by W E Johns
Silence returned as Ginger settled himself down on the hull and regarded the forest with keen, interested eyes. They travelled slowly up the mighty trunks of the trees that disappeared out of sight into a canopy of foliage high above; lianas wound round every bole and hung from every bough, passing from tree to tree like a fantastic network of cables.
Below, in many places, the ground was strewn with the petals of flowers that bloomed far overhead. Climbing ferns and orchids, too, clung to the trees, sending down aerial roots that added to the tangle. Near the water magnificent tree-ferns flung out feathery fans twenty feet or more in width. Through the maze thus formed swept butterflies, the huge, metallic-blue Morphos, and yellow, swallow-tailed Papilios. A toucan, with a monstrous red-and-black beak nearly half as big as its body, sat on a branch, but flapped away heavily at the approach of a troop of spider-monkeys.
On the morning following the conversation with Carruthers the Wanderer had proceeded up the Unknown River, sometimes flying and sometimes taxiing. Three nights had been spent on the river itself before the lake on which the Wanderer now rested had been discovered—a smooth sheet of water that nestled in the jungle a hundred miles from the coast, and the same distance, therefore, from anything in the nature of civilization. It had been decided that the lake would make a good base from which to explore the surrounding country. So far nothing had occurred to interrupt the tranquillity of the cruise, for the Wanderer was well equipped with stores and such accessories as were likely to be required.
Ginger called down the hatchway, ‘Are you fellows getting up?’
‘Coming now,’ answered Biggles.
Ginger grunted, for he was anxious to be off; he could not go ashore because the aircraft was moored some distance from the bank in order to avoid the mosquitoes and other insect pests which were all too plentiful. However, in a few minutes Biggles appeared, and the Wanderer was soon surging across the surface of the lake to take off on another survey flight. So far they had not seen any of the pyramids of which Carruthers had spoken, although according to Biggles’s reckoning they were in the region of the two ancient cities, Tikal and Uaxactun, where the American Archaeological Society had carried out its excavations.
From the air, the scene presented was one of strange monotony. On all sides, as far as the eye could see, stretched the primeval forest, an undulating expanse of green in various hues reaching to the horizon. In one direction only was it broken. Far away to the west the sun glinted on another lake, which Biggles supposed to be in Guatemala. Not that there was anything to mark the boundary. As in the case of most countries in tropical America, the frontier was assumed to be somewhere in the forest, but it was not possible to say precisely where. The Wanderer roared on, climbing steadily.
Presently there was a slight change in the scene, and it became possible to make out areas of open savannah, or rolling meadow-land, although these were often broken by groups of trees and outcrops of rock. Biggles explained to the others that it was generally thought that these areas had originally been cleared by nations that had dwelt there in the past; the jungle, however, was steadily advancing over them again, so that they were fast being swallowed up by the forest.
It was Ginger who first spotted the apex of a pyramid. He caught Biggles by the arm and pointed. ‘Take a look at that!’ he cried.
Biggles cut the throttle and flew lower, so that there was no longer any doubt as to what it was. Near it, two other pyramids, not so high, could just be made out, peeping over the top of the green ocean.
‘I should say that’s Tikal,’ observed Biggles.
‘I vote we have a look at it from the ground,’ suggested Ginger.
Biggles, surveying the panorama, noticed a lake nearer to the pyramids than the one they had left, but even so it was some distance away, and he shook his head doubtfully. Flying towards it, however, he came upon another and hitherto unsuspected sheet of water. It was much smaller, and not exactly a lake in the true sense of the word. It appeared rather to be a fairly extensive depression in the ground that had been flooded by a river— probably a tributary of the Unknown River. A stream flowed into it at one end, and out at the other.
‘What about that stretch of water?’ suggested Ginger. ‘We ought to be able to get down on it.’
Biggles looked dubious. ‘It’s large enough,’ he admitted. ‘What I’m afraid of is obstructions. Trees are always falling into these rivers, particularly during the rainy season. If there happens to be any floating about in the middle of the lake, and we hit one of them, we shall be in a mess. We don’t know how deep the water is, either. Not that all these hard-wood trees float; if the water is shallow, and there are any lying on the bottom, we shall tear the keel off the boat.’
‘It looks deep to me,’ remarked Ginger encouragingly. ‘Try that patch where there are no water-lilies.’
By this time Biggles was within a few feet of the water, leaning over the side eyeing it critically. ‘All right,’ he agreed, as he zoomed up to avoid the trees at the far end of the lake. ‘We’ll try it.’
Banking steeply, he turned and came back at landing speed. Very slowly, the aircraft sank towards the stretch to which Ginger had referred. There were no visible obstructions. The Wanderer’s keel slashed the surface of the water, and then sank down with a surging rush that sent ripples racing towards the shore. The machine ran quickly to a standstill.
‘Fine!’ cried Ginger. ‘Let’s get nearer to the beach—at least, there seems to be a bit of sand over there.’ He pointed.
Biggles taxied towards it, and brought the Wanderer to a standstill with her keel scraping gently on a shelving strip of sandy gravel. ‘Well, here we are,’ he announced.
Ginger was about to wade ashore when Biggles caught him by the arm. ‘Just a minute,’ he said tersely, staring fixedly at a certain spot.
‘What is it?’ asked Algy quickly, sensing danger from Biggles’s tone of voice.
‘Can you see what I see—or am I mistaken?’ said Biggles quietly. ‘Just on the edge of the timber, under that spray of crimson orchids.’
The others stared.
‘Great heavens, it’s a man!’ breathed Algy.
‘Get your guns,’ ordered Biggles curtly, and, revolver in hand, he stepped down into the shallow water.
The man was lying half in and half out of the forest, his head towards the lake, with one arm outflung as though he had fallen while making a desperate effort to get to the water. That he was a native, or a coloured man, was by this time apparent. He wore only a ragged remnant of shirt and a pair of blue dungaree trousers, also in rags.
‘He must be dead,’ muttered Ginger as they approached.
‘I don’t think so,’ returned Biggles quickly. ‘If he was dead—or if he’d been dead more than an hour or two—he’d be half eaten by this time. There’s a hungry army always on the prowl in the forest, looking for meat—and in the water, too, if it comes to that.’
Biggles dropped on his knees beside the man and turned him on to his back. He was unconscious. ‘He’s lost a lot of blood,’ he continued, pointing to an ugly stain on the man’s trousers. ‘Let’s see what caused the damage.’ Taking his knife he cut a slit in the garment so that the wound was exposed. ‘That’s a gunshot wound,’ he said crisply. ‘How the dickens did it happen, I wonder? It looks as if there are other people in the forest besides us.’
‘What on earth would the fellow be doing in a place like this, anyway?’ put in Algy.
‘I should say he’s a chicle-collector — or else a rubber-tapper,’ answered Biggles. ‘As I told you, chicle is still collected wild in the forest.’ He glanced up at Algy. ‘Get the brandy flask and the medicine chest; we shall have to do what we can for the poor wretch.’
He cleaned the wound—a flesh wound in the thigh—and dressed it, while the others, with brandy and water, did what they could to restore consciousness. It did not take them long. The man opened his eyes. Instantly, with a gasp of terror, he tried to get to his
feet, but they held him down.
‘I wonder what language he speaks,’ said Ginger.
‘If he comes from Belize he’ll probably speak English,’ replied Biggles. ‘If that fails I’ll try Spanish.’ He said a few words, and as soon as he saw that the man understood he told him that he had nothing to fear.
Together, they got him into a more comfortable position. Ginger, watching closely, noted that the man was older than he had at first supposed; he judged him to be not less than fifty years of age. He had a pleasant if rather wild countenance, and his skin was so dark that he appeared to have both Indian and negro in his ancestry.
Presently the man sat up and regarded his benefactors with incredulous eyes.
‘What’s your name?’ asked Biggles.
The man uttered an unpronounceable word.
Biggles smiled. ‘That’s all right,’ he told the others. ‘We’ll call him Dusky for short. What are you doing here, and who shot you?’ he continued, again addressing the wounded man.
Before Dusky could answer there was a swift footfall near at hand. It brought the comrades round swiftly to face an enormous man who had just emerged from the forest.
No one, perhaps not even he himself, could have guessed his nationality; his skin was more white than brown, but it was apparent that he was a half-caste of some sort. Well over six feet in height, and broad in proportion, with a gun over his arm he looked an ugly customer. The only garments he wore were a dirty shirt, open at the throat, and a ragged cotton suit. Nothing more. The lower part of his face was concealed in a tangle of black beard. His eyes were bloodshot and had an unpleasant glint in them. So much the comrades saw in their first appraising glance.
Biggles faced him squarely. Pointing at the wounded man, he said, ‘Do you know anything about this?’
The stranger took a pace forward, his eyes, heavy with suspicion, darting from one to the other. ‘What you doing here?’ he demanded harshly.
‘We might ask you the same question,’ returned Biggles coolly. ‘Did you shoot this chap?’
For a moment the man did not answer. He glanced at Dusky, scowling, and then looked up again at those who confronted him. For a moment he regarded them reflectively, malevolently.
‘What do you here?’ he questioned harshly, addressing Biggles.
‘Why—have you bought the place or something?’
The scowl grew deeper. ‘You git out—pronto.’
Biggles looked surprised. ‘Are you presuming to tell us where we can go?’
‘You git out, or mebbe you don’t git out no more,’ snarled the man.
Biggles appeared to consider the order. Actually, he was wondering if there was any point in staying. It was not as though they had any reason for remaining there.
‘What you come here for, huh?’ went on the man suspiciously.
‘Believe it or not, we’re just a picnic party.’
The sarcastic leer with which this remark was received made it clear that it was not believed.
‘One lake is as good as another to us,’ continued Biggles. ‘If you feel that this one is your particular property, we’ll pull out. In any case we should have done so, because we shall have to take this man’ —Biggles indicated Dusky— ‘to Belize. His wound needs treatment.’
The other started. ‘No, you don’t,’ he grated.
‘But I said we do,’ returned Biggles calmly.
The man made a significant movement with his gun.
‘I shouldn’t try that if I were you,’ Biggles told him evenly. Then, turning to the others, he said, ‘Get aboard. You know what to do.’
Algy nodded, and touched Ginger on the arm. They returned to the aircraft.
Ignoring the stranger, Biggles turned to Dusky. ‘Do you feel able to walk, or shall I carry you?’
‘I can walk, boss.’ Dusky got stiffly to his feet, standing on one leg.
The man took a quick pace forward as if he would prevent his departure, but stopped when Biggles turned on him with a crisp, ‘Stand back! Take a look at the boat.’
The man glanced swiftly at the aircraft, over the side of which now projected a light machine-gun of the type known as the ‘Tommy’ gun. For a moment he hesitated, his lips drawn back, showing discoloured teeth; then, turning on his heel, he strode into the forest. An instant later the shrill blast of a whistle rent the air.
‘He fetch de others,’ said Dusky in a panic.
‘Get into the boat,’ snapped Biggles, and taking cover behind a tree, he watched the forest, whence now came answering cries. Not until Dusky had been hauled into the Wanderer did he abandon his position and follow him. He was only just in time, for barely had he joined the others when a gang of men, as unsavoury a crowd as could have been imagined, appeared in the gloomy recesses of the forest, running towards the spot.
A shot rang out, and a bullet struck the machine somewhere near the tail.
‘Get her off,’ he told Algy, who was already in the pilot’s seat. ‘If we get mixed up in a brawl somebody’s liable to be hurt, and then we may find ourselves in the wrong with the authorities.’
‘Shall I give ‘em a burst—just to let ‘em know that the gun isn’t a dummy?’ suggested Ginger tentatively.
‘No—we may need our ammunition,’ answered Biggles.
The last word was drowned in the roar of the engines as Algy started them. The Wanderer surged across the water and rose gracefully into the air.
The last they saw of the lake was a crowd of men on the beach they had just left. One, standing in front of the others, was shaking his fist.
‘I should be sorry to run into that gang after this,’ declared Ginger.
‘I should have been sorry to run into them at any time,’ returned Biggles curtly.
‘Where shall I make for?’ called Algy.
‘Go back to the lake—the one we started from this morning,’ ordered Biggles. ‘I want to have a word or two with Dusky before we decide what we’re going to do.’
3
DUSKY TELLS HIS STORY AND GINGER LEARNS A LESSON
IT did not take them long to get back to the lake, for on a straight course it was not more than forty miles from the scene of their encounter. As soon as the Wanderer was safely down preparations were made for a meal, for it was lunch-time, and in any case it was obvious that Dusky was in a famished condition. Little was said until everyone was satisfied, although it was some time before Dusky stated that he had had enough. Ginger made coffee over the spirit lamp while Biggles examined Dusky’s wound and dressed it again more carefully.
‘It’s nothing serious,’ he announced. ‘The bullet went right through, so we haven’t got to extract it. Luckily it missed the bone. The flesh looks clean enough, so it should heal in a few days.’
In making this statement Biggles did not allow for the astonishing recuperative ability of a healthy native, and the wound actually healed at a speed that amazed him. Dusky, possibly because he was accustomed to pain and discomfort, treated it as a mere scratch.
As soon as they were settled Biggles asked Dusky to tell them just how he had come by his wound. Scenting a mystery, he wanted to know about the whole affair.
‘Yes, massa, I tell you plenty,’ answered Dusky eagerly.
‘All right; make a start by telling us what you were doing in the forest and how that big stiff go hold of you.’
‘You mean Bogat.’
‘Is that his name?’
‘Si señor—Cristoval Bogat.’ Dusky spoke English with a soft negro accent, curiously broken by odd words of Spanish, a method of speech common enough in Central America.
‘I’se chicle-collector, massa,’ he went on. ‘Me and my brudders we buy canoe and work for ourselves; take de chicle down de ribber to Belize. One time we do well, den we git scared because chicle-collectors who go up ribber don’t come back no more. Den, we ain’t go no more money, we make one more trip. We run into dees Bogat men. Dey shoot at us. Dey kill my brudders and capture me, and say me work
for dem. Dey make me slabe.’
Biggles frowned. ‘Slave? Do you mean that seriously?’
‘Sure I do, massa.’
‘But slavery was done away with long ago.’
Dusky shook his head sadly. ‘Not up dis ribber, massa.’
‘Which river are you talking about?’
‘De Unknown Ribber.’
‘But we’re on a lake.’
‘Dat so, but de ribber run fro de forest not far away.’
Biggles nodded. ‘I see. Do the authorities know about this slave racket?’
Dusky shrugged his shoulders. ‘Mebbe. De black trash along Belize talk plenty about it. Mebbe Gov’ment can’t do nuthin.’
‘Who is this fellow Bogat?’
‘He sorta right-hand man for de King of de Forest.’
Biggles wrinkled his forehead. ‘King of the Forest? Great Scott! That’s an ambitious title. Who is this precious monarch?’
‘Ah dunno, boss. Nobody knows for sure. Some say he black man who kill Gov’ment man in Belize and run away; udders say he white man. Dey call him de Tiger. He mighty big boss, and eberyone mighty afraid of him. He boss tousands of Indians and all sorts of men. Dey say he got town up de ribber.’ Dusky paused.
‘Go ahead,’ invited Biggles; ‘this is getting interesting. Tell us all you know.’
Dusky scratched his short, curly hair. ‘Der ain’t much ter tell, massa.’
‘Tell us what happened to you.’
‘Dey capture me and set me to work wid gang ob chicle-collectors. Some gangs dey tap de rubber.’
‘I get it. And the Tiger gets it all, eh?’
‘Sure he does, massa.’
‘What does he do with it?’
‘Ah dunno fo’ sure, but dey say it goes out ob de country de udder way, up de ribber and across de mountains.’
‘That’s a pretty state of affairs. The stuff is collected in British territory and then smuggled out of the country, presumably so that the Tiger doesn’t have to pay duty on it. Go on, Dusky.’
