Biggles and Cruise of the Condor

by W E Johns

  'But you're crazy, man. You wouldn't get half way without being pulled down by crocs. This is where I come in,' declared Dickpa. 'Let's start and knock up a balsa.'

  'A what?'

  'Balsa—a raft made of reeds. They use them a lot in Bolivia—in fact, they make their boats that way. It will only be rough, but it might float long enough to see you across to the other side. It's worth trying, anyway. I remember seeing plenty of reeds a little higher up. Algy, you bend a bamboo into a hoop and cover it with a piece of your shirt, or anything you like, to make a paddle. Come on, Smyth, and you, Biggles,' concluded Dickpa, leading the way into the bushes.

  In five minutes they were hard at work cutting down the reeds, tying them into bundles, and binding them tightly with lianas, of which there were plenty to hand and which made quite passable substitutes for ropes. The bundles were lashed together side by side and then another layer fastened on top. It was quite dark by the time the job was done and the improvised raft dragged down into the water. It floated—sluggishly it is true, and settled fairly deep in the water when Biggles crawled cautiously on to it. 'Give me that paddle, Algy,' he said quickly; 'she won't float long.'

  Algy passed the primitive paddle, and Biggles pushed the frail craft away from the bank with a quick shove. 'I shan't be long,' came his voice from the darkness. 'Wait where you are, and, if you hear me whistle, answer. Cheerio.'

  Once in the river proper, Biggles paddled furiously for the opposite bank about two hundred yards away. Half way across he could feel that the flimsy raft had settled a lot deeper in the water, and progress became slower. It was difficult to keep straight, and for every few yards of headway he made he drifted farther downstream with the current. He was still fifty yards from the bank when it became completely submerged, but it still supported him, and he flung his weight behind the paddle.

  A long, sinister shadow broke the surface of the water close behind him, a shadow that cut a fine ripple in the still water and began to overtake him. Biggles knew quite well what it was; a crocodile had scented him and was hard on his trail. The water was half way up his body now, and, realising that the raft no longer afforded any protection against the impending attack of the monster, and that he could in fact travel faster by swimming, he flung the paddle aside and struck out in a swift overarm stroke for the shore. It was a racing stroke, and one that he could not keep up for long, but he had only a short distance to cover, and he flung himself ashore in a last frantic spurt. Even as he did so, something like an iron gate clashed just behind his heels.

  He darted across the beach and then paused for breath, trembling slightly, for the strain of the last two moments had been intense. Opportunely, the crescent moon rose above the treetops and shed a silvery radiance over the scene. He watched a long, log-like object slowly submerging in the water near the bank, and then, with a shudder, turned his face resolutely towards the hut and its grisly tenant. It was nervy work, this picking his way among the fantastic shadows on the shore of an uncharted river, more trying even than flying through a sky swarming with enemy aircraft. They at least were tangible, real, and something he understood, but here he was faced with unknown dangers and factors outside his experience. The black, impenetrable forest wall was a curtain that concealed— what? He did not know, but furtive rustlings helped his imagination to visualize horrors that crawled and slithered through the ooze. Every shadow was a menace that might hold some denizen of the forest or the black oily river waiting and watching for its prey.

  Once he stopped while a monstrous crab with tall, stilt-like legs and waving antennae marched with a curious clicking noise across the beach into the water, and a few moments later, passing across the shadows of some tangled ropelike lianas, one of them came to life and glided, as silent as the shadows themselves, into the forest. For a second Biggles came near to panicking, but he set his teeth and hurried on, brushing away with his shirt-sleeve the beads of icy perspiration that gathered on his forehead.

  The hut came into view at last, and he hesitated, striking irritably at a great white moth that hovered over his head. Somehow the flimsy walls looked very different in the pale light of the moon from what they had done in the bright light of day, but he knew it was the memory of what they concealed that prompted his misgivings. 'Bah! Dead men don't bite,' he muttered harshly, and, wondering vaguely where he had heard or read the words, he strode swiftly towards the canoe. He was bending over it, clearing the debris from the bottom, when a sound reached his ears that sent the blood draining from his face and seemed to freeze his heart into a ball of ice. Something had moved inside the hut.

  He did not stir a finger, but turned his eyes towards it, staring. They confirmed what his eyes had told him; the roof of the hut was swaying—only slightly, but moving beyond all shadow of doubt. He ceased to breathe, listening. Silence. The scene, which was engraved on Biggles's memory for ever, was wrapped in a silence so complete and utter that it seemed to press on him. A wave of unreality swept over him; that it was not true, that he was dreaming, a horrid nightmare from which he would presently awake. He felt that he was a detached spectator, something apart, watching, as it were, a silent film. How long he remained thus he did not know, for time had ceased to be. It might have been a minute, five minutes, or even ten; he was never able to say; but he was just beginning to breathe again when the silence was broken by a low choking moan that ended in something like a drawn-out sob.

  For the first time in his life Biggles knew the meaning of the word fear—stark, paralysing fear. He tried to move, to run, to place himself as far as possible from the accursed place, but his limbs refused to function. His mouth had turned bone dry, so dry that his tongue clove to it. He could only stare. Then, with a crash that broke the spell, the loose reeds parted, and a dark form leapt to the ground. At the same instant Biggles sprang to his feet. Before him, not ten yards away, stood a black panther, its eyes gleaming and its tail swishing to and fro like that of an angry cat. For perhaps a second, man and beast faced each other, and then, before the man could move, the beast bounded lightly away into the forest and disappeared.

  In his relief Biggles laughed aloud, a sound so horrible that he broke off in the middle realizing with a shock that he was near hysteria. 'This won't do,' he snarled, furious with himself for so nearly breaking down, for the whole thing was plain enough now. The beast's presence in the hut was natural enough, and he had no doubt as to the ghastly object of its visit. 'I shall feel better when I turn my back on this place,' he muttered as he turned to the canoe.

  It was in rather worse condition than he had expected. As usual with canoes used in such places, it had been cut out of a solid tree and was about twenty feet long. It was rotten in many places, as he quickly discovered when he tried to move it, for a piece of the freeboard came away in his hand, leaving an ugly gap. It was heavy, and he was afraid of using all his strength to move it in case it collapsed altogether. He hunted around and soon found two bamboo poles. Using these as rollers, he slipped the canoe smoothly across the narrow strip of beach, and floated on the placid surface of the river.

  There was only one paddle, but fortunately it was of hard wood and still in fairly good condition, so, taking his seat in the stern, he drove the canoe towards the opposite bank. He found that the primitive craft had not been cut quite true and, at first, steering was rather awkward, but he soon became accustomed to its peculiarities and was able to keep a fairly straight and speedy course towards the backwater where the others awaited him. He experienced no difficulty in finding them, for they were evidently keeping a sharp look-out and his low whistle was immediately answered from the darkness.

  'Good work,' exclaimed Dickpa enthusiastically as the nose of the canoe grounded. 'You were gone rather a long time, though, and gave us a rare fright.'

  'Nothing to the fright I gave myself,' Biggles assured him, pleased with the success of his mission.

  'What happened?'

  'I'll tell you about it some other time,'
answered Biggles. 'If I talk about it now I shall have the heebie-jeebies. We've no time to lose, anyway. I've been thinking of our best plan as I paddled across, and this, I think, is it. If you can think of a better one, say so.'

  'Go ahead,' invited Dickpa.

  'Righto. Now, Silas & Co. are somewhere downstream—'

  'Are you sure of that?'

  'Pretty well sure. There were several nice landing-places below us—we passed them on the way up—but there are only one or two rather risky places above us. They came up the river looking for us, and spotted the machine right away, as they were almost certain to. They landed and found no one at home. Fine. What did they do? They simply took the Condor in tow and pushed off to a place which would suit them as a base while they were looking for us. Now we've two things in our favour. In the first place, they will probably think we shall be away two or three days at least, and secondly, they'll fancy themselves quite safe if they moor up on the opposite side of the river, because they will not imagine for a moment that we have any means of getting across. That's where they've boobed. They won't be expecting us, and may not even keep a watch. Right! Our first business is to locate them, and that's got to be done before morning, before they set out to locate us. Having found them, we split up, one party to make a feint attack from the shore while the others cut out the machine. Algy and I will have to go for the machine; that's automatic, because we're pilots, and if one of us gets hurt the other can carry on.

  'You, Dickpa, and Smyth, make up the shore party. When we've spotted the machine, we'll pull into the bank and let you land. Algy and I will cross over to the other side, creep along the bank, and try to slip across without being spotted. We'll synchronize our watches, and at a certain time, which we'll fix, Algy and I will board the Condor and cut her loose. If we can do that and drift away without being discovered, well and good, but if we're spotted you will open fire from a position commanding their camp, which you will have already taken up. Get that clear, because in a show of this sort, perfect timing and absolute adherence to plan is necessary. Zero hour will depend on what time we find them, provided, of course, we do find them. We can make twelve or fourteen miles before dawn, although they should not be all that far away. At the time we fix, Algy and I will board the Condor. If an alarm is given, you must kick up the biggest row you can. In the confusion we shall cut and run for it. Speed will be everything. If the engine starts easily, we might even get away before they grasp what is going on, and if you keep up a fairly rapid fire, that will keep them under cover. We may get a chance to damage their machine, but I shan't take any risks to do it; our job is to get our own. If we succeed in doing that, they won't see us for dust and small pebbles. Well, how does that sound to you?'

  'I don't think I can better it,' admitted Dickpa. 'Surprise is the most valuable asset in any attack, and we have that in our favour. Assuming that you get the Condor, what is the next move? What about Smyth and I?'

  'We shall taxi the Condor up the river, and assuming that all goes well, pick you up where we put you ashore. You may be pursued—or so may we, if it comes to that—but we shall have to leave that to chance. We shall keep a look-out for you on the bank; I don't think we can fix anything more definite than that. What do you think about it, Algy? Can you think of anything we've overlooked, or you, Smyth?'

  'What about weapons?' asked Algy.

  'What have we got? The 12-bore and the Express. Dickpa and Smyth will have to take those, of course. We shan't need any—or at least I don't think so. If the thing ends in a pitched battle at close range, the machine will be knocked about for a certainty, and we must avoid that at all costs. I expect we shall come in for a warm time if they spot us, and if they do we shall simply have to bolt for it. Anything else?'

  The final question was greeted with silence, so Biggles turned in the direction of the canoe. 'All aboard, then,' he said. Without further ado they took their places in the dead man's dugout. It carried them comfortably, for, although its crew had normally consisted of one member, it was designed to carry a fairly large cargo of rubber, which weighs heavily. So the canoe, while low in the water, accommodated them well. Biggles, with the Express across his knees, took the look-out post in front, whilst Dickpa, on account of his long experience in the handling of such craft, took the paddle. The others sat between them, Algy watching the left bank and Smyth the right. Like a shadow they slipped out of the backwater, and, keeping in the heavy shade near the bank, were soon gliding swiftly downstream.

  An hour passed slowly. No one spoke; the steady swish of the paddle was the only sound that marked their progress. Each bend, as they approached it, was taken slowly and cautiously, Biggles straining his eyes forward into the gloom for signs of their enemies. A quarter of an hour later he uttered a warning, 'Hist!' and raised his hand above his head. Dickpa twisted the paddle deep in the water and pulled the canoe up in its own length, edging in towards the shore.

  'Easy all,' breathed Biggles. 'There they are.'

  'About half a mile away, I should judge,' observed Dickpa quietly, with his eyes fixed on a fire on the opposite bank. It was only a small camp fire, but against the pitch black silhouette of the forest it showed up like a beacon.

  'What's the time by your watch, Dickpa?' asked Biggles.

  'Twelve thirty-four.'

  'Good. I'll set mine the same. How will one-thirty a.m. suit for zero hour? That should give you ample time to reach them. You may have time to spare, but that's better than underdoing it. I suppose you can find your way through the forest?'

  'I never move without my compass,' replied Dickpa shortly. 'One-thirty is the time, then.'

  'Righto! We all know what we have to do. Straight across to the other bank, Dickpa.'

  Five minutes later the canoe scraped her nose on the sandy bank of a bend, which afforded a good landing-place out of sight of the enemy camp.*

  * Many South American rivers have sand or mud beaches on alternate sides where the rivers bend, due to silt being brought down in time of floods.

  An almost inaudible 'Cheerio—good luck!' came from the bank, and then Dickpa and Smyth were swallowed up in the Stygian darkness of the forest belt. For some minutes Biggles and Algy were silent.

  'No hurry,' said Biggles at last. 'We must give them a good start. They're bound to be a lot longer getting there than we shall. It's better to hang about here than lower down, where we might be seen. My word, isn't it hot?'

  'I don't mind the heat so much; it's the mosquitoes that get me down,' groaned Algy. 'They're tearing me to pieces.'

  Again silence fell. Occasionally a noise reached them from farther down the river of firewood being cut, or the rattle of a tin can or plate. The waiting, as is always the case, was a weary and nerve-trying period, and Algy was thankful when Biggles at last announced that it was time they were moving.

  They backed the canoe high enough up the river to ensure that it could not be seen from the enemy camp as they crossed over to the opposite bank, and then began stealthily edging along in the deepest shadows. They were soon in line with the now smouldering embers of the camp fire, and they pointed the nose of the canoe towards it. They were half way over before the dim outlines of two aeroplanes became dimly visible, and Biggles rested on his paddle to study the position of the enemy camp. The fire had been built on a flat, sandy beach, and around it were four recumbent human forms. A fifth, who had evidently been left on guard, was sitting upright with a gun across his knees; as they watched, he added a handful of fuel to the fire, which caused it to burn up brightly and cast a ruddy glow over the scene, across which danced fantastic flickering shadows. Near the group was a pile of stores, and a little farther away a good-sized stack of familiar, square petrol-tins.

  About ten yards from the shore a twin-engined flying-boat was moored, the one they had seen in the air and which could now be identified as a Curtiss, the type Biggles had named. Near it, so close that their wing-tips almost touched, was the Condor. The sentry was obviously
not keeping a very good look-out, which did not surprise them, for the enemy had little reason to suppose that they had anything to fear from the stranded treasure-seekers. Nevertheless, the pilots realized that in the dead silence of the tropic night the slightest sound could not fail to be heard.

  Biggles glanced at his wristwatch. 'Ten minutes to go,' he breathed in Algy's ear, manœuvring the canoe so that the aeroplanes came between the sentry's line of vision and themselves. Very slowly, and with hardly a ripple, they crept nearer, until at last the canoe gently touched the side of the Condor. Algy, who had already removed his boots and hung them round his neck by the laces, crept aboard and lay behind the big metal propeller in readiness for action. Biggles looked again at his watch; the time was one twenty-nine, one minute to zero hour. With infinite patience he began edging the canoe towards the nose of the amphibian, and, reaching it, he quietly sawed through the rope by which it was moored. Then, still keeping on the off side from the sentry, he crept like a wraith into the cockpit. A fleeting glance showed the abandoned canoe, clear of the hull, drifting slowly down the stream.

  For perhaps a couple of minutes Biggles thought they were going to float away unobserved without a shot being fired, but in this he was doomed to disappointment. Just as they were almost clear of the Curtiss a stray slant of wind swung them round slightly, so that their wing-tip touched the elevators of the other machine. The noise made was negligible, merely a scraping jar that ended in a soft splash as the other machine righted itself, but it was sufficient to bring the sentry to his feet. For an instant he stared at the amphibian, now moving perceptibly as it felt the current, and then he let out a wild yell. He flung up his gun, and its report blended with two others that roared out from the pitch black forest wall. Simultaneously pandemonium broke loose. Biggles snapped, 'Swing her, Algy,' as he turned on the petrol, lost in a babble of sound from the bank, which, from a picture of peace, had become a howling bedlam. Above a shrill medley of sounds punctuated with the crashing reports of guns and the clanging of metal as some bullets struck the stack of petrol-tins, Biggles heard Algy's sharp, 'Contact!' He whirled the self-starter, and the engine came to life with a bellow of sound that added to the frightful uproar.