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

by Emilio Salgari

  “The sherip must have been a soldier,” said Yanez. “Let’s see if he’s taught them to hold their line.”

  The Dyaks opened fire. Volley after volley roared through the air as cannons and carbines thundered in rapid succession. Bullets and cannonballs pounded against the kampong, but its walls proved hard to breach, the sturdy teakwood withstanding every shot. The defenders remained safely behind the parapets, the thorn trees growing about the fort helping to conceal their positions.

  Sambigliong immediately pointed his swivel gun at the column advancing towards the gate and fired. A heavy calibre shell thundered from the top of the tower and easily found its mark.

  “First blood to us,” said Yanez. “Fire at will!”

  A deafening roar erupted from the kampong’s four corners as the Tigers of Mompracem fired in unison. Though their swivel guns were smaller than the lelas and meriams, they were wielded by expert hands. Firing incessantly, they quickly thinned the charging columns. Tremal-Naik’s men were quick to join the fray, their long range Indian carbines thundering without pause.

  Yanez was a marvel to behold. He would fell an attacker with a shot from his carbine then leap to the swivel gun his men had reloaded and fire a volley at the advancing column, each blast drawing cheers from Tremal-Naik’s men.

  But though their numbers thinned with each step forward, the Dyaks, undaunted, still refused to retreat. Their artillerymen having failed to crush their enemy, the columns quickened their pace, howling fiercely, shields raised as they attempted to fend off enemy bullets. However, once the swivel guns began to spray the field with clouds of grapeshot, nails and iron fragments, their courage began to waver and their lines began to break.

  “Keep at them!” shouted Yanez. “We’ll finish them for good. Fire at their legs!”

  The volleys continued to intensify, covering their attackers in a rain of lead, iron and nails. The Tigers of Mompracem, Malays and Javanese competed in skill and daring, determined not to allow the Dyaks to reach the wall.

  The swivel guns caused the most damage, each volley of grapeshot felling a large number of attackers. Though the shots were not fatal, they sliced through the warriors’ legs, removing them from the battle.

  Nevertheless, the Dyaks continued to advance. With a last rush they reached the trees and jumped bravely in among the thorns where they paused for a minute to rest and reorganize their forces before they attempted to breach the wall.

  “You can’t fault their determination,” said Yanez, his brow darkening. “I didn’t think they’d get so close. Our swivel guns are of no use now; let’s hope our carbines and pistols can keep them at bay.”

  “Don’t worry, my friend,” said Tremal-Naik. “I’ve prepared a surprise for them.”

  “I’d feel more at ease if they weren’t right below us.”

  “Let them come. We’re well defended and the walls are sturdy, they’ll dull their kampilans trying to breach them.”

  “What about their carbines?”

  “You’ve seen how well they shoot, not much to fear there!”

  “What are they doing? I don’t hear them anymore.”

  “Crawling though the thorns, no doubt.”

  “You’re certain the gate will hold?”

  “It’s been chained to the ground, it’ll hold. Look, there they are!”

  The lelas and meriams covering their advance, the gunners were slowly drawing nearer, crawling among the mounds of earth and fallen trees scattered about the field, trying to dodge the deadly rain of shells thundering down from the lookout tower.

  In the groves beneath the kampong, the columns of Dyaks had regrouped, anxious to reach the wall. Clad in little more than loincloths, they advanced with difficulty, their steps often marked by sharp cries of pain as they tried to forge a path through the thorns.

  “They’ll tear their skin to shreds,” said Yanez, leaning over the parapet as he tried to spot them through the branches.

  “Yes, but those demons are still getting through. Look, one of them has already reached the wall.”

  “He won’t be going back to give his friends a report,” replied the Portuguese.

  He pointed his carbine and fired. The Dyak let out a dull cry, reared up on his knees, then fell to the ground dead, shot through the skull.

  “Fire into the thorns!” shouted Yanez. “They’re right below us.”

  He pointed the swivel gun towards the ground and fired a volley of grapeshot, as the Tigers of Mompracem, the Malays and Javanese showered the vegetation with a rain of bullets.

  Frightened cries emanated from below, then a swarm of men charged the fort and began to hack at the gate with their kampilans. Lelas and meriams thundered ever louder, as the gunners attempted to scatter the men lining the parapets.

  Tremal-Naik lowered his carbine for a moment and whistled.

  Eight men immediately emerged from the kitchen carrying large cauldrons steaming with thick acrid smoke. Moving quickly, within minutes they had climbed the steps and reached the parapets atop the gate.

  “By Jupiter!” exclaimed Yanez, coughing as the air about him filled with smoke. “What is that?”

  “Stand back, Yanez!” shouted Tremal-Naik. “Give them room to work.”

  “They’ve started scaling the wall!”

  “They won’t be much longer. Those pots are full of boiling rubber.”

  Taking up giant ladles, the eight men began to pour out the smoking liquid.

  Cries of agony arose from the base of the wall. The Dyaks, scalded by the rubber raining down from above, had rushed back in among the thorns and run off at full speed.

  A half dozen of them, the first to be struck by that boiling downpour, writhed before the gate, howling sadly like rabid wolves.

  “By Jupiter!” Yanez exclaimed in horror. “A brilliant idea! The poor devils are being roasted alive!”

  The Dyaks were scattering in all directions. Torrents of rubber rained down from every terrace as the kampong’s defenders fought off those attempting to scale the wall.

  The intense fire from the swivel guns and carbines secured their victory. The attack abandoned, the Dyaks rushed for cover, giving thought to nothing more than retreating to the safety of their camps.

  Though the enemy gunners had tried to come to the assistance of the attack columns, a volley from the four swivel guns quickly put an end to their attempts.

  Two minutes later the ground before the kampong had been cleared of all attackers, save for the dead and those on the verge of exhaling their final breath.

  Chapter 11

  Kammamuri’s Return

  AFTER THAT DISASTROUS attempt, the Dyaks, convinced that they did not have the numbers to take the kampong, began a siege, hoping to starve its defenders into surrendering.

  With each passing day, the sherip was proving to be an excellent military strategist. Under his command, the Dyaks erected four camps about the field, reinforcing each one with trenches.

  Two parallel trenches had also been dug closer to the kampong; the besiegers had brought their heavy artillery forward and would shell the fort from time to time. The shots did little damage, but they forced Yanez, Tremal-Naik and their men to be constantly on their guard, from fear that each volley could be the prelude to a new attack.

  Though five days had passed since the first attack, the Dyaks had done little more than make a lot of noise and waste a large amount of ammunition. They had, however, succeeded in taking down the tower. An easy target, it had fallen piece by piece, until the defenders were forced to abandon it, Sambigliong and a dozen men barely managing to salvage the swivel gun.

  As the siege dragged on, Yanez began to grow more and more restless, unable to find solace in his endless chain of cigarettes.

  Fortunately the kampong was amply stocked. The granaries were full of gabà, that delicious Javanese rice, large numbers of wild hens rummaged about their cages, fruit abounded and the cellars were filled with enormous clay vats of bram, that strong l
iqueur brewed from rice, sugar and palm wine.

  During the day the garrison quenched their thirst with coconut milk from the numerous trees about the threshing floor; those that desired to smoke could choose from an ample supply of cortados, those fragrant Manila cigars, or Javanese rokoks, small cigarettes made from the leaves of nipa palms.

  “What’s the matter, my friend?” asked the Bengali on the fifth day, seeing that Yanez appeared more bored than ever. “I doubt any besieged garrison has ever been so well provisioned.”

  “This lull in the fighting is making me restless,” replied the Portuguese.

  “Lull! They fire at us from dawn to dusk!”

  “And all they do is punch a few holes in the wall.”

  “You’d rather have them strike our men?”

  “Of course not, my friend, but nevertheless, I’m itching to get out of here.”

  “Just raise the gate if you want some action,” laughed the Bengali. “I’d say you’re restless because you’re worried about Sandokan.”

  “You’re right, my friend. I want to know what’s happening on Mompracem, I can’t wait for Kammamuri to get back.”

  “Give him some time.”

  “He should have been back by now.”

  “With all these Dyaks about, he may have had a few problems getting to the coast. Who knows how many detours he was forced to make. There’s no need to worry though, we both know how resourceful he is. He’ll be back soon. Now, what say we get a look at our enemies before the sun sets.”

  They left the room where they had just dined with Darma and walked toward the gate.

  It being their turn to stand guard, the Javanese were finishing their evening meal, sitting astraddle the parapets devouring their food with relish, unconcerned by the enemy fire that occasionally thudded against the wall beneath them.

  It appeared the siege had not spoiled their appetite, their black betel-stained teeth making short work of the belacan, dried udang and laron cakes they had brought up with them.

  Though udang or prawns are common to many western tables, the other dishes were more exotic fare. Belacan is a salty paste made from prawns and fish left to rot in the sun; laron cakes are little pastries filled with termite larvae; both dishes are greatly prized by Malays and Javanese.

  Yanez and Tremal-Naik had hardly set foot on the parapet when they spotted some movement among the Dyaks in the fields.

  Several bands of warriors had gathered about their leaders for what appeared to be instructions while other groups spread about the camp, laying out krises and kampilans in preparation for their war dance.

  The sun was slowly disappearing behind a thick black cloud trimmed with shades of copper.

  “An attack and a hurricane?” asked Yanez, breathing in the dry air.

  “We’re definitely in for a storm tonight,” said Tremal-Naik, studying the dark cloud that grew larger by the minute.

  “It’s the perfect cover. The Dyaks have grown tired of firing at our walls; I’m certain they’ll take advantage of it and attack.”

  “Yes, a wise move on their part. It’ll be harder for our men to take aim in a downpour.”

  “We’ll cover the terraces, Tremal-Naik. Our men can construct adequate shelter for the gunners in about half an hour. By Jupiter! Could they actually breach our walls?”

  “We’ll be fine for as long as the rubber holds out.”

  “Have them fill every pot you have.”

  “I’ll go give the order,” the Bengali replied, quickly rushing back down the steps.

  Yanez was about to walk over to the swivel gun at the corner of the wall, when a tiny arrow hissed past him and struck one of the wooden support columns beneath the terrace.

  “Ah! Scoundrels!” exclaimed Yanez, drawing his pistol as he leapt toward the parapet to scan the bushes beneath the wall.

  Sambigliong, who had spotted the arrow as he was helping to set up the swivel gun in the battery, immediately grabbed his carbine and rushed to the Portuguese’s side. All was quiet, not a branch stirred beneath them.

  “Did you see that rascal, Captain?” the quartermaster asked.

  “He must have run off,” replied Yanez.

  “Careful, that could be a poisoned arrow. There may be a few upas trees around here.”

  “Let’s take a look,” said the Portuguese, walking towards the pole.

  A cry of amazement escaped his lips.

  “There’s a message!” he exclaimed, spotting a piece of paper rolled about the shaft. “Guess they weren’t trying to kill me after all.”

  He tore the arrow from the beam and unfastened the thread about the slip of paper.

  “From friend or foe?” asked Sambigliong.

  “What now?” asked Tremal-Naik, returning from the kitchen with Darma.

  “Someone fired this arrow over the wall with a note attached to it,” replied Yanez. “Perhaps the sherip is giving us another chance to surrender.”

  He cautiously unfolded the paper, quickly scanned the message and let out a cry of joy:

  “Kammamuri!”

  “My good Maratha!” exclaimed Tremal-Naik. “Read it, Yanez, read it!”

  The message had been written in English and the Portuguese read:

  I reached the outskirts of the field this morning. I’ll try to sneak into the kampong tonight. I’ve found someone to assist me. Drop a rope from the south corner and have the men stand ready. The Dyaks are preparing to attack.

  Kammamuri

  “The good Maratha has returned!” exclaimed Tremal-Naik. “He must have flown to get back so soon.”

  “Could he have brought reinforcements?” asked Darma.

  “He would have let us know if he had,” replied Yanez.

  “Darma should be with him,” said Tremal-Naik.

  “Let’s hope!” said Yanez.

  “Who could he have found to help him?”

  “Probably a former servant,” Tremal-Naik replied. “I had about twenty Dyaks in my employ, but they all left soon after the sherip’s arrival.”

  “Señor Yanez,” said Sambigliong, “I’ll stand guard on the south corner tonight.”

  “You’ll be of greater use to us here if the Dyaks attack,” the Portuguese replied. “We’ll send Tangusa and the pilot. Now, my friends, best start our preparations; it’s going to be harder to fend them off this time, and if they breach these walls, it won’t be long before our heads are adorning their longhouses.”

  Night had fallen and the darkness did not bode well. The black cloud now stretched across the heavens, shrouding out the stars. A flash of lightning lit the sky towards the south.

  A heavy calm reigned over the field and forest as the air grew hotter. The bonfires in the Dyak camps had been extinguished and all had fallen silent. An hour had passed since the lelas and meriams had fired their last volleys.

  The kampong’s defenders, after having quickly erected shelters for the swivel guns, had stretched out along the parapets, their carbines within arm’s reach, anxiously listening for the slightest sound.

  Yanez, Tremal-Naik and a half dozen Tigers kept watch above the gate, where they had set up the swivel gun they had retrieved from the tower.

  The Portuguese and the Indian appeared restless and worried. That silence reigning over the Dyak camps troubled them more than a volley of gunfire.

  “I’d prefer an all out attack,” said Yanez, chewing on a cortado. “They must be slithering towards us like serpents.”

  “It’s likely,” replied Tremal-Naik. “You won’t catch a glimpse of them until they’ve reached the wall.”

  “They’re probably waiting for the hurricane to begin so our carbines will be less effective. When it rains here it’s always a downpour.”

  “The rubber will thwart their plans. I’ve had my men fill every pot I have. They’re being heated as we speak.”

  Wind rustled through the bushes and thunder rumbled in the south, heralding the storm’s arrival. Lightning cracked across the sky, f
illing the air with a frightening roar like the boom of a thousand cannons. Several more flashes lit up the night, then the heavens opened, pelting the field with sheets of rain.

  Almost at the same instant the sentries cried out:

  “To arms! The enemy approaches!”

  Yanez and Tremal-Naik, who had been lying on the parapet, sprang to their feet.

  “To the swivel guns!” thundered the Portuguese.

  The Dyaks were racing across the field in groups and columns, shields raised to protect them from the rain, flashes of lightning illuminating their advance.

  The swivel guns began thundering furiously, strafing the thorn bushes as volley after volley razed the field.

  Malays, Javanese and pirates had drawn their rifles and opened fire from behind the parapets, but the heavy rain was blinding and they seldom found their mark.

  Trees writhed like twigs; pomelo branches, palm and banana leaves flew through the air as giant durians crashed to the ground, uprooted by the violent winds.

  The black cloud looked like it had caught fire. Red lightning streaked the sky, the rain grew heavier, thunder roared deafeningly, drowning out the meriams, lelas and swivel guns.

  Blinded by the storm, the kampong’s defenders kept firing, but the Dyaks drew ever nearer, their whoops and cries mixing with the thunder.

  “Don’t stop!” yelled Yanez, Tremal-Naik and Sambigliong, from beneath the shelter protecting the swivel gun above the gate.

  The Dyaks had fanned out to avoid the blasts. They soon reached the kampong’s perimeter and began to hack away at the thorns with their heavy kampilans, determined to open a path.

  Realizing they had only one hope of keeping their enemy at bay, Yanez and Tremal-Naik quickly called for the boiling rubber, the most powerful weapon in their arsenal.

  Slicing their way through the thorns, the Dyaks were rapidly drawing nearer. A small squad of men had opened a wide path through the bushes, emerged beneath the wall and began to attack the gate, ramming it repeatedly with a large tree trunk. A rain of boiling rubber quickly scattered them.

  The next squad did not fare any better, but the victory was only temporary, the bulk of the Dyaks would soon be upon them, swivel guns and carbines having failed to halt their advance.