Biggles and Cruise of the Condor

by W E Johns

The others followed the finger with their eyes, and were just in time to see a long, dark shadow glide into the water.

  'What a horror!' muttered Biggles with a shudder.

  'Anaconda—quite harmless,' returned Dickpa calmly. 'It's the little fellows that do the damage. Comparatively few snakes are venomous, really deadly, but it takes some time to learn which they are. The safest thing is to keep clear of all of them.'

  'You needn't tell me that,' replied Biggles warmly. 'I shan't worry them if they don't worry me. What is our plan now?' he enquired, changing the subject.

  'I don't think we can do better than make camp here,' answered Dickpa. 'We'll moor the machine securely, so that she can't drift away, and then get some stores out. We'll go on foot to the treasure-cave tomorrow. It's only a few miles away, but I am afraid it's too late for us to start today; this is no place to be benighted, as you may learn before we're finished.'

  'That suits me,' agreed Biggles. 'Smyth had better have a good look over the machine. There isn't very much to do here, don't you think it would be a good idea if I took a stroll along the river-bank and made a rough survey for shoals or rocks, in case there are any about? We might have to take off in a hurry, and it's as well to be on the safe side.'

  'Very wise,' replied Dickpa at once. 'There might be an old tree-trunk or two on the water and we don't want to hit anything like that, I imagine.'

  'We certainly do not,' returned Biggles emphatically.

  'All right, you take a look around while Algy and I get the hammocks ashore. By the way, I should take a gun with you.'

  'I'm not likely to go without one,' grinned Biggles. 'I haven't forgotten the gentleman we just saw slithering into the water.'

  'Oh, he won't worry you, but mind you don't step on a croc, and don't eat any fruit without showing it to me first,' was Dickpa's final warning as Biggles, with an Express rifle under his arm, set off up the river.

  Chapter 8

  Indians

  While the beach lasted, Biggles found the going easy, but he advanced cautiously, keeping a watchful eye on the bushes that skirted the foot of the cliff; presently large boulders and rocks that had fallen from above obstructed his path, and progress became slower. From time to time he climbed up to the top of these and examined the surface of the water critically; he was soon glad that he had taken the precaution, for in many places he could see great masses of dark rock just below the surface which would have crushed the bottom of the Condor like an eggshell, had the amphibian come in contact with them when taking off.

  The position of these he tried to memorise, and, to make doubly sure, he marked them down on a rough sketch-map. From time to time he could still see the machine, with its nose almost touching the beach, and the others carrying things from it to the shore, but now the bank curved inwards and hid them from view. A swarm of insects began to collect above him, and he struck savagely at the bees that settled and clung persistently to his face. 'What a curse you are!' he growled as he quickly discovered that his efforts were unrewarded.

  The sun, now past its zenith, was blazing hot, and the going became still more difficult. Great trees, festooned with lianas, began to crowd down to the water's edge, and he advanced more warily. Once a butterfly, with wings as large as the palms of his hands, brought his heart into his mouth as it darted within a foot of his face in swift, bird-like flight.

  In the shade of the trees the heat was even more oppressive, and the silence uncanny. When he stood still he could hear furtive rustlings among the dead leaves at his feet and all around him, and these, he ascertained by careful investigation, were caused by ants as they toiled indefatigably at innumerable tasks. Once he halted to watch an incredible army of them passing by, marching steadily in a long, winding column that disappeared into the dim recesses of the jungle.

  Turning another corner, he pulled up dead in his tracks and slowly brought his rifle to the ready. Straight in front of him, near the water's edge, and not fifty yards away, was a palm-thatched shack in the last stages of dilapidation. Near it was a canoe, also very much the worse for wear, with a paddle lying across it.

  'Anyone at home?' he called loudly.

  All remained silent except for the buzzing of the countless insects.

  He approached warily. 'Anyone at home?' he called again, eyeing the canoe suspiciously. 'If the occupant is not inside, how has he departed without his canoe, his only means of transport?' he mused. As he drew closer he saw mat a tangle of weeds had sprung up inside the boat, and it was evident that it had not been moved for some time. With a grim suspicion already half formed in his mind, he was not altogether surprised at what he saw when he pushed the ramshackle door open.

  A cloud of flies arose with a loud buzz from an object that lay upon a rough mattress in a corner of the room. He walked slowly over to it, and then turned quickly away. Upon the primitive bed lay what had once been the body of a man—a negro, judging by the short, curly black hair. An old-fashioned muzzle-loading rifle lay beside him, and near it, a glass bottle that had once, according to the label, contained quinine, told its own story. On the far side of the room were a number of rough, round, smoke-blackened balls, about the size of footballs, the product of nature to collect which the man had sacrificed his life.

  Biggles knew without examining them closer that they were rubber—the crude, heat-solidified latex of the tree that gave it its name. The gruesome tragedy was plain enough to see. The man had been a rubber collector, and, overtaken with the inevitable fever, had taken to his bed, where, far from the help of others of his kind, he had died a lonely and pitiful death.

  Depressed by the sad spectacle, Biggles hastened into the fresh air and looked moodily at the unfortunate man's equipment, and then, with a sigh, passed on, strangely moved by the silent drama of loneliness and death.

  But he did not go far. Having achieved the object of his walk, he began to retrace his steps—slowly, for there were many things to interest him. Once it was a spray of orchids that sprang from a rotten tree and which would have cost a small fortune in a London florist's. Sometimes it was a bird of unbelievable colours or shoals of fish in the water. The sun was now low in the sky, and, realising that he had taken longer over his journey than the object of it justified, he quickened his steps.

  He reached the beach and breathed a sigh of relief as his eyes picked out the amphibian still at its moorings. Why he was relieved he hardly knew, unless it was that the loneliness of the forest had depressed him. He could not see the others, but he did not worry on that score; no doubt they were lying in the shade, resting after their efforts. But as he approached and they still did not appear, an unaccountable fear assailed him, although he ridiculed himself for his alarm.

  'Ahoy there!' he cried in a ringing, high-pitched voice that reflected his anxiety. There was no reply. The words had echoed to silence before he moved, and then he acted swiftly. He cocked his rifle and, after a quick, penetrating glance around, broke into a swerving run towards the Condor. Reaching it, he pulled up in consternation at the sight that met his gaze.

  The machine was apparently untouched, yet all around on the beach the sand was kicked up and ploughed in such a way as could only have been caused by a fierce struggle. 'But what? What could they struggle with in such a place?' was the thought that hammered through his brain.

  A fire was still smouldering on some stones, and the hammocks, looking as if they had been carelessly flung down, lay near it. Then his eye caught something on the machine that sent him hurrying towards it, ashen faced. It was an arrow, feathered with scarlet macaw pinions.

  Indians! So that was it. What had happened he could only guess, but for one thing at least he was thankful. There were no bodies on the beach, and this suggested that Dickpa and the others had been surprised and overpowered before they could reach the weapons in the machine.

  'The Indians have got 'em, no doubt of that,' he thought grimly. 'Well, if I can't get them back they may as well have me too. The question is,
which way have they gone?' It was easily answered, for an unmistakable track of bare feet led to a flaw in the rock which opened out into a distant path. A few yards farther on he stooped and picked up a tiny white seed with a grunt of satisfaction. Presently he found another, and another. It was rice, and the solution flashed upon him at once.

  The Indians had seized the stores that had been taken ashore, and among them was a bag of rice. Luckily the bag had a hole in it, or perhaps—remembering what Dickpa had told them in England—an ant had already started its nefarious work while the bag was lying on the beach. At any rate, unless the Indian carrying the bag discovered the leak, he was leaving a trail that should not be difficult to follow.

  How long had they been gone? He did not know and had no means of telling. He glanced at the sun, now almost touching the horizon. 'It will be dark in half an hour, I've no time to lose,' he muttered. Weapons! He was still carrying the Express, but would that be enough? 'I might as well have a revolver for close work,' he thought, and dashed back to the Condor.

  He opened the locker where the small arms were kept, and, selecting an automatic, with half a dozen spare clips of ammunition, slipped them into his pocket. He was about to drop the lid on the locker when his eye lighted on something that made him pause. 'That might be useful,' he thought quickly, and added a squat Very pistol, used for signalling purposes, to his collection. He grabbed a couple of handfuls of cartridges at random and, after a final look around to see that the Condor was securely moored, set off at a quick pace on the trail of the Indians.

  The path became more difficult as he advanced, and he was glad when it swung round away from the mountains, plunged through a ravine, and then came out on the rolling matto, or open plain dotted with groups of shrubs and trees. He picked up a button, and recognized it at once as one from Algy's coat. Presently he found another, and then a stub of lead pencil, and guessed that Algy was deliberately discarding such small things as he was able, to mark the trail for him, knowing that the Indians were unaware of his existence.

  The heat was terrific, and his face streamed with perspiration—a matter the insects seemed to appreciate, for they nearly drove him distracted with their unwelcome attentions. A hundred times he remembered Dickpa's words about the bees that clung to his nose, ears, and eyes with their hooked feet. He looked behind him continually, not so much for possible enemies as to mark the configuration of the trees and rocks against the skyline, to guide him on his return journey—if there was to be one.

  He came upon the Indian camp suddenly, and all else was at once forgotten. It was built on the bank of a brook which he thought might be a tributary of the larger river on which the Condor was moored. He could see several figures moving about, but, as far as he could discover, no guards or sentries were posted. The village consisted simply of a circle of reed-thatched huts from which, even as he watched, a crowd of thirty or forty Indians poured out in wild excitement.

  Dropping to his hands and knees, he crawled nearer, regardless of the ants that bit and stung him all over. It was now nearly dark, and the details of the scene were hard to distinguish, but presently a fire was lighted in the centre of the village, and by its bright flickering light he could see everything perfectly. Darkness fell, and he crawled nearer until he was not more than thirty yards away, crouching on the edge of a thick patch of native corn.

  He caught his breath as Dickpa, Algy, and Smyth were led out of a hut and dragged towards a row of stakes that stood near the fire.

  'Well, it's now or never,' muttered Biggles through his teeth. Holding the rifle under his left arm, he loaded the Very pistol and placed a relay of cartridges on the ground in front of him. Pointing the muzzle high into the air above the Indians, he pulled the trigger. At the crash of the explosion they stood stock still in petrified astonishment; then, as the flare, which happened to be red, burst with a second explosion immediately over their heads and flooded the scene with crimson radiance, such a pandemonium of screams and yells broke out that even Biggles was startled. But he did not hesitate.

  Bang! Bang! Bang! Loading and firing as swiftly as he could, he sent a shower of blazing meteors over the heads of the now panic-stricken Indians. Green, yellow, red, and white, the signal flares filled the air and drenched the village in a ghastly multi-coloured blaze of light. One of them fell upon the roof of a hut, which, tinder dry, at once burst into flames and added further to the inferno. His last cartridge fired, Biggles thrust the weapon in his pocket, and, with the automatic in one hand and rifle in the other, he charged, yelling with all the power of his lungs.

  It was the last straw. The Indians, already demoralized, scattered in all directions, shouting, falling, and crashing into the forest. One of them rushed blindly in Biggles's direction, but twisted like a hare and darted away as the automatic exploded.

  'Are you all right?' gasped Biggles as he reached Dickpa's side.

  'Yes, but my hands are tied.'

  Biggles whipped out his jack-knife and quickly slashed through the lianas that bound his uncle's hands. 'Watch out,' he said shortly, handing him the rifle. In a few seconds the others were freed, and without another word they set off in single file at a sharp trot over the way they had come.

  'All right, easy all,' gasped Biggles when they had covered a couple of hundred yards. 'We don't want to get lost in this stuff.' He jabbed his thumb towards the thick matto on either side. 'By the way, is anybody hurt? Good,' he ejaculated, in answer to the swift replies in the negative; 'then we should soon be back. I'll go first, because I know the way. Algy, you come next; then you, Smyth; Dickpa, will you bring up the rear with the rifle? If you hear anybody following us, pass the word along. Come on, quick march.'

  Across the silent matto they hurried, Biggles once pulling up short as a long feline body crossed their path just in front and disappeared into the bushes with a coughing grunt.

  'Jaguar—watch out!' called Dickpa from the rear.

  Biggles made no reply, but pressed forward, the others close behind, stumbling over rocks and uneven surfaces when they reached the ravine. Slipping and sliding, with many a sharp exclamation of pain as they knocked their shins, they scrambled down the final declivity to the beach where the amphibian was moored.

  'Hark!' It was Dickpa who spoke. He stood with his head bent in a listening position. 'They're coming,' he went on. 'We'd better get aboard.'

  'I daren't risk taking off in this light,' said Biggles sharply.

  'No need to,' replied Dickpa. 'We shall have to get away from the shore, though. It doesn't matter if we do drift downstream a bit; there are no rapids up here. I know this stretch of water. It was not far from here that my porters absconded. Lend me that jack-knife of yours.'

  Biggles handed over the instrument and Dickpa disappeared into the darkness. There was a sudden crashing in the bushes, and he returned a few moments later with three or four long bamboo poles. 'We can keep the machine straight with these,' he said. 'The water isn't very deep, so we can content ourselves with punting—and we'd better be quick about it,' he added, as a series of yells broke out not far away in the direction from which they had come.

  The hammocks and the few things that had been taken ashore were hastily flung aboard, and in a few seconds, by the aid of their improvised punt-poles, they were sailing smoothly with the current on the broad face of the river.

  The moon rose and flooded the river with a silvery radiance that only served to intensify the blackness of the forest walls on either side.

  'We'll go right across to the other side,' announced Dickpa presently. 'The Indians can't have any canoes about, so we shall be quite safe, and I think I remember a useful sort of backwater a bit lower down.'

  'Let's go then, by all means,' replied Biggles quickly. 'A bite of food seems indicated,' he added in a complaining tone of voice.

  'You wait until you've been ten days without any, as I have,' rejoined Dickpa.

  'I trust we shan't come to that,' answered Biggles gloomily. 'I've
only had one day of it so far, but I begin to see that this tropical exploring business has its drawbacks. These confounded mosquitoes are pretty awful, aren't they?'

  'Bah! That's nothing,' grinned Dickpa. 'You wait until we get to the bank; there'll be more there.'

  Biggles groaned. 'Well, let's know the worst,' he growled. 'Is this the place you had in mind?'

  'Yes, this is it,' returned Dickpa.

  'Then I don't think much of it,' muttered Biggles, with a sudden shiver in spite of the heat. 'It gives me the creeps—reminds me of what I saw up the river—'

  'What did you see?' asked Algy curiously.

  'Oh, nothing,' replied Biggles shortly, preferring not to go into details in such a place as the one in which they now found themselves.

  The Condor, like a vague spectral shape, floated on a pool of water as black and motionless as pitch. Completely encircling them except for the narrow opening where they had entered, a wall of black mangroves raised themselves on twisted stilt-like legs, as motionless as if they had been carved in ebony.

  Long snake-like lianas hung down to the water. In one place only there was a narrow strip of mud, and, behind it, a small open space where for some unknown reason the living forest had failed to secure a foothold.

  'I'm all for staying on the boat,' observed Biggles. 'I never saw such a place in my life; it fairly gives me the creeps. What the dickens are you doing, Smyth?' he went on angrily. 'Don't rock the boat like that. I nearly went overboard.'

  'I didn't rock the boat, sir,' came Smyth's startled voice from the darkness at the other end of the machine.

  'What th—Hi! Hold on!' Biggles's voice rose sharply as some unseen hand seemed to lift the machine half out of the water. Something hard and scaly scraped along the keel; ripples, long, black, and oily, began to creep across the sullen water. 'What is it, Dickpa?' called Biggles in a startled voice.

  A stab of brilliant flame and the thundering roar of an explosion shattered the silence. It was followed by a deep choking cough, and something long and vague began threshing in the water beside them. Other similar shapes flung themselves upon it, and instantly the water became a churning mass of foam and writhing bodies. Something crashed against the hull, making the Condor shiver from stem to stern.