by W E Johns
It was a strange, unreal sensation, this night sortie over ground which few feet could have trodden, and he began to derive from it that feeling of elation that comes from braving the unknown. That is not to say that he was making the journey from mere whim or bravado. He was really anxious to know if the submarine was still there, for their fate might well depend on how long it stayed.
Topping the ultimate ridge his question was answered. It was still in the bay. He could not actually see the vessel, but he could see a steady yellow glow which looked as if it might be light coming from an open conning tower. He did not expect to find it carrying regulation riding lights. For a little while he stood watching, regretting that the water was too cold for swimming, or he would have considered pursuing his investigations closer.
As nothing seemed to be happening on the ship he turned his back on it and started to retrace his steps, satisfied that he had achieved his object. Again he experienced less difficulty than he expected; or so he thought. At all events, it had not occurred to him that he might have strayed when, from a slight eminence, he was dumbfounded to see, only a little way in front of him in a hollow, a row of three small square lights that were obviously windows.
To say that he was shaken would be to put it mildly. He was flabbergasted, not only by the fact that the lights were there, but by the knowledge that he had lost his way.
Recovering somewhat, he perceived that there was, after all, nothing really remarkable about the lights. He had known that there was someone on the island. This, obviously, was where the man—or possibly men—lived. He took a tentative step forward intending to have a closer look, but finding that the ground fell away sharply, and was composed of loose stuff that began to rattle down when disturbed, he desisted, and decided that instead of taking chances that were clearly outrageous he would be better advised to try to find his way back to the dugout.
It took him some time. Indeed, it seems doubtful if he would have found his way back before daylight had not Marcel eventually come to his rescue. A match flared in the darkness. Ginger went flat, thinking it might be men from the submarine. Then he heard someone whistling the Marseillaise, and knowing that it could only be Marcel, he sent out an answering whistle, using the same tune. Another match blazed like a torch in the darkness and the rest was easy. He was not, after all, very far from the dugout. Marcel, using matches recklessly, lighted the way in.
Safely inside, the look he gave Ginger was anything but congratulatory.
“Are you mad?” he demanded belligerently. “Is this a place to wander by night, losing yourself and leaving me alone to find your body in the morning pecked to pieces by birds?”
“Sorry, Marcel,” answered Ginger contritely. “Yes, I did lose my way, but I’ve discovered something.”
“The submarine is still there, yes?”
“Yes. But that isn’t all. There’s a house, or a building of some sort. I’ve seen the lights of the windows.”
“Ah!” breathed Marcel. “So these pirates have the nerves to build houses on the property of France. Tomorrow, my friend, we will pull them down. They shall not get away with this.”
“I wouldn’t be in a hurry to pull them down,” answered Ginger. “For one thing they might object, and for another, we might be glad of a roof over our heads before we’ve finished with this perishing island.”
“That is true,” admitted Marcel sadly. “We should have brought with us bombs and machine guns.”
“It’s a bit late to think of that,” replied Ginger. Then, sitting in the darkness he went on to describe in detail what he had seen.
For a little while he talked about it, and at the end agreed that there was nothing more they could do until daylight came. After that they fell silent and spent the rest of the night dozing fitfully. In such discomfort anything like real sleep was impossible, and Ginger was able for the first time to appreciate fully the sort of existence Robinson must have led. How he had survived was now a bigger mystery than ever.
Dawn came at last, creeping, reluctantly it seemed, through a blanket of bone-chilling mist that reduced visibility to not much more than a hundred yards. There had been a sharp drop in temperature and the ground had that grey look about it that comes from near-freezing. The breeze had died away altogether and the sea was a flat, oily calm.
Ginger gazed at the weather in dismay. If it wasn’t wind it was fog, he brooded, as he buffed his arms to restore the circulation of his numbed limbs. A wind would disperse the fog, but probably blow up a nasty sea. They couldn’t have it both ways.
“If we look like being here for another night I’m going to collect some driftwood and light a fire,” he told Marcel. “I don’t care who sees it. Anything is better than sitting here in the dark, freezing to death slowly.”
Marcel shrugged. “We shall be here while there is fog,” he said in a resigned voice. “How can Algy find the island if he cannot see it? No, this is not possible. He would be mad to try. And now my stomach begins to cry aloud for food. What shall we eat?”
“Whether we eat or not is up to us,” averred Ginger. “If there are people living on this island, then there must be food; and if there is food I’m jolly well going to get some of it.”
“ Pah! Do you think these people will give you food?”
“No. So what? I’ll tell you. We’ll help ourselves,” declared Ginger trenchantly. “But before we start anything, I suggest we have a look to see if the sub looks like pushing off. I imagine it won’t stay longer than is necessary. If it goes it should make things a lot easier for us.”
Marcel agreed, so they set off, proceeding with the caution the circumstances demanded.
They had not gone far when sounds ahead, voices and the tramp of boots on hard ground, sent them scurrying to cover, of which there was plenty available. Crouching behind a rock, they remained silent while a file of six men in dark uniforms emerged from the mist. Each carried a heavy burden, a bag or a box. They went on, to disappear again in the direction of the place where the snared rabbit had been found. Ginger had already decided that it was in this area that he had seen the lighted windows. He noted that the mist seemed to be lifting a trifle.
“It’s plain to see what those men are doing,” he told Marcel, as they resumed. “They were carrying stores, either for the chap who we know is already here, or for a garrison that is on its way. I reckon that when they’ve done that, they’ll push off. I hope so, anyway.”
They went on, more quickly now, and arriving at the ridge that overlooked the bay, saw, as they expected, the submarine still there. But it was not in its original position. With several of the crew on deck it was moving slowly across the mouth of the bay. A boat had been pulled up on the gently shelving rock on which they themselves had landed, presumably the one used by the men who had gone ashore.
“What the dickens are they doing?” muttered Ginger gazing at the submarine. “They seem to be chucking something overboard.”
The voice of the officer in charge of the working party reached them clearly, but of course they did not know what he was saying.
“Perhaps they dump their rubbish after a long journey,” suggested Marcel.
“Could be,” conceded Ginger. “But that’s all we wanted to see. We’d better not stay here any longer in case that shore party comes back.”
Watching ahead for danger, they retired for some distance; to the place, in fact, where they had hidden on the way out. Farther they dared not go for fear of meeting the men coming back. They waited for about twenty minutes, when the sailors, no longer burdened, marched past on their way back to the ship. There was another difference.
Instead of six men there were now seven. The seventh man, a big, bearded figure in a blue jeisey and sea-boots, marched beside the leader, Ginger recognised him for the man they had seen earlier.
“That fellow must live here,” he whispered to Marcel.
“But now he goes away with the submarine, perhaps.”
“I doubt i
t. I fancy he’s a sort of caretaker and stays here all the time. It looks as if he’s on his way to the bay. Now’s the time to look for his quarters. We might be able to lay our hands on some food. There’s bound to be plenty. We’ll never get another chance as good as this if it’s discovered that we are here.”
They went forward, hurrying now, prepared to take almost any risk in order to deal with their most urgent problem, which was food, for they were, of course, now desperately hungry. They did not have far to go. A little beyond the spot where the rabbit had been found, the ground dropped into a small hollow; and there, sitting snugly at the bottom, was a long low hutment of the Nissen type. That is to say, the roof and sides, of corrugated iron, semi-circular in shape, were in one piece. Inset were three small windows, or skylights, and at one end a chimney from which a little smoke was issuing. Supported between two poles was a wireless aerial. A pile of driftwood lay near.
“This is the place I saw last night,” asserted Ginger. “Let’s go down.”
“There may be someone inside,” replied Marcel doubtfully.
“We’ll look and see. We must have food or starve, and this is our chance. The door’s shut. If anyone was there it would probably be open. You keep watch and warn me if you see anyone coming.”
“Entendu.” Marcel drew his pistol and took up a position as far below the top of the bank as would allow him to see over it.
Ginger half walked, half slid to the bottom and hastened to the nearest window. It was set rather high, but by standing on tiptoe he could see inside. The room was nearly filled with a clutter of furniture, but it was primarily a sitting-room, he thought. The bundles and boxes brought by the sailors were piled in the middle. Apart from a table and chair there seemed to be some office equipment. A T-square rested on a sloping drawing-board. It was really this extra equipment that caused the congestion. Not daring to waste any more time there, Ginger went on to the next window. The room was obviously a bedroom, so he went on to the third, which revealed itself to be a kitchen, although it was obviously used as well as a living-room. There was an iron stove. There were boxes and cartons round the walls. At the far end there was a back door. He went to it. It opened to his touch. He entered, to be greeted by the warm, homely smell of food and tobacco.
He went to work with almost feverish activity. The boxes, as he had thought, contained food, mostly in cans. Exactly what these contained he did not know unless the label illustrated the contents, as sometimes happened, for the wording conveyed nothing. Finding one box empty he used it as a receptacle and began filling it, helping himself at random from a wide variety of tins, bags and jars, to make sure of getting something useful. As soon as he had such a load as he could carry comfortably, he went out, and scrambling up the slope, joined Marcel, who was still mounting guard. “Grab some of that firewood and let’s get out of this,” he said tersely. Without waiting he shouldered his bundle and set off, feeling somewhat like a fugitive after having committed a burglary. Presently Marcel, staggering under a load of driftwood, overtook him. He was laughing. “Name of a dog!” he chuckled. “I am paid to stop people from doing this.”
Ginger grinned. “Let’s get home with the swag.”
It was still misty, but not as thick as it had been. Peering ahead, and stopping sometimes to listen for footsteps, they hurried on, Ginger fearful lest something should go wrong at the last minute. But the luck held. Only just. For looking out after dropping their loads in the dugout, they saw the man in the blue jersey striding purposefully back towards this hut.
“I call that great work,” panted Ginger, sitting down on his box. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”
An exclamation brought him round. Marcel was pointing. Following his finger, Ginger saw the submarine, travelling on the surface, just disappearing into the mist.
“She goes!” cried Marcel. “Bon!”
“Yes, that’s fine,” agreed Ginger. “Apparently she’s completed her job here. For one thing we know she brought fresh stores for the chap who lives here. I’m pretty sure now that he must be a sort of caretaker. The submarine was doing something in the bay, too. I can’t think what it could have been. They seemed to be chucking something overboard. I wonder...” His voice trailed away and his expression changed suddenly. “By gosh! I’ve just had a horrible idea.”
Marcel raised his eyebrows.
“I wonder could she have been—no, it couldn’t be that...”
“Be what?”
“The awful thought struck me that she might have been laying mines across the entrance to the bay.”
Marcel’s expressive face registered horror. For a moment he didn’t answer. Then, very slowly, he said: “It is possible.”
Ginger shook his head. “No, they’d never do a dastardly thing like that. A whaler, or any sort of ship, might run here for shelter in dirty weather.”
“They saw the flying-boat,” said Marcel. “Perhaps they think she comes back, so they blow her up.”
“That’s a nasty thought, but you may be right,” returned Ginger in a strained voice. “Algy will come back. Even if he doesn’t, Biggles will. We’d better go and look at this.”
He sprang up. “Food will have to wait. This murk is lifting. Algy might show up at any time.”
They ran most of the way to the bay. The water lay flat, without a mark on it except one or two oil stains. Marcel breathed a sigh of relief.
“Nothing.”
“The tide’s coming in, and there’s a big rise and fall here,” Ginger pointed out. “To be any use here, mines would have to be moored. At anything but low tide they might be under water.”
“If they are under water a flying-boat couldn’t hit one,” said Marcel. “The plane is not like a ship, with a deep keel.”
“That’s true,” conceded Ginger. “But I still have a feeling that this place isn’t safe any longer.”
Marcel lifted an expressive shoulder. “What can we do about it?”
“That’s what I was wondering,” replied Ginger. “As far as I can see, if Algy comes all we can do is wave to him to keep clear—I mean, land somewhere else.” From his tone of voice it was evident that he himself was doubtful as to how far this would prove successful in practice. “Let’s go and get some food,” he concluded. “We’ll bring it here to eat it. In this still air we ought to bear an aircraft long before it gets here.”
“What about the man who lives here? He will know someone has been robbing his house.”
“Not necessarily, unless he keeps count of everything he uses. I think he’s more likely to be busy sorting out the fresh supplies. Anyway, if he comes looking for trouble, I’m in the mood to let him have it. Let’s fetch some grub. I’m one big aching void inside.”
Turning away, they walked briskly towards the dugout.
IX
OUT OF THE FRYING-PAN
ON the elevated lake that occupied most of the centre of Penguin Island, Algy and Bertie awoke, cold and thoroughly uncomfortable, to find the fog still pressing like a curtain against the side windows of the cabin.
Algy was first on his feet, trying by vigorous exercise to generate some warmth in his chilled body. “Ugh!” he shivered. “Isn’t it perishing cold! Get up and dance, and help me to work up a fug.” He stopped suddenly, staring at Bertie, whose monocled eye was regarding him without enthusiasm from the corner of his duffle coat. Without speaking he jumped sideways to shift his weight suddenly. The aircraft did not respond. He might have been standing on a concrete floor. Very deliberately he walked to the cabin door, opened it and looked out. When he turned, the colour and expression of his face brought Bertie to a sitting position.
“What is it, old boy?” asked Bertie anxiously. “I mean to say, are you ill or something?”
“I’m very ill indeed,” answered Algy grimly. “My stomach has fallen out. So will yours when you look outside.”
“Fog?”
“Oh yes, there’s plenty of that,” answered Algy. “There’s somethin
g else, too. Ice. We’re frozen in.”
“Frozen!”
“That’s what I said. I thought there was a queer solid feeling about the ship. The lake is ice from bank to bank. There must have been a few degrees of frost in the night. I don’t think the ice can be very thick yet, but it will go on getting thicker while the frost persists. We ought to be kicked for not taking into account the possibility of it.”
“But here, I say, hold hard,” protested Bertie, moving with alacrity. “Why should we have thought of it? According to the Pilot Book the sea doesn’t freeze as far north as this.”
“The sea,” replied Algy with deadly calm, “is brine. This lake is rain water—fresh water. We knew that. If you’d ever been to school you’d know that fresh water freezes more readily than salt. And another thing. The sea is always on the move. This lake is as stagnant as a duck pond. Finally, it is a thousand feet higher than the sea, and that, in a climate like this, can make a lot of difference. I must have been out of my mind to step into such a trap. Of all the places on earth to get stuck—”
“Now wait a minute, old boy,” broke in Bertie. “Let’s see how bad things are before we start tearing ourselves off a strip.”
Together they stood at the cabin door and gazed at the grey skin of ice that now covered the surface of the water for as far as they could see.
Nothing moved anywhere. There was not even a gull in sight. An aching silence seemed to hang in the air.
