27 Biggles - Charter Pilot

by Captain W E Johns

  You couldn't see the ground for this purple weed. It was everywhere.

  Following Biggles's example, we all fell on the stuff in a sort of fury, dragging it out of the ground by the roots, and tearing it off the machine with our hands, but we might as well have tried to stop a tide. Biggles must have realized the futility of it, for he suddenly yelled, "Get aboard everybody—it's our only chance!"

  The next couple of minutes were sheer pandemonium. We made a rush for the machine. I tripped over the stuff and hit the ground with a bang. Before I could get up the creepers were twining themselves round me. I tore them out by the roots, and reached the machine with garlands round my neck, like an ancient Greek hero. Somehow we all managed to get aboard. By the time Biggles had got the engine started there were forty or fifty runners crawling over the machine; but it turned out that they were no tougher than any other weed, and they couldn't stand the strain of a five hundred horsepower engine when Biggles opened the throttle. There was no time to warm up the engine. We tore across the sea of weed in a sort of purple spray as our bows, wheels, and airscrew cut into the stuff and whirled it into the air. Bits of it were still hanging on long after we had taken off.

  From up topsides we had a final look at the plateau. It looked as though the whole population had lined up on the brink to see the end of us. They didn't quite manage that, but it was touch and go. Still, if their idea is to preserve themselves from outside interference, I should say they have succeeded. At any rate, we gave them best, and went home. I expect they're still there.

  Biggles stood up. "And as far as I am concerned, they can stay there," he observed. "

  Come on, chaps, the fog's lifting. Let's get into the air."

  IV

  THE ADVENTURE OF THE CROONING

  CROCODILE

  FLYING-OFFICER GINGER HEBBLETHWAITE, in bathing

  shorts, lay on the soft turf that fringed the river bank and stretched luxuriously as the sun warmed his bare back.

  Most of the officers of his squadron were there, for the squadron had moved into reserve for a short spell of rest. It happened that the reserve aerodrome was bounded on one side by a river, so, as the day was hot and the sun bright, the temptation to bathe was not to be resisted. From the distance came the vibrant roar of an engine .being run up, as the fitters and riggers toiled at their tasks of overhauling the squadron's Spitfires.

  "Say, kid, you weren't in the water long," remarked Tex O'Hara to Ginger.

  "No," agreed Ginger," I wasn't. I don't enjoy bathing in fresh water as much as I used to."

  " Really ? Why not—if you see what I mean?" inquired Lord Bertie Lissie, joining the party.

  " Because," answered Ginger slowly, "just as I am beginning to enjoy myself a piece of weed or something touches my leg, and I think of crocodiles. Ever had a crocodile make a grab at you leg, Bertie ? "

  "No, by Jove. Absolutely no. Nasty feeling though, I should say."

  "Very nasty," confirmed Ginger warmly. "Horrible, in fact.

  Tug Carrington chipped in. "Did one make a grab at you, Ginger ? "

  "It certainly did. And, what's more, it got me."

  "Got you ? " cried Henry Harcourt incredulously.

  There was a shout of laughter, and a few jeers.

  "Yes, he got me," declared Ginger seriously. "But then, you must understand, this was no ordinary crocodile. This crocodile talked. It was, in fact, the Crooning Crocodile of Congawonga."

  "This sounds," put in Angus Mackail shrewdly, "like another of your adventures with dare-devil Donald." "Quite right, it was," agreed Ginger.

  Cries of" tell us about it" and " shoot " came from several directions.

  Ginger rolled over on to his back to give his chest a sun-bath, and this is the story he told : As I believe I mentioned some time ago, our biologist client, Dr. Augustus Duck, had spent most of his life collecting information concerning the rare, remarkable, and, we might say, the unbelievable. In all his crazy collection I doubt if there was anything more fantastic than his notes on the Crooning Croc. of Congawonga. Yet nothing was better authenticated, for it had been seen, and heard, by no fewer than three people, all reliable witnesses. The first was Major Kilton, a British political officer in Central Africa. British political officers don't tell lies. Apparently there were some funny rumours circulating on the border of the district for which he was responsible, so he went off to find out what they were all about. He never came back. Later on a story trickled in that he had been eaten by cannibals. A search party went out, but all they found were his boots, a few buttons, and a tin case containing his papers. Among the papers was a diary, and in the diary was the first report about the Crooning Croc. The second man was Monsieur Bou-lenger, of the Belgian Missionary Society. He got back to the coast, where he died of fever, babbling in his delirium about the talking crocodile of Congawonga. The third man was a newspaper reporter named Davis, sent out by a London paper to get the inside story of the Musical Masterpiece—as people were beginning to call this particular crocodile. He saw it and he heard it; but the natives saw him, too, and he only just escaped with his life. When he wrote his story the whole world rocked with laughter, whereupon, unable to face the ridicule, he retired. Or else the paper gave him the sack for telling lies—I don't know which. His trouble was that he had only got his unsubstantiated word for what he wrote. There was no evidence. Donald decided that it was high time somebody settled the matter once and for all. So, armed with rifles, and a few other things which we thought would be useful, including a good camera, we went off to locate, and if possible capture, the Vocal Wonder of Congawonga.

  From the information available, Congawonga was a native village built on the fringe of a small lake which was really an overflow from one of the upper tributaries of the Congo River. There was some doubt as to whether the place was in the Belgian Congo, French Equitorial Africa,

  or British Sudan. Donald was inclined to think it was in the Sudan, because it was known that crocodile-worship was a favourite cult with the inhabitants. Incidentally, some of these crocs that have been set up as gods have the reputation of being hundreds of years old. Not that this mattered to us.

  We reckoned that all we had to fear were the local lads of the village, who, according to report, had healthy appetites—or perhaps I'd better say unhealthy appetites—for human joints. We kept open minds about the old crocodile himself, but we felt that we should be able to make him sing a different tune when the time came. We kept our trip secret so that there should be no reception party waiting for us when we arrived—it's surprising how soon word gets round Africa when strangers are IA the jungle.

  Well, we went off in the old Wanderer, and soon established an advanced base on the river. After cruising around for three days we found the lake we were looking for—or what we took to be the lake. As it turned out, it happened to be the right one. Of course, we didn't land on it. That would have been a bit too much like jumping straight into the lion's den—or rather, the crocodile's pen. We came down on the river about four miles away, and anchoring in mid-stream, unpacked the collapsible canoe which we had brought with us. That same night, loaded with all the equipment we thought we should be likely to require, we set off for the village of Congawonga. We had no plan. How could we make one? We just paddled along, keeping near the bank, on what was really a scouting expedition. Biggles said he would decide what to do when we saw more clearly how the land lay.

  We hadn't much information to go on. According to Major Kilton's diary, the croc didn't live in the actual lagoon, although no doubt it had been born there; but on account of its vocal talent a special pond had been built for it a short distance from the village. On one side of the pond was a little temple in which the creature passed its spare time. It was fed every night. Knowing this, every night it would appear on the slipway that led from the temple to the pond, and say what it would like for its dinner. The high priest whose job it was to collect this information would then send word back to the village
. The natives would collect what was required, and dump it on the slipway, after which the croc, with a song of thanks, would carry the stuff into its lair to be devoured at leisure. Sometimes a few selected spectators were allowed to watch the performance.

  That was all we knew—except, of course, the natives thought the world of their pet.

  They were most particular who went near it, so outsiders like ourselves, if caught in the act, might expect to be shown the sharp end of a spear preparatory to being flung to the croc.

  We got to the outskirts of the village without trouble. So far everything had been comparatively simple. The difficult part of the programme now lay before us. The snag was, we didn't know on which side of the village the pond was situated. Obviously, we couldn't use the river any longer because we should have been spotted, so we went quietly ashore, Donald carrying the camera and a flashlight apparatus. The rest of us were armed with rifles, shot-guns or pistols, according to taste. Biggles had a couple of hand-grenades in his pocket-just in case. I may mention that Algy carried a double-barrelled gun loaded with buckshot; he reckoned that the spread of the shot would make it a handier weapon in the dark if we ran into trouble. Naturally, we didn't want to kill anybody, because apart from humanitarian reasons, this might have got us into serious trouble with the authorities. All we wanted was a peep at the articulating alligator, this wizardly lizard—or whatever it was.

  "I think our best plan is to wait here until feeding time," decided Biggles. "Then we may get a clue to the whereabouts of the pool."

  So we waited. We waited about half an hour, and then, sure enough, we heard the most amazing sound you could possibly imagine. It was a deep, throaty warble. And presently, as we listened, the sound broke into definite words.

  "It's talking," gasped Donald. "What's it *saying ? " "I don't know,' answered Biggles. "

  They didn't teach crocodile language at my school."

  "It doesn't seem possible," muttered Donald.

  "It isn't," answered Biggles grimly. "Let's get nearer."

  We started making our way towards the sound, and after about ten minutes we came in

  sight of what was evidently the temple—quite a small affair with a pillared entrance. It was only sun-baked mud, whitewashed, but in the moonlight it looked like marble—most impressive. In front was the pool, round, about thirty yards in diameter, with a stone edge—not unlike a good sized lily-pool such as you sometimes see in gardens.

  Connecting the temple and the pool was a sort of stone slipway.

  Just emerging, half in and half out of the temple, was the croc. Its mouth was opening and shutting, and there was no doubt whatever that it was making the noise. I must confess it shook me more than a little. On the stone edge of the pond, on his knees, bowing and scraping, was a figure all done up in rags, feathers, and a mask. You must all have seen pictures of an African witch-doctor, so there's no need for me to describe him in detail, but he wasn't pretty to look at. It was obvious that he was the high priest, going through the nightly ritual. A bunch of spear-armed natives crouched behind him, fairly shaking with terror—and I don't wonder at it.

  The high priest said something to the croc, and it answered. And as it answered the poor blessed natives set up the most terrible groaning.

  "What do you make of it?" I asked Biggles.

  "I don't know," he answered. "Presently I propose to ask this rollicking reptile a few questions myself. Then we may learn something. Meanwhile, we'll watch."

  The croc came on down the slipway, and I must say it was an enormous brute—not far short of thirty feet long. The high priest made a short speech to the natives. They dashed off and presently came back with a load ofstuffwhich they threw on the slipway. We couldn't see what it was. It looked like bundles of something. I assumed they were hunks of meat. The croc picked them up one by one in its jaws and swallowed them whole. In broad daylight that may sound a simple, even a silly, performance, but out there in the African jungle there was nothing funny about it, believe me. It was horrible to watch.

  Well, after the meal had all been consumed the croc sang a sort of chant. The high priest and his assistants, after more bowing and scraping, retired, backwards, as if they were taking leave of royalty. We waited for a bit, and as soon as they were out of earshot we moved forward.

  The croc had just started to turn back into its temple, but when it saw us it stopped, and crouched. For a minute or two there we stood, looking at it, while it crouched, glaring at us. Then it gave a frightful bellow and made a rush down the slipway as though it intended attacking us. Algy levelled his gun, but Biggles knocked it aside. "Don't shoot,"

  he said quickly. At the same moment there was a terrific flash of light that nearly blinded me.

  What happened exactly I don't know. It seems that the flash was caused by the Doctor, who had rushed up to take a flashlight photograph. What with this, and Biggles pushing Algy's gun aside, and me being blinded by the light, I fell into the pool. I came up gasping, for it was deep. Also, I may say that the water stank like nothing on earth. But I wasn't concerned with that, for the croc, with a bellow, was after me. I made for the bank, but I wasn't quick enough, and the brute's jaws closed over my leg.

  I've had some unpleasant moments in my life, but that, definitely, was the worst. I yelled and I kicked. The croc roared in its throat—without opening its jaws. The trouble was, those on the bank daren't shoot for fear of hitting me. Then Algy got a chance and let drive at the brute's tail. That made it let go, and it went scrambling up the slipway—with Biggles after it.

  I thought he must have gone stark, staring, raving mad when I saw him actually follow it into the temple. 'Then, from inside, came the most fearful noise. It sounded like the croc tearing Biggles to pieces. In fact, that's what we all thought it was, and we made a rush for the back door —or where it should be if there was one. I found I could run, which surprised me, for I felt sure that my leg had gone. But it was still there, and it seemed to be all right. I couldn't understand it—but I hadn't time to work out the problem then.

  We soon had the temple door down. The Doctor switched on an electric torch, and before us was the most amazing sight you ever saw in your life. Instead of the croc tearing Biggles to pieces, it was the other way round. He had torn the skin off the croc ! And what do you think he pulled out of it? A white man. Actually, we discovered later that he wasn't really white, but a half-caste. To make the situation even more incongruous, the fellow addressed us in English, with a broad American accent. I say he addressed us, but really he was bleating like a great kid. He implored us not to let the natives see him or they'd tear him to pieces.

  By this time we all had a pretty good idea of what had been going on. This fellow, who was half educated, had thought out a racket to enrich himself at the expense of his more ignorant brethren. The food, so called, with which he had just been fed, lay about the floor. It was rubber, palm-nut kernels, and other marketable commodities. There was even a little gold-dust.

  It turned out later that the witch-doctor had stood in with him for a share of the profits.

  With an old crocodile hide, in which the half-breed took his place every night, it had been an easy matter to prey on the minds of the credulous natives, who were given to understand that if they failed to appease the crocodile god, dire calamities would befall.

  Meanwhile, it looked as if we were going to be the victims of a calamity, for the natives, who must have heard the uproar, started arriving in force; and they brought their spears with them. Some carried torches. When they saw us they began yelping like dogs.

  Unfortunately, they were between us and our canoe. Biggles held his hands up and shouted to them to stop yelling, but his voice was lost in the din as the natives started a sort of stamping dance, crouching, all very intimidating.

  Biggles said, "They'll charge any minute if we don't do something to stop them. I've got it ! Give me a hand, somebody."

  I went with him, and we hauled out the hid
e—the hide of the Crooning Croc of Congawonga. As soon as the natives saw it they stopped dead, as if they'd all been stricken with paralysis. The silence was even more ominous than the noise. But it gave Biggles a chance to make himself heard.

  "Who speaks English ? " he shouted. "I want a man who talks English."

  A grey-haired old warrior stepped forward. His idea of English wouldn't have passed at the B.B.C., but it was better than nothing. It transpired that he had once made a trip to the coast, where he had picked up a bit of pidgin English. Biggles told him to tell the chief that the crocodile god was a fraud, that there had been a man inside it all the time to swindle them out of their rubber and stuff. In short, he spilt the beans, as they say, whereupon the witch-doctor started bawling, trying to shout him down.

  Well, for a little while the thing hung in the balance. Everybody talked at once. The witch doctor screamed. Biggles got hold of the fellow who could speak English and showed him the culprit, while Algy and I stood there with our guns at the ready in case the argument should go against us. Then, suddenly, there was another nasty silence.

  Looking up to see what had caused it, there was Donald, complete in top hat and frock coat, advancing towards the crowd. It looked like sheer suicide, and we shouted to him to come back. Would he? Not on your life. When he was only a few yards from the spears he holds up his camera, and whoof, there was another flash from his flashlight equipment. That did it. The natives, who were already suffering from one shock, couldn't stand another the same night. They began to back. Then they lost their heads and stampeded. Biggles hung on to the old fellow who spoke our language, gave him a handful of cigarettes, and told him to go to the village and explain the trick. Which he probably did, although I don't know for certain. We didn't wait to see. As soon as the coast was clear we made a bee-line for the canoe, and so back to the machine.

  We took the crooked half-breed with us and handed him over to the authorities who, when they heard our story, clapped him in jail. *hat finally became of him I don't know; he was still in jail awaiting trial when we took off for home.