Biggles and the Pirate Treasure Read online

  As so often happens, it was just when interest was beginning to flag that something was seen to restore it — or at any rate provide them with an object on which to focus attention. It was the wake of a vessel of some sort. There was no ship. Just a long narrow stain across the flat surface of the tranquil water, here and there meandering as it was made the sport of ocean currents.

  As every traveller over a dead calm sea is aware, a ship in passing leaves its mark; and this mark, on a waveless sea, can last for days, stretching from one horizon to another almost like a road. In the case of ships driven by power the track will be marked in oil, for a single drop of oil, escaping perhaps from the propeller shaft, can spread to cover a wide area — as the reader may prove for himself by letting fall a drop of oil on a placid liquid surface. Thus are submarines betrayed. With larger vessels the trail is liberally besprinkled with garbage — tins, bottles, vegetable refuse and the like.

  In the case of the trail that interested those in the aircraft it was no more than a faint smear of oil, showing that the vessel, whatever it might be, was equipped with an engine, although, of course, it might also have a sail. It appeared from the north-west, the direction of a compact group of islands, called by the French to whom they belong, the Isles Glorieuses. Across the deep blue sea it wandered to merge at last into the mist, or under the mist, that clung to a little almost landlocked cove. There was no village there; no human habitation; no clearing in the jungle; not even a semblance of a track; so the purpose of a craft in making such a landfall was at once open to suspicion. Moreover, the trail had recently been made, as was proved by the narrowness of its width at the point where it joined the coast. Farther out to sea it widened, and this proved that the ship had travelled towards the land; for the older the trail the wider it would become.

  It was agreed unanimously that this would have to be investigated, so Marcel took the aircraft low over the spot where the trail died — or rather, as they saw presently, entered a miniature delta, cut in the earth by a mountain stream in time of flood. No sign of man, or camp, or ship, was to be seen. Marcel went so low as almost to brush the tree tops, but to no purpose. That a vessel of some sort was there was certain. Where was it? Why had it been at such pains to hide itself?

  There was one answer, and an obvious one, to the last question.

  Marcel took the helicopter along for three or four miles. Then, finding a bay with a broad sandy beach, he landed.

  ‘We have them,’ he declared. ‘They are there. What other ship would have a reason to put in at such a place? Voilà! We will find this ship. Then we ask the men what they do. Perhaps we find them digging up the treasure — for us. La la. Très comique.’

  The others agreed that the next step was to find the ship; which would, of course, mean travelling overland. But Biggles had a word to say about this. He pointed out that if the men had found the treasure they wouldn’t be likely to hand it over without a word of protest; and even if they hadn’t found it they would resist arrest, knowing that their map — or whatever information they were working on — would be taken from them. In plain English, violence was to be expected.

  ‘We will approach quietly, like old cats,’ declared Marcel. ‘Tiens! This is France, and in France we have a way with foreigners who break our laws. They land without permission so they break the law. If they carry arms they break another law. Now let us go and catch them.’

  Aside from anything the treasure hunters might do, the project of finding them, or even reaching the spot where they were thought to be, was not the simple matter that had generally been supposed. For the first time the airmen were travelling on foot through what hitherto had been seen only from the air; and, as they soon discovered, it was a different story— a very different story — particularly as they were not properly equipped for jungle travel. Moreover, for the first time they were out in the heat of the day. With sweat pouring down their faces they struggled to force a passage along the coast.

  An open glade gave them a respite, and here Ginger saw, for the first time, that remarkable tree, half way between a palm and a banana, known as the Traveller’s Tree.

  From a tall, palm-like trunk, springs a magnificent fan of fronds, giving the tree something of the appearance of a windmill. But the notable feature of the tree is its quality of yielding a supply of fresh cool water when the base of a leaf is pierced.

  Having availed themselves of this refreshment the party pressed on, only to find the jungle so thick, and the going so difficult, as to make progress almost impossible. The hopelessness of looking for a treasure, or anything else for that matter, became apparent.

  Biggles called a halt. ‘This is no use,’ he said. ‘We shall be a week getting to the cove at this rate. I suggest we try nearer the sea. It will be farther, but the going may not be so impossible.’ They had been trying to take a direct line.

  This was agreed, and the party moved on again in the new direction. Reaching the high water mark they had to contend with rocks instead of trees, although, to be sure, there was plenty of dead timber that had been thrown up by high seas. Moss made the rocks slippery, but, as Biggles said, they could at least see what they were doing and the atmosphere was not so exhausting as it had been in the dim, steamy jungle.

  After a while the rocky foreshore gave way, to their great relief, to a small more or less open plain. From the way the surface had been split and cracked by the sun the area had obviously been a bog; but the mud had dried, and now offered a firm foothold. It was tiresome having to step over the cracks, but this was the easiest going they had struck so far.

  There was a minute of excitement when excavations were observed ahead, for it was assumed, naturally, that this was the work of the treasure hunters. But Marcel, who knew a good deal about the island, soon damped their enthusiasm by pointing to pieces of material that lay about. It looked like — and Ginger thought it was — coarse earthenware. Marcel enlightened them. The supposed pottery was, he declared, pieces of eggshell. This had been one of the nesting grounds of the giant prehistoric bird, the Aepyornis. The eggs, which had been preserved in the mud, were much in demand by museums, and some natives made a living by finding them. The method was to probe the soft ground with rods. When the rod encountered something hard, excavations followed. The broken eggshells lying about, asserted Marcel, proved that the digging was the work of native egg hunters, not treasure hunters.

  Disappointed, they pressed on through more jungle — palms, bamboo, ebony and rubber trees being the most common. It was not so much the trees as the luxuriant undergrowth, mostly enormous ferns, that held them up.

  Orchids abounded. There was an area where fruit trees suddenly appeared —mangoes, tamarinds, bananas, lemons and bread-fruit; and from the fact that these trees were mostly of the same age, and seemed in definite sections, Biggles voiced the opinion that they might well have been planted by the pirates.

  ‘In that case this must be their colony of Libertia,’ said Algy.

  ‘Why not?’ returned Biggles. ‘We know it must have been in this region.’

  At the finish they came upon their objective suddenly. Before them lay the cove. Running into it, clearly defined where trees had been swept away by rainy season spates, were half a dozen streams. Actually, most of these were now dry water-courses. But the great object of interest was a small yacht, looking rather the worse for wear. Two things about it surprised them. The first was its position, for it was moored fore and aft by cables flush against a face of rock, showing that the water there was deeper than might have been supposed. From the top of the rock the spreading branches of some bread-fruit trees overhung the vessel, throwing it into dappled shade. The second surprising feature was the fact that the yacht had been camouflaged in the familiar war-time brown and green pattern. Whether this paintwork was new, or a relic of the war, they had no means of knowing. But what with the natural and artificial camouflage they understood why the vessel had escaped their observation from the air. Indeed, clo
se as they were, they might not have noticed it had it not been for the movement of men on the deck.

  There were five of them, apparently the hands that worked the yacht, judging from their overalls. They were leaning on the rail, smoking, and appeared to be in earnest conversation.

  On seeing the yacht, no more than seventy to eighty yards away, Marcel’s party withdrew a short distance into the jungle to discuss the situation.

  ‘Well, there it is,’ said Biggles, looking at Marcel. ‘What are you going to do about it?’

  ‘There are five of them,’ said Marcel thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps we could stalk them and seize the yacht.’

  ‘Don’t be too sure about the five,’ warned Biggles. ‘Those we can see are deck hands. What about the owners? They won’t be far away. They might even be below, resting or having a meal. If it came to a rough house we might come off second best. There would almost certainly be casualties, and this is no place to get a bullet in your ribs.’

  Marcel considered the matter.

  Algy spoke. ‘There’s another difficulty you may not have noticed. How are you going to get on board without being seen? You couldn’t swim to the ship without being spotted, that’s certain. And if you tackled it by land you’d have to jump down to the deck, and as that’s a good twenty feet you’d be lucky not to break bones.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Biggles. ‘I don’t think there’s any question of taking them by surprise. And that’s no accident. These fellows know their presence on the island has been reported and, very sensibly, they’ve taken precautions.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ murmured Bertie. ‘The blighters know the drill.’

  ‘If I may make a suggestion,’ put in Ginger. ‘I think we ought to know a bit more about what’s going on before we do anything. So far all we’ve done is guess. We don’t know how many people there are on the yacht. Nor do we know what they’re doing. We should look silly if we accidentally killed somebody and then found they were a bunch of professors looking for fossilized eggs. How about me doing a spot of reconnoitring? From the top of the cliff I could hear what those chaps were talking about. That should set our clock right.’

  ‘I think that’s a good idea,’ agreed Biggles. ‘How do you feel about it, Marcel? This is your show.’

  Marcel confirmed Biggles’s opinion, whereupon Ginger set off, to stumble almost at once over an object that was sticking out of the ground.

  Rubbing his shin he looked at the thing, uprooted it and held it for the others to see. It was an old-fashioned flintlock musket.

  ‘Pirate stuff, by Jove,’ murmured Bertie. ‘Jolly good souvenir.’

  Biggles nodded. ‘A man doesn’t abandon his gun without good reason. I’d say this was the place where the savages attacked Libertia and Caroccioli got a spear in his neck. Considering what must have gone on here it would be surprising if the Jolly Roger boys didn’t leave a few things behind. They went off in a hurry.’

  Ginger grinned and walked on to make his reconnaissance, leaving the others to make themselves as comfortable as circumstances permitted. They were, in fact, far from comfortable. The stagnant heat was awful. Flies, mosquitoes and a variety of crawling insects, maintained a non-stop attack on every exposed part of the skin.

  Groaned Bertie: ‘I thought we’d been invited to a picnic.’

  Marcel, mopping his face with a wet handkerchief, chuckled.

  Ginger was away for an hour. When he returned, mud to the waist and his jacket in rags, one glance at his face showed the others that he was the bearer of important news.

  ‘I’ve got the gen,’ he reported breathlessly. ‘They’re our men all right. The owners are away treasure hunting. Those fellows on deck are the crew, and they sound about ripe for mutiny.’

  Biggles shook his head. ‘The old, old story. There never were treasure hunters yet who didn’t finish by falling out. What goes on, Ginger?’

  Ginger continued: ‘As far as I can make out the men running the show — there are three of them — haven’t said a word to the crew about what they’re doing; but somehow or other the crew have found out, and they’re pretty browned off about it. The line they are arguing on is something like this. If the treasure is found they won’t see the colour of it. But should the French come along and arrest them they’ll go to gaol. They take the view that if it had been intended to give them a share of the treasure they would have been told about it, and asked to help with the digging.’

  ‘They might be right, at that,’ interposed Algy.

  ‘What nationality are these fellows?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘They talk like Americans,’ answered Ginger. ‘You can imagine the attitude they’re taking,’ he went on. ‘They say that as there are five of them and only three of their bosses, what’s to prevent them from seizing the yacht and keeping the treasure — all of it — for themselves.’

  ‘Having knocked the owners on the head.’

  ‘Presumably.’

  ‘Treasure and murder are old friends,’ murmured Biggles. ‘I take it they haven’t found the treasure yet?’

  ‘Evidently not.’

  ‘Counting their chickens before they’re hatched — as usual.’

  ‘They’re hot on the trail. The crew must have been watching, for they say they’ve found the spot.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘That’s all. They’re still talking, but I thought I’d better let you know how things stood.’

  Marcel looked at Biggles. ‘What is the plan, my old cabbage?’

  ‘There are two courses open to us,’ replied Biggles. ‘One is for you to go back to headquarters, bring back half a dozen policemen, or soldiers, and arrest the whole bunch of them. That’s the sensible, the most practical way. I don’t say it’s the romantic way. That would be to wait until they’ve found the treasure, then jump on them and have fun and games with the doubloons.’

  ‘That’s me, every time,’ murmured Bertie. ‘I’m all for the jolly old ducats, pieces of eight, and what have you.’

  ‘The snag about that is, some of us are liable to be shot,’ said Biggles. ‘The sight of gold sends men mad, and this bunch wouldn’t be likely to hand over the spondulicks without making a fight of it.’

  ‘There isn’t any treasure to fight over yet,’ put in Algy practically.

  ‘There may never be any.’

  ‘The working party are going flat out,’ said Ginger. ‘They expect to strike the gold at any moment now. They’ve seen the aircraft and have guessed it’s looking for them.’

  ‘We will fetch help,’ decided Marcel suddenly. ‘It is best for me to go. I am French. When the Governor sees my papers he will take notice of me. You stay here and see these rascals do not run away.’

  ‘You mean, you’ll go alone?’

  ‘But of course. It will make more room in the machine for police when I come back. I will land here.’

  ‘I think you’re right,’ agreed Biggles. ‘After all, they haven’t found the treasure yet and there’s no sense in taking unnecessary risks.’

  ‘Bon. I go,’ said Marcel. ‘I come back tout de suite. A bientôt.’ He strode off down the track they had made on the outward march.

  ‘What do we do? Just sit here?’ Algy asked Biggles.

  ‘I can’t think of anything better. There’s no point in sweating about in these infernal bushes with a chance of being spotted. Whether the diggers find the gold or not they’ll come back to the yacht. We’ll stay where we can watch it. What’s the time?’ He looked at his watch. ‘Half past one. Marcel ought to be back before nightfall. One of you might go back to where we saw those bananas and bring a bunch along. That should save us pulling in our belts.’

  As Ginger had already been out Algy and Bertie undertook this congenial task, leaving Biggles and Ginger to watch the yacht.

  Nothing happened. The yacht’s crew continued to talk, smoke and argue.

  Algy and Bertie returned with a load of bananas. They ate some. Still they watched. Still nothing happened
. The sun was nearly down to the horizon.

  ‘What’s Marcel up to?’ muttered Algy. ‘He should be back by now.’

  ‘Something unexpected must have held him up,’ opined Biggles.

  Dusk closed in.

  ‘He won’t come back tonight,’ said Ginger. ‘Looks as if we’ve got to spend the night here. There’s no future in that.’

  There was a brief period of interest when the digging party returned to their yacht. The crew dispersed to their duties. A rope was lowered down the face of rock. One by one the three men who had been out lowered themselves to the deck. None carried anything.

  ‘They haven’t got the treasure,’ observed Ginger.

  ‘They must leave their tools where they’ve been working,’ remarked Algy.

  Night fell. Mosquitoes hummed. Stars glowed like beacons in the sky. Lights appeared in the portholes of the yacht.

  ‘No mutiny yet,’ said Bertie.

  ‘There’s nothing to mutiny about,’ answered Biggles. ‘The men have more sense than to go off at half-cock. They’ll let their owners find the treasure before they do anything. When the gold appears the rumpus will start. That is as certain as tomorrow morning will follow tonight.’

  Squatting on the ground, with their backs against trees, they waited for the night to pass.

  Ginger’s last words, as he swiped a mosquito from his face, were: ‘If this is treasure hunting I’d rather see it on television. You can look without being bitten to bits by bugs.’

  ‘That’s all right, old boy,’ answered Bertie. ‘But the trouble about television is, you don’t get the jolly old swag at the end of it.’

  ‘We haven’t seen it here, yet, if it comes to that,’ Ginger pointed out.

  The dawn broke without a sound except the murmur of wavelets on the beach, giving promise of another fine, hot day. Discomfort had made the night seem unending; and even when it was banished by the sun it seemed to go with reluctance. Activity on the yacht recommenced forthwith, making it clear that the treasure-seekers were eager to continue their quest. Ginger wondered why, if Tew had some information, he could not have been honest with the French government. It would, he felt sure, have given him a fair share. Thus would he have been saved not only a load of anxiety but spared the risk of losing all, as now seemed likely.