by W E Johns
By this time the three riders were within fifty yards and still coming on. Their rifles were now in their hands, although there was no likelihood of them being used with any degree of accuracy while they were on the move.
Bertie’s arm went back over his shoulder, then forward. Something left his hand. It landed just beyond the middle of the bridge. There was a blinding flash and a deafening explosion. Smoke swirled. Splinters flew. Bertie repeated the performance with similar result.
This was more than any horse could be expected to face. The three, nearly at the bridge, reared, and then bolted in different directions, their riders unable to control them with one hand, for the other was holding a rifle.
‘Tally ho!’ yelled Bertie. ‘Gone away.’
The wind soon blew the smoke clear and then it could be seen that the middle of the bridge had disappeared.
‘Jolly good,’ said Bertie, grinning. ‘Do you know, chaps, I’ve been wanting to do that for years.’
‘Do what?’ asked Biggles, shortly.
‘Make a good bang.’
‘Well, you’ve done it,’ said Biggles. ‘How did you do it?’
‘I slipped a couple of dynamite cartridges in my pocket, old boy — you know, those you brought thinking we might have to blow a hole in the prison. I had an idea this morning they might be useful.’
‘You didn’t tell me,’ accused Biggles, sternly.
‘No jolly fear. You’d have said no to my little notion.’
‘I would.’
‘And who have we here?’ went on Bertie, fixing his monocle to look at von Stalhein. ‘Well, if it isn’t—’
‘Cut the chatter,’ requested Biggles, sharply. ‘We’ve a lot to do yet.’ He was watching one of the horsemen who, with his animal now under control, was racing back towards the river, heading for a point a little higher up.
‘That’s Vostov,’ said Ginger.
‘He’s making for the ford where Pat crossed,’ surmised Biggles. ‘Let’s get along. If he gets on the track behind us he could make things uncomfortable. It would be a pity if someone was hit after all this.’
‘You were right,’ said Fritz, as they watched Vostov reach the ford and urge his mount into the stream.
‘How about having a shot at him,’ suggested Ginger.
‘No use,’ said Biggles. ‘You’d never hit him at that distance. Save your bullets. You may need them before we’re home.’
He had half turned to go when a rifle shot rang out.
‘Somebody’s had a shot at him, anyway,’ said Bertie. ‘Hit him, too, by Jove.’
Vostov had dropped his rifle to clutch at his mount’s neck. For a few seconds he hung on, slowly slipping. Then he fell out of the saddle. The horse, after a few plunges, turned back, dragging Vostov, whose foot was caught up in the stirrup, with it. At the last moment the foot came clear, leaving its rider to float down the river. The horse, reaching the bank, galloped away.
‘I suppose it would be Algy who fired that shot,’ guessed von Stalhein.
‘Algy isn’t here,’ answered Biggles. ‘I’ve no idea—’
‘I know!’ exclaimed Ginger. ‘It must have been Miskoff. I hadn’t time to tell you, but we saw him go past when we were hiding here after starting the fire.’
‘Who’s Miskoff — another of your team?’ questioned von Stalhein.
‘No. He’s a Russian we met here. He was out to get Vostov.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said von Stalhein. ‘That man was a devil.’
‘Miskoff is an ex-prisoner. He served his time, but they still wouldn’t leave him alone.’
‘Are you going to wait for him?’
‘No. He has no real interest in us, nor have we with him. He won’t leave here. His one object in life is to wage war on the people who, in that prison, gave him hell. He told us so.’
‘There’s something going on at the prison now,’ put in Ginger.
The chain gang had been halted at the gate. Out through the gloomy portal came a dozen or so men in uniform. They advanced down the track at a run.
‘That’s the squad of troops who are quartered in the prison in case of trouble,’ advised von Stalhein.
‘In that case we won’t wait for them,’ said Biggles. ‘Now we’ve got our breath back we’ll push on. We could hardly expect all this fuss not to have been heard at the prison.’
‘Don’t forget I want to talk to you,’ said von Stalhein, quietly.
‘Not now,’ returned Biggles, crisply. ‘This isn’t the time. We’ve talked long enough as it is. We still have some way to go.’
‘But I would rather have an understanding—’
‘If you don’t like our company the forest is all yours,’ broke in Biggles. ‘We’ve got you out. That’s what I came to do. Having done it I’m off home. You do what you like, but don’t forget you have Fritz to consider.’
Von Stalhein bowed. ‘As you wish.’
Biggles was looking at the sky. ‘I’ll tell you something else,’ he went on. ‘The snow hasn’t finished yet. If I know anything there’s more to come. A lot more. And when those troops see what happened to the bridge they’ll know which side of the river we’re on.’
He set off down the track at a brisk walk.
Von Stalhein fell in behind.
Biggles didn’t stop when, a minute or two later, there was some sporadic shooting in the distance.
‘What do you suppose that’s all about?’ asked Ginger.
Fritz answered. ‘Miskoff, wiping out more old scores.’
‘Where did he get the rifle?’ asked von Stalhein.
‘He killed a guard with his axe.’
Bertie chipped in. ‘He’s a useful lad. If he’s sitting in the trees opposite that ford he’ll make things hot for those troops if they try to cross the river there.’
‘All right. That’s enough talking,’ said Biggles.
He strode on.
CHAPTER 14
HEAVY GOING
BIGGLES’ prediction about the weather soon proved to be correct. They had not gone far when the snow came on again, and this time it was the real thing. In another five minutes they were fighting their way against a raging blizzard which quickly piled up an inch of snow underfoot. Seeing that the six of them were making a track that a half-blind man could follow. Biggles thought it expedient, even though the tracks might soon be covered by fresh snow, to take to the forest. This slowed up the pace considerably, but in his opinion it was worth while. There was always a chance that the snow might stop again, and the tracks leading up the side of the estuary would tell their own story.
As for Ginger, he was getting really worried about the storm. Nothing was said, but he knew there could be no question of taking off in such conditions. If the snow persisted for any length of time they might not be able to get off when it stopped, for it was certain the aircraft would collect a considerable weight of it.
Biggles spoke to von Stalhein. ‘You know better than I do how they conduct operations here,’ he said. ‘Do you think those troops will go on looking for us in this sort of weather?’
Von Stalhein answered that if the search was abandoned he thought guards would be posted at all strategic points, certainly near the fishing boats, and at the houses where the fugitives might try to obtain food.
‘Thanks,’ acknowledged Biggles. ‘In that case we’d better not talk.’
It was as well they took the precaution of marching just inside the forest, for while they were still half a mile from the rendezvous they had a shock when a Cossack, travelling on the track, overtook them. What with the moaning of the wind in the trees, the lapping of waves on the shore, and the snow deadening the sound of the horse’s hooves, they were unaware of his presence until he was level with them. Ginger caught a glimpse of the man bending low in the saddle as if to scan the ground more closely.
‘We shall have to watch we don’t bump into that fellow as he comes back,’ remarked Biggles seriously, in a low voice.
‘He said he’d keep under cover, in the forest. If there is any shooting make sure you can see what you’re shooting at, or we may find ourselves at loggerheads with Pat.’
They toiled on, winding a serpentine course through the trees but keeping close enough to the track to see anyone on it; particularly the rider who had gone forward, returning.
Biggles suddenly came to a dead stop as from somewhere ahead came the sound of two shots fired in quick succession. Muffled by the storm it was not easy to judge how far away they were.
‘They were fired by two different weapons,’ said Biggles. ‘I don’t like that. I have a feeling someone fired at Pat and he fired back — or vice versa.’
They went on, and a minute later, a rider came down the track, presumably the one they had seen going forward. He rode at a hard canter, which was as fast as practicable in the weather conditions.
‘That fellow was riding as if he was in a hurry,’ said Biggles. ‘I’m afraid he’s seen something.’
‘He couldn’t have seen the aircraft, that’s certain,’ asserted Ginger. ‘I’d put visibility at not more than five or six yards.’
‘We may know more about it when we meet Pat,’ returned Biggles. ‘That is, if he is there to meet us.’
‘You mean—’
‘I don’t like those shots. He may have been hit. Come on.’
They resumed their journey in a state of uncertainty, pressing on against the storm, which showed no sign of abating. After a time Biggles said: ‘There’s only one thing to do in a case like this. If we go past the boat we might end up by losing ourselves completely.’ Raising his voice he shouted: ‘Pat.’ They waited. There was no answer. They went on perhaps fifty yards and Biggles called again. Still no answer.
‘If he was shot by that fellow we saw we shan’t find him by shouting,’ muttered Ginger, despondently.
Biggles did not reply. He strode on and again shouted: ‘Pat!’
To Ginger’s unspeakable relief a voice close at hand answered: ‘Okay. Here we are.’
A few more paces and they met.
‘We were just getting scared you’d had an affair with that horseman and got the worst of it,’ greeted Biggles.
‘He had a shot at me. He didn’t hit me, but he did something nearly as bad,’ said Pat savagely.
‘What do you mean?’
‘He hit the dinghy.’
For a second or two Ginger did not grasp the enormity of the disaster.
Biggles said: ‘How did it happen? I thought you were going to keep under cover.’
‘So I did until about twenty minutes ago,’ stated Pat. ‘Then, when I saw the snow beginning to pile up in drifts, it struck me that it might bury the dinghy, or fill her with so much snow that she’d be out of action. So like a fool I went out to have a look.’
‘A perfectly natural thing to do,’ put in Biggles.
‘Seeing she was already half full of snow, which was tilting her on one side, I started to chuck the goldarned stuff out; and by a bit of lousy luck it was right then that the guy on the horse came along. I didn’t hear a sound. I looked up and there he was, watching me. I went for my gun. So did he. I missed him and he galloped off. I figured I was lucky he didn’t hit me till I saw what he’d done. The dinghy had folded up like a pricked balloon. With the weight of snow in her she went under before I could do anything about it.’
‘I can’t see that you could have done anything about it, anyway. Where is she?’
Pat led the way to the spot and they saw the boat, a crumpled, shapeless mass, half in and half out of the water.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Pat.
‘Nothing to be sorry about,’ returned Biggles. ‘It wasn’t your fault. In your position I should have done the same as you did. It’s just one of those things.’
‘I’ve been trying to work out the best thing to do.’
‘Forget it,’ said Biggles. ‘As far as the dinghy is concerned, she’s finished. We’ve no means of repairing her, and if we had we couldn’t inflate her.’
By this time Ginger had realized that they were cut off from the aircraft, and all that that implied. ‘How are we going to let Algy know what’s happened?’ he asked.
Biggles answered. ‘We can’t. And it wouldn’t help matters much if we could. I doubt if he could get the machine to us here in these conditions. In this wind, if he pulled the anchor in he’d be blown all over the place, and with visibility practically at zero once he lost sight of the rushes he wouldn’t know where he was. It wouldn’t matter so much if we could sit here and wait for this perishing blizzard to blow itself out, but we can’t do that. Now we know why that Cossack was going home in a hurry.’
‘He was going to fetch others,’ put in Fritz.
‘Of course. If he saw the dinghy, and I imagine he did, it won’t be long before the prison authorities know where the trouble is coming from.’
Von Stalhein spoke, ‘It sets a nice problem for you.’
‘I’ve had worse,’ returned Biggles.
‘I can’t see the answer to this one.’
‘It’s there, if we can find it,’ retorted Biggles.
‘How about me trying to get out to Algy?’ suggested Pat.
‘No use,’ declined Biggles. ‘You’d never find the machine in this blinding snow. The tide’s in. It would mean swimming, and apart from the fact that the water is near freezing you can’t swim in thick rushes. No. That won’t do.’
‘Algy will be getting worried,’ said Ginger.
‘Of course he will. But my orders were that he was to stay put, so things would have to be desperate before he tried to move. At present he has no real reason to move. He’ll realize the danger of that as well as I do. Give me a minute to think.’
Silence fell.
After a little while Biggles went on. ‘Fritz, I seem to remember you telling me, when you came back from your first reconnaissance, that Miskoff had a boat that he uses for fishing? I haven’t seen it myself.’
‘Yes. That is right.’
‘That tub!’ exclaimed Ginger. ‘It looked a pretty flimsy home-made affair to me. It wouldn’t five for five minutes in any sort of sea. It’s a mile away. Even if by a miracle it kept afloat you’d never paddle it here in this wind.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of paddling it here,’ answered Biggles. ‘Is there any reason why it shouldn’t be carried here?’
‘No. I suppose not. Could we get it here in time? Troops are likely to arrive at any moment.’
‘Not necessarily. With the bridge gone and Miskoff sniping at them they may still be on the other side of the river. They won’t fancy taking to the water in this weather. That boat, if we could get it here, would give us a chance to get out to the machine even in these conditions, so we’d better take it. If this cockleshell is as flimsy as you say it is it shouldn’t take all of us to carry it. Someone will have to stay to mark the spot, anyhow. Pat, you’d better stay. You can stay with him, von Stalhein. After the strenuous day you’ve had on top of weeks of prison rations you must be exhausted.’
‘I am not in the least tired,’ said von Stalhein, curtly. ‘I would rather come with you and make myself useful. If nothing more I could cover your rear to make sure you are not overtaken. No one will pass me while I am on my feet.’
‘I can believe that,’ said Biggles. ‘All right. Let’s get cracking. Pat, while we’re away, as that dinghy is no more use to us try to get it out of sight under the water, or the snow; then, if that Cossack leads a party back here, there will be nothing to mark the spot, in which case he should have a job to find it. Don’t let us go past.’
‘How shall I know if it’s you?’
‘You’ll see us carrying the boat. If we don’t come back you must please yourself what you do. All I can suggest is that you stick around for the snow to stop and then try to get to Algy. Tell him what happened and make for Japan. That’s all. L
et’s go.’
The five members of the party engaged in the forlorn hope set off up the track, with the wind now behind them making good time, travelling either at a run or a fast walk. Biggles led and von Stalhein brought up the rear. All carried their guns ready for use should they come into collision with troops marching in the opposite direction, as seemed to Ginger more than likely. He realized that with everything under snow the next difficulty would be to find the spot they sought, either the remains of Miskoff’s shack or the muddy patch at the water’s edge where he kept the boat. In this he was right, and more than once the party halted to argue about it. However, at the finish it was the clearing in which Miskoff’s house had stood that gave them the mark and they turned to the water.
The boat could not be seen. That was to be expected since the snow was several inches deep. But after they had tramped up and down for five minutes, stamping and kicking at humps and drifts, the bitter truth had to be faced. The boat was not there.
‘He must have moved it,’ said Fritz.
‘In which case we’re wasting our time,’ replied Biggles. ‘He might have put it anywhere.’
For a moment or two they lingered, loath to abandon the quest that could have meant so much. Then, as they turned to regain the track, their vigilance relaxed in their disappointment, a voice that belonged to none of their party came from somewhere just outside their snow-shortened range of vision.
‘It’s Miskoff,’ cried Fritz.
‘What does he say?’ asked Biggles.
‘He says what are we looking for?’
‘Tell him we were looking for his boat.’
Fritz complied.
The voice came again and this time its owner came with it. Miskoff loomed, axe on his belt, rifle in the crook of his arm.
This time it was von Stalhein who translated. ‘He has hidden the boat, but it is not far away. He thought we might be in trouble with the weather and was waiting here in case troops came down the track.’
‘Tell him we’ve lost our own boat, and ask him if we can borrow his,’ requested Biggles.
In another minute the matter was settled. Miskoff led them into the forest a short distance away and there lay the boat, with its single paddle, free from snow under the protecting trees. They took positions on either side of it, Miskoff helping, and lifting it without difficulty set off on the return journey. But this, with the wind and snow in their faces, and the wind dragging at the boat, was a different matter from the outward trip. However, they had the satisfaction of knowing that the snow was covering their tracks. Curiously, perhaps, far from Ginger being conscious of fatigue, he acquired a sense of exultation in this battle with the elements. That is not to say he was sorry when Pat’s voice informed them that they had reached their destination.