Biggles In The Jungle

by W E Johns

  He might be able to make a suggestion. If not, Biggles reasoned, he would have to come back and carry on the war single-handed.

  ‘We’re going down the river,’ he told Dusky abruptly, as he made up his mind.

  He started the engines and took off with a vague feeling of surprise that at last something was going according to order. He half expected the engines to break down. Indeed, on the journey to the coast he listened to their note with as much anxiety as he could ever remember, for if they let him down now he hardly dared think what the fate of the others would be.

  The engines did not let him down, and he offered up a silent prayer of thankfulness when the sea came into view. In twenty minutes, leaving Dusky in charge of the aircraft, he was in the presence of the acting-Governor.

  Carruthers looked him up and down with real concern.

  ‘I say, old man, you are in a mess,’ he said sympathetically. ‘You need a bath, a—’

  Biggles broke in. ‘I know. There are a lot of things I need, but I haven’t time to attend to them now. Things have been happening—they’re still happening, and I’ve got to get a move on. My friends don’t know I’m here—but I’d better give you a rough idea of what has happened. While I’m doing that you might get me a spot of something to eat.’

  Carruthers sent his servant for a drink and some sandwiches, and these Biggles consumed as he told his story as concisely as possible.

  ‘By Jingo! You have been having a time,’ exclaimed the acting-Governor when Biggles had finished. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘To tell the truth, I don’t know,’ confessed Biggles. ‘I thought you might be able to make a suggestion. After all, we’re working under you, and apart from personal considerations, I don’t want to do the wrong thing.’

  ‘We’ve got to rescue your friends and this American, and, if possible, arrest the Tiger.’

  ‘That’s it,’ agreed Biggles. ‘We’ll grab these two crooks Warren and Schmitt at the same time. They deserve hanging for abandoning young Rockwell in the jungle. The trouble is, I can’t be in two places at once. I rarely ask for assistance, but this seems to be a case where a little help would be worth a deal of sympathy.’

  ‘That’s what I was thinking,’ murmured Carruthers, his lips parting in a faint smile.

  ‘Do you really mean that?’ asked Biggles sharply.

  ‘I might snatch a couple of days off to help you to clean up. If I could, what would you suggest?’

  ‘Now you’re talking,’ said Biggles eagerly. ‘You see, I can’t be at both ends of that infernal stairway at the same time. The Tiger has got a guard posted at the top, to keep us trapped up there—at least, that’s what he thinks. If we had some men at the bottom of the steps we could keep him trapped. Otherwise even if we landed an army on the plateau, he’d simply bolt down the steps and disappear into the forest. How many men can you spare?’

  ‘Ten or a dozen—native police, of course. They’re good fellows.’

  ‘Got a machine-gun?’

  ‘I could get one.’

  Biggles thought quickly. ‘Two good men under a reliable N.C.O., with a machine-gun, could hold the bottom of the stairway against an army. Three or four others arriving suddenly on the plateau, with another machine-gun, should be enough to stampede the Tiger’s half-baked gang. Remember, I’ve already got three men up there. Let me see, by unloading most of my stores, at a pinch I could transport ten people up the river, including myself. Ten should be enough. We could land at the place where I just took off and unload Dusky, an N.C.O. and two men, with a machine-gun. Dusky would act as guide. He could show them where to place the gun so that it would cover the steps. Are you seriously thinking of coming?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘Good. Very well. You and I, and four others, would take off again and land on the plateau, and make a rush for this underground chamber I told you about. The idea of that would be to let my friends out. We should then have a force of nine men, which should be plenty. When the Tiger sees you he’ll guess the game’s up and bolt for the steps. His gang will follow him. We shall then have the whole bunch between two fires, and unless he’s a lunatic he’ll surrender. Believe me, that stairway is no place to fight a defensive action.’

  Carruthers nodded. ‘That sounds a good plan. When shall we start?’

  ‘The sooner the better. How soon could you be ready?’

  ‘In an hour.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll refuel, have a bath, and meet you at the river in an hour from now. That will be one o’clock. If all goes well we ought to be back up the river by five— just nice time. There will be an hour or two of daylight left.’

  ‘That suits me,’ agreed Carruthers.

  An hour later the heavily loaded aircraft, after a long run, took off and headed back up the river. Carruthers, with a service rifle across his knees, occupied the spare seat next to Biggles. Behind, packed in the cabin, was the little force of fighting men, all of whom were making their first trip in the air.

  Biggles did not trouble about height—not that he could have gone very high with such a full load even if he had wanted to. Generally speaking, he followed the river, so that he would be able to land his human freight safely should the emergency arise.

  After some time the first landing-place, the bend where Bogat and Chorro had met their deaths, came into view, and Biggles set the Wanderer down gently on the water. Here four men were disembarked—Dusky, a sergeant, and two policemen. In addition to their small arms, they carried a Vickers machine-gun. They knew just what to do, for their part in the operation had been explained to them before the start. Under Dusky’s guidance they were to proceed to the foot of the stairway and take up a position covering it. Anyone attempting to come down was to be arrested.

  Biggles watched them file up the forest trail, and then, with an easier load, took off and headed for the plateau.

  He tried to visualise what would happen when he landed. As he worked it out, the Tiger and his white associates would suppose that he was alone, in which case their mistake might cost them dear. Actually, he was not particularly concerned whether the Tiger fought or fled. His immediate concern was to get to the underground chamber and relieve Algy, Ginger and Eddie from their tiresome ordeal.

  By air it was only a short distance to the plateau. Biggles did not waste time circling, for he knew there were no obstructions to be cleared. Lowering his wheels, he made for the spot he had chosen on the previous occasion.

  ‘Tell your fellows to be ready to bundle out smartly as soon as the machine stops,’ he told Carruthers. ‘We’re likely to come under fire right away, so get the machine-gun in action as quickly as possible. I don’t think the Tiger will face it.’

  ‘Leave it to me,’ rejoined Carruthers quietly.

  As he glided down to land Biggles could see men running from the village and many faces staring upward. It appeared as if the arrival of the machine had caused something like consternation. At the distance, however, he could not distinguish the Tiger.

  The wheels touched; the machine rocked a little, and then ran on to a safe if bumpy landing. Kicking on hard rudder, and at the same time giving the engines a burst of throttle, Biggles guided the machine towards an outcrop of rock which he thought would make good cover. As soon as the Wanderer stopped he switched off, and grabbing his rifle jumped down. The others poured out behind him. Shots were already flicking up the dust, so the men, under Carruthers’ leadership, made a dive for the rocks and there assembled the machine-gun.

  About a dozen of the Tiger’s men, led by the Tiger himself, were by this time sprinting towards the aircraft; but as the machine-gun started its devastating chatter they acted as Biggles expected they would. They turned and fled, leaving two of their number on the ground. Biggles picked off another man and then jumped to his feet.

  ‘Come on! Let’s get after them,’ he said crisply.

  But now things took a surprising turn, a turn for which Biggles thought he should have
been prepared, but as a matter of fact the possibility had not occurred to him. The labourers, who were really nothing less than slaves, were working in the trench. Biggles had noticed them before he landed, but they did not come into his calculations. It seemed, now, as if they suddenly realised that deliverance was at hand. They were nearly all natives from the coast, and perhaps they recognised Carruthers’ spotless white uniform. Be that as it may, with one accord, and with a wild yell, they leapt out of the trench and attacked their masters, using as weapons the tools they held in their hands. Biggles saw the gang-boss go down under a rain of blows from picks and shovels. The survivors of this onset, the Tiger among them, bolted for the steps, pursued by a yelling crowd. Some, in their desperate haste to escape, threw away their rifles.

  ‘What on earth is happening?’ cried Carruthers.

  ‘It looks as if the Tiger’s slaves have decided to take a hand,’ answered Biggles grimly.

  They could do nothing to prevent the massacre that followed, for they were still a good two hundred yards away, and the slaves were between them and the fugitives. Biggles ran on, followed by the others, hoping to save life if it were possible, and anxious to get to the chamber.

  Just before he reached it he saw a fearful sight. Five or six brawny natives, fleeter of foot than the rest, overtook the two white men, Warren and Schmitt, at the head of the stairway. The hunted men screamed as hands fell on them and pulled them down.

  Carruthers, seeing what was likely to happen, shouted, but he might as well have saved his breath. For a moment there was a knot of struggling figures. Then they separated, and the two white men, clutching at the air, swung out over the awful void. Then they disappeared from sight, their screams growing fainter as they plunged to destruction.

  Biggles left the rest to Carruthers. Feeling a, trifle sick, he dashed to the chamber, and saw, for the first time, the effect of the explosion. He realised at once that the others must have been trapped.

  He beckoned to some of the ex-labourers who were standing about talking in excited groups and made them clear the masonry. As soon as the slab was exposed he opened it.

  ‘Hullo there!’ he called cheerfully.

  There was no answer.

  Biggles felt his heart miss a beat. He went down the first few steps and struck a match, holding the light above his head. His fears were at once confirmed. The chamber was empty. And there he stood, flabbergasted, until the match burnt his fingers.

  ‘Hullo!’ he shouted again, in a voice that had suddenly become hoarse.

  But there was no reply.

  Slowly, hardly able to believe his eyes, he made his way back up the steps to the fresh air.

  Carruthers appeared. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked quickly, noting the expression on Biggles’s face.

  ‘They’re gone,’ said Biggles in a dazed voice.

  ‘Gone?’ echoed Carruthers incredulously. ‘Where could they have gone?’

  Biggles shrugged his shoulders helplessly. ‘Don’t ask me,’ he said bitterly. ‘I’m no magician.’

  17

  UNEXPECTED MEETINGS

  BIGGLES might well have wondered what had become of Algy, Ginger and Eddie; and, as the idol had swung back into place, he might have searched for a long time without finding them. The earth had—as near as may be—opened and swallowed them up.

  Eddie was a long time recovering from his fall, for only on the screen do people who have been stunned by a blow on the head recover in a few seconds. Algy and Ginger could do little to help him. They had not even any water. All they could do was squat beside him, rubbing his hands and fanning his face, at the same time debating whether they should try to carry him down the cave which they could see stretched for some distance— how far they did not know. It appeared to plunge down towards the centre of the earth.

  They lost all count of time; indeed, they did not even know whether it was day or night when Eddie, after a few weak groans, eventually opened his eyes. Once consciousness returned he made fairly good progress, and presently was well enough to ask what had happened. He himself had no recollection beyond groping about on the floor looking for a trap-door.

  ‘You found it,’ Algy told him with humorous sarcasm. ‘Having found it, you dived through and landed on your head.’

  Eddie struggled into a sitting position. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Ask me something easier,’ returned Algy wearily. ‘Still, if you’re well enough to get on your feet we’ll try to find out. It’s no use going back, so we may as well go forward.’

  Now, all this time Ginger had kept a small fire going by tearing pieces off his shirt, with the result that there was very little of the garment left.

  Eddie got up, rather unsteadily, while Ginger recklessly tore the remaining piece of shirt into strips to provide illumination. With this improvised torch he led the way, the others following, Eddie leaning on Algy’s arm.

  For some time nothing happened. The cave, a rough, narrow tunnel just high enough to enable them to stand upright, took a winding course downward at a steep angle. It seemed to go on interminably, but then suddenly opened out into a tremendous cavity in the earth, not unlike a cathedral. Enormous stalactites, like rows of organ-pipes, dropped from the roof to meet spiky stalagmites that sprang upwards from the floor. From all around came the faint drip, drip, drip, of water, an eerie sound in such a place.

  ‘Now what have we struck?’ asked Ginger in an awed voice, looking round. He took a pace forward, but backed hastily.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Algy.

  ‘The floor’s soft.’

  ‘What do you mean—soft?’

  ‘What I say. It feels like mud. It won’t bear my weight.’

  Algy stepped forward and tested it. ‘You’re right,’ he said slowly. ‘We seem to have struck a confounded bog.’

  ‘It looks as if we shan’t be able to get any farther.’

  ‘Just a minute,’ put in Eddie. ‘Of course, there’s always a chance that the bog has only been formed in recent years, but if it was always here, then surely there must be a way across, otherwise there would be no point in making the cave.’

  ‘That’s a reasonable argument,’ agreed Algy. ‘All the same I can’t see any bridge.’ He began exploring the mud with his feet. ‘Just a minute, what have we here?’ he cried. ‘It feels like a lump of rock just under the surface.’

  Ginger tried it. ‘That’s what it is,’ he said, standing on it. Groping with his foot, he found another. ‘That’s it,’ he went on. ‘There are stepping-stones, but either they’ve sunk or the mud has risen and covered them. Let’s see if we can get across.’

  ‘Gosh! I don’t think much of this,’ muttered Algy as he followed. ‘What about you, Eddie?’ Can you manage?’

  ‘Yes, I reckon so,’ answered Eddie, holding on to the wall for support. He drew his hand away sharply. ‘It’s all right,’ he went on quickly. ‘It’s only water. It’s collected in a sort of basin in the rock. There must be a flaw, a fissure, in the rock, that lets the rain water in from above.’

  ‘Water!’ gasped Ginger. ‘Let’s have a drink. My throat’s like dust.’

  In a moment they were all drinking greedily out of their cupped hands.

  ‘That’s better,’ exclaimed Ginger, rinsing his grimy face.

  ‘You’re sure right,’ agreed Eddie. ‘I feel a heap better for that.’

  They now proceeded again, Ginger, carrying the flame, leading the way. Several times a false step got him into difficulties. Once he stepped off the path and sank up to the waist in slime. Algy had hard work to pull him out, while all around the disturbed area of mud quaked and threw up huge noisome bubbles.

  ‘Phew! What a stink,’ muttered Ginger disgustedly. ‘We ought to have brought masks,’ he added, trying to make light of the incident.

  A moment later Eddie exclaimed, ‘You’re right at that.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Gas masks. My head’s beginning to swim. There’s sulphur i
n this gas. Push on, but don’t fall in again, or you’ll send up more gas.’

  Ginger needed no second invitation, and it was with a shout of relief that he saw the stepping-stones ahead protruding above the mud. Once they could see them, progress became faster, and it was not long before they arrived at what appeared to be a continuation of the cave, although it was now much larger.

  Ginger turned, and holding up the flame in such a way that it burned more brightly, took a last look at the subterranean mere.

  ‘I say, you fellows, what’s that?’ he asked in a startled voice. ‘I mean—that shadow—over there. It seems to be coming towards us.’

  The others turned and looked, and saw, as Ginger had remarked, that a broad dark shadow was moving across the morass towards them. The strange thing about it was that it did not maintain an even rate of progress. It seemed to dart forward a little way, then pause, then come on again.

  ‘Say! I don’t like the look of that,’ said Eddie. ‘What could cause a shadow in here?’

  ‘That isn’t a shadow,’ answered Algy in a hushed whisper. ‘It’s something—alive. I believe it’s thousands of insects of some sort. Yes, by gosh, that’s it. Just look at ‘em. They look like whacking great water-spiders. What do they call those big spiders? Tarantulas. Their bite is poisonous.’ He ended on a shrill note.

  The others did not wait to confirm this. With one accord they turned about and fled up the cave.

  After going a little way Ginger looked over his shoulder. ‘Look out!’ he yelled. ‘They’re coming!’

  They blundered on. There was no longer any question of going back.