Biggles on Mystery Island

by W E Johns

  To get a clear picture of the scene it must be remembered that Biggles had taken the Sunderland to the widest part of the inlet, which was some distance below the beach on which they had landed to explore the path; and, of course, on the opposite side. The width at the point that had been selected for a mooring was about two hundred yards. The place at which the hunted man had shown himself was again some distance lower down. From the aircraft to the man, therefore, would have meant a long swim, for which reason, no doubt, Algy did not even contemplate it. There were other obvious reasons why the machine should be taken across.

  As a matter of fact, by the time Bertie had cast off, and Algy had got the aircraft moving, the hunted man had entered the water, and the reason why he had done so became evident when two or three dogs appeared on the spot he had vacated. One actually jumped into the water in its determination to reach its prey.

  Algy sent the aircraft surging across the placid water at a speed that sent waves racing to the banks, cutting the engines only when he had enough way on the boat to take it to its objective. By that time Bertie had been into the cabin to fetch the rifle. He had to put it down, of course, to lend a hand to the swimmer as Algy brought the cabin door alongside. In a matter of seconds the man was inside, on the floor, gasping, in a pool of water. Bertie snatched up the rifle intending to shoot the pursuing dog, but switched his target when he saw a man taking aim at him with a revolver. Both weapons cracked together. The revolver bullet struck the hull within inches of Bertie’s head. The result of the rifle shot was not known, for the man ducked, or fell, behind some scrub. As the aircraft retreated Bertie fired three more shots into the bushes behind which the man had disappeared, and the fact that there was no reply suggested either that the man was down or had retreated to a safer spot.

  Algy took the machine straight across to the far side of the inlet, to put as much distance as possible, as quickly as possible, between him and the danger area. There he switched off, and leaving the aircraft floating loose, for there was neither wind nor current, he went into the cabin to find Bertie giving the rescued man a tot of brandy from the first-aid chest. The patient certainly looked as if he could do with a restorative, for he was emaciated, hollow- eyed, half naked, his body scratched and pitted with nono bites.

  “Watch that other bank,” Algy told Bertie. “They may have another crack at us. Shoot at anything that moves.” Turning to the man now sitting up on the floor, he said: “Who are you and what are you doing here?”

  “My name’s Martin Larsson. I escaped from the village,” was the reply.

  “Village! What village?”

  “The village in the crater on top of the mountain.”

  Algy stared. “So that’s it. Your name sounds Swedish.”

  “I am Swedish.”

  “One of two lads who joined a South Sea expedition?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where’s your pal?”

  “I left him up top. I had a chance to make a break and took it. I was going back for him if I could find a boat or make a raft.”

  “And you’ve been on the run ever since?”

  “Yes.”

  “Living on what?”

  “Shellfish, bananas and coconuts mostly. I kept to the far end of the island. But I saw a plane and thought it had come down, so I started looking for it. That meant coming close to the dogs, and unluckily they picked up my scent just about the time I saw you. I made for the water intending to swim. Thank God you saw me. Thank you.”

  “What do you mean when you say you escaped? Are there prisoners in the village?”

  “Everyone is a prisoner except those who work for the King.”

  Algy blinked. “King. What King are you talking about?”

  “The King of the island.”

  “A native?”

  “No. A white man.”

  Bertie spoke from the door. “Well, blow me down! King, eh. That’s a fair corker. Does he wear a crown, and all that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Chase me round the gasworks!” exclaimed Bertie. “What next!”

  Algy stepped in again. “We’ve a party ashore. Have you seen anything of them?”

  “No. I haven’t seen anybody.”

  This enlightening conversation, excusable in the circumstances, might have gone on for some time longer had not there been an interruption. A shot rang out somewhere up the mountainside. Others followed. Then came such a pandemonium of shouting that Algy and Bertie could only stare at each other in open-eyed astonishment.

  Bertie was the first to speak. “That sounds more like Biggles.”

  “If it is then he’s collected an army somewhere,” snapped Algy. “It sounds more like a soccer match with someone kicking a goal. We’d better get back to our mooring in case we’re needed. Give this lad some grub to go on with while I’m taxiing back to base.”

  So saying, Algy went forward to the control cabin, and having started the engines began to work his way forward up the inlet; but he had not gone more than half way when there came from below a bump of such violence that it set the machine rocking and threw it off its course. He recovered instantly, only to have the control column almost snatched from his hands by another bump even more severe than the first. And that was not all. The water in the inlet seemed to tilt to one side, piling up against the bank and then recoiling with a force that nearly lifted the machine into the air. At the same time, from somewhere high above came a series of explosions that almost drowned the noise of the engines.

  Bertie appeared, screwing his monocle in his eye. “Here, I say, old boy, what the deuce is happening?” he asked.

  “I’d say this is it,” answered Algy, grimly. “This is a volcano and it’s going to erupt.”

  “What an absolute stinker, to do it now,” muttered Bertie, disgustedly.

  The nature of air pilotage demands that the man at the controls of an aircraft must keep his head at all times. He must be able to think fast and act swiftly in any emergency. The exercise of this faculty is now rarely called for; but the unexpected can, and does, sometimes arise, and when it does a pilot’s actions must be instantaneous. There may not be time for consideration. It may not be too much to say there are moments when a pilot acts without thinking. His action is dictated more by intuition.

  The trouble with Algy was, the situation in which he now found himself was outside not only his experience but beyond anything he had ever imagined. No amount of foresight can make allowances for an earthquake. With only himself to consider he would have taken the machine straight off the water, or tried to do so, for that he would be able to do this was by no means a foregone conclusion. The normally tranquil water was now in a turmoil. Fish, some of them huge, were leaping high and the air was full of screaming gulls. Collision with any of them might do irreparable damage.

  He was thinking about Biggles and the rest of the shore party. He was not to know that almost the entire population of the island had arrived on the beach, for this, being behind the headland, was hidden from his view, although it was not much more than a hundred yards away. All he could see through a cloud of spray was the stern of the anchored Dryad, bucking viciously in a confused area of turbulence. He realized of course that there had been an earthquake of considerable severity, but there was no reason for supposing that it would persist. The worst might already be over. On the other hand, for all he knew this might only be the beginning of something more devastating. Wherefore he found it difficult to make up his mind whether to stay on the water and hope for the best or take off in an endeavour to save the machine. With so little room to manoeuvre there was every possibility of it being thrown against one bank or the other with tragic results to a wing tip if nothing worse.

  Bertie offered no advice, wisely leaving the decision to the man at the stick.

  Algy perceived that if ever he was to get off it would have to be now, for a fine dust was beginning to fall, and even more alarming, grey stuff like pumice-stone was floating up from t
he bottom of the inlet to join a number of dead fish that had also appeared. He resolved, therefore, to try to get off, and from the air watch events. Should conditions return to normal he would land again. Should the shocks become worse, if he stayed where he was he would lose the machine anyway, he reasoned.

  The decision made, with short steep waves hitting the side of the hull like pistol shots, he began a wide turn to bring the machine in line with the inlet for the longest possible run.

  CHAPTER XV

  ORATOVOA HAS THE LAST WORD

  GINGER, on the beach, with a wider view, could see much more than Algy and Bertie in the Sunderland, where the general picture was restricted by the wings and other parts of the machine. On the other hand, one thing that Ginger could not see was the aircraft. He could hear it, but had no idea what it was doing.

  Actually, he was finding it difficult to think. He was dazed by the suddenness of the calamity, for what was going on looked like the end of the world. The ground on which he stood quivered, and sometimes jerked; over and over again it seemed to reel under the blows of a gigantic hammer. The force was enough to lift him off his feet an inch or more. More than once he only saved himself from falling by dropping to his knees.

  The mountain itself was a place of noise and confusion. He could hear the thundering roar of landslides, but apart from that, what was happening he could only guess, for the air was full of sulphurous smoke and gritty dust. Occasionally there was a tremendous explosion. Fear of the awful power that was causing this tied his tongue. But perhaps his dominant sensation was one of utter helplessness. He realized only too well that the volcano, said to be dead, was in eruption, and that the giant cone, already rotten, was falling to pieces. There was nothing he could do. He knew there was nothing Biggles could do. In fact, there was nothing anyone could do. They were at the mercy of a monster far beyond human control.

  The party had been on the beach for some minutes when the horror began.

  When they had first heard the Sunderland’s engines it was, of course, when Algy was engaged in the rescue of the fugitive Swede, Axel’s friend, Martin. Biggles was not to know anything about that. He merely wondered, naturally, what Algy was doing. The irony of the business was, had the party arrived on the beach a few minutes earlier they would have seen the Sunderland leave its mooring. As it was, by the time they had finished their wild rush down the hill the aircraft had moved out of sight.

  The surviving dogs, for some unaccountable reason, had all suddenly disappeared. Ginger wondered why. He could hear some of them barking in the distance as if they had gone off on another trail, but never for a moment did he associate this in any way with the behaviour of the aircraft. As for Axel’s friend, he had forgotten all about him, assuming that he had died in the forest long ago.

  However, the Dryad was still there, and Biggles’ first step had been to call forward the owners to ask them to get aboard, start the engine, and bring the yacht as close in as possible. This meant a short swim for the Dutchmen, but they raised no objection— not that there was any reason why they should, since they were as anxious as anybody to get away. So they set off, their Polynesian pilot going with them.

  As Biggles remarked to Ginger, if they could get the bulk of the crowd away it would clear the air somewhat. At this time, it should be said, Marcel and Sven were somewhere in the rear, watching the path in case Hara or any of his men arrived on the scene. The rest of the crowd, chattering with pardon¬able excitement, stood on the little beach watching the Dutchmen climb aboard their boat, obviously assuming that their escape from the island was now only a matter of time.

  “We’ll pack as many people into the yacht as she’ll take,” Biggles told Ginger, above the buzz of conversation. “They may run short of food but with distillation gear they should be all right for water. That’s the main thing. The rest of us will have to wait for Algy. I can’t imagine what he’s doing but he shouldn’t be long.”

  “How can we be sure he’s coming back?” questioned Ginger, dubiously.

  “He’s not likely to go off and leave us marooned here—not yet, anyway.”

  “He must have had a good reason for moving.”

  “I don’t think it could have been anything very serious. He may only have gone to look at something. After all, he wasn’t to know we had arrived here. Actually, in view of the dog menace, this is about the last place he’d expect to see us.”

  It was at this moment that the first shock of the earthquake, that preceded the actual eruption, was felt. It was not particularly severe. There was a long low rumble and the ground on which they stood moved slightly, causing everyone to sway and clutch his neighbour for support. Curiously enough, the ex-prisoners did not appear to take this seriously, either because they were in high spirits or, from residence on the island, they had experienced the same thing before. Some of them even laughed, as if it were a joke. But Ginger didn’t laugh. Neither, for that matter, did Biggles. Nor, obviously, did the gulls like what was happening. They took wing in clouds, wheeling and screaming. The dogs had fallen silent.

  By this time one of the Dutchmen, with the Polynesian, was hauling in the Dryad’s anchor. The other had remained below. Puffs of oil smoke, aft, showed that the engine had been started.

  It was now, with everyone watching the yacht, that the island indicated in no uncertain manner what was coming. From high above came a tremendous roar. At the same time the ground shook like a jelly, sending everyone reeling. Some fell. One of the women screamed. Looking up, Ginger saw a huge cloud of yellow smoke rising from the crater. Crossing the face of the sun it produced an unearthly twilight.

  “What about Hara?” he muttered, in a voice that was not quite steady. “If he is still in the crater he’s had it.”

  “I warned him this might happen,” returned Biggles, shortly. “His common sense should have told him, anyway. It’s more likely that he and his gang were coming down the hill after us. They had broken out of their quarters before we left the top. How bad this eruption is going to be is anybody’s guess. The sooner we can get this crowd on the yacht, and away, the better.”

  “I can still hear the Sunderland,” said Ginger. “What on earth can Algy be doing? It sounds as if he’s still on the inlet.”

  “He isn’t airborne—yet.”

  “He won’t go without us.”

  “He may have to,” said Biggles, vehemently. “Look at the water.”

  There was no need to explain what he meant. The water of the inlet, confined within its narrow limits, was eddying and heaving in a state of violent agitation. Fish were leaping in a frantic effort to escape from a scum that was rising in several places.

  The yacht was now under way, the man at the wheel trying to back in. That he was having difficulty in handling the vessel was clear.

  “He’ll have her ashore if he isn’t careful,” cried Ginger, his voice rising to near panic.

  “He knows that as well as you do,” said Biggles, crisply, above the general uproar, for the volcano was booming almost continuously and the crash of falling rocks and cliffs was incessant.

  The men on the yacht were now beckoning furiously.

  “They daren’t risk coming any closer in,” said Biggles. “It means that people will have to go out to her.”

  He turned to the crowd which, after the initial shock, had remained surprisingly quiet considering what was happening. “They can’t bring her any nearer,” he shouted. “Those who want to go will have to swim out to her. There’s nothing more I can do. Don’t lose your heads. Help each other. It shouldn’t be too difficult.”

  No second invitation was necessary. There was a rush into the water, providing such a spectacle as Ginger never expected to see. Actually, the distance to the yacht was only a matter of thirty or forty yards according to how the surge of the water treated her, and of this distance it was possible to wade half way. Biggles did not attempt to control the throng, perceiving the futility of it. He allowed anyone to go who wanted
to. All he did was shout: “Help the women.”

  “They’ll swamp her,” predicted Ginger.

  “I don’t think so,” opined Biggles. “She’s a salt water craft, and if they can get out of the inlet to the open water they should be all right, assuming the sea is as calm as usual. The effect of the eruption may only be local.”

  “Here comes Algy,” yelled Ginger, as the Sunderland came into view, making a wide turn.

  “He looks as if he’s lining up for a take-off,” said Biggles.

  “He can’t have seen us!”

  “I don’t think he has,” agreed Biggles. “Ah, now he has,” he went on, as the flying-boat, instead of continuing its turn, straightened out and stood towards the beach.

  “He’d have done better to take off,” declared Ginger. “If he brushes that headland, or the yacht, with a wing, we’ve all had it.”

  “He wouldn’t be likely to go without us,” stated Biggles, evenly.

  “My gosh! I don’t like the way she’s rocking.”

  “If we can get aboard it should help to steady her,” said Biggles, shaking a hot cinder from the back of his hand.

  It was beginning to rain cinders. Some hissed as they fell in the sea.

  “There goes the yacht, anyway,” observed Biggles, with satisfaction in his voice, as the craft, rather low in the water with the load it had on board, backed away towards the middle of the fairway. “How many are there of us left?” He looked round, counting. “Ten,” he said. “Counting Axel and the native girl as half each, for weight, call it nine.”

  They had hardly noticed the girl, a young Polynesian from her colour, for she was sitting on the ground with her face in her hands, apparently prepared to accept, with native fatalism, anything that might happen. Ginger helped her up, to be ready for embarkation when the moment arrived.

  The Sunderland was now coming in, or rather, being washed in, broadside on, in spite of anything Algy could do. Bertie was making desperate signals from the open door, at some risk, it seemed, of being flung out by the erratic movements of the aircraft. There were no regular waves. In the narrow inlet there was hardly room for them to form. Rather did the water seem to boil up from the bottom.