by W E Johns
He tried to keep an eye on the tree, but found it almost impossible, for in spite of Biggles’ shouts of “Steady” the column had increased its pace with the result that there was a lot of stumbling and slipping. Moreover, he had to give his attention to an old hound that made a savage lunge at him. He shot it, but did not kill it, for it turned tail and raced away.
This had an unexpected result. Ginger, watching it go, saw a man run out from behind a tree, waving his arms as if to check its flight. The effect was to cause the animal, enraged perhaps by its wound, to fly at him. For this the man must have been unprepared, because before he could defend himself the dog had knocked him down and then began to worry him. What finally happened Ginger did not see, for so taken up was he by the event that he slipped and fell headlong.
By the time he was on his feet Biggles was standing by him, shooting at a dog that was rushing the column.
“Don’t shoot unless you have to,” said Biggles, tersely. “We’re holding our own, but at this rate we shall run out of ammunition. I must try to steady the mob.” He ran forward.
Mob was the word, thought Ginger, for the party, instead of steadying its pace as Biggles implored, had broken into something like a run, as no doubt was natural enough in the circumstances. Speed was, of course, desirable, but it meant that the column was beginning to spread out, and once that happens, as he well knew, a retreat is likely to become a panic.
However, Biggles must have reached the head of the line and halted it, for the ranks began to close up again. There were not as many dogs as there had been for a number had been shot, and these were probably the boldest, for the survivors seemed more content to slink along on the flanks, keeping pace with the column.
As far as Ginger knew no one had been hurt, although he had seen one dog, which had managed to get into the column, hanging on to a man’s sleeve. It was disposed of by a powerfully built Marquesan who had seized it by the hind legs and hurled it against a tree.
The shooting was now sporadic and Ginger knew why. Everyone was running out of ammunition and reserving his last one or two shots for an emergency.
Panting and sweating profusely in the sticky heat, for the sun was now well up, the refugees pressed on. Ginger had no idea of how much farther they had to go, for hemmed in as they were by giant trees vision was limited to a short distance; but he felt that they must have reached the lowest slopes. The dogs, he thought, finding this a different matter from attacking a lone man, were becoming fewer, and often standing still as if not knowing what to do. He saw nothing more of their handlers. He heard no shouts, or whistles. Perhaps the men, too, realizing that the escapers were well armed, had had enough.
Suddenly the column closed up like a concertina, and walking forward to find out why, discovered that the leaders had reached an open glade, and Biggles had decided to call a halt to re-form. “It would,” he said, “give everyone a chance to get his breath. We should soon be able to see the inlet,” he added.
“I think we’re through the dogs,” said Sven, coming up.
Biggles agreed. “The worst should be over,” he opined. “Let’s push on.”
“Listen!” exclaimed Ginger, suddenly, looking at Biggles wide-eyed. There was no need to say more. The sound that now reached their ears spoke for itself. It was the swish and roar of aero engines being started.
“Maybe Algy has heard the din we made and is moving across to the beach to be ready for us,” said Ginger, hopefully.
“I hope you’re right,” returned Biggles, grimly. “We shall soon know.”
They did soon know. The column was restarted, and another quarter of an hour, in which time they passed the scene of their first encounter with the dogs, they arrived at the beach.
The Dryad was still there at her anchor, but the aircraft was not.
They still could not see the mooring where they had left it. With Marcel’s help Ginger scrambled up a tree, which he judged would overlook the spot. It did. One glance was enough. He swung back to the ground.
“They’ve gone,” he said, helplessly. “I allowed myself four days,” said Biggles, slowly. “They must have had a good reason to move. What could it have been?”
There was no answer.
CHAPTER XIV
PROBLEMS FOR ALGY
ALGY had not moved the Sunderland without a reason although the shore party would never have guessed what it was. It so happened that the move was made at a most unfortunate moment, but in that there was no choice.
After the departure of Biggles and the rest on their hazardous undertaking, Algy and Bertie had settled down to a regular routine, which consisted mostly of taking turns at watching the opposite shore. This they did with painstaking diligence, for always aware of how much the machine meant to all of them they were taking no chances of losing it. In their position they were not afraid of the dogs, but they were very much concerned with whoever was in charge of them. It was taken for granted that from these people they could expect only hostility.
Of what was happening on the mountain they had not the remotest idea. They often looked up at it, speculating on Biggles’ chances of reaching the top and what would happen if he succeeded in getting there. Still keeping close watch on the far shore, although the sultry heat of the day soon drove them into the shade of the cabin, they prepared a meal, ate it without much appetite, and washed up.
Not a sound came from the rank mass of jungle and forest opposite. No whistle, no call, no bark of a dog, to indicate the menace which they knew lurked in its sullen depths. This was all very boring but they did not relax their vigilance.
During Algy’s next watch Bertie produced a handline from their miscellaneous equipment and announced his intention of doing a spot of fishing. This, he asserted, in answer to a question from Algy, was not merely to while away the time, but in the hope of providing a change of diet. All their stores were of course of the canned variety, and fresh food of any sort would be acceptable. Algy had vetoed the idea of going ashore to look for bananas.
Using a morsel of tinned bacon for a bait Bertie cast his hook overboard. Within a minute there came such a tug that he nearly went overboard himself. Recovering, for a few seconds he hung on, the line cutting into his fingers; then there was a snap as the line parted and he reeled backwards as the strain was suddenly relaxed.
He turned a startled face to Algy. “Here! I say chaps! Did you see that?”
Algy was smiling broadly. “Of course. What did you hook—the bottom?”
“If it was the bottom, old boy, the bottom must be alive. It felt more like a bally whale to me.”
“I haven’t noticed any whales hereabouts.” Algy was still smiling.
“Well, it was something pretty enormous. Nearly took my fingers off.” Bertie examined his hand critically.
“Have you finished fishing?” inquired Algy.
“Finished! No jolly fear.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Try again, old boy, try again. If I can haul one of these lads out there would be fish for breakfast for a week.”
“In this heat it should be pretty ripe by the end of a week. No matter. Go ahead. Only one thing I ask you. Don’t bring a shark aboard—not even a baby.”
“Not me, laddie. I’m nothing for sharks,” declared Bertie. “Wait till I fetch another hook. I’ll give the blighters something to bite on this time.”
He disappeared below, presently to return with a large cod hook, which he tied directly to the line. “Let ’em try chewing that,” he murmured, as he transfixed another piece of bacon and threw it overboard.
The result was practically the same. A brief pause. Another tug. He hung on for perhaps ten seconds when again the fish went away with the hook.
“Oh, dash it all, this is a bit thick,” he protested, gazing down into the deep blue depths as he drew in the broken line.
“I’d say not thick enough,” said Algy, laughing. “If you go on at this rate you soon won’t have any line le
ft.”
“The trouble is, they’re all too big,” decided Bertie, sadly. “Either that or the big ’uns won’t give the little ’uns a chance.”
“This is the first time I’ve heard a fisherman complain the fish are too big,” scoffed Algy.
“Then some of ’em should try fishing here, old boy. All I want is one little haddock.”
“Try a smaller hook and a tiny bait,” suggested Algy, trying to be helpful.
“That’s an idea,” agreed Bertie. “Do you know, my mouth is watering for fish and chips, after all this hard tack.” He turned to go below.
How this angling operation would have ended, had it continued, is a matter for surmise. But it did not continue. It was brought to an abrupt end by something that gave them a different problem to discuss.
The hull appeared to be struck a considerable blow from below.
Bertie looked at Algy. “Did you do that?”
“No.”
“Then it must be these bally fish trying to get aboard for more bacon.”
“Don’t be a fool.”
“It must have been a fish. It hit us a fair wallop.”
“It was more of a pulsation than a blow—as if it had come right up from the bottom and was transmitted through the water. By gosh! Look at the water! What did I tell you?”
The water of the inlet was rocking, a heavy swell bouncing from one side to the other. This of course caused the aircraft to rock. Several big fish broke surface, one jumping clear so close that spray drenched the machine as it fell back.
But it was what was happening ashore that gave Algy a clue as to what had occurred. A long low rumble turned his eyes upwards. Crags were falling off the black cliff and crashing down into the forest. More terrifying still, a slim rock spire was swaying. Even as they watched it they saw it break off and fall. The air was full of gulls, screaming.
“It’s an earthquake,” said Algy, his tone of voice and the colour of his face revealing how he felt about it.
“Well, what do you know about that?” breathed Bertie. “Earthquakes are no joke.”
“Are you telling me?” cried Algy.
“Well, we seem to have stopped quaking.”
“Yes. But for how long?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m no expert, but I believe earthquake shocks seldom come alone. From what I’ve read, when they start they run in a series.”
“Here, hold hard, old boy, you’re putting the wind up me,” protested Bertie.
“I’ve more than a breeze up myself, and I don’t mind admitting it,” declared Algy.
“What can we do?”
“Nothing, as far as I can see.”
“A few more bangs like that last one won’t do the machine any good.”
“You’re right. Designers don’t make allowances for earthquakes hammering at the keel. But never mind us,” went on Algy, anxiously. “What about Biggles? He must be somewhere up there in the middle of it. If he happened to be under one of those landslides he wouldn’t have a hope.”
“Don’t let’s think about that.”
“We may have to.”
“And there’s nothing we can do?”
“Not a thing. We shall just have to go on waiting and hope for the best.”
“Not much joy in that, laddie.”
“We didn’t come here looking for joy, and having seen the abominable place I wouldn’t expect to find any. The whole mountain must be rotten. You could see that from the way it fell to pieces when it shook. Imagine what a really bad shake would do. Just a minute. Let’s see if we can spot anything.”
Algy went into the cabin and returned with the binoculars. With these, for some time, he scanned the open ground near the summit. “Not a sign of ’em,” he announced, at last. “Not a movement of any sort. Even the gulls seem to have pushed off to a healthier spot.”
“Jolly wise of them, I’d say. They must know the drill.”
After that they sat on the hull, listening, watching, waiting, until sundown. They were hoping, of course, for the return of the shore party, but when darkness closed in they knew there was then no chance of that until daylight again made travel possible. On all sides around them, except for the narrow gap where the inlet met the ocean, towered the great mass of the mountain, black and menacing. There were no more earthquake shocks, although they were in constant expectation of another. Conversation became desultory.
“Don’t forget there are other people on this beastly place besides Biggles,” remarked Bertie, after a long silence.
“What about them?”
“How are they going to feel about living on a lump of rock that wobbles?”
“What would you do?”
“Make for the sea, old boy, hot foot. They must know the Dryad is here. Maybe they’re on the way down now.”
“What about the dogs? Would they face those—in the dark?”
“I wouldn’t care to try it myself,” admitted Bertie.
“They might wait for daylight, and then come down in a body.”
“Perhaps. But what’s the use of guessing?”
“I’m a bit puzzled about those dogs,” went on Bertie, reflectively.
“In what way?”
“How are they fed? What do they eat—if you see what I mean?”
“They looked half starved to me.”
“That may be done deliberately, to make them savage,” opined Bertie. “I was once joint master of a pack of hounds and I can tell you they took some feeding to keep them fit. Even if this lot was allowed to run wild I don’t see how they could fend for themselves.”
“Marcel said something about guinea-pigs being plentiful on the islands.”
“By jove! They’d have to be plentiful, too, to keep this pack going.”
“You ought to be glad you’re not a guinea-pig on Oratovoa.”
“I am, old boy. Believe you me, I am,” said Bertie, fervently.
After that the conversation lapsed, and a little later, watches having been arranged, they settled down for the night.
It passed without alarm, and the first streak of dawn again found them on the move, Bertie preparing the usual meagre breakfast and Algy scanning the mountain through the glasses for signs of the shore party. He saw nothing.
The day turned out to be a repetition of the last, with the exception that they became more and more alarmed about the non-return of the shore party.
Most of the time was spent in vain surmise as to what Biggles could be doing.
“He must have expected to be away a fair while or he wouldn’t have given us such a long time allowance before we were to take action,” Bertie pointed out.
“It doesn’t follow that he reckoned on being away all that time,” argued Algy. “He was making allowance for an emergency.”
“Then all I can say it looks as if one has arisen, old boy,” returned Bertie, philosophically. “Anything could have happened on that beastly mountain. Usually I rather like mountains, but I never saw one I liked less than this—earthquakes thrown in, and all that sort of nastiness.”
“All we can do is wait,” said Algy, moodily.
The day died, and night once more settled over Mystery Island, which, as Algy remarked, was living up to its name. It was passed precisely as the previous one. Nothing happened. The island might have been devoid of a living creature.
The dawn came with its customary display of colour, but it brought no sign of the shore party. Breakfast was taken in gloomy silence, each aware of what the other was thinking. Had the shore expedition gone according to plan, Biggles, or one of them, would have been back by now. The only question now was what had happened? If a tragedy had occurred, how serious was it? As far as Algy was concerned he could see the time approaching when he would have to make his big decision: whether to obey orders and make for Australia, or try to track the shore party to ascertain the facts, good or bad.
It was shortly after breakfast that things started to happen to keep
them busy and so dispel the morbid thoughts that occupied their minds.
They began with a shout that seemed to come from fairly high up in the forest on the far side of the inlet. This, of course, brought Algy and Bertie to the alert. More shouts followed, one answering the other, proving that at least two people were there. Then, suddenly broke out the furious barking of dogs.
“I don’t like the sound of that,” stated Bertie, deadly serious for once. “Those hounds are hunting something—or somebody.”
“Biggles. Who else could it be?”
“Hadn’t we better do something?”
“If we go ashore we shall be hunted ourselves. That won’t help anybody,” answered Algy, lugubriously. “We’d better stay here ready to move fast in case Biggles arrives in a hurry. He’ll expect to find us here.”
“Those dogs are coming down the hill,” said Bertie, staring at the almost solid wall of timber that covered the lower slopes. “If those brutes are running on a scent, and that’s what it sounds like to me, it can only mean that the quarry they’re hunting is making for the sea—for this creek, in fact. If he has a fair lead on the dogs he must be getting pretty close, too.”
“Watch to see if he breaks cover,” said Algy, in a tense voice.
Two or three minutes passed. Then they saw a man scramble out of the jungle at the water’s edge, waving his arms wildly.
“That isn’t one of our party,” said Algy. “No one with Biggles has a mop of hair as fair as that.”
“He’s looking at us. In fact, he’s waving to us,” stated Bertie, urgently.
A hail reached their ears.
“We shall have to go across and pick him up or those dogs will have him,” decided Algy. “It doesn’t matter who he is. Cast off.” He dived for the control cabin.
“Buck up or we’ll be too late,” shouted Bertie, as he cast off.
“Can you see who it is?” yelled Algy.
“No. It’s a white man. He looks all rags and mud.”
