by W E Johns
“Which the Chinese would also see. Forget it. The only way is for someone to go on foot.”
Bertie shook his head sadly. “Funny how none of my schemes ever seem to click.”
“One will, one day,” promised Biggles, cheerfully.
There was silence while he wrote the note and handed it to Bira Shah, who elected to take Ram Shan with him.
Within a minute the two of them had moved off, Bira Shah carrying his old Lee-Enfield rifle. Ram Shan had only a knife. Biggles’ last words had been to warn them to keep well away from the Chinese until they were clear of the nullah. The troops were still about and their position could be judged by the noise they made. There was a good deal of calling, and shouting.
“Why all the din?” queried Ginger.
“Not speaking the language I don’t know, but if you asked me to guess I’d say they’re calling the man Hamid killed,” returned Biggles.
This conversation, and the arrangements, had been made while the party was awaiting the return of Hamid. There was nothing else to do.
After a little while the Gurkha came back. He reported that, as was expected, the enemy had got Mr. Poo, who, of course, as they had been in Toxan’s camp together, he knew well by sight. He hadn’t seen the Thibetan.
“What are they doing?” asked Biggles.
“Some stand bottom of nullah, top end, with Poo. Some look in bushes.”
“What are they looking for?”
Hamid showed his teeth in a grin and touched his kukri. “Man I kill, sahib.”
“Naturally, they’ll wonder what has become of him; that’s why they’re waiting, I suppose,” Biggles told the others.
“If they find him it should give their nerves a bit of a jolt,” said Ginger, with savage satisfaction.
Hamid raised a hand at Biggles, apparently accepting him as the leader of the party. “Come, sahib. I show something.”
“Show what?”
“Something. Not far. Chinese not near.”
Biggles got up. “I fancy Hamid has an idea. I’d better see what it is. Stay where you are or I may have a job to find you.” He followed the Ghurkha over the brink of the ravine and down the slope, for part of the way following the route by which they had gone up. Then, traversing, they presently arrived almost at the spot where Ginger had been found, the place from which he had seen Mr. Poo and his companion make their break from the burning scrub. The fire was now out, leaving an area of blackened earth dotted with holes that looked as if they might be caves, the lairs of the bears that frequented the place.
But this was not what Hamid had brought him to see. Below on the floor of the ravine where the Chinese had camped, was a pile of equipment, packs, haversacks, and the like. There was no one on guard.
“We take kit,” suggested Hamid who, having been a soldier, knew what this would mean. “Take kit they must stay,” went on the Gurkha. “Trouble for them if go without it. While they wait we catch Mr. Poo.”
Biggles saw the possibilities at once. The loss of their entire kit would keep the Chinese there, for some time, anyway, while they searched for it. They wouldn’t want to start their long march home without food, or full water bottles. While they waited there might be a chance of recovering the prisoner.
Biggles stood up and advanced to a point from which it was possible to get a view up the nullah. There were no troops in sight, a bend, actually a rocky bluff, coming between them. They were still calling to each other and shouting for their missing comrade. The voices were at a fair distance. Hamid had seen the men at the top end of the gorge, so presumably they were still there.
Biggles decided the chance was worth taking, for he could not entertain the thought of losing the man he had come to find; at least, without making an effort to save him.
“Come,” he said, and ran on down the slope.
Reaching the heap of equipment, the usual military assortment which included sundry stores such as a box of cartridges and Red Cross kit, the question arose where to hide it. The caves in the side of the nullah seemed ready-made for the job. Biggles told Hamid so. “You take the stuff while I keep watch in case the enemy comes,” he said. “Be quick.”
Hamid went to work, and the pile shrank in size, for it was only a short distance between the camp and the caves. Biggles squatted behind a boulder and kept watch.
There was a diversion, although it did not affect him, when Algy, in the aircraft, came roaring through the gorge. Biggles could sympathize with him, realizing he must be wondering what was going on in the nullah.
He made no signal, thinking that if he did it might distract the attention of Algy who, in his eagerness to see more, could easily collide with the wall of the nullah, a possibility which, in any case, caused Biggles some anxiety. If Algy spotted him he might come even lower, perhaps circle, to see what he was doing. Again, such a manoeuvre might bring the troops along to ascertain the cause. Algy, reflected Biggles, would almost certainly see the Chinese troops and imagine the worst had happened. Still, nothing could be done about it.
By the time the plane pulled out and headed for the lake Hamid had finished his task. They did not linger, for the voices were coming nearer, the troops evidently rallying on their camp. Scrambling up the slope until they found a suitable piece of cover, with plenty of rough bush behind them in which to retire should it become necessary, they sat down to watch events.
Presently the troops appeared, or five of them, walking slowly, almost sauntering, with Mr. Poo between them, the others apparently hanging back still looking for the missing man. Evidently he had not been found. The Thibetan was not there. Mr. Poo seemed bowed with grief, or age, or fatigue, and Biggles’ sympathy went out to him. At the same time his anger against his captors mounted.
The moment when the men missed their kit was clear. From walking casually, with frequent glances behind them for those who were dallying, they hurried forward and finished at a run, to then look about them in surprise or consternation. One of them, from the cyphers on his arm, was the officer or N.C.O. in charge of the party.
They went into a huddle, talking volubly. From their actions it was possible to guess what they were saying, almost what they were thinking. Breaking up they wandered about, studying the ground as if they were not convinced they were in the right place. Some began looking behind rocks and bushes, presumably for the missing equipment. Mr. Poo had sunk down and sat, a picture of dejection, with his head in his hands.
With the soldiers offering such an easy target, for a minute Biggles was tempted to shoot; but his common sense told him such an action would be unwise. It would only expose his position, and if he succeeded in killing one or two it would only make the task of getting hold of Mr. Poo more difficult. The search for the missing kit went on. Time passed. There was a commotion when a soldier, hunting in some bamboo, flushed a bear, probably one of those that had been smoked out from its den. Two or three shots were fired at it, for what purpose was not evident since the beast only tried to run away, but as far as Biggles could see they had no effect. By a curious chance the animal bolted into the very cave in which Hamid had flung the enemy’s kit. It happened to be one of the nearest. Biggles thought the troops would think twice about entering a cave with an angry bear inside, so all they had done was make their chances of finding what they were looking for even more difficult.
The day wore on. One by one the soldiers who had been looking for the missing man drifted in. The party showed no signs of departing so it began to look, as Hamid had anticipated, as if they were not going to start for home that day.
Biggles looked at his watch. He said to Hamid: “I think you had better go and tell the others what has happened. They’ll be getting worried by us being away for so long, and may come to look for us. I won’t move from here. Say we may be here for some time longer yet. Tell them I suggest they might move a little deeper into the jungle. The farther they are from the nullah the safer they’ll be.”
“Yes, sahib.” Hamid smiled slyly. “If Chi
nese men stay here all night I get Mr. Poo. I get him when dark.”
“We’ll see about it,” agreed Biggles. “Take the message.”
“Yes, sahib.”
The Gurkha wormed his way into the scrub behind them and disappeared.
Biggles continued to watch what was going on below, although actually this was not much. The troops seemed completely nonplussed by the disappearance of their equipment, and stood about, sometimes gazing apprehensively at the patches of jungle which here and there had found a foothold on the sloping banks. Mr. Poo never moved. He sat with his head in his hands, staring at the ground in front of him. Biggles found it easy to imagine what he was thinking.
There was a sudden stir, which brought Biggles to the alert—for he was getting drowsy in the hot sun— when somewhere out of sight a rifle shot echoed. The cause was revealed when a few minutes later a soldier appeared dragging a dead bear cub which obviously he had shot. His arrival in camp was greeted with cries of approval, and very soon, a fire having been lighted, the bear was being skinned and jointed for food. This confirmed Biggles’ opinion that the enemy was hungry. The small beast was something for them to go on with, he meditated. But one small bear between eight men would not last long.
The sinking sun now appeared to be balanced on the distant tree tops. Like a great crimson balloon it flooded the nullah with a glow that made the rocks and bare patches of earth appear red hot. Having been soaked with sunshine all day, that, to Biggles, was nearly how they felt.
CHAPTER XIV
THE crimson glow had faded to purple and dusk was filling the nullah with shadows when a slight sound behind him brought Biggles’ head round with a start.
It was Hamid. With him was Bertie, Toxan’s rifle in his hand.
As they crawled to a squatting position beside him Biggles frowned. “What are you doing here?” he growled at Bertie. “I left you in charge up top.”
“I heard a shot, and thought maybe you were having a spot of bother. So I toddled along to lend a hand if necessary—if you get my meaning. Ginger’s taken over. He’s pretty well okay now.”
“Hamid has told you the position?”
“Yes. Shouldn’t we be able to do something about this?”
“If they look like moving off we shall have to, but it seems more as if they intend to stay the night here. That would suit us better.”
“What are they doing?”
“At the moment having supper off a bear cub. They’re out of food.”
“Why haven’t they gone?”
“How would I know? They might be waiting for their missing man to come in. If he doesn’t show up they may make a thorough search for him in the morning. It’s too dark for them to do anything about that tonight. They may still hope to find their missing equipment. Hamid told you what we did with it?”
“He did. Jolly good show.”
“It may be, now they’ve got Mr. Poo, they’re in no desperate hurry to get back. Or it could be having no food or water is the answer. Perhaps they hope to get some from somewhere.”
“There’s water by Toxan’s old camp.”
“They’ve nothing to carry it in. The fools left their water bottles there and we dumped ‘em in the cave with the rest of the stuff. Poor old Poo seems to be in poor shape. I doubt if he’ll be able to walk far. Remember, they’ve a long way to go, uphill all the way.”
“Well, what’s the drill, old boy.”
“I fancy Hamid has an idea for getting hold of Poo when it gets really dark. We can’t move from here, anyway, until the people who have gone to the lake come back with something to eat. It’d be asking for trouble to start without food, particularly as it looks as if we shall have to carry Toxan. We can’t leave him here, even with Hamid to look after him. He ought to be in hospital. In the jungle wounds easily turn septic. If we could get him to the lake I’d fly him to Delhi, where he’d be all right—doctors, and so on.”
“We’ve fixed up a stretcher.”
“How? What with?”
“I went down to the bottom of the nullah with Ginger and we recovered his brolly. Back up top we cut a couple of saplings and lashed some of the parachute fabric between them, using the shrouds for tying.”
“That was a brainy idea. Who thought of it?”
Bertie smiled. “Believe it or not, I did.”
“Top marks. I told you your turn would come.”
“I had to think of something to do, old boy. It was no joke, just sitting stewing in our own juice.”
Biggles nodded towards the enemy camp—not that there was literally a camp. “They obviously intend to spend the night where they are. That suits us. They won’t—in fact, they couldn’t—do anything in the dark.”
“What happened to the two wild Indians who Toxan thought brought them here? The two Ginger saw. Are they still with them?”
“I haven’t seen them. I’ve no idea of what became of them. I’d better ask Hamid if he has a plan for getting hold of Mr. Poo. You can just see the old man, sitting near the fire.”
“Is he tied up?”
“I don’t think so. There would be no need for that. If he bolted he wouldn’t get a mile. When I saw him on his feet he could just about totter, that’s all.” Biggles beckoned to Hamid, who was squatting a little apart, to come nearer. “How can we get Mr. Poo?” he asked.
“Wait for dark, sahib. Chinese men sleep. I go,” whispered the Ghurkha.
Biggles looked at Bertie and shrugged. “He’s probably right,” he said softly.
Little more was said. Night, deep and as yet moonless, filled the nullah with a darkness almost tangible. The sounds from the enemy camp, less than a hundred yards away, and below, died away, and a solemn hush, broken occasionally by the cry of a nocturnal creature, fell. Once, after a coughing grunt, that seemed to come from the far side of the nullah, Biggles breathed: “Panther.”
“What if he comes this way ?”
“He won’t come near us. He probably winded the Chinese and grunted because he didn’t like the smell of ‘em.”
An hour passed, a long hour heavy with silence and the almost overpowering scent of night-flowering trees and shrubs. Then a spreading silvery glow in the sky foretold the approach of the moon. Presently it soared up above the trees that lined the rim of the gorge and the world was filled with a light as bright as moonlight can be only in the tropics. The enemy bivouac was in plain view. Seven soldiers lay round the small black spot that had been the camp fire. The eighth man was moving, sometimes walking a little way up and down on what seemed to be a regular beat, sometimes resting by sitting on a rock which apparently he had put in position near the sleepers for that purpose. Mr. Poo still sat in the same place, and in exactly the same posture, as when Biggles had last seen him. His beard, catching the moonlight, shone with a curious and conspicuous whiteness.
Hamid began to move. “Wait,” he breathed.
“Shall we come a little closer, in case there is an alarm, to cover your retreat?” suggested Biggles.
“If you wish. But make no noise, sahib.” The Gurkha drew his kukri from its sheath and began inching his way forward down the slope.
Biggles and Bertie gave him two or three minutes’ start and then followed, slowly, taking infinite pains not to make the slightest sound. Once in a while Biggles stopped to survey the scene ahead for Hamid, but could not see him. He might, for any sign there was of him, have fallen into a hole in the ground. In the enemy camp everything remained unchanged. The sentry, his rifle slung on a shoulder, strolled up and down, or sat on his rock, anything to kill time.
Near the bottom of the nullah, behind a small, thin patch of scrub, through which it was possible to see without being seen, Biggles stopped and laid a hand on Bertie’s arm. “This is close enough,” he breathed, sinking down, with his rifle, resting on his knees, pointing forward.
There was still no sign of Hamid, although this was to be expected. The silence, except when the sentry displaced a pebble, seemed to
be dropping from the sky.
Time passed. It might have been an hour, although to the watchers, with muscles becoming cramped, keyed up and expecting something to happen at any moment, it seemed like two or three. Hamid had given no indication of what he intended to do. He may not have known himself, his actions depending on circumstances. Biggles stared at the prone figures, and Mr. Poo, who still had not moved and but for his white beard might have been a graven image, until his eyes ached and he had to close them to clear his vision.
Just when Hamid went into action he did not know. He never did know. There was no sound. No abrupt movement. Nothing. The first thing he knew was that the sentry, who had been sitting on his rock, was no longer there. Nor was he walking up and down. Biggles blinked and looked again. An object that might have been a reptile was gliding slowly towards the sleepers. Realizing what it was he held his breath. He saw it reach Mr. Poo. The old man turned his head sharply, and in another moment two figures were creeping quickly towards the nearest scrub on the far side of the nullah. Into it they disappeared. There had been no sound. Nothing had changed, except that Mr. Poo was no longer where he had been.
Bertie nudged Biggles to indicate that he had seen.
Biggles did not move. Neither did the sleepers.
Another long wait followed. Hamid did not reappear. The sentry had vanished. Biggles brushed drops of perspiration, brought on by heat and strain, from his eyelids. Time crawled on. It seemed interminable, and Biggles was beginning to get worried when a soft sound came from just above. Hamid’s lithe body materialized in the gloom. He was alone.
Biggles joined him. “You’ve got him?”
“Yes, sahib.”
“Great work. He knows you, of course.”
“Yes, sahib.”
“Take him to the others. We’ll follow. We’d better wait here for a little while in case he can’t travel very fast. The Chinese may wake, and missing him, start shooting.”
“Yes, sahib.”
Hamid retired, and Biggles and Bertie resumed their watching positions.