Biggles In The Jungle

by W E Johns

  The machine, now with its tail up, raced on towards the rim of the plateau. Biggles eased the stick back gently, and it lifted. One engine missed fire, roared again, and then, just as the aircraft soared out over the blue forest far below, both died away altogether. The propellers stopped. An uncanny silence fell. But the machine was in the air, gliding towards the nearest loop of the distant river.

  9

  NEW PERILS

  HAD Biggles been asked if he thought the machine, now without motive power, would reach the river, and had he answered truthfully, he would have said ‘no’; but he knew that it would be a near thing. He had about five thousand feet of height, and some five miles to go, which would normally be within the gliding range of a modern aeroplane. But the Wanderer was heavily loaded, and that made a lot of difference. Again, it was not gliding towards an aerodrome where he could be sure of a landing-ground free from obstructions. That part of the river towards which he was gliding—and this, of course, was the nearest part—was new to him, and even if he reached it, there was always a possibility of it turning out to be a death-trap, by reason of dead trees floating on the surface, or sandbanks, or even the giant water-lilies that flourished in many places.

  However, he had no alternative but to go on, hoping for the best.

  The others were well aware of the gravity of the situation, but since they could do nothing about it either, they sat still, watching the grey ribbon of water grow ever more distinct.

  Some minutes passed, the aircraft gliding sluggishly at little more than stalling speed.

  The altimeter now registered two thousand feet, and the river was still a good two miles away.

  ‘You ought to just about do it,’ Algy told Biggles calmly.

  ‘Just about,’ answered Biggles, smiling faintly.

  The machine glided on, the air moaning softly over its wings. Nobody moved. Nobody spoke.

  Ginger watched the river with a sort of helpless fascination. It seemed to float towards them, a narrow lane bordered by a spreading ocean of tree-tops. It was clear that the final issue would be a matter of inches.

  Algy afterwards swore that he heard the topmost branches of the trees scrape against the keel as the aircraft just crept over them, to glide down on the water; but that was probably an exaggeration. Ginger sagged a little lower in his seat with relief as the immediate danger passed; provided that there were no obstacles floating on the river all would now be well. Actually there were obstructions, as Biggles afterwards found out, but partly by luck, and partly by skilful flying, he avoided them, and the Wanderer sent swarms of crocodiles scurrying as it surged to a standstill on a long, open reach.

  Biggles sat back. ‘Well, so far so good,’ he announced. ‘It’s time we had a bite to eat. Ginger, get some grub out of the box.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be better to make her fast to the bank first?’ suggested Algy.

  ‘It probably would—but how are we going to get to the bank?’ returned Biggles.

  Algy frowned as he realised the significance of Biggles’s question. With the engine out of action they were as helpless as if they had been afloat on a raft without a paddle.

  ‘I don’t think we need worry about that,’ resumed Biggles. ‘We shall drift ashore presently, probably at a bend. As a matter of fact, it suits us to drift downstream, because sooner or later we ought to meet the petrol canoes coming up, and until we repair the tank, and get some juice into it, we’re helpless.’

  ‘And then what are you going to do?’ inquired Ginger.

  Biggles shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know,’ he confessed. ‘It’s a grim business, but we have at least discovered the Tiger’s headquarters, And that’s something. I feel inclined to go down to the coast and tell Carruthers about it, and leave it to him to decide on our next move. However, we’ll go into that when we’ve had something to eat.’

  Squatting on boxes in the little cabin, they made a substantial meal, leaving the Wanderer to choose its own course, and in this way perhaps half an hour passed.

  It was Dusky who, not without alarm suddenly called attention to the increased speed of the machine, which could be judged by the rate at which the forest trees on either side were gliding past. At Dusky’s shout, the comrades broke off their conversation and climbed out on the hull.

  One glance at the river ahead was enough to warn them of their peril, and Biggles could have kicked himself for not taking the possibility into account. Perhaps a quarter of a mile downstream the river plunged between two rocky hills; they were not very high, but they were quite sufficient to force the water into a torrent that boiled and foamed as it flung itself against boulders that had fallen from either side. Already the Wanderer was prancing like nervous horse as it felt the surge of the current, turning slowly, sometimes floating broadside on in the middle of the river. Biggles looked swiftly at either bank in turn, but the nearest was a good fifty yards away, and this might as well have been a mile for all the hope there was of reaching it.

  ‘If she hits one of those rocks she’ll crumple like an eggshell!’ shouted Algy, steadying himself as the machine gathered speed.

  ‘I suppose it’s no use trying to hook the bottom with an anchor?’ suggested Ginger.

  ‘No use at all,’ answered Biggles promptly. ‘Nothing will hold her now. Grab a spare spar, both of you, and try to fend her of when we come to the rocks. It’s our only chance—but for heaven’s sake don’t fall overboard.’

  So saying, he snatched up a spare strut and crawled forward until he was lying spreadeagled across the bows. His expression was hard as he looked at the rapids ahead, for there did not appear to be the slightest chance of the Wanderer surviving the ordeal that was now inevitable—at any rate, not unless the nose of the machine could be kept straight.

  None of them could really say exactly what happened during the next ten minutes. The period was just a confused memory of foaming water and blinding spray. The Wanderer bucked and jumped like a live creature, yet somehow, between them, they managed to keep her fairly straight. The greatest mystery was that none of them fell overboard as they thrust with desperate energy at the rocks which seemed to leap up in their path.

  Then, suddenly, it was all over, and the machine floated smoothly on another stretch of tranquil water.

  Biggles crawled back from his hazardous position on the bows, wringing the water from his hair and inspecting the palms of his hands, which had been blistered by the strut. The others were in much the same state, and they sank wearily down to recover their breath and their composure.

  ‘In future we’d better keep an eye on where we’re going,’ muttered Ginger bitterly, gazing ahead as they rounded a bend. His expression became fixed as he stared. Then, with a hoarse cry, he struggled to his feet. ‘Look out, there’s another lot ahead!’ he yelled.

  Biggles took one look in the direction in which Ginger was staring. Then he snatched up the end of the mooring-rope and dived overboard. Holding the line in his teeth, he struck out for the bank.

  Had he not struck shallow water so that he could get his feet on the bottom sooner than he expected, it is unlikely that he would have reached it, for the Wanderer was already gathering speed as the river swept on towards the next lot of rapids. But having got his feet planted firmly on a shelving sandbank, he flung his full weight on the rope, and so caused the lightly floating aircraft to swing round near the bank lower down, close enough for Algy and Ginger to seize branches of over-hanging trees, and hang on until the machine could be brought to a safe mooring.

  ‘Who suggested this crazy picnic?’ muttered Biggles sarcastically, as, dripping, he climbed aboard.

  ‘I did,’ grinned Ginger.

  ‘Then perhaps you’ll think of a way out of the mess we’re in,’ returned Biggles. ‘There are rapids below us and rapids above us and our tank is dry. We look like staying here for some time. You might get the tank mended for a start—in case we need it again.’

  ‘Okay,’ agreed Ginger, and wen
t to work. ‘What are you going to do?’ he inquired.

  ‘Walk down the bank to the next lot of rapids, to see how bad they are,’ answered Biggles. ‘We’ve got to make contact with the petrol which Carruthers promised to send before we can do anything. Come on, Algy. You’d better come too, Dusky, in case we need your advice.’

  Leaving Ginger alone, the others made their way, not without difficulty, down the riverbank, disturbing more than one alligator that lay basking in the stagnant heat. Presently it was possible to ascertain that the rapids stretched for nearly half a mile; they were worse than the first, and Biggles at once dismissed all idea of attempting to shoot them in the aircraft. Beyond the rapids the river resumed its even course, winding placidly through the tropical vegetation. They followed it for some time, but as there appeared to be no change, they were about to start on the return journey when Dusky halted, sniffing like a dog.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Biggles quickly.

  Dusky’s big, child-like eyes opened wide as he whispered nervously that he could smell fire.

  Biggles could not understand how this could be, for it seemed impossible that the green jungle, damp in the steaming heat, could take fire; but he followed Dusky, who was now creeping forward silently, every muscle tense, peering into the verdure ahead. After a little while he stopped, and, beckoning to the others, pointed.

  Biggles, following the outstretched finger, saw that a little way in front, near the riverbank, the undergrowth had been cut and trampled down, obviously by human agency. In the centre of this area a fire still smouldered. Near it was a brown object, which presently he perceived was a human foot protruding from the debris. Flies swarmed in the still air.

  ‘I’m afraid that fellow’s dead, whoever he is,’ murmured Algy in a low voice.

  ‘Sure massa, he dead,’ agreed Dusky.

  Biggles went forward, and a moment later stood looking down at the dead body of a native; he wore blue dungaree trousers, and was clearly one of the more or less civilised natives of the coast. Biggles was still staring at the ugly scene, wondering what it portended, when a groan made him start, and a brief search revealed another native near the edge of the water. This one was not dead, but was obviously dying. Biggles knelt beside him and discovered a gunshot wound in his chest.

  ‘Ask him who he is,’ he told Dusky.

  Dusky knelt beside the wounded man and spoke quickly in a language the others did not understand. The stranger answered weakly, and thereafter followed a disjointed conversation which went on for some minutes—in fact, until the wounded man expired.

  Dusky stood up and turned a startled face to his companions. ‘Dese men bring de petrol in one big canoe,’ he announced. ‘Dey get as far as dis and make camp; den Bogat’s men come and dey all killed.’

  ‘But where is the canoe, and the petrol?’ asked Biggles in a tense voice.

  Dusky pointed to the river, not far from the bank. ‘De canoe sink dere,’ he said. ‘When Bogat’s men rush de camp de paddlers try to get away, but bullets hit canoe and it sink.’

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘Last night, massa.’

  Biggles turned to Algy and shrugged his shoulders helplessly. ‘This is bad,’ he said quietly. ‘The petrol was our only chance of getting away.’

  ‘But how on earth did the Tiger know that petrol was coming up the river?’ demanded Algy.

  Biggles laughed bitterly. ‘Have you forgotten Chorro, Carruthers’ assistant? He’d know all about it. As soon as Carruthers got back and ordered the petrol to be brought up to us, Chorro would naturally send the Tiger a message by pigeon post.’

  Algy nodded. ‘Of course; that explains it; I’d forgotten that skunk Chorro.’

  ‘It looks as if we’ve only one chance,’ went on Biggles. ‘If the water isn’t deep we might be able to save some of the petrol cans. Some would probably be punctured by bullets, but not all; if we can recover enough juice to get back to the coast, that’s all that matters.’

  He turned to Dusky. ‘How far out was the canoe when it was sunk?’

  Dusky picked up a piece of rotton wood and tossed it on the water about twenty yards from the bank.

  Biggles started removing his clothes. ‘I’ll take a dive and try to locate it,’ he said.

  Dusky shook his head vigorously. ‘Not yet,’ he protested. ‘Maybe alligator, maybe piranhas.’

  ‘Piranhas?’ queried Algy.

  ‘Man-eating fish,’ explained Biggles. ‘They’re not very big, but they’re the most voracious creatures in the world. They swim about in shoals. They’ve been known to make a skeleton of a man in five minutes.’

  ‘Charming little creatures,’ sneered Algy. ‘What are we going to do about it?’

  Biggles thought for a moment. ‘We can’t get the machine down here, so we’d better make a raft, and work from that. We might be able to locate the canoe by dragging the bottom with our anchor. What do you think, Dusky?’

  ‘Yes, make raft,’ agreed the old man.

  ‘Then let’s go back to the machine and get some tools,’ suggested Biggles. ‘It shouldn’t be a big job.’

  ‘Suppose Bogat’s crowd is still hanging about?’

  ‘I hadn’t overlooked that possibility,’ replied Biggles. ‘We shall have to risk it. Come on, let’s get back to the machine.’

  They went back up the stream, and were relieved to find everything as they had left it. Ginger had just finished repairing the tank with a piece of sheet metal. They told him of their discovery and what they proposed to do, and in a few minutes the necessary equipment for making a raft had been brought ashore—as well as weapons.

  ‘I don’t like the idea of leaving the machine,’ muttered Algy.

  ‘Nor do I, but we can’t help it,’ returned Biggles. ‘If we work fast we ought to get the raft finished by nightfall, ready to start diving operations tomorrow as soon as it gets light. Let’s go.’

  They marched back to the site of the burnt-out camp, and after burying the unfortunate natives, set about collecting timber suitable for their purpose, in which respect they were guided by Dusky, who knew which wood was light and easy to handle. Some, although Ginger could hardly believe this until he had proved it, was so hard that it turned the edge of an axe.

  The sun was sinking in the west by the time the task was finished, and a rough but serviceable raft, moored to a tree, floated against the bank, ready for the morning.

  Biggles decided that it was too late to start diving operations that day, so picking up the tools, they made their way back towards the Wanderer.

  They had not gone very far when, with squeals and grunts, a party of small, hairy pigs came tearing madly down the riverbank. Ginger’s first impression was that the animals intended to attack them, but the peccaries—for as such Dusky identified them—rushed past with scarcely a glance. Nevertheless Dusky eyed them apprehensively, and as they disappeared down the river he held up his hand for silence, at the same time adopting a listening attitude.

  In the sultry silence Ginger was aware of vague rustlings in the undergrowth around them, and, exploring with his eyes, soon located the cause. Small creatures, the presence of which had been unsuspected, were leaving their nests in the rotting vegetation and climbing rapidly up the trunks of the trees. He saw a white bloated centipede, a foot long, its numerous ribs rippling horribly under its loathsome skin, a tarantula, a hairy spider as big as his hand, went up a nearby tree in a series of rushes, seeming to watch the men suspiciously every time it halted. This sinister activity gave Ginger an unpleasant feeling of alarm, but he said nothing. He was looking at Dusky askance when, from a distance, came a curious sound, a murmur, like the movement of wind-blown leaves in autumn.

  Dusky muttered something and hurried forward, and there was a nervousness in his manner that confirmed Ginger’s sensation of impending danger.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘De ants are coming,’ answered Dusky.

  At the same
time he broke into a run, and it was with relief that Ginger saw the Wanderer just ahead of them, for by this time the clamour around them had increased alarmingly.

  Insects and reptiles of many sorts were climbing trees or plunging through the undergrowth; monkeys howled as they swung themselves from branch to branch; birds screeched as they flew overhead. It was an unnecessary commotion about a few ants—or so it seemed to Ginger; but then he had not seen the ants.

  It was not until they were within fifty yards of the machine that he saw them, and even then it was a little while before he realised that the wide black column which rolled like molten tar towards them just above the place where the machine was moored was, in fact, a mass of ants. Some, in the manner of an advance guard, were well out in front, and he saw that they were fully an inch and a half long. Nothing stopped the advance of the insects as they ran forward, surmounting with frantic speed every obstacle that lay across their path. The noise made by the main body, the movement of countless millions of tiny legs over the vegetation, was a harsh, terrifying hiss, that induced in Ginger a feeling of utter helplessness. This, he thought, was an enemy against which nothing could avail.

  There was a wild rush for the Wanderer, and they reached it perhaps ten yards ahead of the insect army. Ginger gave an involuntary cry as a stinging pain, like a red-hot needle, shot into his leg; but he did not stop—he was much too frightened. He literally fell into the machine.

  Biggles was the last to come aboard. The mooring-rope was already black with ants, so he cut it, allowing it to fall into the water. The machine at once began to drift with the current, so he ran forward, and dropping the anchor, managed to get it fast in weeds, or mud. At any rate, further progress was checked, for the current near the shore was not strong.

  Ginger pulled up the leg of his trousers and saw a scarlet patch of inflammation where the ant had bitten him.