Sandokan: The Pirates of Malaysia (The Sandokan Series Book 3) Read online

  At four the sky began to clear in the east. The sun rose with the rapidity common to the tropics, its arrival heralded by a magnificent red sky. The captain, standing in the mainmast’s crow’s nest, Mister Williams at his side, kept his eyes fixed northwards, where he had sighted a dark mass less than two miles from them.

  “Well, Captain,” said the quartermaster, angrily chewing some tobacco, “do you recognize that bit of land?”

  “I believe so. It’s still dark, but... see those reefs?... There’s no mistaking it, that’s Mompracem.”

  “Great God!” murmured the American, grimacing. “There is no worse place we could have been wrecked.”

  “It’s true, Bill. There is no island more sinister.”

  “Call it what it is, Captain; a pirates’ den. The Tiger of Malaysia has returned.”

  “What!?!” exclaimed MacClintock, starting slightly. “The Tiger of Malaysia is back on Mompracem?”

  “Yes.”

  “Impossible! It’s been almost two years since that scoundrel disappeared.”

  “He’s back, I tell you. Four months ago, he attacked the Arghilah, and she just barely escaped after a gruelling battle. A man who had fought the bloody pirate in a boarding raid a few years back, told me he had spotted him on the bow of a prahu.”

  “Then we’re done for. He’ll attack us.”

  “By God!” shouted the master, suddenly turning pale.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Look, Captain! Look over there!”

  “Prahus, prahus!” shouted a voice from the bridge.

  Having turned as pale his quartermaster, the captain cast his eyes towards the island and sighted four large Malay prahus rounding a cape just three miles from them. Light, trim, and low keeled, the ships flew over the waters with surprising speed, their large sails bulging with wind.

  The captain immediately recognized them for what they were: pirates! He rushed down to the bridge and with a few words quickly informed the crew of the new danger; stubborn resistance was their only hope.

  Unfortunately, the ship’s armoury was not well stocked. There were no cannons, and though they carried enough rifles to arm the crew, most were in disrepair. There were, however, a few carbines, a few revolvers, a good number of axes and several boarding sabres, whose blades though slightly rusted with age could still be of use in a fight.

  Once armed the passengers and crew rushed towards the stern, which now, underwater, would likely be the boarding point. The American flag rose majestically to the peak of the mainsail, and Mister Williams nailed it in place. They would fight to the death.

  The four Malay prahus were now only seven or eight hundred paces from them and were quickly drawing nearer, determined to attack the poor ship.

  The sun was rising on the horizon, allowing those aboard the Young India to clearly make out their attackers. There were eighty or ninety of them, bold, well-built men, naked to the waist and drawn from the various tribes of Asia: Bugis, Makassans and Javanese, olive-skinned Malays, handsome Dyaks with copper bracelets adorning their limbs, and several Chinese, their shaven heads making them easily recognizable even from that distance.

  They were armed with stupendous silver carbines inlaid with mother-of-pearl, large parangs, scimitars, poisoned krises, and kampilans, enormous cudgels they wielded like sticks. Weapons waving menacingly, that bold legion of men kept their eyes fixed upon the stranded three-master, filling the air with ferocious cries to frighten those aboard her.

  When the ships had drawn to within four hundred meters, a cannon blast thundered from the first prahu. A cannonball struck the Young India’s bowsprit, severing it in half and plunging its tip into the sea.

  “Take heart, men,” thundered Captain MacClintock. “Fire a broadside!”

  Several rifle blasts followed that command. Ferocious cries emanated from aboard the prahus, indicating the lead had not gone to waste.

  “Well done!” shouted Mister Williams. “Those wretches won’t have the courage to draw any closer. Ready! Fire!”

  His voice was stifled by a series of formidable discharges. The pirates had begun their attack.

  Smoke rose from the four prahus as they unleashed a relentless rain of iron. Cannons, swivel guns, and carbines fired in unison, smashing, felling, and destroying everything in their path with mathematical precision.

  Four castaways had been killed by that lethal volley. The foremast, severed beneath the crow’s nest, came crashing down, dragging yardarms, sails and cables along with it. The triumphant cheers of moments ago gave way to groans of agony and cries of fear. Retaliation was impossible; that hurricane of steel was destroying the ship with frightening speed.

  Realizing that all was lost, the castaways emptied their muskets and retreated back up the deck, attempting to take shelter behind the remnants of the masts and beams. Many had been hit, and cries of agony filled the air as blood poured from their wounds.

  Less than fifteen minutes later, with cannon fire shielding their advance, the pirates drew up beneath the vessel’s stern.

  Captain MacClintock and three of his men immediately rushed to repel the attack, but a volley of grapeshot felled them in their tracks.

  A terrible cry filled the air, “Hurrah for the Tiger of Malaysia!”

  The pirates cast down their carbines, picked up their scimitars, axes, clubs and krises and swarmed aboard the ship, grabbing onto the bulwarks, backstays and ratlines. Several had scrambled up to the peak of the prahus’ masts, run along the yardarms, dove onto the three-master’s rigging and slid down onto her deck. Within seconds, the few remaining defenders, greatly outnumbered, fell along the bow, stern, quarterdeck and forecastle.

  Only one man remained alive, standing by the mainmast, armed with a heavy, wide-bladed boarding sabre. Battling with the courage of a lion, Kammamuri slashed and parried at the onslaught of enemy weapons, striking blows in all directions.

  “Help!” the poor man howled hoarsely as he fell to the ground. “Help!”

  “Stop!” thundered a voice. “Quarter to the brave. That Indian is a warrior.”

  Chapter 3

  The Tiger of Malaysia

  THE MAN WHO had shouted those life-saving words appeared to be between 32 and 35 years of age. He was tall, with white skin, fine aristocratic features, and light blue eyes. A black moustache lined his smiling lips. He was dressed with extreme elegance: a large hat of Manila hemp, a brown velvet jacket with gold buttons, brocatelle trousers, and red leather long boots. A large sash of blue silk was wrapped about his waist. A magnificent Indian carbine was slung over his shoulder, and a scimitar with a hilt of gold, inlaid with a diamond the size of a walnut, hung from his side.

  He gestured for the pirates to make way then advanced towards the Indian, who stunned by that sudden cry, had not moved, such was his surprise at finding himself still alive. The newcomer studied the Young India’s lone survivor for a moment, carefully taking in every detail.

  “So, what do you have to say for yourself, young man?” he asked with a smile.

  “What?...” exclaimed Kammamuri, surprised at finding a European in command of those ruthless pirates.

  “Surprised to be alive?”

  “It seems like a miracle.”

  “There’s no doubt of that, young man.”

  “Why did you spare me?” asked the Indian.

  “Well, you aren’t white for starters.”

  “You hate white people?”

  “Yes.”

  “Aren’t you white?”

  “Good Lord, I’m pure-blooded Portuguese!”

  “I don’t understand, then why do you—”

  “Stop there, young man; don’t ask for an explanation.”

  “So you spared me because I’m not white.”

  “And because you’re a warrior; I admire warriors.”

  “I’m a Maratha,” the Indian said proudly.

  “A noble race. I have an offer for you; how would you like to join us?”
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  “Me? Become a pirate!”

  “Why not? By Jupiter! You’d be great.”

  “And if I were to refuse?”

  “I’d no longer be responsible for your head.”

  “Well then, sir, consider me part of your crew.”

  “Good man. A wise choice. Hey, Kotta, see if you can find us some whiskey. Americans always keep a few bottles aboard.”

  A Malay, about five feet tall, with strong, powerful arms, went down into the captain’s cabin and returned minutes later with a couple of glasses and a dust covered bottle.

  “Pure Kentucky Bourbon Whiskey,” said Yanez, reading the label. “These Americans are truly men of taste.”

  He poured two glasses, offered one to the Indian and asked, “What’s your name?”

  “Kammamuri.”

  “To your health, Kammamuri.”

  “To yours, Mr. ...”

  “My men call me Señor Yanez.”

  “To your health, Señor Yanez.”

  They drained the glasses in one shot.

  “Now, young man,” said Yanez, always in good cheer, “time to go pay a visit to Captain Sandokan.”

  “Who?”

  “Good Lord! The Tiger of Malaysia. The most feared pirate in these waters”

  “You’re going to take me to him?”

  “Certainly, my friend, he’ll be quite happy to receive a Maratha. Come.”

  The Indian did not move. He appeared slightly embarrassed. He cast his eyes upon the pirates then turned them towards the stern.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Yanez.

  “Sir...” the Maratha said slowly. “I have a favour to ask.”

  “Ask away, my friend.”

  “There’s a woman with me.”

  “A woman! White or Indian?”

  “White.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Hiding below in the hold.”

  “Bring her up on deck.”

  “You promise no harm will come to her?”

  “You have my word.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said the Maratha, deeply moved.

  He ran to the stern and disappeared through the hatch. A few minutes later, he was back on the bridge.

  “Where is she?” asked Yanez.

  “She’ll be here shortly. Do not speak to her, sir; she’s mad.”

  “Mad! Why is she—”

  “Here she is!” exclaimed Kammamuri.

  The Portuguese turned towards the stern.

  Wrapped in a large white silk cape, a woman of exquisite beauty had suddenly emerged from the hold and stopped near the base of the mizzenmast.

  She was about fifteen years old, elegant, attractive and graceful with delicate, rosy skin, large dark eyes, and a small thin nose. Her lips were coral red and bore a charming smile that revealed small white teeth. Her hair, adorned in the front by a cluster of large pearls, fell to her shoulders in a shower of midnight curls that reached all the way to her waist. Her eyes swept over those armed men and the bodies strewn among the wreckage, but not a trace of fear ruffled her gentle features.

  “Who is she?” asked Yanez, pressing Kammamuri’s arm, his voice a hoarse whisper.

  “My mistress,” replied the Maratha. “The Priestess of the Eastern Temple.”

  The young woman did not move. Yanez took several steps towards her and studied her fixedly.

  “What a resemblance!” he exclaimed, turning pale.

  He quickly walked back to Kammamuri, grabbed his arm once again and whispered, “Is she British?”

  “She was born in India to British parents.”

  “How did she get like that?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “You’ll tell it to the Tiger of Malaysia. Time to set sail, my good Maratha. Men, strip this ship of her valuables then set her ablaze!”

  Kammamuri approached the madwoman, took her by the hand and led her into the Portuguese pirate’s prahu; she did not offer the least bit of resistance, nor did she utter a single word.

  “Let’s go,” said Yanez, as he took hold of the tiller.

  The waters had calmed, but at times a few large waves still broke upon the reef. Guided by her skilled, intrepid crew, the prahu sailed past the rocks, bouncing over the swells like a rubber ball, sailing off with fantastic speed, her bright wake lighting the playground of several enormous sharks.

  Less than ten minutes later, she rounded the far tip of the island and headed towards a large bay. Twenty longhouses lined the shore, defended by tall palisades, deep moats bristling with sharp iron spikes, and a triple line of trenches equipped with large cannons and numerous swivel guns.

  A hundred Malays, naked to the waist and armed to the teeth, emerged from the trenches and rushed towards the shore, filling the air with savage cries as they waved their axes, pikes, krises, scimitars, carbines and pistols in greeting.

  “Where are we?” asked Kammamuri, a note of unease in his voice.

  “This is our village,” replied the Portuguese.

  “Is this where the Tiger of Malaysia lives?”

  “Do you see that flag? He lives up there.”

  The Maratha raised his head. Atop a cliff that towered over the sea stood a large hut defended by thick walls. A red flag emblazoned with the head of a tiger fluttered majestically from its rooftop.

  “Are we going up there?” he asked nervously.

  “Yes, my friend,” replied Yanez.

  “How will he receive me?”

  “In the manner becoming a warrior.”

  “Will my mistress be accompanying us?”

  “Not just yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because she resembles...”

  His voice trailed off and his eyes grew damp. Kammamuri noticed the change.

  “You seem upset, Señor Yanez,” he said.

  “You’re mistaken,” replied the Portuguese, pulling the tiller towards him to avoid the reef. “We’re here, Kammamuri.”

  The prahu dropped anchor, and the Portuguese, Kammamuri, the madwoman and the pirates quickly stepped ashore.

  “Take this woman to the most beautiful hut in the village,” said Yanez, assigning the priestess to the pirates.

  “They won’t harm her, will they?” asked Kammamuri.

  “No one would dare touch her,” said Yanez. “On this island, women are respected far more than they are in India, perhaps even more so than in Europe. Come, my friend.”

  They headed towards the cliff and went up narrow steps cut into the rock, walking past several sentries armed with carbines and scimitars.

  “Why so many precautions?” asked Kammamuri.

  “The Tiger of Malaysia has a hundred thousand enemies.”

  “Do the men not love their captain?”

  “We idolize him, but others... if you only knew how the British hate him, Kammamuri. Here we are. Do not show fear.”

  They had arrived before the great hut, an imposing structure defended by numerous moats, trenches, gabions, cannons, mortars and swivel guns. The Portuguese cautiously pushed against a large teak wood door strong enough to withstand a cannon blast, and led Kammamuri into a room carpeted with red silk, cluttered with axes, daggers, European carbines, Malay krises, Turkish jatangs, lace, cloth, bottles, majolicas from China and Japan, bars of silver, piles of gold, and vases brimming with pearls and diamonds.

  In the midst of that chaos, Kammamuri spotted a man dressed in sumptuous robes of silk and gold, sitting on a rich Persian rug in the centre of the room.

  He could not have been more than thirty-two or thirty-three years of age. He was tall, well built, with a handsome bronzed face and thick black wavy hair that fell freely about his strong shoulders. He had a high forehead, sparkling eyes, and thin lips that bore an indefinable smile. A magnificent beard gave his features a proud look that inspired fear and respect. One could tell at first glance that he possessed the ferocity of a tiger and the strength of a giant.

  When the two men entered th
e hut, he sat up and fixed a piercing look upon them.

  “What news do you bring me?” he asked, a slight quiver in his metallic voice.

  “Victory,” replied the Portuguese, “and a new man for our crew.”

  The pirate’s brow darkened, and he fell silent.

  “You spared this man?” he asked, eyeing the Indian closely.

  “Yes, Sandokan. Does it displease you?”

  “You know I have the greatest respect for your whims, my friend.”

  “I know, Tiger of Malaysia. This man wishes to join us. I saw him fight, he’s a warrior.”

  The Tiger’s eyes flashed as the wrinkles vanished from his brow.

  “Approach,” he said, addressing the Indian.

  Kammamuri, still shocked to be standing before the legendary pirate who had bloodied the waters of Malaysia for so many years, stepped forward.

  “Your name?” asked the Tiger.

  “Kammamuri.”

  “And you are?”

  “A Maratha.”

  “A warrior.”

  “Yes, Tiger of Malaysia,” the Indian said proudly.

  “Why did you leave your country?”

  “I have to get to Sarawak.”

  “The land of that dog, James Brooke?” asked the Tiger, not hiding his hatred.

  “I do not know this James Brooke.”

  “So much the better. What takes you to Sarawak then?”

  “My master.”

  “And what does he do? Is he one of the rajah’s soldiers?”

  “No, he’s the rajah’s prisoner.”

  “Prisoner? Why?”

  The Indian did not reply.

  “Tell me your story,” said the pirate. “There are no secrets among my men.”

  “It’s a long story, sir, a tragic tale filled with twists and turns. It will require some time.”

  “Sounds promising, my friend; sit down and tell us your tale.”

  Chapter 4

  Kammamuri’s Tale

  KAMMAMURI DID NOT wait to be asked a second time. He sat down upon a pile of velvet cushions, collected his thoughts and asked, “Tiger of Malaysia, have you ever heard speak of the Sundarbans?”