by W E Johns
But when shortly afterwards he saw that he could get no farther in the direction in which he was heading and, stopping to look about him, saw that his retreat was completely cut off, he experienced a pang of real fear, for he needed no one to tell him that a mangrove swamp is no place in which to be benighted.
For a while he scrambled desperately, often dangerously, from branch to branch after the manner of the renowned Tarzan of the Apes, but he quickly discovered that this method of progress was much easier to imagine than put into practice, as the palms of his hands testified. To make matters worse, he knew that he had been clambering about regardless of which way he went, taking advantage of any handhold that offered itself; and now, sitting astride a fork to contemplate his predicament, he was compelled reluctantly to admit to himself that he had completely lost all sense of direction.
On all sides stretched the morass. Above, a gloomy tangle of interlaced branches, fantastic, bewildering; below, the sullen water, as black as ink in the fast failing light except where grey, spectral wraiths of mist were beginning to form and creep silently over the surface. All was still. The only sounds were the soft, sinister gurgle of the questing water, and the ever-increasing hum of countless myriads of mosquitoes that took wing at the approach of night. The heat was intense. Not the fierce, dry heat of the midday sub, but a clammy oppressiveness that clung to the skin and made breathing difficult. Every now and then strange, foreign smells tainted the stagnant air: sometimes the noisome stench of corruption, and sometimes a perfume of glorious fragrance that seemed strangely out of place in such a setting.
He stirred uneasily, and in spite of the heat a cold shiver ran down his spine.
‘Hi! Ginger!’ he called, in something like a panic, and then waited tensely for an answer.
But none came. ‘Ginger!’ he yelled again, but the only reply was the mocking screech of a monkey.
Looking down, he noticed that the water was still rising, for when he had lodged himself in the fork his shoes had been a good three feet above the level of the water, but now he saw with renewed misgivings that they were almost touching the surface. And presently, as he gazed downward with worried eyes wondering if he should climb higher, he became aware of a broad V-shaped ripple that was surging through the water towards him, and for a few seconds he watched it curiously, trying to make out what was causing it.
Straight towards the trunk of the tree it swept, and only at the last moment did a purely instinctive fear make him jerk both his legs clear of the water.
He was only just in time, for as he did so a long black object broke the surface and rose clear. There was a rush, a violent swirl, and then a crash like the slamming of an iron gate as the crocodile’s jaws came together.
A cry of stark terror broke from Algy’s lips as he scrambled frantically to a higher branch. Reaching one that promised to bear his weight, he looked down, but all was quiet again and still, except for a ring of tiny wavelets that circled away from the trunk of his tree and lost themselves in the gloom.
With every nerve tense, his heart thumping like a piston and perspiration pouring down his face, he again examined his surroundings for a possible way of escape; but with the water still rising matters were getting worse instead of better, and a few minutes’ investigation proved to him beyond all doubt that, far from finding a way out of the swamp, he could not even leave the tree in which he was precariously perched. Swimming was, of course, out of the question, and as if in confirmation of his decision in this respect a huge watersnake, its head held erect like a periscope and its forked tongue flicking, went sailing past. He watched it out of sight, shuddering.
By this time it was practically dark and, abandoning all hope of getting clear until the tide went down, he was making himself as secure as possible on his perch when his hands, which were gripping the branch, felt suddenly as if hundreds of tiny pins were being stuck into them. Striking a match as quickly as his trembling fingers would permit, for the strain of his position was beginning to tell, he saw at once the reason: they were covered with thousands of the minute ants which, although he did not know it, were the dreaded Semut apis, the fire-ants of the Malay Peninsula. His lips went dry when, in the yellow glow of the match, he saw that the branch on which he sat was swarming with them; worse still, as far as he could see the whole tree was alive with them.
What to do he did not know: he was beginning to find it difficult even to think coherently. To stay in the tree and be eaten alive was obviously out of the question, yet to enter the domain of the horrors in the water was equally unthinkable. The burning in his hands ran swiftly up his arms and, driven to desperation by the irritation, he began to beat his arms against his sides in the hope of dislodging at least some of his undesirable tenants; but the only result was to bring down a shower of them from the branches above on to his head and neck.
Instinctively he started backing along the branch away from the trunk, which seemed to be the headquarters of the fiery army, but an ominous creak warned him that he was testing it nearly to the limit of its endurance. With his heart in his mouth, as the saying is, he began to work his way back again, but what with the irritants on his skin, the darkness, and haste, he missed his hold and slipped. He made a frenzied clutch at the sagging branch to save himself, but almost before he knew what was happening he found himself hanging at the full length of his arms with his feet only a few inches above the water. He could hear the branch creaking under his weight and, knowing that it would not support him for many more seconds, he strove with a determination born of despair to pull himself up again, performing extraordinary gymnastics with his legs as he tried to hook them round the branch in order to take some of the weight from his arms; but it was a feat beyond his strength, for the branch sagged lower and lower and eluded his ever groping legs.
The creaking became a definite crackle and, perceiving beyond all doubt what must happen within the next few seconds, he let out a yell of fear. It was still ringing in his ears when, with a loud crack, the branch broke off short, and the next moment, with a mighty splash, he, the branch, and the ants disappeared under the water.
He was up again in an instant, blowing and gasping, and with his toes curling with horror he struck out madly for the nearest tree. He could not have been more than a quarter of a minute reaching it, but to his distorted imagination it seemed like eternity and, clutching the rough bole in his arms, he went up it in a manner that would have been impossible in cold blood. Grabbing at a bough, he pulled himself on to it and, throwing a leg over it where it joined the trunk, he sagged limply, panting for breath, watching as in a nightmare the water dripping from him into the black stream below.
By this time he had reached that degree of misery that knows neither pain nor fear, a lamentable condition in which death appears as a welcome release; and it may have been due to this that at first he regarded a vague black shadow that appeared suddenly on the water a few yards away without any particular emotion. But as he watched it, knowing that although he could not see them two cold eyes were watching him too, a bitter hatred slowly took possession of him and of it a new idea was born. He remembered something.
Feeling in his soaking pocket, he took out his automatic and, taking careful aim, pulled the trigger. Bang! Bang! Bang! Three times the weapon roared.
With a convulsive swirl the crocodile half threw itself out of the water, plunged back, and then disappeared from sight.
‘Hold that lot, you ugly swine,’ he growled viciously, as he stared down at the turmoil below him.
‘Here, be careful what you’re doing with that gun,’ called a voice near at hand.
In his astonishment Algy nearly fell into the water again, but as he recognized the voice a little cry of relief broke from his lips. Peering into the darkness, he could just make out a queer-shaped mass moving smoothly over the oily surface of the water towards him. ‘Hi! Biggles!’ he called joyfully.
‘Where the dickens are you?’ came Biggles’s voice.
‘I’m not swimming, you can bet your life on that,’ returned Biggles tersely. ‘A lot of very nasty people use this place as a bathing pool, as you may have noticed. What in the name of goodness are you doing up there?’ he concluded, as he drew up underneath.
‘What do you suppose?’ replied Algy shortly. ‘I’m not practising a trapeze act or anything like that.’
‘It looks uncommonly like it,’ grinned Biggles, as Algy lowered himself down into the boat. ‘Hey! Go steady; this isn’t a barge,’ he went on quickly, clutching at the sides of the frail craft as Algy let go his hold. ‘What’s happened to Ginger? Where is he?’
‘The last time I saw him was in the machine, nailing up holes in the petrol tank,’ answered Algy wearily.
‘What machine?’
‘Our machine, of course.’
Biggles stared. ‘But I thought I heard it crash,’ he muttered incredulously. ‘I’ve been looking for the wreck ever since.’
‘It was the other fellow who crashed, not us. Ginger fairly plastered him with a whole drum of ammo from about ten yards’ range.’
‘Where did he crash?’
‘Somewhere over the other side of this swamp, which is about the nearest thing to hell that I’ve ever struck. Did you ever see such a foul place in your life? There’s a sort of lake in the middle of it, and I managed to get the Nemesis down on it. By the way, where the dickens did you get this conveyance? It feels kind of soft for a boat.’
‘It’s the collapsible rubber canoe out of poor Tom’s crash,’ replied Biggles. ‘After running about for hours like a lunatic looking for a way into this confounded bog, I suddenly had a brainwave and remembered that nearly all big service marine aircraft now carry collapsible boats. I went back and looked for it and there it was, although there were two or three bullet holes through it which I had to mend. It isn’t too safe now, but it’s better than nothing. Is the machine badly damaged?’
‘No. I had a petrol lead shot away, so I had to get down as best I could and where I could. The only place was the lake I mentioned just now. Then, knowing you’d be worried, I set off to look for you while Ginger did the repairs, but I got marooned in this tree by the tide. Where were you bound for when you came along this way?’
‘I was looking for you,’ answered Biggles, ‘although I don’t mind admitting that I was lost to the world. The whole place looks alike, and I fancy I had been going round in circles when I heard you singing—’
‘Singing, my foot!’ interrupted Algy indignantly. ‘I was yelling with fright.’
‘Well, it was easy enough to make the mistake,’ protested Biggles, grinning. ‘But let’s try and get out of this. I’m not particular, but this strikes me as being neither the time nor place for a picnic. In which direction is this lake of yours?’
‘I haven’t the remotest idea.’
‘Then we’d better set about looking for it. Hark! That sounds like Ginger,’ went on Biggles quickly, as a revolver shot split the silence. ‘He must have heard your shots and is trying to let you know where he is. From which direction do you think the sound came?’
‘Over there.’ Algy pointed vaguely into the darkness.
‘I thought so, too,’ declared Biggles, urging the tiny craft forward with its small paddle. ‘We’ll try it, anyway. Fire another shot and keep your eyes open for an answering flash. We ought to be able to see it in this darkness.’
Algy pointed the muzzle of his automatic skywards and pulled the trigger, only to cower down as a pandemonium of shrieks and barks instantly broke out over his head. ‘What in the name of thunder is that?’ he gasped.
‘It sounds as if some of your pals up in the trees thought you were shooting at them,’ murmured Biggles, moving the boat forward again as a flash showed momentarily through the trees some distance away, to be followed by another report.
After that it was only a question of time while they sought a way through the labyrinth of branches before they reached the open stretch of water on which the Nemesis rested; in the starlight they could see Ginger’s silhouette standing erect in the cockpit, looking towards the trees. He let out a hail when he saw them.
‘You’ve been a long time,’ he observed, looking at Algy reproachfully as they drew alongside. ‘I began to think you weren’t coming back.’
‘Curiously enough, I was thinking the same thing not long ago,’ Algy told him meaningly as he climbed aboard.
‘Never mind about that. We’re here now, and that’s all that matters,’ murmured Biggles philosophically. ‘Open up some of the emergency rations, Ginger, and let’s have a bite of food. After that I think a spot of shut-eye is indicated. We shall have to be on the move as soon as it’s daylight. If that fellow you shot down has any friends about they’ll be looking for him bright and early. Besides, I want to find out where he came from.’
Chapter 8
Shadows on the Shore
‘Whereabouts did the seaplane hit the ground, Ginger?’ asked Biggles, shortly after dawn the following morning as, standing on the hull, he sponged himself down briskly from a bucket of cold water. They had already discussed the details of the combat.
Ginger, who was putting the finishing touches to the fractured petrol lead, pointed to an adjacent tree-covered slope that rose just beyond the irregular outline of the mangroves. ‘Somewhere over there,’ he said. ‘Why? Are you thinking of going to it?’
‘I don’t know yet,’ replied Biggles thoughtfully, drying himself on a well-worn strip of towel. ‘The first thing I want to do is to get out of this place and find the Seafret; it’s bad, this being out of touch, although you were lucky to send her our position before that fellow in the seaplane shot your instrument to pieces; still, Sullivan will wonder what the deuce has happened to us. When we find her, if we do, I may go and examine what’s left of the seaplane while his sailors are ashore burying poor Tom and his mechanic—that is, provided the place isn’t too difficult to reach. I ought to have a shot at it, anyway, because it may furnish us with some important information.’
‘Such as?’ inquired Algy, who was anointing his ant-bites with boracic ointment from the medicine chest.
‘Well, it would be something to know for certain the nationality of the people we’re up against, wouldn’t it?’
‘By jingo, it would! I never thought of that,’ confessed Algy. ‘What do you suppose his people will think when he fails to return?’
‘I don’t care two hoots what they think. I only hope they didn’t hear the shooting or see anything of the combat yesterday.’
Algy glanced back over his shoulder to where Biggles was standing watching Ginger at work. ‘Good gracious! Do you think they may be as close as that?’ he asked quickly.
‘I don’t think they can be very far away or surely there would have been no point in their shooting down Tom’s machine. What I should very much like to know is whether the fellow in the seaplane spotted us flying around from his base on the ground, and came out deliberately to get us, or whether he was merely cruising about and lighted on us by accident.’
‘He may have been searching for Tom’s crash,’ suggested Ginger.
‘That isn’t at all unlikely,’ agreed Biggles, ‘although had that been the case one would have thought that he would have been flying very low, instead of high up, as he must have been or we should have heard him before we did.’
‘I suppose it is also possible that he was sitting high up over his base, doing a sort of aerodrome patrol as a routine job, on the look-out for strange ships or aircraft, when he saw us a long way off,’ went on Ginger thoughtfully.
‘Quite possible,’ agreed Biggles readily. ‘He may have been doing that when he spotted Tom.’
‘I fancy Tom must have been pretty close to their base—might even have spotted it—or surely they wouldn’t have killed him.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t stake too much on that,’ declar
ed Biggles. ‘After all, there was no reason why he shouldn’t be shot down. He was an enemy, assuming that all British subjects are regarded as enemies by these people, as presumably they are; and don’t forget that there was little or no risk of discovery. Tom’s machine wasn’t fitted with guns; I know that because I looked particularly to see. No doubt the guns would have been put on the machine when he got to Singapore. The seaplane pilot probably guessed he would be unarmed, as there is no war on, and that being so his task would be easy. In fact, Tom would merely provide him with a useful bit of target practice, quite apart from enabling him to destroy another piece of British property. If these skunks are out to sink British ships, there doesn’t seem to be any reason why they shouldn’t be equally glad to smash up British aircraft. But there, what’s the use of guessing? Tom’s dead, and the fellow who killed him is dead, or it looks that way to me, so neither of them can tell us anything. I suppose there’s no doubt about the fellow in the seaplane being killed, Algy?’
‘None whatever,’ declared Algy emphatically. ‘I saw him hit the carpet and I never saw a worse crash. The kite went to pieces like a sheet of wet tissue-paper in a gale.’
‘I see,’ replied Biggles. ‘All right. If you fellows are through we’ll see about getting away. There isn’t a dickens of a lot of room. Have you finished, Ginger?’
‘Yes, I think she’s OK now,’ answered Ginger, stepping down into the cockpit and turning on the petrol. We can test her, anyway. I’ve put some juice into the gravity tank; it isn’t full, but there’s sufficient to take us out of this place if the main tank doesn’t function.’
Decks were quickly cleared; small kit and tools were stowed away and everything made ship-shape for departure. Biggles took his place at the joystick with Algy beside him, while Ginger watched proceedings from the cabin door.
‘I hope she’ll unstick,’ muttered Biggles anxiously, as he twirled the self-starter, and smiled his relief as both engines came to life at the first attempt.