by W E Johns
'Use that if you have to,' he said grimly. 'We might as well be hung for sheep as lambs.' He thrust the spike through the bars again and flung his weight on it. The wall crumbled for a moment, and then, with a crash, the lock tore itself through the dry clay wall and the door flew open. 'Come on,' was all he said, and, heedless of the yells and groans from the other prisoners, he raced towards the door with Dickpa at his heels.
As he reached it, he paused for an instant, aghast at the scene that met his eyes. The street was packed solid with people watching the roaring conflagration that seemed to reach half way to the sky. 'Strewth,' he gasped, 'I've heard of people setting a town alight, but we seem to have done it. Come on, hang on to my coat; if we lose each other we're sunk. Keep your face down or someone may recognize you.'
Jostling, pushing, and snarling, they forced their way through the throng and hurried towards the river. A shrill whistle split the air from the direction of the jail.
'They've missed you,' muttered Biggles grimly. 'No matter, we shall take some catching now.'
'Where are you making for?' gasped Dickpa.
'The river,' replied Biggles tersely. 'Follow me, and don't talk,' he added, with an excusable lack of respect. 'Here we are,' he went on, as they reached the rendezvous. 'Hullo!' He pulled up with a jerk. The boat had gone.
'Here you are, sir,' called a voice from the darkness a few yards ahead.
'Good man, Smyth,' cried Biggles, as he saw the faint outline of the mechanic in the canoe, already on the water. 'In you go, Dickpa.'
Obediently Dickpa stepped aboard, and settled himself on the floor with a sigh of relief. 'Where's the machine?' he asked calmly.
'A bit lower down the river—Algy is in charge.'
'Good.'
Biggles picked up a paddle, and with a quick shove sent the canoe far out into the stream. 'Straight ahead, Smyth,' he muttered as he drove his paddle into the water. 'I don't think there is any immediate cause for alarm, but the sooner we get to the machine the better. They won't know which way we've gone, that's one good thing.'
Ten minutes brisk paddling brought them to the creek where the amphibian glowed dully white in the moonlight.
'Algy, ahoy!' hailed Biggles.
'Got him?' came Algy's voice over the water.
'Yes, we're all here,' cried Dickpa gaily.
'Fine,' answered Algy, with intense satisfaction.
They climbed aboard and kicked the boat adrift.
'What's the next move?' asked Dickpa with some concern. 'They'll hunt the river upstream and downstream before morning, looking for us.'
'Well, I'm not going to take off before dawn unless I'm compelled to,' replied Biggles. 'We'll cut loose and drift out into midstream, from where we shall see anyone coming as soon as they see us. We shall have to take it in turns to keep watch. Let her go, Algy.'
Chapter 7
The Falls
The rays of the rising sun were tingeing the tree-tops with gold and orange as the amphibian, with her engine purring like a well-oiled sewing-machine, swung round in a circle to face the stream in readiness for a take-off.
'It's about time we went,' muttered Biggles to Dickpa, who sat beside him in order to act as guide, and nodded towards a distant bend in the river, around which a launch came into view, two feathers of spray flying back from her bows betraying the urgency of her mission, which was made still more apparent by a group of uniformed men crowding near the bows. 'Well, boys, it's too bad, but you're just too late,' he murmured with mock sympathy as he opened the throttle.
The purr of the engine rose to a deep, vibrating roar that sent a cloud of macaws wheeling and screeching into the air from, the trees on the bank. The Condor moved forward with swiftly increasing speed, and, after a quick glance at the instrument-board to make sure the engine was giving her full revolutions, the pilot drew the joystick back towards his safety belt. The amphibian left the water like a gull and rose gracefully into the air.
Slowly the tropic sun swung upwards into a sky no longer turquoise, but hard steely blue. Its rays struck full upon the polished hull of the amphibian and flashed from time to time in glittering points of light on the goggles of the pilot as he moved his head to scan the savage panorama below. Manaos, shining whitely, soon lay far astern.
For two hours they cruised steadily westwards, following the winding river that wound like a silver snake to the far horizon. From time to time they passed over places where the river assumed a milky whiteness, and Biggles hardly needed Dickpa to tell him that such stretches indicated foaming rapids where the water hurled itself over boulders as it dropped swiftly to the lower level. Occasionally the river disappeared under filmy clouds of spray where it dropped over gigantic falls into boiling whirlpools below. On each side lay the vast, untrodden, primæval forest, dark and forbidding, hiding the earth under an unpenetrable canopy of mystery. Biggles, as he watched it, could not help reflecting on the strange fascination that urged men like Dickpa to leave home, comfort, and security to face its hidden terrors.
He was aroused from his reverie by a light touch on the arm, and turned sharply, to find Dickpa pointing at something ahead upon which he had riveted his gaze. Following the outstretched finger, he saw a wide tributary branching away to the south, and with a sharp inclination of his thumb Dickpa indicated that he was to follow it.
In spite of his habitual coolness, Biggles felt a thrill of excitement run through him. Before them, not far away, lay something which a thousand men had sought in vain, and presently, all being well, it would be his good fortune to see it. Treasure! The very word, charged with the romance of ages, was sufficient to bring a sparkle to the eyes.
Obediently he swung round in a gentle bank to follow the new river. For another half-hour he flew on, once exchanging a grim smile with Dickpa as they passed a foaming cascade. The forest on each side began to give way slowly to more open country, and presently they could see vast stretches of rolling prairie spreading into the far distance.
Biggles suddenly caught his breath as the note of the engine changed. It was slight, so slight that only a pilot or an engineer would have noticed it; he did not move a muscle, but listened intently to the almost imperceptible hesitation in the regular rhythm. Then, without further warning, the engine cut out dead. Before the whirling propeller had run to a standstill Biggles had pushed his joystick forward and was going down in a long, gentle glide towards the river, eyes searching swiftly for the best landing-place.
After the first start of surprise when the engine had so unexpectedly stopped, Dickpa remained perfectly still, watching the pilot for any signal he might make. Once, as Biggles glanced in his direction, his lips formed the word 'Parachute,' but the pilot shook his head severely. The details of the river grew clearer. A long, straight reach lay before them, and Biggles, losing height steadily, headed the amphibian towards it.
With his lips set in a straight line, he glued his eyes on the water for signs of rocks or other obstructions which might rip the bottom out of the delicate hull, but he relaxed with relief when he saw all was clear.
Swish . . . swish . . . swish . . . sang the keel, as it kissed the placid water, and a moment later it had settled down as it ran to a stop in the middle of the stream.
'Confound it!' snapped Biggles irritably, his voice sounding strangely unnatural in the silence.
'What is it, do you think—anything serious?' asked Dickpa anxiously.
'No, I shouldn't think so,' replied Biggles.
'Sounded like magneto to me, sir, the way she cut out so sudden like,' observed Smyth, climbing into the cockpit and then out on to the hull behind the engine. 'I shall have to wait a minute or two to let her cool down before I can do anything,' he added.
'Well, there doesn't appear to be any particular hurry,' said Biggles. 'We were lucky she cut out where she did and not somewhere over the forest or one of those places where the river wound about so much. Have a look at her, Smyth, and tell me if you want any help.'
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For a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes Smyth laboured at the engine, the others watching him with interest. 'It's the mag, as I thought,' remarked the mechanic; 'brush has gone. I've a spare, inside.'
In a few minutes the faulty part was replaced and the cause of the breakdown remedied. As Smyth reached for the magneto cover, and a spanner to bolt it on, Biggles turned away casually to return to his cockpit, but the next moment a shrill cry of alarm broke from his lips as he pointed to the bank, past which they were floating with ever-increasing speed.
'We've drifted to the head of some rapids,' said Dickpa crisply. 'Get the engine started; we've no time to lose.'
An eddy caught the nose of the Condor and spun the machine round on its own length. They swung dizzily round a bend, and as the new vista came into view a cry of horror broke from Algy, and he pointed, white faced. High in the air, not a quarter of a mile away, hung a great white cloud. A low rumble, like the roll of distant thunder rapidly approaching, reached the ears of the listeners.
'The falls!' cried Biggles. 'The falls! Get that mag jacket on, Smyth, for heaven's sake; if it isn't on in two minutes we're lost.'
The current had now seized the machine in its relentless grip and was whirling it along at terrific speed; from time to time an eddy would swing it round dizzily, a manœuvre the pilot had no means of checking.
'Look out!' Algy, taking his life in his hands, reached far over the side and fended the Condor away from a jagged point of rock that thrust a black, tooth-like spur above the surface. By his presence of mind the danger was averted almost before it had arisen, but little flecks of foam marked the positions of more ahead. Straight across their path lay a long, black boulder, a miniature island around which the water seethed and raged in white, lashed fury.
'If we hit that, we're sunk,' snapped Biggles. 'How long will you be, Smyth?'
'One minute, sir.'
'That's thirty seconds too long,' replied Biggles, and the truth of his words was only too apparent to the others, for the Condor was literally racing towards the rock as if determined to destroy herself. A bare hundred yards beyond it the river ended abruptly where it plunged out of sight into the mighty, seething cauldron below. The rock seemed to literally leap towards them.
'Steady, Algy! Leave me if I don't make the bank,' barked Biggles, and before the others could realize his intention, he had seized a mooring-rope and taken a flying leap onto the rock. He landed on his feet and flung his weight against the nose of the machine. Waterborne, it swung away swiftly. The tail whipped round, the elevators literally grazing the rock, and the next instant it was clear. Biggles took a lightning turn of the rope round a jutting piece of rock and flung himself backward to take the strain.
The rope jerked taut with a twang like a great banjo-string, and the Condor, nose towards the rock, remained motionless, two curling feathers of spray leaping up from her bow as it cut the raging torrent. Algy, in the cockpit, was winding the self-starter furiously, and looked up as the engine came to life. He opened the throttle, and the machine began to surge slowly towards the rock. For a minute Biggles watched it uncomprehendingly. The rope was slack and the engine was roaring on full throttle, yet the Condor was making little or no headway. It seemed absurd, but as the truth became obvious his heart grew cold with horror. Slowly the full significance of what was happening dawned upon him. He realised that against the rapids it was an utter impossibility for the machine to make sufficient headway to get enough flying speed to lift it. They were in the middle of the stream, and to attempt to reach either bank would mean they would inevitably go sideways over the falls before they could reach it. Only one path remained—downstream—and that way lay the falls. For a moment or two Biggles did not even consider it, but then, as he saw it was the only way they could go unless they intended to remain for ever as they were, he began to weigh up the chances.
There was no wind. The current was running at perhaps thirty or forty miles an hour, and that would consequently be the Condor's speed the instant she was released. Another twenty or thirty miles an hour on top of that and they would be travelling at nearly seventy miles an hour, which was ample for a take-off. The only doubt in his mind was whether or not she would 'unstick.' He knew, of course, that nearly all marine aircraft were slow to leave the water unless they got a 'kick' from a wave or the assistance of broken water. That was a risk he would have to take, he decided.
The Condor, still under full throttle, had nearly nosed up to the rock now, and Biggles saw that Algy was shouting. He could not hear what he said for the noise of the engine and the rushing water, but he could guess by his actions what he was trying to convey. Algy was trying to tell him that the machine could not get sufficient flying speed to rise against such a current. 'I know that,' thought Biggles grimly as he examined the course he would have to take as he went downstream. There were several rocks projecting above the water, but fortunately none in a direct line between him and the falls.
The Condor was just holding its own against the current, travelling so slowly that it would require far more petrol than they had on board for it to ever get above the rapids. Biggles made up his mind suddenly, and sprang like a cat for the nose of the machine. He jerked down into his seat while Algy stared at him with ashen face. Biggles motioned him into his seat, reached over, and cut the rope and then kicked the rudder hard over. The Condor bucked like a wild horse as the stream caught her, and the next instant they were tearing through a sea of spray towards apparent destruction.
Eighty yards—seventy—sixty—Biggles bit his lip. Would she never lift? The combined noise of the engine and the falls was devastating, yet the pilot did not swerve an inch. Thirty yards from the bank he glanced at his air speed indicator, and then jerked the stick back into his stomach. The machine lifted, hung for a moment as if undecided as to whether to go on or fall back on the water again, then picked up and plunged into the opaque cloud of spray.
The pilot's heart missed a beat as they rocked and dropped like a stone in the terrific 'bump,' or down current, caused by the cold, moisture-soaked atmosphere. The engine spluttered, missed fire, picked up again, missed, and Biggles thought the end had come. He knew only too well the cause of the trouble; the spray was pouring into the air intake and choking his engine.*
* When Biggles was telling me about this particular incident I reminded him that Sir Alan Cobham once had a similar narrow escape from the same cause whilst flying over the Victoria Falls on one of his African flights of survey.
The Condor burst out into the sunshine on the other side of the cloud, the engine picked up with a shrill crescendo bellow, and the machine soared upward like a bird. Out of the corner of his eye Biggles caught a glimpse of the rocktorn maelstrom below, and leaned back limply in his cockpit. He caught Algy's eye and shook his head weakly, as if the matter was beyond words. Algy gave him a sickly grin and disappeared into the cabin, to allow Dickpa to resume his seat in the cockpit in order to point out the way.
Dickpa leaned towards him. 'I thought you said this was the safest form of transport in the world!' he bellowed** sarcastically.
** Normal speech would be impossible with an open cockpit due to the noise of the engine and the rush of air.
'Quite right,' yelled Biggles. 'Where would you have been in a canoe?'
Dickpa shook his head with a wry face and turned his attention to the ground below. They had already passed the place where they had come down on the water and were nearing the open prairies ahead. Tall trees, chiefly buriti palms, and thick vegetation lined the riverbanks, but Biggles saw several places where a landing might be safely attempted. Mountain ranges appeared at several points in the distance, their blue tints, caused by the clear atmosphere, giving way to a dull red colour as they drew nearer.
Biggles was amazed at the grotesque formation of the rocks. Against the skyline they often looked, as Dickpa had said, like mighty frowning castles, complete with battlements and turrets, but at close quarters the resem
blance was lost in a maze of pinnacles, gaunt, stark, and utterly desolate. He was staring at a startling pile of rock, blood-red with yellow ochre streaks, when Dickpa touched him on the arm and pointed downwards. Biggles looked, and saw that in one or two places where the river skirted the foot of the mountains it widened out into a sort of lagoon. Turning, he raised his eyebrows enquiringly, and, in answer to Dickpa's signal, throttled back and began a long spiral glide towards the largest stretch of water. The landing presented no difficulties, and the Condor soon ran to a standstill on the smooth water. Biggles taxied up to the bank, switched off, and, as the engine fitfully spluttered to silence, raised himself stiffly and looked around.
'Well, here we are,' said Dickpa brightly. 'I think this is the safest place where we could land within a striking distance of the actual spot for which we are bound. It is still a little distance away, but within walking distance, so there seems to be no need to risk a landing on hard ground.'
Biggles surveyed the place with interest. Seen from water-level, they appeared to be on. a lake, enclosed on three sides by a wall of dark green foliage, and on the other by an awe-inspiring mass of rock that rose, tier by tier, far into the blue sky above. This was the side towards which Biggles had taxied, for a narrow strip of shelving sand fringed the river and formed a small beach on which they could step ashore. Near at hand a mass of exotic flowers overran some low bushes and fell in a vivid scarlet cascade to the very edge of the water. A humming-bird darted towards the Condor, hung poised for a moment on vibrating wings, and then flashed like a living jewel towards the flowers. A flight of blue and orange macaws passed overhead, uttering harsh metallic cries, and Biggles turned towards Dickpa with an appreciative smile.
'Nice spot,' he observed cheerfully.
'It looks like it,' agreed Dickpa quietly, 'but things are not always what they seem in this part of the world. Take a look at that fellow, for instance,' he added, pointing.