved.
“Captain, there are several hundred of them and they’ll be here soon. We’ve got to prepare our defences.”
“Let them come!” Yanez exclaimed menacingly. “Time to avenge our dead!”
Chapter 9
The Sherip Performs a Miracle
HORDES OF DYAKS had charged out of the forest at full speed. They howled like wild beasts, kampilans flailing madly, rifles thundering menacingly as they vented their anger for having failed to take the heads of the last of the Marianna’ s defenders.
“By Jupiter!” exclaimed Yanez, watching their advance from the parapet. “There are a lot more of them than I expected, we’ll have our work cut out for us.”
“There must be at least four hundred of them,” said Tremal-Naik.
“Look! They even have a siege train,” the Portuguese added, spotting a large squad dragging a dozen lela and a meriam out of the brushwood.
“Wretched sherip! He must have been a soldier. Those gunners look well trained! I’d never have expected to see such military discipline among the Dyaks.”
“And they’re pretty good shots, Captain,” said Sambigliong. “They razed the Marianna from bow to stern.”
“That confirms it,” said Yanez. “Who the devil could that man be?”
“Yanez,” said Tremal-Naik, giving him an uneasy look, “can we hold them off?”
“We’re outgunned and outnumbered,” the Portuguese replied, “but it’ll take them a while to set up a proper attack. If they attempt to charge the kampong, we’ll slaughter them. We should be able to hold out for as long as our provisions and ammunition last.”
“The provisions should last us a while. All the storage huts are full.”
“Then we’ll hold tight until Kammamuri returns. Once he realizes we’re in danger, Sandokan will immediately send more help. How long would it have taken him to reach the coast?”
“About a week.”
“So he should be on Mompracem by now.”
“Yes, provided the Dyaks didn’t get to him first,” replied Tremal-Naik.
“Attack a man accompanied by a tiger!?! No one would have dared. So if all goes well, he could be here in about fifteen days or so. We’ll hold tight until then. In the meantime, we’ll amuse ourselves by keeping the Dyaks at bay.”
“What if Sandokan can’t send help?”
“Then we’ll be forced to make a run for it, my dear friend,” replied Yanez.
“Through all these attackers!?!”
“There’ll be a lot less of them in fifteen days. We’re not going to be firing blanks, my friend. Now, let’s finish our inspection, best to know where we stand. Rest assured, we’re going to give them one heck of a fight.”
As they completed their rounds, the Dyaks quickly set up camp, well out of range of the swivel guns, erecting small huts out of branches and banana leaves to shelter themselves from the harsh rays of the sun.
Several trenches were dug and the gunners quickly trained their lelas and the meriam upon the kampong, covering it from all angles. The cannons would not have had much effect on the sturdy planks defending the fortress, teakwood being almost impenetrable. Nevertheless, once the inspection had been completed and Yanez, Tremal-Naik and Sambigliong had returned to the tower to survey the field, the Portuguese could not contain a cry of anger.
“That sherip must have been a soldier,” he repeated. “No Dyaks have ever dug trenches to prepare for battle.”
“Do you see him?” asked Tremal-Naik.
“Who?”
“The sherip.”
“What! He’s here?”
“There, standing on that tree trunk in front of the meriam.”
Yanez drew a pair of binoculars out of his pocket and followed the Bengali’s gaze.
Standing upon that makeshift barricade, was a tall, wizened old man dressed in a white jacket with gold frogging, white trousers and red curled-toe shoes, common attire among the rich Borneans of Brunei. A large green silk turban came down over his forehead, almost to his eyes.
He appeared to be fifty or sixty years of age. But though he had dark bronze skin, his fine features suggested he was not native to those shores.
“I’d say he was either Arab or Burmese,” said Yanez, lowering his binoculars. “He’s certainly not a Dyak or a Malay. But who the devil is he?”
“You’ve never seen him before?” asked Tremal-Naik.
“Never,” replied the Portuguese.
“We must have crossed paths with him somewhere. He’s boasted that once he has my head, he’ll attack the Tigers of Mompracem. Only an old grudge can fuel such hatred.”
“Ah! So he’s set his sights on Mompracem, has he?” Yanez repli
ed with a smile. “He underestimates our men. Let him try to land his hordes on our island! I doubt many Dyaks will make it back to these forests. Ah! They’ve begun their war dance! A bad sign.”
“Yes, I’d say the Dyaks are preparing to attack.”
“Sambigliong, tell our men to stand ready. Have a swivel gun put at each corner of the wall; I want to be able to sweep the field. No one fire, I’ll issue further orders once they’ve begun their attack.”
A hundred and fifty warriors, wielding sabres in both hands, had left their shelter, formed four columns and advanced towards the kampong to perform the war dance. When they were five hundred paces from the wall, they let out a loud cry, formed four circles, and began to dance about.
They had laid their kampilans in the centre, crossing them one over the other, then several of the dancers reached into the baskets they wore at their sides, drew out human heads and placed them among the sabres.
At the sight of those heads, Yanez let out a cry of rage.
“Wretches!” he exclaimed.
“Your men?” asked Tremal-Naik.
“Yes,” the Portuguese replied. “They must have retrieved the bodies from the river to take their heads. We’ll give them no quarter.”
“Shall we fire on those dancers?”
“Not yet. Let them fire the first shot.”
The Dyaks continued their dance, howling deafeningly, flailing their arms as they twisted about, several men pounding out a rhythm on wooden drums. They leapt into the air, and stomped heavily on the ground, swerving and swaying, limbs beating to time with increasing vigour. At last they drew their daggers, slashing at the air, making as if to attack their foes.
That dance lasted thirty minutes, then the exhausted warriors returned to their camps, panting heavily.
A deep silence fell over the field, broken moments later, by a formidable cry that arose from the camp and echoed into the surrounding forest.
“Are they preparing to attack?” asked Tremal-Naik, as Yanez scanned the camp with his binoculars.
“No, there’s a man leaving the sherip’s hut. He’s got a green cloth tied to his lance.”
“A truce? They want a parley?”
“So it appears,” the Portuguese replied.
Sandokan: The King of the Sea (The Sandokan Series Book 5) Page 7