Biggles and the Deep Blue Sea

by W E Johns

  ‘It might have been the easiest way, as it turned out, but it was taking a chance,’ Algy said severely.

  ‘It’s ten to one the shark you saw wasn’t a man-eater anyway,’ replied Biggles casually, as he sat in the sun to dry while Algy pulled the anchor aboard and stowed it in its usual place. ‘You can take her back to the beach now we’ve got that little operation buttoned up.’

  Algy took the aircraft back to the little beach of white coral sand where it had spent the night. Biggles, now again in his clothes, went into the cabin and came out with the sharp, heavy knife, that was always carried as part of the gear for cutting out anyone who might be trapped in a crash landing, always a possibility when coming down on unknown ground outside an established aerodrome.

  ‘Shall I keep the machine here?’ asked Algy, as Biggles, knife in hand, prepared to move off.

  ‘I think you might as well,’ decided Biggles. ‘You should be more comfortable here than afloat; able to stretch your legs. I doubt if Collingwood will interfere with you.’ As an afterthought he added with a grin: ‘If he should come down you can tell him what I’m doing. That should rock him on his heels.’

  ‘How long do you reckon to be away?’

  Biggles thought for a moment. ‘Not more than three hours; probably less. You’d better peg her down if it should start to blow. The tackle’s inside. Anyhow, I shall be back hotfoot at the first sign of a storm coming this way. You might have a nice hot meal ready,’ he concluded cheerfully. ‘I’m getting a bit tired of hard tack.’

  Algy smiled. ‘What do you fancy?’

  ‘Fish and chips. There are plenty of little fishes in the lagoon. You’ve got some hooks and a line.’

  ‘I’ll have a go at ‘em. What do I use for chips?’

  ‘Collingwood may have some spuds in his vegetable patch. If you see him he may let you have a few.’ With a parting wave Biggles set off.

  He took the same route along the shore as on the previous clay. He did not expect trouble, but he thought he might run into Ali who would probably object to seeing the hemp crop destroyed; but he did not think he would offer physical resistance. If that should happen he was confident of being able to deal with him. He was more concerned with the weather and looked often at the sky, which now had taken on a dull greyish look through which the sun could only peer with a bleary eye. He could hear breakers thundering on the exposed beach. It was evident that the weather was deteriorating and he could only hope that it would not get worse. It might, he thought, be the result of a distant storm.

  In due course he reached the hollow where the digging was going on. He stopped and looked, but he could not see the Arab. Nor could he hear him working, so, hurrying now, he went to the hemp plantation.

  Ali was there. Busy. Biggles, his arrival unnoticed, stopped to watch, trying to make out what he was doing. Actually, he could see plainly enough what he was doing, but could not understand the purpose. At first it seemed that his own plan had been anticipated and the Arab was bent on the destruction of the plantation. He was walking about in it pulling plants out by the roots and throwing them aside to die in the sun. But why only some? Why not all? What was the idea of that? It seemed a strange business. If he was trying to dispose of the forbidden plants, why go about it in such a haphazard manner? Was it because the crop was too thick and he was thinning them out? Had some of the plants been stricken by a disease and he was weeding out those affected?

  Biggles sat down to watch, trying to work out the reason for the curious operation now in progress. He knew as much, if not more, than the average man about Indian hemp and the drug produced from it; but he did not know everything. There was still something in the way hashish was procured that he did not know or he would have known exactly what Ali was doing. As it was, he could only wonder. However, one thing was clear. The Arab knew all about the hemp being grown on the island. Was he now clearing it by Collingwood’s orders?

  Biggles did not reveal himself. He saw Ali finish his task and stand back to survey the result of his labour. Then, as if satisfied, he went off in the direction of the runway, probably, Biggles thought, to report to Collingwood. To save any argument he sank down out of sight until he had gone.

  Then, after another look at the sky he moved on quickly to do what he had come to do. He worked fast after having been delayed, for the coconuts were now threshing their fronds, and beyond them he could see the spray of the giant waves that were hurling themselves on the exposed beach. With his knife he slashed off close to the ground the plants the Arab had not touched. No effort was required. The plants were green and lush, and one swipe was usually enough. The whole business did not occupy more than twenty minutes, and by the time he had finished the entire plantation had been laid low. The place looked like an autumn harvest field.

  He did not tarry on the spot. The weather was now rapidly getting worse, and it was with more than a little anxiety that he began his return journey to the lagoon. Indeed, he was beginning to blame himself for having left Algy alone to manage the aircraft, and he had no hesitation in taking the shortest way to it, which was along the old landing strip. He didn’t care now if Collingwood did see him. His drug farm had gone and nothing he could do would restore it.

  As he passed the hollow the Arab suddenly appeared out of it, and, of course, saw him. He seemed surprised, but he salaamed, and looking at the knife Biggles still carried asked him what he had been doing at that end of the island. Was it coconuts he wanted? Seeing no reason to prevaricate, Biggles told him the truth, and what he thought about hemp, in a few curt words.

  The result startled him. For a moment Ali stared at him in dumb surprise, lower jaw sagging, and in his eyes that glazed, faraway look, which in some natives can come with shock or lack of comprehension. When he did understand what had happened his expression flashed to one of fierce hostility. His hand went to the dagger that hung in a scabbard from his waist in such a way that Biggles took a quick step back thinking he was about to be attacked. Instead, with a cry like that of a stricken animal he threw his hands towards heaven and rushed off towards the plantation, screaming about Allah and forgiveness.

  Biggles shrugged. Astonished, he went on his way, breaking into a run when he reached the higher ground and felt the full force of the wind. The sky was now an evil leaden colour, dull crimson where the sun was behind the murk. The sea was in a turmoil with great waves not only breaking on the reef but flooding into the lagoon with clouds of flying spray. There was no longer any doubt about it. A violent storm, if not a hurricane, was blowing up, and it looked as if the island lay directly in its path, in which case it would feel the full force of it. Far out to sea, through mist and flying spray, he noticed a ship, an Arab dhow, dropping its huge lateen sail and making heavy weather of it as it ran before the storm.

  When he came to within sight of the machine he was not surprised to see Algy working on it in feverish haste, driving in pegs to which cords could be attached to hold it down. What did amaze him was to see Collingwood there, apparently helping him. What, he wondered, could have brought about such a change of face?

  When Biggles ran up he was faced by Collingwood, legs apart, leaning against the wind.

  ‘Where: the devil have you been?’ shouted Collingwood. ‘Couldn’t you see what was happening?’

  Biggles looked at Algy. ‘Haven’t you told him?’

  ‘No. I’ve been too busy.’

  Biggles turned back to Collingwood. ‘I’ve been to cut down that field of hemp.’

  Collingwood changed colour. He seemed to stagger. ‘And have you?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘You fool. You idiot. You damned imbecile,’ snarled Collingwood. ‘You interfering lunatic. That’s done it. Now they will kill you. I don’t care about that, but I shall probably get my throat cut at the same time.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Biggles, taken aback by this outburst. ‘Who’s going to do this throat-cutting?’

  ‘They wil
l.’ Collingwood pointed at the Arab dhow, now in the distance, running before the gale.

  ‘What have they got to do with it?’ questioned Biggles, with a rising note of incomprehension in his voice.

  ‘That hemp was theirs.’

  Biggles stared. ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘When those Arabs come back you’ll find it’s no joke,’ declared Collingwood grimly.

  ‘How was I to know? I assumed it was yours.’

  ‘Mine! What would I want with hashish? Do you think I’m crazy?’

  ‘I was in some doubt about your sanity in parking yourself in a place like this. When I found the hemp I thought that was the answer.’

  Algy broke in, shouting: ‘Stop arguing the toss, you two, and give me a hand.’

  The others went to his assistance, filling sandbags to hang on the wings. Collingwood went on talking. ‘You realize we’re in for a typhoon, and a snorter at that if I know anything?’

  ‘I’m not blind,’ growled Biggles.

  ‘It’s lucky for you.’

  ‘How do you work that out?’

  ‘That dhow was coming here. But for the gale it would have been in the lagoon by now. They wouldn’t be so mad as to risk trying to get through the narrow entrance in these conditions. But don’t fool yourself they’ve gone. They’ll be back, and when they see what you’ve done you’ll be for it. They’re an ugly lot. Why didn’t you go when I warned you? Now you’ll be lucky to get away at all. I imagine you won’t try to take off in this!’

  Biggles glanced at the lagoon, storm-tossed, with waves pouring into it. ‘I’m not that crazy,’ he retorted.

  ‘Then you’d better start praying, because if we’re in the path of what’s coming, there won’t be much left of your machine by the time it’s gone.’

  They were still working desperately. Biggles knew Collingwood was telling the simple truth. He knew what could happen, having once seen a Moth that had been forced down by the weight of water and hailstones trying to get home through a monsoon storm. When all the materials available had been brought into use he said: ‘That’s about all we can do. Now she’ll have to take her luck.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ asked Collingwood.

  ‘Stay here, I suppose.’

  ‘As you wish, but you won’t be able to do anything. I’ll see you have a Christian funeral. This storm is only on half throttle yet.’

  ‘We may not get any hail.’

  ‘If we do it’ll be lumps of ice the size of hen’s eggs. Driven by a hundred and fifty mile an hour wind they’ll go through you like bullets. If they’ll go through the sheet-iron top of a Nissen hut, and they have, you can imagine what they’ll do to this machine. The cabin won’t be any protection. Even if the plane isn’t washed away, as could happen, it’d be no more use than tissue paper.’

  ‘What else can we do?’

  ‘You’d stand a better chance in my hut.’

  Biggles looked at Algy, clinging to the quivering aircraft, who had been listening to the conversation. ‘What about it?’

  ‘I’m for the hut,’ Algy yelled. ‘If we can’t save the machine it might save us. There’s nothing we can do here.’

  ‘Then let’s see if we can get to it,’ Collingwood bawled, for the noise of the wind and the thunder of waves on the reef made ordinary conversation futile. The sky was now deep indigo, but so far there had been no rain or hail.

  They set off for the hut.

  CHAPTER 10

  COLLINGWOOD TALKS

  TOPPING the rise they were nearly swept off their feet by the wind and they were able to realize the full fury of it; and it was only by fighting their way through it that they managed to reach the hut occupied by Collingwood. Breathless and exhausted they staggered in. Collingwood shut and fastened the door. Pointing to some empty boxes he said: ‘Take a seat.’

  There was less noise inside the hut but still enough to make ordinary conversation difficult. They had to raise their voices to be heard. Biggles lit a cigarette. To Collingwood he said: ‘You say you don’t use hashish.’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘Then how does it happen I could smell it the last time I was in here. When I saw the hemp growing I remembered what it was.’

  Collingwood smiled mirthlessly. ‘There was a reason for that.’

  ‘Could there be one?’

  ‘Ever had a toothache?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Then you know what it’s like. A tooth started playing me up soon after I got here. I had brought some painkilling pills with me for an emergency, but they didn’t give me much relief. I couldn’t get any sleep. I’d seen the hemp growing. I tried smoking some. Finally, in desperation, I chewed a piece. Ever eaten hashish?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Don’t. Ali gave me a piece.’

  ‘Is he an addict ?’

  ‘I don’t know if he’s an addict, but most Arabs use the infernal stuff if they can get it.’

  ‘Was it as bad as that?’

  ‘It was hell. I only took a piece the size of a pea. I can’t tell you what it was like. I became a sort of spirit looking at my dead body lying on the bed. I thought I was going to die. Ali found me like that and gave me a dose of black coffee. Then I was as sick as a dog.’

  ‘Did it cure the toothache?’ Algy asked.

  ‘More or less. But it left me with something worse. My head felt as if all the hammers of hell were thumping inside it. I was days getting back to normal. Why anyone should use the stuff twice is beyond me. I can only suppose that like tobacco sickness one gets over it. But no more for me. It has a smell that clings and I’ve never quite been able to get rid of it.’

  ‘That’s how Customs men are able to find it when a smuggler tries to carry some,’ Biggles said. ‘Which reminds me. When I got to the hemp your Arab pal was there, and as far as I could make out was trying to get rid of the crop by pulling it up by the roots.’

  ‘He wasn’t destroying it. He was making sure of getting some hashish.’

  ‘Seems a funny way to get it.’

  ‘Apparently you don’t understand how hashish is procured.’

  ‘All I’ve seen is the finished product.’

  ‘What you saw Ali doing was what he was left here to do. He was uprooting all the male plants. That’s the only way to get the drug. When I came here I knew nothing about hashish. What I’ve learned since was through Ali. What happens is this. Only the female plants produce the drug and even they won’t do it if there are any male plants near. With no males in the vicinity the females throw a sort of film on the upper surfaces of their leaves.’ Collingwood smiled. ‘Break out into a kind of sweat, so to speak. Anyhow, that’s the actual opiate. Without it the stuff is no use. Now you know what Ali was doing when you saw him. The crop had been grown from seed and he was chucking out the male plants.’

  ‘This is news to me,’ Biggles said. ‘We live and learn,’ he added tritely.

  ‘Glad to have been able to teach you something,’ Collingwood said with a faint sneer. ‘Now you know why, when that dhow comes back, the crew will take a poor view of what you’ve done when they see the entire crop has gone.’

  ‘The dhow may not come back.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t it?’

  ‘It may go down in the storm.’

  ‘If that’s what you’re hoping you can forget it. These Arab dhows are some of the most seaworthy craft that ever sailed salt water. Their design hasn’t changed in over a thousand years. And their crews know how to handle them. Wonderful sailors. The weather doesn’t worry them. They’ve been trading between their home ports on the coast of Southern Arabia, and India, Ceylon, and as far afield as Rangoon and Singapore, since biblical days. And they don’t need instruments to find their way. As long as they can see the stars they’ll get there. Oh yes, they’ll be back to collect their hashish, have no doubt of that. It’s worth more than a load of fish, hides or coconut fibre, which is usually the official cargo.’

&nb
sp; ‘What about Ali?’ asked Biggles. ‘How will he manage during the storm?’

  ‘Oh he’ll be all right.’

  ‘By taking cover in the cave, I suppose.’

  Collingwood’s eyebrows went up. ‘So you’ve found that, too. You have been busy.’

  ‘I’ve had a look round,’ admitted Biggles. ‘That’s why I was sent here. What are you digging for? You might as well tell us because sooner or later we shall find out. You’ve told us so much, you might as well tell us the rest. It could save both of us a lot of trouble. If we can see eye to eye it should be to our mutual advantage.’

  ‘As we’re all likely to get our throats cut when the Arabs get here, and there are between twenty and thirty on board that dhow, perhaps you’re right,’ conceded Collingwood. ‘We should do better to stick together.’

  ‘I don’t see why they should kill you because of something we did,’ put in Algy.

  ‘They won’t stop to argue about that. They’ll be so mad they’ll probably murder Ali, too, for failing to protect the hemp. All right. I’ll make some coffee and tell you the whole story,’ agreed Collingwood. ‘We can’t do anything until this storm blows itself out, anyway. I can only hope we’re not blown out with it. These huts have taken a fair battering over the years and they’re getting a bit shaky.’

  He lit the Primus stove, put the kettle on and produced three cups and saucers.

  ‘Nice to see saucers again,’ Algy said. ‘We dispense with such unnecessary luxuries when long-distance flying.’

  ‘I try to keep civilized,’ returned Collingwood, as he made the coffee and handed it round. Resuming his seat he went on: ‘I was going to tell you how all this started. I’ll begin at the beginning. I was born in Australia. Were you ever there?’