by W E Johns
‘Anything as long as we don’t have to go on a diet of coconuts, old boy,’ said Bertie. ‘I know that sort of thing is done in books; but this isn’t a book, and after all, I mean to say, if a bellyful of coconut doesn’t give a man indigestion—well, I ask you.’
‘All right. Go and shoot something.’
‘That’s not a bad idea. I could tear a couple of pork shops. I might have a look for the Vagabond at the same time. One never knows. We’ve only skimmed round the outside of the island. We haven’t made a proper search.’
‘Fair enough. Go ahead. We can’t do any flying, so you might as well do something useful as squat on your haunches all day. I shall stay here in case the Alora shows up. Ginger can go with you if he cares to. But don’t get into mischief. A casualty at this stage would do nothing to improve matters. I’d keep off the hill. That tiger may be in a different mood if he hasn’t had his breakfast.’
‘I was thinking of strolling along the coast, not the way we went yesterday. The other direction, to cover new ground.’
‘Okay. Keep clear of the mangroves. There’ll be crocodiles there.’
‘You bet.’
‘Take the rifle.’
‘I’ll do that. With any luck it’ll be beefsteak for dinner.’
In a few minutes Bertie and Ginger were on their way, walking along close to the jungle behind a mass of refuse left by the receding tide. At the highest point reached by the sea, stuff had been hurled on the shrubs and the lower branches of trees. It was not only seaweed. There was a strange assortment of other things, from driftwood to dead monkeys, from whole trees to coconuts. There was even a drowned buffalo, partly eaten by something either in the sea or after it had been washed ashore.
‘These storms certainly do stir things up,’ said Bertie as they went on their way.
They came to a turtle, still alive but helpless on its back. They turned it over and watched it drag itself clumsily towards the sea. Crabs, alive and dead, were everywhere.
Presently Ginger pointed to an object projecting from the sand above the latest flotsam deposited by the storm. ‘It must have been a snorter that chucked things as high as that,’ he remarked. ‘It looks like half a lifebuoy. From some wreck, I suppose. I wonder what became of the wretched man who tried to save himself with it. The name of the ship might still be on it. Let’s have a look.’ He went to it, and putting both hands through the semi-circle, tugged. It did not move. ‘It must have been here for a long time,’ he said, pulling again, using all his weight.
Bertie scraped away some of the sand that held it and with difficulty dragged the lifebuoy clear. It was the usual circle of cork covered with canvas that had once been white. Ginger brushed the dry sand off it. The top was blank. He turned it over. The part that had been exposed to the weather was blank, even the paint having been rubbed off; but on the section that had been underground four letters could still be read. They were VAGA.
They both stared, realizing simultaneously what they had found.
‘Vagabond,’ breathed Ginger, dramatically.
‘Absolutely.’
‘What a thing to find!’
The Vagabond must have ended up not far from here.’
Ginger looked dubious. ‘We can’t be sure of that. This thing may have been floating about for a long time. We hear of bottles travelling enormous distances.’
‘A bottle perhaps,’ argued Bertie. ‘But this isn’t glass. This wouldn’t have to be long in the water for the paint to be worn off. But look, the stitching hasn’t started to come undone.’
‘It’s a mighty interesting find, anyway. Biggles ought to see this.’
‘We’ll certainly take it back with us when we go, but I can’t see there’s any hurry about that. Hang it on a bush so we can’t miss it.’
‘I think we ought to take it back right away.’
‘An hour is neither here nor there. I have a feeling we might find something else, even perhaps the remains of the schooner. That would be a fair knock-out. We’ve nothing to do if we go back. Let us at least go as far as the mangroves. That won’t take long. Besides, we might get a shot at something. I promised Biggles fresh meat for supper.’
Ginger shrugged. ‘All right. Have it your way.’ He hung the lifebuoy on a convenient bush, in a conspicuous position. ‘Lead on. You’ve got the rifle.’
They went on, walking slowly, towards the mangroves, Bertie holding the rifle ready for a quick shot should one offer. But the only living things they saw were gulls, crabs and monkeys. Reaching the beginning of the mangroves, they paused to consider a quite well-beaten game track where animals of one sort or another had skirted the dangerous, crocodile-infested swamp. It wound through ordinary trees and jungle on the dry ground.
‘There should be a pig or something along here,’ said Bertie.
‘Okay. We’ll go a little way if you like,’ agreed Ginger. ‘I only hope we don’t meet another tiger with the same ideas as we have.’
‘I’ll have a peep round that next bend.’ Bertie advanced cautiously.
Ginger kept a little way behind as the track meandered, sometimes close to the liquid mud from which the mangroves rose, and occasionally into the more solid terrain that supported the normal forest. It was never possible to see very far ahead.
They both froze as from the right-hand side there came a curious barking sound, not unlike that of a small dog. It was repeated, closer. And again. The creature responsible was revealed when from the jungle, some twenty yards ahead, there stepped a deer. It was not a very big animal; about the size of a British roe.
Bertie raised his rifle, but before he could fire the deer had walked on and disappeared round a bend.
Ginger moved swiftly but silently to join Bertie. ‘Go on,’ he urged. ‘That was good venison. It must have been what is called a barking deer. I’ve heard of them. Hurry, you still might be in time for a shot.’
As they moved forward to see beyond the bend round which the animal had disappeared, there suddenly broke upon the sultry air a startled gasp and a great noise of crashing. Turning the corner they saw the reason. A huge snake, easily recognizable as a python, had apparently dropped from the overhanging branch of a tree on the unlucky animal.
Some people, who have only seen big constricting snakes in zoological gardens, may be under the impression that they are slow, sluggish movers. Ginger was one. He was now to learn differently. The speed with which the serpent wrapped itself round the deer shocked and amazed him. In a moment the wretched animal was so enveloped that it had no hope of escape. With the life being crushed out of it, unable to support the great weight of its attacker, it sank down, its mouth open, eyes protruding with terror.
Bertie stepped forward.
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Ginger tersely.
‘Shoot the snake.’
‘Don’t be a fool.’
‘I can’t stand here and watch this.’
‘Keep out of the way. This has nothing to do with us.’
‘Don’t you believe it.’ Bertie took another pace forward.
‘Are you crazy? If it turns on you you’re finished.’
Bertie walked forward. The python raised its head from its now motionless prey, its long tongue flickering. Bertie approached to within five yards. He took deliberate aim. The rifle crashed.
Ginger thought he saw a piece of the reptile’s head fly off; and the python behaved as though it had. It appeared to go mad.
Bertie stepped back hastily as, unwinding itself from the deer, it flung itself about in gigantic loops which revealed its full size. It crashed into the undergrowth always going down a gradient that ended in the swamp. There, still whirling like a flail, it ended up in muddy water. Ripples streaked towards the spot. The water boiled. It vanished. The water subsided.
‘Crocodile meat,’ said Bertie calmly. ‘You know, old boy,’ he went on seriously, ‘if the deer hadn’t been in front that thing would probably have dropped on one of us. It must have
been on the branch waiting for anything to pass underneath.’
Ginger shuddered. ‘What a horror. Let’s get out of this. I’ve had about enough of islands.’
‘Hold hard. What about the deer?’
They examined it. It was dead.
‘Probably died of shock,’ surmised Bertie.
‘By thunder! It had every reason to,’ asserted Ginger vehemently.
‘Well, lay hold of one end and I’ll take the other.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Take it home, of course. There’s nothing wrong with it. We’ll have venison for supper after all. I’m not mad about it. The meat is too dry. It needs some fat bacon rind threading through it to make it succulent.’
‘You’re too fastidious. We’re on an island—remember?’
They picked up the dead beast and found it heavy.
‘We need only take it as far as the beach,’ decided Bertie. ‘We’ll send Chin-Chin along to carve it up and bring home the best joints.’
They set off, and reaching the beach well beyond the mangroves dumped the carcass on the sand.
‘The sea’s gone down quite a bit,’ observed Ginger, as they went on.
Collecting the lifebuoy on the way they returned to camp.
Biggles regarded the lifebuoy with disfavour. ‘Is that the best you could do?’ he inquired sarcastically. ‘Did you have to shoot it?’
‘Shoot it?’
‘I heard a shot.’
‘Oh that. No. We’ve got a deer. I’m going to send Chin-Chin along to fetch it. But what about this?’ He turned the lifebuoy so that what was left of the name could be read. Biggles’s eyes opened wide. ‘That is something,’ he agreed. ‘Where did you find it?’
Ginger explained.
‘I feel that should help us, but I can’t quite see how,’ Biggles said thoughtfully. ‘It’s too vague. We don’t know where the buoy was used or how far it has travelled since. I see one chance. The thing must have drifted here on a current. If we knew the general line of that current we could follow it up and concentrate on any islands on its course.’
‘That’s supposing the Vagabond was wrecked on one of them.’
‘Of course. Mac should know how the currents run. If he doesn’t nobody does. We’ll ask him. The sea’s dropping. We should be able to get airborne tomorrow. What with the lifebuoy and some fresh meat, you’ve done a good morning’s work. That’s enough to go on with.’
Ginger described to Chintoo where the carcass of the deer lay and the Malay went off to fetch it.
CHAPTER 10
MORE VISITORS
The following morning showed the sea back nearly to normal. It had not entirely settled down to a flat calm; there was still a long slow swell; but no broken water. After a close inspection Biggles said he thought it would be safe to take the machine off, should a flying programme be decided.
‘To do what?’ asked Ginger.
Biggles paused before answering. ‘It’s hard to know what to do for the best. I don’t like leaving here before Mac comes, and that may happen any time now. I have half a mind to look for him. With so little traffic we should spot the Alora from the air. If we knew where he was we’d be able to plan accordingly. Against that I daren’t risk using much petrol, or we’d be breaking our rule always to have enough in hand to get to Penang. An emergency might arise. One of us might have an accident. That has nearly happened more than once. Apart from that, it might be necessary to get to Penang quickly to send a signal to the Air Commodore. Even now he must be wondering what we’re doing.’
‘Have you thought about packing up here?’ asked Bertie.
‘I have. It might be prudent to move camp to another island and so avoid any more trouble with the people on that confounded junk. But again, we come back to the question of Mac. If he comes here and finds we’ve gone he won’t know whether or not to put the stores ashore. If he did leave them while we were away the crew of the junk might find them and pinch the lot.’
‘You think they’d go as far as that?’
‘After what they’ve done already, yes. I have an uncomfortable feeling we haven’t seen the last of that lot. It becomes a question of whether we fly down to Penang first, and then look for Mac, or take a chance of finding Mac and going to Penang afterwards. There’s another point to consider. Mac said he would try to get us some jerricans of petrol. If he was able to do that it wouldn’t be necessary for us to go to Penang for a day or two.’
‘According to the arrangement, Mac’s overdue,’ put in Ginger.
The storm is almost certain to have upset his schedule. I must admit this junk in the offing worries me. I didn’t reckon on interference. I thought we’d have the islands to ourselves, apart from a few Salones who wouldn’t be likely to get in our way. In the ordinary course of events that’s how it would have been.’
‘Speaking of Salones, I think I can see one of their kabangs coming now,’ observed Ginger, gazing out to sea.
‘It’s a small boat of some sort,’ confirmed Biggles. ‘Coming from the direction of the mainland. They cross over sometimes. I remember there were one or two at Victoria Point when we were there. This chap seems to be coming here, so we’d better wait for him. He may know the whereabouts of the Alora. Fetch the binoculars, Ginger.’
Ginger brought them from the aircraft. Biggles took them and focused on the approaching boat. ‘It’s a kabang,’ he announced. ‘Only the Salones use that small square sail made of plaited palm leaves. I see three men in it. Two are starting to row. They must be in a hurry.’
‘Could the junk be the reason?’ said Bertie.
All eyes switched to the hump-backed island. The junk, with sail set, had rounded the end and was taking up a course as if to cut across that of the native craft.
‘What the devil’s going on?’ muttered Biggles, again raising the binoculars. ‘From the way the men in the kabang are pulling they don’t like the look of the junk. This has got me foxed. If the junk follows the kabcmg here there may be trouble. I’d feel more comfortable with a pistol in my pocket, in case this is another attempt to sabotage our camp. Get the pistols out, Ginger, and a couple of clips of ammunition apiece.’
This was done. The pistols, loaded, were pocketed.
Said Ginger, pointing to the lifebuoy, which lay where it had been thrown down: ‘Don’t you think we’d better put that out of sight?’
‘Yes... No. Leave it where it is, with the letters face up.’
Ginger looked astonished. So did Bertie. ‘I’d have thought...’
Biggles broke in. He spoke quickly. ‘This may tell us something, something I’d very much like to know. I believe these junk people know why we’re here—but do they know the name of the ship that was lost with the gold on board? If they don’t know the lifebuoy will mean nothing to them; but if they do know the schooner was the Vagabond, even if they say nothing, their expressions should tell us all we want to know.’
‘I get it,’ said Ginger approvingly. ‘Only you would think of that.’
The kabang was the first of the two craft to get to the beach, beating the junk by a quarter of a mile, one reason for this being that the junk, finding itself in shallow water, had to lower sail. The kabang came right in. One man jumped out and ran towards the camp.
‘It is Laon,’ said Chintoo, suddenly.
‘Laon—who’s Laon?’ asked Biggles.
‘Bosun on Alora, Tuan. Like me, Malay.’
‘Ah yes. I remember now. I’d forgotten the name. If he’s made a special journey to see us, and that’s what it looks like, we should soon know what’s gone wrong with the Alora. I trust it’s nothing serious. If it is, all our arrangements will come unstuck, and that would be just too bad.’
Laon started talking before he reached the camp. Speaking directly to Chintoo, a Malay like himself, he used that language. A rapid conversation ensued. Only they knew what it was about.
At last Biggles’s patience broke. ‘What is it, Chinto
o?’
‘Trouble, Tuan. Much trouble. The Alora has been arrested.’
Biggles stared. ‘Arrested!’
‘Yes, Tuan.’
‘Where?’
‘Mergui.’
‘Is that where Laon has come from?’
‘Yes.’
‘Arrested for what?’
‘Smuggling.’
‘Smuggling what?’
‘Opium.’
‘Who says so?’
‘Captain Yomas.’
‘Ah! So that’s the game.’ Biggles half-turned to the others. ‘It’s ridiculous,’ he declared indignantly. ‘Everyone along the coast uses opium. It’s grown in Siam, next door. Opium here means no more than tobacco at home. It’s a common article of trade. You can buy it anywhere. Men won’t work without it. Mac told me so. This is a trumped-up charge.’ He turned back to Laon. ‘Where is Alora now?’ He guessed that, having worked for so long with Mac, he could speak fair English when necessary.
He was right. ‘Mergui,’ answered the Malay. ‘Not move without permission Captain Yomas.’
‘Where is Captain Macdonald?’
‘He in prison, Tuan.’
‘In prison.’ Biggles’s voice nearly cracked with incredulity.
Chintoo explained. ‘There is police hut for people when get drunk.’
Laon resumed. ‘Captain Mac tells me find boat, tell you.’
The face that Biggles turned to the others was grim. ‘So that’s how Yomas hit back at us!’
‘Why should he suppose holding the Alora would interfere with us?’ asked Bertie.
Biggles in turn put this question to Laon, who explained that Yomas had seen Mac buying stores and guessed who they were for.
Chintoo came back. ‘Laon says he sees Yomas in Mergui talking Mr. Feng.’
‘Feng. You mean the pearl buyer who used to travel on Alora?’
