by W E Johns
‘That’s a sound scheme,’ agreed Biggles. ‘It will save us a lot of trouble. I take it we can rely on this emergency supply coming? We should be in a mess if our tanks ran low and the stuff didn’t arrive.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll see to it,’ promised Carruthers.
‘That’s good enough for me,’ declared Biggles.
And that was the end of the interview. After lunch Biggles flew the acting-Governor back to Belize, where he spent the night, leaving the others in charge of the camp.
He was in the cockpit early the following morning, anxious to get back to discuss ways and means of starting on their new project. Both for safety and simplicity he followed the river—for safety because it offered the only possible means of getting down should engine trouble develop, and for simplicity in that it marked an unmistakable course, and so enabled him to fly yet give his mind to other matters. Fortunately—as it transpired— he cruised along quietly, and there was never an occasion when he found it necessary to turn sharply, or otherwise put a strain on the aircraft. Not that there was anything unusual about this, for Biggles, like the majority of experienced pilots, never, in any circumstances, performed useless stunts.
He was about fifty miles short of his destination, and was on the point of leaving the river for the lake, when he noticed the loose turnbuckle. Just why he noticed it would be hard to say, except that it becomes an instinctive habit for a pilot to keep an eye on everything around him, even though there may not appear to be any immediate necessity for it. His roving eyes, passing over the turnbuckle which braced the flying wires between the starboard wings, stopped suddenly and remained fixed. A second later his left hand slid to the throttle and eased it back; at the same time he moved the joystick forward slightly so that the Wanderer began a slow glide towards the river, at this point about a hundred yards wide.
Although to anyone but a pilot it might have appeared a small thing, what he had noticed was this. The turnbuckle should have been screwed up so that none—or not more than one or two—of the threads on the cross-bracing wire were visible. At least six threads could now be seen, and as there were only eight or nine in all, it meant that the entire strain was being carried by two or three threads; even an ordinary strain on the wings might therefore be sufficient to pull the wire clean out of the buckle— which takes the form of a longish, rather fat piece of metal; and since the wings are held in place by these particular wires, should the wires break, or pull out of the turnbuckle, there would be nothing to prevent the wings from tearing off—that is, if one excludes the small fishplates which fasten the roots of the wings to the fuselage.1
Now, the turnbuckle concerned was on the starboard side. What made Biggles look at the turnbuckle on the port side he did not know; but he did, and to his alarm, and unspeakable amazement, he saw that the same thing had happened there. His face was pale as he brought the machine down as gently as he could, and a breath of relief broke from his lips as it settled safely on the water. It made him feel slightly weak to realise that the whole time he had been in the air a ‘bump’ might have been sufficient to take his wings off. Once on the water the strain was taken off the wires, and he sat still for a little while regarding the turnbuckles with brooding eyes. When he had first noticed the starboard one he had assumed, not unnaturally, that it had worked loose of its own accord; that it was one of those accidents which can occur to any mechanical device. It should not, of course, be allowed to happen, and since the Wanderer was examined every day, it was not easy to see how it could happen. It would have been remarkable enough if only one turnbuckle had worked loose, but that two should become unscrewed at the same time by accident was incredible. In short, such a coincidence was enough to tax the imagination to breaking point.
Biggles’s face was grim as he climbed out on the starboard wing and made the necessary adjustment. The turnbuckle was quite loose, and held the wire by only two threads. It was the same on the other side. Vibration alone might have been sufficient to give the turnbuckles the final twist that must have caused him to crash. Satisfied that they were now in order, he took off and flew over to the lake, where he found everything as he had left it. Algy and Ginger were there, waiting for him.
He taxied to the bank, switched off, and tossing the mooring rope ashore joined the others.
‘Ginger, it was your turn yesterday to look over the machine,’ he said quietly. ‘You didn’t forget by any chance, did you?’
Ginger looked hurt. ‘Of course I didn’t,’ he retorted hotly. ‘What made you ask?’
‘Only that coming along this morning I happened to notice that the turnbuckles on both flying wires were loose—nearly off, in fact. I had to land on the river and fix them.’
There was dead silence for a moment.
‘Did you say on both wires?’ Algy burst out.
‘I did.’
‘Then somebody must have unscrewed them,’ declared Algy, with such emphasis that he made it clear at once that he was not prepared to accept coincidence as an explanation.
‘Yes, I think that’s the only answer,’ agreed Biggles.
‘It couldn’t have been done here, that’s certain,’ put in Ginger.
‘I agree. That means it could only have been done in Belize.’
‘You didn’t put a guard over your machine last night?’ queried Algy.
‘No. Why should I? What possible reason had I for thinking that it might be interfered with? I shall take jolly good care it doesn’t happen again, though.’
‘Somebody must have deliberately tried to crash the machine.’
‘He tried to do more than that. He tried to kill me at the same time.’
‘But who on earth in Belize could have done such a thing?’
Biggles smiled faintly. ‘That’s something we may find out presently,’ he said. ‘The only possible enemies we can have in this part of the world are those connected with the Tiger, or his pal Bogat; it would seem therefore that the Tiger has friends in Belize.’
‘That’s the only solution,’ murmured Ginger. ‘The Tiger’s ramifications evidently extend to the coast. Well, forewarned is forearmed, they say; we shall have to keep our eyes open.’
‘We certainly shall,’ agreed Biggles warmly. ‘But come on, we may as well have a bite of lunch; it’s too late to start anything today, so we’ll get all set for an early move tomorrow. How’s Dusky getting along?’
‘Fine, he’s hopping about already,’ Ginger answered.
‘Did you tell him that we’re going to try to put a spoke in the wheel of the Tiger?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He’s flat out to help us,’ declared Ginger. ‘He hasn’t forgotten that Bogat murdered his brothers.’
‘Good. I think he’s going to be useful,’ returned Biggles. ‘Now let’s have a bite then talk things over.’
* * *
1 The cross bracing wires between the wings of a biplane are called respectively ‘flying-wires’ and ‘landing-wires’. Flying-wires keep the wings of the plane down while the machine is in flight; landing-wires hold them up when the machine is at rest. Naturally, when a machine is in flight, the strain on the wings is upward, and the flying-wires hold them down. When the machine is at rest, the strain, imposed simply by gravity, is downward, and it is the landing-wires than hold them up.
5
THE ENEMY STRIKES
THE upshot of the debate, in which Dusky took part, was this. They would turn in early, and, leaving the lake at dawn, proceed under Dusky’s directions to that area in which the headquarters of the Tiger was assumed to be. Whether Dusky would recognise landmarks from the air remained to be seen; on the ground, at any rate, he appeared to have no doubt as to the general direction. Pending this survey, nothing could, of course, be done. As far as they themselves were concerned, the present camp would serve for the time being; if, later, a suitable base could be found nearer to the enemy, then they would move to it. Nothing further cou
ld be arranged immediately. This decided, they spent a little while preparing the camp for a more extended stay, clearing the bushes and piling them on the forest side of the tent. At nightfall, with the Wanderer moored close in, they got into their hammocks, closed the very necessary mosquito curtains, and went to sleep.
There was a short discussion as to whether or not they should take turns to keep guard, but in the end they voted against it, a matter in which they were guided by Dusky, who said that as they were not in the region of savages there was no need for this precaution.
It was therefore with surprise that Ginger awoke some time later—what hour it was he did not know—to find Dusky in quiet conversation with Biggles. He realised that it was the sound of their voices that had awakened him.
Seeing that he was awake, Biggles said, ‘Dusky swears that there is somebody moving about in the forest.’
‘Does he mean that he’s actually heard somebody?’
‘Not exactly. I gather that there have been sounds made by night creatures that indicate that human beings are on the move. He believes that they are coming in this direction.’
‘But nobody could possibly know that we are here.’
‘That’s what I’ve told him. All the same, he insists that he’s right. You’d better wake Algy.’
‘Perhaps it’s a party of chicle-hunters—nothing to do with us?’
Dusky shook his head. ‘Not chicleros,’ he announced definitely. ‘Dey not march at night—too mighty scared.’
‘We should be foolish not to heed what Dusky says,’ declared Biggles, starting to put on his clothes. ‘Wake Algy, and both of you get dressed. We’ll go outside the tent and listen. Bring your guns.’ He himself picked up a rifle and slipped a cartridge into the breech.
Gathered outside the tent, they stood near the edge of the forest, listening intently. A crescent moon hung low in the sky, throwing a broad band of silver across the placid surface of the lake, but within the jungle profound darkness reigned. The air was heavy with heat and the tang of rotting vegetation; vague rustlings betrayed the presence of the invisible army of insects that dwelt in it.
For some minutes the silence continued; then a curious sound came from the forest; it was as though a branch was being violently shaken.
‘What on earth was that?’ muttered Biggles.
‘De monkeys. Dey shake de branches when mens go underneath,’ breathed Dusky, slightly hoarse with nervousness.
Biggles looked at the others. ‘This is a funny business,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s hard to know what to do for the best. Dusky is convinced that somebody is about, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that we’re being stalked. On the other hand, it may be Bogat’s men— whether they’re looking for us or not.’
‘They couldn’t possibly know we’re here,’ put in Algy.
‘No, but they might guess it. They probably know of the existence of this lake, in which case they might have decided to investigate on the off-chance of finding us here. We’re in no case to withstand a serious attack.’
‘What’s the time?’ asked Algy suddenly.
Biggles glanced at his watch. ‘Nearly five.’
‘It will start to get light in an hour.’
Again, out of the forest, came the sinister rustling of branches. A monkey barked, and then broke off abruptly.
Biggles shook his head. ‘I don’t like this. I think we’d better start getting ready for a quick move. You two put the stores back in the machine. Don’t make a noise about it. I’ll walk a few yards into the forest with Dusky. If I shout an alarm, start the engine.’
Twenty minutes passed without further development, except that by the end of that time everything portable had been put on board. Algy and Ginger returned to the edge of the forest where presently Biggles joined them.
‘Dusky was right,’ he said softly; ‘I can hear them now, distinctly.’
‘We’ve got everything on board except the tent,’ announced Algy.
‘Good—stand fast.’
‘Where’s Dusky?’
‘In the forest, scouting.’
Hardly had the words left Biggles’s lips when Dusky returned; he was shaking with excitement. ‘Dey come, massa,’ he panted.
‘We’d better play safe until we see how many of them there are,’ decided Biggles promptly. ‘Into the machine, everybody. Algy, get ready for a snappy take-off; Ginger, you man the gun, but don’t use it until I give the word. Get going.’
Not until the others were aboard and the machine cast off did Biggles leave the bank. As he climbed into the aircraft he pushed it a few yards from the shore, leaving it in such a way that the nose faced open water.
‘Absolute quiet now,’ he ordered.
Silence settled again over the scene. The Wanderer, plainly visible from the bank, floated motionless, like a great bird asleep. Algy was in the pilot’s seat with his hand on the starter, but Biggles and Ginger crouched by the gun, only their eyes showing above the top of the fuselage. The silence was uncanny, and Ginger found it hard to believe that human beings were abroad in the forest, creeping towards the site of the camp. Then he saw an indistinct shadow flit along the fringe of the forest a little way higher up, and he knew that Dusky’s woodcraft had not been at fault.
‘Here they come,’ he breathed.
Another figure appeared, another, and another, until at last there were at least a dozen shadowy forms creeping towards the tent. Ginger made out the massive form of Bogat, and nudged Biggles; an answering nudge told him that his signal was understood.
With infinite stealth and patience the outlaws closed in on the tent. Then Bogat, gun at the ready, took the lead and advanced to the flap. He threw it open, and at the same time leapt back. ‘Come out!’ he shouted. The rest raised their guns, covering the entrance.
There was a brief, palpitating interval, then Bogat barked again. ‘Come out! You can’t get away.’ He naturally assumed the airmen to be in the tent, for after a first penetrating stare at it, he ignored the aircraft.
‘Don’t move, Bogat; I’ve got you covered,’ snapped Biggles. ‘Do you want something?’
There was a unanimous gasp from the assembled men. Bogat swung round. He half raised his gun, and then, evidently thinking better of it, lowered it.
‘I said, do you want something?’ repeated Biggles. ‘If you do it’s waiting—a hundred rounds of nickel-coated lead. If you don’t want anything, clear out of my camp.’
Bogat ducked like lightning, and at the same time fired his gun from the hip.
Ginger’s gun spat. He swore afterwards that he didn’t consciously pull the trigger; he declared that the shock ofBogat’s shot caused his finger automatically to jerk the trigger.
Above the uproar that instantly broke out Biggles’s voice could be heard yelling to Algy to start up. The engines came to life, and the blast of air flung back by the propellers sent a cloud of fallen leaves whirling into the faces of the outlaws; it also struck the tent and laid it flat. The Wanderer surged forward across the water, with Ginger firing spasmodic bursts at the flashes that stabbed the darkness along the, edge of the forest. Two or three bullets struck the machine, but as far as could bejudged they did no damage. It was impossible to see if any casualties had been inflicted on the enemy. The Wanderer, gathering speed, rose into the air.
‘Where to?’ shouted Algy.
‘Make for the river,’ Biggles told him.
The stars were paling in the sky, but it was still dark. However, this did not worry Biggles, who knew that dawn would have broken by the time they reached the river, so that there would be no difficulty in choosing a landing place.
‘We’ve lost the tent,’ remarked Ginger angrily.
‘But for Dusky we might have lost our lives, and that would have been a far more serious matter,’ declared Biggles. ‘We can always get another tent. I must say that I don’t like being hounded about by these dagos, but it was a case of discretion being the better part of valour. Our turn w
ill come. From now on it’s open war.’
Nothing more was said. The Wanderer cruised on over the tree-tops. The rim of the sun crept up over the horizon and bathed them in a pink glow. The river appeared, winding like a gigantic snake through the jungle. Biggles took the joystick, and in a little while the aircraft was once more at rest, moored near the bank. The bullet-holes were quickly examined, and it was confirmed that nothing vital had been touched.
‘Well, let’s have some breakfast,’ suggested Biggles. ‘Then we’ll move off.’
‘Move off—where to?’ asked Algy.
‘To have a look round. What has happened need make no difference to our programme. Bogat has declared war on us, so we know just how we stand.’
An hour later the machine was in the air again, heading north-west, following from a considerable height the course of the Unknown River. For the purpose of exploration Biggles would rather have flown lower, but this he dare not risk, for the nearer they flew to the source of the river the narrower it became, and places suitable for landing were fewer and farther between.
For a long time they saw only the same monotonous ocean of jungle, with the jagged peaks of a mountain group cutting into the blue sky far to the north. Dusky stated that the base of these mountains was generally regarded as the boundary between Honduras and Guatemala.
‘We may as well have a look at them for all there is to see here,’ announced Biggles. ‘I’m beginning to wonder even if there is a city in the forest, whether we should notice it. These confounded trees hide everything. If we can’t see anything from the air we might as well pack up. I’m not tackling the job on foot, not for Carruthers or anyone else. When I look at the forest from up here I begin to realize what we’re up against. The mountains, at any rate, will be a change of scenery.’