I squatted on one of the undercarriage wheels prepared to pass an uncomfortable watch.
It was cold and it was clammy; in fact, it was beastly. I could see nothing, but from time to time I heard the same sound that Algy had evidently heard—a sort of swishing noise such as water makes when the tide comes in over a shingle beach; but there was no suggestion of wind, so I wasn't particularly concerned.
About half past five I felt a slight breeze fan my cheek, and I thought to myself, that's fine; here comes the dawn wind, and it will Wow all this muck away. I was right, too, for the breeze gradually freshened, and the sea began to hiss against the rock. There was no mistake about it. This was what we had hoped would happen, and in my satisfaction I got up to stretch my legs. In another moment I had tripped over something soft. I wasn't in the least scared, thinking that somebody had left some- thing, a coat or a blanket, lying about. Picking myself up, I had only taken a step when I kicked the thing again ; and I don't know what there was about it this time, but a feeling came over me that the thing, whatever it was, was alive. My hair began to stand on end, because I'd heard of octopuses coming out of the water at night.
My one comfort was that the fog was beginning to turn grey, and I knew that dawn was breaking. I thought I had better let Biggles know the state of affairs, so I groped my way to the cabin door and switched on the light. As it happened, Biggles was already moving.
He saw me come in, and said, casually, "Everything all right ? "
I answered, " I'm not sure."
"What do you mean by that?" he asked.
"Well," I said, "there's a breeze getting up and it's blowing the fog away; the sea is also on the move—butwell, I've just bumped into something that I don't understand."
Biggles raised his eyebrows. "What are you talking about? What is there to bump into ? "
"That's what I should like to know," I answered. "Perhaps by now it's light enough to see.
How about coming out for a look round ? "
Biggles didn't answer, but pulled on his sweater and followed me outside.
How shall I describe the sight that met our gaze? The mist had entirely dispersed, and a wonderful sunrise was turning everything to pink and gold. But we didn't pay much attention to that. We looked at the rock. We stared, and kept on staring. For covering the entire islet, from end to end, were thousands and thousands of white sea-birds, great ridiculous-looking creatures with enormous beaks and curly tails. There they stood, all staring at us, so thick that a jenny-wren would have found it hard to find a place to perch.
You should have seen Biggles's face.
Unless I'm dreaming," he said, "they're dodos. We couldn't find them, but it seems that they've found us. Wake Donald. Don't make a noise or you may scare the birds away before he can feast his eyes on them."
I went into the cabin and woke the others. They followed me out, Donald nearly beside himself with excitement. Out came his notebook, and we watched him in his element for about twenty minutes. Biggles then pointed out that he was sorry to disturb the party, but as the sea was rising fast we ought to be on our way before we were washed away. He suggested that as all the dodos looked alike Donald had better capture one and take it into the cabin, where he would be able to study it at leisure. Donald agreed, and selecting a bird, grabbed it by the neck. It made not the slightest protest.
Biggles waved his arms, and addressing the flock, told them to push off.
The birds utterly ignored him. They just stood there like a lot of dignified old ladies, looking at us with expressionless faces. We shouted. We jumped. We yelled, but still they didn't move a step or flap a wing. Then we remembered that they couldn't fly.
Biggles went into the cabin, and returning with a gun, blazed away over their heads.
They didn't bat an eyelid.
Algy roared with laughter, but Biggles, after a glance at the sea, stopped him. " This isn't in the least funny," he said seriously. "If those birds refuse to move we are very soon going to be in a jam. Look at those waves ! We've got to clear a runway, and we've no time to lose. Come on, get busy."
I got hold of a bird and started pushing, but another simply walked into its place. We all pushed ; we heaved and shoved, but all we did was get ourselves hot and bothered. As fast as we cleared a spot fresh birds just strolled on to it. Algy said, "We shall have to shoot the
lot, and throw them into the sea." Biggles answered, "Don't be a fool; we should need a million rounds of ammunition." I could see that he was really worried. "I've been mixed up in some crazy adventures," he said,
but this beats the lot. I'm dashed if I know what to do, and that's a fact."
Looking round, I saw that two or three of the birds had managed to climb up on our elevators. One, looking frightfully important, was strolling along the hull. I pushed it off.
Algy grabbed one that was trying to balance itself on a tail plane. He managed to get it off, but the thing dug its toes into the fabric and took several square inches with it.
"Steady on," shouted Biggles, " they'll tear the machine to pieces if you go on like that. If they manage to get on our wings, we're sunk." And this was obviously what some of the dodos were proposing to do ; apparently they thought there was no point in staying in the crowd while there was plenty of elbow room on the aircraft.
By this time the sea was really rough, so there was no longer any question of getting the aircraft on the water. It would have been dashed to pieces against the rock. Our only hope was a land take-off, and as the waves were already sweeping the rock in the lower places, we had only about five minutes to find an answer to our problem. A more fantastic predicament would be hard to imagine.
Then Biggles got one of his brain-waves. He shouted, "We've one chance—the engine.
Get round to the tail. I'm going to start up. I'll rev the engine and blow the birds away with the slipstream." So saying, he climbed into the cockpit and started the engine, while Algy and I fought our way through the birds to the tail, and lay across the planes to keep them down.
We managed to hang on, but either the noise or the blast of air was too much for the dodos. The slipstream blew them into heaps, like piles of feather cushions. As long as I live I shan't forget that picture—dodos on their backs, sliding on their faces, with their silly little wings stuck out. In a minute or two we had a clear run of a hundred yards or so. It wasn't very wide, but it was wide enough, provided the birds didn't come back before we could get off. The runway was, of course, behind the machine, so we hauled the tail round until the nose was pointing in the right direction. Then we fairly fell into the aircraft. As soon as Biggles saw that we were in he jammed the throttle wide open and away we went. I held my breath, for some of the birds were beginning to close in again, and we had only to hit one, travelling at that speed, to cause us to turn several somersaults.
We got off by the thickness of a pig's bristle. I had a fleeting view of a sort of avalanche in front of us, then something hit me on the back of the head like a sack of flour. I got a glimpse of a dodo, feathers flying, vanishing through the door, which in our haste had been left open. Donald started bleating, "It's gone—it's gone," and I knew that he had lost his darling dodo. I need hardly say that we didn't go back for it. Looking down, the runway had already disappeared. The islet was once more a solid mass of dodos. Where they'd come from we don't know; where they went, if they went anywhere, we don't know either. Speaking personally, I don't jolly well care. Biggles took a shot at the sun, picked up our course, and a couple of hours later we were in Madagascar, finishing up with about a pint of petrol in the tank.
Ginger got up and stretched. "Well, that's all," he said. "But if anyone ever tells you that the dodo bird is extinct—just refer him to Biggles. What he thinks of those dizzy fowls is nobody's business."
XIV
THE ADVENTURE OF THE COUNTERFEIT
CRUSADERS
FLIGHT-LIEUTENANT LORD BERTIE LISSIE, Of Biggles's
Squadron, saunter
ed into the officers' mess, glanced at the little group of pilots sitting round the fire, and then picked up the daily paper. He read the headline, screwed his monocle more firmly in his eye, and read it again.
I say, you fellows," he remarked, "I see the beastly Nazis have taken jolly old Rostov."
"What about it ? " inquired Tug Carrington.
Bertie looked pained. "Well, I mean to say, you know, Rostov is a deuced important place. They call it the doorway, or gateway—or something—to the Caucasus. We don't want the Nazis there, no fear."
"Why not ? " inquired Tug dispassionately.
Bertie polished his eyeglass. "Well, if they get through Caucasia, the next thing they'll be trotting down Iraq, or Persia, to Egypt—yes, by Jove."
They'll never get through the Caucasus," put in Henry Harcourt, confidently.
"Why not?" demanded Bertie.
"Because it's nothing but rocks and thins, all ups and downs. In fact, nobody knows quite what is there. "
Algy Lacey stepped into the conversation. "I'm not so sure about that," he murmured. "
The Germans may know a good deal more about the Caucasus than a lot of people suppose."
"What gave you that idea ? " asked Bertie. "Have you been there?
Algy nodded. "Yes, I once spent a few hours in the country, with Biggles and Dr. Duck.
Ginger was there, of course. If you ask him nicely perhaps he'll tell you about it."
"What took you to the Caucasus, anyway? " prompted Tex O'Hara.
Ginger answered. "We were looking for some lost crusaders."
"Come off it," jeered Tug. "The crusaders all passed out hundreds of years ago. We were even taught that at my school."
"Maybe your school was right, Tug," returned Ginger, slowly. "But I wouldn't be too certain of it."
"Did you find any crusaders?"
Ginger nodded. "Yes, we found some ; and I must say they looked like the real thing. They carried swords with religious inscriptions, and even wore the Cross of St. George on their tunics." Ginger glanced at the clock. "We've still got a few minutes before dinner; if you like I'll tell you all about it."
"Go ahead," invited Tex.
Ginger settled down, and this is the story he told : In accordance with my usual practice in telling you of our adventures with Dr. Donald Duck, I had better give you a rough idea of this place they call the Caucasus. I don't suppose you know much about it, but don't let that worry you, because very few people do. I knew absolutely nothing. until Donald produced a memo from the Soviet authorities—Caucasia, in case you didn't know, is one of the Russian republics, or rather, a cluster of republics with unpronounceable names. In fact, it's a queer place altogether, and it's hard to believe that it's in Europe. Actually, it stands bang in the middle of the biggest lump of land on earth, a sort of hub, as it were, of Europe, Asia, and Africa. The tops of the mountains are permanently capped with snow, but in some of the valleys, particularly in the south, the climate is semi-tropical, producing peaches, apricots, grapes and oranges.
While the rest of the world has been spinning along, the Caucasus has stood still, drawing into itself all the outcasts and refugees of the world. An ancient Greek army was lost there; so was a Roman legion; nobody knows what happened to them, but it is said that their de- scendants are still there. There are also tribes of Mongols, Arabs, Turks, Medes and Persians, Armenians—in fact, all the flotsam and jetsam of three continents.
There are white races, yellow races and brown races, all tucked away in their own valleys, with their own laws, customs and religions. One thing they worship in common is freedom. They won't stand for interference, and for that reason travellers have given the region a wide berth.
But of all the amazing rumours that have come out of i this amazing land, none s more astonishing, and perhaps romantic, than the one that concerns the lost crusaders. Who they were originally, and how they got there, nobody knows; but there is ample evidence that the descendants of at least one party of crusaders dwell there. Little is known of them. They stick to the old customs, wear the Cross on their tunics, and carry swords that were certainly made in the remote past. The oddest thing of all about them is their religion. They seem to have got things mixed up, for they worship St. George, the patron saint of England.
So much Donald told us. He had got his information from Russia, and, as you will have guessed, his bright idea was to track down these alleged crusaders with a view to clearing up the story—that is, to determine if it was fact or fable. He approached Biggles with the proposition, and while Biggles was not exactly infatuated with the scheme, pointing out that it seemed a dangerous country for flying, he agreed to go. So we went—having, of course, got permission from the Russian authorities. The nearest regular airport was Baku, famous for its oil-wells, and there we made our way, the idea being to explore the territory from the air, and, if possible, locate a landing-ground somewhere near the middle of it.
Actually there was no landing-ground in the mountains —or if there was we couldn't find it—but in the southeastern corner, in a deep valley open at one end, there was a lake; and a very pleasant lake it turned out to be, with wild flowers and flowering shrubs making the banks look gay. All around, looking magnificent against a flat blue sky, were towering mountains, from which the melting snow formed little brooks that ran down into the lake. It was, in fact, as pleasant a spot as you could hope to strike in a day's flight, and I should have been content to potter about there for a while doing nothing in particular. Unfortunately, when Donald was on the trail of something he could think of nothing else, and his mind was set on lost crusaders. For my part, supposing that even if they existed and we managed to find them, they would look like anybody else, I wasn't particularly interested.
Now, you'd think that such a pleasant place would be fairly swarming with people, but as far as we could make out there was nobody there. We landed, moored the old Wanderer to the bank, sat in the sunshine and talked things over. Donald wanted to explore the district on foot, but Biggles wasn't keen on leaving the aircraft ; nor did he relish the idea of splitting up the party—that is, leaving somebody with the machine while the others went off on a crusader-hunt. He pointed out that there seemed to be a good chance of the exploring party becoming lost in the mountains.
As it transpired, our problem was answered for us. As we sat there on the bank, a wonderful figure, I might say a gorgeous figure, appeared on the hillside. He wore a tall green turban, and a long, yellow silk robe decorated with blue stars, pink moons, and goodness knows what else. On his feet were scarlet slippers. Think of the pictures you've seen of Aladdin, or Ali Baba, and you'll have a rough idea of this magician—for that's what he turned out to be. He came right up to us, and bowing low, with tremendous gravity addressed the doctor, evidently assuming from his top hat that he was the head man of our party. I didn't recognize the language, but Donald did ; it turned out to be Persian. Between Persian and Arabic they managed to hold a conversation. From this we learned that our visitor—I forget his name—had once been court astrologer to a prince of Persia, but failing to forecast an eclipse of the moon, he lost his job; he was banished, and was now living in a cave on the hillside, whither he now invited us.
You never saw such an amazing place as that cave in all your life. You wouldn't have known that you were in a cave, for the walls were hung with tapestries and carpets.
Glorious Persian rugs covered the floor, and innumerable brass lamps hung from the ceiling. heaps of coloured cushions provided seating accommodation. Scattered about were weird instruments for casting horoscopes. It was a fascinating place, and I must confess that I was enthralled. We sat on the floor round a great dish of fruit and resumed the conversation—at least, Donald did. From time to time he translated for our benefit.
Naturally, he soon turned to the subject uppermost in his mind—the crusaders; and this is what he learned.
The crusaders really existed. Not only that, but by an extraordinary stroke of l
uck we had landed quite close to their valley. They were queer people—so Ali Baba asserted—and had a sinister reputation for putting to death any civilized people who fell into their hands. Such people were instantly beheaded with one of the great two-handed swords carried by the crusaders. To approach the place dressed as we were would be equivalent to suicide, but if we disguised ourselves as orientals there was a chance that we might get through. In this our host was willing to help us. He would lend us costumes, and we could pretend to be holy men from the east. The aircraft would be quite safe.
This sounded fine—but there was a snag. Even Ali Baba wasn't quite sure of the way to the valley where the crusaders lived. There were valleys everywhere, and if we accidentally wandered into the wrong one we might find ourselves in the hands of a tribe of Tartars, who also had a colony in the district; in that case we should undoubtedly be murdered. This didn't sound so good. However, there was a solution to the problem, and this, too, lent an air of romance to the proceedings.
I need hardly say that there were no newspapers in this wild region, but there was, it seemed, a sort of news service, a service that had been operating for hundreds of years.
At regular intervals a travelling news-vendor marched through the mountains, shouting the news for the benefit of anybody who wanted to hear it. These men were privileged; they could go anywhere without fear of injury; in return for their work they were provided with food. These fellows, as well as knowing all the local gossip, knew where each tribe had its headquarters. Such a man was due to arrive at Ali Baba's cave the following day, and he usually stopped to eat a dish of rice. Ali Baba would speak to him on our behalf, and try to persuade him to show us the village of the crusaders. But he would certainly not do this if he knew we were British. The only possible way of overcoming that difficulty would be for us to dress up like holy men, members of a religious order sworn to perpetual silence. This would get over the language problem.
27 Biggles - Charter Pilot Page 13
