Biggles at World's End Page 4

  CHAPTER 4

  A FLIMSY CLUE

  THE following morning found the party at the aerodrome making ready for the first reconnaissance, Biggles going over the machine with meticulous care while the others attended to the topping up of the tanks. The morning air had a nip in it, but the weather was fair, or as fair as could be expected, with a sky mostly blue although some fleecy clouds were being hounded across it by a sharp easterly breeze. To the satisfaction of everyone Gontermann was not there, no regular machines being scheduled to arrive, but Vendez turned up before they had finished and was as helpful as he could be. He told them Gontermann had gone sailing; he had seen his orange-sailed, black-painted boat, Der Wespe, which being translated from the German meant the Wasp— rather appropriately, Ginger thought— making good time down the Strait.

  As soon as the Gadfly was in the air, still climbing, Biggles also headed down the Strait, this being the one conspicuous landmark on which they could rely until such time as others could be fixed. There was not a ship of any size in sight, although a small sailing boat, which from its orange sails they took to be Gontermann’s craft, was heading in the same direction as themselves, the course being almost due south. Some distance ahead the Strait took a sharp turn, running north-west to the Pacific.

  Biggles took the Gadfly up to ten thousand feet to get a comprehensive view of the entire landscape, and from that altitude it presented a magnificent although somewhat alarming spectacle of a world untouched by human hands. They might, Ginger thought, have been flying over a new planet. Unfortunately the tops of most of the mountains were wreathed in mist— unfortunately because Ginger, who was sitting beside Biggles with the chart on his knees, was relying on these to get his bearings. He had hoped to be able to plot the two with which they were most concerned, Sarmiento and Italia, but that was obviously going to be difficult unless the breeze freshened sufficiently to tear away the curtains that hid them. Occasionally, here or there this did happen, to reveal a giant, glistening white under its blanket of eternal snow, a truly awe-inspiring sight, the more so because he knew that none of these peaks had ever been climbed, and perhaps never would be. They usually occurred in regions marked on his chart inesplorado— unexplored.

  He could not see one object to suggest they were still in the land of the living, but one landmark he thought he recognized was the largest of several glaciers that threaded their way through the mountains. This was the great white river of Vergera, composed of enormous masses of ice, ages old, which threw fascinating blue shadows. He could see the splash of the water when huge lumps broke off the moraine to fall into the water below. The bay at the mouth of the glacier was dotted with islands of blue and white ice. There could be no landing there. In fact, he was worried to see what Mr Scott had called ‘growlers’ on many stretches of otherwise open water.

  ‘What do you think of it?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘Awful,’ answered Ginger, grimly. ‘We shall never make anything of this.’

  ‘I must admit I’m inclined to agree with you,’ returned Biggles, cutting the throttle and beginning to lose height.

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Go down to an altitude more in keeping with what we’re supposed to be doing. I’ve lost sight of the Wasp, but at this height Gontermann will be able to see us and he may wonder what we’re doing up here. I doubt if we could pick out St Paul’s Cathedral if it was down there, much less two castaways.’

  ‘Do you seriously expect to find those two plant hunters?’

  ‘I’m keeping an open mind about it. Stranger things have happened. One thing you can rely on while we’re here. I’m not taking any short cuts through clouds. Too many of ‘em are solid in the middle. I suppose you couldn’t pick out Sarmiento or Italia?’

  ‘Not a hope. We shall only do that on an absolutely clear day—if such a thing ever happens here. What do you intend to do about it?’

  ‘We shall have to work to some sort of plan.’

  ‘How can you make a plan with this sort of stuff underneath you?’

  ‘The only thing I can think of is to start combing the islands one by one from a low altitude. We’ll start with one we can recognize from its shape. That should give us our bearings. As we finish each one you strike it off on the chart.’

  Ginger looked aghast. ‘That would take months, if not years. I can see nothing but islands. There must be thousands.’

  ‘You’re right. There are thousands. We might, with a little luck, strike the right one. Anyway, can you think of an alternative?’

  ‘No; unless it’s to locate some natives and ask them if they know anything.’

  ‘If we see any Indians I shall certainly do that, if we can find anywhere near to land.’

  ‘According to Mr Scott some usually hang about in their canoes in a stretch of open water called Indian Reach, to beg food from passing ships.’

  ‘That must be a slow business. I had a good look, in fact that’s why I went up to ten thousand, and I’m pretty sure that at the moment there isn’t a ship of any size in the Strait. That’s one thing we’ve established. I’ll send a cable to the Air Commodore to let him know that.’

  ‘Right away?’

  ‘No. Probably in a day or two. We’d better make certain. A ship, even a large one, lying tucked up in one of these narrow channels, would be hard to spot. You’ve got Indian Reach marked on your chart. We might as well go and have a look at it. If the sky should clear we’ll go up again and try to pick out those two mountains. If we can do that and bring them in line they should act as a pointer. If they could be seen looking south-east from the cache, lining them up from the north-west should give us the rough direction.’

  ‘The trouble is, there are too many confounded mountains,’ grumbled Ginger.

  ‘As a clue, a couple of mountains are pretty vague,’ conceded Biggles. ‘But there never was a treasure chart yet, that I’ve ever seen or heard of, that wasn’t vague. Where’s this Indian Reach place?’

  Ginger studied the chart and gave the direction.

  ‘Keep your eyes open as we go,’ requested Biggles.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Anything that looks as if it might be interesting. I’ll go down to about five hundred. I daren’t go any lower, but that should enable you to spot anything like the wreck of that ketch the plant hunters were using, or the smoke of a fire, for instance. Tell Algy and Bertie what we’re going to do. They can keep their eyes skinned, too.’

  ‘This looks like being a long business,’ muttered Ginger, when he returned.

  ‘I didn’t expect to do it in five minutes. When we’ve been here a month will be soon enough to grouse. We haven’t started yet. Is that straight piece of water in front of us Indian Reach?’

  ‘It should be, but I wouldn’t swear to anything here. The place isn’t exactly swarming with Indians, anyway. I can’t see one.’

  ‘Maybe they only show up when a steamer comes through. They’d see it a long way off from the high ground ashore. What’s more important, can you see any growlers?’

  ‘No, I can’t see any ice at all in the water. As it’s dead calm we should, I think, if there were any.’

  ‘All right. Then let’s try a landing and see what happens.’

  Biggles lined up the aircraft for the longest approach possible and with Ginger holding his breath put it down without any difficulty on water which, protected by the high land around it, was as flat as the proverbial mill pond. He ran on a little way nearer to the rocky shore of the nearest island, switched off and took out his cigarette case.

  ‘Now we’ve seen what it looks like we might as well relax for a few minutes and talk about it,’ he remarked. ‘Someone might get an idea.’

  Bertie came forward. ‘Not much use trying to think of ideas, old boy, when you’re looking for a pin in a bally haystack.’

  ‘We knew all about the pin and the haystack before we came here,’ Biggles pointed out. ‘So why bring that up? I wish you would
all use your heads more and grumble less.’

  ‘I see a canoe coming,’ observed Ginger.

  ‘From where?’

  Ginger pointed. ‘Over there. The people in it must have been picnicking on the rocks—don’t ask me why.’

  ‘Two men and a kid,’ remarked Algy. ‘What a place to bring a kid.’

  ‘Maybe it wasn’t brought here,’ returned Biggles. ‘Maybe this is where it lives. I’d say it’s father, mother and child.’

  ‘People who live in places like this shouldn’t have kids,’ put in Algy.

  ‘That’s what these people might say if they saw some of our slums,’ said Biggles. ‘I’d wager if you took these people to London they’d be dead inside a month. They obviously know how to live here, but I doubt if they could stand up to the germs, bugs, microbes and what have you, that we have to endure. But here they are. Let’s hope we can find a language we both speak. If they’re in the habit of accosting passing ships that shouldn’t be impossible.’

  The canoe, as crazy a little craft as Ginger had ever seen in his life, came alongside. The lower part was a hollowed-out tree-trunk that must have been rotten when it was found. The gunwales were old pieces of flattened tins and the remains of boxes and pieces of fabric thrown up by the sea. These were fastened in place with splinters, fish bones and pieces of wire, in a manner so haphazard that the thing looked as if one wave would knock it to bits.

  In it was a man, a woman and a small boy, all filthy beyond description. The two adults wore some scraps of sacking tied round their loins. The boy was completely naked. He had no seat, so he simply squatted in three or four inches of icy water which, with a lot of mussel shells, slopped about in the bottom of the canoe. It made Ginger shiver to look at the child. He himself was well wrapped up, and dry, but he was by no means warm. ‘I didn’t know there was anything like this left in the world,’ he muttered.

  ‘You’ve heard of under-developed people; now you’re looking at some,’ answered Biggles.

  ‘Some prize specimens, too, I must say,’ put in Algy, disgustedly. ‘Instead of spending millions on rockets why doesn’t somebody do something for these miserable wretches?’

  ‘The chances are they’ll still be here when civilization has blown itself apart with those same rockets,’ remarked Biggles.

  Bertie stepped in. ‘What beats me is how these johnnies manage to live where not even animals will so much as try.’

  This conversation was cut short by the man standing up and resting his dirty hands on the side of the aircraft. ‘Tabac— tabac,’ he said, in a coarse voice.

  Ginger could hardly believe his ears. It seemed to him that what they all needed was food; yet the man’s first thought was for tobacco— presumably for himself. He remembered what Mr Scott had said when some tins of food were handed out and were put at the feet of the man, not the woman.

  Meanwhile Biggles was trying to get into conversation with the man, trying him both in English and in Spanish. It turned out that he knew only a few simple nouns in both languages, having picked them up, probably, from passing ships. But these were not enough to answer the questions Biggles put to him about two white men, alive or dead, who had been cast away. He tried for some time but without result.

  ‘It’s no use,’ he said at last. ‘We shan’t get anything out of them even if they know anything. All they can think about is food, tobacco and matches.’

  ‘That’s all I’d be thinking about, too, old boy, if I was paddling that perishing canoe in my pants.’

  The Indian, having apparently decided that no more tins were forthcoming, pushed off without a word of thanks, and in so doing caused the canoe to swing so that for the first time the far gunwale was revealed.

  Ginger caught Biggles by the arm. ‘Stop him,’ he said tersely. ‘Look! The gunwale.’

  It was a strip of dark red canvas.

  ‘That was the colour of the Seaspray’s sails,’ he reminded.

  Biggles shouted to the man to come back, but he took no notice, obviously not understanding.

  ‘Quick, someone, give me another tin,’ snapped Biggles.

  Algy handed him one. He held it up. The man understood that readily enough, and paddled back to collect it. This done Biggles pointed at the piece of red canvas. ‘Where come?’ he asked.

  The Indian simply stared back at him with a blank animal face.

  ‘Where come?’ asked Biggles again. ‘Where find?’

  The man looked at Biggles. He looked at the object at which he was pointing. Then at last what he thought was required seemed to penetrate his limited intelligence. Without the slightest hesitation he seized the rag, ripped it off and offered it. ‘Tabac,’ he said.

  This of course was not what Biggles wanted. He wanted to know where it had come from. But he took it to save an argument that would obviously be futile. ‘Give him another tin of cigarettes,’ he told Algy.

  No sooner had the man taken his reward than he snatched up the piece of wood that served as a paddle and started making for the shore.

  ‘Wait! Come back,’ shouted Biggles; but he might have saved his breath for all the notice that was taken. ‘Confound the fellow,’ he muttered. ‘Why did he have to be in such an infernal hurry?’ He looked up. ‘I wonder if that was the reason?’ he added.

  Above them a dark cloud was racing down the channel, and within a minute it had answered his question when everything was blotted out by driving, slashing, icy rain that whipped the hull of the aircraft as with a thousand canes.

  ‘I begin to see what Mr Scott meant about the weather,’ shouted Biggles, above the noise. ‘We’ll sit where we are till this has passed.’

  ‘That Indian knew what was coming,’ said Algy. ‘He may come back when it’s over.’

  Biggles shook his head. ‘I doubt it. He’ll make for home and scoff the grub we gave him.’

  ‘So would I, old boy, every time, if I was as peckish as he looked.’

  Biggles picked up the strip of red canvas. ‘If this came from the Seaspray there must be more of it somewhere. I’ll show it to Mr Scott when we get back. He’ll know if it’s his.’

  ‘If he says it is,’ said Ginger, ‘we can say good-bye to any hope of finding Carter and Barlow.’

  No one disputed this.

  The squall did not last long. The wind abated. The rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun and it was fair again, the sun shining in a sky of palest eggshell blue. But the cold, which must have been near freezing point, persisted.

  ‘And to think this is summer here,’ remarked Ginger, rubbing his hands to warm them. ‘What must it be like in winter?’

  ‘I don’t know, and I don’t want to know,’ answered Biggles. ‘We shan’t be here—I hope. But I do know this,’ he went on. ‘If that rain had been hail, and from the temperature it must have been near it, we’d have had some dents knocked in our upper surfaces. In future I’ll be more careful where I stop. Had the wind come from the opposite quarter it could have blown us on the rocks, and without being able to see a blessed thing we wouldn’t have known which way to go to keep clear of ‘em. It was a useful illustration of what can happen here. We might as well move on.’

  ‘What about that Indian?’ asked Algy.

  ‘While the storm was on I was thinking about him. I doubt if we shall see him again. I’m by no means sure he was as dumb as he appeared to be. I thought he looked scared for a moment when I pointed to this piece of canvas.’

  ‘You mean, he knew he had no business to have it?’

  ‘That would depend on how he came by it. What struck me was, if this is in fact a piece of the Seaspray’s canvas, where’s the rest of it? Even if the boat came to grief the sail would still be in one piece. I have a feeling that greasy-looking wretch in the canoe could tell us.’

  Bertie spoke. ‘If he’d found the whole thing one would have thought he’d have made himself a decent pair of pants out of it, with enough over to make his missis a respectable skirt—if you see what I mean.�
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  ‘Let’s see if he’s still about,’ suggested Biggles.

  They looked, but the canoe had vanished. The only living creatures in sight were some steamboat ducks which had apparently arrived during the storm. On seeing Ginger’s head appear they raced away across the water at fantastic speed, wings whirling, leaving wakes that might have been made by miniature speedboats.

  ‘The canoe must have run for shelter,’ decided Biggles. ‘It won’t come back. We might as well press on.’

  From the air a truly majestic vista was now presented to their gaze. The wind had torn from the peaks the clouds of mist that had previously concealed them, so that they stood, like sentinels, in all their frozen magnificence, gleaming in the sun.

  ‘That’s better,’ said Biggles, approvingly. ‘This is our chance to pick out Sarmiento and Italia.’

  This now proved to be a simple matter, for looking south across Dawson Island the two mountains were outstanding. The nearer was Sarmiento. Flying on towards it the opportunity was taken to note the shape of the shore lines near it, so that its position could again be determined on future occasions even though it was hidden in cloud. The same procedure was followed with Mount Italia, Biggles flying round while Ginger made notes and sketches on a message pad.

  This done, seeing more squalls approaching Biggles headed for home. Long before they were within sight of the airfield the two giants had retired behind their customary cloaks of cloud. On the way they kept a lookout for Gontermann’s boat, but they saw nothing of it.

  ‘I wonder what Gontermann’s really up to,’ murmured Biggles. ‘I can’t believe he gets any pleasure cruising about on his own in these uncomfortable conditions. But still, one never knows. Some people have queer tastes. I remember the famous Captain Slocum, who amused himself sailing round the world alone in a skiff, came through here, and thundering nearly stayed here. But for a change of wind he’d have had it.’

  The Gadfly reached home and landed without incident. After a brief chat with Vendez the party returned to the town in the Ford. Biggles drove straight to the chandler’s establishment where they found Mr Scott at work.