by W E Johns
‘We’ll check on that,’ replied Biggies, making a slow turn in order to follow the shore.
An hour was spent circumnavigating the island, but not a vessel of any sort, large or small, was sighted.
‘The only place where a craft could be hidden is in those mangroves,’ observed Biggles thoughtfully, indicating the sombre mass formed by a long group of the water loving trees. They occurred at one point only.
‘The only way to see inside that timber would be down from ground level,’ he added.
‘So what’s the drill now?’ inquired Ginger.
‘There’s nothing more we can do from up here, so we have to go down,’ replied Biggles. ‘I’m not infatuated with the prospect but it’s the only way. Let’s try to find a place not too far from the lagoon, yet within walking distance of the mangroves.’
In this quest they succeeded reasonably well, for roughly midway between the mangroves and the small lagoon there appeared a sheltered bay which judging from its dark colour, held a good depth of water with no shoals or reefs. Nor was there any surf such as pounded the more exposed parts of the island.
‘That’s Man-o’-War Bay,’ said Ginger, looking at the map.
As a matter of detail the proposed anchorage was about four miles from both the lagoon and the mangroves, which lay in opposite directions. It might have been possible to land nearer to the mangroves, but the objections, supposing the Vega to be there, were obvious. It would not have been possible to land much nearer the lagoon, although it was less than half a mile from the sea, because that part of the coast beyond which it lay was protected by reefs. To land inside them would have been a hazardous undertaking, while on the seaward side, the water, while not rough, was by no means calm.
Biggles made a cautious approach to the little bay, and after a close examination of the surface put the Otter down without difficulty. It finished its run well inside and lay rocking on a gentle swell. There was no wind to speak of, with the result that the full force of the sun was appreciated for the first-time.
Biggles called everyone together. ‘Now then, this is the plan,’ he informed them. ‘It now looks very much as if Inagua is, after all, Hagen’s island. We can’t do any more from up topside, so we shall have to use our feet. We have two objectives to reconnoiter. One is the belt of mangroves. The Vega, if she is here, will be there, for I can see nowhere else where she could find cover. If it turns out that she isn’t here, so much the better. I don’t want the yacht. Nor do I want to see von Stalhein. Our primary object, short of finding Hagen’s cache, is to prevent him from getting at it. In other words, if we can find what we came here to collect I shan’t interfere with him. All right. Now for the second objective. The outline on Hagen’s sketch conforms to the shape of one of the lagoons. We are bound to suppose that the cache is near it. At the end of what we now believe to be Hagen’s lagoon he made a mark. Just what it represents we don’t know. We’re going to find out. Now then; I see no reason why everyone should go to both objectives, which would waste time unnecessarily. Someone will have e to stay with the machine, of course. We should look silly if we came back and found her cast on the beach by a squall or burnt out by von Stalhein if he happened to see us arrive. I shall stay here to see that neither of those things happen. It boils down to this. There will be two parties, one going to the lagoon, the other to the mangroves. Two of you had better go to the mangroves in case von Stalhein is there and starts throwing his weight about. The other one can go to the lagoon. Neither job should take very long; just how long will depend of course upon the state of the going. Judging from what we’ve seen from the air it doesn’t look too bad, so three hours ought to see both parties back. Any questions?’
‘I’d like to see the flamingos at close range,’ said Ginger.
‘As two will be going to the mangroves, that will mean going alone.’
‘That’s okay with me. There’s nothing to it as far as can see.’
‘All right,’ assented Biggles. ‘Ginger will go to the lagoon, Algy and Bertie will go to the mangroves. You’ll find it pretty warm so I’d advise you to take some water, as well as a biscuit or two, in case of accidents. With the ground so flat I suspect the lagoons will be brackish, if not actually salt. Whatever happens this will be the rendezvous for everyone. If anyone is away for more than five hours I shall assume that something has gone wrong and take whatever steps seem indicated.
‘Anything else?’
No one answered.
‘All right,’ concluded Biggles. ‘That settles that. Get off as soon as you can. I’ll take the machine to the beach to give you a dry start. Take your guns. I don’t you’re likely to need them but, you never know. I’ll take care of things here.
CHAPTER 7
GINGER GOES ALONE
Ginger, accoutred, for his walk, turned his back to the sea and set off for that point of the lagoon where the mysterious ‘bump’ occurred, which was, as near as makes no difference, due east from Man-o’-War Bay. He hoped that it was not merely by chance that this was no great distance from where the flamingos nested. He had not the remotest idea of what the bump was, and he did not waste time guessing. He would soon know, he assured himself, with an optimism which, in the light of events, was not justified.
There had been some debate as to whether he should take a direct route to the lagoon, or to follow the coast until he was opposite the nearest point and. Then turn inland. The latter method of approach would be a good deal farther, although possibly the walking would be easier. Remembering that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line, he took the direct overland route.
It was not long, however, before a suspicion began to dawn on him that his decision was an error in judgment; that the other way would have been less strenuous, if longer. At any rate, it became evident that the undertaking was not going to be the easy jaunt which he – and Biggles, too, for that matter – had supposed. For this no one was really to blame, for the terrain, seen from the air, appeared quite flat and presented no obstacles. Flat it certainly was, but the obstacles were numerous and outside his experience.
One thing was certain. The time schedule would go by the board. In his own mind he had reckoned that three hours was more than ample for the two-way journey, but he soon perceived that if he made the trip in double that time he would be doing well. This, however; not worry him unduly, for, as things were, an hour or two one way or the other seemed of no great importance. He had with him both food and water. He was glad he had the water, and was presently to be even more glad, for the intensity of the heat, without the slight breeze, was more exhausting than he had foreseen.
Almost at once he had witnessed a spectacle that did not cheer him. It would have been depressing anywhere. He came upon an ill-defined track that promised to take him through a tangle of thorn bushes, so he followed it.
It petered out in a little depression in which huddled the ruins of a deserted village. He had not realized that there was, or had been, a settlement at Man-o’-War Bay. But there it stood, a line of primitive coral and thatch cottages, pathetic in their lonely isolation. The place seemed to smell of poverty and death.
A few of the houses had clung to their roofs, but most had crumbled to decay. Shafts of sunlight made strange patterns in darkened rooms from which broken windows stared like blind eyes. Doors and shutters hung with an ever-weakening grip to rusty hinges. There was even a little church, with the remains of a crude pulpit. Nearby mounds of earth with mouldering crosses, overgrown with weeds, told the age-old story of life and death. When or why the place had been abandoned Ginger did not know; but as he passed on, his footsteps echoing emptily between the houses, he was aware of that poignant feeling of sadness that such picture must inevitably produce.
Prompted by curiosity to know more about this lost and forgotten outpost, he walked to the door of the end house, but backed away from the curtain of cobwebs that would have made entrance an uncomfortable adventure. Always the spiders win
in the end, he pondered morosely, as he turned his back on the ruin and walked on. They were the final tenants of every house.
The sun struck down with bars of white heat and there was little or no shade. He had expected it to be hot, but not as hot as this, and as he trudged on he used his handkerchief repeatedly to mop the perspiration that poured down his face.
Passing on to what he had supposed to be a grassy plain, he was almost dismayed by what be saw. Here was no luxuriant vegetation, but sheer desolation. For a mile or more it stretched, shimmering in the heat, just tufts of coarse grey grass growing between the caked mud of what had obviously been puddles of stagnant water. There were one or two straggling, miserable looking trees, but they were as colourless as the rest. The sparse leaves glinted like metal as they hung listlessly from the branches. In some strange way everything seemed to sparkle, and the dry water-holes told him why. The bottoms were not mud, but salt. Salt was encrusted on everything, the result, he could only suppose, of spray borne on the winds during the periodic gales. He began to feel that this was a desert island in the literal sense of the word. In the distance there were a few scattered coconut palms, but they were poor and tattered things with obviously no love for their surroundings. On the far side of the plain the only growth that appeared to thrive were tall thorn bushes of one sort or another, or monstrous cacti, the brilliant flowers of which were the only bright spots in an otherwise colourless world. Often it was necessary to make long detours to avoid compact colonies of them.
Yet, curiously enough, there was plenty of wildlife in this harsh land. Pelicans, herons and grebes stood about in the slime of drying water-holes.
There were several species of lizards and innumerable land crabs, large yellow creatures with eyes set on, stalks and mouths that opened sideways to give their faces a demonic expression. There was great activity among them, many casting aside the soil and debris with which they had blocked the entrances to their holes. In the excavation of these they had thrown up heaps of dirt like molehills. Very soon he was to remember this activity and understand the reason for it. A few raised their claws menacingly when he passed close to them. The ground was strewn with millions of shells of those that had died. What they were doing so far from the sea was beyond his comprehension. Admittedly, he knew little about the habits of crabs. Anyway, it seemed all wrong. But then, he mused, the whole place was crazy.
He plodded on through heat that was fast becoming unbearable. He did his best to avoid the thorns which every plant had put out in its defence, but he was not always successful, and more than once had to stop remove one from his person. Nor could he always find a way around areas of bog where his shoes picked slabs of white, glutinous mud. In such places mosquitoes rose in swarms with a hum like a distant aero-engine. They got into his eyes, his ears and his nose, and nearly drove him to distraction. He tried tying his handkerchief over his face, but it did little good.
With one tribulation and another he was far from happy as he struggled on, sometimes checking his course with his compass. The deep shade of an ancient banyan tree, covering at least an acre of ground, gave him a brief respite. He dared not stay long, for he was aware that already he was far behind schedule; so he drank a little water and went forward.
The going became worse. There were more, and thicker, thorn bushes. The alternative was to take to the mud holes, where he slipped about and sometimes stumbled over half-buried sticks. Once he found himself on an area of loose grey limestone which flung back in his face the blistering heat of the sun. On the far side of it, he found himself confronted by a low cliff so full of holes that it had the appearance of a petrified sponge. All along the base lay the shells of countless sea creatures, bleached by the sun. The holes, he realized could only have been caused by the action of water, so it seemed that this part of the island must at some time in the past have been submerged. The sea would not have to rise very far to submerge it again, he brooded. The sooner the better. He did not attempt to climb the cliff. The rock was as hard as flint, and a fall would have meant serious laceration, if not broken bones. He turned back to the thorns.
They were soon worse than ever, a maze of prickly branches that he feared would bar any further progress until he found what appeared to be a vague, narrow track, winding through them. He had noticed similar tracks before, and wondered what had made them; but as they had never led in the right direction they were of no use to him. However, on this occasion the path was more or less right, so he took it thankfully. Apart from the discomfort, he was getting worried about the state of his shoes. Much more of this, he thought, and they would fall to pieces, with a result not pleasant to contemplate.
He munched a biscuit as he walked, not daring to waste time by stopping. He reckoned he had been out for three hours, in which time he had covered perhaps three miles, so he still had some distance to go.
Soon after this he learned what had made the tracks. Rounding a bush he came face to face with a scrawny old sow, obviously gone wild, with a litter of piglets. The young ones dashed about squealing with fright but finished up behind their mother for protection. She dropped her head and showed her teeth, which caused Ginger, who thought she was going to charge, to whip out his automatic. For a moment or two the affair hung in the balance; then the sow, grunting defiance moved away into the bushes taking her brood with her – much to Ginger’s relief. With a deep breath he mopped his brow and went on. He did not return the pistol to his pocket. He was still not sure of the sow, and thought there was still a chance that the father of the family might be about to resent his intrusion with more belligerent tactics.
Actually, this did not happen, but the incident, trivial in itself, was to have a sequel of vital importance.
He went on, and emerging from a belt of thorns found before him an area of barren rock, the shallow depressions of which were filled with a silt which, on examination as it crunched under his feet, proved to be composed entirely of the skeletons of tiny fish. Clearly, these holes had once been filled with water. This had been evaporated by the sun, leaving the fish to die.
Across this dismal expanse he made the best time possible, hoping at any moment to see the lagoon ahead. This might have been possible had it not been for the intervention of another belt of thorn and palmetto shrubs, through which, fortunately, a pig-track meandered, offering an easy passage.
He was almost through when, rounding a sharp bend, he came face to face with a man going in the opposite direction. Although he was no longer in his town finery there was no mistaking: him. It was the Negro, Napoleon Morgan. They saw each other simultaneously, as they were bound to, and both stopped abruptly, eyeing each other. The shock of surprise must have been the same for both, for some seconds passed in utter silence during which neither of them moved a muscle.
If Ginger remained rooted to the ground, to use the common expression, it is not to say that his brain was spellbound. He was still carrying his automatic, but at first sight of the negro he had instinctively slipped it behind him rather than have it look as though he were inviting a fight. And there he stood, rigid, waiting for the other to show his reactions to the encounter. He had nothing definite against the man although of course he suspected him of complicity in the snake affair; but how far he was directly associated with von Stalhein he not know.
Actually, the questions that flashed into Ginger’s mind were, how much did the negro know? Did he know who he, Ginger, was, and his purpose there? True, he must have seen him with Biggles in the car near Rumkeg Haven, but that might not mean anything. Morgan, a professed Communist, might have made the same cynical salute to any two white men in a car.
All these doubts were soon to be dispelled. The first shock of surprise had caused the negro’s eyes to open wide; but as it passed, the lids half dropped in a expression of calculated hostility which prepared Ginger for what was coming. From that moment he knew that violence was intended. Nor could it be avoided, for the man was in his path, so that to pass out of reach
was not possible.
Then the negro smiled, and the smile was even more significant than the glare. Without haste the man took a razor from his pocket and began to strop the blade meditatively on the palm of his left hand.
‘What do you think you’re going to do with that?’ inquired Ginger coldly – and unnecessarily, as he well knew. The question was really an attempt to ease the tension.
Morgan did not answer. He merely showed his teeth as his smile broadened.
Ginger was not deceived by this nor by feline deliberation of Morgan’s movements. He could see muscles becoming taut where the black skin was exposed by an open-necked shirt, and was well aware that action, when it came, would be swift. He made one attempt to avoid conflict, even though he knew it to be futile. Looking the man in the face he said quietly, ‘Put that thing away.’
The smile faded.
‘I said put it away,’ repeated Ginger sternly.
At that the negro sprang, arm swinging; and although Ginger was ready, had he not been on his toes, such was the speed of the movement that he must have be caught. His pistol hand jerked forward, the gun spitting as he leapt sideways.
Morgan sprawled past him, stumbled, and crashed headlong. Ginger was round in a flash, gun ready, to see the negro on his knees, both hands resting on the ground. The open razor lay a yard away. A black hand crept towards it.
‘Another inch and I’ll plug you properly,’ grated Ginger, pugnaciously; and he would have done so, for he was boiling with rage at the unprovoked attempt to murder him. Where he had hit the man he did not know, but blood on the black hand suggested the arm or shoulder. Anyway, he suspected that the man was not seriously hurt.
He kept his distance. ‘Leave that razor where it is and get going before I drill a hole in a better place, you murdering swine,’ he rasped. He no longer had any doubt as to what his fate would be should the negro get him in his power.
