Biggles Buries a Hatchet

by W E Johns

  Keeping close against the trees they came presently to what they were prepared to find, for the smell of wood smoke had become noticeable.

  Standing alone in a little clearing was a house, or rather, a rude hut, or shack, built of turves and fir logs. Nothing more wretched, more squalid, as a human habitation, could have been imagined, yet this apparently was where the man lived, for as he walked to the low entrance that served as a door, a tired-looking woman, clad in rags that would have shamed a scarecrow, came out. With a hand resting against a doorpost her frail body was shaken by a fit of coughing so violent that it made Ginger wince. A small boy of perhaps five or six years old ran to her and tried to comfort her.

  On the wall of the house a bear skin had been stretched out to dry. From a line in front hung a row of fish, about the size of salmon, split and hung in the sun, also to dry in the cold air.

  All this Ginger could see clearly, although he and Fritz kept well back in the surrounding firs. Well satisfied with the results of his reconnaissance, and supposing that the hunter would now go into the house with his family, he was prepared to retire, and in fact would have done so had there not been a sudden development to engage his attention.

  It was announced by the thud of hooves, and round the corner came three horsemen, one leading, followed closely by two others. All were in uniform, the leader apparently an officer, better dressed than the others.

  Wearing a round hat of some black, curly fur, he was a small, broad-faced man, with a scowl on his face. He carried a riding whip in his hand and revolver holster on his hip. Cartridge-filled bandoliers crossed his chest.

  ‘Cossacks,’ whispered Fritz.

  The arrival of this trio gave Ginger a shock, for his immediate thought was, naturally, that the troops were a patrol looking for the aircraft. However, this was soon revealed not to be the case. The first indication of it came from the behaviour of the hunter and his wife, who cowered back as if in fear as the horsemen dismounted, the leader throwing his reins to one of his followers. At the same time, looking at the peasant, he rapped out something in a harsh voice. But what shook Ginger was the way the man put his heavy boot against the boy, who had walked up to him, and sent him reeling back, to fall heavily. The child burst into tears while its parents stood by, watching helplessly.

  Fritz, his face pale, started forward, but Ginger held him back. ‘Stand still,’ he said tersely. ‘We’d be mad to interfere.’

  The rest of the scene was hardly to be believed. For some minutes the officer subjected the peasant and his wife to what sounded like a fierce interrogation. At the end of it he lashed out at them freely with his whip. Finally he remounted his horse. One of his supporters picked up the two sables and the three of them went off at a gallop. The peasant and his wife, with dumb misery on their faces, watched them go and then, hurrying to the sobbing child took him inside.

  Ginger drew a deep breath. ‘That was a pretty exhibition I must say,’ he muttered. ‘I wouldn’t have believed it had I not seen it. Could you hear what it was about, Fritz?’

  ‘I couldn’t hear very well, but as far as I could make out it was something to do with not handing over those sables to somebody at once.’

  ‘The man hadn’t time.’

  ‘That’s what he said.’

  ‘Were they speaking in Russian?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What a life. What a place to live. Let’s get back.’

  ‘Wait. I have a thought.’

  Ginger looked at Fritz inquiringly. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Those wretched people must hate the soldiers.’

  ‘With good reason. What of it?’

  ‘They might be willing to help us.’

  ‘You mean — out of revenge?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They looked scared to death. To let them see you would be taking an awful risk.’

  ‘I think it’s worth it. They could tell us a lot, if they I would, and save us much time and trouble.’

  Ginger looked doubtful.

  ‘Let me talk to them,’ persisted Fritz. ‘I would promise them some food. They look as though they could do with some — particularly that poor child. The man must know something about the prison. Naturally, I wouldn’t say how many there were of us, or how we got here, although he may find that out for himself if he uses the track beside the water, as I expect he does.’

  Ginger agreed, not without some reluctance. It was Fritz’s argument that the man might discover them that decided him.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘What shall I do?’

  ‘You stay here and watch what happens. Don’t let him see you. If he kills me run away.’

  ‘Very well, if you’re prepared to take a chance on that.’

  ‘I go,’ said Fritz, and strode briskly towards the door.

  Ginger, backing a little farther under the trees sat against one to watch. He saw Fritz knock. He saw the door open. Fritz went in. The door was closed.

  It was half an hour before it was opened again and to Ginger’s great relief, Fritz came out. He walked without stopping past the tree behind which Ginger was hiding and only pulled up to wait for him when they were well clear of the hut.

  ‘I thought it better not to let those people see you,’ said Fritz. ‘Not that it matters, I think. We have nothing to fear from them.’

  ‘Then you learned something?’

  ‘Much. Shall I tell you here or wait until we get back?’

  ‘Tell me now,’ said Ginger. ‘We’d better not stand on the track in case somebody comes this way. Let’s sit in the forest. This log will do. Now go ahead and tell me about it,’ he concluded, as they sat on the fallen tree which he had indicated.

  ‘We talked much, but I will make it as short as possible,’ began Fritz. ‘That man and his wife are Russians. Their names are Ivan and Olga Miskoff. He was once a well-to-do farmer near Vladivostock, owning his land. On an unlucky day twelve years ago he gave food and shelter to some Japanese fishermen who had been driven ashore in a storm. It was an act of simple humanity, but for this they were tried for harbouring enemies of the State. It was said the men were really seal poachers, but if that was true Miskoff says he knew nothing of it. He and his wife were sentenced to ten years’ imprisonment on Sakhalin.’

  Ginger’s eyes opened wide. ‘Ten years for that!’

  ‘Miskoff says they were lucky to escape the death penalty. As an additional punishment they were banished for life, which is why they are still here. That, Miskoff tells me, is commonly the fate of people who are sent to Sakhalin. The real object of that is to prevent them from going home to claim their property.’

  ‘Then they have served their sentence?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They must know all about the prison.’

  ‘They do. When their time was up they were released, but they could not leave Sakhalin. They were put out of the prison to fend for themselves, to live or die as the case might be. They built that hut in which to end their days making a bare living by fishing and trapping. The little boy, Mishka, is not theirs, although he doesn’t know it. His parents, who lived in a shack a little higher up the river, died, so they took care of him.’

  ‘What was all that fuss about just now?’

  ‘Although the Miskoffs are free they are not left in peace. Officials from the prison sometimes come to make sure they are still there. This applies not only to the Miskoffs. There are other ex-prisoners living in the same conditions. What happened this morning was, Ivan had been lucky — or thought he had. He had caught two sables in his traps, and their furs are valuable.’

  ‘Isn’t he supposed to do that?’

  ‘There’s no law against it. Unfortunately, it so happened that Lieutenant Vostov — he’s the officer we saw — came along with his patrol and saw the animals before Ivan could hide them. He knew Vostov would want them. As we saw, he took them. He is a hateful man. He himself was a thief before he came here. That was why he was sent here. You must under
stand this is only what Ivan told me, but I believe it to be the truth.’

  ‘Do the authorities permit this sort of thing?’ asked Ginger, indignantly.

  ‘It’s unlikely that they know anything about it. Miskoff says he daren’t make a complaint for fear of what Vostov would do to him. He says that when his wife is dead he will kill Vostov with his axe.’

  ‘Is she likely to die?’

  ‘Yes. She is dying of tuberculosis and cannot live much longer. How could she, in those dreadful conditions. She will die any day now. She was coughing all the time I was in there.’

  ‘They’ll hang Miskoff if he kills Vostov.’

  ‘He says he doesn’t care what happens to him when she is dead. For the moment he must live to provide her with what little food he is able to get.’

  ‘What a ghastly story,’ said Ginger. ‘Poor wretches. You seem to have got into Miskoff’s confidence very quickly. How was that?’

  ‘Because I told him frankly why I was here.’

  ‘What exactly did you tell him?’

  ‘He knew of course by my accent that I was not Russian, so I told him the truth; that I was a German from Berlin, that my uncle was a political prisoner in Onor and that I had come to help him to escape. He could well appreciate that. Once he realized that his enemies were my enemies the rest was easy. He understood the need for secrecy. He said he’d help me in any way possible.’

  ‘You’re sure he won’t betray you?’

  Fritz shook his head. ‘Not he. I don’t think I ever realized what hate could be until I saw the look in Ivan’s eyes when he spoke of Vostov. If he has any passion left in him it is for revenge.’

  ‘I imagine he must know his way about the prison?’

  ‘Yes. Which reminds me: he said a little while ago was a rumour that an American was in there. He didn’t know his name or anything about him. Rumours are bound to leak out because some of the prisoners are taken to labour in the forest or in the mine.’

  ‘Mine? What sort of mine?’

  ‘It isn’t exactly a mine but an outcrop of coal near the surface.’

  ‘You didn’t say anything about our plane or the rest of our party?’

  ‘No. I thought that could come later, when Biggles has been informed of what we have learned.’

  ‘I think you were wise, there. We’ve done a good morning’s work. Let’s get back and tell the others about it.’

  Keeping careful watch and sometimes standing in the forest to listen, they set off down the track.

  CHAPTER 6

  A STRANGE ALLY

  HALF an hour later Ginger and Fritz were in the cabin of the aircraft recounting their strange and harrowing experience to the others who, in the intensity of their interest, did not speak until they had finished. Then it was Biggles who replied.

  ‘Great work,’ he congratulated. ‘I see several angles to this,’ he went on. ‘It could turn out to be a bad show or a stroke of astonishing luck. It’s too early to say which.’

  ‘Why a bad show?’ queried Ginger.

  ‘If this unhappy man Miskoff loses his head and goes off at the deep end the place is likely to be buzzing with troops or prison warders. In any case, if one of these riders makes a practice of coming along this side of the estuary in broad daylight he could hardly fail to notice, from the back of a horse, the trail of broken rushes between the bank and the machine. There is no way of avoiding that. We couldn’t get to dry ground anywhere without leaving marks.’

  Fritz spoke. ‘The patrol may not come as far as this. I didn’t ask Miskoff if this end of the track was patrolled because I didn’t think of it; but he did mention that his was the last house along this side.’

  ‘Do you think Miskoff really meant what he said about killing Vostov with an axe if his wife died?’

  ‘Without a doubt. And I would guess that having killed Vostov he’ll probably kill himself.’

  ‘Is his wife really ill?’

  ‘She had a terrible fit of coughing while I was there. I’m not a doctor but she looked as if she was going to die. Any one of those attacks could be the last.’

  Algy looked at Biggles anxiously. ‘What are you going to do about this? We seem to have struck a dangerous place to park the machine.’

  Biggles thought for a moment. ‘I think we’d better get in touch with Miskoff again without wasting any time. The first thing to find out is if this track is patrolled regularly. If it isn’t we’re okay. Apart from that he must know all about what goes on here, information that would be invaluable to us. That is, if we can get him on our side.’

  ‘He’d be on the side of anyone who would strike a blow against his real enemies,’ declared Fritz. ‘I know the type. All he has left to lose is his life, and after what he’s been through he won’t regard that as of any great consequence.’

  ‘If I went and saw him you could act as interpreter.’

  ‘Of course. I’d suggest right away, because the patrol is hardly likely to call on him twice in one day.’

  ‘Take the woman some food — condensed milk, and that sort of thing,’ suggested Ginger.

  ‘That might be dangerous,’ answered Biggles. ‘If some prowler found an empty can with an English label it would start something.’

  ‘He could be warned not to leave anything about.’

  ‘Suppose I go and bring him here,’ offered Fritz. ‘I’m sure you needn’t be afraid of him betraying you. When a man hates as Miskoff hates Vostov, he hates with everything he’s got.’

  ‘At this stage it might be better if I went to see him,’ decided Biggles. ‘We’ll have a quick bite of lunch and move off. I’ll go with Fritz. The rest of you can lay on some more camouflage and perhaps do something to make the gap in the reeds less conspicuous. By the way, Fritz,’ he went on, after Ginger had observed that the two fishing boats were on their way back to the river, ‘how does Miskoff catch his fish?’

  ‘He told me he has a home-made boat of sorts,’ returned Fritz. ‘He doesn’t go far. He can catch all the fish he needs without leaving the estuary. We saw a boat which I take to be the one.’

  The simple meal finished, Ginger took Biggles and Fritz to dry ground in the dinghy. Biggles’ last words, as they set off down the track, were: ‘We shouldn’t be more than a couple of hours at the outside.’

  Ginger paddled back to the Otter, and he with Algy and Bertie set about the task allotted to them, always keeping watch, of course, on the estuary as well as the track. Thus engaged, the afternoon passed quickly, and with the sun dropping into the mountains the light began to fade. The deadly chill in the air, which it had done something to dispel, returned.

  ‘Biggles has been gone over two hours,’ remarked Ginger, as he wiped his hands with a towel after having washed the mud off them. ‘I hope nothing’s gone wrong. He told me he reckoned on being back in a couple of hours at the outside.’

  Although he made this observation he was not seriously worried; nor were any of them; because on a venture such as the one on which Biggles was engaged there was always a possibility of a delay. But when another hour had brought twilight without any sign of Biggles or Fritz he began to take a different view.

  ‘Things can’t have gone as he anticipated or they’d have been back before this,’ he said, frowning.

  His conjecture was correct. Things had not gone according to plan, although the lonely, forest-girt house, had been reached without hindrance, or trouble of any sort.

  From within the gloomy firs that fringed the little glade Biggles and Fritz stopped to reconnoitre the scene. The ramshackle door was closed. There was nobody in sight. Not a sound broke a silence so profound as to be almost tangible.

  ‘I have a feeling there’s something wrong here,’ muttered Biggles.

  ‘They must be inside,’ said Fritz, but there was no conviction in his voice.

  ‘We’d better have a look,’ returned Biggles. ‘We might stand here for a long time without learning anything.’

  They made a
discreet advance. Biggles went to the one small window and after listening for a moment tried to see inside; but the interior was so dim that nothing could be seen clearly. He went on to the door and knocked. There was no answer. He tried again with the same result. After an exchange of glances with Fritz he lifted the simple bobbin latch and gently pushed the door open to show, as he had been led expect, that the dwelling comprised one room only in which the family lived, ate and slept.

  A glance revealed that tragedy had preceded them. On a miserable trestle bed against the far wall was a woman, and it did not need the hands crossed on her breast to show that she was dead. Sitting on the floor beside the bed was a small boy, his face tear-stained. The man Miskoff was not there.

  ‘Ask the boy where his father is,’ Biggles said softly to Fritz.

  Fritz put the question.

  The boy did not answer. He looked frightened, and turning his head away began to cry.

  ‘This is a melancholy business,’ lamented Biggles. ‘I don’t see what we can do about it. The woman is beyond help, and if Miskoff has gone off to carry out his threat the sooner we’re out of this the better.’

  Fritz had another try at questioning the boy, asking him where his father had gone and if he was carrying his axe; but he could get no reply.

  Biggles shook his head. ‘It’s no use.’

  ‘What shall we do?’

  ‘We might wait a little while to see if Miskoff returns. If he doesn’t, all we can do is go back. I can’t believe Miskoff has gone for good, or he wouldn’t have left the child here like this. But we’d better not stay in here in case someone else comes.’

  They retired to their original position just inside the forest and settled down to wait.

  About an hour later their patience was rewarded when Miskoff appeared, striding towards the house. In his hand he carried a spade. The axe still swung on his belt. Fritz revealed himself and the man changed direction towards him. A wave of sympathy swept over Biggles as he looked at him. His face was white, set, and without expression. His eyes were those of a man from whom all hope, all feeling, has fled.