by W E Johns
The men on the bank, awakened from a deep sleep, and clearly at a loss to know exactly what was happening except that they were obviously being attacked from the land, now turned their attention to this new development. A volley of shots rang out, and one or two bullets ripped through the fabric of the Condor.
But Biggles was taxi-ing now, swinging round in a wide circle to face upstream. Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat—he caught himself flinching as a machine-gun started its erratic stutter, spraying the amphibian and the surrounding water with a shower of lead. He opened the throttle a little wider, racing as fast as he dared without actually leaving the water, to escape the leaden hail. With his eyes fixed intently ahead, he caught his breath as they fell upon a big, black object lying right across their path. A broken, jagged arm flung itself upwards, and he knew it was a great tree turning slowly over and over as it floated towards the sea. He knew that to strike such an obstacle at the rate they were travelling would tear the keel out of the amphibian as if it were so much tissue paper. Stop, he could not, neither was there time to turn to avoid it. Automatically, he took the only course open to him; he thrust the throttle wide open and, as the machine leapt forward, jerked the joystick back into his stomach. The threshing smother of foam dropped away below and astern as the Condor soared upwards like a bird into the starry tropic sky.
At a thousand feet Biggles flattened out and looked about him. Below lay the river, gleaming in the silvery radiance of the moon. On both sides, stretching away into the infinite distance, was the forest, black and forbidding. Below he could see the camp with the fire shining like a red star that had fallen upon the beach. He glanced around at the low door that communicated with the cabin, wondering why Algy did not join him, at the same time heading for their old landing-place higher up the river. He was anxious to put the machine down as quickly as possible, not because there was any particular danger in staying aloft, but because he wished to pick up Dickpa and Smyth, and in any case they could not afford to go on using petrol. Their only real danger lay in the landing, which, without flares, would have been difficult enough at night in a land place, but in the present circumstances called for much greater skill and judgement. Turning his head farther round, he made out the silhouette of Algy leaning out of the rear cockpit; he seemed to be trying to attract his attention, waving his arms and pointing.
Then he saw something else, something that at first brought a puzzled frown to his face, an expression that quickly turned to one of horror when he made out what it was. On top of the hull, just in front of the engine, was a large, black pile, like a thick coiled rope. The end seemed to be waving in the air, lashing to and fro in the rush of the wind. Then it began to uncoil and writhe towards him. Algy disappeared from the cockpit.
For a moment Biggles's war-acquired calm almost deserted him; his mind seemed to work sluggishly at this final overwhelming horror. That it was a snake he knew, and a big one at that—a huge water-snake that had, in the quiet of the night, crawled up onto the warm, dry hull. And now, disliking the noise and rush of wind, it was moving about, looking for a way to escape and prepared to attack the disturbers of its peace.
Biggles hardly knew what to do for the best. Instinctively he had started side-slipping down towards the river, his one paramount thought being to get on the ground at any cost before the horror caught him in its coils, and by dragging him from the joystick hurl them both to oblivion in the black void below. Whatever happened, he knew he could not let go of the joystick; if he had to fight it would be with one arm only, and with such a handicap the fight could only end one way. He started as Algy, his lips parted and a look of utter horror in his eyes, crept through the cabin door and stood up beside him; in his hand he held one of the heavy knives they had brought for cutting their way through the forest. He saw him raise the weapon and strike at something behind him. The machine lurched sickeningly, and he turned his attention to keeping it on an even keel above the river. He could see their old landing-place about two miles ahead, but immediately below them the river twisted and turned in a manner that made a landing out of the question. To collide with the wall of the forest at the speed they were travelling would be as fatal as anything the snake could do.
Suddenly he realized that Algy had disappeared, but, turning farther, he saw a sight that seemed to freeze the blood in his veins. Algy, with a thick coil wound about his body, was hanging on with one hand to a centre-section bracing strut; with the other he was hacking furiously at a broad black shadow that lashed about like a wind-stocking in a gale.
But they were near the water now. Hardly knowing what he was doing, Biggles throttled back and flattened out over the lagoon. Could Algy hold out until they were on the water was the thought that raced over and over again, like an endless chain through his head. Just as the keel swished lightly on the surface there was a sudden lurch and two or three loud splashes, as if things were dropping from the machine. Without waiting for the Condor to finish her run, he let go of the joystick, and, turning, sprang to his feet. Algy and the snake had disappeared. He dropped back into his seat with a jerk, and with stick and rudder hard over, flung the machine round into its own wake. 'Br-r-r-r-r! Brrr-r-r-r-r! Brrrr-r-r-r-r-r-r!' roared the engine spasmodically as he opened the throttle in short, quick jerks. 'Algy!' he yelled hysterically. 'Algy!'
'Here,' came a feeble voice not far away.
Biggles taxied swiftly to the spot and saw Algy's white face in the water. It was the work of a moment to reach over and drag him neck and crop into the cockpit, where he collapsed limply on to the seat.
'Are you alright, kid?' asked Biggles anxiously.
Algy passed his hand wearily over his face. 'Yes, I'm alright,' he said slowly. 'Strewth, what a night we're having! I thought it was all up that time.'
'So did I,' agreed Biggles. 'What happened to the snake?'
'The bits of it went overboard.'
'Bits of it?'
'Yes, I think it must have been a python, or a boa constrictor, because I've read they have to get a purchase round something with their tail when they start the squeezing business. That fellow had me pinned to the strut and then tried to get his tail round something.'
'Well?'
'First of all he tried the engine, but it was a bit too hot for him. I heard him sizzle, and he sprang back like a bit of elastic. Then he tried the prop, but that was worse; it went through him like a knife going through a sausage and he literally went to bits, in every sense of the word. A lump hit me across the back of the neck and knocked me overboard. But where are Dickpa and Smyth?'
'My word, yes, we shall have to go back for them. The show went off all right, but, as usual, the unforeseen happened. I didn't reckon on tree-trunks and snakes.'
'Tree-trunk, was it? I couldn't think what you were up to when we shot into the air. I thought you'd gone balmy.'
'I nearly did, and so would you. We seem to have had a merry evening, one way and another.'
'But what had we better do about the others?'
'There's only one thing we can do—taxi slowly down the bank looking for them. What's the matter?'
Algy, who was sniffing the air, looking around slowly. 'Can you smell petrol?' he asked anxiously.
Biggles started. 'I can,' he said briefly. 'There's a leak somewhere. Confound it! That's going to be awkward.'
A few minutes' search disclosed the trouble; a bullet had passed clean through the main tank. Frantically they began plugging the hole, but presently gave it up, realising it was too late to do any good; the precious liquid had gone beyond recovery, leaving the tank dry.
'That's just about torn it,' observed Biggles calmly. 'I've been flying on the special tank, so there can't be much left in it. There may be enough for half an hour's flying in the gravity tank* and there is a little in the tins in the cabin. It's better than nothing, but it isn't enough—not half enough—to get us back.'
* A back-up tank of petrol which feeds petrol into the engine without the use of
a petrol pump, using gravity instead.
Algy did not speak.
'Never mind, it can't be helped,' went on Biggles. 'Let's settle one thing at a time. Before we do anything else we must find Dickpa and Smyth. We'll settle what we're going to do afterwards.'
They turned the machine and taxied quickly, but carefully down the river, above which they had just had such a hideous experience. Presently Biggles throttled back and cruised more slowly, while Algy watched the bank closely.
'There they are!' he called suddenly.
The Condor swung round almost in its own length and nosed in towards the bank, where two figures were gesticulating frantically. They ceased when they saw the machine standing in towards them, and a minute later Dickpa and Smyth clambered over the side. Without waiting for explanations, Biggles turned again and taxied upstream as quickly as he dared to their original landing-place, taking care to moor on the opposite bank to the one where the Indians had made their unexpected attack.
'Well, here we are,' announced Biggles. 'Are you all right, Dickpa—and you, Smyth?'
'Right as rain,' came the reply. 'We had no trouble at all. You seem to have had all the fun.'
'Fun!' cried Biggles incredulously. 'Fun you call it! If you call aviating in the middle of the night across an unknown forest, with a mad snake for a passenger, fun, you've got a queer sense of humour.'
Briefly he related the story of their enforced flight and its nearly tragic ending. 'I don't know about you,' he concluded, 'but before I can do anything else I must have some sleep. I'm about all in. Smyth, you'd better see about repairing the hole in the tank at the crack of dawn.'
Smyth nodded.
'We'd better sleep on board as best we can,' observed Dickpa, 'and we shall have to take turns to keep watch. We can't afford to take any more chances with those gentry down the river.'
Chapter 10
The Raid
Biggles was awakened at the first streak of dawn by Smyth working on the damaged tank. He felt a different man after the rest, and assisted the mechanic in his work, which was finished to their satisfaction by the time the others were moving. It was not a very clean job, but as good as could be expected in the circumstances, and with the help of that well-known stand-by of long distance airmen, chewing-gum, which Biggles had brought for the purpose, the hole was plugged sufficiently well to hold petrol until such time as a more permanent repair could be effected. The spare petrol was brought from the cabin and poured into the tank and the empty tins sunk in the river.
'What's the next move?' asked Dickpa crisply, as they made a substantial breakfast of bacon and biscuits from their stores.
'To get out of the way as soon as we can,' replied Biggles. 'They'll come up the river looking for us as soon as it's light enough, and as they have a machine-gun they are likely to make things awkward. We can't hide on the river—they're bound to find us—which means that we've got to find somewhere else. The thing that worries me is this shortage of petrol.'
'I've never heard of anything so absurd as this in my life,' snorted Dickpa. 'Could you imagine anything more utterly impossible than two aeroplanes chasing each other up and down an unknown river in the heart of South America?'
'I can do more than imagine,' grunted Biggles, making for the cockpit. 'I can hear 'em—or at least one of 'em. Hark!'
Far away, the unmistakable sound of an aero engine could be heard, gradually drawing nearer. Biggles listened intently, with his head on one side, for a moment. 'That machine isn't in the air; it's running on about quarter throttle. They're taxi-ing up the river to make sure of finding us. What do you say, Smyth?'
'They're taxi-ing all right,' agreed the mechanic instantly, to whom the sound of an aero engine was familiar music.
'And that's where they're making a mistake,' returned Biggles at once. 'They won't hear us for the noise of their own engine. By Jove—'
'Well, what is it?' enquired Algy.
'I was wondering if it might not be a good moment to solve this petrol problem.'
'How?'
'They've got plenty on the beach. They will all be on the machine, or most of them will. By Jingo, it's worth trying!'
'But how—'
'I'll show you,' replied Biggles promptly, 'but we've no time to lose. Swing the prop, Smyth.'
The others took their places while the mechanic turned the propeller to suck petrol gas into the cylinders. 'Contact!' he called, and stepped down into the cabin.
The engine started easily, and Biggles throttled back until it was ticking over musically to allow it to warm up. Then he taxied out to the middle of the stream and, after a careful survey for floating trees or other obstructions, opened the throttle. The Condor raced across the water and then soared into the air.
For a full ten minutes Biggles followed a course still farther up the river than they had yet been, climbing steadily all the time. Then, judging that he had gone far enough and had acquired sufficient altitude to pass unobserved, he swung round in a wide curve and flew back in the direction of the enemy camp, keeping parallel with, but at some distance from, the river. Algy, who now perceived Biggles's plan, judged that they were a good ten miles from the river, so it would be almost impossible for the crew of the searching flying-boat to see them. For nearly half an hour Biggles flew thus, and then he turned once more towards the river. Reaching it, he again flew upstream, approaching the enemy camp from the opposite direction. They were now some miles below the Curtiss, but travelling in the same direction.
He followed the river for a few minutes and then, finding a stretch long enough for a comfortable landing, dropped down on the smooth surface of the water.
'What I've done,' he explained to the others, 'is to fly round roughly in a circle. I flew straight on at first until I was sure we were out of both sight and earshot, and then came right round in a circle to strike the river below the enemy camp. The position now is this. The Curtiss is just about at the place where we spent the night—perhaps they have already passed it. Knowing—or rather imagining—that we're still in front of them somewhere, as we went off in that direction last night, they'll keep going on, thinking that sooner or later they are bound to come up with us. That's where they're wrong, of course. We are now about five or six miles below the camp where we surprised them last night. I am hoping that the petrol is still on the bank, because there seems to be no object in their dragging it about with them.
'Now what I suggest is this,' he went on. 'There is just a chance that they have left no one in charge of the camp; if they have, it won't be more than one man, or two at the most. When we have taxied as near as we dare without risking being heard, three of us will go ashore and raid the camp. If anyone is there, we'll hold them up at gun point. Having done that, whoever is left in charge of the Condor will taxi up and get the petrol on board. Then we'll hop it.'
'Where to?' asked Algy in surprise.
'One thing at a time,' replied Biggles impatiently. 'Let's get the juice first. I shall feel a lot happier with the tanks full.'
Without further delay they started taxi-ing up the river, throttling back the engine as far as they could to make as little noise as possible. When they had approached as near as they dared, they edged up to the bank.
'I'm going with the shore party this time,' declared Algy.
Biggles was inclined to argue, but Dickpa cut him short. 'You're captain of the ship,' he declared, 'so it is only right that you should stay with it. If you hear three shots in quick succession at regular intervals, you'll know we've captured the camp; then all you have to do is to taxi up as fast as you can.'
Biggles nodded. 'Good enough,' he agreed. 'Go ahead.'
Dickpa, closely followed by Algy and Smyth, all suitably armed, stepped into the shallow water beside the bow and waded ashore.
'Keep close behind me and don't make more noise than you can help,' said Dickpa quietly. 'We're bound to make a bit of a row, because we shall have to cut our path in places. You do the cutting
, Smyth, while I carry the compass.'
The next hour was to live in Algy's mind for a long while; the heat was appalling and the insects dreadful. Bees crawled all over them, while stings and bites from the other pests that settled on them, or crawled up their legs from the ground, uncomfortably demonstrated that Dickpa's description of the discomforts of travelling in Brazil was, if anything, understated. To touch an overhanging branch, either by accident or design, was to dislodge an army of ants that attacked them viciously. They affected Dickpa least, because, as he pointed out, he was more or less accustomed to them— not that this made the stings less venomous. After what seemed an eternity they saw the river ahead through the trees and long trailing lianas. There was no beach at that particular point, however, so they continued through the forest, keeping parallel with the water.
A silent signal from Dickpa warned them that they were near their destination and there could be no more hacking at the undergrowth that blocked their path. Each liana had to be severed separately and quietly, and progress was consequently slow. They came upon the beach quite suddenly. Dickpa gently parted the green curtain in front of them and there it was, the stores and equipment lying about and the pile of petrol-tins just as they had last seen them. A man was sitting on a pile of blankets, smoking and staring upstream as if watching for the return of the flying-boat; he was about forty yards away. They scanned the beach from end to end for others of the party, but could see none, so with their guns at the ready they advanced over the soft sand towards the unsuspecting man.
He must have been dozing, for he did not move until they were right on him, and only then when Dickpa spoke. The words were in Portuguese, so the others did not understand what he said, except the word 'Philippe,' and Algy stared at Dickpa's old carrier, who had really been the whole cause of the trouble. The man now presented a pitiable spectacle. Dickpa had described him as a coward, and this his actions quickly proved him to be. He burst into tears and flung himself at his late master's feet, obviously begging him to spare his life.
