by W E Johns
‘Are you telling me?’ sighed Ginger weakly. ‘I shall dream of this for the rest of my life.’
‘Well, let’s see where we are,’ said Biggles quietly, and ran to the top of the bank.
Reaching it, he fell back a pace, staring, and there he stood while the others joined him.
Before them, not more than a hundred yards away, was a native village of low, reed-built, conical-shaped huts. From it came a shrill cry of alarm. A crowd of warriors armed with spears and clubs poured out of the huts and charged, yelling, towards the newcomers.
Ginger’s hand flew to his pocket.
‘No use, laddie,’ said Biggles sadly, shaking his head. ‘We can’t fight that mob, so it’s no use irritating them. We shall do better by trying to appear friendly, I think.’
CHAPTER XIV
ORDEAL BY FIRE
ANY hope they entertained in that direction, however, was squashed with such speed and violence as to leave them breathless and flabbergasted. Indeed, with such ferocity was the onslaught against them carried out that in his heart Biggles felt certain that the end had come; for the natives, far from stopping a few yards away as he anticipated, dashed right in, seized them, and flung them to the ground in a manner that was as violent as it was unexpected. Their hands were tied behind them, and they were conducted—dragged would perhaps be a better word—to a hut and flung inside.
Algy rolled over on to his side and then struggled into a sitting position. He looked at Biggles reproachfully. ‘We ought to have plugged some of the skunks,’ he said bitterly.
‘We should all have been dead by now if we had; as full of spears as a hedgehog is of quills,’ Biggles told him coolly.
‘I had an idea that the natives of Africa had all been tamed by now, but I must be wrong,’ observed Algy.
‘It almost looks like it, doesn’t it?’ agreed Biggles sarcastically.
‘What is their idea, do you suppose?’
‘Goodness knows. I can’t make it out. There ‘s something funny about this attack ; I’m sure these people wouldn’t behave like this in the ordinary way. Look out, here comes the head lad.’
A shadow had fallen across the low doorway and a moment later two natives entered the hut. Both were remarkable in appearance and equally repulsive. The first, who was evidently the chief of the tribe, was a man of great stature, but he was fat to the point of bestiality. He was jet black, with short curly hair and a broad face on which a tiny snub nose with gaping nostrils looked ridiculously inadequate. His eyes were small, red-rimmed as if from disease, and set close together, while his neck would have carried the head of a buffalo. With the two front claws fastened over one shoulder, a magnificent leopard skin was draped across his body, caught in round the waist by the beast’s tail. This appeared to be his only garment.
The other was a little wizened old man whose wrinkled face—or what they could see of it—bespoke a tremendous age. Above his head, fixed so that it rose above his face, was a mask of indescribable ugliness, while about his body, in chains, festoons, and garlands, hung an incredible assortment of articles varying from old tin lids to human bones and the teeth of animals. A filthy skirt of coloured grasses hung down from his waist, completing a picture at which the three airmen gazed in loathing and disgust. They knew enough of Africa to be aware that he was a witch-doctor.
‘There’s getting a King Solomon’s Mines touch about this business,’ observed Algy, with a courageous attempt at humour.
To this Biggles made no reply, but looking the chief straight in the eyes he asked, ‘Do either of you speak English?’
The chief did not answer, but the witch-doctor broke into what sounded like a stream of vituperation, waving his hands to emphasize his remarks. The noise was not unlike the chattering of an angry monkey.
‘Apparently they don’t,’ said Biggles quietly. ‘I’m afraid it’s going to be a bit difficult if we can’t discuss the matter with them.’
That such was the case was soon made clear, for after staring at the prisoners for some minutes the chief withdrew, and the witch-doctor, after removing the one or two odds and ends they carried in their pockets, followed him. Hip-pockets were evidently unknown to him for he overlooked these, so the prisoners were left in possession of their automatics, although as their hands were securely bound they were unable to get at them.
Biggles looked at Algy’s wrists and saw that the bonds were strips of green hide, and he knew at once that their chances of being able to free themselves were remote. Still, they could but try, he decided, and was about to roll over in order to attack Algy’s with his teeth when a warrior appeared and squatted down in the doorway, watching them closely.
‘If that scallywag is going to sit there all the time it’s going to be hard to get away,’ said Algy, eyeing the newcomer vindictively.
‘He is, you can bet your boots on that,’ replied Biggles.
Outside a drum began beating fitfully; presently it was answered by another far away. Nothing more was said. Utterly helpless, they could only sit and wait what might befall. Slowly the day wore on. Once or twice there was an excited clamour outside as if something unusual was occurring, but they were left in ignorance as to what it was. They were given neither food nor water, and they all suffered intensely from thirst and from the attentions of myriads of flies from whose attacks they were powerless to defend themselves.
It was nearing sunset when from outside there came a babble of excited voices, the clamour increasing in volume as if those responsible for it were approaching the hut in which the prisoners lay.
‘It sounds as if something might happen shortly,’ observed Biggles.
‘I hope it does; anything is better than this,’ growled Algy. ‘If only I could get to my gun I’d give these swine something to yell about.’
A moment later a black form blocked out the light and another visitor entered. They all recognized him at once. It was the leader of the party of warriors who had accosted them while they were repairing the Puss Moth, and he showed his teeth in a flashing grin of satisfaction as he looked down upon them.
‘You no talk so big now,’ he said boastfully, pricking Biggles’s leg viciously with the point of his spear.
‘Where’s your master?’ asked Biggles, ignoring the thrust, thinking that if the white man was about, even if he were an enemy, he could not have so far lost caste as to leave fellow white men to their fate at the hands of savages.
‘He no come here,’ grinned the native. ‘By time he come, two day, three day, you say so-long. My friends outside get much money, much bacca, much beef, much poshi, for catching you. You no more shoot at black mans; crocodiles see you finish.’ With an ironic smile the man went out.
Presumably he said something to the crowd that had assembled outside, for an absolute bedlam of jeers and shouting broke out. Nor did it cease. Indeed, as darkness fell the pandemonium became indescribable, the clanging of tins and the banging of drums adding to the uproar.
‘I should like to make just one small contribution to that din, and that’s the good healthy rattle of a machine-gun,’ snarled Biggles, as if he could stand it no longer.
‘What do you think they mean to do to us?’ asked Ginger.
‘I shouldn’t think about that if I were you,’ Biggles told him grimly.
‘What about trying to free my hands with your teeth?’ suggested Algy. ‘There doesn’t seem to be anybody on door duty now, and if there was he couldn’t see us.’
‘At this stage anything is worth trying,’ replied Biggles, and turning over on to his side he began gnawing the thongs. He knew it was hopeless from the start, for his teeth could make no impression on the tough hide which, quite apart from anything else, tasted foul, and the smell of it nearly made him sick. ‘No use,’ he muttered at last, turning away and spitting. ‘My stomach will stand a lot, but not the smell of that stuff.’
Outside, the darkness was suddenly dispelled by an orange glare as if a fire had been lighted; it crept
through the open doorway and bathed the faces of the prisoners with a lurid glow.
‘Looks as if it’s getting time for the balloon to go up,’ observed Algy philosophically.
‘Yes, the fireworks have started,’ agreed Biggles. ‘Sorry I’ve got you fellows into this jam.’
‘I can’t see that you’ve got us into it,’ murmured Ginger. ‘I’ve only one regret, and that is that Stampoulos and Leroux look like getting away with their graft now, and poor old Marton won’t see his son again. I’m afraid we haven’t much hope.’
‘You never know,’ declared Biggles, with a conviction that he was far from feeling. ‘While there’s life there’s hope is an old saying, and the more you think about it the more patent becomes the truth of it. When you’re dead it’s the finish, but until then anything can happen. This isn’t the first time I’ve thought I was sunk, but somehow I’ve always managed to bob up again.’
‘Well, it’s nice of you to cheer us up this way,’ replied Algy. ‘Can you think of anything that might save us at this juncture?’
‘A herd of mad elephants might charge the village,’ suggested Biggles.
‘Is there such a thing, do you think?’ asked Ginger hopefully.
‘Since you force me to say it, I must admit that I’ve never heard of one,’ confessed Biggles. There might be an earthquake or a cloudburst, though.’
‘Either of which would put paid to our account just as effectively as the stiffs outside,’ declared Algy. ‘Why pretend? Let us face our end with the cold, calm philosophy of our race, as they say in books,’ he added sarcastically. ‘Frankly, if they take us to that crocodile pool I shall scream my head off. I—’
‘Oh, shut up,’ snapped Biggles. ‘Here comes the procession, anyway,’ he went on quickly as the uproar approached the hut.
Several natives entered. The prisoners were hauled into the open, dragged to their feet, and marched towards an open space in the centre of the village, where the entire population had collected in a circle round three posts that had been let into the ground near a dais on which sat the chief. To these posts the prisoners were led; their hands were untied, and then retied behind the posts.
‘Judging from the audience, I should say that this is what in film circles is called a première,’ observed Algy, looking round.
Suddenly the uproar died away; a hush fell upon the scene, and the air was tense with expectation.
‘Here comes Father Christmas to do his stuff,’ muttered Biggles, looking towards the far side of the circle where a gangway had opened through the spectators.
It was the witch-doctor, clad presumably in his full robes of office. The mask which he had worn earlier in the day had been replaced by another even more monstrous, a ghastly effigy of a crocodile. The head, with gaping jaws, protruded far in front of his face, while the skin hung down his back until the tail dragged along the ground.
This apparition did not walk straight towards the prisoners, but commenced to make short zigzag rushes to and fro, the end of each rush bringing it a little nearer.
‘I suppose we’ve got to put up with all this tomfoolery,’ growled Algy.
‘Of course,’ answered Biggles. ‘The boys must have their fun.’
From somewhere in the folds of his equipment the witch-doctor now produced a short, ivory-handled assagai, and at the same time a dreadful noise that was something between a howl and a scream broke from his lips, the high note being accompanied by a fierce thrust with the assagai at an imaginary enemy.
Slowly but surely he drew nearer. The howls became more spasmodic and the spear thrusts more vicious. A low mutter ran round the spectators, but it died away again to a breathless silence as they saw that the witch-doctor’s last rush had carried him to within a few yards of Ginger. There was a noise like wind rustling in dry leaves as two hundred throats drew a deep breath. The witchdoctor’s hand went back, assagai poised.
Simultaneously a sudden outcry of voices occurred on the far side of the assembly, and several natives began running across the open space shouting as they ran. The witchdoctor swung round and screamed as if infuriated at this interruption, but the natives, although they kept clear of him, continued to run. Others joined them. The chief jumped down from his seat and shouted something at the witch-doctor, who turned and ran with a speed that was extraordinary for one so encumbered. In a few seconds the break-up became a panic which ended in a wild stampede, and within a minute there was not a single native in sight.
‘Looks as if that herd of mad elephants is coming after all,’ whispered Ginger, through dry lips.
‘Something’s coming, that’s certain,’ muttered Biggles, staring at the point where the stampede started.
Presently it came. Out of the darkness into the ruddy glow of the fire marched a double line of uniformed men. They were black, but they walked smartly, with military precision, and at their head, in khaki drill tunic, shorts, and a topee, strode a white man with a walking-stick in his hand.
Biggles took one look at the red fezzes, bandoliers, and rifles carried at the slope. ‘Askaris, by all that’s wonderful,’ he breathed.
In military step the party marched across the open space to where the three airmen stood watching them with thankful eyes. At a distance of a few yards the officer halted his men and advanced alone, a jack-knife in his hand.
‘Looks as if I’ve arrived at what is called the crucial moment,’ he observed with a curious smile, as he severed in turn the raw-hide thongs that held the prisoners to their posts.
‘Yes! Believe me, we’re pleased to see you,’ smiled Biggles.
‘And I’m pleased to see you.’ The officer glanced up. ‘My name is Collison, Seventeenth African Rifles. You’re Bigglesworth, I suppose?’
‘Yes, that’s my name,’ answered Biggles wonderingly.
‘Then I arrest you for the wilful murder of Luke Sarda, at Insula, on or about the twelfth of the present month,’ said the officer curtly.
Biggles stared at him incredulously for a full ten seconds without speaking. Then a queer, half-hysterical laugh broke from his lips.
‘It seems to strike you as funny,’ said Collison icily.
‘Funny!’ Biggles laughed again. ‘I think that’s just about the best joke I ever heard in my life,’ he said simply. ‘By the way, if you’ve got any water handy we could do with a drink.’
CHAPTER XV
BIGGLES SPEAKS
‘AND now,’ continued Collison, when they had all drunk deeply, ‘I’m not altogether lacking in a sense of humour, so perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling me just where the joke comes in. From my point of view, I found nothing amusing in having to tear myself and my men across that infernal plain in the heat of the day, but we knew it was going to be touch and go whether we got here in time.’
‘How did you know that?’ asked Biggles.
‘The drums told us.’
‘And I suppose that’s how you knew we were here in the first place?’
‘Of course. Every native within a hundred miles knows that three strange white men are in Limshoda.’
‘Is that the name of this village ?’
‘It is. You’d have done well to avoid it: it’s got a nasty reputation.’
‘We didn’t even know it was here, much less know about its reputation,’ Biggles told him frankly. ‘Are you in a great hurry to push on anywhere to-night?’
‘No, we shall have to spend the night here; my men need a rest.’
‘So do we, for that matter,’ answered Biggles. ‘I’m glad, because I should like to have a few words of conversation with you.’
‘I want a few words with you, too, although it is my duty to warn you that anything you may say may be used as evidence against you.’
‘That sounds like good old solid English to me,’ grinned Biggles. ‘Let’s find a place to sit down.’
‘Are you going to give me your parole?’
‘No, I certainly am not.’
‘I warn you that if you
attempt to escape my men will—’
‘That’s the last thing I’m thinking about at the moment,’ interrupted Biggles. ‘For one thing I’m far too tired. All the same, I won’t give my parole —not until we’ve had a chat, anyway. Shall we go to one of the huts?’
‘If you knew as much about native huts as I do you wouldn’t willingly go within a mile of one,’ declared Collison. ‘Let’s sit by the fire; the smoke will help to keep the mosquitoes away.’
They walked across to where the fire was beginning to settle down into a heap of glowing embers. Beside it, for it was too large for them to sit round it, they sat, or rather squatted, on stools that some of the Askaris fetched from the huts.
‘I suppose I may assume that you’ve been to Insula?’ inquired Biggles.
‘You may assume what you like, Bigglesworth,’ Collison answered curtly. ‘But you’re here to answer questions, not to ask them.’
‘All right, there’s no need to be provocative,’ replied Biggles quietly. ‘We shall both get farther and fare better by maintaining friendly relations than we shall by getting at loggerheads. And let me say this. I realize that your present attitude towards us is in keeping with your instructions, or, in case you are acting on your own initiative, the charge that you have preferred against us. But don’t ask me to believe that you’ve stumbled into this business by accident. Now! The sooner I am able to convince you that you are on the wrong tack, the better will be our chance of winding up successfully the business that brought us to Africa, and the better will be your chance of doing yourself and your regiment a bit of good. So I suggest that either I give you the facts about this affair, or alternatively I’ll answer any questions you like; but it will save time if I tell you the story. We’ve nothing to hide.’
‘I’ve only one question to ask,’ put in Collison. ‘Did you kill Sarda?’
‘I did,’ replied Biggles.
‘No you didn’t, I did,’ cried Ginger.