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

by Emilio Salgari

  At Yanez’ command, the steam launch began to tow the two whalers towards a small seaweed-strewn basin that fed into a larger basin filled with clear water.

  They reached the shore less than five minutes later.

  The Portuguese, who had taken command of the expedition, was the first to disembark before the waiting crowd.

  “Which of you is the governor?” he asked, taking a few steps forward.

  “At your service, sir,” replied an old man clad in the uniform of a British drum major that he had pulled out for the occasion. “I’m happy to make the acquaintance of a captain in the service of Her Royal Majesty Queen Victoria.”

  “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Governor,” replied Yanez as his men stepped ashore and levelled their rifles. “We’re not British.”

  “What, sir!” exclaimed the old man, baring his head.

  “It appears you haven’t heard the latest news.”

  “Ships rarely land here.”

  “Then it is my sad duty to inform you that we are at war with England. Consider us your enemies.”

  “You’ve come to take the island!” exclaimed the governor, turning pale. “Are you Dutch?”

  “No, sir. We’re the Tigers of Mompracem.”

  “Pirates!”

  “So you have heard of us, so much the better. You may put your mind at ease, Lord Griell. There’s no need to fear us; we do not intend to take possession of your island.”

  “What can we do for you then?” asked the governor, a slight quiver in his voice.

  “The British have a small coaling station here, is that not so?”

  “Yes, that’s correct, but it’s not ours; it belongs to Her Majesty’s government. I have no right to touch so much as a lump without an order from the Admiralty.”

  “I’ll have them relay it later,” replied Yanez. “For the time being, consider the coal ours by right of conquest. Now then, I’ll give you an hour to bring us some fresh water and provisions. Do so, and we will leave you all unharmed. Ignore my order, and once that time has passed, my men will begin setting fire to your houses and plantations.”

  “Sir!” exclaimed the poor governor. “I protest against this violence!”

  “Make your protests to the Admiralty, they did not deem it necessary to send a squadron to protect you,” Yanez said dryly. “Come now, you have fifty-eight minutes left.”

  “This is piracy!”

  “Call it what you wish, it matters not to me. Now, have your people return to their homes or my men will open fire!”

  That threat, uttered in English, was quite successful. Fearing a volley, the crowd that had been scowling at the pirates promptly dispersed, taking shelter in the nearby houses.

  To save face, the governor was the last to leave, withdrawing after a brief counsel with three or four elderly colonists, undoubtedly the island’s most influential and respected men.

  Without awaiting the governor’s decision, Yanez walked off towards the coaling station, a vast hut at the edge of the bay.

  It was stocked with at least six hundred tons of coal, an excellent supply that would require much time to transport aboard the King of the Sea.

  The launches were sent back to the ship to collect another eighty men to help with the work and the transport of fuel was soon begun.

  While the Malays and the Dyaks worked feverishly, Yanez sat down beneath the hut with his watch in hand and a cigarette between his lips, determined to keep his word. A dozen marksmen had gathered beside him, awaiting the order to begin sacking the islander’s houses and destroy their few plantations.

  An hour had not yet passed, when several colonists were spotted leading about fifty goats and as many sheep towards the small bay, beautiful animals that would provide excellent meals for the crew.

  The governor, accompanied by his councillors, preceded them. The poor man appeared to be struggling to contain his rage.

  “Sir,” he said, halting a few paces before Yanez. “I surrender to your force; however, I will make my complaints to the Admiralty.”

  Instead of replying the Portuguese drew a paper from his wallet and handed it to him.

  “What’s this?” asked the governor in surprise.

  “A draft for five hundred pounds in gold that you can cash with our bankers in Pontianak. These animals belong to your people and we’ll gladly pay for them; the coal belongs to the British government and is ours by right of conquest. Now leave us be; we’ll set off once our work is done.”

  “We would have preferred to keep our livestock, they’re of more use to us than your money,” the governor replied angrily.

  Before he could continue, the marksmen levelled their rifles, bringing the conversation to an abrupt end and causing the old man to retreat with his councillors.

  More men and launches had arrived to help transport the coal. The King of the Sea, still anchored at the mouth of the inlet, sheltered those waters from the waves. Beyond her the sea had begun to toss and roll, breaking angrily against the rocks. The skies did not bode well and the work began to take on a feverish pitch.

  Throughout the day and a good part of the night, mountains of fuel were loaded into the coal chutes.

  The next morning the skies were still grey, but the waves had begun to settle. Tremal-Naik had gone to relieve Yanez and after a short rest, the Portuguese had found Sir Moreland and proposed a hunting expedition on one of the nearby islands, planning to add a few birds to the ship’s daily fare. As Surama had taken ill with seasickness, they asked Darma to accompany them, the young woman being an accomplished hunter.

  After lunch, the Portuguese, the captain and the young woman, armed with rifles, set off in a whaleboat toward a small island to the west of Mangalum, an enormous rock with three sheer slopes that rose seven or eight hundred feet out of the water.

  Flocks of black and white albatrosses nested among the rocks, above them the sky was filled with seabirds.

  In less than half an hour Yanez, Darma and Sir Moreland had stepped ashore at the base of the tiny island at a point where the beach stretched out for several hundred metres.

  Once the Portuguese had secured the boat behind a line of boulders to protect it from the waves, the three scrambled up the slope and began to fire into the large flocks wheeling above them.

  Albatrosses, gannets, petrels and gulls fell in abundance, the birds continuing to circle, unconcerned by the blasts.

  The hunt went on until dusk, to Sir Moreland’s great delight, the young captain being an able marksman. The wind had been rising steadily all afternoon and the three decided it best to return to the ship before the waves grew restless. Just as they were about to set off, the King of the Sea’s siren began to sound.

  “They’re calling us,” said Yanez. “They’ve finished loading the coal and are preparing to cast off.”

  He frowned suddenly, his eyes fixed upon the waves smashing against the reef.

  “We may have stayed here too long,” he said. “The sea’s a little rougher than I expected. Those waves don’t bode well!”

  “We’ve got to hurry, Señor Yanez,” said Sir Moreland, casting a nervous glance at Darma. “We must get back aboard.”

  The cruiser’s siren continued to sound and a number of crewmen had assembled on deck, signalling for them to return.

  “The crew appears to agree with you,” said Yanez. “The water may be worse on the other side of the rocks. Bah! Let’s give it a try!”

  He grabbed the oars and rowed the launch out of the small enclosure, but they had hardly passed the rocks, when an immense wave crashed down upon them and almost knocked them over the side.

  Minutes later they watched as a second wave, even more enormous than the first, swept in from the south, attacked the cruiser and carried her off from the mouth of the roadstead. That powerful blast of water must have severed her anchor chain.

  “Señor Yanez!” shouted Darma in fear. “The King of the Sea is leaving!”

  Mountainous waves swel
led between the islands and the cruiser, roaring menacingly as night fell upon the sea.

  “Back to the island!” said Sir Moreland. “We’ll never reach the ship in ti—”

  An enormous wave smashed down on the launch, cutting off his words as it hurled the three of them into the water.

  Yanez had hardly had the time to tear the life preserver from the stern thwart and grab Darma by the arm.

  When he resurfaced, he found the captain before him, clinging to a second life preserver the young man had pulled from the bow.

  “Help me, Sir Moreland!” he shouted.

  Darma had slipped from his grasp, but he could still see her blue petticoat a few arms lengths from him, just beneath the water’s surface.

  With two mighty strokes, the Portuguese, a good swimmer, arrived in time to grab the dress.

  “Sir Moreland, help me!” he repeated, his voice choking slightly.

  The captain was advancing towards him, swimming desperately, his strength restored it seemed, by the threat of great danger.

  His left hand still clutching the life preserver, he slid his right arm under the young woman’s neck and raised her head.

  “Miss… grab on… we’re here… we’ll save you.”

  Darma opened her eyes. Extremely pale, she looked about in terror, spotted the life preserver and quickly clutched it with all her might.

  “You… Sir…” she stammered.

  “Hang on tight, Darma!” cried Yanez. “Here comes another wave!”

  “We should tie the buoys together!” shouted the captain.

  “My belt!” replied the Portuguese. “Here, take it!”

  With incredible speed the commander quickly bound the two large cork rings together. He had just finished tying the knot when they were struck by the giant wave.

  Fortunately the two men had put the young woman between them, bracing her with their arms.

  Unable to resist, they were swept upwards into a whirl of blinding foam, then driven down into a frightful chasm that appeared to have no end.

  “Señor Yanez! Sir Moreland!” shouted the young woman. “Where is it dragging us?”

  “Towards shore,” replied the captain. “Hold on! We’ll be safe in a few more minutes. Here comes another one.”

  “We’re about five hundred metres from the island,” said Yanez. “Sir Moreland, how’s your wound?”

  “The bandages are holding; I’ll make it. Hang on tight!”

  Another wave grabbed them from below, hurled them upwards until they almost touched the clouds then dragged them down with dizzying speed.

  “My God, what waves,” said Darma.

  “Don’t let go of the life preservers,” said the captain. “We don’t stand a chance without them.”

  “Can you still see the King of the Sea?”

  “No, the hurricane has dragged her off,” replied Yanez. “Don’t worry; they’ll be back for us. Watch out for the reef! We’ve got to avoid those rocks! Sir Moreland, try to fight the waves!”

  The captain did not reply. He had turned his eyes towards the great reef, where, above its peak, flashes of lightning lit up the heavy clouds.

  Suddenly he let out a cry of joy.

  “Look… there… the oil!” he exclaimed. “Brahma protects us!”

  Had the captain gone mad? No, Sir Moreland had spotted their salvation. The waves before them had flattened, as if by magic, dissolving instantaneously.

  While they had been taking on coal, Sandokan had had several barrels of oil emptied about the ship to calm the waters and allow the launches to draw near.

  That oil, dragged off by the current, had gathered in front of that treacherous rock, creating an expanse of calm water several kilometres long and several cable lengths wide.

  The miraculous effect of oil on water has been known since ancient times. A few barrels are often enough to calm the waves about a ship, for a small amount can spread over a large distance. The several barrels the King of the Sea’s crew had poured into the water in those fourteen or fifteen hours had sufficed to still the raging waters about the three islands.

  “Yes, I see it!” replied Yanez. “Another wave and we’ll be swept right into it!”

  He had barely finished speaking when another giant wave, several miles long and at least fifteen metres high, came roaring towards them.

  The three castaways were hurled forward and carried towards the heavens, but as the wave struck the slickened waters it suddenly lost its might, the breakers disappearing as it slid beneath the oil.

  “We’re saved!” the Portuguese shouted. “Sir Moreland, one final effort and we’ll reach the shore.”

  The commander did not reply. His face had gone extremely pale and he was finding it hard to breathe.

  Perhaps the wound, which had barely healed, had been reopened by the incessant efforts and the prolonged immersion and his energy was quickly draining.

  “Sir,” said Darma, who had noticed the change, “You’re hurt.”

  “It’s nothing… the wound…” replied the captain. “I’ll survive… near you, Miss… we’re almost… there.”

  The waves that followed pushed them gently towards the island, its jagged mass soaring up less than a cable length before them.

  Though the oil had stilled the waters about them, at its edges frenzied swells, whipped by the wind, roared relentlessly among the crashes of thunder.

  Safe from the storm’s furies, the castaways were slowly propelled forward, advancing through mounds of seaweed that the waves were driving towards the coast.

  “Hurry, Sir Moreland,” said Yanez, swimming vigorously, towing the two life preservers. “We’re almost there!”

  “Yes, hurry!” said Darma. “Sir Moreland is exhausted.”

  “I don’t deny it,” replied the captain, using all that remained of his strength to keep himself afloat.

  “You did well, lesser men would have drowned by now,” said Yanez.

  “Ah! I can feel the seaweed beneath my feet! Let the waves carry you.”

  Fortune had pushed them near the very spot where they had begun their hunt. A few patches of brooklime grew among the clefts in the rocks, but most of the cliff was barren save for the large black boulders dotting its slopes.

  It took just one last wave to carry them ashore, but its timing could not have been better, for Sir Moreland was on the verge of passing out.

  Yanez helped Darma climb up the beach, then returned for the captain who could barely manage to stand.

  “The life-preservers!” Sir Moreland stammered.

  “Yes!” replied Yanez. “They’re too precious to lose.”

  He went back down to the beach, threw them ashore and tied them to a rock.

  “How do you feel, Sir Moreland?” Darma asked kindly.

  “A little weak, Miss, but I’ll be fine. Fortunately the wound hasn’t reopened.”

  “We’ll look for some shelter,” said Yanez. “The hurricane is getting worse; the King of the Sea won’t be back anytime soon.”

  “Are they in any danger, Señor Yanez?”

  “They’ll be fine, Darma. She’ll brave the storm quite easily. It’s a good thing she’d already taken aboard all that coal.”

  “So we’ll be forced to spend the night here,” said Darma.

  “There’s nothing to worry about, there’s nothing but birds on this island. That rock up there will shelter us from the storm.”

  The Portuguese picked up an armful of seaweed and set off towards a large overhang that jutted out from the slope.

  Sir Moreland and Darma followed, carrying bundles of seaweed to pad the rocks.

  Chapter 9

  The Colonists Strike Back

  THE HURRICANE RAGED throughout the night, lashing the tiny island with driving wind and rain. Water streamed down the rocky slopes in frantic rivulets, while above, peels of thunder rumbled deafeningly across the sky. Mountainous waves stormed the beaches, roaring loudly as they pounded against the reef, dark foam shoo
ting up to the rocks where the three castaways had taken refuge.

  “How do you think the King of the Sea is faring?” asked Darma as she drew closer to Yanez.

  “She’s probably been dragged off quite a distance,” replied the Portuguese. “Still, there’s no need to worry, our men are all skilled seamen; I doubt they’ll have any trouble riding out the storm on open water.”

  “When do you think I’ll be able to see my father again?”

  “Our hurricanes are violent, but they don’t last long. It should be a short wait. Overall, we aren’t too badly off here; I’ve made it through worse nights. I wish the water hadn’t ruined my cigarettes. Bah! I’ll make up for it once we’re back aboard.”

  “Señor Yanez,” said Sir Moreland. “Do you think the islanders saw us land?”

  “It’s likely.”

  “What if they try to capture us after the storm?”

  “By Jupiter!” the Portuguese exclaimed. “A disturbing thought, Sir Moreland. As a British subject you could order them to arrest me. It would be your right; we are at war after all.”

  The captain looked at him for a moment then said almost dryly:

  “I’ll do no such thing, Señor Yanez. I owe you a debt of gratitude, it may weigh on me a great deal, but I will not forget it.”

  “Another man would not have passed up such an opportunity.”

  “Little good it would have done him. Once the King of the Sea had returned, Sandokan would have either freed you or avenged you.”

  “True, true,” laughed the Portuguese. “Well enough of this talk, best we try to get some rest. It’s going to be a long night.”

  Exhausted, Darma and Sir Moreland stretched out on their beds of seaweed. Despite the roaring waves and thunder, it was not long before they had drifted off to sleep.

  Yanez, more accustomed to long vigils, stood guard.

  Ignoring the rain, he would get up from time to time and make his way to the beach to scan the waters, hoping to spy the King of the Sea’s lanterns. The horizon, however, remained dark, save for the odd flash of lightning.

  Towards dawn the storm began to break, the black clouds moving east in the direction taken by the cruiser. The wind had dropped and the waves had started to subside, the dark billows no longer pounding against the rocks.