Biggles Buries a Hatchet Read online

  Von Stalhein came along, painfully. When he was not more than a couple of yards away Biggles said tersely: ‘This time,’ and as he spoke he pushed a large hole in the side of the mound and scrambled out. By that time von Stalhein was level. Without a word he put down the barrow and crawled in. Biggles took the barrow by the handles and walked on. As he had judged, the changeover had not occupied more than two or three seconds. A swift glance showed the second prisoner with his back to the mound as he worked on the scree. He could have seen nothing.

  Biggles went on and continued building the stack as he had seen von Stalhein doing it. Out of the corner of an eye he watched the guard. The man was looking at him but he hadn’t moved. Biggles knew of course that; he hadn’t seen him change places with von Stalhein because the thing had been done on the side of the mound farthest from him.

  Biggles went back to the mound for another load. All he needed now was ten minutes’ grace, but he was aware that in that time anything could happen. As he passed the mound he could hear the hacksaw rasping into the iron. The operation was making more noise than he had thought it would, but so far the guard appeared not to have noticed it. Perhaps the wind was to be thanked for that.

  The snow was now more general, falling from a leaden sky in larger flakes. Biggles prayed for five more minutes’ respite.

  Back at the scree he proceeded to reload the barrow, but he hadn’t got far with this when he saw that his fellow prisoner had stopped work to look at him; or rather, stare at him. He was staring not at his face but at his feet. And Biggles knew why. It may have been the absence of the rattle of a chain when he moved that had drawn his attention to the fact that Biggles was not wearing one. He was a coarse, dull-witted-looking fellow of middle age, and in his effort to work out how Biggles had managed to get rid of his shackle he rested on his pickaxe. The result was inevitable. This laxity brought a shout from the guard. It had the desired effect, and the man resumed his labour with alacrity.

  Another minute passed.

  The man moved nearer to Biggles and muttered something under his breath. What he said Biggles did not know, for the words were spoken in a language he didn’t even recognize. But he could guess. The man was asking him about the chain. Biggles gave a grunt that might have meant anything and went on with his work.

  By this time von Stalhein had been in the mound for the best part of ten minutes so there was reason to hope that the shackle was off, or nearly off. The timing of the task had been advanced by about five minutes, so that period had still to elapse before Bertie and Ginger could be expected to come into action.

  With his barrow full Biggles was on his way back to the stack when there came the sound he had been dreading; the series of short sharp bursts on a whistle to call the prisoners together, the guard in charge having apparently at last decided that it was no longer safe for them to remain scattered. In this his judgment was undoubtedly correct, for with snow now driving across the workings and gathering density every minute, visibility was already down to about fifty yards.

  With his eyes fixed on a point ahead, for he dared not look round for fear the guard should make a signal which it would have been dangerous to ignore. Biggles went on as if he hadn’t heard the whistle. He knew he was taking a chance of being shot but there was no alternative. As he passed the mound he said crisply: ‘Are you free?’

  ‘Yes,’ came back the answer he was hoping to hear.

  ‘Stand by,’ he said, pushing on, gambling on the arrival of the smoke to make the next part of the plan less perilous. It was due at any moment now. The snow was providing a certain amount of cover; but not enough to prevent the nearest guard from seeing them should they attempt to leave the workings. That would mean shooting, and a casualty at that stage would put them in a hopeless position. To leave one of their number wounded, at the mercy of the enemy, was unthinkable, yet should the others stay they would all be lost.

  A few yards past the mound, anxious not to get too far from it in case the smoke arrived a minute early, he pretended to stumble. He still did not know if the guard was watching him, because for reasons already explained he dare not look round. His stumble, which he merely intended to delay his progress, went farther than he intended; the weight fell on one side of the barrow the handle slipped and the whole thing overturned.

  He had stooped to reload when a harsh voice brought him round to be confronted by the guard who must have advanced swiftly and was now just behind him — on his own side of the mound, so that had he turned he must have seen the hole in it. Luckily, being entirely concerned with Biggles, he did not do this. He had hung his whip over his shoulder and was standing in a threatening attitude with his rifle half raised as if something in Biggles’ behaviour had aroused his suspicions. His mouth opened as if to question him, but happening to glance down the words died on his lips. For a moment he stared unbelievingly at Biggles’ unfettered ankles. When the truth really sank in he moved fast. And the rifle was already in his hands.

  Biggles had been reluctant to use his own gun for fear the report would bring more guards hurrying to the spot, but now he saw that was a risk that would have to be taken.

  In the event the necessity did not arise, because at that moment behind the guard loomed like an avenging angel the black and yellow-striped figure of von Stalhein. In his right hand was his shackle. He swung it, and with all the force of his hatred of the man who had used a whip on him, brought it down on his head. The guard, without knowing what had hit him, collapsed like an empty sack.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Biggles, calmly.

  It was now that he caught the first whiff of smoke. Looking in the direction from which he knew it must be coming he could see a dull orange glow even through the snow. By this time Fritz had followed his uncle out of the hide and Biggles waited for no more.

  ‘Run for it,’ he said crisply, and raced towards the scree — or where he knew it to be, for with snow and smoke it was no longer possible to see it.

  CHAPTER 13

  BERTIE TAKES A HAND

  A MEDLEY of noises suggested that the whole workings were in a state of confusion, for the snow was now really coming down. There was a good deal of shouting. A shot was fired. Clouds of smoke were sweeping along on the wind. Not only smoke, but smuts and particles of burning matter. Looking back from the bottom of the scree Biggles was startled to see a long low yellow wall of flame leaping towards the workings. He had expected a good fire, but nothing like this. He caught the tang of resin, and realized that this and the wind were together responsible for the conflagration.

  He was alarmed to see small pieces of burning fir needles whirling over his head to fall beyond the coal face. Knowing that the herbage there was much the same as on the hill he was afraid the whole place might catch fire. If it reached the fir forest, in which he intended to take cover, the whole area would become an inferno.

  With the loose stuff sliding under his feet he ran up the scree and arrived at the top to collide, literally, with a guard coming the other way. There was no time for either of them to use a weapon, so all they could do was clutch each other. For a few seconds, locked in a clinch, they swayed on the lip of the scree; then the ground broke away under their feet, and still fast in an embrace which neither dare release, they rolled over and over to the bottom. Here they broke apart. They gained their feet together, but before either could do anything a gun had crashed. The guard crumpled. Fritz had fired the shot. He and his uncle had followed them down, von Stalhein still carrying his shackle. There for an instant they stood while Biggles recovered his poise, and the breath that had been knocked out of him in the encounter.

  ‘Let’s get into the forest,’ he panted. ‘Then we swing left to the river.’

  They scrambled back to the top of the scree and ran blindly towards the trees, which Biggles knew were there although he couldn’t see them. In fact, the smoke as now so dense that it was impossible to see anything. As they ran, often stumbling over obstacles, it stung their eyes an
d set them coughing. The dark wall of the forest appeared out of the murk, they blundered into it, but did not go far. Biggles, now leading, turned left and headed for the river, which had to be crossed. Just how far away it was he didn’t know, for he had never seen the upper reaches, and for all he knew it might have turned away. He could only assume it was somewhere in front of them, so if they kept on they would come to it in time. Swerving between the tree trunks and ducking under branches they ran on, and did not steady the pace until they had covered a distance which Biggles judged must have put them beyond the lower end of the workings.

  He stopped to enable them to get together, for von Stalhein had been inclined to lag. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ was the curt reply, ‘But it is some time since I had this sort of exercise. Ignore me. Where are you making for?’

  ‘The river, then the bridge.’

  ‘It will be guarded.’

  ‘Perhaps. We’ll see. I’d prefer to get to the other side in dry clothes if it’s possible. The river, when we get to it, will give us our bearings.’

  Biggles set off again, now at a brisk walk. The air was still full of smoke, but there was no snow under the close-growing trees. What was happening at the workings he didn’t know and didn’t particularly care. All he could see between the trees in that direction was a dull orange glow through the blur of smoke and snow.

  It was farther to the river than he expected, but they came to it at last. It was not very wide at this point, but wide enough to soak them should they try to ford it. It might have meant swimming, for the water was black and there was no means of judging its depth. As was the case lower down, the bank they were on was fringed at intervals with clumps of dwarf birch. There was also an occasional low-hanging willow.

  ‘We’ll try for the bridge,’ decided Biggles. ‘If we can get across without a casualty we should be all right. They’d have a job to find us in the forest on the other side.’

  He set off again, keeping as close as possible to the turgid stream.

  ‘Where will you make for if you get across?’ asked von Stalhein.

  ‘The aircraft. It’s hidden in the tall rushes beside the estuary, a few miles from here.’

  ‘Before we embark I shall want a word with you.’

  ‘I hope you’re not going to be awkward.’

  ‘Let us say precautionary.’

  ‘Very well, but I hope you’ll make it brief, because I when I get to the machine I’m not going to hang about arguing.’ Biggles spoke very definitely. ‘We haven’t crossed the bridge yet, anyway,’ he added, tartly.

  Nothing more was said. They walked on in single file, von Stalhein bringing up the rear, picking their way when they were in the birches and hurrying across gaps. After the recent turmoil all now seemed strangely quiet. The snow was coming down in larger flakes. For a time the soft hiss they made as they reached the ground, or fell on the birches, was the only sound. But presently another, as weird as could be imagined, came creeping softly through the silence. They all knew what it was. The clank — clank — clank of fetters. Somewhere near at hand the chain gang was on the move.

  Biggles raised a hand in the halt signal. ‘We’d better let them get out of the way,’ he said quietly.

  They waited until the ominous noise had faded and then moved on.

  They had covered perhaps a quarter of a mile when there occurred one of those breaks that not infrequently happen in a late snowstorm. The snow stopped as abruptly as if the source of supply had been cut off, with the result that the landscape lay open to view. This catching them in the open they made a dash for the next group of birches, and having reached them stopped again to survey the scene. It was much as might have been expected.

  They were at the point where the track came near the river not far from the ford where Pat had made his dash for freedom. Over to the left smoke was still drifting away from them to cross the workings although the fire appeared to have burnt itself out. Its trail on the hill in front of them was marked by a blackened area. The bridge could be seen about three hundred yards farther on. On the track leading to the prison was the chain gang, marching in a tight column with guards on either side. With a wry smile Biggles observed that the gang at one period must have been marching parallel with them, and no great distance away. This of course was when they had heard the rattle of chains. Not that there had been any risk of collision while the snow persisted; nor was there now, while they were under cover, any risk of being seen, for the gang with its guards, heading for the prison was moving away from them. Nevertheless, should any of them turn while Biggles’ party was in the open it would almost certainly be noticed, with two of them in the conspicuous black and yellow uniform.

  ‘We’ll wait here for a minute to let them get a bit farther on,’ decided Biggles. ‘We’re still within range of the guards’ rifles. Incidentally, I notice only one guard is missing. That must have been the fellow who was shot. I doubt if you killed the fellow you clouted on the skull with the chain, von Stalhein. That astrakhan bonnet he was wearing would soften the blow. If he had come round, and talked, he will have set the head guard a pretty problem.’

  ‘How?’ asked Fritz.

  ‘Well, he would say, there must have been at least two men concerned with the escape, one of them without shackles. But when the prisoners were counted, as they would be before starting for home, it would be discovered that only one man was missing. Who, then, could have hit the guard over the head? And how did the other fellow get his chain off?’

  ‘The guard saw that?’ queried Fritz.

  ‘Too true he did. His eyes nearly popped out. That risk was always on the boards. The chap I was working with noticed it, too. He stared so hard I was afraid he’d give the game away. If the prisoners are questioned when they get home he’ll confirm the guard’s story that one man had got rid of his chain. That should give them something to think about.’ Biggles turned his head and stared down the river. ‘I don’t see anyone at the bridge, so as soon as that mob is at a safe distance we’ll make a dash for it. I’m glad that snow has stopped. It was just beginning to lie and would soon have shown tracks. Not only ours, but those of Bertie and Ginger.’

  ‘I suppose they started the blaze,’ said von Stalhein.

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘A nice piece of team work.’

  ‘I’m glad you appreciate that. A team on which you could rely was something you never had. You couldn’t trust anybody.’

  ‘Nor would you, had you been in my position,’ said von Stalhein, stiffly.

  ‘It was nobody’s fault but your own that you were in that position,’ returned Biggles, evenly. ‘But let’s not talk about that now.’

  ‘Where are your two assistants?’

  ‘Assuming they got clear without trouble they may be I waiting for us on the far side of the bridge to cover our retreat should we need help; or they may have gone ahead. I left it to their discretion.’

  ‘I don’t see them,’ said Fritz.

  ‘I wouldn’t expect to,’ replied Biggles. ‘They would be so daft as to stand in the open. If they’re there they’ll be watching from inside the forest.’

  ‘Something happens at the prison,’ said von Stalhein.

  Biggles, who had been looking at the bridge, turn his eyes in that direction to see that the prison gates had been opened to permit the exit of three Cossacks who cantered down the track towards the chain gang, which still had a little way to go.

  He spoke quickly. ‘They may be going to the bridge. They may stay there. If they get to it first we could find ourselves stuck on this side. If they stop to speak to the guards we’ll make a dash for it. We may get a minute before they see us. Anyway, if it comes to a race we should beat them to it. We can get a bit nearer.’

  Keeping an eye on the riders he thrust his way to the extreme end of that particular line of birches. There, still in cover, he waited, watching the track. ‘Fine! They’re going to stop,’ he went on, seei
ng the riders rein in. ‘They’ll want to know what’s happened. Sprint when I give the word. Stop for nothing. With luck we may even reach the bridge before they look this way.’

  The riders halted their horses, presumably to allow the leader to speak to the head guard, for he walked over to them.

  ‘Now!’ snapped Biggles, and ran towards the bridge.

  The distance to be covered was something in the order of two hundred yards. The riders would have at least double that distance to travel.

  Biggles, with the others racing close behind, had got about half-way when a distant shout told him they had been seen. He refrained from looking but kept his eyes on the ground in front of him, for it was by no means level and a fall at this stage would have been serious. Taking minor obstacles in his stride he ran on, and not until he was at the first step of the bridge did he look round. The riders, spurring their horses at full gallop, were still a hundred yards away.

  Von Stalhein drew his pistol and turned to face them. ‘You go on,’ he said calmly. ‘I’ll hold them till you have good start.’

  ‘Get across the bridge,’ snapped Biggles. ‘And you, Fritz. I’m giving the orders here.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Get across. I haven’t come all this way to cart home a corpse.’

  Von Stalhein shrugged, and followed by Fritz walked across the bridge.

  Biggles fired two shots at the riders, more to let them know he was armed than with any real hope of hitting one of them. The shots did at least have the effect of checking them while they unslung their rifles, and during this brief time Biggles hurried across the bridge to join the others on the far side.

  To his temporary surprise, for in the excitement of the moment he had forgotten about them, he found Bertie and Ginger there.

  Bertie was waving them on. ‘Press on, chaps, press on,’ he cried. ‘Get in the timber. Hold your hats and see Horatius do his stuff. If those blighters want to come over this side they’ll have to swim.’