Biggles in the Blue

by W E Johns

  Algy touched Bertie on the arm and they retired to a safe distance. ‘Biggles’s hunch was right,’ he whispered, when they were out of sight and hearing. ‘There she is.’

  ‘Jolly good,’ answered Bertie. ‘I vote we skid along home and tell him. I don’t mind telling you that I’m bound rigid with this beastly mud. The stuff stinks. Positively stinks. Filthy. Disgusting.’

  Algy hesitated. ‘I doubt if Ginger will be back yet. How about trying to get close enough to the Vega to hear what they’re talking about? Even a word or two might give us a line on what they know, or what they intend to do.’

  ‘We could have a shot at it; old boy,’ Bertie agreed. ‘But go steady. This nauseating bog is no place for a fracas – if you see what I mean.’

  ‘I think it’s worth trying, while we’re actually on the spot,’ insisted Algy. ‘They obviously suspect nothing so there isn’t much risk.’

  ‘Lead on, laddie,’ invited Bertie.

  Algy proceeded, taking the only possible route. As a bird would fly, the distance across the creek was not more than fifty yards; but to get to the Vega on foot meant going up one side of the open water and down the other, a matter of nearly half a mile. Over ordinary ground a half mile is no great distance, but in a mangrove swamp it can be a long and tiring stretch, as Algy discovered, and admitted, before the finish. There was one redeeming feature. At the inner extremity of the creek the mud gave way slowly to firmer ground, and this promised a quicker passage home than the way they had come. There was, in fact, a vestige of a path leading in the general direction of Man-o’-War Bay.

  As a matter of detail this track might well have brought about their downfall, for hardly had they got into a satisfactory position near the Vega when down it a man came striding. He was black, or nearly black. Stripped to the waist, carrying a dirty shirt, he had a blood stained rag wrapped round the upper part of his left arm. It was evident that he had met with an accident, although at that juncture neither Algy nor Bertie would have guessed the cause.

  They crouched in the mud under a tangle of roots as he went past within a dozen yards. By the nature of the ground he had to pick his way carefully so he did not so much as glance in their direction. Reaching the water he called out, whereupon the negro in the stern of the Vega, dropped into the dinghy, cast off, and paddled the yard or two necessary to pick him up.

  ‘I’d say that’s Morgan,’ breathed Algy in Bertie’s ear, under cover of the noise made by the boat. They had, of course, learned about the man from Biggles and Ginger.

  With the interest the occasion warranted they watched the negro helped aboard, to be greeted by a volley of questions about his arm, from which he now removed the rag. In a high-pitched, sing-song voice he narrated in a passion his own version of what had happened, the conversation being carried on in English, which was, presumably, the only common language among them.

  His story bore little resemblance to the facts, although the watchers on the shore were not to know this. He described how, returning from his investigation of the bird sanctuary, he had been attacked without provocation by a white man who had drawn a pistol and shot him in the arm.

  ‘Ginger,’ breathed Algy in Bertie’s ear.

  ‘What do you do to this man?’ asked one of those on board, in broken English.

  Morgan leered in a way that sent a chill down Algy’s spine. For all he knew the man might be telling the truth. ‘Don’t ask me dat,’ replied Morgan, with a significance that implied the answer.

  One of the white men, in a casual sort of way, was now dressing the wound. Morgan continued to complain of the way his assailant had tried to murder him. However, he had fixed him.

  Von Stalhein stood watching and listening to this without speaking. Indeed, he appeared not to take much notice. He fitted a cigarette into its holder and smoked patiently until the dressing of the wound was complete, when the negro had finished his recital. Then he asked: ‘Did you find the birds?’

  ‘Sure I find dem,’ declared Morgan.

  ‘And you checked the photographs?’

  ‘Dats what I am sent for, ain’t it?’ returned Morgan insolently.

  ‘Where are the photographs?’

  Morgan produced an envelope which, judging from the conversation, held the flamingo snapshots taken by Hagen. The negro selected one, and tapping it with a black finger, handed it to von Stalhein. ‘Dat’s der place,’ he asserted. There was no doubt about it, he averred. He had stood on the spot from which the picture must have been taken.

  ‘Excellent,’ acknowledged von Stalhein. He turned to his companions. That’s all we wanted to find out. Now we can proceed.’

  ‘It’s too late to do anything today,’ said the man whom Algy thought was Zorotov. ‘The barometer is falling in a way I do not like, so I think we must stay here to see what happens. I do not like little ships in a rough sea. I admit it. Let us go below and talk of this, away from these cursed mosquitoes.’

  All except the two coloured men disappeared down the companion-way.

  ‘This is our cue to pull out,’ Algy told Bertie. ‘We’re not likely to learn any more here and the sooner Biggles knows what we know the better. I don’t like the sound of Morgan’s story. It could only have been Ginger he met. If there was a scrap Ginger might have been hurt – if nothing worse.’

  ‘That fellow Morgan’s a liar, if ever I saw one,’ stated Bertie with unusual emphasis.

  ‘So he may be, but he’s a dangerous one,’ replied Algy. ‘By gosh! That chap told the truth about the mosquitoes. They’re getting bad. Let’s get out of this. I don’t like the look of the weather either. You heard what was said about the barometer falling. Let’s get mobile.’

  With the caution the circumstances demanded, they made their way to the hard ground and then set off at the fastest pace possible for the rendezvous.

  ‘Ginger must have shot that blighter,’ said Bertie they strode along.

  ‘It looks that way,’ admitted Algy. ‘Who else could it be? And who else would be carrying a gun? It couldn’t have been Biggles. He wouldn’t leave the lagoon.’

  ‘Pity Ginger didn’t make a better job of it,’ muttered Bertie. ‘Nasty piece of work, that fellow Morgan. Better out of the way.’

  ‘We can be sure of this,’ went on Algy. ‘Ginger went to the flamingo ground. So did Morgan. They must have bumped into each other. There was a fight, and Ginger had to pull his gun — he wouldn’t have used it otherwise. Morgan stopped one with his arm. What happened to Ginger is anyone’s guess. I hope he’s all right.’

  ‘We shall soon know, old boy,’ said Bertie. ‘If he’s all right he’ll be back by the time we get home.’

  Crossing some open ground they were met by a stiffish breeze, and Algy threw an appraizing glance at an ugly cloud that was racing low across the sky.

  ‘The barometer was right, by the look of it,’ he remarked soberly. ‘That storm’s going to hit us.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Biggles will be in a flap about it, and about us being late. If it really starts to blow, he won’t dare to keep the machine where it is.’

  ‘In which case we shall be on a spot. Von Stalhein must know from Morgan’s story that we’re around.’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  They strode on into the diffused glare of a sun that was now nearly on the horizon.

  They found Biggles pacing the beach. ‘What the deuce have you been up to all this time?’ he greeted them trenchantly.

  Algy answered with another question ‘Is Ginger back?’

  ‘No.’

  Algy frowned: ‘That’s bad.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He ran into that crook Morgan.’

  Biggles stopped dead. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘We’ve seen Morgan. Somebody – I reckon it could only have been Ginger – plugged him through the arm.’ He went on to narrate what he and Bertie had learned from their reconnaissance.

  Biggles heard him out, his face expressing his solicitude. ‘Th
at sounds grim to me,’ was his verdict in a hard voice. ‘The number of times I’ve said it’s a mistake to break up the party, yet here I go on doing it. But there, it seemed the best way. Now the weather packs up on us. That’s just dandy. You realize that if this wind gets any stronger I daren’t stay here – not that getting off would be fun, if seas started rolling into the bay, as they’re likely to do. If Ginger was here I’d get out now. What the dickens can he be doing?’

  ‘He might be hurt,’ Algy pointed out.

  ‘I haven’t overlooked that possibility,’ answered Biggles. ‘What are we going to do? It won’t help anybody if the machine is wrecked. If we get stranded here it might be months before we were picked up. That would be a nice prospect if we have Ginger, seriously hurt on our hands.’

  Nobody answered. What Biggles had said was so obviously true that further comment seemed unnecessary.

  Ten minutes passed. Biggles paced up and down, stopping sometimes to look at a line of white surf that was creeping ever farther into the bay.

  ‘You can bet it’s something outside his control that’s keeping him, or he’d be here,’ said Algy gloomily.

  ‘It’s no use kidding ourselves any longer,’ returned Biggles. ‘He must have got hurt in this affair with Morgan.’

  ‘That’s what Morgan said but I didn’t believe it,’ muttered Algy. ‘After all, Ginger had a gun, and he used it,’ he argued, not very convincingly.

  Another ten minutes passed. There was still no sign of Ginger. The wind had nearly reached gale force, and with an overcast sky the light was beginning to fail. White breakers were rolling into the bay, causing the Otter to jerk uneasily at her anchor as the swell reached the shallow water where she was moored.

  ‘Okay,’ decided Biggles suddenly. ‘I can’t wait any longer. We daren’t risk losing the machine. I shall stay here. Bertie can stay with me. Algy, you’ll have to take the machine back to Jamaica. Come for us when the weather fairs up. If it stays bad you can fly over and have a look at us if you like, but don’t try to get down on the water unless you’re sure it’s safe. I’ll give you the okay if I’m about. Watch for signals. Keep clear of the mangroves. We’ll throw some grub ashore and the sooner you’re off the better.’

  Some tins of meat, biscuit and jam were carried ashore from the reserve supply of food and Algy took his place in the-cockpit. Not without concern the others watched him taxi into position and race in a smother of foam towards the open sea.

  ‘The first wave will kick her into the air. Then she’ll either stay there or dive straight in,’ said Biggles in flat voice.

  The machine began to bounce a little as it raced into the area made turbulent by the ocean breakers; then, as Biggles had predicted, the surging foam of a broken roller tossed it into the air. For a moment it seemed to hang on the point of stalling; then it picked up and climbed steadily.

  Biggles took a deep breath. ‘Good,’ he said, as the Otter faded into the murk. ‘He’s made it. By –thunder, though, he was only just in time,’ he added, as a squall of rain tore across the bay and hid everything from view.

  They picked up the rations and carried them up the beach to the only shelter available. It was meagre enough, simply a shallow recess among some stranded coral boulders. Still, it was better than nothing, and as Biggles pointed out, they dared not go any further afield in a search for something better in case Ginger returned.

  ‘We shan’t see him tonight, now, old boy,’ asserted Bertie positively. ‘You don’t know what the going is like. It’s frightful; an absolute shocker; all thorns, holes, rocks, and what have you. It’s bad enough in daylight, but after dark I’d say it’s no bally use at all.’

  ‘We shall have to go and look for him,’ said Biggles. ‘We’ll give him a few minutes more before we start.’

  Squatting under the coral they watched the weather develop into a screaming gale accompanied by lashing rain that reduced visibility to zero.

  ‘I’m afraid you’re right,’ Biggles told Bertie in resigned voice. ‘He couldn’t travel in this. Nor could we. If we tried, we might pass within a dozen yards of each other without knowing it. It’s no use. We shall have to wait.’

  * * *

  1 The mangrove usually lives in a tidal mud subject to inundations. In the ordinary way, therefore, its seed would be washed away to destruction. To prevent this the seed puts out a shoot like a dart. This, falling, sticks in the mud, and so holds the seed fixed until it has had time to put down roots which become a permanent anchor.

  CHAPTER 10

  STALEMATE

  Biggles and Bertie spent a miserable night. They got little sleep. Added to the discomfort of the storm was the anxiety on Ginger’s account, and they spent most of the night talking about the one thing or the another. However, towards morning the storm abated, and the dawn broke clear and bright. The open sea still tossed and foamed but inside the bay the breakers died and ended on the beach as angry wavelets. While the stars were still paling in the sky, Biggles and Bertie were on the move, wringing out their saturated clothes, glad that the period of inaction was past and looking forward to the sun to restore life to their chilled limbs.

  After a quick bite of food, taken standing, they set off to find Ginger. They could not of course be sure that they were following precisely in his footsteps; all they could do was to take a compass bearing on the lagoon as they knew he had, satisfied that this would keep them on the general line, certainly within hailing distance.

  Stopping occasionally to look around, particularly in the direction of the mangroves – for they realized there was danger of collision with their enemies – they came upon the deserted village. Thinking that Ginger might have taken refuge from the weather in one of the houses, they hailed, and when this produced no reply they pushed on again, taking a route somewhat nearer to the shore than Ginger had, although they were not to know this. As a result they found something he had missed. Not that there was anything particularly remarkable about it. It was merely another cottage, in better repair than most, the reason being that it was occupied. Or it may have been because the house was in a habitable condition that it was occupied. At least, so it could be presumed, for standing near the door, an axe in her hand as if she had been chopping wood, was a massively-built negress of past middle-life. Tethered to a post nearby was a donkey.

  Biggles was a little surprised, for he had supposed from what he had seen from the air that this end of the island was uninhabited. The only place where he had seen the smoke of cooking fires was at Mathew Town, where, as he knew, there was a coloured settlement; but that was on the extreme south-west tip of the island, forty miles or more away.

  Apart from surprise, his only other emotion was satisfaction, for it seemed possible, indeed probable, that the woman would be able to give him information about Ginger, who, if he had not actually spoken to the woman, must have passed close by the place. With the object of asking the question he advanced towards the dwelling, but the moment the negress saw him coming she abandoned what she was doing and retired quickly indoors. The way she did this made it evident that she had no desire for conversation. To settle any doubt the door was slammed.

  Biggles called. He tried cajolery, but it was no use. The woman did not answer and obviously had no intention of answering. That she was watching them, they knew, for every now and then a black face could be seen peeping round an ancient muslin curtain.

  Biggles looked at Bertie and smiled bleakly. ‘Apparently she doesn’t like the look of us,’ he said sadly. ‘Maybe, she’s shy. I imagine she rarely has visitors. No matter. Let’s push on.’

  ‘It looks to me mighty like a guilty conscience about something, old boy,’ opined Bertie shrewdly.

  They continued on their way, encountering the same difficulties and uncomfortable conditions as had Ginger on the previous day. They observed that these alone would have made it impossible for him to be back on time.

  ‘He must have had a brutal walk in this stuff,’ declare
d Biggles, looking for a way through a barricade of thorns. ‘He’d never get through places like this in the dark. He must have known it so he probably didn’t try.’

  Neither of them had forgotten the possibility of Ginger having been killed or wounded by Morgan, for that there had been an encounter was certain. They did not refer to it but as they walked along they examined the ground as well as the landscape. From time to Biggles cupped his hands round his mouth and hailed. No answer came. In the empty distances the sound seemed flat and ineffectual.

  When they reached the open area beyond the bushes where Ginger had met Morgan, to their great relief they saw him coming towards them. Ginger waved recognition, and in a few minutes they were together.

  ‘Sorry I sent you on such a dirty jaunt as this, but I didn’t realize the going was so abominable,’ greeted Biggles. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Right as rain. Why?’

  ‘You met Morgan, didn’t you?’

  ‘Too true I did. He came for me with a razor, but unfortunately for him I had my gun handy. I had to use it.’

  ‘Quite right.’

  ‘How did you know about Morgan?’

  ‘The Vega is in the mangroves. Algy and Bertie were watching it and saw Morgan come back wounded.’

  ‘I guessed the Vega was around,’ said Ginger.

  Biggles related briefly what had happened at Man-o’-War Bay. ‘I’m sorry Algy had to go, but I daren’t risk the machine being wrecked,’ he concluded. ‘What happened to you after the Morgan business? Where did you pass the night?’

  ‘That mark we were so puzzled about near the end of the lagoon is a hut,’ revealed Ginger. ‘I started for home, but when the weather got really dirty, I realized I would never make it so I went back to the hut and spent the night there.’