by W E Johns
‘What’s wrong with getting away now?’ urged Ginger.
‘I don’t want to waste petrol looking for Kampong Island in the dark. It’ll start to get light presently, so the longer we can hang on here the better. Besides, I’d like to see what Yomas does about this.’
Time passed. Ten minutes—twenty minutes—half an hour. The pale, deceptive light of the false dawn crept over the mountains of Siam that formed the backbone of the Peninsula.
‘It looks as if he isn’t going to do anything,’ remarked Ginger.
‘I wouldn’t care to bet on that,’ answered Biggles soberly. ‘When he finds Mac has gone he’ll be in a mood for murder. Everyone in the town will hear about it; which means Yomas will lose face, as they call it; and as I said once before, in Asia that hurts more than a kick in the pants.’
‘Something seems to be happening on the beach,’ observed Bertie. ‘I can see people moving about. They seem to be mustering the canoes.’
‘I wonder could that be it?’ said Biggles pensively.
‘Could be what?’
‘If he got a lot of small craft round us, or between us and the sea, he’d have us in a trap. We couldn’t risk a collision even with a canoe.’
‘I think you’re right,’ said Ginger. ‘The canoes are coming out, but they’re not coming straight towards us.’
‘He may think by that he’s fooling us. He’s started his engine. That means he’s coming out himself in the launch. I think that’s all we need to know. We’d better get weaving.’
The Gadfly’s engines started at the first time of asking. Biggles gave them just enough throttle to get the aircraft moving. In the circumstances it seemed sufficient to keep the machine well ahead of the flotilla of small craft, now clearly to be seen as they left the dim shore line for the moonlit water of the open bay.
Then it happened. In a flash the situation changed, and what changed it was the staccato chatter of a machine-gun. Bullets cut flecks of quicksilver from the surface of the limpid water uncomfortably close to the already racing aircraft, Biggles having opened up at the first shot. There were a few nasty seconds until it unstuck, but once airborne in a climbing turn the risk of being hit was negligible.
‘The devil,’ raged Biggles to Ginger, who was in the seat beside him. ‘Who would have thought he had a machine-gun on board? By thunder! He nearly caught us napping. Oh for one little bomb, one nice little twenty-pounder. I’d give him something to go on with. Our chance may come.’
The aircraft bored its way, climbing steeply, into the starry sky, heading north. At two thousand feet it caught the rays of the rising sun to become a spark of fire in a world of its own. Below, night still had possession of the land as if reluctant to release it The islands lay like carelessly dropped blobs of ink.
Ginger touched Biggles on the arm and pointed to one on which an orange point of light was conspicuous, the only sign of human occupation to be seen. ‘That must be the main party of Salones on King Island,’ he said.
‘Good,’ answered Biggles. ‘That should give us our bearings. Check with the chart in the cabin and give me a course for Kampong Island.’
Ginger went aft.
When he returned some minutes later the new day had broken and the islands lay like a string of emeralds under a sky of lapis lazuli. He looked at the compass. ‘You’re all right,’ he said. ‘Keep her as she goes. I make the distance thirty miles.’
‘In that case I can afford to lose height and save petrol,’ answered Biggles, easing the throttle back a little. ‘I’ve been trying to remember exactly what questions we asked those two Salones at Mergui. I’m also wondering how much Chintoo said when he was speaking to them in their own language. In other words, how much do the Salones know about our proposed movements?’
‘Does it matter now we’re away?’
‘It could, unless the Salones left Mergui when we did. If anyone ashore noticed the kabang alongside our machine, Yomas, in the inquiries he’s bound to make, will get to hear of it. He’ll get out of the Salones everything they know. He’ll be spitting venom like the snake he is, but unless he knows where we are I can’t see there’s much he can do. On the other hand, if he gets an inkling of where we’re making for he’ll be after us.’
‘Some islands were mentioned—when we asked about the wrecks of wooden ships,’ replied Ginger reflectively. ‘Elephant Island, Shark Island and Kampong were three of them.’
‘Hm. Pity about that. I’d have been more careful had I known Yomas was likely to be back so soon. Well, one can’t think of everything. We shall have to take our chance. There’s nothing we can do about it now.’
‘Yomas will guess why we’re interested only in the wrecks of wooden ships.’
‘Of course he will. We shall have to keep an eye open for him. There is this about it; from the air we should be able to see him before he gets close to us.’
‘That looks like Kampong ahead,’ observed Ginger, changing the subject. ‘It looks about the right size and the right shape.’
‘The remains of the Malay settlement will tell us if we’ve come to the right place.’ Biggles cut the engines and began a long glide.
‘I think I can see the ruins from here,’ said Ginger, two or three minutes later. ‘Close to the jungle at the far end of the beach.’
‘There’s plenty of beach, anyway, that’s one good thing.’
‘Will you pitch the tent there?’
‘Why not? We shall have to make camp somewhere and the nearer we are to Mac’s stores the better.’
Again Ginger studied the chart. ‘That must be Shark Island we’re passing now,’ he observed. ‘The Salones said it was close to Kampong and it certainly is. The two islands can’t be more than a mile apart.’
‘We’ll deal with Kampong first. If we draw blank there we’ll hop across to Shark Island.’
‘You’re not forgetting there’s a lunatic there with a gun.’
‘I’ll give more thought to him when I’m satisfied he’s really there,’ rejoined Biggles. ‘For the moment I’m more concerned with some breakfast.’
Before landing Biggles made a coastal tour of the island from an altitude of about a hundred feet, an operation which, involving a distance of perhaps ten miles, occupied no more than five minutes.
In general it differed little from others of similar size. There was no really high ground, possibly one of the reasons why an attempt had been made to develop it, and the shore line was rather less indented than the majority. It flattened out at one end, stumps of trees showing where the big timber had been cut to open an area for cultivation, but coarse grass and palmetto scrub had again taken possession of the site.
There was only one good beach. It was on the eastern side of the island, sandy, with a few scattered rocks, as usual backing a bay about a quarter of a mile long. The upper part appeared not to be reached by normal tides. At present the tide was out, and Ginger, surveying the coast, thought it would be possible in these conditions to walk long distances, over the rocks or between them. There were places where the jungle ran right down to the sea; but there were no mangroves.
On the western side of the island, however, facing the open ocean, he noted a sandy cove hardly large enough to be called a beach. It was more sheltered than the bay and he memorized its position for a bad weather anchorage. Most of the island was blanketed by the usual jungle. There were not many big trees near the beach; they must, he surmised, have been felled to build the cluster of houses, now in the last stages of dilapidation, which could be seen tucked in a corner at the northern end of the beach. The only sign of life was a small herd of wild pigs rooting on the low ground.
According to the Salones there was the wreck of a wooden ship on the island, but Ginger was unable to spot it.
Following the customary routine Biggles made a trial run, looking for possible obstructions, before landing on the clear, shallow water, near the beach. Then, lowering the wheels, he taxied on up the sand, to a point above
the tide line, within easy reach of the abandoned kampong from which the island took its name. During this operation nobody spoke, aware that the slightest mishap could have serious consequences, one of them being they might find themselves marooned.
‘Well, here we are,’ said Biggles, lighting a cigarette as, having got out of the aircraft, they surveyed their surroundings. ‘I think before we unload, while Chintoo is getting a fire going for coffee, we should locate Mac’s stores. He said he’d put in half a dozen jerricans of petrol. We’ll get that in the main tank right away. It should see us through what we have to do here. If we find nothing in a couple of days I shall have to go to Penang to fill up and report to the Chief for instructions. Hunting a parcel of sovereigns among all these islands may look a simple job on paper, but we can now judge what it really means. Fortunately the distances we have to fly are short, otherwise, without servicing facilities, the thing would be hopeless. Well, let’s get on with it. When we know the stores are here we’ll make camp. Then, with nearly a full day in front of us we’ll make a start on Kampong.’
Ginger was already strolling towards the nearest of the houses, a primitive affair of rough timber and palm thatch. He had nearly reached the door when with a crash and a snort a buffalo bull dashed out. It did not stop, but galloped on along the beach, tail up, horns weaving, presently to charge into the jungle where it disappeared.
Ginger, who had gone over backwards on the loose dry sand in the shock of the beast’s first rush, slowly picked himself up, looking anything but pleased. With danger past everyone was laughing.
‘What’s so funny?’ he inquired sourly.
‘You, old boy,’ Bertie told him, adjusting his monocle. ‘I haven’t seen you move so fast in a long time.’
‘Who would expect such a brute to be in a house? What was it doing there, anyway?’
‘Probably spends the night there to dodge the mosquitoes,’ conjectured Biggles. ‘Never mind. Life is full of surprises,’ he added tritely, as he walked on to the end house. This is where the stuff should be.’
Inside, in a corner, was a pile of recently-cut foliage, fern fronds and the like. On being pulled aside the petrol cans came to light. Under these, protected by an old tarpaulin, were the stores, in tins and wooden boxes.
‘Fine,’ said Biggles. ‘Now we know how we stand.’
CHAPTER 13
THE MYSTERY MAN
A temporary camp was quickly set up, Biggles remarking that in such weather in such a climate there was really no need for a tent; a fire would keep at a distance the buffaloes which, from the marks, were in the habit of standing about in the ruins of the kampong. No more stores were unloaded than would be required immediately. Those of the new supply which were in perishable containers were put in the aircraft. The petrol Mac had provided was put into the main tank, the empty cans being returned to the hut in case Mac had promised to return them. Among backward people empty petrol cans have since the war become universal containers.
The main reason why it was not thought necessary to establish a more permanent camp was because it was considered hardly worth while. According to the Salones there was only one wreck on the island, so one or two days at most should be all the time needed to locate it. Moreover, with the exception of the near-by Shark Island there was no other really close, so when this had been explored the Gadfly, to save petrol, would have to move nearer to the next group.
While Chintoo was getting a fire going for breakfast, Ginger suggested it might be a good thing if he made a quick examination of the beach above the high-water mark for a little heap of limpet shells. These would be an almost certain indication that the dead Salone had been there. If he had, there was a good chance that it was here he had found the sovereigns.
Biggles agreed, so off Ginger went; but to his disappointment the trip proved fruitless. Apart from the usual crabs and quarrelling monkeys, pig and buffalo tracks, he saw nothing worth a second glance. He returned to report failure and join the others round the first meal of the day.
Bertie made a suggestion. ‘You know, chaps, I think we could give this place the onoe-over without using the aircraft. That would save petrol, if you see what I mean. From what I could see from topsides as we came in it looked possible—anyhow when the tide is out—to walk right round the bally place. It shouldn’t take more than four or five hours. I had another look just now when I was collecting firewood. I mean to say, if what we’re looking for is here it’s bound to be on the coast. There wouldn’t be much sense in looking for a ship in the middle of the island—if you follow me.’
Biggles said he thought it was a sound idea. Anything to save petrol. They might run into difficult places, but as it was hard to see any serious objection to the plan it could be tried. They had nothing to lose. They could put some biscuits in their pockets for lunch and take a water-bottle in case they failed to find fresh water. ‘I can’t imagine any harm coming to the machine,’ he went on. ‘Chintoo can stay here. I doubt if any buffaloes will come near while he’s about. Without someone to keep them off they could be a menace. There’s something about paint, and aeroplane dope in particular, that seems to fascinate cattle. They’ll stand licking it all day. I’ve known a cow to lick a hole clean through a wing.’
In a few minutes, taking the rifle in the hope of getting fresh meat for the pot, and leaving Chintoo to take care of things, they set off on what was intended to be a tour of the island. As Bertie remarked, if the Salones were to be believed, and there was no reason to doubt them, on this occasion they did at least have the satisfaction of knowing that somewhere on the foreshore there was the wreck of a wooden ship.
For the most part, with the tide out to expose sand between rocks, the going was fairly easy, although as it was seldom possible to walk in a straight line for any distance, it was clear the mileage they would have to cover would be longer than anticipated. There were places where masses of seaweed-covered boulders, piled one on the other, slowed them down. But on the whole, by pressing on steadily, they made good time, and in two hours, shortly after rounding the end of the island, Bertie, who was leading, let out a cheer when there appeared in front of them the object of their journey. Anyhow it was a wreck. There was not much of it, but sufficient to leave them in no doubt what it was. What could be seen were the bones of a wooden ship; the tips of a double row of seaweed-festooned ribs to which still clung some other timber. They projected from a small open area of sand between jagged outcrops of rock which apparently had ended the career of the vessel.
They hurried on, and on reaching the objective stopped to survey the picture.
‘She was a wooden ship,’ observed Biggles. This must be the wreck the Salones had in mind. What we’re going to do with it now we’ve found it I’m dashed if I know.’
‘You look disappointed,’ said Bertie. ‘Isn’t this what you expected to find?’
‘It certainly is not. For no particular reason, I must admit, I expected to find a more or less recognizable ship, or at least a hull if minus masts and deck gear. This looks as if it might have been here for a hundred years. There are other things I don’t like about it. The Vagabond was a schooner of ninety tons. I don’t pretend to be a judge of marine craft, but I’d have thought this one was a lot bigger than that. I’d say no one has touched this poor old hulk for years. The deck seems to have gone, although I suppose that was inevitable if she’s been washed over for years by every tide.’
‘If the old Salone came here the next tide would smooth out any signs of digging he left,’ Ginger pointed out. ‘Whatever was in her hold can’t have been washed away.’
‘Maybe not; but whatever was under her deck is now covered by what looks like several hundred tons of sand. How are we going to clear it? You tell me.’
No one answered.
Biggles resumed. ‘Let’s face it. It would take a gang of navvies a week to clear this lot. We haven’t any implements for the job even if we felt like tackling it, which frankly I don’t. The only
tool we have is that fiddling little spade we brought with us to dig holes for the tent poles. Starting with that would be like the kid in the fairy tale trying to empty a lake with a thimble. Maybe I was short-sighted, but I didn’t come prepared to excavate a sand-pit.’ Biggles lit a cigarette and threw down the dead match stick in disgust.
Bertie came back. ‘But look here, old boy. All we want to know is the name of this ship.’
‘How do you propose we get it?’
‘The name should be on the bows and the stern.’
‘I know those are the usual places,’ returned Biggles with mild sarcasm. ‘Unfortunately this hulk has no bows so that you’d notice them, and what’s left of the stern is all glued up in a mass of stinking seaweed, limpets and barnacles. Do you feel like scraping them off?’
‘I’m not mad about it,’ confessed Bertie.
‘You wouldn’t find any paint left if you did.’
‘I was only trying to be helpful,’ protested Bertie.
Biggles nodded. ‘I know. But nothing I can think of will help us here. I don’t give up easily, but faced with a problem like this I’m prepared to call it a day.’
‘Does that mean we’re going to do nothing about it?’
‘What can we do? Start digging with our paws like a bunch of rabbits? If you can think of anything go ahead; but don’t be long about it because the tide’s on the turn.’
‘There might be a box of gold right under my feet,’ asserted Bertie.
‘Then haul it out and let’s have fun,’ requested Biggles.
‘No one shall say I didn’t try,’ declared Bertie. He went to the stern where the ribs projected only a few inches, the ship not lying dead level. Dropping on his knees he began scooping away sand with his hands.
Biggles watched sympathetically. Ginger with amusement. ‘If I hadn’t seen this I wouldn’t have believed it,’ he murmured.
Bertie took no notice. He went on digging. He had gone down about eighteen inches when he came to something hard. He rapped on it with his knuckles. It gave back a hollow sound.
