by W E Johns
“It’s Sultan!” cried Fee Wong. “He’s mad!”
Ginger recalled vaguely that he had heard of bull elephants in captivity having occasional outbursts of madness, but this was the first one he had ever seen. He did not stay to watch. Nor did the others, for at that moment the great beast saw them, and with a shrill blast of rage it broke into a lumbering gallop. It was obviously futile to try to escape by running. There was only one possible way of evading the crazed animal’s fury, and that was by water, and everyone seemed to realize it. With one exception there was a general rush for the aircraft. Ah Wong climbed a tree. Unfortunately it was not a very big tree, and it was due to this fact that the others were given a chance.
Biggles took a running jump into the cockpit, and from there into the cabin. He reappeared with the emergency axe. One chop severed the taut mooring-rope. The aircraft crashed down on the water like a ship launched down a slipway. By this time the others had either jumped or pulled themselves aboard, Ginger on the hull, Algy on the centre section, and Fee Wong on the tail. Biggles yelled frantically for help. He was pushing against a thick branch trying to shove the aircraft clear. He also yelled to Ah Wong to jump for it.
Ah Wong was still in the tree, and it was upon him that the elephant’s bloodshot eyes were turned. It had seized the trunk and was trying to tear it out of the ground. The tree swayed horribly. Finding that it could not uproot the tree, the great beast put its head against it and pushed. The tree bent before the ponderous weight. Ah Wong slid along a branch and hung by his hands.
“Look out!” yelled Biggles. “The tree is going.”
As he spoke he pulled out his revolver and opened fire on the elephant, not with any idea of trying to kill it with so small a weapon, but in order to attract its attention. In this he succeeded, but not before the tree had snapped. It fell into the muddy water, carrying Ah Wong with it. Ginger ran forward and grabbed a branch. The elephant slid down the bank into the water, and the surging wave its mighty body produced provided just that little extra force that was required to drive the Cayman free. It surged out into the swiftly running stream. Ah Wong, by scrambling over the branches of his tree, was able to reach Ginger’s hand.
Panting with exertion and excitement, Ginger dragged him aboard.
“Get him into the cabin and help me clean up this mess!” shouted Biggles, who by this time was tearing at the weeds that festooned the aircraft, and flinging them overboard.
The Cayman, broadside on, drifted, a helpless hulk, with the fast-flowing stream. Ginger started to laugh foolishly. He had never seen an aircraft in such a state, nor could he have imagined it. It was splashed to the wing tips with mud. Weeds hung across the hull and from the engine cowlings.
“What in thunder are you laughing at?” shouted Biggies. “Let’s get the worst of this stuff off her. Don’t you realize that in another five minutes, if we don’t get off, we shall be passing the mill, running the gauntlet between the Japs on both banks?”
Ginger stopped laughing abruptly. He wasn’t really amused. Loss of sleep, excitement and exhaustion, combined with the steamy heat of the monsoon, were beginning to tell on his highly strung nerves. However, making an effort to pull himself together, he tore at the weeds and cast them into the river. He supposed, for the time being at any rate, the excitement was over; but in this he was mistaken. It is true that the elephant, mad though it was said to be, was not so crazy as to pursue the aircraft in the river. It stood in the slime of the bank, frustrated, but watching, waving its trunk in animal rage.
The next incident was different. There was a sudden shout. A rifle cracked, and a bullet tore a strip of canvas from the wing within a foot of Ginger’s face. He nearly fell into the river. Grabbing the engine cowling for support, he looked in the direction from which the shot had come, and saw with consternation not fewer than a score of Japanese soldiers scrambling along the river bank. They were just below the elephant, which had turned its massive head in quest of the new diversion. What the Japanese were doing Ginger, of course, did not know, but he supposed that they had been sent up the stream to see who was responsible for throwing the logs into it—or possibly they were looking for Ah Wong. However that may be, they saw the British aircraft and at once turned their attention to it ; and the plight of the airmen would have been precarious indeed had it not been for their late enemy, the elephant. The Japs had not seen the elephant. They were looking at the aircraft. In any case, smothered with mud as it was, and standing below the level of the track, the creature would have been difficult to see had the aircraft not been there to absorb attention. The Japanese lined the bank, taking up convenient positions from which to open fire. At the same time the elephant climbed the bank to locate the new arrivals, which it had heard but so far had not seen.
When it reached the top of the bank the Japanese were in plain view, and it appeared to hate them on sight. With a trumpet of rage it charged.
The Japanese promptly lost all interest in the aircraft, although for this they were hardly to be blamed. Some tried to scramble up the bank; others, more courageous, or possibly because they realized the futility of running, turned their rifles on the beast. But it takes a well-placed bullet to stop a charging elephant, and in a moment the creature was among them. Everyone on the aircraft, including Biggles, stopped what he was doing to watch.
At that moment the rain started again in earnest, blotting out the scene. Ginger gasped.
He could not have imagined such rain. It tumbled out of heaven as if intent on washing the earth out of existence. So eager was it to reach the ground that it did not resolve itself into drops, but lashed the earth in a continuous stream. From one end of the aircraft it was not possible to see the other.
Biggles beckoned to Algy, and caught Ginger by the arm. “No use trying to do anything in this!” he bellowed above the noise of falling water. “If it keeps on we may drift past the mill without being seen.”
Ginger nodded. He realized that when Biggles had said it was no use trying to do anything he was speaking the literal truth. It was impossible to see for five yards, so to attempt to take off, even if they managed to get the engines started, would have been suicidal. The machine was turning slowly as it drifted, so the very position of the banks was lost. Without a stationary object in view it was not possible even to reckon the rate of progress down the river. With its anxious crew peering into the murk, the aircraft drifted on, a scrap of flotsam on a yellow tide.
“If only this infernal rain would stop we might be able to get off,” grumbled Algy.
“If the infernal rain stopped we should probably be under fire from enemy troops on both sides of the river,” murmured Biggles.
“In other words,” put in Ginger, “we are between the devil and the deep blue sea.”
CHAPTER XIII
ADVENTURES ON THE RIVER
SOME minutes later, very deliberately and quite smoothly, the Cayman ran her nose into a bank of shrub-fringed mud. From the shrubs arose a single lightning-blasted tree. Naturally, Ginger thought they had hit one of the banks. The others probably thought so too, although they made no comment. The two Chinese conversed for a moment, and then Fee Wong announced that they had struck an islet. They were able to identify it by the blasted tree. They had already passed the mill, and were about two miles below it.
“So what do we do?” inquired Ginger. “Stay here and let the rising water float us off?”
Biggles did not answer immediately. He was standing on the nose staring into the rain on the port side. He jumped ashore, scrambled along the mud for a few yards, looked again, and then came back.
“There’s a barge just along there,” he announced. “It’s half-way up the bank—must have been thrown there by the waves when the dam burst.”
“Anyone on it ? “ asked Algy.
“I didn’t see anyone. I think we’d better find out, though, or someone may be taking pot-shots at us any minute.” So saying, Biggles drew his revolver and disappeared
into the rain.
Five minutes passed. The aircraft moved slightly. Another five minutes and it moved again.
“What’s he up to?” muttered Algy irritably—referring, of course, to Biggles. “The water is still rising. We may float off at any moment, and if we do he’ll be left stranded.”
“Shall I go and hurry him up?” suggested Ginger.
“Yes, I think you’d better,” decided Algy. “When you get ashore I’ll throw you the painter, and you can tie her up in case of accidents.”
“Okay,” answered Ginger and jumped ashore.
Now in doing this he had forgotten two things. So, for that matter, had Algy. The first was, that in order to release the aircraft when the elephant had attacked, Biggles had cut the painter so that only a few feet remained attached to the mooring-ring in the nose of the aircraft—certainly not enough to serve the purpose for which it was intended. Ginger stood on the bank and waited for Algy to throw the rope. Algy then discovered that the rope was not long enough, and shouted something to this effect. His voice ended in a yell, for the aircraft was definitely moving. Ginger realized, too late, that this was due to the removal of his weight from the nose, on which he had been standing, and he made haste to correct his error. But his very haste was his undoing, for he slipped on the slimy mud and fell. Even in falling he still tried to grab the nose of the machine, but all he did was to make matters worse. His hands failed to find a grip, so in effect he did the very last thing he wanted to do, which was to give the nose a shove. This was sufficient to push it clear. The machine began to swing. Shouting, Ginger ran along the edge of the mud, hoping that it would drift in again; but the current now had the aircraft in its grip, and with increasing speed it joined the debris that was floating down on the flood.
Another moment and it had disappeared from sight in the deluge.
For a few seconds Ginger stared in dismay at the grey blanket where it had vanished.
Then he turned and ran—or rather, floundered—through the mire to the barge, the dark bulk of which he could now see. It struck him that there might be enemy troops on the vessel, but he didn’t stop; spurred by calamity, he staggered forward, concerned only with finding Biggles and letting him know what had happened.
The barge lay tilted slightly on its side on the mud. It was surrounded by water, shallow where it had driven ashore, but deep at the stern end. Ginger scrambled aboard. The barge was loaded with something; he did not stop to examine the cargo because it was covered by lashed tarpaulins. Not a soul was in sight, so he ran down the catwalk to the stern, where a vertical metal exhaust pipe indicated—as he imagined—a stove.
Reaching the companion-way he shouted, “ Hi! Biggles!”
A voice answered him from the depths, so he hastened down a short flight of steps to a small square compartment that was a combination of cabin and engine-room. He noticed several pieces of Japanese uniform, apparently left behind by the crew in their hasty flight. Biggles was there. He was bending over something. As Ginger approached he looked back over his shoulder with a smile of satisfaction.
“This is a bit of luck,” he said cheerfully. “I hadn’t realized, although I suppose I should, that these barges are power-operated. The engine is an internal combustion job—looks like a converted car engine to me. The petrol tank is half full.”
Biggles had spoken so quickly that Ginger had had no opportunity to speak. The irony of the situation stabbed him so sharply that he groaned aloud.
“What’s the matter?” asked Biggles.
“I was wondering what you are going to do with the petrol now you’ve got it,” answered Ginger sadly.
“Transfer it to the machine, of course.”
“What machine?”
Biggles frowned. “Are you trying to be funny, or are you just plain crazy? I mean the aircraft.”
“You’ll have to find it first,” announced Ginger.
“The last I saw of it, it was sailing down the river.”
Biggles jumped up with alacrity. “Why didn’t you make fast?” he rasped.
“Because there was nothing to tie up with. If you remember, you sliced the rope close to the bows.”
Biggles nodded. “Quite right. So I did.”
“I was coming to look for you and the rising water carried the machine away.”
Biggles wiped his mud-smeared hands and face with what had once been a handkerchief. “We’re doing fine,” he averred. “First we have a plane but not enough petrol. Now we have petrol but no plane. What with one thing and another we seem to be on a spot. As far as I can see we’ve only one hope. Algy may be able to get the engines going, in which case he’ll turn back to pick us up. What’s it doing outside?”
“The rain isn’t quite so heavy, I think,” replied Ginger. “The river is rising fast.”
“If it is, then it’s only a question of time before this barge floats. If it floats we shall follow Algy down the river. Come to think of it, that wouldn’t be a bad idea. We should at least be getting farther away from the mill and the Japanese troops. Come and give me a hand.”
Without knowing quite what he was going to do, Ginger followed Biggles to the deck and watched him drag back a tarpaulin, exposing the cargo. The result was not unexpected. It consisted of bales of raw rubber.
“Let’s start and chuck this stuff overboard,” said Biggles. “The less weight there is on board the sooner the barge will float.”
They set to work heaving the bales overboard, and by the end of ten minutes the barge had acquired a noticeable buoyancy. They continued with the work, and presently had the satisfaction of feeling the vessel move. Biggles picked up a long sweep that formed part of the barge’s equipment, and digging one end into the mud, threw his weight on it.
The stern began to swing round.
“We’re afloat!” he cried, and in another minute the islet was sliding past. Ginger noticed two more barges, one high and dry and the other capsized.
“What are we going to do—drift, or start the engine and try to get some sort of control?” he asked.
“We’d better drift,” declared Biggles. “I can’t see that there’s anything to be gained by using the engine. We couldn’t make headway against the stream even if we wanted to; we’re bound to go down; with visibility zero we shall probably travel fast enough without the engine. Let’s see how we go.”
Biggles took up a position in the stern, with the sweep trailing in the water to act in the manner of a rudder. Ginger stood beside him, peering into the rain-soaked air, hoping to see something. It was still raining, but the downpour was not as heavy as it had been, and visibility had increased to perhaps fifty yards; but even so, there was no sign of either bank. In this condition the barge drifted down the stream at a pretty fast rate.
Ginger knew that they were travelling at a good speed, but not until he caught a glimpse of a bank at a bend, where they swung near the shore, did he realize fully just how fast they were going. Neither, for that matter, did Biggles, who uttered an exclamation of surprise.
“We ought to overtake the Cayman,” observed Ginger.
“Not unless it runs ashore,” disputed Biggles. “If it’s drifting, it must be travelling at the same rate as ourselves and everything else that’s adrift on the river.”
Nothing more was said for a little while. Then Ginger remarked: “The rain seems to be exhausting itself. It’s nothing like as bad as it was.”
This was obviously true. The rain was no longer a cascade; it had settled down to a steady drizzle, and visibility improved accordingly. It became possible to see the banks dimly, as through a grey veil. For some minutes Biggles concentrated on keeping the barge in the middle of the stream with his sweep. This involved strenuous work, and perspiration made white channels in the grime on his face.
“ Strewth! This is too much like hard labour,” he remarked. “I’m going to try to start the engine. Now we can see where we’re going it may give us some measure of control. Take over the sweep, a
nd try to hold her in the middle of the stream until I get back.”
Ginger took the sweep and Biggles disappeared into the cabin. A few moments later the engine came to life and the barge quivered to its vibrations. Biggles reappeared.
“That’s better,” he said, taking the tiller. “You can stow that sweep.”
Under the power of its engine the barge swept down the river at what was a truly alarming speed for so ponderous a vessel. The banks slid by in dull procession. In several places they had been washed away, leaving the forest standing in a turgid flood.
Ginger noticed several more barges that had gone ashore. One was upside down.
“We certainly made a mess of that convoy,” he observed.
Biggles did not answer, and glancing round to see why, Ginger noticed that he was staring straight ahead with a fixed expression on his face.
“ Look!” said Biggles tersely. “The Cayman. What’s that beside it?”
Looking down the river, Ginger saw an aircraft that he recognized at once as the amphibian. There was another vessel, a small marine craft, beside it. In it a man was standing up, waving his arms as though giving instructions. Both vessels seemed to be travelling slowly.
“That’s a motor launch,” said Biggles crisply. “If it is, it can only be a Jap. It must have been coming up to take charge of the barges—or to see what caused the break-away— and met the Cayman coming down.”
“Why, it’s got the Cayman in tow!” cried Ginger as he saw a line suddenly spring taut between the two craft.