Biggles

by John Pearson

  ‘What are our plans?’ inquired Algy.

  ‘We’ll spend the night at Tangier’ answered Biggles. ‘It’d be madness to attempt to fly across the Sahara overnight, and anyhow I’ve sent Nisberg off a telegram telling him to expect us early tomorrow afternoon. We can only hope we’ll be in time.’

  ‘Not a great deal we can do if we’re not, old scout,’ replied Algy logically. Ginger thought that early afternoon would suit them very well, for he too had sent a telegram to Timbuctoo — to the manager of the campement, telling him to expect four English visitors, and to lay on a very special dinner for the evening.

  Everyone enjoyed Tangier. They ate superbly in the Arab quarter of the city, booked in at the Rif Hotel, and visited a nightclub by the harbour where Algy was particularly taken by a belly-dancer rejoicing in the name of Fatima.

  ‘Just look at that body, dear old chap,’ he whispered noisily to Biggles. ‘Sheer bliss on wheels. I really think you’d better let me order one more bottle of this terrible champagne.’

  ‘Not on your life,’ said Biggles sternly. ‘Not even if they throw in Fatima as well. We’ve work to do tomorrow — and besides Algy, think of Deborah.’

  ‘I do, old chap,’ said Algy sadly. ‘That’s the trouble.’

  Thanks to Biggles they were up at daybreak, and after breakfasting on rolls and steaming coffee at the airport they were away — this time with Ginger at the controls. For several hundred miles they followed the coast to avoid the mountains of the Anti-Atlas, then they struck inland to refuel at the French Foreign Legion outpost of Tindouf. Biggles took over then, and the flight continued almost due south, 1,000 miles across the waveless sea of the Sahara. Occasionally they saw a line of faint black dots against the endless yellow of the sand — a camel caravan making its way across the wilderness. But for almost all the flight, they saw nothing but the desert far below and the blazing sky above.

  ‘Not being pessimistic, Biggles,’ Algy asked, ‘but what exactly would we do if we had a spot of bother here and had to land?’

  ‘Not much you could do,’ replied Biggles, grinning cheerfully. ‘Apart from say your prayers and hope the Foreign Legion comes your way.’

  But, thanks to Smyth’s attention to the Cormorant’s engines, the flight continued steadily until by three o’clock that afternoon the first faint sign of greenery appeared below. Shortly afterwards they saw the glint of distant water on the far horizon.

  ‘The Niger River!’ shouted Biggles excitedly.

  ‘And that must be Timbuctoo!’ said Algy as a minaret appeared. Soon they were right above the legendary city. From the air it looked exactly like an enormous ruin from the past, with row on row of now abandoned dwellings half swallowed by the sands of the encroaching desert. But in the centre of the city they could see newer buildings — the market-place the French had built, the barracks of the Foreign Legion, and several mosques with mud-brick towers rising like ant-hills over the crazy jumble of the flat-roofed houses. A mile or so away, as wide as the waters of an inland sea, flowed the majestic Niger River, one of the greatest rivers in the world, running for several hundred miles along the southern reaches of the desert.

  ‘Somehow I think I’m going to like this place,’ said Biggles with a grin as he brought the Cormorant in low over the dusty airstrip that did duty for an airport on the outskirts of the city.

  Soon they were jolting in an ancient Renault truck through the dusty streets of Timbuctoo. The driver was a silent Frenchman with a squint.

  ‘Seems to know who we are,’ said Biggles. ‘Nisberg must have told him. Wonder where on earth he is?’

  ‘Probably out in the desert with the search-party,’ Ginger suggested.

  Biggles nodded. ‘Devil of a job. Still, once we’ve cleaned ourselves up and had a spot to eat, we can join him. Wonder where this fellow’s taking us?’ He tried shouting to the driver over the racket of the engine, but the man’s attention seemed to be entirely taken up with dodging the hordes of goats and small black children scampering between the houses.

  ‘We’ll soon be there, monsieur,’ was all he would say. ‘They’re expecting you.’

  ‘Well, thank the Lord for that,’ said Biggles, as the long-suffering Renault gave a last despairing lurch, and skidded to a halt before a long, low, yellow-painted building with the French tricolour hanging limply from its flagpole in the scorching heat.

  ‘Messieurs, the campement!’ said the driver proudly, and from the entrance emerged an enormous negress in a gingham dress, lifting her massive arms in welcome.

  ‘Major Bigglesworth?’ she said, in perfect English. ‘Welcome to our unworthy guest-house — and Happy Birthday!’

  When Ginger finally explained the trick that he and Smyth had played, Biggles pretended to be angry — but not for long. Timbuctoo was not the place for that, and when he realised the trouble Ginger had gone too purely on his account he felt distinctly touched.

  ‘Nobody’s ever made much fuss of my birthday before you know, old scout, except in India, and that was years ago. Makes a fellow feel a bit appreciated. Really very kind.’

  The campement was a splendid place — big, airy rooms, old-fashioned fans that circled from the ceilings, and a zinc-topped bar that could have come straight from a Parisian café on the Left Bank of the Seine. It was superbly stocked, and even boasted Bollinger champagne — admittedly non-vintage — with which the friends immediately toasted Biggles’ health.

  ‘So you really mean we don’t have to bother scouring the desert for our long-lost countrymen?’ said Algy, with a happy grin across his freckled countenance. ‘I must say, I’m deucedly relieved. Why don’t we have another bottle? What do you say Biggles, you old codger?’

  Biggles inclined his head. And so began the birthday party Biggles and his friends remembered all their lives. The lady in the gingham dress, whose name was Matatah, was officially the manageress, but she was also barmaid, cook and confidante for any foreigner who came to Timbuctoo. The boss-eyed driver of the Renault was her husband, and before her marriage she had been brought up by British missionaries in the Gambia — hence her perfect English. Since receiving Ginger’s telegram, she had apparently been making special preparations for the party. In the courtyard of the campement there was already a great pile of wood stacked up in readiness to roast a sheep in Biggles’ honour. But before all that there was time to wash, have another drink and see the city.

  ‘Dreadful pity Deborah’s not here,’ said Algy, as he and Biggles gazed upon the ancient mosque of Sankore. ‘She likes old ruins, you know.’

  ‘Which is why she goes for you, old thing,’ said Biggles with a laugh, ‘But seriously, old chap, I think I’ve seen enough. Two mosques, the market-place, the ancient fort. Never have been all that keen on sight-seeing, come to think of it. On the other hand I wouldn’t mind another drink. Dreadful thirst you know with all this sand and heat, and there’s that lovely Bollinger back at the campement. How about making tracks?’

  Algy nodded, and Ginger and Nobby Smyth were quite agreeable as well. Darkness had almost fallen, and Timbuctoo had suddenly become a place of mystery. Shepherds from the desert were already driving their flocks towards the city for the night. Blue-veiled Tuareg warriors rode past on silent camels. French Legionnaires, their duties over, marched past like extras from a film, and from the distance came the strange chant of the camel-drivers, welcoming the cool of evening.

  Suddenly all the troubles and the tensions that had been afflicting Biggles and Co. for so long seemed far behind them, and at the campement Matatah had already started roasting the sheep in Biggles’ honour. The air smelt wonderfully of wood-smoke and the scent of roasting meat, and soon the four friends were sitting on the terrace, drinking more champagne and watching the stars come out.

  ‘You know,’ said Biggles happily, ‘it’s really good to be alive.’ He licked his fingers, burped appreciatively, and gazed at the sickle moon cleaving the desert sky. A dog howled in the distance, and the ember
s of the fire glowed faintly in the courtyard. Smyth had nodded off to sleep and Algy was distinctly drunk.

  Ginger had not been over-happy with the meat. Like most sheep roasted in this way, it smelt far better than it tasted, and the hunks that Matatah had finally produced were either burned or under-cooked. But no one apart from Ginger seemed to notice, and there was also fish, local bread, figs, almond cakes and goat’s cheese. At the last minute Ginger had remembered to produce the cake that he had brought from Curzon Street, and gradually the birthday feast had turned into a party as people wandered into the courtyard from the street and Biggles made them welcome.

  ‘Never known anything quite like this, dear old chap,’ said Biggles with a hazy smile. ‘We must come here every year. Make it a sort of fixture on the bally calendar. Can’t possibly begin to thank you enough for thinking of it, Ginger my old scout. Perhaps we should give those fellows over there a little more to drink.’ He signalled happily to Matatah. More bottles were brought, and then her squint-eyed husband produced an ancient gramophone. The only records were French can-cans and regimental marches and they were very old and cracked, but the music added to the air of strange festivity — particularly when Algy started dancing tipsily with the enormous Madame Matatah.

  ‘I hear it is your birthday,’ said someone from the darkness suddenly addressing Biggles. ‘Your health, monsieur, and my felicitations.’

  Biggles peered up and saw a solid figure in the uniform of a Captain of the Foreign Legion standing, glass in hand, before him.

  ‘Many thanks,’ replied Biggles in near-perfect French. ‘Most kind of you, I’m sure. Why don’t you sit down and tell me about Timbuctoo. My name’s James Bigglesworth.’

  ‘And I, monsieur, am Capitaine Lecombe, French Foreign Legion, at your service.’

  The Captain bowed, and Biggles offered him his hand — then poured him more champagne.

  It was the sort of instant friendship that suddenly springs up in far-off places between unexpected individuals. The Captain was a vivid talker, and he spoke like a man who had been deprived too long of congenial human company. He also had a taste for good champagne and soon was telling Biggles of the extraordinary life he led — the loneliness of being always far from France, the toughness and dedication of his men, and the hazards of the tribesmen from the desert. He had many stories of the past — of the explorers who had died in Timbuctoo when it was still a lost forbidden city, and of the savage wars that he had fought.

  ‘But it’s quite peaceful now,’ said Biggles gazing at the cheerful throng of people who had crammed into the courtyard, attracted by the music.

  ‘Well, yes and no,’ replied the Captain cautiously. ‘In a place like this one never knows just when fresh trouble will flare up. Why, only yesterday there was a really dreadful murder here. Two men from the Bambara tribe were caught robbing a Yoruba trader in the market-place. They went berserk, and killed the poor old man and his wife, wounded a policeman, and escaped into the desert. In the morning I must be off early with a camel patrol to search for them. I’m not particularly looking forward to it as they’ll have had thirty-six hours’ start on us, and could be anywhere.’

  ‘So how d’you find them?’ Biggles asked.

  ‘Oh, simply by hard work, monsieur. We know all the places where they might have gone — the water-holes and hiding places in the desert, and we take our time. We could be searching for those murderers for weeks.’

  ‘Why don’t you use an aeroplane?’ asked Biggles logically.

  ‘Why not indeed, monsieur? That would be marvellous, but in the Foreign Legion we have no aircraft. Men and camels are considered cheaper, and we get there in the end.’

  ‘But that’s ridiculous,’ said Biggles, opening a fresh bottle of champagne. ‘I have an aircraft here in Timbuctoo, and tomorrow morning, if you like, you can come with me and we’ll track your murderers from the air. Now, a little more to drink before we wander off to bed. Your health, monsieur le capitaine!’

  None of the friends remembered when the party ended, but the champagne finally ran out, the boss-eyed Frenchman wearied of winding up the gramophone, and the uninvited guests departed as swiftly as they had come. There were beds on the flat roof of the campement, and Algy seemed to think it would be fun to sleep beneath the stars, so Ginger and Madame Matatah helped him up the stairs and Biggles followed. (Smyth was left snoring gently in his chair upon the terrace.)

  ‘Well,’ hicupped Biggles, ‘life certainly begins at thirty!’ and he collapsed upon his bed. The next he knew, the dawn was breaking over the roofs of Timbuctoo, the muezzin was calling from the minaret, and Madame Matatah was shaking him by the shoulder.

  ‘Major Bigglesworth,’ she said. ‘Major Bigglesworth. Captain Lecombe is here for you. He says that you are flying with him on a dawn patrol across the desert. Would you like some coffee?’

  It was a miracle of mind over matter that Biggles managed to get up. His throat was dry, his head was splitting, and his eyelids felt as if they were glued together, but somehow he staggered to his feet, and tried waking up the rest of his companions. Here he was less successful.

  ‘Duty calls, old boy! Rise and shine!’ he croaked, shaking Ginger by the shoulder, but Ginger merely groaned and rolled away.

  ‘Dawn patrol with the French Foreign Legion!’ he said to Algy. ‘Upsy-daisy!’

  But all that Algy muttered in return was something unrepeatable.

  ‘Oh well,’ said Biggles shrugging his shoulders philosophically. ‘These young fellows just can’t hold their liquor. Coming Captain!’ he shouted down. ‘Just let me get my boots on and I’ll be with you!’

  The coffee was like nectar, and twenty minutes later the Cormorant, with Biggles and the Captain aboard, soared gracefully above the sleeping city, banked above the river, and sped towards the desert.

  ‘I say, old boy, how’re you feeling?’ Ginger called to Algy some two hours later.

  ‘Worse than I’d ever have imagined possible,’ groaned a dishevelled Algy, rolling out of bed and gazing biliously towards the street below. ‘Eyes full of hot ball-bearings, mouth like an emu’s armpit. What on earth d’you think they put in that champagne, old thing?’

  ‘Battery acid topped up with anti-freeze by the feel of it. Still, it was quite a party, and Biggles certainly enjoyed himself. Talking of which, where exactly is the old idiot? D’you think he could have rolled off the roof?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so,’ Algy answered, ‘but perhaps you’d better have a look. He hasn’t got a head for alcohol like ours. It’s age, you know.’

  He tottered to the parapet and peered below.

  ‘No sign of him,’ he shouted, ‘but old Nobby Smyth’s still snoring in a deck-chair on the terrace. Where on earth d’you think he is?’

  ‘I seem to remember,’ said Ginger frowning, ‘that he tried to wake me in the middle of the night. Some nonsense about going on an early morning flight.’

  ‘Now that you mention it, old boy, I have a hazy recollection of something of the sort myself. He must have been quite blotto, poor old fellow. Probably passed out downstairs. I’ll toddle down in just a minute and inquire from Madam Whatsername. She’ll probably have him under lock and key.’

  But Madame Matatah was able to inform the friends of Biggles’ whereabouts.

  ‘You really mean he’s on a man-hunt in the desert with that Captain from the Foreign Legion?’ Algy asked incredulously. ‘He’s mad. Old age is really setting in.’

  Once he was airborne, Biggles’ head had cleared at once. As for the good Captain, either he had a stronger head than any of the friends, or else he was used to Madame Matatah’s champagne, for he was looking distinctly spry and seemed to know exactly what he wanted.

  ‘The first place I think that we should try,’ he said, when Biggles asked his plans, ‘is a small oasis sixty miles or so due north from here. It’s called Yoraga, and the caravans stop there from time to time. There’s a place where we can land, and we can soo
n see if there’s any sign of the men we’re after.’

  ‘What happens if we find them?’ Biggles asked, a trifle anxiously.

  ‘Pas deproblème, Major Bigglesworth,’ replied the Captain with a quick smile. He tapped the enormous army automatic on his belt and added, ‘They’ll probably have calmed down by now, and shouldn’t be any trouble. But if they are, then — pouff! We’ll simply have to deal with them.’

  Biggles was slightly shocked. Even in India he’d never come across quite such a casual attitude towards the natives, but, he reflected, the French had their own ways of doing things and lacked the benefit of the traditions of the British Empire.

  It took some time to find Yoraga, but finally they did — a few straggly thorn trees and a brackish pool that barely justified the word ‘oasis’. Thanks entirely to Biggles’ skill they landed safely, but the Tuareg shepherds who had camped nearby had seen nothing of the men they sought. Nor had the tribesmen at two more spots they visited, but finally some Tuareg said that, yes, they had seen two men riding on a camel earlier that morning. They hadn’t stopped or spoken to them, as they were Bambara, but they were heading north and their camel had seemed exhausted. Captain Lecombe thanked them, and the Tuareg, with their mysterious blue veils across their faces, inclined their heads, commended the two white men to Allah, and rode on.

  By now it was several hours since Biggles and the Captain had left Timbuctoo, and the desert was a furnace. Petrol was getting low, and Biggles was distinctly anxious to return, but the Captain was excited by the news.

  ‘Ah, Major Bigglesworth,’ he said, ‘we’re on their trail and they can’t be far away. Ten minutes in the aeroplane. Certainly no more.’

  ‘Where could they be heading for?’ asked Biggles. ‘Surely it’s suicide for them to go further into the Sahara?’