Biggles Flies South

by W E Johns

  ‘They are probably holding them for slaves,’ offered Kadar. ‘It is the customary treatment for prisoners in the desert.’

  ‘Ah! That may be it,’ murmured Biggles, who was still gazing through the window.

  By this time the procession had reached the oasis — by crowding round the window they could all see it — and there was no longer any doubt but that the pool was its objective. The actual water could not be seen, but the waving torches were clearly visible and marked the head of the column. The chanting became wild, hysterical screaming. Then, with the abruptness of a wireless-set or a gramophone suddenly turned off, silence fell. But this did not persist for very long; it was broken by a sound which every one in the room recognized at once, for they had all heard it before at one place or another. It was the coughing bellow of a crocodile.

  Biggles turned away from the window, for apart from the torches little could be seen.

  ‘I should say that human sacrifice to the crocodile is an ancient religious rite with these people, as it was with other desert tribes years ago,’ observed Kadar quietly.

  Biggles eyed him moodily. ‘Whether it is a religious ceremony, or merely just fun and games, makes little difference to the poor devil flung into the pool,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I ought to have shot that diabolical creature when I had the chance. Well, I’ve still got the pistol tucked into my armpit, so it may come to that yet. Before he gets his teeth into me that pretty little pet of theirs is going to have his tonsils tickled by as many bullets as I can plonk into them.”

  As he finished speaking there arose a mighty shout from the pool; it ended in a frenzied singing, and presently Algy announced that the procession was starting back.

  ‘Evidently the end of the first house,’ remarked Biggles. ‘It now remains to be seen if the performance is held twice nightly.’

  For an hour they waited in breathless expectation, but they remained undisturbed. Silence had fallen, and at length Biggles turned to the food, which remained on the floor where the warriors had placed it.

  ‘I’ve had better dinners than that put before me in my time, but we might as well make the best of it,’ he observed.

  Conversation flagged as they proceeded to eat all that there was to be eaten. This done, Biggles spent some time examining the window, and afterwards the door. Finally he joined the others where they were sitting on the ground with their backs against the wall. ‘With a hammer and cold-chisel, and a few months to work in, we might make the window large enough to get through. Then, if we had a hundred feet of rope, we might get down,’ he muttered sarcastically. ‘But as we have none of these things I suppose we might as well try to get some sleep.’

  Nobody answered. Ginger, worn out, was already dozing. Presently he slipped sideways so that his head rested on Biggles’s leg. Biggles did not move. He took out his last remaining piece of cigarette from an inside pocket and puffed at it slowly while it lasted. Outside, the silence of the desert night remained unbroken.

  Chapter 17

  Condemned to the Crocodile

  The dawn came, and one by one the prisoners stretched their cramped limbs and sat up from the recumbent positions, into which they had fallen; that is, all except Biggles, who was still sitting propped against the wall with his elbows on his knees and his chin cupped in the palms of his hands. It was some time before any one spoke, for it seemed useless to talk of anything but their plight, and no one, it appeared, had any fresh observations to make on it. As Biggles had said, there was nothing they could do but wait.

  Some time later they all looked up expectantly as, following a tramping of footsteps outside, the door was opened, and the same three warriors who had waited on them the previous evening brought in a further supply of the same unpalatable rations. They did not speak or make any signs; they simply set the food on the floor and went out again.

  ‘How about trying to knock those fellows over the head the next time they come in?’ suggested Algy.

  ‘I have been thinking about the same thing,’ answered Biggles. ‘It is a difficult proposition. The trouble is, we don’t know what they intend to do with us. For all we know, they may not intend to kill us, but if we set about these guards and manage to get out, and are afterwards taken again, we shall have pretty short shrift. Another thing that must be considered is that drawbridge we came over. I have a feeling that the moat goes completely round this part of the village, otherwise there would be no point in having a bridge. That bridge is normally kept up, or it would not have been necessary to lower it to let us come across. Again, if all the people we saw yesterday are still about, and we an only assume that they are, we couldn’t hope to fight our way through them, let down the bridge, and get out. In any case, even if we were successful in doing that they would probably catch us again, since they must know every inch of the ground and are no doubt faster on their feet than we are. It’s a long way back to the machine, and when all is said and done, it wouldn’t be much good going back to it empty-handed. They would overtake us there, if not before. Then there is the question of petrol. Even if we were lucky enough to get hold of a few cans, as many as we could carry, and get them back to the machine, what use would they be to us? We’ve got to get right back across the desert or it would be better not to start. A forced landing half way, through shortage of fuel, would mean the end of us as certainly as any way these people could devise. It seems to me that there would be very little object in leaving the village for the hills, even if we could manage it, for we should simply be fugitives, and sooner or later they would be bound to recapture us— unless we died of thirst in the meantime.’

  Algy nodded. ‘Yes, it’s the very dickens of a proposition, I must say,’ he confessed. ‘Yet this sitting here doing nothing is a bit nerve-trying.’

  ‘Let us have some breakfast and forget about it,’ suggested Biggles. ‘Which will you have, Ginger, bacon and eggs, or a couple of nice grilled herrings? If you would prefer toast and marmalade, just say so.’

  ‘I think I’ll try a little porridge,’ grinned Ginger, and Biggles passed him the crushed maize, which was contained in a beaten copper vessel. No eating utensils had been provided, however, so it was necessary to scoop up the mess with the fingers.

  They all ate as much as they needed, and then settled in their original positions to pass the time.

  The day seemed unending, for their captors did not reappear. However, all things come to an end, and at last the sun began to sink over the western hills.

  ‘Suppose they try to repeat this crocodile stunt with us, what are you going to do?’ Algy asked Biggles after a long silence.

  ‘Just fight as hard as we can in the hope that they will club us over the head,’ returned Biggles briefly.

  Another silence fell, during which the sun set and a crescent moon appeared. Shortly afterwards a cymbal began beating not very far away, and presently footsteps were heard coming up the stairs outside.

  ‘Here come the boys in the tin suits,’ murmured Biggles, starting up. ‘Now we shall soon know the worst, I fancy.’

  Things turned out rather differently from what they had expected. For some reason or other, although they had not discussed it, the prisoners had taken it for granted that they would not be separated; that whatever fate was reserved for one would apply to all. This, up to a point, may have been correct, but it had not occurred to them that it might happen one at a time, so to speak. As it was, a large party of guards appeared; a smaller quantity of food and water was set upon the floor; but then two of the guards, instead of withdrawing, crossed the room, and, touching Biggles on the arms, made unmistakable signs that he was to follow them.When he realized what was intended Algy sprang to his feet in a threatening attitude, as though he would have started the last fight then and there, rather than that they should be separated, but the point of a sword at his throat forced him back, impotent, against the wall.

  ‘Don’t give up hope,’ Biggles told the others from the door. ‘There is plenty of
time for anything to happen. Watch the pool and you may see something.’ He had no time to say more, for before he had finished speaking, the escort was jostling him towards the door.

  Now as he walked down the stairs he had one great fear, and that was that his hands would be tied together as a preliminary to the ceremony, if the crocodile sacrifice was, in fact, intended. This would make him utterly helpless, and he had decided in his mind that rather than allow it to happen he would produce the automatic, which he still carried under his arm, and make the best fight he could before he was killed, as would be bound to happen at the end.

  However, to his infinite relief, no attempt was made to tie him, although this may have been due to some extent to his behaviour, for he obeyed instructions as meekly as a lamb. Or it may have been that the great crowd which surrounded him as soon as he was in the street made such a precaution, in the eyes of the warriors, quite unnecessary. Anyway, his hands were left free, and when the procession moved off he strolled along with them hands in his trousers’ pockets as though he was merely out for an evening walk. In front gambolled the old hag. Behind her came torch-bearers and then the cymbal beaters, the cymbals being, he now saw, two shields clashed together. More torchbearers and cymbal players fell in behind, while the rest, the spectators, brought up the rear.

  In this fashion the procession advanced to the archway that formed the entrance to the village, where the hag began singing in her high reedy voice, occasionally darting back to lash Biggles across the legs with her fly-switch. The chant was taken up by everybody except Biggles, and it swelled louder and louder as the column wound its way slowly down the hill towards the pool.

  A queer smile played about the corners of Biggles’s mouth as the sheet of placid water came into view, and he saw its ghastly inmate standing on the edge, with its forefeet resting on the dry sand. Doubtless it knew all about the procession and its purpose, having been fed in this way for generations.

  Slowly the procession drew nearer; the singing rose to a pitch of fanatical frenzy, and the leaders of the cavalcade began to open out so that a sort of semi-circle was formed, with Biggles standing alone in front of it. Before him was the water, and on the edge the waiting crocodile, with saliva dripping from the corners of its gaping mouth.

  The semi-circle now began to advance, very slowly, so that it would presently force the victim into the jaws of the waiting crocodile, but what Biggles had hoped for had come to pass, and he was now acting in a very surprising manner. So surprising, in fact, that the chanting of the simple tribesmen began to lose its volume, and presently died away altogether. It may have been that no prisoner had ever before behaved in such an extraordinary way. Biggles did not know, nor did he care, as he carried on with his acting.

  Raising his right arm towards the moon, he began singing in his rather unmelodious baritone, and the song he sang — the first one that came into his head — was ‘Rule, Britannia’. It is doubtful if it had ever before been sung under such peculiar conditions, or in a more remarkable place. This thought actually occurred to him, and, in spite of his predicament, as he sang he wondered what on earth the others would be thinking, knowing that they would be able to hear him; and as he sang he edged slowly along, with the mincing steps of a ballet dancer, towards the right.

  The faces of the spectators registered only astonishment and wonder. It was obvious that not for one moment did it occur to them that the prisoner might be about to attempt to escape; and for this there was some justification, for a solid semi-circle of armed warriors, a dozen deep, hemmed him in on all sides. Indeed, there seemed to be not the remotest possibility of escape.

  But Biggles had now reached the spot for which he had been making, and, still singing with extraordinary vehemence, accompanied from time to time by a dramatic wave of his right arm, he dropped to his knees and began scraping at the surface of the sand, while the crowd, by this time overcome by curiosity, pressed nearer to see what he was doing.

  A gasp went up as he dragged a can of petrol to the surface, and for a moment beat a tattoo upon it with the special key-opener that he had now taken from his pocket. He realized that the ignorant savages had not the remotest idea of what it was; nor was there any reason why they should, since it was unlikely that a can of petrol had ever before been within five hundred miles of the oasis. Judging by the hissing and muttering that went on, they took the whole thing as some sort of magical manifestation in which the moon played a part; at any rate, several of them glanced furtively towards it.

  Six times Biggles repeated this performance, until six cans, three of them capless, stood on the sand beside him. The three with the caps intact he stood a little to one side, after which he scraped the sand back into the hole which he had made. Then, taking one of the open cans by the handle, he stood up, and with the other hand grasped it by the base.

  There was a breathless hush while the crowd waited to see what was going to happen next.

  Biggles did not keep his audience waiting. Raising the can high about his head, he swung it so that the spirit flew in all directions, but chiefly in front of the crowd. Naturally, quite a lot of it splashed on the feet of those in the front rank, and some may have gone on the people behind. Biggles did not care. Two cans he emptied thus, while the heavy stench of vapourizing petrol rose on the stagnant air. He was about to repeat the operation with the third can when some instinct of danger made him look round. To his horror he saw that the crocodile, evidently impatient, had come up out of the water, and was now rushing at him with open jaws.

  The only thing he held in his hands which he could use as a weapon was the petrol-can, and this he flung straight into the creature’s mouth, at the same time jumping back. He was only just in time. As it was, the crocodile’s massive jaws came together, but instead of closing over the legs of its supposed victim, its yellow teeth sank into the thin metal tin as a fork goes into a ripe pear. The petrol at once gushed out through the holes, and apparently the beast did not like the taste of it, for it at once set up a hideous bellowing. This was answered by shouts from the crowd, and Biggles judged that the time had come for the grand finale of his performance.

  The crocodile was standing about three yards away, shaking its great head as it strove in vain to rid itself of the unpalatable morsel. Very deliberately Biggles took his automatic from under his arm, and, taking careful aim, fired into the open jaws. A stream of sparks leapt from his hand to the crocodile’s mouth.

  Whatever he may have hoped for was far surpassed by what actually happened. Only those who have seen the contents of a two gallon petrol-can in flames can have any idea of what it is like. The crocodile was in the middle of one of its bellows: a sheet of flame shot out of its mouth so far that it actually scorched Biggles’s legs. For a split second the reptile stood still, while sheets of flame spurted out of its mouth and poured back over its body where it had thrown the petrol. Then, with a frightful roar, it charged madly at the crowd.

  Instantly all the loose petrol that Biggles had splashed about went up in a great sheet of flame, and the most appalling pandemonium ensued that it is possible to imagine. Flames were everywhere. The very air seemed to be on fire — as indeed it was, for it was saturated with petrol vapour. All those warriors who had been in the front rank rushed about screaming while they tried to extinguish their blazing legs, but they only flung the burning spirit on their companions who were behind. Into this incredible inferno, which reminded Biggles of nothing so much as an old print he had once seen of Hades, charged the crocodile, bellowing, blowing out streams of flame with each breath it took, and spraying blazing petrol over everything and everyone that crossed its path. It was, in very truth, the ancient conception of the dragon come to life.

  Biggles himself was stunned. For a moment he could only stare, nearly as frightened as his wretched victims, while the reek of singeing hair filled his nostrils. His own eyebrows had gone, as had the front of his hair, but he did not realize it then. His legs were still smarting fr
om the first blast of the crocodile’s fiery breath.

  The crowd had dispersed, although screaming fiery figures still tore wildly about among the palms; so, snatching up the three remaining cans of petrol, he tucked them under his left arm, and with his automatic ready for action in his right hand, he made off through the trees towards the hill that loomed darkly in the background, and the path that led to the tombs of the dead.

  Chapter 18

  Biggles Wins Through

  It was the old hag who saw him first, as he dodged from tree to tree towards his objective. Most of the warriors who had not actually fled from the spot were far too concerned with themselves to worry about anything but their burns, but a few who had got away unscathed began to rally to the old woman’s urgent cries.

  Biggles cursed her inwardly, for she began to appear as his evil spirit. He had hoped that no one would see which way he went, for this would enable him to get a long start, but the mummy-like female saw to it that in this he did not succeed.

  He passed the crocodile, still writhing feebly in a pool of dancing blue flames, and it was clear that the brute was near to death, from which he derived considerable satisfaction. Whatever happened now, he thought, he had at least escaped the fate of being torn to pieces by the monster; but sounds of pursuit now reached his ears, although a quick glance over his shoulder revealed nothing, owing to the heavy shadow in which that part of the valley lay. He reached the bottom of the hill and found the narrow path, but already he realized what a handicap his burden of three full petrol-cans was likely to prove. However, he clung to them, determined to retain them as long as possible.

  The night was hot, and the heat thrown off by the sun-drenched rocks caused perspiration to pour down his face, for there was no sun to dry it off as there was during the daytime. On he struggled, with the sounds of pursuit drawing near nearer; above them rose the old hag’s screeching. He reached the limit of the shadow, and as he broke into the moonlit area there was a wild yell behind him. But he did not stop longer than was necessary to change over one of the petrol-cans, for the arm under which he had been holding them was becoming numb with the strain.