21 Biggles In the South Seas

by Captain W E Johns

  The sun climbed up into an azure sky, and as the day advanced the island shimmered in the heat. Ginger continued watching Castanelli's activities in a disinterested fashion, turning over in his mind the possibility of escape. There seemed little chance of it. He had not overlooked the grotto as a hiding-place if he could get away, but the chances of this were remote. For one thing Castanelli was watching him closely, and the butt of a heavy revolver protruding from his hip pocket discouraged the idea of making a dash for it. In any case, the boys were working on the beach between him and the cove, so to reach it without being intercepted was manifestly impossible.

  His interest quickened as Castanelli approached the spot where the pearls had been hidden; it was now half covered by a pile of seaweed which had wrapped itself round the coral. Castanelli dragged some of it aside with his hands, and cleared the remainder with his foot, and was about to turn away when something caught his eye. He went back and reached down.

  Ginger's heart stopped beating for an instant, and then raced in a burst of palpitation. In spite of the heat he felt a chill creep over him. Sticking up out of the sand was the top half of a tin. It was a biscuit-tin, and he recognized it instantly. It was in such a tin that Sandy had put the pearls, and there could hardly be two such tins in the same place. The waves had washed most of the sand away, and

  so partly uncovered it. For a brief moment he hoped that

  Castanelli would not see it, but when it became obvious

  that he had he prayed fervently that he would not trouble to investigate it. But the Corsican was leaving nothing that was worth taking away. Without the least suspicion of its contents he kicked the sand aside with his foot and dragged 114

  the tin from its bed. Without evert glancing at Ginger—whose face might have betrayed the secret, for it was as white as death—he tossed the tin amongst the others. Ginger almost gasped his relief as it spun through the air, for while Castanelli did not know what it contained there was always a chance that he might recover it. But his hope was short-lived. The lid either fitted loosely or struck one of the other tins, for as it rolled into the pile the top flew off, and its contents streamed in a gleaming cascade across the sand.

  Castanelli had already half turned away, but his eyes remained on the tin just long enough to see it fly open. For a second he stood like a man petrified, his little eyes bulging in their sockets; then he let out a hoarse yell, shouted something in a language Ginger did not understand, and in a moment was on his knees, picking up the pearls with trembling fingers and putting them back into the tin. Once he paused to turn to Ginger a face flushed with exultation. He was panting with excitement. His crew ran up, and gave vent to their feelings in a series of staccato ejaculations.

  Ginger, sick to the very soul, could only watch helplessly. The appearance of the tin had been as great a shock to him as the sight of the pearls had, been to the schooner captain.

  Why or how they had come to be left behind he could not remotely imagine. It was unbelievable, incredible, and he could have wept with mortification. Everything had looked black enough before, but now he was swept by a wave of depression that left him weak with misery. But behind the depression there grew a fierce hatred of the man who was now chuckling with glee, and he began to understand why so many crimes had been committed for these gems of the sea.

  At the time of Castanelli's startling discovery the longboat had just left for the schooner with the first load of shell. The two boys who had gone with it, seeing the commotion ashore, now shouted to know what it was about, and their companions joyfully informed them. The work of unloading was hastened, and the boat was soon flashing back towards the silver beach.

  There was still a big pile of shell lying there, and when the boys started loading afresh Ginger marvelled at the mentality of a man who, with a fortune already in his 115

  pocket, could bother about a few hundreds of pounds extra. However, Castanelli evidently saw no reason why he should not have the shell as well as the pearls, for he remained on the island supervising the work until the last shell had been collected.

  Occasionally he glanced at Ginger, whose downcast face seemed to amuse him; he was no longer vindictive, but smiling with supreme content. `Why you not tell me ze pearls still here?' he questioned once.

  Ì did not know myself,' returned Ginger, with such bitterness that the Corsican laughed aloud.

  `Your friends save me all ze trouble,' he murmured. Àlway ze way wiz pearls,' he added cryptically, tossing Ginger a coconut. He had already punctured one, and after drinking the milk was crunching the soft spongy flesh.

  Ginger was in no mood for eating, but he drank the milk with relish, for his throat was parched.

  The sun was touching the horizon by the time the last few shells, and the remainder of the stores, had been thrown into the longboat. The rowers took their places. For some time Ginger had been hoping that Castanelli would go, leaving him marooned on the island, because he felt sure that sooner or later Biggles would return to look for him. But this hope did not materialize. Castanelli looked at him thoughtfully for a moment or two with a curious expression on his face, and then motioned him to get into the boat. Ginger obeyed, and the Corsican got in behind him. From the way he looked round to make sure that nothing had been left behind it was fairly clear that he had no intention of returning.

  The boat was pushed off, and cut an ever-spreading ripple across the still water as it sped towards the schooner. Ginger watched it with the calm of utter despair. All day he had been listening, hoping to hear the familiar roar of the 'Scud', but in vain. Now that night was closing in it certainly would not come until the morrow—if then—and by that time anything could have happened.

  As they climbed up on the schooner's deck a slant of wind sent a succession of curving ripples sweeping across the lagoon, and the schooner rocked gently. Castanelli let out a yell of triumph, and Ginger's mouth turned dry with bitterness as he realized that even nature was playing into

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  the Corsican's hands. First the hurricane, which had driven the 'Scud' away and disclosed the pearls and now a breeze just when Castanelli most needed it. With a fair wind the schooner would be a hundred miles away by the next day, so even if Biggles did return it would avail him nothing.

  Castanelli, the pearl-tin under his arm, went below, but was soon on deck again without it. In a vague sort of way Ginger noted that the wind appeared to have had an immediate effect on his plans where he himself was concerned, for after speaking in a low voice to the crew he turned to his prisoner with such an expression on his face that Ginger felt a qualm of alarm.

  -

  `You no like my ship? I tink you best stay here,' purred Castanelli.

  Ginger drew a deep breath of relief. Nothing would have suited him better, but he did not say so.

  `But perhaps you talk too much,' went on Castanelli smoothly. 'I am very sorry, but I tink you talk no more.' Then, with a nod to the crew, he turned and walked towards the wheel. Four of the boys ran to the capstan, and a chain clanked as the anchor came up. A sail bellied out against the fast-darkening sky.

  Two of the repulsive-looking Solomon Islanders had remained beside Ginger, who, interested in watching the schooner get under way and approach the entrance to the lagoon, barely noticed them. But when he felt them lay hands on him he turned sharply to see what they were doing. Not until then did a terrible suspicion come into his mind.

  One of them had tied a length of rope round his waist, and the other was now attaching the loose end to a piece of rusty iron piping. For a moment Ginger could only stare in mute horror, still refusing to believe what his eyes were telling him, but when the natives started dragging him towards the side of the ship there was no longer any doubt as to their intention. He knew that they were going to throw him overboard. The piece of iron was to take him to the bottom.

  As soon as he realized this he began to struggle violently, trying to free himself from the rope, but the natives seized
him, and in their powerful hands he was helpless. One dragged his arms behind him, and the other whipped up his 117

  feet, so that he could not even kick. As helpless as a rabbit in the hands of a poacher he was carried to the rail. One of the natives grunted, and he was swung into the air. He made a last frantic clutch at the rail, but his hand missed it by a foot, and the next instant the water had closed over his head. Even before he could get to the surface and fill his lungs he felt the weight of the iron take effect and drag him down. Struggling with a desperation near to madness he seized the rope, but the iron was far below him and he could do nothing to check his descent. He felt the weight of the water pressing on him.

  Then, suddenly, the downward movement ended, and he knew that the iron had reached the bottom. Frantically he dragged at the rope. All around him was darkness.

  B BIGGLES was still at Rutuona with Algy and Sandy. His difficulties were not so alarming as those of Ginger, although he suffered considerable anxiety on his account, but they were bad enough. To start with, his fears had been only too well founded when, during the hurricane, he had expressed a hope that no debris would fall on them. A palm-stem had crashed down on the port wing-tip, and while the wing had not been torn off the leading edge had been crushed, so that flying was out of the question until it had been repaired. Lighter matter, such as brushwood, had been piled up around the Scud, so that by the time the hurricane had passed the machine was almost buried.

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  For those on board to get ashore had been no easy matter, for the flimsy rubbish would not support their weight and at the same time it made swimming impossible. In the end they had piled rubbish upon rubbish and then trampled it down until it formed a bridge of sufficient strength to carry them. By this time it was dark, and they passed the night in even more discomfort than Ginger, who was, of course, in the grotto, where he was at least free from the disturbing attentions of the myriads of mosquitoes that attacked Biggles, Algy, and Sandy as they rested in a swamp by the edge of the creek in which the machine had come down.

  As soon as it was light they had set off for the village, hoping that it would not take them more than an hour or two to reach it, since by their reckoning it was not more than six miles away. But unexpected difficulties presented themselves. Biggles had seen many jungles, but never growth so impenetrable as that which fringed the creek. It was impossible to move in any direction without hacking every inch of the way with their knives—an exhausting business in the heat; apart from which their faces were soon covered with spots of blood from the vicious bites of sand-flies. Then, just as they thought they were through, and not more than a quarter of a mile from the beach, which they knew ran all the way to the village, they came to an obstacle which not even Biggles's agile brain could devise a means of crossing. It was the mouth of the river, which was not so much a river as a swamp; a stagnant lake which had formed in the low ground at the foot of the hills. Had it been only water it would have been a simple matter to swim across, for the distance was not more than a hundred yards; but there was more than that to consider; the water was choked by a riotous growth of water-lilies, great pink blooms which in different circumstances would have been objects for admiration. The fact that the huge, flat, fleshy leaves were the homes of revolting-looking centipedes, nearly a foot long, did not make the prospect of trying to swim across any more agreeable. However, it was obviously impossible to swim, for the thick white roots of the lilies formed an almost solid mass under the water, and as they were too pliable to bear any weight the only alternative was to go round.

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  So, blood-stained and weary, they had to start hacking a new path inland along the edge of the swamp. The depressing part of the task was that they did not know how far the swamp extended, although Sandy held the view that it could not be far on account of the hills which rose steeply no great distance away. And in this assumption he was correct.

  A few hundred yards and the swamp began to narrow, until at length they came to a place where a fallen breadfruit-tree offered a passage across. By this time it was nearly dark. Far from reaching the village in a few hours they had been all day in a jungle, and had covered less than a mile.

  They crossed the swamp by means of the tree just as the sun was setting, only to discover when they were on the other side that the jungle was again so thick that it was useless even to think of going on until daylight came. Even so, Biggles was in favour of pushing on, but Sandy declared that it was madness. Even if they did not wander into a swamp as deadly as quicksand, which was probable, they would certainly lose their way in the darkness, and make so little progress that the labour was not worth while. After considering the matter the others were reluctantly compelled to agree. So, again beset by countless mosquitos and surrounded by alarming phosphorescent fungus, they remained in the fallen tree prepared to pass another night of misery.

  Ì'm beginning to understand why pearls are expensive,' remarked Biggles grimly, as he slapped at the insects that were settling on his face.

  As the night wore on these became so bad that he lit a fire and sat in the smoke, although the pungent reek of the wood was nearly as hard to endure as the bites of the mosquitoes.

  'I wouldn't mind so much if I knew that those kids were all right,' he muttered once. 'I can't imagine what could have happened to them.'

  Neither Sandy nor Algy replied. Perhaps they both hesitated to express their views.

  Slowly the night wore on, the swamp-water glowing with phosphorescent light as unseen creatures moved about in it. Strange noises came from the tree-ferns; not even Sandy knew what made them. Great moths flitted silently across

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  the fiery area, and once an enormous bat gave them all a fright by dashing itself against the tree. The darkness was incredible; it hung over them like a weight. In the silence invisible creatures crept and rustled. Once Algy dozed, to awake from a fitful dream with the feeling that something was crawling on his leg. By the light of the dimly burning fire he saw a reddish-brown centipede, ten inches long, clinging to his bare ankle. With a convulsive shudder he tore it off with a quick jerk and flung the thing from him. A double line of scarlet spots rose on the place where the centipede had been; his ankle began to swell; and it remained painful for many days. Sandy puffed at his pipe incessantly, and Biggles smoked all his cigarettes.

  `Thank heaven, I believe it's getting light at last,' muttered Algy, after a long silence. '

  One more night of this and I shall be ready for the madhouse. These South Sea islands aren't all that they're made out to be.'

  Biggles stood up stiffly. 'Well, let's be moving,' he said, and although it was still only grey twilight he commenced cutting a path down the far side of the swamp towards the beach.

  The others joined him. The strain of the last two days and nights was beginning to tell on them, 'and they were all nearly exhausted by the time they staggered from the un-dergrowth on to the open sand, where they spent some minutes looking for water; but there was none except that of the swamp, which they would not touch.

  `Never mind; let's get along. We ought to be in the village inside a couple of hours,'

  murmured Biggles, and with dragging feet they set off along the sand. They stopped at the first coconut palm they reached, and, hunting about, found several nuts that had been dislodged by the hurricane. They drank the milk greedily and, strengthened by its cool sweetness, made better time for the rest of the journey.

  They had nearly reached the village when Algy stopped suddenly, staring at something ahead. The others, following the direction of his eyes, were just in time to see a native disappear like a shadow into the dense shade of the trees. It was not an ordinary native, such as those they had previously met in the village; he was smeared from head 121

  to foot with white chalk or mud, put on in the most fantastic designs.

  `Something's happening here,' muttered Sandy, looking worried.

  `What do you mean? What could happen?'
inquired Biggles.

  `You saw that chap? He was in war-paint—and he was carrying a war club. I haven't seen such a thing in years. He means business, or he wouldn't be got up like that. They take these things very seriously. It's against the law, anyway. They are not allowed to do any of this war stuff nowadays, because once they start they're not responsible for their actions. There you are! Hark at the drums.' A hollow booming sound echoed weirdly through the jungle. 'If you listen you'll hear others answering it,' declared Sandy. `They're calling the warriors together. Something must have happened since we were here last; I only hope some fool hasn't been causing trouble or we may find ourselves in the cooking-pot presently. When they get the war fever on them they're not particular who they kill.'

  `But they're not cannibals, surely?' put in Biggles unbelievingly.

  Sandy threw him a sidelong glance. 'Not one of them would admit it, and I doubt if any of the youngsters would have anything to do with "long pig",' he muttered. 'But I wouldn'

  t trust the old 'uns. I'll warrant plenty of the old men here pine for the days when the enemy was served up for supper. The authorities have done everything they can to suppress cannibalism, and generally speaking they've succeeded, but once in a while there are rumours of it back in the hills. Mind you, these people were never cannibals for the sake of it; they've all the other food they need; it was just a custom to eat a part of some particularly hated enemy.'

  `Well, it's no use messing about,' declared Biggles. 'We'd better go and see what's going on.'

  Two more natives appeared just in front of them. Both were in war-paint, and both carried war clubs. They bolted like rabbits at the sight of the white men, who soon reached the village and marched straight into it. Only two or three women were in sight.