by W E Johns
Ginger’s heart sank. Three he had thought he could handle. But nine was a different matter altogether.
All was now clear. It was for this party that the original three were waiting. The two Indians had not been in evidence because they had been sent off to fetch reinforcements. The two parties met and stood talking in their lisping bird-like voices.
Suddenly Ginger shivered as if a current of cold air had blown on him. This was not from fear, or anything like it. It confirmed what already in his heart he half suspected: that the unseen peril of the jungle, fever, had struck him. His head ached unmercifully. His shirt was a wet rag. His lips were bone dry. Where was Biggles? he wondered, miserably. Why didn’t he come? Another angle occurred to him. What if he did come? Knowing nothing of the hostile force in the nullah he would come openly, perhaps noisily, calling for Toxan. If that happened he and Bertie would walk, all unsuspectingly, into a trap from which none of them would escape.
The troops appeared to be making camp for the night having decided it was useless to search in the darkness for the man they wanted. In the circumstances there seemed to be little object in watching them and Ginger prepared to return to Toxan’s hiding place; but when he attempted to get up he discovered his legs were so weak that they would not support him. The world spun round him and he had to clutch at a bush to steady himself. Dismayed by the shock of this he lay down to think things over. One fact became clear. In the state he was in it would be folly to attempt to return to Toxan. If he did not fall, and roll down into the nullah, perhaps hurting himself seriously, he would probably lose his way and end up lost in the jungle.
It was no use, he told himself. He would have to rest, wait for the fever, or whatever was the matter with him, to pass. The Chinese no longer worried him; he was more concerned with himself. Conscious of being terribly tired all he wanted to do was sleep. Vaguely he wished he had chosen some other place, where the sickly smell of mhowa was not so pungent. It was so strong he might have been swimming in a pool of it.
Stretching himself out on the ground he closed his eyes.
CHAPTER XI
THE journey from the Gondi village to the Nullah Tangla, which Ram Shan had said was the name of the objective, took longer than Biggles and Bertie had been led to expect, for which reason they arrived late. There were two reasons for this. In the first place, as with “backward” natives almost everywhere, to Ram Shan time and distance were relative terms and often at fault. Or it may have been, as commonly happens—and for this Biggles should have made allowances—that in his anxiety to please he deliberately presented the most optimistic picture of a trip which he must have known would not be easy. But he was not entirely to blame. He had admitted freely that it was some time since he had visited the nullah, and during that period the main track he proposed following had become much overgrown. One stretch had been choked by lantana, a trailing scrub through which knives had to be used to force a passage. This was slow and grilling work, yet Ram Shan dared not leave the track for fear of losing his bearings.
As a result of this, Biggles’ party, which comprised himself and Bertie, Ram Shan, Bira Shah, to whom Bertie had of course returned the Lee-Enfield, and two Gonds who had volunteered to carry food and water, found itself benighted while still some little way from the objective. However, Biggles insisted on pressing on, and after several disappointments, Ram Shan having said many times “only a little way now, sahib,” the party, hot and tired, finally found itself in the open, with the nullah at its feet. It was dark, but the moon was up, nearly full, and the sky glittering with stars. Moonlight had not helped them under the forest trees, but now it was a blessing, for from the top, looking down into the ravine, in the pale blue light it appeared to be a grim and forbidding place; as in fact it was, even in daylight. In pitch darkness a descent to the bottom would have been a hazardous, if not perilous, undertaking.
“This is the Nullah Tangla, sahib,” said Ram Shan, as they stood on the brink looking into the abyss.
“How did you get down?” asked Biggles.
“This way, sahib. I show you.”
Ram Shan pushed on a short distance to where a landslide had made a steep but not impossible slope. Before beginning the descent he held up his head and sniffed “I smell camp fire,” he announced. “Toxan sahib still here.” He was not to know, of course, that the smoke he could smell had nothing to do with the lone prospector; it was coming from the smouldering embers of the burnt scrub some way farther along the gorge.
“Good,” said Biggles to Bertie. “He’s still here.”
Up to this point he had no idea whether Toxan was still there or had left. Naturally, the thought did not enter his head that Ginger might be there.
They went down, Ram Shan picking the easiest way. On reaching the bottom Ram Shan said again: “This way, sahib. Unless he has moved it I will show you his tent, where I saw it.” He started off, the others following in single file.
“How about giving him a hail?” suggested Bertie.
“I don’t think that would be wise,” answered Biggles. “At this time of night, if he happens to be asleep it might give him a fright. Let’s see first where he is.”
In a matter of moments he was to be thankful he had taken this decision.
Ram Shan, his eyes ahead, stumbled over something on the ground.
Biggles heard him catch his breath sharply. “What is it,” he asked quickly.
“There is death here, sahib,” said Ram Shan, softly.
They stood looking down at the body.
“Do you know this man?” inquired Biggles.
“Yes, sahib. He is a Gurkha, one who stayed with Toxan sahib. I saw him when I was here. There has been trouble.”
“I can see that,” returned Biggles, with gentle sarcasm, “Let us go on. If one is dead the others may be dead, too.”
They went on, slowly, Ram Shan looking about him nervously, and they had not gone far when they came upon the body of the Chinese soldier. These, of course, were the bodies Ginger had seen.
“So that’s it,” muttered Biggles, grimly. “I can see what’s happened here. We’re too late. The Chinese troops we were told about have got here first.”
Advancing under Ram Shan’s guidance they reached the burnt-out remains of Toxan’s camp.
“The devils who did this must still be around, old boy,” said Bertie. “I can still smell smoke. Who else would make it?”
“If Toxan has been killed one would have expected his body to be here,” said Biggles in a puzzled voice. “I don’t understand this smell of smoke.” He touched the embers at his feet. “It isn’t coming from here. This stuff is stone cold. It must have been out for hours.”
“The Chinese, if they were responsible, may still be about. Have they lit a fire somewhere near?”
“Could be. But if they’ve got Mr. Poo, and that’s what it looks like, one would have expected them to head back for Thibet flat out. There could be no other reason for them being here except to capture Mr. Poo.”
Biggles spun round as if he had been stung when a voice in the darkness said: “Don’t shoot, sahib.”
“Who’s that.”
“I come.” Hamid Khan, kukri in hand, the plaster Ginger had put on his head shining whitely in the moonlight, stepped from the bushes into the open and saluted.
“Who are you?” asked Biggles, sharply.
Ram Shan answered the question. “This man is a Gurkha of Toxan sahib. I remember seeing him here.”
“Is Captain Toxan alive?” Biggles asked the Ghurkha.
“Yes, sahib. He is wounded.”
“Where is he?”
“I show. Make no noise. Enemies are near,” warned Hamid. “Your friend tells me to tell you he is here.”
“Friend. What friend? Do you mean Toxan?”
“No, sahib. Young man. He tells us you are coming.”
Biggles looked at Bertie. “What the deuce is he talking about?”
“Can he mean Algy or
Ginger? No one else knew we were on our way here.”
“But that’s impossible.” Biggles looked back at Hamid. “How did this man get here?”
“He is your friend of the red hair. He falls from above.”
“By thunder! Then it must be Ginger,” Biggles told Bertie in a voice stiff with amazement. “He must be out of his mind.” To the Gurkha he said: “Lead on.”
“Quietly, sahib. The Chinese are still here.”
Hamid Khan made his way up the sloping side of the ravine into the deep brush in which Toxan lay with his bandaged shoulder. He was conscious, and smiled weakly. “Thanks for coming,” were his first words.
Biggles was looking around. “I understand a friend of mine is here.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you know?”
“After he had put this bandage on me he went off, taking my rifle, with the intention of trying to find Mr. Poo Ling, the Chinese gentleman I had staying here with me.”
Biggles looked at Bertie and shook his head helplessly. “Mad,” he said. “He must be completely off his rocker.” He turned back to the wounded man. “Before we go any further, tell me, how badly are you hurt?”
“According to your young friend not too badly. The bullet went right through. He told me to be still to give the blood a chance to dry and the wound to heal.”
“Quite right. All we can do for the moment is wait for him to come back. Meanwhile you might tell me what happened here.”
Toxan told of how he had been attacked, and seeing that he was outnumbered had ordered Mr. Poo to hide in the jungle. Hamid had seen him and his Thibetan servant run into the scrub. Unfortunately the Chinese troops had also seen them and had set fire to the place to smoke them out. As far as he knew they were still inside when Ginger had arrived on the scene. He had gone off to see if he could do anything about it.
“What did he think he, single-handed, could do against a party of armed men?” asked Biggles, bitterly. “How many of these Chinese are there?”
“Five, now, as far as I know. I saw six, and shot one.”
“Did Ginger know how many there were of them?”
“Yes. We told him.”
“Then what in heaven’s name did he hope to do?”
“I don’t think he knew himself, except that he had some vague idea of getting hold of Mr. Poo. He just borrowed my rifle and went. Hamid would have gone with him but he said it was better he should stay here to watch for you to arrive, and put you wise as to what has happened.”
“And these Chinese are still in the nullah?”
“Yes. A bit farther down, by the scrub they burnt. I had better tell you we heard shooting just before sundown. Two shots sounded like my Rigby.”
Biggles drew a deep breath. “I don’t like the sound of that. If Ginger’s been in action, and hasn’t come back, the enemy may have got him; or worse still, he might be lying out there somewhere, wounded. We shall have to do something about this right away.”
“He may have got hold of Mr. Poo and is lying low with him,” suggested Bertie.
Biggles shook his head dubiously. “Possibly, but I doubt it. Had he got hold of Mr. Poo he would have brought him back here, or at any rate, sent him back. The fact that he hasn’t returned can only mean that for one reason or another he couldn’t get here.”
“Finding him in the dark isn’t going to be easy, old boy.”
“Of course it won’t be easy but the least we can do is try.”
“Absolutely. I couldn’t agree more.”
“What knocks me flat is why he took the risk of jumping in here.”
“I can answer that,” put in Toxan. “The fighting was over when he arrived but there was still plenty of smoke. He said he saw the smoke, and flying lower spotted two bodies. He came to investigate.”
“So that was it,” murmured Biggles. “It doesn’t matter. What we have to do now is find him.”
Hamid stepped in. He suggested, respectfully, that now there was no longer any need for him to remain with Toxan it might be a good thing if he went out scouting alone. Having lived in the nullah he knew every inch of the ground. One would make less noise than three. He would first find out if the Chinese were there, how many there were of them and what they were doing.
To this sensible proposal Biggles agreed. “Don’t be too long or we may have to start looking for you,” he said.
Hamid, as silent as a stalking cat, moved off.
Biggles sent Ram Shan to fetch some water and then sat down beside Toxan who gave him more details of the raid.
An anxious half-hour passed before Hamid returned.
“Well?” asked Biggles.
“I have found him.”
“Wonderful. Why didn’t he come back with you?”
“He sleeps, lying on the ground with the rifle beside him.”
“Sleeps! Why didn’t you wake him?”
“He will not wake.”
“Why not? Are you sure he isn’t wounded?”
“I find no wound. I think it is the fever that strikes him.”
Biggles sprang to his feet. “Take us to him.”
“Care must be taken, sahib. The Chinese make camp close by.”
“Did you get an idea of how many there are of them?”
“They sleep on the sand. I count nine. One sits.”
Biggles stared. “Nine!” He looked at Toxan. “I thought you reckoned there were not more than half a dozen.”
“Others must have joined them.”
“Six or nine, who cares?” put in Bertie, briskly. “Let’s get cracking.”
Biggles slung his water bottle over his shoulder and picking up his rifle made a signal to Hamid to lead the way.
Creeping through bush, crawling over open ground, taking care not to displace stones, Biggles and Bertie followed their guide along the sloping bank of the nullah. Once Hamid halted to point out the red spark of a camp fire well below on the dry watercourse. “Chinese,” he whispered. He went on, and after a few minutes came to the rock behind which Ginger was lying, restless and murmuring incoherently.
Biggles knelt beside him, took his pulse and laid a hand on his flushed forehead. “It’s fever all right,” he said. “You watch the enemy.”
He unscrewed the cap of the water bottle and into it he poured some water. From a phial he took from his pocket he shook out a tablet. Crushing it to powder with the brass end of a cartridge he mixed it with the water and a sip at a time managed to get the liquid between Ginger’s lips. “He’s running a high temperature but I don’t think he’s too bad,” he told Bertie. “As it’s his first bout he should soon get over it. It’s when you get attack after attack, each one getting worse, that it knocks you out. That’s what happened to me.”
“What have you given him?”
“A dose of Atebrin.1 That should do the trick. I blame myself for this. I should have put you all on it, daily, from the moment we arrived; but I didn’t think we’d be here long enough to matter. Frankly, in bringing a bottle of tablets I was thinking of myself, having been through it and knowing how susceptible I’d be to a recurrence.”
“How long before he’ll be able to walk?”
“He won’t do any walking tonight. He’ll recover faster asleep.”
“Be a bit awkward staying here, won’t it, with those Chinese johnnies below?”
“I’ve no intention of staying here. We shall have to carry him to Toxan’s hideout.” Biggles looked up at Hamid. “Go and fetch the bearers we brought with us. Ram Shan and the other three Gonds.”
Hamid saluted and vanished into the shadows.
Biggles sat down by Ginger’s side.
“In a way I’m glad to see those Chinese there,” said Biggles.
“Why?”
“Because it suggests to me that Mr. Poo must still be somewhere about otherwise they’d have started for home.”
“Tru
e enough.”
“If they haven’t got him they’ll start hunting for him as soon as it gets daylight. That won’t be so good.”
“They might find us.”
“That’s what I mean. With two sick men on our hands we shan’t be able to move far, or fast. But we’ll deal with that situation when the time comes.”
Hamid returned with Ram Shan, Bira Shah and the two Gonds. Forming on either side of Ginger, who was still unconscious, they picked him up and under Hamid’s guidance returned to Toxan, Bertie carrying the rifle. Having made him as comfortable as circumstances permitted, Biggles sat down and helped himself to a swig of water. He also took an Atebrin tablet.
“By gosh! I’m tired,” he said wearily. “Too much walking never did agree with me.”
“What do you think has become of Mr. Poo?” asked Toxan.
“I haven’t a clue. We may know presently. When Ginger comes round he should be able to tell us.”
Biggles lay back. Hamid stood like a bronze statue looking down into the nullah. The Gonds squatted cross-legged on the ground, silent, motionless.
Ginger’s fitful movements stopped as the medicine Biggles had given him took effect. The uneasy murmuring died on his lips and his breathing became more regular.
“That’s better,” said Biggles.
* * *
1 Atebrin: proprietary (brand) name for mepacrine, which is also known as quinacrine, which is an antimalarial.
CHAPTER XII
STRANGELY enough, excluding the Indians, the first of the party to awake in the morning was Ginger. He was lying on his back, and as the blinds of unconsciousness were slowly drawn his eyes gazed uncomprehendingly at patches of grey sky through the bushes that mingled their leaves and branches overhead. For a little while the picture conveyed nothing to him. Then his eyelids flickered and he remembered where he was. Recollection rushed in, and with a start he sat up, reaching for his rifle.