Biggles and the Lost Sovereigns

by W E Johns

  It did not take those on board long to realize the immensity of the task confronting them. What had seemed a fairly simple procedure when the enterprise was being discussed, was anything but that when it came to putting it into effect. It was not so much any particular difficulty, as far as could be seen at present, but the time it was likely to take.

  Biggles controlled the craft while Bertie with binoculars made a close study of the foreshore and for as far back as it was possible to see, particularly when the ground was flat. Ginger confined his attention to the sea bed, which could be seen plainly through the crystal-clear water, except on the few places where it ran deep. These were of no importance, because had the Vagabond gone down in deep water it would not have been possible for the old Salone to get the sovereigns that had started the quest.

  By the time the island had been more than half circumnavigated, the only object of interest that had been seen was a shark that seemed determined to follow them. While things were as they were it could do no harm. Nothing had been seen of any Salones, who might have been there. Some wild pig were seen foraging on a little beach, but they had scampered away before Biggles could fetch the rifle. After that he kept it beside him but did not get another chance. They had a snack lunch.

  When they came to the mangrove belt, which swung round the end of the island to within sight of the camp, the task became much more difficult. It was realized that in a high wind a ship might well be blown into the trees to a distance beyond their range of vision. The dim light within the swamp made it difficult to see anything clearly. Yet Biggles dare not take the aircraft too close to the trees for fear of damaging a wing or the tail unit. To make matters still worse, here the water was so black and muddy that it was impossible to see an inch below the surface.

  Biggles did a certain amount of manoeuvring, juggling with the engines, but this was tricky work and did little good. As he pointed out, however, there was this about it. The mangroves occurred chiefly on the leeward side of the islands, whereas a ship sailing between the main ports of the Indian Ocean, as the Vagabond would be, would pass on the seaward side of the islands. The chances were, therefore, that the Vagabond, if anything was left of her, would be on the outer side; that is, away from the mangroves. It seemed a reasonable assumption.

  While discussing this, Biggles had allowed the Gadfly to come to a stop, primarily to allow Bertie to use the glasses with the maximum effect.

  ‘That seems to be about all we can do,’ said Biggles presently. ‘We can strike Hog Island off our list. I wasn’t very hopeful of it because it’s the first place Macdonald would make for after finding the sovereigns. Let’s get home.’ He eased open the throttle.

  The Gadfly, which was lying side on to the mangroves, did not move.

  He gave the engines a little more power, gently, to avoid a jerk and possible collision with a tree.

  The aircraft pitched a little but still did not move.

  ‘What goes on?’ inquired Ginger.

  ‘Either we’re stuck on a root or we’re aground,’ answered Biggles, glancing at the near-by beach. ‘The tide’s on the ebb. I must have been crazy to stop here. That’s the trouble of not knowing the depth of the water.’

  ‘We must have stopped right over a mud bank.’

  ‘Evidently. If we’re really stuck, with the tide running out, we look like being here for some time; six hours at least, till the next high water.’ As he finished speaking Biggles gave the engines an even sharper burst of throttle. The airscrews flashed. The machine dipped its nose a little. That was all. He retarded the throttle.

  ‘No use,’ he muttered. ‘No great harm done, but we’ve had it for the time being. I deserve to be kicked from here to the camp. I wonder, can we rock her off? Go aft and throw your weight, both of you, from side to side when I open up. Buck up. Every minute counts.’

  The method was tried several times without success. Biggles tried using one engine only, but that only tended to cause the aircraft to turn on its longitudinal axis, so that had it come unstuck suddenly, either the nose or the tail unit would have struck a tree or the sprawling roots.

  ‘Here comes Chin-Chin to see what the fuss is about,’ observed Bertie, seeing the Malay hurrying along the beach towards them.

  Biggles, concerned only with their plight, ignored the remark. There’s no point in wasting petrol,’ he said, switching off. ‘We shall have to wait till there’s more water under us; that’s all there is to it.’

  The sudden cessation of engine noise after it had persisted for so long had an effect that can best be described as uncanny. The retreating water gurgled between the interminable roots. In the sultry heat the very atmosphere seemed to sweat. Chintoo came to as near as he could get along the beach and shouted to be told what was wrong.

  Ginger answered briefly. ‘We’re aground. We shall have to wait for high water.’

  Chintoo threw up his hands and walked back along the beach.

  ‘That’s all it means to him,’ growled Ginger.

  ‘I don’t see what he can do about it,’ said Biggles. ‘Living where he does, he must have seen this sort of thing happen to small boats hundreds of times.’

  Ginger, looking down at the turgid water lapping their hull, saw two knobs appear. He recognized them for the eyes of a crocodile. They were joined by two more. Very soon there were a dozen or more pairs near the aircraft. ‘Did you ever see so many crocodiles in your life?’ he said. ‘The place is lousy with the brutes. I suppose they’re not likely to interfere with the machine?’ he added anxiously.

  ‘I wouldn’t think so; why should they?’ answered Biggles.

  ‘They can’t have seen an aircraft before. They might take us for a new line in birds and try their teeth on our keel. After what they did to that buffalo—’

  ‘Forget it,’ returned Biggles, shortly. But his expression changed when the machine was given a sharp nudge from below.

  ‘Who did that?’

  ‘Not me.’

  The head of a crocodile floated up alongside the hull.

  ‘I don’t know that I like this,’ put in Bertie, deadly serious for once. He fixed his eyeglass more tightly and stared down at the scaly monsters crowding near them.

  There was another nudge, followed by a scraping sound as if a hard object was being dragged under the hull.

  ‘Here, I say, this isn’t funny,’ cried Bertie. These devils mean mischief.’

  ‘I’ll soon put an end to that sort of caper,’ asserted Biggles cogently. ‘Ginger, pass me the rifle.’ He was standing in the cockpit, having opened the cover.

  Ginger passed the weapon. Biggles loaded it with a cartridge from his pocket. At a range of not much more than a yard careful aim was unnecessary. He pointed the muzzle between the eyes looking up at him and squeezed the trigger.

  The result of the report was in the nature of an earthquake. Mud and water churned. Great gaseous bubbles floated up to burst on the surface and fill the humid air with an appalling smell. The aircraft rocked, slime licking its sides, as the stricken crocodile spun over and over lashing its tail. This may have lasted for half a minute, although to Ginger, severely shaken, it seemed longer. Then the reptile’s struggles subsided and it floated belly up.

  ‘I wouldn’t try any more of that, old boy,’ called Bertie earnestly.

  ‘Don’t worry, I shan’t,’ returned Biggles grimly. He was looking anything but happy.

  Ginger’s voice rose high. He pointed. ‘Ye gods! Look at Chintoo! What’s he doing? He must be out of his mind.’

  All eyes switched to the Malay, who, unnoticed in the turmoil, had returned. With a rope—the spare mooring line—over a shoulder he was hurrying towards them over the mangrove roots with the agility of a monkey. He reached the stilt-like legs of the tree nearest to the bows of the aircraft and stopped.

  ‘Go back, you fool,’ yelled Biggles. ‘The water’s full of crocodiles.’

  ‘Catch, Tuan,’ called Chintoo, calmly, and the rope, uncoili
ng, swung through the air. Biggles caught it. By now he had of course realized the intention. The question was where to fasten the line; where it would not foul the airscrews. The obvious place was the mooring ring, and this, although it involved risks, is what he used. Dropping back into his seat, he started the engines to give the Malay all the help possible.

  Chintoo, seeing the line made fast, clambered back along the roots until he had a direct pull forwards. He stretched the rope taut. ‘Now, Tuan,’ he screamed, and with the rope over a shoulder threw his weight on it.

  Biggles opened up, and in a moment, after a sticky start, the Gadfly floated free. Biggles had to do some quick work with the controls, cutting one engine to swing away from the trees. Then it was all over. Discussing the business afterwards, it was thought that the crocodile, by stirring up the mud in its death struggles, had simplified matters.

  Chintoo, paying out rope as he went, made his way to the point where the mangroves ended and the beach began.

  ‘Jolly good show,’ cried Bertie. ‘The old boy deserves a gold medal for thinking of it and knowing how to do it.’

  ‘If we find those sovereigns I’ll see he gets one,’ declared Biggles, as he taxied on towards the beach. ‘These infernal crocodiles are going to be a nuisance. They’ve had things their own way for too long. They’re not afraid of men, that’s the trouble.’

  ‘By gosh! They’ve got me afraid of them,’ confessed Ginger frankly.

  When the Gadfly had lowered its wheels and run up to its stand by the tent—scattering a troop of crab-hunting monkeys on the way—Chintoo was at his fire bending over a pot from which arose an appetizing aroma. Biggles thanked him for what he had done and congratulated him on his quick wits.

  All the Malay had to say was ‘Utong baik,’ meaning, what good luck.

  ‘What are you cooking?’ Biggles asked him.

  ‘Plandok, Tuan. I call. He come.’

  ‘What’s plandok?’ asked Bertie.

  ‘A deer!’

  Bertie looked incredulous.

  ‘It’s sometimes called the Mouse Deer. It’s the smallest deer in the world, less than a foot long. No horns. It’s cooked whole, like a chicken,’ explained Biggles.

  ‘What did he mean by saying he called it?’

  ‘The Malays have a trick of imitating its call by tapping on a leaf. That brings it close. I’m told it makes good eating.’

  This chap’s a magician,’ declared Bertie. ‘I’m beginning to wonder what we’d have done without him.’

  CHAPTER 5

  AN UNPLEASANT VISITOR

  Ten days later the position was unchanged, except that all the islands within easy reach of the camp had been examined without any sign of the wreck of the Vagabond. The bare bones of an old hulk were found, but these were the remains of an iron ship, so it could not be Vagabond, which was a wooden vessel. It was thought this particular wreck went back to pre-war days. They might expect to find others, of the war period, when during the battle for Singapore many ships had been lost.

  Finding they were getting low in petrol and oil, and not daring yet to rely on the dumps Captain Macdonald had promised, in case he had not had time to attend to them, Biggles had flown to Penang to fill up. He also brought back with him some fresh food, bread, fruit and vegetables. This would enable them to carry on for the time being.

  Pot-hunting with the gun and rifle had produced some meat, as a change from canned food. Bertie had shot a wild pig, but apart from getting tired of pork, Biggles knew from experience that such a restricted diet as they were on would eventually lead to stomach troubles. The only fruit Chintoo had been able to find were bananas, and these were not yet properly ripe. Coconut became monotonous.

  Some fish had been caught, when the aircraft was well clear of the coast, by dangling overboard lines baited with pieces of fat, but nothing of any size had been caught. Larger ones had been hooked, but before they could be brought to hand they were invariably attacked by larger fish or sharks which mustered round the stationary aircraft as if they knew what was going on. One fish, species unknown, which must have weighed all of forty pounds, was bitten off all except the head just as Ginger was hauling it aboard. He might well have lost a hand at the same time. The trouble about this sort of fishing was, when a fish too large to be landed was hooked, the line was broken and the tackle lost.

  ‘This is the difference between facts and what you read in books,’ remarked Biggles, on such an occasion. ‘This living on a desert island isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.’

  Nothing had been seen of any natives. For some reason they had evidently left the district. Biggles had hoped to find them on Cochran Island, where Captain Macdonald had seen them, in order to question them through Chintoo. There were signs of their stay, but the people and their boats had departed.

  The weather remained perfect, but they were all beginning to realize the enormity of the task they had undertaken. However, there was no talk of abandoning it.

  Chintoo continued to make himself useful. During one of their excursions, when he had as usual remained in camp, he had built at low tide a sort of bamboo fence, or stockade, when the tide was out. This was the shape of a horseshoe with extended legs, the idea being to form a small, crocodile-proof enclosure. Even when the tide was right up it did not surround the ends of the fence. The water was too shallow for swimming, but it did at least enable them to have a bath.

  Walking down early one morning for a dip, Ginger’s attention was drawn to a gathering of monkeys farther along the beach. They were making a good deal of noise and were apparently excited by something that had been washed up. He walked along to see what it was. When the monkeys had scampered off at his approach, he saw it was a dead crocodile. It had been shot, so it was either the one that had attacked the buffalo or the beast Biggles had killed from the aircraft. It was an enormous, hideous-looking brute, and after seeing it Ginger was never entirely happy inside the stockade, although the usual method of using the improvised bath was for one to watch while the others took a dip. No one felt inclined to take chances.

  ‘We’ve done about all we can do from here,’ said Biggles one morning as they sat outside the tent having breakfast. ‘We’ll pack up and move on. I think our best plan would be to strike camp and move along to Chang Island, the nearest of those where Mac said he would dump our stuff. It should be there by now, or be along shortly. If there’s a comfortable place to make a camp we’ll stay there and work the islands around as we’ve done here.’

  The others agreed as a matter of course, but without enthusiasm. The truth of the matter was, spirits had been somewhat damped, not only by failure but by the improbability of success.

  ‘Okay,’ said Biggles, getting up. ‘Let’s get on with it.’

  ‘Just a minute; what’s this coming?’ observed Ginger, who was looking out to sea.

  Heading towards the island was a small, smart, white-painted launch or power boat. A little flag, as yet unrecognizable, fluttered from the bow.

  ‘I can’t imagine who it can be, but it’s certainly coming here,’ said Biggles.

  They walked slowly down the beach to meet the visitor.

  The cutter, with a man standing in the bows to take soundings, came as near as it dare to the beach. The throb of the engine ceased. A dinghy which it carried on deck was put over the side. Into it stepped the man who was to handle it and another carrying a rifle. These were followed by a man in a white uniform with a peaked cap, from all the signs a person of some importance. He was rowed ashore.

  All this was watched with the greatest interest by the airmen standing on the sand.

  ‘Who do you suppose he is?’ said Bertie quietly.

  Biggles answered. ‘I haven’t a clue, but I fancy we shall soon know the answer.’

  The man being discussed advanced, followed closely by the one carrying the rifle. He was dark-skinned, short and rather stout, and from the truculent manner of his approach evidently had a high opinion of himself. />
  ‘Here comes trouble or I’ve never seen it,’ murmured Biggles.

  ‘Which of you is leader of this party?’ inquired the visitor, curtly, in English.

  ‘I am,’ informed Biggles.

  ‘You are Englishmen?’

  ‘We are.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Is that any concern of yours?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘In that case you might have the courtesy to tell us who you are and whom you represent.’

  ‘I am Captain Yomas of the Coast Patrol, Burmese Customs Office. I heard you were here.’

  ‘What of it? We didn’t try to make a secret of it.’

  ‘Have you permission to land here?’

  ‘I have a permit to operate among the islands.’

  At this the Burman looked a trifle taken aback. ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘It was obtained for me at the Burmese Office in London.’

  ‘For what purpose are you here?’

  ‘Chiefly to take photographs.’

  ‘You did not report to me for Customs examination.’

  ‘I haven’t been to Mergui, and in any case I didn’t know it was necessary.’ Biggles remained calm and polite, but Ginger could see his expression hardening under this uncivil interrogation, the more so perhaps from the pompous manner in which it was being carried out. He recalled what Macdonald had said about some of the local officials.

  ‘I demand to search your plane,’ announced the Burman.

  ‘Nobody is stopping you; but I don’t think you’ll find anything of interest; certainly no contraband.’

  ‘I see you have a rifle.’

  ‘One is necessary here, as apparently you have noticed. The crocodiles are many and dangerous.’

  ‘What else have you?’

  ‘Some cameras.’

  ‘Has duty been paid on them?’

  ‘No duty was payable. Authority to bring them and take pictures was incorporated in my permit. You may see it if you wish.’