by W E Johns
Bertie appeared. ‘Jolly good effort, old boy, even though you shook my bally eyeglass out of my face.’
‘You’re lucky it isn’t at the bottom of the creek.’
‘Which — my eyeglass or my face ?’
‘Both. Get the dinghy inflated. I want to have a look at the bank. The tide may take the machine in, but if it doesn’t we shall have to tow her in, provided there’s somewhere to put her out of sight. Don’t launch the dinghy till I give the word. We’d better make sure no one saw or heard us arrive. We shall soon know.’
Ginger followed Biggles on to the hull, and there they stood together, listening, eyes questing the shore. But not a sound reached their ears. They might have landed on a dead planet. The cold was intense, and their breath met the air like smoke. They waited and watched for several minutes. Then, as nothing occurred to alarm them. Biggles said quietly: ‘Good. We’re drifting in. Let’s have a look where we’re going.’
The dinghy was put on the water and they paddled across the short distance that separated them from what turned out to be an irregular belt of rushes, eight or ten feet high, growing out of fairly shallow water.
‘If we can get the machine into these it should suit us fine,’ said Biggles, satisfaction in his voice.
As he finished speaking there came such a roar of noise that although Ginger knew almost instantly what was causing it, he fell back with a cry of consternation and nearly went overboard, while into the air continued to rise what must have been a tremendous flock of ducks or geese, he knew not which. The sky was black with them.
Slowly the noise of beating wings subsided.
‘They must have been roosting here,’ said Biggles. ‘Had they taken it into their heads to become airborne just as I was about to touch down it would have been no joke. One can’t make allowances for that sort of thing.’
‘Phew!’ breathed Ginger. ‘What a din they made. I went cold all over.’
‘We must remember those birds,’ advised Biggles, seriously. ‘They’ll come back tomorrow if not tonight, and they may do us a mischief yet. Let’s find the best place for getting the machine under cover. We’ve only an hour or so of moonlight left.’
They began to paddle along the shore, or rather, the outer edge of the rushes that guarded it like a tall, ragged palisade.
Investigation revealed that for some reason not apparent the barrier of giant reeds did not pursue a straight or even line. It wandered in and out, with the result that the belt varied in width from a hundred yards or more to a mere fringe. Indeed, there were places where rushes hardly occurred at all, and the black water appeared to lap the roots of the magnificent firs which, rising tier on tier up the hill behind, interlaced their drooping branches to form what might have been a mighty cliff of black basalt. There were also breaks where the rushes offered a narrow entrance to a labyrinth of mysterious little lagoons.
‘One of these should suit us,’ said Biggles, softly. ‘I was afraid we might have to smash a way into the rushes from the outside, making a gap that would be seen by anyone using the waterway. There are bound to be boats about. The ideal thing would be to barge into the reeds from one side, so that the gap made wouldn’t be noticed either from the water or dry land. This spot where we are now seems to be as good as any. I want to leave the machine facing open water in case we have to make a snappy getaway, yet with enough rushes between to prevent us from being seen by boats leaving or entering the river. I don’t want too many rushes in the way, either; they wouldn’t do the airscrews any good if we had to thresh a way out of them. We’ll tow the machine in if we can. I don’t want to start the engines again.’
‘How far do you reckon we are from the prison?’ asked Ginger, as they paddled back to the aircraft.
‘As the crow flies when it’s sober not more than three or four miles.’
They forced their cumbersome dinghy to the machine.
‘Here, I say, chaps, you fairly put the breeze up us when you bounced those dicky birds,’ greeted Bertie, as they bumped gently against the side of the Otter. ‘At first I thought you’d barged into a school of hippos.’
‘Hippos don’t fly,’ returned Biggles, curtly.
‘Jolly good thing for us, too, old boy — if you get my meaning,’ said Bertie, cheerfully.
‘Quit fooling,’ requested Biggles. ‘We’ve work to do, and not too much time to do it in if we’re to finish by daylight. The bank is lined with rushes — big stuff — and we shall have to get the machine into ‘em. I’m not going to start up so it means towing her in. If necessary we’ll get a line ashore and haul her across. Let’s get cracking.’
‘I wish it wasn’t so perishing cold,’ muttered Algy.
‘Some exercise will warm you up and I can give you plenty of that,’ promised Biggles.
Slowly, although without any great difficulty, the Otter was towed tail first through the selected gap into the rush-girt lagoon. It was not so easy to get the machine into the rushes, in the position in which Biggles wanted it, but after some hard work in which knives had to be used it was done. Reeds that were cut were handed up to Ginger on the centre-section. He spread them out to cover as much as possible of the upper surfaces. From his elevated position he was able to announce that there were about fifty yards of rushes between them and the forest.
‘Why not take the machine right through to the trees, old boy?’ suggested Bertie.
‘That would leave a gash that might be spotted from the air,’ said Biggles. ‘There might be an air patrol along this piece of coast for all we know. Aside from that I’d sooner be near the open water in case we have to push off in a hurry. We can use the dinghy to get ashore. That won’t leave much of a track.’
More rushes were spread over the plane surfaces and by dawn the job was completed to Biggles’ satisfaction. The dinghy, which was left inflated against the hull ready for use, also received a covering of reeds. What caused Biggles some concern, after the tide had turned, was the arrival of hundreds of wildfowl which lined the mudflats left by the receding water, obviously in search of food.
‘Those birds are a pest,’ stated Biggles, irritably. ‘They’ll rise and get in the way if we have to take off. If we scare them someone may see them and wonder what startled them. I imagine these are their regular feeding grounds. I see wild geese among them. If one of those collided with us it wouldn’t do either of us any good. However, we can’t have it all ways. We’ve done pretty well so far. Let’s get inside and have some breakfast.’
‘Are you going ashore today?’ asked Fritz.
‘Possibly,’ replied Biggles. ‘For the moment we’d better sit tight to see if anything happens. We shall soon know if our arrival was noticed. Someone will be sent to investigate.’
Watch was kept while they had a meal, with hot coffee from a big vacuum flask.
All remained quiet until nearly ten o’clock when the wisdom of Biggles’ precautionary measures was demonstrated.
‘Here comes a boat,’ announced Ginger. ‘Two boats. They’re coming down the river.’
This, naturally, produced a few minutes of anxiety as the two boats, small, rough-looking craft, drifted out into the estuary. Relief came when each hoisted its single sail and stood out towards the open sea.
‘They’re not looking for us,’ decided Biggles. ‘I’d say they’re going to fish. They must have come from that settlement higher up. The birds took no notice of them which suggests this is a regular thing. We’ll check what time they come back. There may be others, so we shall have to keep our eyes skinned. I don’t think they’ll see us if we keep still. It’s a movement that catches the eye.’
A pale, misty sun crept up over the horizon. The was not much warmth in it, but sufficient to roll back the grey mist that shrouded the tall, forest-clad mountains that formed the backbone of the island.
CHAPTER 5
DRAMA IN THE FOREST
FOR two hours all remained quiet. The only sign of activity, apart from wildfowl which
from time to time wheeled off to a new position, was the two boats, well out in the mouth of the estuary, obviously fishing.
‘I think we might take a chance and go ashore,’ said Biggles at last. ‘It may take a little while to push the dinghy through the rushes.’
In this he was right. The water was shallow, never more than three or four feet deep, but icy cold, so there was no question of wading if it could be avoided. The work had to be done from the dinghy, and was accomplished by reaching forward, seizing some rushes, and pulling on them. The last few yards were the worst, for there was not enough depth of water to float the dinghy properly and they had to push their way ashore through soft mud.
Under the giant firs with their sagging branches a deathly silence reigned. Movement made no sound, for the forest floor was deep in dead fir needles dotted with cushions of harsh grey moss. So close did the trees stand together that the only place where it was possible to see for any distance was along the edge of the rushes, where there was a narrow gap between them and the forest. Looking along this they saw a brown bear come out. It had a good stare at them and then ambled away along the gap without any sign of hostility.
‘He won’t interfere with us if we don’t interfere with him,’ remarked Biggles.
There appeared to be no end to the forest. From where they stood they could see nothing but the sombre trees. It was the same on the far side of the estuary. There was no smoke to indicate the presence of human beings.
Nothing Ginger had ever seen had looked so bleak, so repellent, so grim, more darkly colourless than this. The atmosphere of tragedy could be felt. It was as if the human misery for which the island was notorious had imparted something to the very landscape. Even the branches of the firs that filled the scene hung low, as if they, too, had abandoned hope, or were ashamed of their surroundings. The summits of the mountains, still streaked with the snows of winter, cold and hard against the sky, frowned as with an awful relentlessness. Always there was a feeling of impending danger, lurking and overpowering.
In a word, the place looked what it was, a land where the horrors of the past still lingered, where the present! could breed a despair which only death would end.
Apparently they all felt the same, for presently Algy said: ‘I never saw a more depressing place than this.’
‘Absolutely! How right you are,’ declared Bertie. ‘All these beastly firs fair give me the creeps.’
‘They might be watching us — and hating us,’ said Algy. ‘Yet it reminds me of something.’
‘It is like the Black Forest in my country, but worse,’ put in Fritz.
‘That’s it,’ returned Algy quickly. ‘Pictures in books of German fairy tales.’
‘The only things missing are the princes and princesses,’ contributed Ginger, trying to strike a cheerful note.
‘I doubt if we shall see any princesses, but we may run into some ogres before we’re through,’ opined Biggles — a prediction which Ginger was soon to remember.
‘Well, let’s get on with it,’ suggested Algy.
Standing just inside the forest they discussed in low voices the business that had brought them to this uninviting land, and the best way to proceed having seen something of it.
‘Where is this beastly prison, anyhow?’ asked Bertie. ‘Let’s have a look at it.’
Biggles replied: ‘All the Air Commodore could find out about it, and this he got from a Polish refugee who claimed he had seen the place, was that it stands on a piece of rising ground not very far up this river.’
‘Above the houses, or whatever the things are you saw on Colonel Bradfield’s photos?’ queried Ginger.
‘I imagine so. What I took to be small houses are strung out for half a mile, but the nearest shouldn’t be more than a couple of miles from where we stand. There was a big building shown on one of the photos, but there was no indication of what it was. The Colonel didn’t know. The ground round it was a bit of a mess, as if an area of the forest had been cleared.’
Said Bertie, ‘How about breezing along to have a dekko. It’s a fine day. Limber our muscles, and all that sort of thing.’
‘I’d rather not be seen, so soon after our arrival,’ replied Biggles.
‘Nobody will see us if we keep to the forest.’
Fritz supported this proposition with enthusiasm. He was obviously keen to get on with the programme.
Biggles hesitated. ‘We shall have to go sometime, I suppose, but I intended to spend the day here to watch for signs that might indicate we had been seen or heard coming in. The noise those ducks made taking off must have been heard for some distance.’
‘Let me go alone,’ suggested Fritz. ‘If I run into anyone, being able to speak Russian I should be able to get away with it. I might get some useful information.’
‘That strikes me as being a dangerous way of getting it,’ argued Biggles. ‘It might be safer than if we all went together.’
‘Well, let’s do something,’ pleaded Ginger. ‘It’s chilly standing here doing nothing, even though I’m wearing my winter woollies.’
After some further demur Biggles was persuaded to allow Ginger and Fritz to make a preliminary reconnaissance. They were not to go far. Even if they saw no one the limit of their walk was to be the first of the houses, their object being no more than to see if they were occupied. If they saw any signs of activity they were to return at once.
‘When you come back you’ll find us in the machine,’ he concluded. ‘Give us a whistle and we’ll send the dinghy for you. We’ll watch for you. By the way, Fritz, have you a weapon of any sort in case you do run into trouble?’
‘Yes. Ginger has lent me a pistol.’
‘All right. But we don’t want any shooting unless it’s a matter of life or death.’
‘I understand.’
Ginger and Fritz set off, moving with the greatest caution along the gap between the rushes and the edge of the forest. It was soon clear that this was a regular track used by animals if not by human beings. Ginger watched for boot marks but saw none, although that did not mean there were none, for in the soft patches of mud where they would have shown the ground was generally churned up. There were deer slots, both large and small, and what he took to be the footprints of a bear — perhaps the animal they had seen. At frequent intervals there were places where the creatures of the forest came to the water to drink.
All this continued without change for what Ginger judged to be nearly a mile; and still the track ran on, always skirting the water. They saw no one. By this time the two sides of the estuary were beginning to close in, which suggested they were nearing the river of which the broad estuary was the mouth.
Presently Ginger stopped, looking ahead to a point where the track rounded a bend. ‘We’d better not go much farther,’ he said.
‘We may see something from the next bend,’ answered Fritz.
They went on. But they had not reached the bend when they were brought to a halt by a sound which, in the silence, came as clear and sharp through the cold air as the report of a rifle. Actually, Ginger knew it was not a gunshot. There was no mistaking it. It was the crisp crack of an axe falling on wood. Instinctively he sidestepped into the forest, and Fritz did the same.
‘There must be somebody about. That was an axe,’ he said softly.
Fritz nodded. ‘We’d better see who it is, and which way he goes, so that we don’t collide with him.’
Ginger was not too keen on this, but he realized advisability of it, so with great caution they moved forward in the direction of the sound, from which some slight noise was still coming. Before long they saw the cause. A man was standing in a narrow glade doing something to a log that lay at his feet. On the ground beside him, dead, were stretched out two small furry animals which Ginger took to be otters. Close to what was evidently a trap lay a dead fox.
But Ginger’s interest was fastened on the man, whose every action suggested a sort of animal watchfulness. That he was a peasant of the lowest
order was at on apparent from the rough, mud-stained and tattered clothes he wore, which seemed to be a mixture cloth and the remains of skins of dead animals. They draped on a gaunt frame and were gathered in at waist by a leather belt from which hung an axe. That he was getting on in years was clear, for long, uncut hair and beard were streaked with white. Little could be seen of his face by reason of the tangled hair. Ginger put his age at not less than sixty. But he seemed active enough. He appeared to have no weapon except the axe.
After a last, almost furtive look around, he picked the dead animals and slinging them over his should strode away.
‘A hunter,’ breathed Fritz, as soon as it was safe to speak.
‘I’d call him a trapper,’ said Ginger. ‘Did you notice the two otters?’
‘They were sables.’
‘Phew. Sables are valuable.’
‘Very.’
‘We shall have to be careful if trappers work in this forest.’
‘No doubt they work in all the forests.’
‘It’s as well to know that,’ said Ginger, seriously. ‘There may be bear traps about, and it would be no joke to step into one. Do you think that man was one of the prisoners?’
‘No. Let’s see where he goes,’ suggested Fritz. ‘If he has a house near that is something we ought to know.’
Taking every possible precaution, parting the low-sweeping fir branches with their hands, they moved forward on the trail of the hunter who they could hear just in front of them. This took them to the water’s edge, where a crude cockleshell of a boat, small and lopsided, made of bark and sealskins, had been pulled up on the mud. The man did not go to it, as Ginger thought he would, but soon turned back into the forest.