In short, it's just about one of the worst pieces of territory in the world.'take it none of these pirates got through,' observed Biggles.
'That's quite the most extraordinary part of the story,' declared the Air Commodore. '
Farrow did get through, arriving in Port Moresby more dead than alive. He started with Macalister, who died of fever on the way. The fate of the rest remains a mystery, but as they haven't shown up anywhere it seems likely that they are all dead, and their heads now decorate some native village.'
'They must have had plenty of food available at the start.'
The Air Commodore shook his head. 'A man couldn't carry enough food to support himself on such a trip — not for the entire journey.'
'Then how did Farrow manage it?'
'Because by sheer luck he struck the head waters of the Fly River and had the nerve to steal a native canoe. Even then he wouldn't have made it had he not been found by a government inspection launch in the lower reaches.'
Ànd what's the position now?'
'The position is that somewhere along the two hun-dred mile stretch of coast between Karhar Island and Wewak there is the wreck of a ship, and buried within fifty yards of it,
£200,000 in bar gold and nearly £100,000
in notes — that is, of course, assuming that Blake and Diaz haven't moved the stuff, which seems unlikely. The insurance people want the money and will pay ten per cent for its recovery. We want Blake and Diaz. Apart from that we shall have to check Farrow's story. After all, we've only his word for what happened.'
'Where is Farrow now?'
'Dead. He died the other day in the London Hospital for Tropical Diseases
— presumably from some bug he picked up on his journey.' 'Pity. And that's all?'
'That's the lot. The job may turn out to be one for a land expedition; but it was thought that a lot of trouble might be saved if the wreck could be spotted by air reconnaissance.
It's up your street and I wondered if you'd like to have a go at it. The main object is to ascertain if the gold is still there. If at the same time you could pick up any information about Blake or Diaz, so much the better.'
Biggles nodded. 'Fair enough. The trip would be a change from the usual routine. I'll think about it and let you know if the thing looks like a practical proposition. I believe there are two air companies now operating over New Guinea, so there shouldn't be any difficulty about fuel.'
'That's right. One company operates from Cooktown, in Australia, to Madang, via Port Moresby, and the other, if I remember, from Lae to Rabaul. Between these airfields, though, there is practically nothing but equatorial forest.'
'I'll go and have a look at the map,' concluded Biggles.
Nearly a month elapsed before the Air Police amphibian aircraft, Sea Otter, arrived at Madang, the base selected for the operation; for in view of the nature of the task the preparations had demanded exceptional care. Nothing could be left to chance; everything likely to be required, spare parts, provisions, weapons, and even trade goods to pacify hostile natives, had to be found, weighed, and stowed on board.
From his wide experience Biggles had a good idea of the difficulties most likely to confront them on the spot, and worked on the assumption that the job might well turn out to be a long one. As he more than once averred, the tragedy was that Farrow had died without revealing the position of the wreck. In the conditions in which the ship had been lost he may not have known the precise spot, but as a seaman he would at least have had a rough idea. In other words, had he been spared to accompany the expedition as a guide the enterprise would have been greatly simplified. But the man was dead, and they would have to manage without him.
From the maps that had been made available the party knew that the coast of North-East New Guinea was wild and rugged, but even so, it was not until a preliminary reconnaissance had been made that they appreciated fully the difficulties of the task they had undertaken. Ginger said frankly that he thought the business looked so hopeless that eventually it would have to be handed over to a ground force.
The territory was roughly two hundred miles in length; that is to say, that would have been the distance had the line been reasonably straight.
But in actual fact the foreshore was so deeply indented that to follow it closely would mean a flight of nearer four hundred miles.
Again, the scene was remarkable in its variation, every kind of tropical coast being represented. There were places where the great mountains of the interior rolled right down to the sea. For mile after mile the vivid green of bamboo swamps alternated with the inevitable mangroves. From above, these looked harmless enough, but none of those in the aircraft needed to be told how different would be the picture presented from ground level; for if there is one place on earth where slime and beastliness have combined to breed creatures of horror, it is a tropic mangrove swamp.
Where the beach was sand it was mostly narrow and steeply shelving, so that convolvulus vines and other creepers, escaping from the forest, hung over it like a curtain. The formation of these beaches was peculiar. They consisted of a succession of tiny bays, with tongues of sand running out into the sea at frequent intervals, giving the impression that the water had bitten large mouthfuls out of the land. Skirting the coast were shallows and innumerable reefs. These were likely to prove a blessing, in that by breaking the waves that rolled in from the open sea they afforded plenty of anchorages.
Islands, too, were common, lying like emeralds in water that varied in colour from turquoise to deepest ultramarine.
On this first trip the sky was as blue and cloudless as only a tropical sky can be, and as there was no wind the ocean lay smooth to a clean-cut horizon.
For five consecutive days the Otter cruised up and down the coast, Biggles determined to make the most of the fine weather, which he knew could change, in a few hours, to heavy rain. But for all that was seen the aircraft might as well have remained at its base, and even Biggles was beginning to agree with Ginger that the job was hopeless. He flew high, he flew low, but it made no difference. From high altitudes the great equatorial forest could be seen rolling back mile after mile to the mighty mountain chain that forms the backbone of the island. Not once did the searchers see any sign of life, animal or human.
But they were not deceived. They knew that under those same trees, engaged in constant warfare with each other, lived tribes of natives which, for sheer blood-lust, have no equal in the world. Civi-lization has only touched them by way of gold pros-pectors and missionaries, and they, more often than not, have left their heads to decorate some barbaric door-post.
At the end of the fifth day Biggles announced that as they couldn't go on burning the petrol at the rate they were using it, he would send a signal to the Air Commodore advising him of the position. They would make one more flight, on the following day. If that yielded nothing he would call a halt until further instructions were received from London.
As it tamed out, the sixth day proved to be the lucky one; at least, it was lucky as far as it provided the search party with their first clue.
It came about this way.
Near the mouth of the Sepik River, on the fringe of the forest Ginger spotted a wisp of smoke. He called Biggles' attention to it and the aircraft went down to investigate.
Ginger expected to see a party of natives, for as they lost height he made out a canoe pulled up on a beach clear of the water ; but as Biggles glided low over the spot he was astonished by the sudden appearance of two white men, who ran out of the forest, waving frantically.
'As we can't speak to them from up here we'd better go down to see if those fellows are in trouble,' said Biggles, taking stock of the surface of the water, for the beach shelved too steeply for a landing. 'They may be able to tell us something,' he added.
After making a false run over the water to confirm that it was free from obstructions, he put the aircraft down without trouble, and churning a milky wake swung in to that part of the beach wh
ere the two men stood waiting. Stepping out into shallow, lukewarm water, the crew of the Otter waded ashore.
'Anything wrong?' greeted Biggles, although if appearances were not misleading the strangers were in poor shape. Both were thin, their clothes were in ribbons and they looked worn out. One was shaking with fever.
The men had a simple enough tale to tell. One was a New Zealander, the other Australian. They were gold prospectors, and had tried their luck up a tributary of the Sepik River. As usual there had been trouble with the natives, and they had been lucky to get away with their lives, having lost most of their provisions and equipment. For a month they had been working their way along the coast, trying to reach some point of contact with assistance. With food shortage and fever, and no quinine or mosquito nets, they were nearly at the end of their tether.
Biggles assured them that he could fix them up with food if they wished to continue on foot. Alternatively, he would give them a lift to Medang if that would suit them better.
They jumped at the offer of a passage that would take an hour instead of weeks of hard labour.
'A slice of luck for us you came along, chum,' said the Australian, an ex-service man named Thompson. 'We couldn't believe our ears when we heard a plane. I suppose you weren't looking for us by any chance? We left word where we were going.'
'No,' answered Biggles. 'As a matter of fact we were looking for a wreck.
Did you happen to see one as you came down the coast?'
'We must have seen half a dozen,' was the disconcerting reply. 'Most of
'em old. There was one, though, that we reckoned hadn't been there very long — biggish ship, she must have been, too.'
'The ship I'm looking for was mostly metal.'
'The sea would soon break her up,' declared Thompson. 'This is a bad bit of coast, although you might not think so looking at it today. If the sea didn't break her up the blacks would, bit by bit. They'd take the metal for spear and arrow heads.'
'Where was this?' inquired Biggles.
Thompson thought for a moment. 'Be about twenty miles west of here, on the far side of a sizeable creek. She was lying on the mud on the edge of a mangrove swamp. We spent a bit of time probing the mud with sticks hoping to strike some cans of grub, but there was nothing doing.'
'Sounds as if it might be what we're looking for,' said Biggles thoughtfully.
'If you're thinking of going that way you'd better watch your step,'
declared Thompson. '
There's something going on and the blacks are in a nasty mood. They're Kobes. Usually they're not too bad, but something seems to have upset
'em. The V.C. told us a cock and bull story about them being attacked by Gilkiks — that's the next tribe — led by a white man with a rifle.
The two tribes are always at war. Anyhow, we found the atmosphere grim.
We asked for grub, but all we got was threats. You can't trust these devils a yard. If it hadn't been for the V.C. I reckon we'd have gone into the cooking pot.'
'What's this V.C. you're talking about?'
'You must be new to these parts or you'd know. He's the Village Constable. A black, of course, usually a fellow who has been to Port Moresby and speaks a bit of pidgin English. Government pays him a pound or so a year to keep order. Some chap will usually take the job because he gets a uniform — a blue loin cloth edged with red. His badge of authority is a tin disc with the letters V.C. punched in it. The one in the Kobe village is scared rigid, because whichever side wins the war he's likely to be the meat in the sandwich.'
'You don't believe this tale about a white man leading the Gilkiks?'
`No. Who could he be? The only white man in the district is a well-known French priest belonging to the Sacre Coeur Mission, and he'd be the last man to carry a rifle, let alone start a war. We were hoping to see him but as soon as we mentioned his name, Father Antoinne, the blacks shut up like oysters; which means he's probably lost his head. That'
s what happens to most of these plucky padres at the finish. As I said just now, you can't trust these devils a yard. They'll beg medicine off you one day and slice off your head the next — for no reason at all.
'see,' said Biggles slowly. find this all very interesting, but as it's too late to do anything today I'll run you down to Medang and come back tomorrow.'
'That suits us,' asserted the prospector. 'But watch what you're doing or you'll find yourself in a stew - and when I say stew I mean stew.
That Kobe country is no place for a white man right now.'
The fine weather held, and shortly after dawn the following day, the aircraft, flying low, was seeking the creek described by the prospectors.
Below, the sea lay unruffled to the horizon. In the early morning light its colour was dove-grey, a strange and fascinating hue. There was as yet no play of tints or iridescence, or sparkle, as would come when the sun roused the day-wind.
Thompson had, overnight, presented Biggles with a rough sketch map, showing the position of the lost ship; yet even with this they were some time locating the spot, for creeks abounded, and all were much alike. It became evident that had it not been for the chance meeting with the prospectors, air reconnaissance on this occasion would have failed.
Naturally, they had been looking for a wreck, and, moreover, the wreck of a fair-sized ship, and it was only when from ground level, they regarded all that was left of the ill-fated Cygnet, that they perceived clearly why they had failed to spot her. The hulk was beginning to show signs of listing, and its fire-ravaged funnel and plates were dull red with rust.
Without any means of identification Biggles was by no means convinced that this was the ship they sought, but as he averred, they could only work on the assumption that it was. At all events, the remains were those of a modern metal ship.
He took the Otter in as close as possible, for, as the tide was flowing, there was no risk of being left aground; but, as there could be no question of using wheels on a forshore of mud that was obviously soft, he left the machine just afloat. The actual beach, strewn with the debris of the island's vegetation, was forty or fifty yards wide; but it would of course be less as the tide came in. The wreck lay roughly in the middle. Behind rose the wall of sinister-looking mangroves, black and menacing, with surface roots that looped and arched like an army of snakes. Under the dense foliage the swamp was a place of shadows, of brooding silence, apparently devoid of life, but, as Ginger knew from experience, was in fact inhabited by loathsome creatures that could be either fish or reptile. The air was hot and heavy with humidity.
From the evil-looking mud rose a stench of death and decay.
Handing over the controls to Algy, with instructions to be ready for a quick move, Biggles stepped out into a foot of water and the same depth of mud. Not too bad,' he announced. 'Ginger, you can come with me if you like. Bertie, put some bullets in a gun and keep an eye on us. If you see
a movement anywhere, give us a hail, but don't shoot unless things look serious.'
Followed by Ginger he floundered ashore, where the mud, while slippery, had hardened somewhat. At the same time, what Ginger had taken to be a log rose on four legs and slithered into the water.
Biggles went on to the wreck. 'What a mess,' he muttered, looking around.
'For any hope we've got of finding anything here we might as well pack up and go home,'
observed Ginger, in a voice of disgust.
'I couldn't agree more,' answered Biggles, his eyes roving the fringe of the mangroves. '
Probing the mud single-handed we might be here for weeks without finding anything. Our only chance, as far as I can see, would be to get a squad of natives on the job.'
'What natives?' asked Ginger, looking startled.
'These Kobes, or whatever they're called, that Thompson told us about.'
'Hold hard,' protested Ginger. 'I'm all against ending up in an Irish stew.'
'They must have come here pretty often to carry away as much stuff as they ha
ve,'remarked Biggles, moving nearer to the mangroves. 'In which case,' he added, 'there should be a track of sorts leading to their village.'
'So what?' inquired Ginger cynically. 'Unless we're out of our minds the only track we shall take from here will be towards the Otter.'
'There is a track,' persisted Biggles. 'I can see it.'
Ginger could see it, too. And as his eyes followed it into the gloomy labyrinth he saw something else. A native, as rigid as the tree trunks themselves, was watching them. He could see only one. He was a tall, well-built man, with an unbelievably ugly face topped by a great mop of brushed-up hair. A small tusk was stuck through his nose and a string of teeth hung round his neck.
Recovering from his shock Ginger murmured: 'Don't move. We're being watched.'
'I can see him,' returned Biggles. 'Quite a lad, isn't he?' The figure vanished, noiselessly, like a wraith.
'He's gone,' said Ginger. 'Come on, Biggles; let's get out of this. We're asking for it.'
'I'm inclined to agree with you,' conceded Biggles, and with his gun in his hand began backing slowly towards the water.
Ginger, expecting a shower of arrows any moment, followed him until he stopped behind a pile of buckled plates that had once been the bows of the Cygnet.
Biggles shrugged. 'Well, where do we go from here?'
'Home,' answered Ginger without hesitation. 'Quite obviously there's nothing we can do, and we should be stark raving mad to stay.'
'We'll go back to the others and talk it over,' decided Biggles.
Five minutes later they were in the cabin discussing the situation. Not, as Algy observed, that there was much to discuss, for on the face of it to start digging operations in such circumstances would, apart from being a waste of time, be sheer lunacy. 'The only people who know where the gold is, assuming they're still alive, are the crooks who buried it,' he concluded. 'We have at least located the wreck and the Air Commodore should well be satisfied with that. Let the people who want the gold make their own arrangements for fetching it. That's what I say.'
53 Biggles Chinese Puzzle Page 6
