Biggles on Mystery Island
Page 15
“Get aboard,” ordered Biggles. “Try linking hands.”
Bertie now facilitated matters by casting a line at them. It fell a little short. Biggles went into the water as far as it was necessary to reach it, and returning to the beach pulled and held it taut. This helped to hold the machine steady besides providing a handhold between the beach and the plane. Along this line the remaining members of the party made their way, Bertie lending a hand to each one as he or she arrived.
Ginger remained with Biggles until the last moment. Then he, too, dragged himself along the line to the aircraft. Biggles came last, shouting to Bertie to let go the rope as soon as he had dragged himself on to the lower deck. Bertie obeyed, with the result that the big flying-boat, spinning sickeningly in a succession of whirlpools, was dragged by the backwash to somewhere about the middle of the fairway. To keep the aircraft under control in such conditions, at all events while it had no speed on it, was obviously impossible, and Ginger could only hope that things would be different when it felt the full power of its engines. What alarmed him more than anything was the steady rain of cinders, some of them, the larger pieces, glowing hot; for there seemed a fair chance that these, falling on the plane surfaces, might set the machine on fire. In fact, the spasmodic movements of the machine disposed of this peril by throwing off the cinders before they could do any harm. The slipstream of the airscrews helped, of course, and the faster the machine moved so did the risk of fire diminish.
There was a dramatic incident at the last moment.
Biggles had gone forward to join Algy in the control cabin. Most of the others, finding it difficult to keep on their feet, were either lying flat or holding on to anything within reach. Ginger, in the same predicament, had braced himself against a side window, staring with fascinated horror at the summit of the volcano. It was no longer smoking steadily as it might have been from an ordinary fire. Instead, every few seconds it gave a tremendous puff as though a mighty bellows was in operation, sending high not only smoke but clouds of solid matter. Along the rim of the crater had appeared a glowing crimson line that moved forward, slowly, but with implacable deliberation.
Something called his attention to the beach they had just left. It may have been a movement. He saw a man arrive, running. He carried a box, or a case of some sort. A second man arrived. The one with the box dropped it and they began to fight. Other men came running down the path.
Through the haze of dust and smoke it was not possible to identify the men, but Ginger knew they could only be members of Hara’s gang. Hara himself may have been there. With visibility as it was he couldn’t tell.
What to do about this Ginger did not know. His first reaction was to rush forward and tell Biggles what was happening in case he hadn’t noticed the men. Then he realized there was nothing they could do about it. Every second was precious. To go back would be sheer suicide. Even if they did that they could not pick up more passengers without overloading the aircraft. There was, too, a risk of the machine being damaged in the inevitable rush to get aboard.
However, what Ginger might or might not have done was settled for him when the Sunderland, its engines roaring, was at last brought into line with the inlet and raced forward on its take-off run.
Speed now made it possible for the aircraft to be kept under control, particularly when it started to lift, but even so the next few seconds were a period of suspense never to be forgotten. The keel struck several obstructions in a series of bumps, but whether these were caused by dead fish or pieces of floating lava was a matter of guesswork. Then, with cinders hitting the hull like rifle shots the Sunderland was airborne.
Straight in front of them now, churning down the middle of the fairway, was the Dryad. Vaguely, for his brain was in a whirl from the speed of events and the horror of all that was happening, Ginger wondered if they would clear the mainmast; but he need not have worried; the machine, now climbing fast, passed over it with plenty of room to spare. There was not a soul on deck. He could only suppose that the passengers had gone below to get out of the fiery rain. Uppermost in his mind was the thought— we’ve done it. We’re off. It was not easy to believe.
As the machine came round in a wide turn to take up its course for the Marquesas he saw the Dryad emerge from the murk at the point where the inlet met the sea. The island itself was hidden behind a pall of smoke and cinders, presenting a picture very different from the one that had greeted them on arrival. Even then it could hardly have been called beautiful. Now it was an inferno.
A voice spoke at his elbow. It was Bertie. “I say, you know old boy, that was a pretty close squeak— what?” he said soberly.
“Are you telling me?” returned Ginger, fervently.
“Funny we should arrive just in time for the fireworks.”
“I don’t think funny is the right word.”
“I must say it’s a bit of a shocker,” confessed Bertie.
Ginger went forward and spoke to Biggles. “Did you see Hara’s lot arrive on the beach a moment before you took off?”
Biggles looked up. “No. I didn’t see them. I had other things to keep me busy. I knew they must still be on the island, of course. That was their decision, not mine.”
“They wouldn’t have a hope.”
“As you say, not a hope,” agreed Biggles. “I warned Hara what was likely to happen; but he wouldn’t have it, so my conscience is clear on that score. But we’ll talk about this when we get to Atuona.”
Ginger made his way back to the cabin.
CHAPTER XVI
AFTERMATH
RATHER less then two hours later the Sunderland touched down on Taa Huka Bay, Atuona, and that, for all practical purposes, was the end of the mission that had taken it so far from home waters. The mystery of Oratovoa had been solved, and there was no longer any chance of anyone on the island being injured by radio-active “fall-out” from atomic bomb tests—or anything else, for that matter. As Biggles put it, the island had committed suicide, and there was little chance of any form of life having survived.
Later in the day, having given the machine a thorough examination for superficial damage, and done some calculations regarding the fuel and oil remaining in the tanks, Biggles made a reconnaissance to check that the Dryad was having no trouble. Seeing the yacht well on its way he returned to spend the night ashore. The Dryad dropped anchor in the bay two days later.
The rest was merely a matter of routine, taking statements from the refugees, fixing them up with temporary clothes and arranging for the Europeans in the party to return to their homes; for, of course, they had no money. None was much the worse for the adventure. The Dutch people had their own yacht. When they sailed, Axel and Martin, still seeking adventure, went with them as deck hands.
A trader, en route for Tahiti, gave the others a lift. Consular agents there would attend to their needs.
One unexpected piece of information came to light. It turned out that it was Martin who had taken the oars from the Dryad’s boats. Prowling about after his escape he had found an abandoned native canoe, or one that had been washed ashore; whereupon he had resolved to fetch Axel so that they could leave the island together in an attempt to reach the Marquesas. Paddles were the problem, for there was none in the canoe. Remembering the Dryad he had swum up the inlet and taken the oars. He was still engaged in cutting them down to a usable length for canoe work when he had seen the Sunderland arrive.
A surprise, and not a very welcome one, awaited Biggles at Fiji, where his first step had been to make a long signal to the Air Commodore telling him that he had found people on Oratovoa and had evacuated them. The island, a live volcano, was now in eruption.
He received a reply ordering him to remain where he was pending further instructions. These arrived a week later, and were explicit. As he was so near, with servicing facilities available, he was to return to Oratovoa and make a report on conditions there. This would save the expense of sending a ship of the Royal Navy to investigate.
“Who had this brainwave?” grumbled Algy. “It’s going to be years before the place is any use to anyone.”
“Are we expected to land?” inquired Ginger, sarcastically.
“That,” answered Biggles, “has been left to my discretion. If the volcano is still active I’m not likely to singe my eyebrows by going close to it.”
“But—”
“We’ve had our orders,” broke in Biggles. “The fact is, I imagine, somebody, perhaps the United States office in London, wants to know what happened to Doctor Hara and his precious pals.”
“Let’s hope the old fug-hole is still blowing off steam,” said Bertie, cheerfully.
His hope was not fulfilled, as was ascertained when the Sunderland arrived a few days later to make its reconnaissance. A faint smudge of smoke was still drifting from the crater, but it was evident that the actual eruption was over.
“Quiet as a lamb,” observed Biggles. “I don’t think those dogs will worry anybody any more.”
The whole face of the island had changed. It lay grey and apparently lifeless under a layer of ashes. Broad areas of scum were drifting away to sea from the lee side. The inlet hadn’t altered very much, as could be observed when Biggles flew low over it.
“What are you going to do?” asked Algy, suspiciously.”
“I was thinking of having a look at the beach.”
“That means landing.”
“I see no reason why we shouldn’t. The surface looks clear.”
“Well, watch what you’re doing.”
“I shall, believe me.”
Biggles made two trips up and down the narrow waterway. There was a lot of debris near the banks, but the main channel, now as black as ink, appeared to be clear, so very gently he put the Sunderland down, and taxiing on to as near the beach as possible, switched off.
An eerie silence fell. To their nostrils came the reek of sulphur. The debris turned out to be a mixture of pumice-stone and dead fish, which included a twenty-foot shark.
“That must have been the lad I hooked,” declared Bertie.
“If Marcel had come face to face with that beauty when he swam to the yacht he might have changed his mind about sharks,” said Algy.
Marcel admitted it.
“Inflate the dinghy, I’m going ashore,” ordered Biggles. “I’ll go alone if you don’t mind. I have a feeling that what I find on the beach won’t be pretty to look at.”
The collapsible dinghy was inflated, and watched by the others Biggles paddled to the beach, pushing his way through the rubbish that covered the water for the last few yards. Powdery dust rose from under his feet as he stepped ashore.
For some minutes he moved about examining objects on the ground. He picked up a square object, shook the dust off it, looked inside, closed it again and put it in the dinghy. He had a last look round and then returned to the aircraft.
“Well?” queried Algy.
“There are three dead bodies there,” reported Biggles. “They’re past identification. They’re half buried in cinders, which I fancy were red hot when they fell. I doubt if they’d know anything about that. The probability is, they were choked to death by dust and fumes. The others may have gone into the water, or into the forest, in an attempt to escape. The result would be the same, anyway. I have a feeling that Ronbach shot Hara, or vice versa, when we were on the top waiting for daylight.”
“What’s in that case?” asked Ginger.
“The one thing they’d naturally try to save when they realized the island was finished. I’ll show you.”
Biggles threw back the lid. Inside, neatly packed in bundles held together by elastic bands, were wads of notes. Some were English currency, but there were others. The top layer had suffered a little from scorching.
Ginger whistled softly. “How much is there?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care,” answered Biggles. “You can amuse yourself counting it on the way home. This must be the cash Hara took from the people who fancied life on a desert island. No doubt they’ll be delighted to have it back.”
“Not to say lucky,” murmured Algy. “What do we do next?”
“We’ll press on home right away,” decided Biggles. “There’s nothing to remain here for. I’d say there isn’t a living creature left alive on the island—not even a nono. The gulls, having wings, probably made for a healthier spot. We might take the tip from them and do the same thing. Okay. Pack up and we’ll get mobile.”
One last word. The true identity of the man who wanted to be a king was never definitely established, although some time afterwards it was learned, from enquiries in America, that a doctor of the same name had escaped from a criminal asylum and had never been recaptured. He had associated himself with the underworld, and from the fact that he was known to have a weakness for titles he might well have been the same man. Whether he had gone to Oratovoa amply to indulge in this whim, taking money from unsuspecting adventure-seekers to support his “kingdom”, or whether he really believed in his “experiment”, the creation of a new race of disease-free people, must always remain a matter for conjecture.
As Biggles remarked, the odd thing about it all was this: even if the aircraft had not gone to Mystery Island his end would have been the same, although in that case, of course, a lot of innocent people would have died with him.
Finally, the full story of the strange events on Oratovoa was never made public. One or two newspapers carried a brief paragraph to the effect that the volcano of Oratovoa, in the Pacific, was in eruption; but the rest, with more important things going on nearer home, did not consider as “news” an island which few of their readers could have heard of, would not have known where to look for on the map, and about which, as Ginger put it. “they couldn’t care less”.
THE END