by W E Johns
Thanking the watchman, and promising him deliverance from servitude in the near future, Biggles and Dusky set off on their long climb up Jacob’s Ladder.
They came first to the valley in which the village was situated; but all was silent, so they wasted no time there. Continuing on up the steps, they found themselves just below the summit about two hours before dawn—as near as Biggles could judge.
Here he turned off into a narrow ravine, for he was tired to the point of exhaustion.
Dusky appeared to suffer no such inconvenience, and offered to keep watch while he, Biggles, had a short sleep, an offer that Biggles accepted, and ordered Dusky to wake him at the first streak of dawn.
He appeared to have done no more than close his eyes when Dusky was shaking him by the shoulder. Before dropping off to sleep he had made his plan, and this he now put into execution.
‘You’re going to stay here,’ he told Dusky. ‘You can take charge of the biscuits and the rifle and wait until I come back. If I’m not back within forty-eight hours you can reckon that I’ve been caught, in which case try to make your way to the coast and let Mr. Carruthers know what’s happened. All being well, I shall be back here, with the others, before very long. Keep under cover.’
With this parting injunction, Biggles went back to the steps, and after a cautious reconnaissance moved on towards the top. He now proceeded with the greatest care; and it was as well that he did, for while he was still a hundred feet from the top he was mortified to see a man sitting on a rock, a rifle on his arm, obviously doing duty as sentry. To pass him without being seen was clearly impossible, so Biggles, after exploring the cliff on his left for the best place, scaled it, and went on through a chaos of rocks towards the plateau. Guided now by distant shouts, and the occasional crack of a whip, he worked his way forward, and presently, as he hoped, found himself in a position overlooking the plateau.
To his right, perhaps a hundred yards away, sat the sentry at the head of the stairway. With this man he was not particularly concerned—at any rate, for the time being. Immediately in front, and slightly below, lay the ruined village. Here a gang of men was working with picks and shovels, or carrying away baskets of earth. Altogether, there were about forty workmen, and Biggles had no difficulty in picking out Algy, Ginger and the stranger. They were working close together. Watching the gang were six guards, standing in pairs. They carried rifles. Another man, an enormous Indian, walked amongst the labourers swishing a vicious-looking whip. Not far away, in the shade of a ruined house, squatted the Tiger and his two white companions. Close behind them stood two natives in tawdry uniforms; they also carried rifles, and were evidently a sort of bodyguard. Beyond, shimmering in the heat of the morning sun, the plateau lay deserted.
For some time Biggles lay still, surveying the scene thoughtfully. A big patch of grotesque prickly pear attracted his attention, and he saw that if he moved along a little to the left he could use this as a screen to cover an advance into the village. Once among the houses, it should, he thought, be possible to get right up to the gang of workmen, and so make contact with Algy and Ginger—which was his main object. Beyond that he had no definite plan.
Like a scouting Indian he backed down from his elevated position and began working his way towards the prickly pear.
12
GINGER GETS SOME SHOCKS
WHEN Algy, Ginger and Eddie had been marched off through the forest by Bogat they did not know where they were being taken, but, naturally, they could make a good guess. Unless Bogat had some scheme of his own, it seemed probable that they would be taken to the Tiger. This suspicion was practically confirmed when they reached the foot of the stairway. Two hours later, utterly worn out, and in considerable discomfort from insect bites and scratches, they were standing before the King of the Forest, who eyed them with undisguised satisfaction.
In his heart, Ginger expected nothing less than a death sentence, but that was because he did not realise the value of labour in the tropics, particularly white labour, which is always better than native work. It was, therefore, with relief that the received the news that they were to be put in the slave-gang. Algy, being older, perceived that this was, in fact, little better than a death sentence; that without proper food, clothes and medical treatment, they were unlikely to survive long in a climate which sapped the vitality even of the natives. However, he agreed with Ginger’s optimistic observation that while they were alive there was hope; for, after all, Biggles was still at large. Whether or not he would ever learn what had happened to them was another matter. They were not to know that Dusky had been a witness of the attack.
They were in evil case by the time they reached the plateau, for they had been given only a little maize bread and water, barely enough to support life. The stench of the stone building, little better than a cattle-pen, into which on arrival they were herded with the other slaves, all Indians or half-castes, nearly made Ginger sick. Life under such conditions would, he thought, soon become intolerable.
Tired as they were, sleep was out of the question, and they squatted miserably in a corner, waiting for daylight. At dawn the door was opened by a man who carried a heavy whip; behind him were six other men carrying rifles. A quantity of food, in the nature of swill, was poured into a trough; upon this the slaves threw themselves like animals, eating ravenously with their hands, scooping up the foul mixture in cupped palms. The three white men took no part in this performance.
A few minutes only were allowed for this meal, after which the gang was formed into line and made to march past a shed from which picks and shovels were issued. Thus equipped, they went to what had once been the main street of the village, where a shallow trench had been opened. The gang-boss cracked his whip and the slaves started work, deepening and extending the trench.
‘What do you suppose we’re doing?’ asked Ginger, getting into the trench behind Algy.
‘Probably laying the telephone,’ returned Algy sarcastically.
‘Ha, ha,’ sneered Ginger. ‘Very funny.’
The gang-boss advanced, brandishing his whip. ‘No talking,’ he snarled.
Ginger drove his pick viciously into the sun-baked earth, and thereafter for a while work proceeded in silence.
‘Here comes the Tiger,’ murmured Algy presently.
‘I’ll tear the stripes off his hide one day,’ grated Eddie. ‘They can’t do this to me.’
‘It seems as though they’re doing it,’ grunted Algy.
Ginger went on working. There was no alternative, for he had no wish to feel the whip across his shoulders.
A few minutes later, standing up to wipe the perspiration out of his eyes, he noticed something. It was nothing spectacular. He had already realised, from the nature of the ground, which consisted largely of broken paving-stones, that the trench was crossing the foundations of what must have been a large building. One or two of the supporting columns, although they had been broken off short, were still standing; one such column was only a few paces away on his right, and without any particular interest his eyes came to rest on it. They were at once attracted to a mark—or rather, two marks. At first he gazed at them without conscious thought; then, suddenly, his eyes cleared as he made out that the marks were initials.
There were two sets, one above the other. The lower ones had almost been obliterated by the hand of time, after the manner of an old tombstone, but it was still possible to read the incised scratches. They were the letters E.C., and were followed by the date, 1860. There was no need for him to look closely at the date of the initials above to see that they were comparatively recent. The letters were L.R., and the date 1937. A suspicion, dim as yet, darted into Ginger’s mind. He threw a quick glance at the gang-boss to make sure that he was not being watched, and then leaned forward to confirm that his reading of the lower initials had been correct. In doing this he put his hands on the end of a stone slab in such a way that his weight fell on it. Instantly it began to turn as though on a pivot, and he flung
himself back with a gasp of fear, for he had a nasty sensation that he had nearly fallen into an old well. Another quick glance revealed the gang-boss walking towards him, so he went to work with a will, aware that he was slightly breathless.
The lash swished through the air, but without actually touching him. It was a warning, and he took it—at least, while the boss was within hearing. Then he spoke to Algy, who was working just in front of him.
‘Algy,’ he whispered, ‘you remember Biggles talking about a treasure supposed to have been discovered in these parts by a fellow named Carmichael?’
‘Yes.’
‘What was his Christian name, do you remember?’
‘No—why?’
‘Do you remember the date?’
‘Yes—1860.’
‘Then this is where Carmichael came. I’ve just seen his mark. Go on working—don’t look round.’
Ginger now spoke under his arm to Eddie, who was behind him.
‘Eddie, you said you came here on a treasure-hunt?’
‘Sure I did.’
‘There was a map, I believe?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Who drew it?’
‘A guy named Roberts—Len Roberts.’
‘And was there a date?’
‘Sure. It was 1937. What’s the idea? Do you reckon we’re on a treasure-hunt now?’
‘I’m certain of it,’ replied Ginger. ‘You see that paper the Tiger is looking at? Does that look like your map?’
‘It sure does.’
‘Then it’s the treasure we’re after. We’re driving a trench right across the area where it is supposed to be.’
At this point, much to Ginger’s disgust, further conversation was interrupted by an Indian, who dropped into the trench between him and Eddie.
‘Here, you, get out of the way,’ grunted Ginger, hoping that the man would understand what he meant.
‘Go on digging,’ answered a voice quietly.
Ginger started violently, and nearly dropped his pick. His nerves seemed to twitch, for there was no mistaking the voice. It was Biggles.
‘Go on digging,’ said Biggles again. ‘Don’t look round. Tell Algy I’m here.’
Ginger, who seemed slightly dazed, passed the incredible information on to Algy, first warning him to be ready for a shock. He then worked in silence for a little while, watching the guards.
Choosing a favourable moment, he snatched a glance behind him under his arm. ‘How did you get here?’ he whispered.
‘Never mind that—I’m here,’ breathed Biggles. ‘Did I hear you say something about a treasure?’
‘Yes, I reckon we’re digging for it.’
‘What makes you think so?’
‘Take a look at that column on your right. Carmichael’s initials are on it, and the date, 1860. Those above are those of the chap who made the map that brought Eddie here. He’s the fellow behind you. Incidentally, he is one of the party of missing Americans Carruthers told us about. His partners abandoned him in the forest—they’re the two fellows over there with the Tiger. He was caught by the Indians, and Bogat captured us together. Can you get us out of this jam?’
‘That’s what I’m here for.’
‘Then for the love of Mike do something.’
‘Don’t be in a hurry,’ said Biggles softly, pretending to work. ‘I’m thinking. You go on as if nothing unusual had happened.’
‘How did you know we were here?’
‘I found Dusky, and he trailed you. He’s back in a ravine waiting for us. Don’t talk any more now, or that big stiff with the whip may get suspicious.’
Nothing more was said. The only sounds were the thud of picks, the scrape of shovels, the grunts of the slaves and the cracking of the whip.
Biggles considered the question of escape from every angle before making up his mind, but in the end he determined to act forthwith. There was no point in delaying the action, for the position was not likely to alter before sunset, and he had no intention, if it could be avoided, of passing the night under lock and key. In any case, he thought there might be an evening roll call, in which case the discovery of an extra man would be inevitable.
He told Algy, Ginger and Eddie to draw closer together so that they could hear what he had to say without making it necessary for him to raise his voice. He still knew practically nothing about Eddie apart from what Ginger had said, but it was obvious that he was a prisoner like the rest, in which case he would be anxious to escape. Apart from that, he would be an extra man on his side.
‘Listen,’ he said. ‘We shall have to make a dash for it. There’s no other way that I can see. We’ve got two useful factors on our side. The first is surprise—you can see from the way the guards are standing that the last thing they imagine is that they will be attacked. The second factor is my automatic. I’m afraid I shall have to use it. This is no time for niceties. This is what I’m going to do, and what I want you to do.’
Here Biggles had to pause and make a pretence of scraping earth from the bottom of the trench while the gang-boss went past. As soon as the man was out of ear-shot he continued:
‘The next time those two nearest guards come this way I shall jump out of the trench and cover them with my gun to make them drop their rifles. If they refuse, I shall shoot. Either way, you’ll grab the rifles and open fire on the other guards along the line. Don’t get flustered. Be sure of hitting your man. In this way we ought to put four of them out of action before the others guess what’s happening. If I know anything about it, when we start shooting they’ll run.’
‘What about the Tiger?’ asked Ginger.
‘Never mind about him for the moment. Having got the weapons, we’ll fight a rearguard action to the top of Jacob’s Ladder. If we can reach it, the rest should be easy. It that all clear?’
The others, including Eddie, announced that it was.
‘Then stand by,’ whispered Biggles tersely. ‘The guards are coming this way. Remember, speed is the thing.’
The two guards to whom Biggles had referred, both half-castes, were walking slowly along the line of workmen. Strolling would perhaps be a better word. Hand-made cigarettes hung from their lips. One carried his rifle carelessly in the crook of his arm; the other held his weapon at the trail; and it was clear from their careless manner that they did not expect trouble. Thus does familiarity breed contempt, and Biggles judged correctly when he guessed that the men had performed their task every day for so long that they no longer apprehended, danger. They sauntered along, smoking and chatting, throwing an occasional glance at the labourers.
Biggles stooped a little lower in the trench, gripped his automatic firmly, finger on trigger, and waited.
He waited until they drew level. Then with a quick movement he stepped out in front of them, the pistol held low down on his hip.
‘Drop those guns,’ he rasped.
Never was surprise more utter and complete. The behaviour of the guards was almost comical. First they looked at Biggles’s face, then at the pistol, then back at his face, while their expressions changed from incredulity to fear. Neither spoke. One of them dropped his rifle; or rather, it seemed to fall from his nerveless hands. The other made a quick movement as though he intended shooting. Biggles did not wait to confirm this. His pistol cracked, and the shot shattered the man’s arm. The rifle fell, and he fled, screaming. This, the opening operation, occupied perhaps three seconds, and as it concluded Algy and Ginger played their parts. In a moment they had snatched up the fallen rifles and opened fire on the two guards next along the line. One spun round and fell flat. The other made a leap for the trench, but stumbled and fell before he reached it, the rifle flying from his hand.
‘Come on,’ snapped Biggles, and sprinted towards the spot.
The four white men had almost reached the second pair of rifles before the full realisation of what was happening penetrated into the minds of the other people on the plateau—the Tiger, his two white conspirators, his bo
dyguard, the two remaining guards, and the slaves. An indescribable babble, like the murmur of a wave breaking on shingle, rose into the still air. Then, abruptly, it was punctuated by shots from several directions. Some of them came near the fugitives, but none of them was hit. Biggles saw a workman drop.
While Eddie picked up the two rifles he looked round and saw that the situation had changed but little. The two remaining guards had run for some distance; then, taking cover, they had started firing. The Tiger was shooting with a revolver and shouting orders at the same time, and the uproar he created was hardly calculated to encourage his bodyguard to take careful aim. They were shooting, but with more speed than accuracy. The two renegade white men were firing their revolvers, but the range was too long for accurate shooting.
‘All right,’ said Biggles crisply. ‘Let ‘em have it.’
Four rifles spat in the direction of the Tiger’s party. One of the bodyguard fell; all the rest dived for cover, and disappeared behind the house.
‘Start moving towards the stairway,’ ordered Biggles. ‘I’ll cover you.’
He knelt down and opened a steady fire on the building behind which the Tiger and his party had taken refuge, while under his protective fire the others hurried towards Jacob’s Ladder.
So far Biggles’s plan had worked without a hitch, and it seemed as if the stairway would be reached without difficulty, and without serious danger. But, unfortunately, the man who had been on guard at the head of the steps, and who had disappeared at the first shots, now came back, and kneeling behind a boulder, opened a dangerous fire.
Biggles had assumed, naturally, that the man had bolted, but hearing the shots he looked round quickly and realised what had happened. He did not waste time wondering why the man had returned; he was concerned only with the danger he represented.
