by W E Johns
He showed the piece of canvas. ‘Does this mean anything to you?’ he asked.
The Scot did not hesitate. ‘That’s a bit of my canvas,’ he declared. ‘Where did you get it?’
Biggles told him.
‘If that Indian hasn’t got the rest he must know where it is,’ asserted Mr Scott, confirming Biggles’ opinion.
‘Assuming he’s got it, what would he use it for?’
‘To make a portable tent, probably. It’d be the nearest thing to a home that Indian ever had. Usually the best they can do is chuck together a few bits of stick they pick up on the beach. It’s no use them wasting time on anything permanent.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because they must always keep on the move looking for food, mussels on the rocks, or if they’re lucky, a piece of rotten fish. Once the rocks have been cleared from one place they must move on to another, or starve. Queer nobody noticed that piece of canvas before.’
‘It would have meant nothing to anyone who might have seen it. You happened to mention to us that the Seaspray’s sails were dark red.’
‘Gontermann would know that.’
‘He may not have seen the canoe. Even if he did, knowing how he feels about Englishmen he wouldn’t be likely to bother about it.’
‘That’s right. How far does this help you?’
‘I’d say quite a long way,’ replied Biggles. ‘From now on I shall be looking for a red wigwam. There can’t be many about here, and one would show up against either black rock or white snow or ice.’
‘Aye. I’d think that,’ agreed Mr Scott.
As the party returned to the Ford, Biggles said: ‘We’ll go home for lunch. I don’t know about you but I’m ready for mine. I think we’ve done pretty well for our first sortie. At least we have something to look for.’
‘What exactly are we looking for?’ asked Ginger pointedly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Are we looking for two lost plant hunters or a pile of metal jettisoned by the Dresden?’
‘Both,’ answered Biggles, evenly. ‘I know what we were sent here to find, but we should be a bunch of scabs if, while we’re here, we didn’t try to solve the mystery of the disappearance of two of our own countrymen. What’s a lump of gold, anyway, compared with how the relatives of the missing men must be feeling, waiting day after day for news, hoping against hope. The odds are a thousand to one the men are dead, but that has yet to be proved, and if it should happen that they’ve managed to hang on imagine what a state they must be in. This isn’t the sort of place I’d care to end up.’
Nobody answered.
CHAPTER 5
SMOKE
FOR the next fortnight, whenever weather conditions made it worthwhile, Biggles carried on with his task. There were long and short occasions when poor visibility would have made flying not only a waste of time, but dangerous, too. On such days the party stayed at home, Biggles refusing to take risks which he held were not justified by the circumstances.
He had sent a letter to the Air Commodore, by air mail, although he had no more to report than his safe arrival on the spot, the absence of shipping in the Strait except those loading meat at Punta Arenas, and the finding of the piece of red sailcloth which made it almost certain that the botanists’ craft, the Seaspray, had been lost.
They saw Gontermann, always smoking his big bent pipe, at the airfield on days when the regular services were scheduled to arrive from the north, and on the whole his churlish attitude seemed to have relaxed somewhat. Which is not to say he was friendly. Far from it. But at least he did nothing to hinder them, and with that Biggles was satisfied. He told the manager about the piece of sailcloth he had found; indeed, he showed it to him; but this, as was expected, only convinced the German that the plant hunters were dead, drowned in all probability when their ketch had been capsized by one of the all too frequent squalls. He advised them to give up the search. In fact, so insistent was he about this that Biggles began to wonder if there was a reason behind it. Anyhow, he declined to abandon the hunt, arguing that even if the Seaspray had lost its sail, or had been dismasted, it would still have its little auxiliary engine to give it headway.
The sorties made by the Gadfly had all followed a similar pattern. Indian Reach had been visited several times in the hope of finding the canoe Indian there. Biggles was still of the opinion that the man knew more than he had acknowledged and would have questioned him further, if necessary offering bribes for information. However, the Indian must have moved, for nothing was seen of him.
The landings in Indian Reach were usually made on the way to the area dominated by the two mountains with which they were most concerned. Here the plan devised by Biggles was followed. This was to survey each island in turn from a low altitude in the hope of finding the one that fitted the only clue they had. The trouble was, there were too many which might have been said to fit, for on clear days the mountains could be seen from a distance of fifty or sixty miles, and the islands in line with them were almost countless, if islets were to be included. Here again there had been no real indication of the size of the island on which the gold had been dumped. Each one, after being examined, was struck off on the chart to prevent duplication, which otherwise would have been easy, the islands, broadly speaking, being very much alike. Some were more heavily wooded than others and occasionally a glacier would facilitate identification; but apart from that the islands were merely masses of rock. Beaches did occur, but they were few and far between.
Biggles was chary of landing but he did so several times, always on water, after going to a great deal of trouble to confirm, as far as this was possible, that there were no obstructions, rocks or growlers, which too often choked what otherwise would have been sheltered anchorages. They had taken it in turn to go ashore. Some of the most promising hills had been climbed, always a cold and laborious business, but these efforts had led to nothing. Algy twisted an ankle in a fall and now walked with a limp. Constant watch was kept for smoke, signs of wreckage that might have been the remains of the Seaspray, and, of course, a red object that might be canvas from the missing ketch.
All this was to no purpose, and although nobody complained outright it was clear to everyone in the aircraft that an atmosphere of futility and dejection was present. Always with the knowledge of what an accident would mean Biggles himself admitted that the job was becoming ‘a bit of a bind.’
On the fifteenth day everything happened at once. It was, apparently, one of those days. First Biggles received a radiogram, in code, from the Air Commodore, instructing him to carry on and informing him that others might shortly be engaged in the same operation. Biggles knew this could only mean one thing. Gold was not mentioned, but the message could only refer to that since there was not the slightest chance of anyone else arriving to look for the missing botanists. In any case, in that event there would have been no point in making the signal in code.
The second incident occurred shortly afterwards. On their arrival at the aerodrome Vendez told them that Gontermann had been absent for three days although he should have been there to meet incoming machines. This was unusual behaviour. He couldn’t account for it. All he knew was that the airport manager had gone sailing as he so often did. He had given no indication of where he was going. But then, he never did. Vendez, with whom they were now very friendly, concluded by saying that he only mentioned this because if they intended flying down the Strait they might keep an eye open for him in case he had run into trouble. However well a man might know his boat, and the waters, an accident was always a possibility.
Biggles said, rather grimly, that he was well aware of that. The sea bed must be littered with the bones of men and ships that had come to grief in those dangerous channels. He promised to keep a sharp lookout for the conspicuous black and orange Wespe.
It was about noon that Ginger spotted the smoke. Oddly enough, at the time his eyes were exploring some side channels for the Wasp, since so far they had seen noth
ing of it.
Biggles had decided to extend their range of operations. Holding more to the north than usual, where the Strait makes in elbow to turn sharply to the north-west, he was cruising it two thousand feet hoping the mist that enveloped the tops of the mountains would clear so that he could get them lined up, when Ginger let out a cry. ‘I see smoke!’
‘Where?’
At that moment a belt of mist, or rain, or sleet, it was impossible to say which, swept past below them effectually blotting out the ground.
‘What a pest! What a climate!’ muttered Biggles, bitterly.
He went into a tight turn in order not to lose the locality.
They were at this time flying over a veritable maze of islands, many of them quite small and of such irregular shapes that they might have been the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle thrown down haphazard. These were separated by a hundred winding channels of varying widths, some so narrow that it was questionable if a ship of any size could get through them. The only conspicuous landmark of any size that had caught Ginger’s eye just before he had spotted the smoke was a glacier that swept down in the form of a letter S to what seemed to be open water. He had paid no particular attention to it. He had seen plenty of glaciers. In fact, what in warmer climates would have been rivers were nearly all glaciers. But now he remembered this particular one.
‘Are you sure you saw smoke?’ asked Biggles, as they waited for the storm to pass.
Ginger hesitated. ‘Well, I thought I did.’ As so often happens after a fleeting glimpse of something he was by no means sure of it.
‘You’re certain it wasn’t just a stray slant of mist?’
‘I suppose it could have been. All I can say is, when I first caught sight of it, it looked more like smoke than mist.’
‘We shall soon know,’ said Biggles, as the squall began to thin. ‘If it’s smoke it should still be there, in the same place. If it’s mist it will have gone.’
The tail of the storm drifted away and Ginger’s eyes turned down; but before he could mark his spot, although he had picked up the S-shaped glacier as a guide, another mass of grey storm-cloud had cut the scene from view as effectively as a blanket drawn across it. He groaned. ‘This would send anyone round the bend,’ he muttered, viciously.
Biggles said nothing. He banked, and the aircraft continued to circle.
Ginger champed with impatience. What he feared now was that the wind, the velocity of which was unknown, might be causing them to drift in spite of Biggles’ manoeuvre.
The storm took about ten minutes to pass.
‘Get on with it,’ said Biggles shortly. ‘There you are,’ he added, as the last trailing shreds of vapour were dragged past below them by the restless breeze.
Ginger’s eyes worked feverishly. ‘I’ve got it,’ he cried, triumphantly. ‘It is smoke. And that’s not all. I can see a red thing! Look! Down there! Right at the point where the smoke starts.’ He jabbed with a finger.
‘By gosh! You’re right!’ exclaimed Biggles. ‘There’s no doubt about it being smoke.’ He cut the throttle and started down.
‘Buck up!’ urged Ginger. ‘I can see another storm coming.’
‘Yes, and if that’s rain or sleet sweeping the ground we shall have to go up again or risk hitting the carpet.’
Again the squall beat them.
Biggles steepened his dive in the hope of beating the storm and was down to a hundred feet or so when it caught up with them, and he had no alternative than to climb again. But this was not before Ginger had seen a man crawl out from under the red object. His eyes had never left it.
‘I saw a man,’ he declared.
‘So did I,’ answered Biggles. ‘To me it looked like an Indian.’
Bertie put his head into the cockpit. ‘I say, old boy, what’s going on?’
‘There’s somebody on the ground below us and we’re trying to make out who he is,’ answered Biggles. These squalls keep beating us. We’ll get a clear run in a minute. The next one is a long way off and may just miss us.’
Bertie retired.
The Gadfly, dripping water, climbed out of the cloud and again had blue sky overhead. Half turning Biggles looked anxiously along the leading edge of the wing.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Ginger.
‘Nothing. We’re all right—so far. But we’re too near icing conditions for my liking. I’m not taking on any more of those squalls. I’d rather wait till we can be sure of a longer clear run.’
‘What a wizard it would be if this did turn out to be the lost men,’ said Ginger, enthusiastically.
‘I don’t know about a wizard: it would make things dashed awkward for us,’ replied Biggles, dubiously.
‘But you were looking for them!’
‘Of course I was. But, to be quite frank, I didn’t expect to find them.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Our excuse for being here is to look for these plant hunters, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Very well. If we found them we’d no longer have an excuse for being here. Everyone would expect us to go home. If we didn’t go home people would begin to wonder what we were really doing.’
‘I see what you mean,’ returned Ginger, slowly. ‘I didn’t think of that.’
‘I’ve always had it in mind; but I hardly expected it to work out that way. I fancy Gontermann, for one, is already a bit suspicious of our purpose here. If we carried on flying up and down the Strait after having done what we came to do it would confirm those suspicions.’
‘Even so, what could he do? He couldn’t stop us.’
‘He could make things deuced awkward. If he reported his suspicions to the Chilean Government they might tell us to go home. If they did we should have to go. By withholding petrol Gontermann could force us to go, anyway. But it hasn’t come to that yet. We may be howling before we’re hurt. Let’s find Carter and Barlow before we get in a flap.’
The squall passed, and again Biggles went down quickly towards the source of the smoke, about which there was no longer any doubt, although the man they had seen was no longer in evidence. But when, presently, the Gadfly skimmed low over the place, a dark-coloured human being was seen to look out from under what was certainly a roughly made tent of dark red material. He didn’t wave. He merely stared up at them.
‘I don’t understand this,’ said Biggles, as he pulled up after his swoop. ‘I’d swear that was the Seaspray’s sail. But if the lost men are there why don’t they come out and make signals for help? All I can think is, if that’s Carter and his friend down there they must either be pretty sick or scared stiff of something.’
‘What are you going to do about it?’
Biggles studied the sky. ‘We seem to be in a clear patch so let’s find somewhere to land. Tell the others.’
A thorough search of the island revealed only one possible place, within walking distance of the tent, where the Gadfly could be put down. This was a beach, or, more correctly, an area of what presumably was black sand, below the outfall of the glacier. Biggles would have preferred going down on water, but this, everywhere, was speckled with floating ice. The sandy patch seemed reasonably clear of obstructions, and after flying up and down it a few times Biggles said he would try it. What he was most afraid of, he told Ginger, was sticking in the sand; and it was unlikely that he would have risked this but for the fact that other similar beaches they had seen at ground level had been firm.
Ginger looked for anything that might be the wreckage of the Seaspray but failed to see it.
‘Shut your eyes and hold your breath,’ advised Biggles, as he made his approach into a stiffish breeze which would at least be to their advantage since it would make for a slow ground speed at the vital moment.
The Gadfly went in. Ginger held his breath but did not close his eyes. The wheels touched and the machine trundled on, soon to pull up as Biggles gently applied the brakes. Ginger breathed again.
‘Easy,’ said Biggles, wiping
imaginary perspiration from his forehead. ‘See what the ground’s like.’
Ginger got out and stamped. ‘Okay,’ he announced. ‘It feels firm enough.’
Biggles switched off and joined him, as did the others. They looked around. The tent could not be seen, being some way back with high ground intervening; but the direction of it was known. For the rest, the scene presented a picture of nature in its most savage form. It was in a way magnificent, but hardly one to gladden the eyes of an air pilot or navigator. To start with it was bitterly cold, although with the wind blowing over miles of ice and snow it could hardly be otherwise. Ginger wore a leather fleece-lined jacket over a thick sweater and woollen underwear, but he felt naked.
Behind the aircraft was water, black and still, being protected by the innumerable islands, many of them high.
Dotting the water were growlers, their projecting tops often cut into the most fantastic shapes by the wind and rain. Men, animals and birds were represented. On both sides stretched the sandy beach, as black as ebony. Some little distance away a party of penguins regarded the intruders with surprise but without alarm. There were also a few grey gulls and black- necked swans.
But the most impressive picture was provided by the island itself, looking inland, particularly towards the moraine of the glacier. This had carved for itself a deep bed in the manner of a valley, one side of which, the side protected from the prevailing wind, was surprisingly well-wooded with larch, birch and pine. There were also patches of bracken and brush. The glacier itself was composed of great masses of ice, glistening in the insipid sunshine. Some of it was white, some blue, some green, and some as black as ink, apparently from being impregnated with black soil. In one place water cascaded in a little waterfall, waving in the breeze like a veil. The only sound, apart from the mournful moaning of the breeze round the aircraft, was the cracking, crunching and groaning of the ice under its own weight.
