by W E Johns
There came a muttered exclamation from the truck, and the sound of footsteps, running, footsteps that were obviously going farther away. There was a shout and an answering shout from the distance.
'OK,' said Ginger softly, 'they didn't see us. They were looking the other way – they wouldn't have been human if they hadn't.'
'Pretty good,' observed Biggles, 'but why didn't you do it before?'
'Too risky. There's always the chance of the stone, or gun, as it was in this case, hitting a branch or something and falling in the wrong place. If my gun had fallen this side of those fellows, instead of the other side, where should we have been?'
'It didn't, that's all that matters,' returned Biggles.
'We shall have to hurry now, keep close together. I shall be glad when we get there.'
'So shall I,' muttered Ginger. 'Crawling about in woods with keepers about is bad enough, but when you know that a gun might go off in your ear at any moment, it gets past a joke.'
'All right, that's enough. Quiet now.'
Like three shadows flitting across the silent aisles of the forest, they continued on their way, always keeping the lake in sight. Once, a large creature leapt up in front of them and threw them into a momentary panic. Biggles's revolver was out in a flash, but he dropped the muzzle when he saw it was an animal –deer or wild hog, it was gone too quickly for them to see. Ginger had clutched Biggles's arm in his alarm, and loosed it sheepishly as they went on.
'Getting nervous?' asked Biggles, nudging Smyth.
'Nervous! No, I'm not nervous. I'm so frightened that if we don't soon get to this place we're going to, my hair will be white, and you'll have to find another name for me.'
'We can't be far off now,' Biggles assured him. His words proved to be true, for a couple of minutes later the lake swung round in a wide arc towards the opposite bank.
'Yes, this is the end,' Biggles went on, after a quick survey. 'We'll work round the bank a bit towards the middle I think, and then we shall be in the dead centre of the northern end.'
The ground under their feet began to get swampy, and forced them to choose a path a little farther from the water.
'We shall have to choose a hiding place near a spot that is free from rushes, so that Algy can taxi right to the shore and pick us up; we don't want to have to wade out and get wet through, besides, we shall have no time to lose,' observed Biggles. 'What's this ahead? It looks like the ideal spot. Yes, this will do; we shan't find a better place.'
The spot at which they had halted was at the foot of a fairly steep bank, as if rough water had at some time eaten into the land leaving an abrupt bank some five or six feet deep, from which the exposed roots of trees hung out like the tentacles of an octopus. 'There's nothing we can do now except wait,' he continued. 'It isn't worth while trying to sleep, as it should start getting light fairly soon; but if we don't soon find some food we shall be in a bad way.'
'You've said it,' agreed Ginger moodily, 'I've never been so short of grub in my life.'
Slowly the stars faded and the eastern sky began to turn from black to grey; water hens appeared on the water, and a dog began barking in the distance. Gradually the wan light grew stronger until it was light enough to see across the water to the seaplane station, about three miles away.
'He should be here any minute now,' said Biggles.
A strong wind blew up from the south and drove the water on the bank, in waves of increasing size, but they were not large enough to affect the Vandal's landing. An hour passed, and Biggles rose to his feet with a worried frown on his face.
'He's a long time coming,' he muttered.
The others did not answer. Ginger was chewing a grass stalk reflectively.
The sun rose higher and they were grateful for its warmth but still there was no sign of the Vandal. The morning wore on, but still it did not come, and Biggles suddenly faced the others squarely.
'Something's gone wrong,' he said shortly. 'If he was coming he would be here by now. It's no use pretending any longer; something has happened to him. Are you quite sure this was the place he meant Smyth?'
'I'm certain of it, sir.'
'This other lake – the one he was going to – isn't more than twenty miles away, is it?'
'Barely that I should think.'
'Well, we had better wait here a bit longer. Smyth, you watch the left bank and you keep an eye on the right, Ginger. I'll guard the rear. If either of you see anyone, let me know.'
Chapter 11
What Happened to Algy
Algy's troubles had begun almost immediately after his rush into the air to prevent the Vandal from falling into the hands of those he now classed as 'the enemy'. On the face of it, his plan seemed feasible enough, and so in ordinary circumstances it would have been; but the circumstances were far from ordinary. He knew, of course, that machines were out, watching for the British amphibian; that was obvious from the actions of those who had spotted it, but not until he was in the air did he realize how widespread was the hue and cry. He flew due west at first, flying back over the ground that the Vandal had covered on its way out, but the appearance of a machine on the horizon directly in front of him made him turn quickly. The wind, he noticed, had swung round to the south, and was bringing up a good deal of low cloud, a fact which did not please him, as he was by no means certain of the position of the small lake, and reduced visibility would not make the task of finding it any easier.
He kept a watchful eye on the solitary machine, and was presently relieved to see it disappear behind a mass of cloud, flying, as far as he could make out, on a course diagonally away from his own. He turned again to his original route, but had no sooner done so when a two-seater of military type emerged from a cloud not a mile away.
'Confound it,' he muttered irritably, as he dived into the nearest cloud, wondering if he had been seen. He came out on the other side of it and once more began to veer round towards the lake. The country over which he was flying, being entirely new to him, furnished very little useful information, for there was an unusual dearth of roads and railways, and even buildings, a fact which tended to confirm Biggles's idea that they were actually in Russia.
He saw yet another machine, but it was a long way away, and with his old-time instinct he placed himself between it and the now sinking sun, knowing that in that position, it was highly improbable that he would be seen by the other pilot. 'My word,' he mused, 'we've stirred up a hornets' nest, and no mistake. This must be a pretty big thing if they have to turn out half the machines in Germany, or Russia, to look for us. We are going to have a bad time if we are caught, I can see that' The increasing urgency for getting the machine hidden, and then getting out of the country as quickly as possible, was apparent, and still flying with as much caution as he did during the War, he nearly collided head-on with a machine that burst out of the cloud in which he himself proposed to take cover whilst approaching his objective.
Which of the two pilots was the more surprised it is impossible to say. Both banked vertically to the right, as international regulations demanded in such circumstances, and then levelled out. Algy did not stop to examine the details of the machine that had nearly rammed him; he shoved the stick forward and raced towards the wide belt of low cloud that stretched across the sky to the west. Visibility or no visibility, the lake became a matter of secondary consideration in the face of the new peril.
The other machine was much faster than the old Vandal, however, so the pilot overtook him rapidly and soon roared up alongside. Algy saw it was a two-seater, but it bore no registration marks of any sort; what interested him far more was the observer, who was standing up behind a wicked-looking machine gun. The gunner, seeing that Algy was watching him, held up his hand and beckoned, making it clear that he was to follow; as an alternative he pointed to his gun in a manner that left no doubt as to his meaning.
Now Algy had not the slightest desire to follow the other machine, but still less did he relish the idea of being shot
to pieces by a modern quick-firing gun. Of the two evils he chose the lesser, and obediently altered his course to follow his captor, but he kept a watchful eye on the cloudbank, now over his left shoulder, determined to make a dash for it the moment an opportunity presented itself. If the worst came to the worst he would try and show the goggled figure in the front seat of the other plane a trick or two that he had acquired in the war skies of France. Meanwhile his brain was working with its old-time rapidity, although the situation was a new one. He pushed up his goggles and grinned at the other pilot, now not more than twenty yards away, but there was no answering smile.
'You miserable hound,' he thought, 'I should hate to serve in a squadron with a crowd of fellows like you.'
Straight ahead the cloudbank bulged out towards them, and he determined to make his attempt to escape as they passed it, for such an opportunity might not occur again; but the pilot of the other machine seemed to suspect his intention, for he began edging him farther away from the opaque mist.
'Oh dash this for a fool's game,' snarled Algy, suddenly losing his patience, and kicking out his left foot, jammed the stick forward and dragged it round to the left at the same time. The Vandal shot straight underneath its escort. Now Algy knew better than to run straight for the cloud, for he was aware that the gunner would have his weapon turned on him before he could get out of range, so using the speed he had accumulated in his dive, he pulled the stick back into his stomach and twisted up into the 'eye' of the sun.
For a moment the other pilot, unable to look in his direction without partially blinding himself, was at fault, as Algy hoped he would be, so seizing his chance, he pushed the stick forward and plunged down towards the cloud. The other saw him and gave chase immediately, but Algy's literally flying start had given him a lead of nearly a mile. Even so, it was touch and go, for once the other machine got into its stride it began to overtake him at an alarming rate, and bullets were whistling through the Vandal's planes as she roared down into the heart of the clammy moisture.
'Up, or down?' thought Algy, knowing that he could not hope to keep the machine on even keel for very long in such conditions without 'blind' flying instruments* – modern gadgets which Biggles disdained to use. 'Down,' he decided, and pressed gently on the stick. He found the ground about five, hundred feet under the cloud, and after a swift glance around, during which he put the machine on even keel, he zoomed up into the cloud again, pointing the nose of the Vandal in the direction of the lake.
* A set of instruments to enable the pilot to fly straight and level in poor or nil visibility.
If necessary he was prepared to land anywhere, but he had a horror of piling the Vandal up on a hidden obstruction, and he preferred the lake if he could find it. He held on his way for a while, dropping down from time to time to snatch quick glimpses of the terrain below, and presently saw a small wood which his practised eye recognized for one over which they had passed on their outward flight. It gave him his direction, and still skimming along in the gloom at the base of the cloud, he came suddenly upon that which he so anxiously sought, the small, wood-locked lake which they had passed that morning.
He snatched a swift look around, but could still see no sign of the other machine, so without further delay he put the Vandal down on the black water, sideslipping over the trees and keeping as close to the edge of the lake as the strong southerly wind would permit. Without waiting for the amphibian to finish its run, he opened the throttle again and charged at the nearest point of land that offered a fair amount of cover. The silver wings of the Vandal would, he knew, show up against the black water, like a white moth on a dark curtain, and give him away immediately should one of the searching machines happen to fly over.
He reached the bank at a swampy looking place that ran well under the dismal fir trees, with thick patches of reeds on either side, and dropping his wheels, he forced the machine up it as far as she would go. Then he switched off, and leaping down into several inches of greasy mud, began tearing up armfuls of reeds and throwing them over his top plane and elevators. Not until the machine was literally covered – to say nothing of being well besprinkled with mud, did he desist, and throw himself wearily on the fir needles under the trees to rest.
It was nearly dark, and he became faintly aware that he was both tired and hungry. There was no point in keeping watch, he decided; if anyone came along he could do nothing about it now. 'If I try taking off from this black hole of Calcutta in the dark, I shall pile her up for certain,' he mused. 'And it's no use thinking about food; there isn't any, and that's that,' he concluded, so he tightened his belt and slithered back through the mud into the cabin,where presently, worn out after the day's excitement, he dropped off to sleep.
When he awoke he had no idea of the time, but he felt that it must be nearly morning, so in order that he should not drop off to sleep again, he sat up and waited for the dawn. In spite of his feeling that it was not far away, he found the waiting tedious, and he was heartily glad when at last the sky turned from black to grey. 'Thank goodness,' he muttered, 'now I'll see about getting off.' He crept through the hatch-way into the cockpit and looked out; the sight that met his gaze stunned him almost as effectively as a blow would have done. During the night, the Vandal had sunk down into the soft mud until her keel was resting on the ooze; her wheels had completely disappeared.
For a moment or two his brain refused to act, so overcome was he at the calamity, for he knew that single-handed he could not hope to get her clear of the clinging slime. When the full horror of what he had done at last sank into his paralysed brain he nearly groaned aloud, and he sat back to try and collect his faculties, and think, if possible, of some manner in which the harm might be undone.
The fact that Biggles and the others were waiting for him at that very moment threw him into a frenzy, but it was of no avail, and by the time the sun was up he knew that he was helpless; the Vandal was anchored as securely as a lightship. He did not start the engine, knowing that it would be a sheer waste of time, besides running the risk of attracting the attention of foresters, or anyone who lived in the vicinity, who would no doubt report the presence of the aero-plane to the authorities.
The only thing he could hope for now, he decided, was that the others would guess that something tragic had happened to prevent his return, and would set off for the spot to which Smyth had no doubt told them he was going, on foot. He did the only thing he could do where the Vandal was concerned, and that was to collect fallen branches and thrust them down under the wheels to prevent the machine sinking any lower. He went as far as trying to dig the mud away from the wheels with his hands, and he did get one almost clear, but the ooze had seeped back again and filled up the hole before he could release the other.
Finally, plastered from head to foot with mud, he flung himself on the bank in utter dejection. Food was becoming a pressing question, and the lack of it aggravated his low spirits. He thought there might be fish in the lake, but he had no means of catching them. Slowly the most miserable day that he could ever remember came to an end, and faint from want of food he crept back into the cabin to wait for morning. He half regretted that he had not set out at once on foot for the larger lake, as soon as he discovered that the Vandal was out of action, but it had been the thought that Biggles might have already started towards the smaller lake that deterred him. If they passed each other on the way the position would simply be reversed and no good purpose served. At last, still racking his brains for a solution of the problem, he dropped off to sleep.
He was awakened by the reverberating roar of a low flying aeroplane, and with his heart in his mouth he hurried through to the cockpit and looked out. It was already daylight although the sun had not yet risen, but it was not that which sent his heart down into his boots. It was the aeroplane that Ginger had once so well described, a low-wing monoplane with a biplane tail – Blackbeard's seaplane. What was worse, the pilot had obviously seen the Vandal, for the seaplane made a quick turn, the
engine was throttled back, and it began gliding down towards him with the plain intention of landing.
Algy watched its floats cut twin streaks of white foam across the black water, in silent misery.
Chapter 12
Trailed
The preceding day, twenty miles away, Biggles, Smyth and Ginger had spent an anxious day in their hiding place while the forest was being combed for them by an army of men, a fact which cries and the crashing of bushes did not allow them to forget. By the after-noon they had given up all hope of Algy's arrival, knowing that only dire catastrophe could have pre-vented him from arriving at the rendezvous at the appointed hour; so they concentrated their efforts on evading capture until such time as they could decide on a course of action. They had more than one narrow escape, for search parties came perilously close to them more than once. On one occasion, two men, carrying rifles, who had been beating the foreshore, actually started towards their place of con-cealment, but at the last moment their attention was distracted to a different quarter by a pair of wild ducks that arose into the air with loud quacks of alarm from some unseen cause.
With the approach of dusk the tension began to relax and they gathered together to discuss the position.
'This is how I see things,' began Biggles moodily. 'Algy is down some-where with the machine. Whether he has force-landed and crashed, or whether the machine is still all right, we do not know, but it seems pretty certain that he is not in a position to fly the machine or he would be here. Whether shortage of petrol or engine failure is the cause does not matter; he isn't here and he can't get here by air. There is always a possibility that he landed safely, but was afterwards taken prisoner, and I am inclined to think that is what has happened, because if he himself was safe and sound he would get here somehow or other, even if he had to walk. That brings us to the crux of the problem with which we are faced. Assuming that he has managed to put the machine down somewhere, and has damaged it so that he cannot get off again, I doubt if he would try and get here in broad daylight. With all the activity that has been going on he would be caught before he had gone a mile. I think it is far more likely, now I come to think of it, that he would wait for darkness and then try and reach us. He may be on his way here at this very moment.