Biggles - the Boy

by W E Johns

  “Do you mind if I come with you, sir?” put in James.

  His father answered. “Certainly not. You’d only be in the way.”

  “Oh, let him come if he wants to,” protested the Skipper. “He couldn’t take any harm. He might bump into a bear himself one day. If he’s coming into the Service when he’s of age he should know how to handle such a situation. I can show him.”

  “Oh, very well, if you don’t mind.”

  “Can I take my rifle?” James asked eagerly.

  “No.”

  “I think it would be as well if he had a weapon in his hands—just in case,” the Skipper said. “There shouldn’t be any trouble, but on these trips one never knows what may crop up. But it’s no use fiddling about with a light rifle. If there was trouble it could only make matters worse. It needs something with a real punch to stop a bear.”

  “You are not, I hope, contemplating allowing this boy to shoot the bear,” said James’ father, sternly.

  “Of course not. I’ll do the shooting. But I think it would be advisable to let him have something capable of dealing with an emergency. It would give him confidence.”

  “All right, if you say so,” was the reluctant reply. “He can take my Rigby. That should stop anything.”

  Having obtained his father’s permission for the outing James left the room for fear he might change his mind. Hurrying to his bedroom he changed into more suitable clothes, and with his father’s heavy rifle under his arm he went out to the garden where he found Captain Lovell waiting for him.

  “Ready?” inquired the Skipper.

  “Yes.”

  “Cartridges?”

  “In my pocket.” James handed the rifle to the orderly to carry, knowing there was a long and tiring walk ahead. That was why the Indian was there, to carry anything likely to be needed, rations for two or three days, for instance.

  The party set off. There was little talking, breath being reserved for the uphill climb, until late in the afternoon when the rest-house was reached. After a rest, a fight meal, and preparations for the night complete, the Skipper said: “Sit down, James. I want to talk to you. Whatever I may have said to your father I don’t want you to get the impression that hunting a bad-tempered old bear, as apparently this one is, is all fun and games. An angry bear can be an awkward customer. He hasn’t a lot of intelligence but he can have a fair share of cunning. Let me give you a tip or two. Remember, if he comes for you, you can’t escape by climbing a tree, even if there happens to be one handy. He can climb faster than you. He’s had more practice. If you see a bear in a tree leave him alone. He has a trick of sliding down the far side of the trunk, so you can’t see him. While you’re wondering where he’s gone he’s suddenly on the ground in front of you, probably prepared to charge. If he comes on all fours aim just below the chin to reach his heart. If he rises up shoot at the bottom point of the white chevron on his chest. Never tackle a bear if he’s above you, say, on the slope of a hill. He’s not very fast uphill, but coming down he can arrive like a ton of bricks, as the saying is.”

  “I’ll remember what you say,” James said seriously.

  “I’m not expecting anything like this to happen, but it’s as well to be prepared. If the bear has one peculiarity it is this: he’s utterly unpredictable. He’s liable to do anything. Wounded, he may sit down and howl. He may go on the rampage like a mad bull, or behave as if he doesn’t know what the dickens he is doing. The golden rule is, be ready for anything.”

  “I will,” promised James.

  With this advice the conversation ended. With night drawing its curtain over the jungle they went to bed.

  It was mid-morning the next day when they arrived at the little hill village of Charipur. They were received with open arms, as the saying is, it being supposed, apparently, that the end of the big bad bear was close. James, observing the frightful scars carried by some of the men, was by no means sure of it. The headman himself had a mutilated face, barely healed. James inquired how long this menace had been going on, and was shocked to learn that it was nearly three years. When he asked why no complaint had been made earlier he was informed that the village didn’t like to make a fuss over something the people should be able to deal with. So far, obviously, they had failed. Which was not surprising, for their only weapon was an antique, muzzle-loading rifle, likely to be a greater danger to the man who fired it than to the target. The headman, with a ghastly grin, claimed he had wounded the bear with it. James could only admire the courage of a man who would take on a ferocious animal with such a weapon.

  The Skipper asked where the bear was usually to be found, adding that he hoped to settle the business that day.

  The headman said he would show them. It haunted the path that went round the hill to Namsala.

  The orderly, having no weapon, was ordered to wait for them, and watched by the entire village the party of three, Skipper, James and the headman, set off. They had not far to go. They came to a narrow but well-used track, which the headman said was the path to Namsala. It wound round the flank of the hill. The village was on the far side.

  Loading his rifle the Skipper told the headman he need come no further. To James he said: “I shall go in front. You follow, keeping close behind me. You can load your rifle but leave the safety catch on. This is the sort of ground, with loose rocks to trip over, where an accident can easily happen. Watch me and don’t talk. If I stop, you stop. Don’t try to see why I’ve stopped. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Let’s go on.”

  The slope both above and below the track was almost devoid of vegetation. There were a few patches of dwarf scrub, outcrops of rock and a lot of loose boulders; but there was really nowhere to provide cover for an animal the size of a bear. There were no trees. In fact, the hillside might have been described as “open”. But presently this changed. The winding path became so narrow that it was only possible to move in single file. Indeed, the path itself became a hazard.

  On the left-hand side the ground, mostly barren rock strewn with boulders, rose sharply to the summit of the hill. On the other side it fell away even more steeply for some distance before ending, as far as could be judged, in a nullah, or ravine, its course marked by some tall timber. This slope, too, as steep as the roof of a house, was covered with shale and loose rock, some of it looking as if it only needed a touch to send it crashing down. Here and there the petrified roots of ancient trees projected from the detritus. On the path itself it was seldom possible to see more than thirty or forty yards ahead because of projecting shoulders of rock. The Skipper reconnoitred each one cautiously before rounding it.

  The sun was hot. The rock reflected its heat. There was no shade. Stopping once to wipe the sweat from his face the Skipper said: “I don’t care much for this. It’s hard to imagine a worse place to run into trouble. Keep your eyes skinned. We may have to move fast. If we do, mind you don’t slip.”

  James nodded.

  The Skipper went on, rifle at the ready, to the next projecting face of rock that obscured the view beyond it. Reaching it he stopped, peeped round and raised a hand in a beckoning signal to show that the way was clear.

  It was at this moment that a slight sound, like the rattle of a rolling pebble, caused James to turn his head to look behind him, thinking they might have started a landslide.

  What he saw froze the blood in his veins—if such a thing is possible. It was the bear. Moving fast it was on the path within a few paces of him. Standing on its hind legs it looked enormous, larger than any bear he could have imagined. It seemed to tower above him. Making uncouth noises it was coming on at a shambling run waving its fore-paws.

  After the first stunning shock, which for an instant seemed to take the strength out of his limbs, James kept his head. Even as he let out a cry of warning he remembered his safety catch was on. With a swift movement of his thumb he slipped it off, and taking aim at the point of the white chevron on the bear’s chest, fire
d. The range was point blank. The bear should have fallen. But it didn’t. With a hoarse bellow, still on its feet it staggered on towards him. It seemed impossible that he could have missed.

  Before he could reload the bear was on him, a clawed foot swinging round in a wild swipe at his face. There was no dodging the blow. There was hardly room to move. All James could do was ward off the blow with the rifle, holding it up in both hands. It took the shock, but the force of it caused him to reel backwards. Before he could recover his balance a foot went over the edge of the path. He went over backwards, and the next instant was rolling down the slope clutching frantically for something, anything, that would stop his uncontrolled progress down the hill.

  It would be futile to attempt to describe his sensations during the next few seconds, during which time he travelled some forty or fifty yards, before, with a severe jolt, he was brought to a halt by what turned out to be an ancient tree stump.

  He had lost hold of his rifle as soon as he felt himself falling—or the bear may have knocked it out of his hands—he didn’t know which. Above the noise of crashing rocks from the landslide he had started he was vaguely conscious of shots and a strong smell of bear. Pulling himself into a sitting position he saw the reason. The bear had fallen with him. It had stopped a little below him. It was still alive, and with hate flaming in its eyes, coughing blood-flecked foam, it was scrambling up the slope to get at him.

  James tried to drag himself higher by pulling on the stump, but it started to tear loose under the strain and for a moment it looked as if he was going to slide down into the arms of the bear. It was still struggling to get at him, but had obviously been hard hit and was only making slow progress. Prompted by desperation, and maybe the instinct of self-preservation, James reached out for a lump of loose rock rather larger than a coconut. Raising it above his head with both hands he hurled it with all the force he could muster at the bear’s head. It struck the animal squarely on the muzzle. Clutching at its face, making a great noise of growling and howling the creature fell on its side. This started another landslide, and bear and rocks went rolling down the hill in a cloud of dust finally to disappear from sight over the lip of the nullah.

  For a minute James sat still, panting and sweating from excitement and exertion, trying to muster enough strength to take stock of his position. A shout made him look up. The Skipper stood poised on the brink of the slope. He called: “Are you all right?”

  James managed to answer yes.

  “Then try to get up here,” said the Skipper. “If I try to get down to you I may set more rocks rolling and one might hit you on the head.”

  James raised a hand to show that he understood and then started laboriously to make his way back up to the path. Just before reaching the top, to his great relief he came on his rifle. The Skipper helped him on to the path, where for a little while he sat still to recover his breath and his faculties. When at last he was able to speak he said: “Did you say something about bear hunting being a sport for amateurs?”

  “I also said bears were unpredictable. You’ve just seen a good example. What happened?”

  “He came along the path behind us. If he hadn’t made a noise he’d have caught me before I knew he was there. When I looked round he was practically breathing down my neck. I only had time for one quick shot. I aimed where you told me; but he didn’t drop. He made a swipe and knocked me off the path.”

  The Skipper nodded. “I saw that. I couldn’t shoot for fear of hitting you. When you fell he came on at me. I gave him a couple of shots; his rush carried him over the edge of the path and he followed you down the hill. At one time you were rolling together. There was nothing I could do.”

  “I didn’t really know what was happening. It was all so sudden.”

  “I can well understand that. The cunning old devil must have seen us go past. He didn’t move. He waited till he could get between us and the village to stop us going back. Well, he won’t try that trick again. He must be dead by now. If your shot didn’t kill him mine will. I’m sorry this had to happen. I was careless.”

  “I don’t see how you could be expected to know what the old brute was going to do,” James said. “You’d better not tell my father about this or he may not let me go out with you again. Thank goodness I found his rifle. I wouldn’t have dared to go home without it.”

  The Skipper was looking back along the track. “I can see the headman. He must have heard the shooting and has come along to see what has happened.” He shouted to the man, who was peeping round a rock: “The bear’s dead. You’ll find him in the nullah.”

  The man disappeared with alacrity.

  “If you feel up to it we’ll get back to the village where my orderly can make us a cup of tea,” the Skipper said. “We can’t reach home today but we should be able to get as far as the rest-house. The village men will bring in the bear, no doubt. Do you want the skin for a trophy?”

  “No thanks,” James answered emphatically. “I’m nothing for collecting heads or hides. I shall remember today without a reminder. I’ve enough bumps and bruises to help my memory for a while, anyway.”

  They made their way slowly back to the village where they were soon refreshing themselves with hot tea. A great noise of triumphant shouting heralded the return of the men who had gone to the nullah to bring in the body of the bear that had harassed them for so long.

  Looking at it James remarked: “It doesn’t look so big now it’s dead.”

  The Skipper made a wry face. “They never do. It’s not the size that matters, it’s what they do. Anyhow, the kids can now go back to school and get on with their lessons.”

  “I’ve had one myself, today, if it comes to that,” James said thoughtfully. “Did I do anything wrong?”

  The Skipper smiled. “I couldn’t have done better myself. You kept your head, that’s the important thing. It would have been easy to lose it. You’ll pass.”

  And that was the end of James’ first encounter with a bear.

  [Back to Contents]

  THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY

  YOUNG James Bigglesworth knew a lot about snakes. He had to know. Living where he did it could hardly be otherwise. While these dangerous creatures formed part of ordinary everyday existence they were also a subject for common gossip, particularly when someone was bitten. James not only heard talk of snakes but sometimes saw one, venomous or otherwise. In India there are many species of snakes but not all are poisonous.

  And then, of course, there were the snake charmers, those strange men who appear to exercise control over the reptiles. They occurred in two sorts. There were those who used them for a form of entertainment. They would appear in the bazaar with a basket of cobras or Russell vipers, both extremely poisonous, and by playing a tune on a reed instrument cause them to sway to the music in a sort of ballet dance. There were sceptics who said the snakes had had their poison glands removed. Biggles didn’t know about that. He didn’t care. It fascinated him to see the fearless way the deadly creatures were handled.

  The other cult of snake charmers were different. They were usually holy men and they took their business seriously. If anyone suspected he had a snake on the premises, perhaps in the thatch, he would send for one of these men. The charmer would come and call out the snake. If there was one within hearing distance it would appear. He would put it in a bag and take it away. These men did not kill snakes. There was a mystery about this which James never understood.

  He once saw a boy killed by a krait. He was weeding in the garden. He was struck. He did a strange thing. Perhaps realizing he was doomed he seized the snake and in a fury tore it to pieces with his teeth. So they both died.

  On another occasion he saw a snake kill a dog. He knew this snake by sight. It was a hamadryad, sometimes called the King Cobra. It is yellow with black crossbands and can grow to a length of twelve feet. This one lived in a village he knew and in spite of a reputation for ferocity it appeared to be harmless. There existed a sort of truce be
tween the snake and the villagers. They did not interfere with it and it did not molest them. Some villagers actually welcome the presence of this questionable visitor asserting that it will keep down the rats; a sort of house cat. It may be true.

  At all events, one day James was passing through the village and paused to look at this particular beast as it lay in the open, coiled up, basking in the sun. At this moment a dog appeared, evidently a stranger to the place. Spotting the snake, making a lot of noise it flew at it.

  Snakes are commonly regarded as sluggish, slow-moving creatures, but the speed at which this one moved was an eye-opener to James. It made for its lair, a hole under a tree, at such a rate that the dog had difficulty in overtaking it. It succeeded just as the snake dived into its hole. The dog managed to get hold of the end of its tail and tried to drag it out. In a flash the snake’s head reappeared. It struck. Its fangs sank into the dog’s neck. The dog retired, silent. In two or three minutes it was staggering about as if it was drunk. Five more minutes and it had died in convulsions.

  James went on his way pondering what he had seen and more than ever determined to keep out of long grass, where snakes are often found.

  He had one experience with a snake that he was never likely to forget.

  It was a hot day. He was at home, lazing in a deck-chair in the shade of some trees near the road. He was bored. His father was away and he had nothing to do. He had been told to rest following a mild attack of his recurrent fever. This had left him feeling rather weak, the palms of his hands still damp from the temperature he had been running. The house was silent. The dusty road was deserted. The overheated air quivered.

  He was gazing at the road in a disinterested sort of way when a boy appeared. He was running, which in such weather could only mean his errand was urgent. James recognized him as Sula Dowla, a lad of about his own age, son of the assistant native overseer at a nearby tea estate a little way up on the hillside. They had sometimes been out together. To James’ surprise Sula dashed straight into the garden. He was breathless and obviously excited. “Come,” he said in a tense voice.