Biggles and the Black Peril

by W E Johns

  'What is our position? Every moment we delay here is fraught with danger, yet as far as I can see we have no alternative but to remain. If we left, where should we go? There is only one place where we could hope to find him, and that is the other lake, but we have no reason to suppose that he ever reached it. Moreover, if we started now the odds are that we should pass each other in the dark. Bear in mind that we could not afford to hail, or even allow ourselves to be seen by any casual strangers we may meet, in the hope that it might be him. On the contrary, we should have to do our best to avoid such an encounter, for fear of it being one of the soldiers – or whatever they are.'

  'There is just a chance, of course, that he may have had a temporary breakdown, something that he can repair himself, but it will take time,' suggested Smyth. 'In that case he's bound to come on here as soon as he can.'

  'That's feasible,' admitted Biggles.

  'The only thing you do not seem to have considered is this,' put in Ginger. 'What about those machines that made him leave here in the first place. Suppose he barged into them, what then? Even if they didn't shoot him down, which they might, they'd simply follow him until he landed, knowing that sooner or later he would have to come down for more petrol.'

  'My word! I never thought of that,' muttered Biggles, his frown deepening. 'Lord, yes! That would put the tin hat on it.'

  'Well, we can't help it,' went on Ginger, philosophi-cally, 'if he had stayed here the result would have been the same.'

  'It all boils down to this,' continued Biggles. 'The only thing we can do for the moment is to stay here in the hope that he will turn up somehow or other, but there is a limit to how long we can stay. Quite apart from the danger of being found, we can't go on without food much longer. If he isn't here by dawn tomorrow, we shall have to go. We'll make for the other lake, and if he isn't there, try to reach a railway and go to Danzig. The only thing we could do then would be to report the matter to the British Consul. After all, our papers are in order, and if questions were asked as to what we were doing here, who is to say that we did not simply lose our way or get blown off our course by bad weather? I'm beginning to wish that we had left this affair to the right people.'

  'I guess you're right,' agreed Ginger, 'but we won't give up hope yet. Something will turn up, you'll find; it usually does when things look as bad as they can be.'

  'I hope you're right,' replied Biggles. 'I don't know about you, but it's taking me all my time to keep awake. It seems weeks since I slept or had a square meal. We've got to spend the night here, so I suggest we take watches in turn while the others sleep; if we don't get some sleep we shall be dead on our feet to-morrow. Ginger, you're all in, I can see. Lie down and try to get a nap – you do the same, Smyth. I'll take the first watch. You'll take the second watch, Smyth; I'll wake you in three hours, as near as I can judge. You do three hours and then wake Ginger. If anyone hears anything suspicious he will wake up the others at once.'

  It seemed to Ginger that he had only just closed his eyes when he was awakened by a slight pressure on his shoulder. Accustomed to sleeping in strange places, often under the stars, he had dropped off to sleep as soon as his head touched the ground, and for the same reason he awoke just as easily.

  'S-s-h! Don't make a noise,' came Smyth's voice, 'it's your watch, take over.'

  'OK,' muttered Ginger, with a glance at Biggles's sleeping form.

  The moon was up and cast an eerie light over the scene as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and began his vigil. All was quiet in the forest except for the soughing of the wind in the trees and the lap of water on the beach, which was now littered with small pieces of squared timber and fabric that had either drifted down, or been blown before the wind from the work-shops. He gazed far across the rippling moonlit waters of the lake in the direction of the seaplane base, but no lights were showing. 'There,' he reflected, 'is food in abundance.' The thought prompted, no doubt, by the gnawing pain under his belt, persisted, and he regarded the distant shore meditatively. The thought quickly grew to a longing that was not to be denied.

  For ten days, up to the time Biggles had found him in the railway hut, he had lived by 'scrounging,' as he called it, and he had acquired a good deal of experi-ence in the art. 'I can't help them very much by staying here,' he mused, 'in fact, I'm really only in the way. If I could get hold of some grub I should feel that I was earning my keep.' His conscience pricked him over the matter of leaving the others without a guard, but they were sleeping quietly and the search parties seemed to have been withdrawn; a long time had elapsed since they had heard the last calls in the forest. Perhaps, if he was lucky, he could get back before they awoke. He had a pencil and an old note-book in his pocket; he would leave them a note, telling them of his project, in case he was delayed or did not return. What a treat it would give them to wake up and find food set before them!

  The thought decided him, and he rose stealthily to his feet. The gloomy blackness of the forest rather appalled him; what wild beasts did it harbour? He thrust the thought aside, and, after a last glance at the sleeping figures of his companions, crept silently away. The sombre fir trees closed in around him, and he was alone in the forest.

  Biggles awoke with a start, feeling that something was amiss, and sprang to his feet. He glanced down at the sleeping figure of Smyth, and then looked quickly to right and left.

  'Ginger!' he said sharply.

  There was no reply, but the sound awoke Smyth, who sat up abruptly.

  'Where's that lad?' asked Biggles, looking down at him.

  'Why, isn't he here?'

  'I can't see him.'

  'I left him on guard when I turned in.'

  'Then what the dickens is he up to; scouting, I suppose, the young ass. Ginger!' he called again, but there was no answering hail.

  'The young fool! I'll clip his ear when he comes back – hullo, what's this?' A small square of white paper had fluttered from his chest to the ground. He picked it up and saw that it was a leaf torn from a small notebook, and holding it up to the now fading moonlight, saw that there was writing on one side. 'This looks like a note,' Biggles went on. 'Hold your coat round me while I strike a match.'

  'Dere Biggles,' he read, 'I've gon for some grubb. If I am not back by one houre after daylite go without me. Ginger.'

  Biggles blew out the match and ground the spark under his heel.

  'What d'you know about that, eh?' asked Smyth.

  Biggles shrugged his shoulders helplessly. T don't know what to think about it,' he said despairingly. 'It's what in the old days would be called "acting on one's own initiative." It's the sort of mad thing that if it comes off makes the fellow a hero and gets him a decoration. If he fails he gets court-martialled and reprimanded for acting without orders. You can't help admiring the kid's pluck; it's the last thing I should have thought of doing, I must admit. Where on earth does he think he's going to get grub from about here? Surely he wouldn't be so absolutely crazy as to go back into the town.'

  'That's where he's gone,' muttered Smyth, 'you can bet your life on that; there's nowhere else for him go to.'

  'Well, God knows we need food badly enough, and if he manages to get some it would be unfair to blame him for going; but this scattering up of the party all over Russia is wrong, and the sooner we all get together again the better. I wish he hadn't gone; what are we going to do if he doesn't come back? We can't leave him here. I'll give him a ticking off about leaving his post, you may be sure of that, but I shall be relieved to see the young beggar back here. If anything hap-pens to him – but there, it's no use worrying. I wonder what the time is.'

  'Pretty nearly morning I should think, by the look of the sky. It will be light in another half-hour.'

  'I wonder if they will think we have escaped or if they will go on searching again as soon as it is light?' mused Biggles.

  As if in answer, a sound reached them that made Smyth clutch at Biggles' arm, and even he turned pale. It was the deep, long-drawn howl of a
hound on a blood-scent.

  'My God!' breathed Biggles, 'they've put hounds on our trail.'

  Again the dreadful sound was borne on the breeze to their straining ears. In the dim light of the false dawn it seemed to hold a quality of sinister finality that turned their blood to ice.

  'I remember that animal,' muttered Biggles. 'I heard it when I was walking along the railway track. Well, there's only one thing to do. God help that poor kid; we can't.'

  'What shall we do?'

  'Get into the water – wade out into the rushes. We'll try to work our way round to the other side. It's no use trying to hide now; that beast will bring the guards straight here. Come on.'

  Side by side they waded out into the cold water and started off along the edge of the lake, but Biggles realized at once that the task was almost hopeless. Under the water, the mud was several inches deep, and this, combined with the tangled roots of rushes and water weeds, made progress well-nigh impossible.

  'It's no use, Smyth,' said Biggles quietly, 'we shall never get anywhere at this rate.'

  But Smyth was not listening. He was staring out over the water of the lake, now pale grey with the approach of dawn, at a dark object that seemed to be drifting towards them.

  'It's a machine,' said Biggles in a strangled voice –'Blackbeard's machine; I'd know it anywhere. This looks like the end.'

  'No!' cried Smyth suddenly. 'The prop's stationary. It's adrift.'

  There is an old saying that the darkest hour comes before the dawn, and never was it more graphically demonstrated. From hopeless despair their emotions swung round in a flash to joy and hope. If they could only reach the machine, the whole business would assume a very different aspect.

  'What's that on the port float?' cried Biggles sharply.

  'It looks to me as if it's somebody on that float,' replied Smyth in a queer voice, peering forward. 'It's hard to see, but it looks like somebody splashing.'

  'It's too small for a man. My God, it's Ginger!' burst out Biggles, suddenly understanding. 'He must have cut it adrift, and the wind has blown him across. He's brilliant is that boy! That isn't cleverness, it's genius – genius,' he repeated in his enthusiasm. 'Look! He's trying to keep her straight with that piece of plank. Let's give him a hail so that he'll know we've seen him.'

  The voice of the hound echoed weirdly through the trees not far away, and there was a crashing in the undergrowth.

  'Hi, Ginger!' cried Biggles. 'Good boy – keep going!'

  There was an answering wave from Ginger, whom they could now see was sitting astride a float, with his feet dangling in the water, wielding a piece of wood like a paddle. He had little control over the machine, however, which was drifting sideways before the wind at a good speed; he would have been powerless, of course, to travel in any other direction.

  He was still fifty yards away from them when the deep bay of the hound burst out so close that Biggles turned, whipping out his revolver. Ginger must have heard it, too, for he redoubled his efforts to hasten the progress of the machine.

  'This is going to be touch and go, Smyth,' said Biggles quietly, cool and alert now that the prospect of action was so close. 'Stand fast; we must avoid getting wet through if we can prevent it. As soon as the machine gets within reach, get to the prop. When she starts, get into the cabin as quickly as you can and get Ginger in with you, he must be frozen stiff with cold.'

  The crashing in the bushes was now right upon them, and the hound broke cover at the spot where they themselves the previous evening had struck the lake. A shot rang out and several men appeared at the edge of the forest just as Biggles grabbed the toe of the nearest float and swung the machine round. 'Hang on, Ginger!' he yelled, seeing that the boy was nearly exhausted, and sprang up into the cockpit. He fumbled with the unusual controls for a moment, but found the petrol cock and turned it on. 'Petrol on –switches off- suck in!' he shouted. 'Keep your heads, everybody!'

  'Suck in!' roared Smyth, and pulled the propeller round three or four times, finishing with it nicely balanced on contact.

  A rifle cracked and the bullet ricocheted off the engine cowling with a shrill whang.

  'Contact!' yelled Smyth.

  'Contact!' echoed Biggles.

  The engine started with a bellow that awoke the sleeping echoes, and drowned the reports of the weapons on the bank. Smyth staggered, caught him-self, and then scrambled into the little cabin beside Ginger, who had been right in his guess that the machine was a three-seater. The cabin was very much like that of a Puss-Moth*, the pilot sitting in front, with two passengers side by side behind.

  * British De Havilland high wing monoplane of the 1930s.

  Biggles saw Smyth stagger and knew that he had been hit, but he dare not wait to investigate. With rudder hard over he roared round in a whirlpool of foam, and as the nose of the machine pointed towards open water, jerked the throttle wide open and skimmed across the surface of the lake. He took her off as soon as he dared, for bullets were now cutting long, vicious-looking wheals in the water around them, and zooming over the tree-tops, turned his nose towards the west. Only when he had put her on an even keel, and set his course to his satisfaction, did he turn to see how badly Smyth was hurt; but the mechanic made a deprecating gesture as he pointed to his shoulder, indicating that the bullet had only grazed him, so Biggles turned again to his task of flying the machine.

  Presently he felt someone nudge him in the back, and half turning, saw Ginger offering him a good-sized hunk of bread and an onion. He took them with a sign of surprise and thanks, and with the stick in one hand and his breakfast in the other, headed for the smaller lake. The food was primitive in its simplicity, but he could not remember enjoying a meal so much. It put new life into him, and with his old self assurance reasserting itself, he looked around the sky for possible enemies. He did not see another machine, however, during the ten minutes it took him to reach the lake. He circled it once, looking for the Vandal, and at last, to his great relief, picked it out in spite of its protective covering of weeds and rushes.

  He landed and saw Algy watching him morosely, but as he taxied towards him, he saw him jump down on to the bank and run towards the wood. Not until then did Biggles remember that Algy had no means of knowing who was in the machine, so he raced tail up towards the Vandal, switching off only at the last moment. 'Get out and stop him, Ginger,' he snapped, 'or we shall lose him again.'

  'Hi, Algy!' shouted Ginger, as he leapt down into the mud.

  Algy heard him at once, and the expression of comical amazement on his face as he turned set them all laughing.

  'What the – who the – where the—' he stammered.

  'We'll tell you about it later; we've got to move quickly now,' replied Biggles. 'What's wrong with the Vandal?'

  'Nothing except that she is bogged.'

  'Thank goodness. That's why you didn't come back?'

  'Of course.'

  'Is she in very deep?'

  'Not so far that the four of us can't get her out, I think, but I couldn't do it single-handed.'

  'Let's have a look at her. Smyth, take a look and see how much petrol there is in the tanks of this machine. If we can get the Vandal clear we'll transfer it'

  It took them an hour, working like Trojans, to get the Vandal clear of her slimy bed, and they all breathed more freely as she floated out on to the water, filthier than she had ever been in all her travels. It took them another twenty minutes to transfer the petrol. The tanks were not so full as they had hoped, but they contained a fair amount, which augmented the Vandal's now very scanty supply.

  Somewhat to their surprise, but to their great relief, they were not molested, although more than once they heard the drone of an aero-engine in the distance; but it was not until they were all on board the Vandal, with Algy munching a dry crust ravenously, that they began to feel really safe.

  'Which way are you going?' he asked, as they waited for the engine to warm up.

  'I'm going to make for Sweden,'
replied Biggles. 'I want to get out of this country as soon as I can, and we should be mad to try and fly back over Germany. We should be seen and stopped before we had gone ten miles. I'll warrant every policeman in the country is on the look-out for us, and the first town we pass over will set the telephones ringing; it's a case of any port in a storm, and Sweden is the nearest. I don't think they dare touch us there. Once we strike the coast, we'll cruise down it until we come to a town where we'll fill up with petrol and push on for home. Where's that case you had, Ginger?'

  'I threw it away, but the papers are in my pocket.'

  'Good. I'm anxious to hear how you managed to steal an aeroplane, but we shall have to postpone that story until we get somewhere where there is no risk of being blown up or shot down.'

  He pushed the throttle open and the Vandal soared into the air like a bird.

  Chapter 13

  Fog

  They began their long flight with a good deal of trepidation, but as the time passed and they saw no signs of pursuit, the tension which they all felt became less severe and they looked forward to reaching their destination without being molested. With less petrol in the tanks than he would have liked, Biggles could not afford to make detours round frontiers, so he flew in a straight line, keeping slightly to the east of north-east. He could only vaguely guess when he had passed the Soviet boundary, although he had his map open beside him, but when he thought he had done so, he turned a trifle more to the north to avoid East Prussia; even so, it was necessary to make a dash across the most northerly part of it, for to have gone right up to Lithuania, and then flown due east towards Sweden, as he would have liked to have done, would have meant taking a dangerous risk with their scanty supply of petrol, particularly in view of the long sea passage before them when they reached the Baltic.