by W E Johns
With a whoop of joy Pedro snatched it up. ‘Whar you get this?’ he growled, showing it to the others.
Ginger did not reply.
‘Where’d you get it?’ snapped Deutch.
‘It’s the original coin we had in London,’ replied Ginger, coolly.
‘Tha’s a lie. Mallichore’s got that ‘n,’ snarled Pedro. ‘They know where t’others are.’
‘Where did you get it?’
‘I tell you it’s the same one,’ protested Ginger wearily. ‘We got it from Mallichore with the rest of our things. Do we look as if we’ve been treasure hunting?’ he concluded sarcastically.
‘Pass it over to me, Pedro,’ ordered Deutch.
For a moment Pedro hesitated, obviously reluctant to part with the coin, and the thought flashed into Algy’s mind that a similar incident had been enacted, not long before, perhaps on that very spot, when Dick’s father had refused to give the coin up to Deutch.
‘Let me keep it, boss,’ pleaded Pedro.
‘All right. There’ll be plenty more of ’em presently,’ agreed Deutch in a surly voice.
With a grin of delight Pedro slipped the doubloon into his pocket; then, taking the cord, he tied Ginger’s wrists and ankles and pushed him brutally on to the ground. Fortunately, the sand was soft. He then treated Algy in the same way.
By the time this was done night had fallen, but the moon came up and flooded the lagoon with a silvery radiance.
‘Frisco Jack fetched a blanket and spread it out on the sand. The others, including Deutch, did the same. ‘We’ll attend to you in the morning,’ was his parting threat, as he regarded his captives with unpleasant satisfaction.
Chapter 9
What Happened to Dick
Had Algy or Ginger, at the time when they had recovered Dick’s jacket from the sea, looked a little more closely to the left, where great heaps of seaweed, torn from the ocean bed by the fury of the hurricane, had been cast up, they might have noticed a little white crumpled heap, half buried under long ribbons of slimy kelp, in which case this story would have had a different ending. For the crumpled heap was Dick’s bruised body, pounded into unconsciousness by the weight of the giant rollers which had, at the finish, flung him far up the gently shelving beach.
For a long time after Algy and Ginger had gone the pathetic figure did not move. It might have been a corpse. The sun sank. The tide ebbed. The moon came up, and presently cast a pale, eerie light on Dick’s pallid face. A crab marched out of a hole in a rock, a curious crab with high, stilt-like legs, and long waving antennae. With a soft clicking noise it advanced with the characteristic movement of its kind upon the recumbent form. Two yards away it stopped, as if suspecting a trap. Another joined it. Presently came others, until they formed a semicircle on the seaward side of the motionless figure. The quiet of the night was filled with their soft clicking. Slowly the serried ranks advanced.
Slowly, also, the moonbeams moved across Dick’s deathlike face until they reached his eyes. He stirred uneasily. Instantly the clicking army receded like a wave. He moaned weakly. Then, suddenly, he opened his eyes. For a moment or two he stared vacantly at the star-spangled sky. With a rush consciousness returned, and he sat up, resting on his right hand, gazing at the shining sea. For a full minute he remained thus while he strove to separate dreams from reality. Then, knowing the truth at last, he tried to stand up. Instantly he was violently sick, evacuating vast quantities of sea-water. This not only relieved him but restored him to full consciousness, and he managed to get to his feet, stiffly, feeling his bruised body with shaking fingers.
Another spell of nausea passed, and he looked round to see where he was. He did not expect to see the others. Nor did he. Nor could he see any signs of the aircraft. A feeling of terrible loneliness crept over him as he realized that he was alone. It was impossible to believe that the others had all been drowned, but it was equally impossible to believe that they had been saved. A white object lying on the high-water mark some distance away caught his eye, and he walked unsteadily towards it. Before he reached it he saw that it was an elevator, and tears that he could not keep back welled to his eyes as he realized what it portended. Sick with weariness and grief, he sank down on the sand and buried his face in his hands.
A little while later, however, as the spasm of misery expended itself, he got up again and contemplated his own position. Not that he was concerned particularly about it; his distress was far too poignant for that. Nevertheless, he felt an uncomfortable twinge as he regarded the silent jungle that rose up like a towering wall behind him. What terrible beasts did it harbour? What horrors crouched in its sable heart? He did not know, but it was impossible not to feel its hidden menace.
Fighting down his fears by sheer will-power, he turned and looked back at the sea, recognizing at once the scene of the disaster. There were the rocks that he had tried to reach, left high and dry by the receding tide; there, also, was the place where Biggles had tried to crash the flying-boat; the great buttress of rock jutted far out, but the lashing waves were no longer there. Perhaps – the others – were lying there, he thought miserably. What was it his father used to say? The sea always gives up its dead.
Looking to right and left for something he dreaded to find, he began to walk towards the end of the buttress of rock which Algy and Ginger had been unable to surmount; but now, because the tide had ebbed, it was possible to walk right round it. He reached the end and climbed up on the lowest rocks, still looking for what he feared to find – the bodies of his comrades. Satisfied that they were not there, he retraced his steps, and walking up to the dry sand beyond the high-water mark, as near to the forest as he dared go, he sat down to rest and wonder what he should do. Water was his most pressing need; his mouth was parched, but he did not feel like exploring in the moonlight and the grotesque shadows that it cast. So, with his chin cupped in the palm of his right hand, and his eyes fixed unseeingly on the mass of rock, he prepared to wait for dawn.
How far distant it was, he had, of course, no means of knowing, because he had no idea of how long he had been unconscious. Thus he sat for a long time. Never had a night seemed so long. Fortunately the air was warm, or in his nude condition his misery would have been intensified. Slowly the time passed. The moon moved silently on its allotted course; it crept round the bay that lay at his right hand until at last it bathed the rocks on his left in its blue radiance.
He was nearly asleep when he saw one of the rocks move – or thought he saw it move. He had, in fact, sunk into that condition midway between sleep and wakefulness when one hesitates to believe what one sees. But he was wide awake instantly, holding his breath, every nerve taut. Slowly the rock took shape; it became a human figure, and as he stared with wide, affrighted eyes he knew that he was dreaming. Either that, or he was seeing something at which he had always scoffed. A ghost. For the figure was not that of an ordinary man. Around its head was tied a spotted handkerchief, the corners hanging down over the nape of the neck. A vest, woven in a pattern of wide, alternate bars, covered the chest, the lower part ending in crimson, pleated pantaloons, which were tucked into wide-topped boots with silver buckles, on which the moon shone brightly. In its hand it carried an enormous cutlass, the point of which rested on the rock.
With parted lips, his heart palpitating wildly, Dick could only stare, while the figure slowly turned, and raising its hand to shield its eyes, gazed long and steadily down the coral strand. Then, as mysteriously as it had appeared, it had gone.
In Dick’s mind there was no longer any doubt. It was the ghost of a long-dead buccaneer. A spirit walking in death the path it had trodden in life. He waited for no more. With a convulsive gasp he sprang to his feet and set off along the sand as fast as his legs could carry him. And not until another pile of rocks appeared ahead did he begin to slow down, looking back fearfully over his shoulder. Seeing nothing of the apparition, however, he paused to recover his breath. Relieved, he set off again, making for a clump of cocon
ut palms that rose up from the rocks, for he recognized them for what they were and hoped to find a fallen nut from which he might be able to quench his thirst.
Reaching his objective, he was casting about on the ground when something just beyond the rocks caught his eye, an object that shone white in the moonlight. For a moment he stared unbelievingly. He rubbed his eyes and stared again. But there was no mistake. The gleam that had caught his eye was the moonlight playing on the white wings of an aeroplane that rode lightly on the still water of a small lagoon. Naturally, it did not occur to him that it was any other than the machine in which he had arrived – or rather, from which he had fallen – and he was half way towards it when he saw his mistake. He pulled up dead, choking back the cry of joy that rose to his lips and struggling to understand the full significance of what he saw. Was he dreaming again, or was it the Sikorsky? It looked like it. Could it be possible, he asked himself? He soon realized that it could, and what its presence meant. But where was the crew – Deutch and the others? If the aircraft was here, it meant that they were here, too. They could not be far away. Standing quite still, he surveyed the shore of the lagoon, foot by foot, yard by yard. But still he could not see them. He had just made up his mind to approach nearer when he heard a sound that sent the blood racing through his veins. It was unmistakable. Someone, not far away, had snored.
He moistened his lips, wondering how to take advantage of the situation. There was the machine, but he could not fly it. He did not even know how to start the engines. But there, lying on its side on the beach, was the canoe, and that was something he did understand. But of what use was that to him? At that moment he could not see how it could help him, unless he took it right away and hid it, when at some future date it might enable him to reach another island or the mainland. Yes, he decided, that was what he would do. He would take the canoe. But first of all he would try to find out what Deutch and the others were doing. Raising his eyes, he saw that the sky was paling and knew that the dawn could not be far off. Soon it would be light, so whatever he proposed doing would have to be done quickly.
Swiftly, but making no sound and keeping well in the dense black shade of the jungle, he crept towards the place from which the snore had come. Again he heard the sound, and although it made his skin turn to gooseflesh, he kept on. With his heart seeming to beat in his throat, but making no more noise than a shadow, he crept nearer to the rocks, and at last peeped over them. He was down again instantly. Six figures were lying on the sand, four dressed and two undressed. Why six? The Americans had said that there were only four people on board the machine when it was stolen. He risked another peep, a longer one this time. As he did so, one of the nearest figures, one of the undressed ones, moaned slightly and turned towards him. Instinctively his eyes went to his face, and he recognized Algy.
The shock of this discovery was so terrific that he was only just able to stifle a cry. As it was, it left him weak and trembling. Hardly able to breathe, he looked again, and saw, as he already half suspected, that the other undressed figure was Ginger. He also saw from their positions that their hands and wrists were tied.
He almost panicked as he realized his helplessness to assist them. Never in his life had he wanted anything so much as he wanted a knife at that moment. Could he untie the knots? He could not do less than try, he decided. He glanced again at the sky, and groaned inwardly as he saw that the once-longed-for dawn was now approaching all too quickly. At any moment the others might awake. It was now or never.
Steeling himself, he crept swiftly round the rocks and approached Algy, who was the nearer. He saw that his eyes were wide open and saw the look of wonderment that leapt into them, but he did not stop. In a moment he was down beside him, working at his fettered ankles. His heart sank as he saw how tightly the knots were drawn, and realized that it would take some time to undo them.
He started as Algy struggled into a sitting position, but then saw that he was trying to tell him something. ‘The razor,’ he breathed.
Dick, following the direction of his eyes, saw what he meant. A few yards away a large black man in a blue coat lay stretched out on the sand; beside him, half open, lay a razor. With a little gasp of relief, he moved towards it. His hand went out, fingers outspread. At that moment the man awoke.
For one ghastly moment they stared into each other’s eyes. Then, with an oath, the man sprang to his feet.
‘Run for it, Dick.’ It was Algy’s voice, clear and sharp.
It galvanized Dick into violent activity. In a sort of dreadful nightmare, he leapt aside just as the man snatched up the razor and aimed such a slash at him that had the weapon reached its mark it would have taken his head from his shoulders. With an involuntary cry of horror, he darted up the rocks with the alacrity of a mountain goat, and then, taking the far side in a dozen bounds, he set off up the beach as if a pack of demons was at his heels. In the grip of stark panic, he dared not risk a glance behind until he had covered a good hundred yards; when he did, his worst fears were realized. The man was leaping down the rocks in hot pursuit, something in his hand reflecting brightly the rays of the sun, the rim of which was now showing above the horizon.
A shot rang out. Sand spurted from under Dick’s feet and urged him to even more frenzied efforts, but he had the good sense to swerve, which may have been as well, for another bullet, with a vicious zip, tore a long furrow in the sand. On he raced, his feet flying over the pounded coral, and not until he was within striking distance of the rocky massif on which he had seen the ghost of the buccaneer did he snatch another fleeting glance over his shoulder. For a moment his knees seemed to sag as he saw that the other man was not only racing along in his footsteps but had halved the distance between them. Seeing that he could not climb the rock that lay across his path, he swerved wildly towards the seaward end round which the incoming tide was now flowing. He nearly fell under his own impetus as the water dragged at his shins, but with an effort he recovered his balance and rounded the point. In front of him lay another stretch of beach, terminating in more rocks, and, slightly out to sea, a rocky islet.
Again he set off at full pelt, glancing often at the tangle of jungle on his left hand in case an avenue of escape should offer itself in that direction. But it appeared to be impenetrable, and he dare not risk a halt to explore in case that should, in fact, prove to be the case.
His strength was nearly gone and he was catching his breath in great gasps by the time he reached the next barrier of rocks. He knew that he could not run much farther. As it was, only the dreadful fear inspired by the heavy footsteps behind him kept him going. Actually, he was running over the same ground that his father had run a few months previously, when he had fled from Deutch, but, of course, he did not know that. He chose the same way up the rocks, and then, at the top, faltered, appalled by what he saw. Before him, as far as he could see, lay a wilderness of broken rock; on the right a headland jutted out towards the islet, but between him and it lay a jungle-filled ravine, through which, naked as he was, he could not hope to force a way. Yet he knew that barefoot on the sharp rocks the man would soon overtake him. With eyes round with despair, he looked for a hiding-place. There were several holes in the rock, some large, some small, and choosing one of them near the edge of the ravine, he jumped into it and lay flat on the bottom.
Motionless, with his hand over his mouth in an attempt to quiet his gasping breath, he heard the man arrive on the rocks, run forward a few paces, and then stop, obviously at a loss to know what had become of him. Then he heard him move forward again. To his unspeakable horror, the footsteps approached his hiding-place. Again they stopped. He breathed again as they began to recede. But it was only for a moment. Slowly, with frequent halts, they came nearer again, and Dick knew that the man, the cut-throat the American had called Pedro, was examining the holes one by one.
Dick knew that if he persisted in this, discovery was inevitable, for the hole in which he lay was not more than five or six feet deep; yet hi
s only chance now was to remain in it.
Slowly, but with dreadful deliberation, the padding steps came nearer. He could hear the heavy breathing of the searcher now. Nearer and nearer they came. Then, very close, they stopped, and in the dreadful silence his heart seemed to stop beating and he had to bite his lip to prevent himself from crying out. At last came the sound he dreaded to hear: a low, horrible chuckle. With a convulsive start he looked up. The man was standing on the lip of his hiding-place, grinning broadly as he whetted his razor on the palm of his hand. Then, dropping flat, he reached downward, and his fingers closed in Dick’s hair.
A scream of stark terror that he could no longer repress broke from Dick’s lips as he was hauled out, squirming, like a fish from a pool. The man took him in his left hand while his right swept back for the blow.
Instinctively, Dick threw up his arm to protect his throat. He closed his eyes, and kept them shut while an eternity seemed to pass. Then came a crashing report in his ears and he felt himself fall.
At that moment he thought that he was dead. He thought that the fatal blow had been struck. Curiously, he opened his eyes, and was surprised to find that he could still see. No startling alteration had taken place in the scene. The man was still standing there, although the expression on his face had changed. He was no longer smiling. The horrible grin had given way to an expression of comical surprise, and he swayed slowly to and fro like a big tree in a wind. A black hand jerked open and the razor fell, tinkling musically on the hard rock. The hand came up, groping at the breast of the blue coat. For three or four seconds Pedro stood thus; then his legs collapsed suddenly and he pitched forward on to his face.
Instantly, it seemed, his place was taken by another figure, a figure that confirmed Dick’s conviction that he was no longer in the world of the living. It was the buccaneer, the ends of his red bandana flapping in the breeze. In his left hand he still carried the cutlass; in his right was a smoking pistol.
