by W E Johns
'Trinidad. Is that where you learnt to speak English?'
'That's right.'
'What river are you talking about?'
'Why, this river, sir.'
'What are you doing up here?'
The old negro clasped and unclasped his hands convulsively and his lips twitched. 'Don't take me back,' he begged. 'I-'
'So you're a rubber collector-run away, eh?'
'That's the truth, sir. They told me if I come here and pick rubber pretty soon they take me back home; but I've been here more'n twenty years now, and I ain't had nuthin', don't see nuthin'-'
'And ain't got nuthin',' continued Biggles. 'I see. Well, don't make a song about it. How long have you been in this machine?'
'Just come, sir; found all these monkeys-'
'Did you know we were here?'
'No, sir.'
'But you knew we were about somewhere?' suggested Biggles suspiciously.
'Why, yes, sir; I heard them fellers talking.'
'Talking! What about?'
'Well, 'twas this way. I was going down the river in the old canoe and I met them coming up on the water on the big plane. They say, "Have you seen another plane?" And I say, "No, that's truth. I—"'
'Go on, cut out the rough stuff. What did they do?'
'Why, they beat me, and say they take me back to da Silva.'
'Da Silva?' cried Biggles, staring aghast at the terrible weals on the old man's shoulders, which he had exposed to prove his words.
'Yes, he's my master, sir. I owe him three hundred pounds, he says.'
Biggles, who had heard how the rubber kings controlled their unfortunate labourers by getting them to incur an imaginary debt and then holding them to their jobs without pay, during which the debt invariably grew larger instead of smaller, nodded sympathetically. 'But how did you get here?' he asked.
'I broke away from that camp in the dark night, and I set off anywhere.'
'And you borrowed a pair of boots, I see?'
'Why, yes, sir, I hadn't no shoes of no account. I got back in my ole canoe and went anywhere to get out of those fellers' way. A bad, good-for-nuthin' lot they are! I heard them laughing about you, sir. They say, police all down the river by Manaos and Para all want to hang you for killin' man in the jail at Manaos.'
'Killing, did you say?' cried Biggles, remembering the black gendarme in the jail at Manaos.
'Why, yes, sah. He ain't dead, sir, but they say he is so as they can hang you.'
'I see,' said Biggles slowly, realizing that it was going to be even more difficult to get out of the country than they expected. 'Where are you going now?' he asked.
'I dunno, sir. Seems all the same to me. If I keep going, maybe I'll come to Trinidad sometime.'
'I'm afraid you've got a tidy step in front of you,' observed Biggles. 'Well, I'm afraid I can't take you with me. But give me a hand to haul the machine up on the bank and I'll give you some grub to see you on your way. Come on.'
A quick examination revealed that no damage had been done by the monkeys, who had evidently merely contented themselves with throwing the loose branches off the machine. It proved to be no easy job to move the machine, and Biggles had to start the engine, much to the old man's horror, before the Condor finally stood on terra firma. He could not help reflecting on the curious chance that had brought the man his way, for he realized now for the first time that he could never have got the Condor out of the stream single-handed.
He taxied out on to the runway where they had landed, and, leaving the engine ticking over, climbed out of the cockpit to give the old man the promised stores. The man, who had evidently never seen so much food before, thanked him with tears in his eyes, and, leaving him to pursue his solitary way, Biggles climbed back into the cockpit with a grunt of satisfaction and opened the throttle.
The Condor bumped rather alarmingly over the rough ground, but a light breeze helped her and she was soon in the air, climbing steeply and banking in the direction of the towering cliff upon which Biggles had fixed his eyes. And thus it was that he did not see the tragedy being enacted below, or know how near he had been to disaster as he unhurriedly bid the old rubber tapper goodbye. Later, the others told him.
Simultaneously with his wheels leaving the ground, four men, panting as if they had been running, dashed round the corner of the stream where the Condor had stood. The leader, the same pock-marked individual that Biggles had stunned in far-away England, stopped dead with a foul oath.
'Gone,' he said. 'We've missed 'em by a minute. That cursed negro must have told 'em we'd seen the machine and were on our way. There he is now.'
The unfortunate rubber tapper, unaware of their approach, was busy putting his newly found wealth in his canoe, humming an old song as he did so.
'So you found 'em, eh?' snarled Blattner, his lips curled back from his yellow teeth in a bitter snarl.
The black man looked into the bloodshot, evil eyes and read death in them. His face turned a horrible greenish hue. 'No, sir,' he faltered. 'I-'
'You didn't, eh?' snarled Blattner, drawing his revolver.
The man had dropped to his knees. 'Don't shoot, sir,' he implored. 'God's truth, sir-'
A stab of flame spurted from the muzzle of the gun as it roared its leaden message of death.
Two big tears rolled down the old man's cheeks as he slipped forward like a swimmer in deep water.
Again the revolver barked. The man gave a convulsive shudder and then lay still.
Blattner laughed shortly as he pushed the revolver back into its holster. 'That's the only way to serve those swine,' he snarled.
Biggles, three thousand feet above, and some distance away,, unaware of the grim fate that had overtaken his recent assistant, and that four pairs of vicious eyes were watching every turn he made, cut off his engine and glided gently towards the smooth surface of the plateau. He knew that he was about to make the most important landing of his life, a landing where the least mistake would have disastrous consequences, not only to himself, but to those he loved best in the world. Once, over the rim of the cliff, a swirling up-current from the overheated rock brought his heart into his mouth, but he had the Condor back on an even keel in a flash, and with hands and eyes as steady as the rock on which he was about to land, he flattened out and dropped lightly on the elevated landing-ground.
When he looked up, a little pale from his ordeal, Dickpa, Algy, and Smyth were running towards him, cheering.
'Easy as A B C,' laughed Algy in relief.
'Easy, was it?' replied Biggles. 'You go and take a running snatch at yourself. What with climbing down crazy staircases built for lunatics, being attacked by mad eagles, falling into rapids, diving over waterfalls—'
'And then missing being captured by the skin of your teeth,' broke in Algy, 'you've-'
' What by the skin of my teeth?' interrupted Biggles sharply.
'Being captured. You saw Silas and his crowd tearing up the stream, didn't you?'
'Great jumping cats! No, I didn't, and that's a fact,' confessed Biggles. 'What are you talking about?'
'We could see the whole thing from up here, and we nearly went off our heads with excitement. We couldn't make out why on earth you didn't hurry-you seemed to be deliberately taking your time. We were certain they were going to nab you. Who was the other fellow you were with? They've shot him, you know.'
Biggles turned as white as death. 'Shot-him,' he whispered.
'Yes, killed him in cold blood, the devils,' broke in Dickpa.
Biggles sat silent in his cockpit for a moment, and, when he looked up, his face wore a strange expression.
'One day-soon, I hope-I shall kill them,' he said stonily.
Chapter 16
Combat Tactics
Over a hurried meal, Biggles briefly described his adventures since his leap for life on the swaying bridge. Dickpa was very intrigued at the description of his battle with the great white bird, which he told him must have been one of the very rare k
ing condors.
The others had little to relate. They had spent a very uncomfortable night on the open plateau, incidentally getting drenched to the skin in the storm that had scared Biggles during his night in the shelter on the cliff. In the morning, not knowing whether he had succeeded in finding a way down, they had repaired to the top of the pyramid, from where they had seen the rubber tapper's discovery of the Condor, Biggles's subsequent arrival, and the dramatic sequel. With a smile, Dickpa described how they had all cheered wildly as the Condor left the ground under the very noses of the enemy and climbed upwards towards them like a great white gull.
'Well, we aren't out of the woods yet, not by a long way,' observed Biggles. 'One thing is certain; we can't go back the way we came. If we so much as touch our wheels in any civilized part of Brazil-if there is such a place-we shall be slung into jail before we know where we are'; and he repeated the story the rubber tapper had told him of the trumped-up charge against them for 'killing' the prison warder-'the fellow I dotted on the back of the nut with the mooring-spike,' he explained. 'What are we going to do about it?'
'The only solution seems to be to make for Bolivia,' said Dickpa with a worried frown.
'Bolivia! How far away is it?'
'Speaking from memory, I should say we are about two hundred and fifty miles from the Bolivian frontier, and then about another four hundred miles on to La Paz, the capital. But let us look at the map; we have one in the cabin.'
The map was quickly produced, and, spreading it over the lower wing of the Condor, they examined their proposed course. The distances Dickpa had given were practically correct, which meant that Bolivia was well within their range, and there was no reason, except possible engine failure, why they should not cover the whole distance in one hop and put themselves beyond the vengeance of their enemies. Dickpa anticipated no trouble with the Bolivian authorities, for he knew many influential people on the Pacific side of the Andes, where he had made several exploring expeditions. They would, of course, have to make an account of their quest and the treasure, and possibly hand over a certain percentage of it to the Bolivian Government, according to the laws of that land, where treasure trove was a by no means infrequent occurrence. What action Brazil would take, when the authorities heard of the discovery of the treasure, they neither knew nor cared. In any case, Dickpa had a permit to search for treasure, granted some years before, and, once back in their own land, it was unlikely that they would be molested, as they undoubtedly would be if they passed through Manaos on their way back. Indeed, Dickpa was quite certain that the fact of treasure being aboard the Condor would make the Brazilian authorities still more anxious to intercept them.
Biggles laid a compass course to Lake Titicaca, the great inland sea of Bolivia, on the shores of which the capital was situated, and where he anticipated no trouble in making a safe landing. Further, it was so large that he could hardly miss it.
'Well, let us see about getting the treasure on board, or as much of it as we can carry,' he suggested. 'Silas & Go. may not suspect that we are not going back the way we came, but there is a good chance that now they know where we are they will try some mischief. Luckily they can't land up here in their flying-boat, but they've got a machine-gun, don't forget, and they might make things a bit hot for us. I don't like the look of the weather, anyway,' he went on, looking around the sky with a speculative eye. 'I have a feeling in my bones that this is a calm before a storm.'
Indeed, the truth of his words was at once apparent to the others, for a curious, uncanny calm had settled over everything. Not a breath of air stirred, and the heat of the stagnant atmosphere was overpowering. The sun no longer shone clearly in a blue sky, but gleamed dully through a yellow haze that shed an unpleasant copper-coloured glow over everything.
'No, I don't like the look of it either,' declared Dickpa. 'I only saw a sky like this once before, and-' His voice trailed away to silence, as if he preferred not to finish the sentence.
'Well, let's get this treasure aboard before we do anything else,' exclaimed Algy, climbing aboard the Condor and twirling the self-starter.
The amphibian was taxied carefully across the plateau to the foot of the hill, and they all set off at a good pace up the path towards the summit. They had not reached half way, however, when it became obvious that something was about to happen. The sun became completely obscured behind a red-brown fog that seemed to form in the air above them, and the landscape became overcast with a dull orange twilight. A steady drizzle of fine grit began to fall; it clogged their mouths and noses and made breathing difficult.
'Stop!' cried Dickpa suddenly.
'Stop nothing!' exclaimed Biggles. 'I haven't come all this way for nothing'; and he broke into a sharp trot. But he did not go far. A long, hollow booming sound filled the air with noise, and then, as if struck with a mighty hammer from below, the ground on which they stood jarred horribly and threw them off their feet. Rocks began to roll down the side of the hill and a cloud of yellow vapour appeared at its crest. Then a wave of choking, sulphurous gas swept over them, half blinding them, and sending them staggering and reeling down the hill.
'Run for it!' croaked Dickpa, whipping out his handkerchief and holding it over his face. He began running down the hill, closely followed by Algy and Smyth.
Biggles stood impotent for a moment; the ground rocked under his feet and a rain of hot cinders began to fall. Panic seized him, and he raced after the others, catching his breath, as, through the gloom he saw a great boulder as large as a house bounce down the hill in great leaps and miss the Condor by inches. The earth swayed, quivering to a succession of titanic concussions that in places split the side of the hill like piecrust. 'It's the end of the world,' he thought vaguely as he ran. He caught the others, and they reached the machine together, flinging themselves into their places without a word.
'Contact!' came Smyth's voice in a high-pitched scream from his place behind the engine.
Biggles whipped on his goggles, spun the self-starter, and, as the engine roared, jammed the throttle wide open. Whether he was taking off up-wind or downwind he neither knew nor cared as the Condor lurched across the swaying rock towards the rim of the plateau and staggered into the air like a stricken swan. He had no idea where he was going, but concentrated his attention in trying to keep the Condor on an even keel as it roared blindly through the now opaque dust-cloud, torn and twisted by such blasts of hot air that might have been projected from the pit itself.
The next ten minutes were a nightmare of horror that would never be forgotten by any of them. Rocked by bumps of such magnitude that it seemed incredible that the Condor could hold together, they wallowed above an inferno that baffled description. Then the fog grew thinner, and at last they could see the forest like a dark green pall below. Biggles drew the stick back gently into his stomach and climbed higher, glancing for the first time at his companion in the cockpit. It was Algy. A feeble grin spread over his face, which was as black as a stoker's from the ash that had adhered to the perspiration on it.
'Nice flying weather for phoenixes,' he yelled, and Biggles, in spite of the seriousness of their position, could not repress a smile.
The air cleared rapidly as they drew farther away from the eruption, for they had no doubt as to the origin of the inferno which now hung over the horizon behind them like a gigantic black mushroom. There would be no more landing on the plateau.
With his eyes on the compass, Biggles was banking gently to lay a westerly course for Bolivia when a shrill yell from Algy made him start up anxiously. A hundred yards away a twin-engined flying-boat was swooping down on them, and the familiar chatter of a machine-gun sounded above the noise of the engine. Heedless of the result it might have on the occupants of the cabin, who could not know what was happening, he flung the Condor into a vertical bank that brought him to the side of the other machine away from the gunner; but it instantly swept round in a manner that left no doubt as to the intentions or ability of its pilot.
Biggles knew the crew of the Curtiss were deliberately trying to shoot them down, under the impression that the cabin of the Condor contained treasure literally worth a king's ransom. If they succeeded, the flying-boat could return to its base, and its crew afterwards return, on foot, to the crash. His lips parted in the cold, mirthless smile that had become an unconscious habit when he was fighting, and he fixed the pilot of the other machine, now banking steeply on the other side of a narrow circle, with a hostile stare.
It was soon apparent that whoever was flying the Curtiss was no match for the War pilot, at least where manœuvring was concerned; nevertheless, the twin-engined machine was the faster of the two, and that put escape by the simple means of flying away from it out of the question. Biggles could not go on circling indefinitely, for his supply of fuel was already barely sufficient for the long journey ahead. The gunner in the front cockpit of the Curtiss was firing his machine-gun whenever an opportunity offered, and once or twice an ominous flack, flack, flack, in his top wing warned Biggles that some of the shots were coming perilously close. He longed for a machine-gun as he had never wanted anything before, for he knew that, thus armed, he could soon have ended the combat. The idea of sending the other machine and its crew crashing down to oblivion did not give him the slightest cause for regret for the cold-blooded murder of the luckless old man was still fresh in his mind. He remembered his automatic, but he knew from experience the futility of such a weapon against an aeroplane, particularly as in order to use it he would have to place himself within the field of fire of his better-armed opponent. 'Something has got to be done about this,' he thought quickly. He beckoned to Algy. 'Get something to throw!' he yelled.
Algy understood at once, and disappeared into the cabin, to return immediately with a two-gallon metal drum of oil, weighing perhaps nearly thirty pounds. He balanced it on his knee and nodded to show that he was ready.
Biggles took a swift glance at his opponent; then he flung the Condor on an even keel and dived. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw the other pilot level out and come roaring down on his tail. He waited until it was almost within normal shooting-range, and then he employed the trick invented by the German ace whose name it still bears, and which enabled him to pile up a score of victories before he met a foeman who had brought the manœuvre to a finer state of perfection—the famous Immelmann turn.* Biggles had done it hundreds of times and had brought it to a fine art.