by W E Johns
He went on now with renewed interest, for it seemed probable that he had found a way to the top of the rock; and if this was so it would serve a very useful purpose in that they would be able to command a much wider view of the ocean than had been possible from the mouth of the cave. So he pressed on, anxious to ascertain if this was really so.
The floor now began to rise steeply, strengthening his conviction that the fissure went to the top of the rock. It was tiring work, for not only was he travelling uphill, but he was often compelled to put the torch in his pocket to leave both hands free while he climbed a scree of loose shale, or an awkward-shaped boulder. However, he encountered no serious obstacle until he was brought to an abrupt halt by a face of overhanging rock some twelve feet high which completely blocked his path. Examining it closely, he suspected that he must be near the top, for a steady trickle of water flowed over the edge of the rock, which was worn to the smoothness of polished marble. It was covered with green slime, and to make matters more difficult, did not present a single foothold.
Disappointed at the thought of being thwarted just when success seemed assured, he sat down to get his breath and at the same time think out a way of overcoming the obstruction. He soon found one. There were plenty of pieces of loose rock lying about; these he proceeded to collect and pile one upon the other, forming a cairn, from the top of which he was able to reach the top of the obstruction. The rest was comparatively easy. Or so he thought.
How far he was wrong he discovered when, dragging himself up on the rock, his dangling legs struck the top of the hastily constructed cairn and sent it avalanching down the cave with a crash that brought his heart into his mouth, for until he realized what it was he had a horrible thought that the cave was collapsing on him. He perceived at once that this was going to make it very difficult for him to get down again. And it was only the first disaster, for as he was squirming over the edge of the rock, the torch, which he had put in his pocket, fell out, and went crashing down the way of the cairn.
Reviling himself for his carelessness, he dragged himself up and sat panting in utter darkness on the edge of the rock, thoroughly alarmed, wondering whether to go on or to try to get back, realizing that the descent of the rock on which he was perched was not going to be easy. Even if he got down without hurting himself, and then found that the torch was broken—as seemed highly probable—his return was going to be a slow and tedious business. He remembered with relief that he had a box of matches in his pocket, but feeling in it with nervous haste, he discovered to his intense disappointment that there were only three matches in it.
He knew that, as he had already been away from the depot much longer than he originally intended, he ought to start back and leave further exploration for a future occasion, when he could begin more suitably equipped. And he had, in fact, made up his mind to return forthwith when, happening to stare into the darkness ahead, he saw a grey streak not very far away, a patch of reflected daylight which could only mean that he was near the end of his journey.
In the circumstances it was only natural that he should begin walking towards it, feeling his way in order to conserve his precious matches. But he had only taken a few paces when he stepped into a void. Feeling himself falling, he made a terrific effort to preserve his balance; but it was too late, and the next instant, with an abruptly terminated cry of horror, he was splashing frantically in ice-cold water.
To fall into a pool of cold water at any time is bad enough, but to do so in utter darkness, in such a place as Ginger now found himself in, was terrifying. Unable to touch bottom he had to swim, and instinctively struck out for the rock from which he had fallen, only to discover to his dismay that it was as smooth as a tombstone and the top was beyond his reach.
Had it not been for the one patch of grey light his plight would have been desperate indeed, and it was probably as much in order to escape the suffocating darkness as any other reason that he struck out towards it. To his unspeakable relief, after swimming a few strokes he found that he could touch bottom, so he staggered on through the water towards the blessed light, which, he felt, was the only thing that saved his sanity.
As he approached the spot it grew definitely lighter, and it was with a prayer of thankfulness that he finally dragged himself towards an aperture through which he could see what he had begun to wonder if he would ever see again—the blue sky. His haste to reach it was nearly his undoing, for he had forgotten all about his steep climb, and he was in the act of stepping forward when a spectacle so unexpected, and so alarming, met his eyes that a gasp of despair left his lips as he recoiled from it. The ground in front of him dropped sheer for a full four hundred feet. Indeed, it was even worse than that, for his precarious perch actually overhung the abyss, and he dropped on his knees in a spasm of vertigo as his eyes surveyed the dizzy height.
For a moment or two he remained still, fighting the weakness, angry that he should have succumbed to it. Then, taking himself in hand, he made a quick inspection of his position. He saw that instead of emerging on top of the rock as he had assumed would be the case, the fissure had ended some twenty feet below the top of the cliff, which he could now see above him. He perceived, too, that although this twenty feet of rock face was sheer, the surface was rough, and offered finger holds by which a skilled mountaineer might have made his way to the top; but he was not a skilled mountaineer, and the mere thought of trying to make the short but terrifying journey to the top made him feel physically sick.
Lying flat, he peeped furtively over the rim of his perch at the rocks far below, but they offered no clue to his whereabouts in relation to the cove. All he could see was a jumble of weed-covered rocks against which the waves—appearing from his height as insignificant as ripples—beat with measured regularity. Above them, minute white specks, which he knew were gulls, soared aimlessly. For the rest, the ocean stretched, an infinite expanse of dark green water, to a hazy horizon.
The next matter that engaged his attention was the source of the water that filled the subterranean lake, for he saw at once that it could not enter the aperture through which he had reached the light of day, so returning a few paces into the cave he examined the roof closely. It was his ears rather than his eyes that provided the solution, for a steady trickle of water told him that tiny invisible streams were percolating through flaws in the rock and finding their way into the natural reservoir, which, at the time of heavy rain, must overflow with the results already noted.
As there was nothing more to see Ginger now gave serious thought to his position. He became aware that he was cold, which was not surprising since he was soaked to the skin—his second wetting within a few hours. He was worried, too, about his long absence from the base, which he knew could not fail to cause alarm, and might upset Biggles’s plans. He had dismissed all idea of trying to get to the top of the rock, so it was obvious that the only way he could return to the depot was by the path he had come up, although this now presented difficulties that appalled him.
In the first place it meant a swim across the lake, with no assurance that he would be able to find the fissure on the far side, or to climb up to it if he did find it. Assuming that he was successful so far, he was then faced With the disagreeable ordeal of dropping twelve feet in utter darkness on to a pile of boulders; for his matches, being wet, were now useless. He realized with an unpleasant twinge of fear that if he injured himself in the drop he was likely to die, in circumstances which he preferred not to contemplate. It is not surprising that the more he thought about things the less he liked the look of them, and sought desperately for an alternative.
Turning again towards the sea, it suddenly struck him that the watery sun might have sufficient power in it to dry his matches; if he could only get them dry, he thought, he ought to be able to transport them across the lake by tying them on his head. So with this object in view he took the box from his pocket and laid it, with the three matches beside it, in a sheltered pocket of rock reached by the sun. This
done, he stood back prepared to await results. And he was still waiting, cold and uncomfortable, when a sound reached his ears that brought him round facing the sea, tense and expectant. It was the distant hum of an aero-engine; and presently he saw the plane, which he recognized at once for one of their own, heading straight towards the rock. What was more, he perceived that if it held on its present course it would pass fairly close to him. If only he could attract the pilot’s attention—for he did not know who was flying the machine, and was unaware of Algy’s tragic discovery—it would alter the whole position. Those at the base would then guess what had happened, and presently come to his assistance. Even if they failed to find the fissure, he would, by signalling to them as they flew over, be able to ask for the things he most needed—food, a rope, and a new torch.
Watching the machine, with fading hopes he soon realized that the chances of his being seen were remote. The pilot might glance at the top of the rock in passing, but he would hardly be likely to look closely at the face of the cliff, for there was no reason why he should. But if he, Ginger, could only reach the top, silhouetted against the skyline he could hardly escape being seen. Swiftly, he turned to make a closer inspection of the perilous passage.
Now that he had become accustomed to the dizzy height it did not look so formidable, and almost before he had made up his mind seriously to attempt it he found himself on the bottom ledge, groping with his fingers for a firm hold. Finding one, he shifted his feet, and clawed again for a fresh cleft for his fingers. And so he went on, not once daring to look down, but keeping his eyes on the rim above as it drew imperceptibly nearer.
Gasping with fear and exertion, his clutching fingers at last closed over it, and with a haste made desperate by the now close proximity of the aircraft, he dragged his aching body over the top and rolled clear of the edge.
In a moment he was on his feet, waving frantically. He was just in time to see the machine glide out of sight round a shoulder of the rock.
Sick with disappointment, he sank down, and cupping his chin in his hands, gazed disconsolately at the empty sea.
CHAPTER XI
WHAT HAPPENED TO BIGGLES
WHEN he took off to look for Briny, the only doubt in Biggles’s mind, apart from a natural concern about the lost sailor, was that, by force of circumstances, they were doing much more daylight flying than he had ever intended, more than Colonel Raymond had intended, and without question more than was safe if the secret of the base was to be guarded. His natural caution told him that they could not hope to go on flying daily over hostile waters, at all hours, without sooner or later being observed, and the suspicions of the enemy being aroused. Already their activities must have attracted attention, he reflected, as he pursued his allotted course, climbing all the time to obtain a wider field of view.
For the best part of an hour, like Algy, he was unsuccessful, seeing no craft of any sort; and he was contemplating giving up the search when, far to the south, a minute object caught his eye. It was a vessel of some sort, but even at that distance he felt that it was too big to be the motor-boat. Nevertheless, he decided to make sure, so he flew on, and presently perceived that the object was not one boat, but two, a fairly large one with a smaller one moored close to it.
A suspicion was already forming in his mind as he throttled back and began a long glide, in this way losing height to get a clearer picture of what was happening; and in a few minutes his suspicion was confirmed. The smaller of the two vessels was undoubtedly the missing motor-boat; the larger one, as far as he could make out, appeared to be a trawler or drifter. Considering the situation, he came to the natural conclusion that Briny had been found adrift by the larger boat, which had—as it was bound to—offered assistance, either by taking it in tow or supplying it with fuel.
The question that now automatically arose in Biggles’s mind was the nationality of the drifter. If it turned out to be a German ship, then he could do nothing about it, for while he was prepared to take chances, it did not occur to him to attempt such a fantastic undertaking as to try to capture the ship single handed. What concerned him far more was the fact that by this time he was being watched by the crew, who would lose no time in reporting his position.
Instinctively his eyes went to the drifter’s stern to see if she was flying her nationality flag; and he saw that she was. What was more important, it was not the flag of the German Mercantile Marine. He was unable to identify it ; all he knew was that it was not the German flag. And that was really all he cared about, for if it was not a German vessel it must belong to a neutral country, and since they were on the high seas he had nothing to fear.
Consequently, he continued the glide with the object of landing as close as he could to the two vessels, now lying hove to side by side. It may seem strange—and a few minutes later he was to reflect on this—that not for one single moment did it occur to him that the drifter might be flying false colours. So, with no suspicion in his mind, he made a good landing and without hesitation taxied up to the larger craft. It is true that it struck him as odd that Briny was not in sight, but he came to the natural conclusion that he was in the captain’s cabin going through unavoidable formalities, in which case there was a chance that he might not have heard the approaching aircraft.
Still without the slightest suspicion of anything wrong, Biggles taxied right up to the drifter; and if he had entertained any doubts the behaviour of the crew would certainly have dispelled them, for they were leaning over the rail, smiling with what he took for amiability. So he made the Willie-Willie fast, and stepping out on to a float, climbed aboard.
‘Thanks for picking up my—’ he began, but he got no farther. Instead he stared in amazement at what he now beheld. The members of the drifter’s crew were still smiling, but from all sides he was covered by a whole range of weapons, from automatic pistols to a machine-gun.
Biggles knew that he had made a mistake, but he still did not understand entirely what had happened. His eyes went again to the flag still fluttering at the stern, thinking that he must have been in error in supposing it was that of a neutral country; but what he saw only confirmed his first impression, for the flag was that of a Scandinavian country, although he couldn’t remember which. Further, the crew wore no uniforms except the blue jerseys commonly used by merchant sailors.
‘What’s all this about?’ he inquired curtly, slowly looking round the circle of menacing weapons.
‘You come this way,’ ordered one of the men, who, in peaked cap and double-breasted reefer jacket, appeared to be one of the ship’s officers. He beckoned towards the companion-way.
Unquestioningly Biggles followed. Indeed, he was in no case to argue. Further, he was anxious to get to the bottom of the apparent mystery as soon as possible.
Escorted by two men armed with rifles, he followed the officer down the steps and along a short corridor to a cabin, where he was disarmed and then searched, the contents of his pockets being taken away. There was a brief delay; then the officer returned and ordered Biggles to follow him.
They went on a little way down the corridor and halted before a door that stood ajar.
‘Come in, Major Bigglesworth,’ said a suave voice, which Biggles recognized instantly.
A ghost of a smile flitted over his face as he pushed the door open, walked slowly across the threshold, and turned to face the man who was seated behind a small ship’s desk. It was, as he already knew, his old enemy, Erich von Stalhein of the German Secret Service.
A curious expression, half cynical and half triumphant, was on the German’s austere face; but his blue eyes were frosty.
Biggles considered him dispassionately. ‘Congratulations,’ he said.
‘On what?’
‘On changing your nationality. I can’t recognize your new flag so I don’t know what you’ve changed to, but since it couldn’t be worse than it was when I last saw you, it must, perforce, be better. In the circumstances I can only congratulate you.’
&n
bsp; A flush swept across von Stalhein’s prominent cheek-bones. ‘Still as insolent as ever,’ he said harshly.
Biggles helped himself to a cigarette from a box that stood on the desk and tapped it on the back of his hand. ‘What have you done with my man—I mean, the fellow who was in the motor-boat ?’
‘Ah! So there was only one.’
‘You ought to know.’
‘On the contrary, since the boat was empty when we found it we had no clue to the occupants or the number of them. We found the boat adrift—but we recognized its nationality, of course.’
Biggles looked into the German’s eyes and thought he was speaking the truth—as indeed he was. ‘The poor old fellow must have fallen overboard,’ he said sadly.
‘What was he doing in the boat ?’
‘Between ourselves, von Stalhein, he was looking for me. I was delayed on a flight yesterday and he came to the not unnatural conclusion that I had been forced down. When he, in turn, failed to return, I could hardly do other than look for him, could I?’
‘Failed to return? Return where?’
‘To the place where I expected to find him, of course.’
Von Stalhein leaned forward in his chair. ‘Major Bigglesworth,’ he said distinctly, ‘I would advise you to be frank with me. We know you are operating somewhere near our coast. Where is your base?’
‘How do you know I’m operating near your coast?’
‘I will ask the questions if you don’t mind. I repeat, where is your base?’
‘Well, I suppose there’s no harm in your asking,’ murmured Biggles indifferently, ‘but I have a higher regard for your intelligence than to suppose you expect a correct answer.’
Von Stalhein’s thin lips parted for a moment in a frigid smile. ‘From where did you take off this morning?’
