by W E Johns
That knocks bathing on the head, thought Ginger.
Chintoo looked at him and smiled. ‘If boya catch you push eyes out. He let go.’ He demonstrated his meaning with his thumbs.
Ginger, hoping he would never have to put the operation to test, made a note of it; also that crocodiles were known locally as boya. ‘Too many boya,” he remarked sadly.
‘Lay eggs in mangroves,’ informed Chintoo.
Biggles put down his wheels and trundled on up the beach to a spot some distance above the high-water mark, switching off and coming to rest about twenty yards from where jungle, thickets of bamboos, coconut palms and a few casuarina trees, straggled down to the sand.
Everyone got out.
‘We should be all right here,’ observed Biggles, looking around and lighting a cigarette. ‘Let’s get unloaded and make camp. Keep out of the water.’
‘You needn’t tell me,’ replied Ginger. ‘I saw the ugly brutes.’
Said Bertie: ‘You know, old boy, I had an idea that crocs stuck to rivers.’
‘Now you know better,’ Biggles told him.
‘What a bore. I was looking forward to a dip.’
‘Forget it. Let’s get fixed up.’
The next two hours were spent unloading enough stores for immediate use and the equipment they needed. The most important item was a light rectangular nylon tent. To save space in the aircraft the support poles had not been brought, but some stout bamboos were soon cut and served the purpose. Rolls of bedding, a blanket and groundsheet each, were put inside. Mosquito nets were slung. A rifle and a shot-gun were hung on the tent poles.
Bertie remarked that there did not seem to be too many mosquitoes about.
‘Don’t fool yourself; there will be,’ answered Biggles grimly. ‘By the grace of God the blood-sucking little devils only do their hunting after dark, otherwise life in a good many places would be impossible for people like us, with nice rich juice in their veins. That goes for animals, too. They have to cope with leeches as well. So shall we if we have to do any jungle work.’
While this had been going on Chintoo had not been idle. Without being told to do so he had shown his understanding of the situation by collecting rocks to build a fireplace and piling a supply of fuel beside it. He had also fetched a canvas bucket of water from the little stream. Now, with his sarong tucked up, parang (the heavy Malay jungle knife) in hand, he was busy cutting a quantity of strong bamboo poles.
Seeing him laying these out in a regular pattern Biggles asked him what he was doing.
‘Perhaps boya come tonight, Tuan,’ said Chintoo, seriously. He explained that he intended to build a palisade round the tent, and the shelter he had built for himself, to keep them out.
‘No doubt he knows what he’s doing,’ remarked Biggles with a shrug.
‘I’m beginning to understand why these charming little islands aren’t exactly overrun with tourists, if you see what I mean,’ said Bertie. ‘What else have we here to make life one long sweet song?’
Biggles grinned. ‘Snakes, dear boy. But don’t let ’em worry you. They’re not all poisonous. The pythons run to a fair size, but they look worse than they are. If you trip over one try to get clear of any trees. Without a tree to get his tail round the beast can’t get a real hold on you—so I’m told.’
‘Thank you very much,’ returned Bertie with biting sarcasm. ‘I’ll stay on the beach if you don’t mind.’
‘The cobra is probably the worst menace here, anyhow it is on the mainland, which is why I’ve put some serum in the medicine chest,’ went on Biggles. ‘Although they’re common, the chances of being struck by one are only about the same as being knocked down by a car at home. I believe about twenty thousand people die in India from snake bite every year, but they don’t talk about it, and it doesn’t keep them from going out.’
‘I don’t think that’s very amusing,’ stated Bertie coldly. ‘I had nightmares for a year after that anaconda got me by the leg in Brazil.’1
Biggles laughed softly. He looked at the sky. ‘The weather seems to be set fair, but one can never be sure of it. They have a nasty type of storm here which they call a sumatran. It can pop up from nowhere any time of the year. To be on the safe side we’ll cut some pegs and have them handy ready to anchor the machine should the barometer start tumbling. We’d look silly if we woke up one morning to find she’d blown away.’
This was done. By the time it was finished Chintoo was calling from the fire to say dinner was ready. Again his efficiency was demonstrated when it turned out he had not only made a kettle of tea and had opened sugar and condensed milk, but had prepared a savoury dish of curried corned beef and rice. This provided a satisfying meal. Afterwards he washed up the plates and put them away. All this was done without any fuss as if from long practice, as probably it was.
‘Our new lad looks like being a treasure,’ said Bertie approvingly. ‘If there’s one thing that binds me rigid it’s kitchen-sinkery. We should have brought a washing machine, then no doubt old Chin-Chin would have turned out clean shirts for us every day.’
He need not have worried on that score, for it soon transpired that Chintoo could manage that—without a machine.
By the time everything was in shipshape order the sun was well past its zenith. Ginger said: ‘If that’s the lot I think I’ll give my legs a stretch while there’s some daylight left. I haven’t had any real exercise for a week.’ He moved off.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Biggles.
‘Only as far as the mangroves at the far end of the beach.’
‘Watch what you’re doing.’
‘I might find the wreck of the Vagabond. It’s as likely to be here as anywhere.’
‘Don’t be long.’
Ginger raised a hand to show he had heard and wandered on, whistling softly, looking at the strange shells, coral, and other fascinating objects that had been left high and dry by the tide. He noted the tracks made in the sand by the crocodiles.
He had second thoughts about going any farther when, with a small army of crabs waving their claws menacingly as they retreated before him, he came to the edge of the swamp and peered into its dim recesses. The tangle of roots, sprawling like the tentacles of octopuses, looked anything but inviting. The same could be said of black water that surged between them sluggishly with soft, sinister gurgling and sucking noises. The stench was abominable. However, sheer curiosity prompted him to advance a little way, climbing over the roots; but when he nearly stepped on a crocodile, as described earlier, he stopped, wondering if he was being wise to take risks for no particular purpose. A snake, almost white with yellow bands, gliding along a root a little way ahead, decided him, and he retired cautiously, glad when he was back on firm sand. He returned to the camp.
‘You weren’t long,’ said Biggles, as he joined them. ‘See anything?’
‘Enough to go on with. The place stinks. When I nearly put my foot on a croc trying to look like a log, that was it.’ Ginger settled down beside the others.
The sun sank, or appeared to sink, ever faster as it closed the gap with the horizon, resulting, as is usual near the equator, in a brief twilight.
Moving into the smoke of the still-smouldering fire to ward off attacks of the mosquitoes that were already on the war-path, there was a final discussion on the general plan of campaign and the programme for the next day. It had always been realized that the factor likely to retard progress in the operation was petrol and oil; that is to say, the shortage of it. It would not be possible to use the aircraft as if the supply was unlimited. Biggles had put these commodities on the lists he had given to Captain Macdonald, hoping he would be able to get aviation spirit at Alor Star or Penang, which was as far south as he went until he returned to Singapore to refit. Even if Macdonald was successful in this, they would have to wait until he had called at these sea and air ports. As the Alora carried mail there could be no question of it making special trips.
So, whatever happened pe
trol would have to be used sparingly, which meant a minimum of flying, as much work as possible being done on foot as each island was visited. To make a complete air survey of the Archipelago was not possible, at all events within a reasonable period of time.
The slight breeze that had tempered the heat of the day died away, and night closed in, still, silent and sultry, lit by a million stars that sprinkled diamonds on a sea that could hardly raise a ripple.
At last Biggles stubbed his cigarette end and said they might as well turn in to be ready for an early start in the morning.
They took their places in the tent, and having made themselves comfortable the light was switched off. But to sleep was a different matter.
Bertie was the first to sit up. ‘I’m being torn to pieces,’ he announced savagely. He switched on his torch to find his arms covered with minute black insects.
‘Fire ants,’ Biggles informed him, without moving. ‘You can’t do anything about ’em. The little devils can march through a mosquito net in columns of four. A shirt wrapped round your face might help, but then you simply choke to death in this heat. Please yourself. You know the old saying: “What can’t be cured must be endured.”’
‘But this is murder,’ growled Bertie.
Biggles chuckled. ‘You’re always saying you love the places where bananas grow. Well, this in one of ’em. You tear your mosquito net and you’ve had it, chum. Switch off that light before it attracts every kind of bug that flies.’
Bertie switched off his torch. ‘What a life, what a climate,’ he groaned.
* * *
1 See Orchids for Biggles.
CHAPTER 4
THE FIRST SURVEY
The night passed, not without discomfort in the tent, but without serious alarm, although there were certain disturbing noises outside. These were more or less explained later.
It was the bustling about of Chintoo as he made up his fire that brought Ginger to his feet, and he went out to find the first flush of dawn staining a dead calm sea with reflected pink and gold. Chintoo greeted him ‘Baik, Tuan,’ (very good, sir) at the same time pointing to trampled sand outside the palisade. ‘Boya come.’
So the crododiles had been up on the beach, thought Ginger, although what the Malay could see good in it was not clear. Perhaps he meant it was a good thing he had built a palisade, in which case Ginger would have agreed with him.
Leaving it he walked down to the sea, astonished to observe the number of tracks made by creatures large and small during the night. There was hardly a square yard that had not been covered by something. The most easily recognized were the marks of crocodiles and pigs. They were now being washed out by the incoming tide, but it was disconcerting to note how close to the tent the crocodiles had approached. Chintoo had known what he was doing when he had built the fence.
In these circumstances there was no temptation to bathe, but after a close reconnaissance of the water Ginger stood in a few inches of it and had to be content with splashing himself. He perceived that even there he was not entirely safe, for V-shaped ripples not far out told their own story. Once, for a moment, he saw a pair of periscopic eyes regarding him malevolently.
He returned to the tent to find the others breakfasting off bread and boiled eggs, biscuits, butter and marmalade, with plastic mugs of coffee. They had brought a few loaves and some eggs from the mainland. A big bunch of bananas, apparently gathered by Chintoo, lay near.
‘Your idea of helping the larder by catching some fish isn’t going to work out,’ Ginger told Biggles as he sat down. The place is absolutely crawling with crocodiles. I’ve seen plenty of the stinking brutes in my time, but never any as precocious as these. They nearly come out of the water after you.’
‘That’s probably because they’re never hunted here,’ answered Biggles, shaking his fingers as he dropped an egg too hot to hold, there being no such unnecessary luxuries as egg-cups. ‘We may be able to teach ’em to keep their distance.’
‘If we can’t all I can say is this place is a dead loss as far as I’m concerned.’
‘How about fishing from the dinghy?’ suggested Bertie.
‘Not on your life,’ declared Biggles emphatically. ‘A croc might take a bite at it, in which case we should be deflated in every sense of the word. If we run into a party of Salones we may be able to buy one of their kabangs, as I remember they call their boats. Failing that we might try fishing from the rocks. I’m relying on the rifle to get us some fresh food, a wild pig or a deer. Maybe Chintoo will have some ideas about that. I don’t know what sort of shot he is. I shall have to go into that before I trust him with a gun.’
At this point of the conversation everyone was brought to his feet by a tremendous bellowing at the rocky end of the beach. Rushing out they were just in time to see a small herd of perhaps half a dozen buffalo disappearing into the jungle, leaving one of their number behind. At first it was not easy to make out what was happening, except that for some reason this one was not able to follow the others. It was standing in about two feet of water, straining forward, neck outstretched, with a leg sticking out behind it at an unnatural angle. In spite of its desperate efforts to get back to dry land, it was being dragged backwards, slowly but surely, into deeper water. In its pain and terror it was making a fearful noise.
‘Either a croc or a shark has got it by the foot,’ snapped Biggles, grasping the situation, as did everyone at the same moment. He dashed into the tent and came out with the rifle. Loading as he ran he sprinted towards the scene of the drama. Everyone, including Chintoo, parang in hand, followed.
By the time they had reached the spot, the buffalo, still bellowing like a mad creature and foaming at the mouth, had lost more ground. It was now in water to above the knees, and throwing itself about looked likely to fall at any second. It was not easy to see how this was to be prevented, for its assailant was out of sight under the water, and the terrified animal, with its long, backward-sweeping horns, looked as dangerous to approach as the beast holding it. This, in its efforts to secure its prey, now came to the surface, lashing the water into clouds of spray with its tail. It was a crocodile, and a monster.
Biggles began shooting at it, aiming at any part that appeared above water, for in the turmoil it was not possible to pick a spot likely to prove fatal. He had to fire five shots before one took effect. This was at the crocodile’s head, as for a moment it was lifted clear of the water by the now frantic animal. The crocodile must have released its hold, for it disappeared in a swirl of blood-stained water. The buffalo, finding itself free, lunged forward so quickly that Biggles only just escaped being knocked down. The poor brute, its leg mangled and bleeding, plunged into the jungle where it disappeared from sight with a great crashing of bushes.
Biggles, who had raised his rifle as if to shoot it, lowered it.
‘Much meat, Tuan,’ said Chintoo, reprovingly.
‘Yes,’ answered Biggles. ‘I should have shot it.’
‘Why didn’t you?’ inquired Ginger, in a disappointed voice. ‘We could have had rump steak for dinner. It’ll probably die, anyway. Every leech for miles will follow that blood trail.’
Biggles smiled sheepishly. ‘I had every intention of shooting it. But it suddenly struck me as sheer hypocrisy to save the life of that wretched animal only to kill it and eat it ourselves. After all, if that was to be its fate, the croc had more right to it than we had, being first on the scene.’
Put in Bertie, morosely: ‘You go on like that and you’ll have me bursting into tears.’
‘Ah well. Such is nature in the raw. Everything always eating something. I must admit these crocs are a curse. If that one could drag a buffalo backwards into the sea imagine what a hope we’d have if one got hold of one of us.’
‘If I hadn’t seen it happen I wouldn’t have believed that a croc could pull down a beast the size and weight of that buffalo,’ asserted Ginger.
‘I can’t say I was particularly surprised,’ returned Biggles. ‘
It’s hard to imagine a crocodile pulling into a river a rhinoceros weighing two or three tons. Yet Mr. F. C. Selous, the famous big game hunter, in his book African Nature Notes, has a marvellous sequence of photographs showing that actually happening, from the moment the rhino was seized as it was drinking, to the time it was disappearing in deep water. But that’s enough about crocs. I had reckoned to be on the move by now. We have work to do. This isn’t a picnic.’
‘I’m just beginning to realize it,’ replied Bertie, grimly.
Somewhat subdued by what they had witnessed, they walked back to camp. Only Chintoo, who, like many orientals, apparently had little regard for animals, seemed disappointed with the outcome of the affair. To him, evidently, the buffalo was 600-lbs. weight of good food thrown away.
No more time was lost. The Gadfly was taken down to the sea, the rifle having been put on board in case the opportunity arose to bag a pig or a deer. Chintoo was left in charge of the camp, for on this occasion the intention was to do no more than make a slow tour of the island on which they stood. Unless it became necessary, the aircraft would not even be taken off the water; for as Biggles had pointed out, if the Vagabond had in fact gone ashore on one of the islands, what remained of it would be on the coast, in or out of the water. A vessel that size could hardly have been blown by wind, or carried by a big sea, into the interior of any island; wherefore there was no point in searching anywhere except along the shore. Naturally, the one they were on came first in order of inspection.
By taxiing, using the aircraft as a boat, they would be able to travel slowly, using binoculars, even stopping to examine closely anything that seemed worth while. This was the general plan, although for obvious reasons it would only be practicable in really calm weather. The sea now being dead calm, it was clearly advisable to make the most of it.
