Biggles Goes Home

by W E Johns

  “Is the going as bad as all that?”

  “You’ve no idea until you’ve seen it. I know you’ve seen some rough country but I doubt if you’ve ever struck anything as thick as the Indian jungle. Remember, I know what I’m talking about. I’ve had some of it. But then, when I went out on a hunting trip I was always in the care of a local shikari who knew his way through the tangle of game tracks. Most of these tracks wander about all over the place, often with only a pool or a salt-lick for the objective, so without a guide they wouldn’t be much use to us. I used to go out with a grand old fellow named Josna Kumar, a wonderful tracker. What he didn’t know about the country wasn’t worth knowing. But he must have passed on long ago.”

  “Would you call this bharbar bad country?”

  “Bad in what way?”

  “Any way.”

  “Apart from the difficulty of getting about, no. From the spectacular point of view some of it is really magnificent. I’ve seen stands of timber that must have been saplings about the time William the Conqueror was crossing the Channel. Of course, you’ve got to know what you’re doing or you can get in a mess— but that goes for most places. The prospect of going down with fever is always there; that was my trouble; but we’re not likely to be there long enough for that to worry us. Don’t get the wrong idea of the country. It isn’t dangerous in the sense that it’s unexplored, bristling with hostile tribes. Nothing like that. White men have hunted it for years, and most natives, such as there are, are usually delighted to see them. They’re chiefly Gonds. Their original home was in Central India. It was tribal warfare that caused them to retreat to the hills.”

  “I had an idea those capital soldiers, the Gurkhas, came from Garhwal,” put in Algy.

  “Quite right. Regions of Garhwal and Nepal. They’re grand fellows, but they’re not really jungle folk. We may see Bhotiyas. They look rather like Japs and believe in ghosts. My old shikari always seemed a bit nervous about running into a sort of secret tribe called Rishis, but I never saw any so I can’t say anything about them. None of these jungle people cultivate land for food. They all live by hunting.”

  “I was thinking more of dangerous animals,” said Ginger.

  “It depends on what you call dangerous. There are plenty of animals— elephant, tiger, panther, bears and what have you, but only in rare circumstances would one be likely to go for a man unless the man started the trouble. On a trip like ours we’re not likely to interfere with any of ‘em, we’ve something else to do.”

  “What about tiger?”

  “Even he does his best to keep out of your way. There are exceptions, naturally. An elephant may turn rogue when he grows old and bad tempered, and so finds himself kicked out of the herd. The odd tiger or leopard may develop a taste for human meat and do a lot of mischief before he’s knocked off. Fortunately they’re uncommon. In my day the natives, not having the proper weapons for the job, couldn’t deal with these pests, so when things became really bad the government would send along a specially trained white hunter to wipe out the scourge. No doubt there are now Indians who handle this sort of business.”

  “What about snakes?” asked Bertie. “If there’s one thing that gives me the heeby-jeebies it’s snakes.”

  Biggles smiled. “Oh, there’s no shortage of snakes. Most of them are harmless enough but it’s as well not to take chances till you know ‘em. The trouble with snakes is, they have a habit of popping up where you least expect them, and are not even thinking of such things. I had several narrow escapes when I was a kid. Once I stooped to pick up a ball, and jumped back just in time. Lying coiled beside it was that frightful little devil, a krait. If he bites you, you’ve had it. Another time I pushed open the bathroom door, and a krait, which must have been lying on the top, fell on my shoulder. Luckily for me he bounced on the floor, and as you can imagine, I bounced into the next room. One forgets about snakes, but when that sort of thing happens you remember ‘em. My father was once bitten on the thumb by a Russel Viper and nearly died. He was in agony for days. If anyone’s scared of snakes he’d better stay at home.”

  “Don’t you get pythons there?”

  “Plenty, but they’re not poisonous. They’re constrictors. As a general rule the little ‘uns are the worst. I used to go out looking for pythons. They like water and a cool spot. A great place for ‘em was in the narrow irrigation ditches on the tea estates. I once saw one nearly thirty feet long. The natives make all sorts of nice things from their skins. But we shall have plenty of time later to natter about these things. Let’s see about getting organized. We’ll start with the maps. Then we can make a plan of campaign.”

  That was how the operation began, and up to the time of arrival at the Blue Lake it proceeded without a hitch. The flight out, via Delhi and Moradabad was ordinary routine, facilitated by documents provided by the Air Commodore and the India Office in London. To the relief of Biggles, for officialdom can on occasion be tiresome and cause delays, nothing was questioned.

  The party spent two days in Moradabad while Biggles tried to obtain news of Captain Toxan. There was just a chance, he thought, of making contact, through an agency, with one of Toxan’s bearers who had left his service and was now living in the town. However, this failed. Possibly because he had been away in the wilds for so long no one appeared even to have heard of Captain Toxan. From where the men he sent down from time to time, for stores, obtained them, could not be discovered, so rather than waste any more time, he had, with his tanks topped up, made a reconnaissance to locate the Blue Lake, the first objective. This had proved relatively easy, for there was only one piece of water at the known altitude of Timbi Tso—to give the place its proper name —large enough to be called a lake.

  Having examined the surface and finding it clear except for water-lilies in the shallows, seeing no point in using up fuel by returning to Moradabad a landing had been made and an advanced base established. By the time this was done the light was fading and it was therefore too late to start the search for Toxan’s camp that day.

  So, watches having been arranged, an automatic though apparently unnecessary precaution, the party spent its first night in the jungle, the plan being to survey, and possibly take photographs which could be examined at leisure, in the morning.

  Which brings us to the point where Ginger, fetching water for early tea, saw the tiger.

  CHAPTER IV

  “ARE you going to leave anyone here to keep guard over our stuff?” asked Algy, as the camp was tidied up preparatory to making the first serious reconnaissance.

  “I don’t think that’s necessary,” decided Biggles. “This lake can’t be visited by men very often or we’d see marks. There should be game tracks leading to a stretch of water of this size. Most things have to drink. No doubt there are elephant tracks, but the only way we’d find them would be by sweating round the perimeter of the lake, and I’ve no intention of doing that. If a hunting party did come along I don’t think they’d touch our things. The natives I met years ago were mostly honest and trustworthy. In view of what we have to do the more eyes we have in the machine the better. We’ll lace up the flap of the tent to keep monkeys out. I can hear some about. They’re inquisitive little rascals, not to say mischievous. We shan’t be away long.”

  “What’s this wonderful aroma I get whiffs of every now and then?” asked Ginger.

  “It’s a shrub. I don’t know the botanical name but the local people call it mhowa. It’s common everywhere. If you get too much of it, it can be a bit sickly.”

  “The flies are a bit grim now the sun’s up,” observed Bertie.

  “You’d be lucky to find a place in the tropics where there are no flies,” Biggles told him, as he secured the tent. “Flies and ants by the million. Before we get airborne I think it might be a good thing if you all had a dekko at this particular type of jungle so that you’ll know what you’re up against if you ever have to walk. Come over here.” Pushing aside the undergrowth he forced a passage, not wi
thout difficulty, for a few yards. “Apart from anything else, even if you can make progress it’s almost impossible to keep direction. Naturally, you choose the easiest way, and that means weaving about. If you get lost you’ve had it. The only paths are elephant tracks, and they may lead anywhere except where you want to go. Elephants eat as they wander along, which is why they leave tracks. With all that bulk to keep going they rarely stop eating. My old shikari assured me an elephant eats eighteen hours a day. How true that is I don’t know. I’ve never watched one for that long. As it’s about the only way of getting about, everything else, men as well as animals, use the elephant tracks. Unfortunately the tops of the trees will prevent us from seeing any sort of tracks from the air. I say unfortunately because it might be useful, in an emergency, to know if there are any, and where.”

  Biggles stopped when his advance was halted by what looked like the writhing tentacles of a thousand octopuses. “Take a look at that,” he invited. “It’s rhododendron. You can bash a way through palm and bamboo but to get through this stuff you’d need an axe. Even then you wouldn’t get far. This happens to be only a small patch so you could get round it; but you’re quite likely to hit an area of miles of rhododendron. Then what? You can’t get through it. I can tell you that because I’ve tried. Yet to go round may take you so far off your route you’d be lucky to get back to it. A compass is all right in the open, but it isn’t much use in this sort of stuff. You see what I mean.” Biggles indicated what lay before them.

  “Are there no roads at all?” inquired Ginger.

  “When the British ran India they made a few roads into the bharbar for the use of the Forestry officers, but road making here is a big job so they’re few and far apart. I’ve seen no sign of one anywhere near, so for all our chance of finding one we might as well forget it.”

  “Listen! Can I hear an elephant now?”

  “No.”

  “Then what’s that crackling sound I can hear?”

  “A tree. A kind of teak. The natives say when it crackles it’s a sign of hot weather coming.” Biggles smiled. “By the time we leave here you fellows should know quite a bit of jungle-lore.” He pointed to a shrub bearing purple and white blossoms. “Be careful with that,” he warned. “It’s madar, and deadly poison, so don’t try chewing it if you’re thirsty. It’s said that when a native wants to get rid of another he slips a few of those flowers in his drink. But the sun’s well up so we might as well get topsides.”

  “What exactly is the scheme, old boy,” asked Bertie, as they retraced their steps.

  “Nothing definite, except that we’re going to try to locate Toxan. I can’t say more than that. You can see what we’re up against. I appreciate Toxan’s difficulties but it’s a pity he couldn’t have been a bit more precise about his position. According to our altimeter when we landed the lake is a bit below nine thousand. He says his camp is a few miles to the east of it, and a bit below. What does he mean by a few miles! Ten— twenty— forty? In a country of this size fifty miles could be called close. What does he mean when he says a little below the lake? How far below? He talks of eight thousand feet. I hope he’s right, or we might find ourselves looking for something that doesn’t exist. I suspect the fact of the matter is, he himself isn’t absolutely certain of his position. He may never have seen the lake; just heard native talk about it, and that isn’t to be relied on. Apparently it was the only conspicuous landmark he could think of when he wrote the letter. Without that for a guide, vague though it is, the job would be next to impossible.”

  Reaching the cable by which the machine was moored to the bank Biggles began pulling it in.

  As a matter of detail the aircraft had been left afloat as a precaution against interference by monkeys. For the same reason the food supply, tinned or packaged, of course, had been left on board, only to be taken ashore as required. Biggles did not expect to find food available on the spot, not even fruit; for contrary to general belief little in the way of food is to be found in a tropical forest, any fruit, berries or nuts that do occur being devoured by birds and monkeys. Any that fall are immediately disposed of by ants and other insects. Nothing much could be expected from a native village even if one happened to be near, the reason being that hillmen, although they may keep an odd cow, a few goats or some scrawny chickens, do not normally practice cultivation beyond, perhaps, a tiny patch of millet.

  “The whole bally country seems to be tipped up on a slope, if you see what I mean,” observed Bertie. “Wouldn’t Toxan make his camp on a bit of a plateau— or something of that sort? Any little piece of open ground.”

  “I doubt if you’ll see any open ground in the jungle. The slope isn’t regular, either. The ground rises in a series of steps, as it were—pretty big ones, too, some of ‘em. Often it’s sheer cliff. The only place where you’d be likely to find ground not smothered in vegetation would be at the bottom of a gorge, where nothing gets a chance to grow because of the seasonal spates. If Toxan’s camp is in a gorge, it’s unlikely we shall be able to spot it from the air.”

  “You think his camp might be in a gorge?”

  “It’s quite likely. In the first place he’d need to have water handy. Secondly, he says he found his first rubies in a dry river bed, and as here all the rivers flow through gorges or ravines, which they themselves have cut, he must be in some such place. Where else would he be likely to find rubies, or any other precious stones, except in water-washed sand or gravel? He certainly wouldn’t find ‘em on the floor of the jungle, which is deep in leaf mould and rotting vegetation, not to mention the ferns and things that flourish on it. The fact that the river was dry when Toxan found the stones doesn’t necessarily mean it’s dry now, just after the monsoon. These aren’t ordinary rivers. They’re sluices, run-offs, for the rains, and the melting snow and ice on the higher ground. The water has to go somewhere, so this entire slope becomes a vast watershed. Through the ages the water, rushing downhill, has cut beds deep into the ground. Hence the gorges, which can be hundreds of feet deep. Sometimes you’ll get two or three of ‘em joining up to make one big one. Most of the water eventually finds itself in the Ganges, which drains all these hills. But let’s go and have a look at it. You’ll soon see what I mean.”

  By this time they had taken their places in the aircraft. “I shall keep low and fly as slowly as I dare,” went on Biggles. “Everyone watch for smoke, a flag, or piece of rag, or anything that looks as if it might be a signal. The only thing about that is, even if Toxan hears an aircraft he may not suppose it has anything to do with him. Ginger, you keep the camera handy and shoot anything that looks as if it might mean something. Okay, let’s go.”

  Biggles took off.

  Almost as soon as the machine was airborne the great ocean of primeval forest and jungle could be seen spreading away to hazy horizons. On one side it rose steeply towards the giant Himalayan peaks that fringed the distant northern sky. To the right the green tree tops fell away to be swallowed up in a misty blue haze that hung over the plains of India. The enormity of the task confronting those in the aircraft was at once apparent, although they had of course had a glimpse of it before, when they were looking for the lake.

  The machine made its way slowly eastward, sometimes on a gentle zigzag course, up and down, to and fro, and sometimes circling, never at a height of more than a few hundred feet. The only break in the grey-green sea occurred when it was gashed by a deep ravine as if the land had been struck by an axe wielded by one of the gods which the natives believed had their homes in the distant ice-clad mountains. These gorges, which were frequent, mostly ran up and down, that is, across the route taken by the aircraft. More often than not there were foaming rapids at the bottom.

  “By the end of the dry season much of that water will have dried up,” remarked Biggles. “It must have been at that time of the year that Toxan picked up his rubies.”

  “What would he be doing at the bottom of a ravine, anyway?” asked Ginger.

  “
He was on a hunting trip. The bottom of a ravine is as good a place as any, because everything has to drink, and even when dry there are usually little pockets of water left in the rocks.”

  “Our lake must be the only piece of level ground for miles.”

  “We don’t know that that’s level. It might be no more than a whacking great hole. With no way out the water would collect in it, fill it up and become a lake. For all we know it might be hundreds of feet deep in the middle. That’s of no interest to us—provided the water stays there.”

  For an hour the Gadfly cruised up and down, covering the ground between seven and nine thousand feet for an estimated distance of forty miles or so from the lake. Not a thing looking remotely like the object of the search was seen. Only to the north, the higher ground, was there any change in the colour of the panorama. In that direction long strands of darker-foliaged spruce and fir imposed a pattern on the otherwise even tint of the lower forest.

  “This seems pretty hopeless,” said Bertie, putting his head in the cockpit. “Can’t see a bally thing—not a road, not a village, nothing. The place might be dead.”

  “That’s what I thought you’d think when you’d had a good look at it from topsides,” returned Biggles, lugubriously. “I’m going back to the lake. We could go on doing this until we ran out of petrol.”

  “What else can we do?”

  “Nothing.”

  “If Toxan’s still alive he must have heard us, even if he couldn’t see us. Why didn’t he make some sort of signal?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that. As I said before, he may not connect an aircraft with a rescue. Another point that occurs to me is this: he may not have had a signal ready. He may be away from camp, without means of lighting a fire, for instance. That’s why I’m going back to the lake. We’ll try again later. If he heard us he will have had time to get some sort of signal ready. I daren’t go on burning petrol at this rate. We can get more at Moradabad, of course, but I don’t want to waste time going to and fro. Besides, people might get curious as to what we’re doing.”