Biggles and the Lost Sovereigns

by W E Johns

  ‘What if they kick?’

  ‘Then, by thunder, I’ll blow the whole story sky high in the newspapers. The government wouldn’t like that to happen.’

  Macdonald’s blue eyes twinkled. ‘I’m beginning to like you. I fancy we both speak the same language. What’s your name?’

  ‘Bigglesworth. Biggles for short.’

  ‘All right, Mr. Biggles. Not being an unreasonable man, I’m beginning to take a different view of things. You needn’t waste time going back to Singapore if to play hell on my account is the only reason. You started off by saying you thought I might be able to help you. What is it you want to know?’

  ‘Before we come to the real questions there are one or two things that puzzle me. That old Salone must have found the bones of the Vagabond. He also found the sovereigns. Why did he only take twenty?’

  ‘That’s easy. He didn’t realize the value of what he’d found. Twenty were quite heavy enough to hang round his skinny old neck. He’d probably have been happier with a few rupees, which he would have recognized.’

  ‘You say he’d been shot.’

  ‘That’s how it looked to me.’

  ‘And the Salones told you they had been shot at. Can you offer any explanation of why anyone should waste ammunition on these wretched natives?’

  ‘I reckon it could only have been the crew of a Chinese junk trying to scare ’em away from their pearling ground. You may see some about presently. They pay a lump sum to the Burmese Government for the sole right to work a certain area for the season. Some come from quite a way off. They make for home before the bad weather starts. I’d say that old Salone fell foul of ’em.’

  Biggles nodded. ‘That’s about the size of it. They could never have been close enough to the old man to see what he had round his neck or this would have been a different story. What I’m really anxious to know is how many people saw you find those sovereigns. I know about your crew, if it’s the same one. I believe you sometimes carry a passenger. Had you anyone on board, except your regular crew, when you found the gold necklace?’

  ‘Aye, come to think of it. He was a Philippino pearl buyer from Manila. He used to come along regularly once a year. I knew him by the name of Feng. He’d make the trip both ways. Coming aboard at Singapore he’d go ashore wherever I stopped, always on the look-out for a nice pearl. Most people along the coast who have a boat, and they’re a pretty mixed lot, do a bit of private pearling. Take this place, for instance. At least half a dozen nationalities live here, Malays, Chinese, Siamese, Tamils... to say nothing of mixed breeds. They seem to get along. Feng told me the trip was usually worth while. By the way, he spoke English—with an American accent. He may have picked it up from the US troops stationed in the Philippines, but I have an idea he’d been to the United States.’

  ‘What sort of fellow was he?’

  ‘As far as I know he was all right or I wouldn’t have had him on my ship. The natives used to say he drove a hard bargain, but that was nothing to do with me. I’d say he was about thirty at the time I first knew him.’

  ‘Did he see the sovereigns?’

  ‘Couldn’t help but see ’em. He wanted ’em too.’

  ‘Wanted them?’

  ‘Wanted to buy ’em, and say nothing to anyone about it.’

  ‘The devil he did!’

  ‘Aye. He always carried plenty of money on him, Malay dollars and rupees.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I told him the stuff wasn’t mine to sell.’

  ‘He must still have been with you when you found the Salones and talked to them?’

  ‘Of course. He tried to persuade me to hang on a bit, reckoning that there must be more sovereigns about not far away. But I’d no time for that.’

  ‘What finally happened to him?’

  ‘God alone knows. When we got to Singapore he walked off, like he always did, and that was the last I saw of him.’

  ‘And you haven’t seen him since?’

  ‘No, but I wouldn’t expect to until the bad weather was over. I half expected him to be on this trip with me, but I didn’t see him in Singapore and he hadn’t been to the office to book his passage.’

  ‘I see,’ said Biggles pensively. ‘Now, would you mind telling me where you were when you found the canoe with the dead Salone in it?’

  ‘I was making south with Hog Island about two miles to starboard.’

  ‘Is that where you found the party of Salones?’

  ‘No. They’d tucked their stinking boats in a little inlet in Chochan Island.’

  ‘Stinking?’

  ‘Aye. You can smell ’em a mile away.’

  ‘Why do they stink?’

  ‘Because the bilge in the bottom of their boats is a mess of rotting fish guts. They spend half their time in the water, fishing and pearling, and if they threw their muck overboard they’d have sharks following ’em.’

  ‘A very good reason. One other thing, skipper. I may be on this job for some time and this is where you can help me if you will. Strictly business, of course. I have some food on board, mostly hard tack, but I don’t want to have to keep going down to Penang for stores. Apart from the time it would waste, people would begin to wonder what I was up to. It struck me that if I gave you a list of stuff, and the money to pay for it, you could make one or two dumps at convenient islands, north and south, where I could pick up what I wanted as I needed it. That would save me looking for you and you looking for me.’

  Macdonald considered the proposal. ‘There shouldn’t be much difficulty about that. We’ll have a look at the chart and between us we can decide on places convenient to both of us. Beaches would be the best place, well above the high-water mark. The stuff will have to be buried. The Salones are not thieves, but if they happened to drop on it they’d think it was a gift from heaven.’

  ‘I couldn’t blame ’em for that.’

  ‘A worse danger might be the hogs and the crocs. If they winded it, unless some rocks were piled on it they’d dig it out.’

  ‘Thanks. That’s a possibility I might have overlooked.’

  Relieved that he had been able to pacify the tough old Scot, whose indignation at being kept in ignorance was understandable, Biggles followed him into his cabin where a large scale chart of the islands, very much the worse for wear and smothered with corrections, was opened flat.

  ‘If you’ve got a chart don’t put too much faith in it,’ warned Macdonald cynically. ‘To be reliable there’d have to be a fresh survey done every year. The bottom changes after every storm.’

  ‘You tell me what you suggest,’ requested Biggles. ‘What suits you should suit me. That aircraft of mine needs only a few inches of water to float, and it has wheels to go ashore if the ground isn’t too rough.’

  Captain Macdonald, with furrowed brows, occasionally letting out a puff of tobacco smoke so rank that Biggles had to struggle not to cough, went over the islands with a stub of pencil that had seen better days. At last he made up his mind. ‘I’d say here, Chang Island, for the south, and here, Kampong Island for the north. They call it Kampong Island because some Malays once had a settlement there. They’ve gone now, but you can still see the ruins of the huts. Keep clear of ’em. They’ll be crawling with every kind of bug in creation. There’s a small herd of wild buffalo, too, sprung from those the Malays couldn’t catch when they left. They’re nasty brutes, so watch out.’

  ‘Then why choose the place?’

  ‘Because there’s a good beach and the water runs deep close in, which would be handy for me landing the stores. I’d better mention that if the buffalo are close to what’s left of the huts, there’ll probably be a tiger about, too.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘Quite simple. The tigers often swim over to the nearest islands from the mainland. If the buffalo wind one they’ll crowd near a kampong, reckoning to get some protection from the people who live in it. That comes from years of experience on the mainland.’

 
‘I can see I shall have to be careful,’ said Biggles seriously, as he made a quick sketch map marking the islands Macdonald had named.

  ‘Do you speak Malay?’ queried the skipper.

  ‘Only an odd word or two.’

  ‘Hm. If you can’t talk I’m afraid you’ll find things difficult. Malay is the general language here. The Salones understand it, more or less. What you really need with you is someone who knows the ropes. You could get a good man for three or four shillings a day, with his keep, which includes opium. They all eat opium. That’s understood. It’s the regular barter. Cheap enough. They grow the stuff just over the hills in Thailand.’

  ‘I haven’t got any.’

  ‘Get yourself a pound or two. You can get it here, at any store.’

  ‘I haven’t got a man yet,’ Biggles pointed out. ‘I’d willingly take one on if I could find him.’

  ‘If you’re serious I know the very man for you. I was talking to him just before you arrived. He bosses the loading and unloading of my cargo here. He’s a Malay. Lives in one of the dak bungalows you can see back o’ the waterfront. Name’s Chintoo. Married with some kids. He speaks a fair bit of English from having worked in the rubber plantations farther south. Not a bad cook, either. Useful all-round man. Would you like me to call him over?’

  ‘I’d be very much obliged if you would. I’m sorry if I’m holding you up.’

  That’s all richt. Nothing urgent. I might as well wait till morning, now. That’ll give you a chance to make out your lists of groceries.’

  They returned to the deck, where, cupping his hands round his mouth, the skipper let out a bellow that made Biggles jump. Also Bertie and Ginger who, having made fast, were sitting on the jetty regarded with awe by a party of children of all colours.

  ‘Here he comes,’ said Macdonald, who was watching the shore. ‘I see you’ve got a crew.’

  ‘Yes. Friends of mine. They’re both pilots. I’ll call them over when I’ve had a word with this chap.’

  The Malay arrived at the double and leapt nimbly aboard. The skipper had a brisk conversation with him lasting two or three minutes, which gave Biggles an opportunity to cast an eye over his proposed interpreter.

  At first sight he could not by European standards be called attractive. His age was not easily judged; he might have been anything between thirty and forty. He was not much more than five feet tall, but he was well built with a good chest and shoulders. His skin was the colour of strong tea. His hair was black, straight and uncut. Like so many of his countrymen, he had no hair on his face. His forehead was high, his chin firm, but his nose was rather flat. His teeth were as usual stained red-brown from chewing betel-nut. His eyes were large, brown, intelligent and set well apart, but a disfiguring scar ran down his right cheek. All he wore in the way of clothes was a short sarong, or skirt, pulled tight at the waist, and a pair of obviously home-made sandals.

  Said Macdonald, turning to Biggles, ‘That’s fixed that. He’s ready to start any time you like. Pay, the same as I give him, and his keep. You’ll find he’s worth all that, and more,’ concluded the skipper prophetically.

  Smiling amiably, Chintoo bowed.

  ‘Fine. He’s my man,’ confirmed Biggles without hesitation.

  ‘He knows the islands like the back of his hands, so don’t be afraid to take his advice. Where do you reckon to start your search, so I know where you’re likely to be?’

  ‘I should think Hog Island would be the best place. I could work outwards from there.’

  ‘Couldn’t do better. I’ll have a word with you later about that.’

  ‘Now meet my friends,’ concluded Biggles. ‘No doubt we shall all be meeting again.’

  * * *

  1 Red Duster: slang term for the Red Ensign, flown by the British merchant navy. It is a plain red flag with a Union Flag design in the top left-hand corner.

  CHAPTER 3

  HOG ISLAND

  The following morning at daybreak the Alora and the Gadfly parted company, the coaster heading northward on its regular run and the aircraft making for Hog Island, where it had been planned to establish a base camp from which the nearer islands could be explored. When this had been done the base would move farther north and the operation repeated.

  Overnight, ashore at a Chinese tea house, over an excellent meal of curried rice and chicken, there had been a final talk with Captain Macdonald, at the end of which Biggles had handed to him his lists of stores and the money to pay for them. Chintoo had been given an advance of pay that he could leave his wife and children provided for during his absence.

  The skipper told the airmen that things had changed little since the war, and what changes there had been were for the worse rather than the better. The reason, he thought, was because the native population, without the drive of the Europeans who formerly worked in the region, lacked the initiative to exploit the natural resources of the country, which included the islands. Too often their place had been taken by Burmese government officials, tax collectors and the like, who were open to corruption. He, Macdonald, was constantly having trouble with them.

  There were fewer Salones and Mawkens (another native tribe that frequented the islands). Forced labour during the Japanese occupation had reduced their numbers and from this they had never recovered.

  It need hardly be said that Biggles was well content with the way things had ended with the Scots skipper after such an unpromising beginning. The airmen felt they had made a friend as well as an ally. The one fact alone that Mac, as they now called him, had agreed to buy the stores Biggles had listed, and establish depots, was load off his mind, for this had been one of the major problems. Then it was on his advice that they had taken on Chintoo. They were soon to realize how much more difficult would have been their task without this simple-minded but efficient assistant.

  His English was of a peculiar kind and was to provide the party with a good deal of amusement. He had a store of phrases which he must have picked up from the white plantation managers for whom he had once worked. These he had learned by ear, parrot-wise, so that he spoke them with practically no accent. Ginger was the first to discover this when the Malay, pointing to his reddish hair, remarked casually: ‘That’s lovely.’

  His reactions to flying were those which, surprisingly, are common with unsophisticated natives almost everywhere. He had seen aircraft, but this was his first trip in one. Yet he behaved as if he had been doing it all his life. He showed no surprise, much less fear. Apparently the plane was just another invention of these strange white men. What actually went on in his mind he did not reveal. From time to time he smiled at Ginger, with whom he was travelling in the cabin, Biggles and Bertie occupying the cockpit

  It was a perfect day, cloudless, with just enough breeze to put a ripple on the water and so prevent it from looking dead. Visibility was practically unlimited, and from 2,000 feet the many islands and islets of the Archipelago presented a fascinating picture of natural beauty. Some had low shore lines with silver or golden beaches, others tall headlands of black rock with foreshores of detritus. Some were little more than reefs, but the larger ones all followed the same pattern, heavily wooded slopes with occasional flat areas of vivid green. Mangrove forests, always advancing into the sea, stood out dark and mysterious. On several islands, thin silvery streaks, marked cascades of water, the result of the recent monsoon, making their way to the sea.

  Being well to the east of the big steamer track between Rangoon and Singapore, there was very little traffic to be seen; an occasional junk, with its huge sail looking like a curtain hung up to dry, a sampan or two near the coast, and here and there a canoe.

  As the Gadfly winged its way across the blue sea, with the innumerable islands like emeralds dropped at random, the immediate future seemed all plain sailing. Ginger found the number of islands a trifle disconcerting, because to memorize the names of all of them, if in fact they had names, was obviously out of the question. It would have to be enough to remember
the larger ones—Casuarina, St Luke’s, St Matthew’s, Elphinstone, King, Kochan, for instance. As Biggles had remarked earlier, it was one thing to look at an Archipelago on the map, but a different matter to see it in reality from the air. All they could do would be to treat the smaller islets as units that would have to be surveyed and struck off on the chart when this had been done.

  Flying by dead reckoning there was little chance of the Gadfly getting off course, particularly as Hog Island, the objective, was one of the largest of a group, being about four miles long and nearly half that distance across. From its size it was soon possible to recognize it, a palm-fringed, tree-covered hump with the highest point in the middle. A pale sandy beach, filling a little bay, was conspicuous. It appeared to be the only one, the rest of the coastline being occupied either by a rocky foreshore or an extensive forest of mangroves rising directly from the water. Ginger, surveying it from the window as the aircraft drew near, looked in vain for human beings. He could see no boats, no smoke to suggest occupation. The whole thing considered, it was a typical tropic isle.

  Biggles glided down to it, but before landing made a circuit at a low altitude of the entire island. The inspection revealing nothing of interest except a rivulet of water trickling into the sea at one end of the beach, he put the aircraft down in the bay, close in, and taxied on towards the curving strip of sand. This produced a result which, not unexpectedly, could not be said to improve the prospects of the island as a place of residence. At the near approach of the plane several crocodiles, which had been basking in the sun, rose up on their legs and ran down into the sea. They did not go far. As the machine passed over them, so clear was the water that they could be seen resting on the bottom.