by W E Johns
Things became worse as the ascent continued, what from below had looked like solid rock revealing itself to be as porous as coke. It was the colour of coke, too, and it struck Ginger that there had been an eruption at no very distant date. A faint smell of sulphur was sometimes noticeable.
Biggles stopped, pointing at a thin miasma of misty smoke that drifted sluggishly from a ravine not far below them. “Listen, chaps, and I’ll tell you something,” he said, seriously. “The fellow who reported this volcano as dead couldn’t have looked very close. The people living in the crater need their heads examining. One day, and I’d say it could happen at any time, this place is going to do a Krakatoa1, and that’ll be the end of it.”
To make matters more difficult the way was now barred with increasing frequency by the precipices and screes that had been observed from the aircraft when it had flown round the island. To get round these detours were necessary, with the result that progress became slower. They had to skirt ravines. And all the time there was the uncomfortable feeling that the ground on which they were standing might collapse and drop them into an abyss.
Perhaps even more alarming were the frowning crags overhead, and more than once Ginger stopped to regard them askance before tip-toeing under them, holding his breath until he was past the danger spot. The sun was now well up and the heat, striking down with full equatorial force, became a torture. All that Biggles had said about sweat had been justified, thought Ginger, who could feel perspiration trickling down his body in little rivulets. The air being humid the body moisture did not evaporate as he had known it do in the dry heat of desert regions. However, as Biggles observed, at least there were no dogs to worry about. But there were other dangers.
It was while they were crossing a small, harmless looking plateau of grey pumice-stone, without any sort of vegetation on it, that Marcel broke through what was evidently a thin crust and sank up to his armpits. The others, lying at full length to distribute their weight, helped him out. Having rolled clear he rose up to regard, with a stream of vituperation in his native language, a mass of sulphur-reeking mud that clung to the lower part of his body. It was one of those occasions, no serious harm having been done, when spectators find humour in the misfortune of a companion. They smiled. Ginger laughed.
But Marcel saw nothing funny in the incident and he said so in no uncertain terms. He also gave his opinion of the expedition in general.
“Are you grumbling?” inquired Biggles.
Marcel said he found plenty to grumble about.
Biggles spoke seriously. “Oh come, Marcel. If you go on like that you’ll develop into one of those miserable types that want everything easy, expecting everything to open and shut for them. Eventually they get that nothing is ever right. This is an experience, and experience is the sauce that gives life a flavour. Who wants to spend his days trotting along in the same old groove, seeing the same people and doing the same thing like a donkey on a beach? If you’re going to leave the beaten track the first thing is to make sure you’ve got your sense of humour with you.”
“But I stink like a skunk,” protested Marcel.
“It’ll wear off,” promised Biggles. “I own that this particular jaunt seems a bit grim at the moment, but think how we shall laugh about it one of these days when someone says: do you remember the time we sweated up that pile of filthy rock called Oratovoa and Marcel fell into a pothole of muck. We shall laugh and laugh and laugh. Dash it! I could laugh now, and so would you if you could see yourself.”
They all started to laugh, and presently the crags echoed with their laughter, sending the gulls wheeling.
“That’s enough,” said Biggles at last. “We’d better push on.”
They resumed their toil, and after another hour of sheer hard labour the party reached another small plateau overlooking the inlet and perhaps two thousand feet above it. Being in line with the end the full length of the inlet was in view, with the aircraft, still at its mooring, looking like a tiny model floating on a sea of blue ink. Biggles called another halt, and with a gasp of thankfulness Ginger dropped his load and sank down beside it. There was a little grass, harsh, spiky-looking stuff, but at this altitude they were at least above the range of the nonos.
There were some pools of stagnant, nasty-looking water, and investigation revealed these to be as unpleasant to the taste as they were to the eye. Apart from a strong chemical flavour the water smelt strongly of bad fish, the result, Ginger supposed, of seagulls nesting on the ridges above. There were eggs, whole or broken, everywhere. In such intense heat water was vital, and they had to resort to their water-bottles. Somewhere still above them, although it could still not be seen on account of intervening crags and ridges, was the summit. Biggles said he reckoned they were about half-way to the top.
After a rest of a quarter of an hour or so the march was continued. The spectacle presented of the towering cliffs around them was now magnificent, but it is unlikely that any of them were in a state to appreciate it. All the time the going was becoming steeper with conditions underfoot deteriorating. Progress was made by zigzagging. Feet either crunched into the volcanic ash or slid as the stuff gave way like loose gravel. It was like going the wrong way on an escalator.
Ginger was worrying about the return journey, for more than once he heard an avalanche behind them, as if the ledge they had just crossed had broken away bodily, thus cutting off their retreat. Sometimes he looked at Biggles questioningly, hoping he would reconsider what they were doing; but nothing was said about turning back. In his heart, of course, Ginger knew Biggles would not turn back. While progress was humanly possible he would carry on, however hard the labour or perilous the conditions.
Biggles was like that. He hated this sort of thing as much as any of them, but having started he would not give up.
At every turn now Ginger was fully prepared to find their way barred by something impassable. It nearly happened several times, but somehow they always managed to scrape through. The end appeared to have come when a ravine yawned at their feet. There was no way in sight of getting round it. All around was a world of sheer and utter desolation of red and black honeycombed rock devoid of any sort of vegetation. Biggles took a coin from his pocket. “Heads to the left, tails to the right,” he said, tossing it. “Heads,” he announced, and set off to the left, following the brink of the chasm.
After half an hour of gruelling labour they came to the base of a landslide composed of giant rocks from which projected at all angles hundreds of long-dead trees that had been uprooted. To get over it was obviously out of the question. Biggles must have realized it, for he merely said, “Nothing doing,” and turning about set off in the opposite direction. Ginger was appalled that all their labour had come to nothing but there was no alternative. In another half-hour they were back at the spot at which they had struck the ravine. Biggles didn’t stop. He went right on. The others followed wearily.
After going some way the sides of the ravine began to draw together, and there was a hope that presently they would meet. They never did. The ravine ended abruptly in a sheer drop of a thousand feet. Without a word Biggles turned back to a place where the two walls had come so close together, a matter of only six or seven yards, that they were actually joined by a slender strip of rock, arched in the manner of a bridge. Biggles considered it reflectively. “Pity we didn’t bring a rope,” he said. “No matter. We shall have to manage without one.”
“You’re not thinking of crossing that thing!” exclaimed Ginger, aghast.
“There’s no other way.”
“You must be raving mad.”
“The alternative is to admit we’re beaten and go back to where we started from, having had this awful sweat for nothing.”
“Okay. So let’s go back. I’d do anything rather than trust myself to that horror.”
Biggles smiled wanly, perspiration making little white lines down his grimy face. “I’ll admit it doesn’t look inviting, but having come so far I’m go
ing on,” he said. “I’m not asking anyone else to come. You can all please yourselves about that. We knew we should have to take chances when we started. I’m the heaviest. If the thing will carry my weight it should hold for the rest of you. However, as I’ve said, you must please yourselves about that. If the bridge lets me down you’ll have to go back anyway. Looking at it won’t make it any stronger so let’s see what the luck’s like.”
So saying Biggles walked to the bridge.
Ginger closed his eyes. He couldn’t bring himself to watch. Silence fell. A minute passed. He opened his eyes. Biggles was standing on the far side lighting a cigarette.
“Anyone coming?” he asked, casually.
Marcel said, “Zut! Never again will I go on a walking tour with you.” He walked across.
Sven, somewhat pale, followed without a word.
Ginger braced himself. In spite of the heat his stomach seemed to have turned to ice. Staring straight in front of him like a sleep-walker he crossed the bridge and sank down on the far side.
“Nothing to it,” said Biggles, and walked on.
“We’ll find some other way back if you don’t mind,” said Ginger, as he rose to follow. “One go of that is enough,” he added grimly.
“We can’t have much farther to go,” Biggles told him, cheerfully.
How far they went, following what looked like promising routes only to find their hopes dashed by some impassible obstacle, Ginger would not have attempted to guess. Sometimes it was a precipice, sometimes a wall of rock. Once a path ended in a point and they found themselves with nothing but empty space below. The sun was now directly overhead and Ginger was wondering for how much longer he could go on. Hanging over him, too, was the awful knowledge that having got to the top they would have to try to find their way down. Another worry was, the water bottles were getting low. Frequent sips of water were necessary to replace the water lost by perspiration.
There was a horrible place where water running over rock had produced a green slime that was as slippery as ice. This was on a shelf only a few feet wide, where a fall would have meant plunging into a chasm. The murmur of the water that flowed over it could be heard in the black depths below.
They kept on, always making a little more altitude, even though a detour sometimes meant going downhill a little way first. They came to a fantastic precipice which Ginger recalled seeing from the aircraft. It was, he reckoned, a drop of at least two thousand feet. Here they sat down for another rest, not to admire the view but because the ledge caught a little sea breeze. Far below, minute white specks which Ginger knew were gulls, drifted aimlessly. Where they were there seemed to be no life of any sort.
Near at hand began a giant’s causeway of great blocks of black basalt. If this could be climbed, Biggles said, he thought it might be a short way to the top. The climb would be more or less vertical. He decided it would be worth trying.
A climb of three thousand feet or more is a stiff pull at any time. Here they were all near exhaustion. Ginger was prepared to take any risk to get the job finished. He tried not to think about the return journey. He was sure there was an easier path from the top to the sea, and vice versa. That, of course, was why the dogs were there. No man in his right mind would attempt what they had done, knowing what was before him.
The next half-hour was something Ginger knew he would never forget; but it achieved its purpose. The great rock landslide took them to the top. Not actually to the crater, but to the broad, comparatively open slope that formed the brim, a gentle incline on which grew a certain amount of grass and dwarf herbage. One of the plants, a creeper, carried small blue flowers. They could see the rim, a short distance away, hard cut against the sky. There was an open view on both sides. A fair breeze came off the sea.
“I think that’s done it,” said Biggles, mopping his face and opening his shirt to allow the breeze to dry it. “We’d better mark this spot where we came up in case we have to go back the same way. Meanwhile we’ll have a breather. We’ve earned it.”
They rested for a little while and then set off on what appeared to be the last leg of their journey, following the edge of a deep ravine. The ground was not level as they had supposed. It was full of pits and potholes, although after what had gone before they were no more than a hindrance. Some of the holes contained water, presumably rainwater from the overnight shower. It was flat but drinkable, so they made the most of the opportunity to refresh themselves and top up their bottles.
“Hold hard,” called Ginger suddenly, stopping and staring along the open slope. “There’s a man. What’s he doing?”
The others halted to watch. “It’s a white man, anyway,” said Biggles. “What’s that he’s carrying?”
Marcel answered. “Plantains. He must have just come up from the forest.”
At that moment the man happened to look in their direction and it was clear from his actions that he had seen them. He dropped his load, and after a brief hesitation he hurried towards them, sometimes running, sometimes walking briskly.
So anxious was he to speak that he began before he reached them. “What people are you?” he called, speaking English with an accent.
“We’re a British expedition,” informed Biggles.
“Did you come in that plane we saw?”
“Yes.”
“How did you get up here?”
Biggles pointed. “We walked. That’s the way we came.”
“I didn’t know it was possible.”
Biggles smiled faintly. “Neither did we. We took a chance.”
“Did you see any dogs?”
“No.”
The man came up to them, and Ginger observed that he was younger than he had imagined, the mistake being due, probably, to a short, fair, curly beard. He wore only a shirt, trousers, and a pair of canvas shoes badly in need of repair. He was thin, but looked fairly fit. His blue eyes went from one to the other of them in a manner that suggested a sort of cautious excitement.
“What are you doing here?” asked Biggles, curiously.
“I’ve been to fetch the plantains.”
“I mean, what are you doing on the island?”
Before an answer could be given Sven stepped in. “You’re Swedish, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“What’s your name?”
“Pruntz. Axel Pruntz.”
“What about the others who left Sweden with you? Are they here?”
“All except Martin Larsson. He was my friend.”
“What happened to him?”
“He was determined to escape. I haven’t seen him since.”
Biggles spoke. “Escape? Does that mean you’re prisoners here?”
“Very much so. Thank God you’ve come. I hope you’ll take us away.”
“If you want to come with us you shall.”
“It won’t be easy.”
“How many people are there here altogether?”
“I haven’t actually counted them but there must be between twenty and twenty-five.”
Biggles pursed his lips. “Who’s keeping you here?”
“King Hara.”
“Is that his name or a title?”
“A title. We have to address him as King. He’s mad.”
“All right,” said Biggles. “We came here to find out what was going on. I suggest you sit down quietly and tell us.”
“You’re not going to find it easy to believe.”
“We shall believe what you tell us.”
“You’d better keep watch, because if you’re caught you’re likely to stay here with us.” Axel spoke seriously.
“Who’s going to catch us?”
“The guards. They’re armed.”
“How many of them are there?”
“Ten, now that some of the natives have gone over to Hara’s side for better treatment. They don’t mind being here.”
“Tell us about it,” invited Biggles.
They all sat down near the brink of the ravine to
catch the light breeze that came from the sea and Axel began his story.
* * *
1 Krakatoa was the island in the Dutch East Indies, between Java and Sumatra, which, in 1883, blew up with a roar that could be heard thousands of miles away. Where there had been a peak a thousand feet high became a chasm. An estimated 35,000 people lost their lives. Other volcanoes thought to be extinct have done the same thing. Author.
CHAPTER VII
AXEL TELLS HIS TALE
“As far as I’m concerned the business began when I answered an advertisement in a newspaper asking for volunteers to develop a colony on a South Sea island,” stated Axel, speaking in English, after a few words in his own language with Sven.
“We know about that,” put in Biggles. “I believe four people in Sweden accepted and left Stockholm in a yacht.”
“That is correct. The name of the yacht was Liberta, which, incidentally, is our name for this island.”
“You paid £500 each for the privilege of joining the project.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me at once, is this merely a racket for taking money off people?”
Axel hung on his answer. “I wouldn’t say that. When I’ve told you the whole story you’ll be able to judge for yourself.”
“Go ahead. Just one other thing. There’s a yacht below named the Dryad. It came here with a party of Dutch photographers.”
“That’s right.”
“Are they here?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve spoken to them?”