Biggles Goes Home

by W E Johns

  “He was above me when I shot at him. That was bad.”

  “Why?”

  “When you hunt a bear, sahib, never make him angry if he is above you. He comes fast down the hill, but cannot go so fast up the hill. Thus it is also with snakes. Always be above when you attack.”2

  “Tell me about this place, Mata Dhinn,” requested Algy.

  “It is a khora, sahib, a nullah,3 very long and deep. There are many rocks, with holes in which many bears live. A bad place where a man can be trapped if the rains come suddenly.”

  “How far would it be from here to this place?” asked Algy.

  Mata Dhinn could not give the distance in miles but he thought it was not a great distance.

  “In which direction.”

  The Gond pointed to the west.

  “I fancy I’ve seen this place,” said Ginger, thoughtfully. “There are plenty of gorges, but every time we’ve been over I’ve noticed an extra big one. For that reason I was able to have a good look at it, but I never saw a movement. The bottom is fairly open but I can’t remember seeing any water in it.”

  “Some water stays always in the rocks, sahib, if what Ram Shan tells me is true.”

  “Could you recognize this nullah from the air?”

  Mata Dhinn said he thought he could.

  “Would you come with us in the plane and show it to us?” inquired Algy.

  “Yes, sahib.”

  “Have you ever flown before?”

  “No, sahib.”

  “You’re not afraid?”

  “No, sahib. If it was dangerous you would not fly,” averred the Indian with simple logic.

  “Good. Then let us go and look at this bad place.”

  “Biggles sahib cannot be there yet,” Mata Dhinn pointed out.

  “No matter. We shall know where to look for him when he does arrive. You are not in a hurry to return to your village?”

  “No, sahib.”

  “You must have travelled fast and may need a rest.”

  “No. I will go when you are ready.”

  It was about three o’clock when the aircraft took off on what was intended to be a short run merely to mark the position of the nullah. For this purpose Mata Dhinn sat beside Algy in the cockpit. Things did not, however, turn out as expected, for no sooner was the machine airborne than a considerable volume of smoke could be seen rising from a point about twelve miles away.

  “Is that the place of Toxan sahib’s camp?” Algy asked Mata Dhinn.

  “It is the place.”

  “Gould it be that Ram Shan has arrived?”

  “No.”

  “You are sure it wouldn’t be possible?” queried Algy, heading towards the smoke.

  “I am sure it would not be possible.”

  “Not even if he travelled fast?”

  “He could not arrive at the nullah before sundown.”

  “Then what is causing the smoke?”

  “Not know.”

  Said Ginger, from behind: “In any event Biggles wouldn’t be likely to make a fire that size—unless he accidentally set the forest alight.”

  “One wouldn’t think so,” agreed Algy. “We may know more about it when we’ve had a closer look.”

  Within five minutes the machine was over the objective. Seen from a low altitude it was, as Mata Dhinn had said, a forbidding gorge, altogether larger and deeper than Ginger had supposed. On previous flights he had seen it only from their usual cruising height of two or three thousand feet in order to get a wide view.

  Now, from under five hundred feet it was possible to look right into what was in effect a great gash across the foot of a steep slope, a split in the earth’s crust. Mixed jungle, scrub and small trees, covered everything, except where the walls rose sheer and in the extreme bottom, which appeared to be mostly sand or gravel having been swept clean by the periodic monsoon spates, which prevented any sort of vegetation from gaining a foothold. At the moment no water was to be seen. The base of the nullah varied between thirty and fifty yards in width. At the top, of course, it was a good deal wider. The whole thing ran fairly straight, with only one or two slight bends.

  The source of the smoke was at once apparent. An area of two or three acres of scrub, spreading from the bottom of the ravine to half-way up a rocky slope, was burning, the fire having started all along the base.

  “What do you make of that?” Ginger asked Algy.

  “I haven’t a clue, unless Toxan, hearing us, lit a little fire and it got out of hand.”

  “That would go for Biggles, if by some miracle he had arrived. I can’t imagine either Toxan or Biggles starting a fire that size. Anyway, if either of them were there surely they’d be standing in the open, where they’d be plain to see, looking up at us and waving. I can’t see a soul.”

  Algy looked at the Gond sitting beside him. “Are you sure this is the place?”

  “Yes, sahib. This is the place.”

  “Could such a fire start by accident?”

  Mata Dhinn said he thought not. He admitted he couldn’t understand it.

  “Neither can I,” stated Algy. “If you’re sure this is the place there’s something mighty queer about it.”

  “It’d be a strange coincidence if a fire started itself at the very place where we were expecting to see smoke,” asserted Ginger. “Can’t you go a bit lower?”

  “I’ll tell you what,” answered Algy. “The flying may be a bit tricky but I’ll start at one end and shoot right through the nullah. Then, if Toxan’s camp is there we’re bound to see it. There’s a chance he may be away at the moment, digging. Hold tight, Mata Dhinn; in this thin hot air we may bump about a bit.”

  So saying Algy banked steeply and took the machine to the far end of the gorge, which might have been two or three miles long, becoming shallower at each end where jungle again took possession, the actual watercourse disappearing under the trees.

  Algy turned into it, and sideslipping off some height, holding the machine down began to race through it with the forest flashing past on both sides anything from two to three hundred feet above them. Luckily the gorge was fairly straight, so the operation was not so hair-raising as it would have been had it had any sharp turns in it. Even so it called for careful flying.

  The only real risk was air currents that might for a moment throw the machine out of control with insufficient room for recovery; a “sinker” which could cause the aircraft to hit the floor of the ravine, or an up- current that might bump it into the trees on one side or the other.

  None of these things happened, however, and after a nervous couple of minutes Algy zoomed out of the far end. He had seen nothing, for the simple reason he had been too occupied with what he was doing to look.

  “See anything?” he called to Ginger, as he banked steeply to repeat the performance if necessary.

  “Yes. There’s a man lying on the sand. He didn’t move as we shot over him so I think he must be dead.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “It is true, sahib. I saw him,” said Mata Dhinn.

  “Did it look like a white man?”

  “No.”

  “What did he look like—an Indian?”

  “No, sahib.”

  “He looked to me mightily like a Chinese soldier,” said Ginger.

  “My God! Don’t tell me those troops we saw have found their way here and mopped up the camp!”

  “That’s what it looks like. If that man I saw is dead there must have been fighting. Now I come to think of it I saw two Indians with those troops who came to us; I told you at the time; they may have known about Toxan and guided the Chinese to it.”

  “I’ll run through again. You may see something else.”

  “Okay.”

  Algy, tense at the control column, made the return dash down the gorge. “Well?” he called, as he pulled up at the far end and went into a tight circle.

  “I saw another body, an Indian I think, and a smouldering mark as if it might have been Toxan�
�s camp, burnt out. This is the place all right. There are the trenches where Toxan, I imagine, has been digging for rubies. No one else would be likely to dig here.”

  “Then it looks like a bad show.”

  “‘Fraid so.”

  “There’s nothing we can do about it.”

  After a moment or two Ginger replied: “I could go down.”

  “I’m not trying to get down on the floor of that hole,” said Algy emphatically.

  “I wasn’t suggesting that you did.”

  “Then what did you mean?”

  “We’ve got a brolly. I could drop in.”

  “Are you out of your mind?”

  “I hope not. But as I see it the camp has been raided, and it’s hard to imagine anyone except those Chinese troops doing it. There’s been a fight. That’s obvious. The attackers have pulled out, probably taking Mr. Poo with them. Toxan wouldn’t give him up without a struggle. He may be down there, somewhere, wounded. We can’t just do nothing about it.”

  “Biggles should be along presently.”

  “Presently! He won’t be here till sundown, and that’s three to four hours away. By that time it may be too late to do any good. There are others beside Toxan, don’t forget. We know he had two Gurkhas with him, and Mr. Poo’s Thibetan servant. What do you say?”

  “I don’t like it, but it’s up to you. How are you going to get back to the lake?”

  “The same way as Biggles, whatever that may be, when he comes. He’ll have to get back.”

  “What good can you do?” argued Algy.

  “I can stuff some surgical dressings from the medicine chest in my pocket and take care of anyone who may be down there until Biggles comes. I wouldn’t suggest going in but for Biggles being on the way here.”

  “Okay. I’ll leave it to you. It’s your funeral. What do you want me to do ?”

  “Give me a couple of minutes to get into the harness and then fly over the gorge as slowly as you dare. You’ll feel me go. That won’t be anywhere near that bush fire. I don’t want to drop into that.”

  “Fair enough. Yell when you’re ready.”

  This did not call for an answer so Ginger made haste with his preparations. Into the pockets of his jacket he jammed the few things he thought might be useful. He then got into the parachute and opened the cabin door.

  “Ready,” he shouted.

  Again Algy turned the machine to follow the ravine, holding it in a glide as steady as possible. He felt the slight lurch as Ginger jumped clear, and tilting the aircraft to watch his descent held his breath until the fabric mushroomed. Still watching he saw it crumple as Ginger hit the ground, landing almost in the middle of the dry watercourse. He breathed again when Ginger, having slipped his harness, looked up and waved. Then, pale with anxiety and apprehension, as there was nothing more he could do he opened up and headed for the lake.

  * * *

  1 Gun.

  2 There are two sorts of Himalayan bear, the black and the red (or brown) the red being less common and the least dangerous. The black, with a broad white arrow on its chest which it shows when it stands on its hind legs, can be an ugly customer if molested, but as a general rule he will rarely attack a man unless wounded or in self-defence. Nevertheless, his temper is unpredictable, and natives usually give him a wide berth.

  3 Khora and nullah really mean the same thing, a ravine or gorge. Nullah, from the Hindi word nala, usually, but not necessarily, means a dry watercourse.

  CHAPTER IX

  IF Algy was satisfied to see Ginger touch down safely Ginger himself was even more relieved, for he knew the risks he was taking in making a “free” drop into such a confined space. A draught of hot air funnelling through the gorge might have swung him against a face of rock or carried him into the tall trees which topped the slopes on either side. He had been more afraid of an accident of this sort, which might incapacitate him, than of anything that might happen after he was on the ground.

  Stepping out of his harness he gave Algy a wave to show he was all right. Then, as the machine turned away, he made a neat bundle of the parachute and pushed it well into the shade of a bush from where it could easily be recovered later. This done he looked about him and observed that the place was not too bad after all, certainly not as difficult for walking as it had looked from the air.

  The floor, the actual watercourse, now dry, was mostly sand or shingle, with outcrops of rock, and loose boulders of various sizes, that had been washed down by spates, lying at intervals. Rocks and sundry debris extended some little way up the banks, showing the high water mark in times of flood. Occasionally the sides of the gorge were precipitous but more often they sloped back at an angle and were covered with scrub or a tangle of jungle. The heat in the bottom of the ravine was formidable. He looked and listened, but he could see no one.

  Rather than risk falling into the burning scrub he had taken care to jump some distance from it; which meant he had also landed some little distance from what he had thought to be bodies, which were not far apart. So, with the drone of the aircraft receding, reminding him that he was now alone, keeping a watchful eye open he set off towards them on a tour of inspection. There were signs of digging, holes and trenches, in many places, as was to be expected after the length of time the lone prospector had spent trying to find the source of the rubies.

  Presently he came to what had obviously been the site of the camp, close to a hollow rock face into which, into a little pool, trickled water from a spring somewhere above. The camp was now a heap of burnt, blackened wreckage, only a few metal cooking utensils and digging tools having escaped the fire. Several expended cartridge cases showed that Toxan had put up a fight. His rifle was not there. Nor, to Ginger’s relief, was his body, which he had been prepared to find.

  He went on and soon came upon the first casualty, a native whom he took to be one of Toxan’s Gurkhas. He was dead, having been shot and afterwards mutilated. A little farther on lay another body, and he saw that he had been right. It was that of a Chinese soldier. He, too, had been shot. Ginger, moved by these signs of tragedy, walked on, until, rounding a slight bend, he came within sight of the fire. There he stopped, as it seemed pointless to continue. He looked at the fire. It was burning slowly, making more smoke than flame, the brake, dwarf bamboo and bush, that comprised the scrub evidently being green and damp in the bottom. The belt was the best part of two hundred yards from end to end. It was burning from the lowest part upwards, and for the first time it struck him as odd that the fire should be burning for its entire length, yet moving up the slope. How could that happen, he pondered, unless the fire had been started in several places at once? Started at one place it would burn straight upwards, obviously the direction of the up-current of air that was carrying the smoke towards the lip of the ravine. It would hardly burn horizontally first, and then turn upward.

  From these puzzling reflections he was jerked in no uncertain manner when two bears burst from the smoke on the side nearest to him and came bundling up the ravine directly towards him at a lumbering gallop. Harmless they might be in the ordinary way, but apparently having been smoked out of their lairs it seemed likely they would take a poor view of anyone who got in their way. Ginger did not wait to see. He bolted. As he ran he remembered what Mata Dhinn had said about the advisability of getting above an angry bear, whereupon he turned at right angles and went up the slope in the manner of a mountain goat.

  Having reached what he considered to be a safe height he turned to watch what the bears would do. He might not have existed for all the notice they took of him. Making a funny grunting noise they rushed straight on until they reached the body of the Chinese soldier, which they must have winded, for they rose up on their hind legs as if to charge, or ward off an attack. When the body did not move the leading bear went up to it, sniffed it, fetched it a swipe with a paw and galloped on. The other followed. Both disappeared round the bend and Ginger saw no more of them.

  He had taken out his handker
chief to wipe the sweat from his face, for the heat reflected from the bare earth and rocks was stifling, when the rattle of a rolling stone made him turn. The sight that met his eyes stiffened him rigid. A dozen yards away a rifle was pointing at him from behind a boulder. Behind the rifle were two dark eyes in a brown face, the forehead bound in a strip of blood-stained rag; lank black hair hung over it, completing a picture that would have frightened anyone.

  Ginger raised his hands to show they were empty. “Don’t shoot,” he said quickly, without having the least idea of who or what the man was, or if he would understand what he had said.

  The face rose a little higher above the rock that had half concealed it. “Englishman,” said a voice.

  “Yes, I’m English,” answered Ginger, not a little relieved.

  The man raised the rifle and stepped clear of the rock. “You look for Toxan sahib?” he queried.

  “Yes. I came here hoping to find him,” replied Ginger. “Do you know where he is? I’m afraid there has been some trouble here.”

  “Much trouble. Chinese men come.”

  “Are you one of Captain Toxan’s Gurkhas?”

  “Yes, sahib. Come. I show.”

  Ginger followed the man into a little depression surrounded by scrub, and there, on the ground, his head supported by a heap of dry grass, lay a white man, the man, he did not doubt, he had hoped to find. He was elderly, between fifty and sixty Ginger judged, thin and wiry-looking, his skin burnt to the colour of mahogany by the Indian sun. He was unshaven. His hair, badly in need of cutting, was grey and untidy.

  His eyes were open, and moved, so it was clear at once that he was not dead, although he was obviously in a bad way. He wore no jacket. The upper part of his body was only half covered by a shirt, dark with blood. This had been partly cut away to expose a shoulder that had been bandaged with what Ginger was presently to learn was the Ghurkha’s puggari. He dropped on his knees beside the wounded man. “Captain Toxan?” he queried.

  “That’s me. Who are you?” The voice was weak.

  “Your letter reached England. I’m one of a party sent to fetch Mr. Poo. Where is he?”