37 Biggles Gets His Men

by Captain W E Johns

  No sounds of pursuit came from the direction of the enemy camp, but Biggles did not attempt to deceive himself. That a punitive expedition would be sent out after them, with orders to recapture or kill them was, he thought, a certainty, for not only had the conspirators lost all their prisoners—European and Asiatic—but the camp, with all the planning, the time and money that must have gone into its establishment, had been virtually destroyed. Ling Soo, the figurehead, and Ming, the slavemaster, had been seriously injured, if not killed. There must have been other casualties, too, for it had been one of the European executives who had switched on the light in the workshop, blowing it, and himself, to pieces. From these disasters the enemy would not easily recover, averred Biggles. Nor would they be likely to forgive those responsible.

  As they walked along Biggles told Bertie how he had been captured. Bertie, in turn, narrated what he knew about the explosion and its cause—a matter in which Biggles was in complete ignorance.

  From time to time furtive rustlings and sudden rushes near the track kept the travellers on the alert. It was realised that these noises were probably caused by escaping Koreans or Orochons, but even so, they represented a danger not to be ignored. The native refugees could not be blamed if, after what they had suffered, they took revenge on any Europeans who came their way. In the dark they would be unable to distinguish friend from foe. As Biggles remarked to Bertie, the whole district was now alive with escaping slaves, although what effect this would have on the situation was not clear. When daylight came Mayne and his party would be fairly safe because he could speak the language, and so explain matters to any ex-slaves whom they might encounter. Biggles, fortunately, was similarly placed, with Petroff sky.

  The first sounds of pursuit did not occur for a long time, in fact, not until they were nearing the hide-out where they hoped to find Ginger waiting. But the sounds, once heard, approached swiftly. Hoofs pounded in the soft mud; harness jingled, and the travellers had only just enough time to make themselves comfortable in the long grass beside the trail when a company of Mongolian horsemen galloped past in the pale moonlight. Where they were bound for and what they hoped to achieve by moving at such a rate was not evident, but, as Biggles observed when the danger had passed, apparently they had a definite objective in view; otherwise they would hardly be travelling at such a speed.

  The little party went on, Petroffsky, now happy, singing softly what he said—when Biggles asked him to desist—was an old Persian love song. Presently, when more horsemen galloped past, it was only with difficulty that he was prevented from shooting at them. Under the influence of vodka it was obviously only a short step from love to hate.

  Dawn was staining the eastern sky with pink when they came to Ginger's rendezvous. He was waiting for them, refreshed by some sleep but somewhat stiff from his exertions and from the nip of the sharp morning air. He had nothing to report, except what Biggles already knew, that a number of horsemen were somewhere ahead.

  Apart from the fact that enemies were in front of them, in itself a cause for anxiety, Biggles began to wonder if Petroff sky, in his state of maudlin drunkenness, had told von Stalhein more than he admitted, or more than he himself was aware, in the short time they had been alone together in the German's quarters. If he had given away the position of their island base then the speed of the horsemen would be explained, and they could look for plenty of trouble ahead. He was afraid, too, that the riders might have overtaken Mayne and his party before they could get to the island. He questioned Petroff sky on the point, but the Russian insisted that he had said nothing about it. The truth of the matter, as Biggles realised, was this: Petroff sky had no clear recollection of what he had said because at the time his brain had been on fire with the pernicious vodka.

  After a short rest and a cold, uninteresting meal, Biggles decided to push on, for the morning air was dank and chilly and there was nothing to be gained by remaining under the dripping trees with their swarms of ravenous insects. Petroffsky wanted to shoot something, in fur or feathers, light a fire and cook it; but Biggles would not hear of it. It was now daylight, and it was obvious to everyone—that is, everyone except Petroff sky—that the remainder of the journey would be attended by considerable danger. As Biggles remarked, it was not so much the mobile horsemen that they had to fear, as sentries who might have been posted on high ground to keep watch over the broad marshes. Such men, if in fact they had been posted—although there was no particular reason for thinking they had—would at once see any movement on the open ground; and an exchange of shots would no doubt bring others to the spot. However, short of waiting for nightfall, a precaution which appealed to nobody, nothing could be done about this.

  The risk would have to be taken.

  So the march continued, the party of four moving in single file with Biggles leading, followed closely by Petroffsky, whose duty it was to indicate the best path and the whereabouts of pitfalls. Biggles told the Russian jokingly that if he made any more noise than was unavoidable he would shoot him without warning and throw him in the nearest bog; but there was, nevertheless, a note of firmness in the way Biggles spoke that caused Petroffsky to look hard at his face as if to determine whether this was really a joke or a serious threat. Anyhow, the words had the desired effect, and the inebriated Cossack settled down to a sullen silence.

  About half the distance to the island was covered without any serious incident. Two small parties of riders were seen in the distance, too far away to cause them any concern.

  A few Koreans were seen, too, and occasional flights of disturbed birds showed where others were probably moving or lying in hiding. A single gunshot far behind was heard without comment. But when, soon afterwards, there was a brisk burst of firing ahead, Biggles brought the party to a halt. The firing continued, as single irregular shots, with long or short intervals. There was, too, an occasional distant shout. It was possible only to surmise what was happening, but that it was one of two things seemed fairly certain.

  Either the Mongolians were rounding up escaping Koreans, or they had overtaken Mayne and his party, who were defending themselves. Biggles thought the latter explanation most likely, for the runaway slaves, having no firearms, would soon have been silenced.

  The sounds were too near, he thought, for Algy to be involved.

  He turned to Petroffsky. "Where would you say those shots are coming from?" he inquired.

  "Kossuri," was the answer, given without hesitation. "You mean the village where you live?"

  "Where else?"

  Biggles thought for a moment and looked at Ginger as more shots were fired. "It takes two sides to make a battle," he murmured.

  "Which means that they've caught up with Mayne?" "I'd say so, definitely, were it not for one thing," replied Biggles, looking worried.

  "What's that?"

  "Mayne is the only member of his party who has a gun —that's what I can't understand.

  From the volume of shooting it could hardly be one man against a crowd."

  "I'll tell you what it is!" cried Petroffsky suddenly. "I understand such things, and I know the voice of my friends. Someone is shooting with my old Schneider rifle. I'd know its deep voice in a thousand. Besides, it fires a black powder cartridge. I should know, for I loaded them

  myself with buckshot, for geese." He pointed. "Look! There is smoke—powder smoke.

  Someone is shooting in my house, using my cartridges, curse them. By St. Mark!

  "Just a minute," broke in Biggles. "Mayne knows your house—"

  "Who better?"

  "That's all I want to know," declared Biggles. "Mayne and his party have been overtaken.

  They have found refuge in your house where they are now being attacked by Mongolians."

  "Then it is time we were there," swore Petroffsky. "All the vodka I have is in that house.

  If a bottle is broken

  "

  "Your old friend Mayne is there, too," reminded Biggles.

  "I have not fo
rgotten him," said Petroff sky loudly. "We shall fight side by side. This is wonderful. Onward, comrades, to battle! Charge!"

  "Not so fast," requested Biggles curtly. "If you want to charge you can charge by yourself. I like to see what I'm charging before I break into a canter. Besides, what about these pitfalls?"

  The Russian stared. "By St. Peter! What a good thing you mentioned them. I'd forgotten them myself," he confessed.

  "As you know where they are, and we shall have to hurry, would you mind going ahead to keep us clear of them?" invited Biggles.

  "It is my plain duty," asserted Petroffsky. "Besides, it is my house that is being shot at—

  and my vodka!" "Lead on," commanded Biggles.

  "Forward!" cried Petroffsky, and striding on broke into a marching song.

  "We can do without the music," muttered Biggles. "The enemy will see us soon enough."

  The Russian shrugged his broad shoulders as if to deplore this dull form of warfare and went on. But before he had gone far he pulled up with a shout that set everyone looking wildly for the enemy. Ginger could see no one,- but he saw a saddled horse nearby, grazing. Looking at

  Petroffsky for guidance he noticed that he was staring at something at his feet. Stepping forward he saw that the Mongolian rider had met a dreadful fate. He was at the bottom of a pitfall, impaled by stakes. How the horse had escaped was not clear. Ginger could only imagine that the horse had jibbed when it felt the ground giving under its feet, throwing its rider over its head. The man was so obviously dead that no time was wasted extracting him from what would undoubtedly become his grave.

  The advance continued, and in some twenty minutes, a period of time during which the shooting persisted in a desultory manner, it became possible to see that Petra-sky's summing up of the situation had been correct. A film of smoke hung over the Russian's house. From it, and from other houses in the vicinity, shots were being fired. A Mongolian was crawling from one house to another.

  Biggles surveyed the scene. "That's it," he said. "Mayne and his party are in Petroffsky's house. We'll make that the objective. Spread out, everyone; keep in line and keep your heads down."

  For a matter of a hundred yards or so, which brought the party to about the same distance from the objective, all went well. There was a lull in the shooting with no sign of the attackers or the attacked. Then Ginger spotted some horses tethered in a group of trees on his right front, and that at least told him who the attackers were. A moment later confirmation came when a swart Mongolian sprinted from one house to another, behind which he took cover. His interest was entirely on the house that was being attacked and he did not see the newcomers advancing on his flank. Ginger could have shot him, but he recoiled from the idea of shooting a man in the back, so he walked on slowly, through deep grass, waiting for Biggles, by an order or a signal, to indicate the next move.

  As things fell out Biggles' decision was expedited by the enemy, who at this juncture made a direct assault on Petroffsky's abode. With a wild yell some Mongolians, numbering about a dozen, leapt up from where they had been biding and made a rush for the door, shooting as

  they ran. Those inside fired an answering volley and two of the attackers fell; but the rest went on, and for a moment or two looked as if they might succeed in taking the building by storm. But this misuse of his property was apparently more than Petroffsky could stand. Before Biggles could give his orders, the Russian with a bellow of rage, charged, firing into the thick of a number of Mongolians who had reached the door and were trying to break it down. Biggles, with a shout of "Come on!" followed him, and Bertie and Ginger were not far behind.

  It was a wild moment, but it ended sooner than might have been expected. The Mongolians had, of course, looked up on hearing Petroff sky's yell. Taken by surprise at this unexpected development, after a second or two of confusion they fled in disorder towards their horses.

  But now a new and unsuspected factor took a hand in the proceedings. There was an outburst of shrill cries, and these came, it was quickly revealed, from a number of white-robed Koreans and half-clad Orochons who could now be seen flitting through the trees in which the horses had been tethered.

  What had happened, or what was happening, was not clear—or so it seemed to Ginger.

  One thing that became evident very soon, however, was that the ex-slaves were taking this opportunity to pay off old scores. There was very little shooting, which puzzled Ginger not a little at the time. Discussing the matter afterwards Biggles gave it as his opinion that a number of Orochons, accompanied by some Koreans, had made their way to the village and were biding in the outskirts when the Mongolians had appeared.

  Having no firearms they took refuge in the jungle, where they would, no doubt, have preferred to remain hidden. From this sanctuary they had watched the battle being fought in the village. Some of them may have been stealing towards the horses with the object of using them to travel faster, but had been caught in their project when the Mongolians had unexpectedly bolted. The fact that there was so little shooting could be accounted for in this way: the Mongolians had emptied their weapons when storming the besieged house, and when forced to retire by Biggles' party they had not stopped to reload. Thus, they had been caught at a disadvantage which it did not take the natives long to discover.

  Actually, Qinger did not see much of what happened inside the grove of trees, but what he did see gave him a good idea of what was going on there. So did the screams and yells that arose. He saw one Mongolian, caught in the act of mounting his horse, which he had managed to reach, dragged off and battered to death with cudgels.

  Petroff sky, of course, had rushed into the mêlée, howling like a dervish. Then Ginger saw Biggles run into Petroftsky's house, so he went on after him, and arrived just as the door was being opened. Mayne appeared on the threshold, dishevelled but smiling.

  Behind him, with a strange assortment of weapons in their hands, stood the scientists, against a background of tiger skins. Explanations were unnecessary, so the whole party stood ready for action while the fracas in the trees was fought to a conclusion. When, finally, the noise died away, and Ginger took a peep round the corner of the house, he saw Petroffsky walking towards them, singing. Seeing Ginger the Russian roared: "Ho there! The rats have fled!" He came on. "Now what about a little drink?" he suggested.

  "Just a minute before you start tilting the tumbler," said Biggles. "What's happened outside?"

  Petroffsky struck his chest. "Happened?" he echoed. "What only could have happened when Alexis Petroff sky entered the battle. The Mongolian scum have fled the field —

  those who had legs left to carry them. Those who could not run are being carved into small pieces by my Orochon allies. If you will be advised by me you won't go near them,

  " added Petroffsky, with unusual earnestness. "The spectacle is not one for the eyes of a gentleman, although in my case it could not be avoided. But then, of course, having for so long lived here I am used to such things."

  "Were any Koreans hurt?" asked Biggles._

  "A few have cracked heads—but what is a cracked head to a Korean?" answered Petroffsky lightly. "Let us celebrate our victory!"

  Biggles smiled. "Sorry, but I've no time for celebrations. We still have some way to go."

  "A pity," said Petroff sky sadly. "Yes, a pity. I win a battle and meet my old friend Mayne—a double occasion for rejoicing. I must speak to Mayne."

  They went inside, and while the Russian was embracing "his old friend Mayne", somewhat to his embarrassment, Biggles had a word with Vale and the scientists. "I'm sorry to rush you, gentlemen," he said, "but we're not out of the wood yet. A few more miles and we shall be comparatively safe. I shall also, I hope, be able to give you a respectable meal, which is not available here. Afterwards we shall have plenty of time for talking."

  Mayne disengaged his arm from that of the Russian. "I'll come back one day and we'll do some more hunting together," he promised.

  "So be it," answer
ed Petroff sky philosophically.

  Ginger could see that Biggles was really anxious to get away, realising what Petroff sky appeared to have overlooked—that more Mongolians might overtake them, in sufficient numbers to overwhelm them after all. Everyone was showing signs of fatigue, particularly the rescued men, and it was apparent that the party would not be able to travel very fast. In any case, for more reasons than one, they should be returned to civilisation as quickly as possible.

  Biggles soon had everyone lined up outside the house ready for the last lap of the journey to the aircraft. Petroff sky walked with the party to the outskirts of the village, where, with tears running down his face, he wished them farewell.

  "Why don't you leave this miserable place and come with us?" suggested Mayne.

  The Russian shook his head. "This is my home," he said simply. "Here I must stay, for I am a man without a country. One friend remains with me though," he went on huskily, taking a bottle from his pocket and patting it lovingly. "I shall drink to your good fortune, and your return. Farewell."

  The last sight Ginger had of him was a lonely figure leaning on a rifle in the long grass, holding aloft a bottle in a parting toast. As he turned away a wave of sympathy surged through him for this strange, boastful but brave man, who, for reasons known only to himself, had elected to live his life in voluntary exile.

  On arrival at the shore of the lake just off the island they found Algy waiting. He was not a little relieved to see them, for he had heard shooting in the distance and was afraid things had gone wrong. He transported the party, two at a time, to the island, where he had a meal ready. While this was being enjoyed by the rest he cleared the aircraft of its camouflage and made all ready to take off.

  Biggles got up. "All right, gentlemen," he said, "if it's all the same to you we'll push along. The sooner we are away from here the better."

  The party trooped into the big machine. Algy took off, and the lonely land of lakes and marshes dropped away astern.

  Ginger. as tired as he had ever been, closed his eyes and slept, content in the knowledge that with their job well done, they were homeward bound.