by W E Johns
“But, dash it all, we can’t just sit here doing nothing,” declared Ginger.
“This is one of those occasions when we can’t do anything else,” returned Biggles evenly. “We’re better off here than out on the stream, although if the rain goes on we shall probably be washed out, anyway. If we aren’t washed out we shall be lifted up into the trees. By that time the river will be hard to find, because the whole country becomes flooded. For the moment I’m content to stay in the dry—we shall be wet soon enough. We may as well open a tin of bully and nibble a biscuit.”
Two hours passed. The rain maintained its constant roar, and Ginger began to wonder how long it would be before the noise drove him mad. One thing was certain: unless there was a lull, even if they obtained petrol, they were tied to the river, for it would be hopeless to try to get off through the blinding rain.
At length a shout broke the weary vigil. A storm-lantern gleamed mistily through the falling rain. It was Fee Wong, his gown plastered to his body by mud and water. Behind him stood another figure, a Chinese of about the same age. Ginger guessed it was Ah Wong, Fee Wong’s brother, and this turned out to be correct. Biggles shouted to them to come into the cabin, for it was next to impossible to carry on a conversation outside.
The two Chinese came in, dripping water that formed pools on the floor.
“Monsoon start,” said Fee Wong, without emotion.
“I’d noticed it,” returned Biggles, with a suspicion of sarcasm. “What’s the news?”
With Oriental imperturbability Fee Wong then proceeded to narrate a story of calamity so unexpected that the airmen sat motionless in speechless dismay. It was worse than anything they could have foreseen. Ginger tried to put the main facts in his memory.
They were these.
The monsoon had broken. There had already been some advance showers over the preceding four days, with the result that the Japanese barges had already left their moorings on the western side of the Peninsula and were well on their way to the east. They were, in fact, at Telapur, moored just beyond the mills, and would have gone farther had there not been a Japanese military pontoon bridge to interrupt their passage. Across this bridge Japanese forces, including guns and light tanks, had already passed. But the main force was still to cross, and it was thought that the crossing would take place within the next twenty-four hours. Those who had already crossed had quartered themselves in the mill. After the crossing had been effected the bridge would be dismantled, when the barges would proceed on their way. So much Fee Wong had learned from his brother, who was still at the mill. The spot where the Cayman now clung precariously to the bank was less than four miles from the mill, and less than five from the bridge.
“What about the petrol?” asked Biggles, when Fee Wong finally broke off.
Somehow Ginger knew what the answer would be before the Chinese answered.
Troubles seldom come singly.
“No petrol,” answered Fee Wong. “The Japanese have taken.”
Biggles lit a cigarette and smoked for a moment in silence. “Looks as though we’re going to stay here for a bit,” he remarked presently.
“No stay,” declared Fee Wong. “River rise. Break aeroplane in pieces.”
“Okay, then we don’t stay,” murmured Biggles. “That means we go.”
“No go,” said Fee Wong. “River smash you all up.”
Biggles looked at Algy and Ginger in turn. “You heard that? We can’t stay and we can’t go. That’s fine. Now let’s get down to brass tacks and decide just what we are going to do.”
Further inquiry produced the information that the petrol, about forty gallons of ordinary commercial spirit, was still in the mill, although it had been piled, with other things the invaders had seized, ready for removal. Ah Wong and the coolies who worked the mill were not actually confined, possibly because there was nowhere to confine them. They had simply been ordered by the Japanese to remain where they were. The barges were moored close together and a sentry stood guard over each one, apart from a number of troops who were bivouacked on the bank. Ah Wong was of opinion that one or two mooring-ropes might with luck be cut, but the saboteurs would then be discovered.
“That’s not much use,” muttered Biggles. “We’ve got to get the lot. If we could bust that bridge, not only would it disorganize the Jap column, but it would be pretty certain to draw attention away from the barges. The time factor is really what we are up against. Tomorrow, apparently, the rest of the Japs will cross, and the barges will then proceed on their way; and once they are out of reach of Ah Wong’s coolies it won’t be much use our chasing them.”
Now while Biggles had been speaking Ginger had looked through the side window, mainly with the object of ascertaining how far the water had risen. It was up, he judged, about two feet, and he was about to turn back to the cabin when a movement on the bank caught his eye. For a moment he stared at an immense black object, and as it moved again, fear—fear of the unknown —chilled him. His face was a shade paler when he turned back into the cabin.
“I say! Just a minute,” he said breathlessly. “There’s something on the bank—an enormous creature. I can’t make out what it is.”
Fee Wong permitted himself to smile faintly. “Elephant,” he said. “Elephant belong my brother.”
Ginger grinned sheepishly, not a little relieved. “I didn’t know you had a tame elephant.”
“We got a hundred elephant,” said Ah Wong evenly.
Ginger blinked. “A hundred elephants! Great Scott! What do you do with them?”
By this time Biggles was looking interested. He had no idea of a purpose to which a hundred elephants could be put, but he never left a possibility unexplored.
“Yes,” he said quickly, remembering vaguely that elephants were used throughout the East for timber haulage, “what exactly do you do with these elephants, Fee Wong?”
Fee Wong explained that when teak was first cut it was too heavy to float, and for that reason the logs, after being trimmed, were left lying on the bank for about six months, at the end of which time they were so far seasoned that they did not sink. They were then floated down to the saw-mill. The elephants were used to haul the logs to the water. Just above the point where the aircraft was moored they had a great number of logs ready for floating down. The work had, of course, been interrupted by the arrival of the Japanese invaders.
“Is that so?” said Biggles, who was thinking fast. He turned to Algy. “A teak log is a pretty massive lump of timber. If we could get some of them on the water they’d go down the river like battering-rams and burst the pontoon bridge. The disorganization would give us a chance to get at the barges.” He turned back to Fee Wong. “Are the elephants up by the timber now?”
Ah Wong stepped into the conversation and said that they were. They were hidden in the forest in charge of an Indian mahout.
“Will the elephants work at night?” inquired Biggles.
Ah Wong smiled at the white man’s ignorance. “These are trained elephants. They do what they are told.”
“Okay,” said Biggles. “Let’s get busy. We’ll bust the bridge and then set to work on the barges. Lead the way, Ah Wong.”
CHAPTER XII
A HECTIC NIGHT
GINGER was wet through before he had climbed the muddy bank to the rough track which, it was discovered, followed it. The world had become a nightmare of water, a deluge that descended in a never-ending stream from above and made the earth like a soaked sponge.
Everything dripped. The noise was unbelievable.
The elephant was a docile beast, as most trained elephants are. It turned out to be Ah Wong’s riding animal. Ginger was invited to ride, but he preferred to walk, although he was soon glad to hang on to the elephant’s tail.
“We’re mad,” he told Biggles, who trudged along beside him. “Everyone’s mad. The whole world’s gone mad.”
“You invited yourself to the picnic, don’t forget,” answered Biggles.
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nbsp; On they plunged through a world of water, mud and water, for about twenty minutes; then Ah Wong called a halt.
What happened after that Ginger was not quite sure. For one thing, something—he never knew what it was—stung him on the neck, and gave him a good deal of pain. There were shouts in the forest and, occasionally, the trumpeting of elephants. Great black shapes began to move. Logs crashed; they rolled; they splashed into the river, flinging up sheets of water to meet the curtain that descended. The three white men stood together.
There was nothing they could do. Fee Wong appeared from time to time and had a few words with them. Calm and unmoved, he might have been at a garden party. Sometimes he gave a word of advice to a panting coolie. To Ginger it was all a confused dream of pain and rain, rain, and still more rain. Sometimes he found himself wondering if it was really happening. Never with greater relief did he note the first dull streaks of dawn. The rain still fell, but not quite so heavily. The river was a turgid flood.
Ah Wong appeared and spoke to his brother. With him was a huge Malay foreman.
Ginger happened to catch sight of the man’s back, and shuddered. It had recently been flogged to ribbons. The man glanced round and saw Ginger staring. For a moment their eyes met, and at the expression of sullen hate in those of the native Ginger felt his blood run cold. He guessed who had done the flogging, and Ah Wong confirmed it.
“Kayan ask Japanese not to burn his home,” he said evenly. “They flog him plenty much. He no like Japanese.”
“I can understand that,” answered Biggles grimly.
Fee Wong said he thought that the logs by this time must have torn the bridge away by sheer weight, but suggested that it would be a good thing to make sure.
“All right, let’s find out,” agreed Biggles. He had to shout in order to make himself heard above the noise of falling water.
They all set off along the bank. The Cayman was still at its moorings, but it had been lifted up into the branches of the trees, an alarming and melancholy spectacle. The fabric had been torn in several places. Ginger noticed a water-snake coiled on the tailplane.
Biggles paused for a moment to look at the aircraft. He shrugged his shoulders. “There’s nothing we can do about it,” he remarked.
This was so obviously true that no one disputed it. At that moment it seemed unlikely that the machine would ever fly again.
They went on. But not very far. At the next bend, a sharp one, with one accord they pulled up at the sight that met their eyes. For a full minute no one spoke.
Then Biggles said in a bitter voice, “Would you believe it!”
What had happened was this. The timber had not gone down the river as had been intended. It seemed that a giant tree had fallen across the river during the night. Against this the logs had jammed, forming a dam behind which water, weeds and still more logs had piled up. Beyond it the river was clear.
Ginger could have wept with mortification and disappointment. “After all that work,” he said sadly. The two Chinese simply gazed, impassive.
At that moment a coolie appeared running up the track. He was chattering like a monkey.
“What’s he talking about?” demanded Biggles.
Fee Wong turned. “He say Japanese are crossing river now,” he said.
A strange look came into Biggles’s eyes. “By thunder!” he cried. “If that dam were to burst it would let loose a million tons of water and hundreds of tons of timber. The bridge would be swept away like a scrap of tissue paper—and so would the barges.”
It is unlikely that Kayan the Malay understood these words, but he had heard what the coolie had reported, and he was not a timber foreman for nothing; it may be supposed that he understood even better than Biggles what would happen if the dam burst. His face split in a dreadful smile, showing crimson betel-nut-stained teeth. Then, before the others realized his intention, and certainly before they could stop him, he had dashed down to the river. In his hand he carried a heavy crowbar that he had used during the night to move the logs. Using this as a balancing pole, he started across the dam, leaping from log to log with the agility of long experience. It was obvious what he intended to do.
Biggles shouted, but the native took no notice, even if he heard, which is unlikely.
“If that dam bursts he’ll be ground to pulp!” cried Algy in a strangled voice.
“He knows,” said Fee Wong calmly. “The Japanese have killed his wife and children, so he no longer has love of life. He prefers revenge. Kayan is a Malay.”
When Kayan was about midstream he chose a spot, drove in the iron bar and heaved.
Those on the bank could only watch helplessly. No one spoke. No one moved. It was one of those moments when time seems to stand still. Ginger saw the log on which Kayan was standing begin to move. The Malay threw all his weight on the bar. The log swung out. Then, with a roar like a high-explosive bomb bursting on a concrete road, the dam fell, and the next instant a thousand tons of logs, impelled by a mighty tidal wave, were hurtling pell mell down the stream. For a brief moment Kayan stood poised on a log. He flung the bar away, and stood with his arms outstretched like a bronze statue in an attitude of triumph. Then he disappeared from sight amongst the grinding timbers and the flood of yellow, foam-flecked water.
Ginger drew a deep breath and moistened his lips. “I shall see that sight for as long as I live,” he said in a hard thin voice.
“Quick!” cried Fee Wong, for once shaken out of his Oriental restraint. He started running up a hill which at this point flanked the river.
The others followed. Unmindful of rain, of mud, of thorns that tore his flesh, Ginger dragged himself through the sodden jungle. He had no idea of where he was going, or why, nor did he trouble to think. Like an animal, he simply went because the others went.
In five minutes they reached the brow of the hill, and then he understood. The river swept round the hill in a wide curve, and from their new position they could see beyond the bend. They were just in time to see the churning wave strike the bridge, and as Biggles had prophesied, it was swept away like a scrap of tissue paper. With it went Japanese soldiers, lorries and guns, to swell the tumult that rushed on in an ever-spreading tide. It overswept the banks and tore away great trees as if they had been soft-stemmed weeds.
Fee Wong pointed. “The barges,” was all he said.
Ginger had not noticed them, for they were loaded deep in the water and moored close to the bank. Now, for the first time, he saw them, and the crews who were jumping ashore in a desperate attempt to save themselves from the raging flood that was sweeping down on them. What happened after that was not clear, for the barges were swallowed up in leaping spray and plunging logs. A length of teak, looking harmless enough from the distance but weighing many tons, struck one of the barges like a torpedo. Other logs were thrown on top of the sinking vessel, and presently all that could be seen was a curtain of spray in which logs and barges were hopelessly intermingled.
Biggles was the first to speak. “Kayan did a fine job,” he said. “He took it out of our hands. There seems to be nothing more for us to do. It will take an army to clean up that mess, even if it is possible to clean it up, which I doubt. The troops left on the north side of the river will have to stay there until the monsoon is over. What are you going to do, Fee Wong?”
The Chinese spoke to his brother in his own language. Turning back to Biggles he said, “My brother stay here. I stay, too. Perhaps we get back to China some day. What you do?”
Biggles made a wry face. “To tell the truth, Fee Wong, I don’t know. I shall be in a better position to decide when I’ve seen my aeroplane.”
Through slime and rotting vegetation they made their way down to the river bank, now a morass from which protruded dead trees and the roots of trees from which the soil had been washed; every one provided a sanctuary for centipedes, scorpions and an occasional snake. The air was heavy with the stench of rotting wood and leaves.
The Cayman was still at its
moorings, but it presented a depressing picture. It had been lifted by the water that had piled up behind the dam into the branches of the trees which hung low over the river. When the water had fallen suddenly on the bursting of the dam the mooring-rope had caught in a branch so that the nose was held up clear of the stream.
The wing fabric was torn in several places, but the hull, as far as could be seen through mud and festoons of weeds, appeared to be undamaged. The snake was no longer sitting on the tail, Ginger noticed.
Biggles made a quick examination. “She doesn’t look exactly pretty, but I don’t think there’s any serious damage,” he announced. “We have only to cut the mooring-rope and she’ll flop down on the water. Anyway, the river is rising again, so she’ll soon be afloat, although if it gets very much higher she’s likely to be smashed up completely.”
“Could we get her into the air, do you think?” asked Algy.
“We shall only find that out by trying,” answered Biggles. “I feel like trying to get her off right away, although, of course, we haven’t enough petrol to get back to Borneo.”
“How much are we short?” inquired Ginger.
“It’s impossible to tell just what remains in the tanks while she’s in this cockeyed position,” replied Biggles. “If we could get the forty gallons of juice Ah Wong had at the mill, and which presumably is still there, it would help, but that still wouldn’t guarantee us enough to get home. I must admit it’s a bit of a problem. It seems crazy to take off knowing that sooner or later we shall have to make a forced landing; on the other hand it seems equally hopeless to stay here.” Biggles looked at Fee Wong. “Do you think there is any chance of getting the petrol from the mill?”
Fee Wong spoke to his brother, who looked dubious.
What his answer would have been must remain a matter for conjecture, for before he had time to speak the conference was broken up in a devastating manner. First, there came a sound of crashing in the jungle at no great distance. Mingled with the crashing was a strange clanking noise, as if chains were being dragged. Everyone looked in the direction from which these sounds came, which was up the river bank. The clanking and crashing approached ; it might have been a train coming through the undergrowth. Then a shrill trumpeting provided a clue to the mystery. Ah Wong cried out a single word, but before it could be translated there burst into sight the most enormous bull elephant Ginger had ever seen. It was coming at a quick run, its trunk coiled inwards. Great beads of greasy sweat formed two channels down its face. Broken shackles clung to its legs.
