Biggles Cuts It Fine Read online

  If further proof of this was needed, it was soon forthcoming. They had gone on only for a short distance when a spot of bright red attracted their attention. It turned out to be a slither of rock, painted red and set on end. It was supported by other pieces of rock. There was a number on it.

  “That can’t be anything but a surveyor’s mark,” declared Ginger. “They had to use rock, and set it on end like that, because there are few places where it would be possible to drive in a peg.”

  He studied the terrain around and observed that they were at the extremity of a fairly extensive open space, one which, without a great deal of labour, could be levelled. It overlooked the open sea. He pointed to another marker, made conspicuous, as must have been intended, by its bright colour. “No doubt there are others, if we cared to look for them,” he told Marcel. “I don’t think we need bother. This, really, is all we wanted to know.”

  “C’est vrai, absolument,” muttered Marcel frowning. “Something is going to happen here, I think. The marks are made. Soon will come men to stay here and make the island a fortress.”

  Ginger nodded. “That’s the answer.”

  “I go home and make report of this to my government,” declared Marcel, whose most obvious reaction was one of indignation at this violation of French territory. “When these Russians come back, they shall see the Tricolore on a high pole. That will make them to think, mon ami.”

  Ginger did not answer. He was staring at an object on an area of mossy ground a little way ahead. He perceived clearly that it was a rabbit. It was the behaviour of the animal that puzzled him. It was jumping about in short jerks round a narrow circle of moss that its activities had already flattened. He started to walk towards it, and he did not have to go far before the mystery was solved. The wretched rodent was caught by the neck in a snare.

  The effect of this discovery, and what it immediately implied, produced in Ginger such a shock that he stopped dead, gripping Marcel by the arm. His manner became alert, his eyes active. His voice, when he spoke, dropped to a whisper. “Marcel! There’s somebody here now. There must be. That animal has only just been caught. The snare must only recently have been set.”

  Marcel’s expression had changed too “Oui,” he breathed. “Who would make a trap if he did not intend to stay?”

  To Ginger, and no doubt to Marcel, the whole atmosphere had changed in a flash. Before, the place had been merely desolate and depressing. Now it had taken on a darkly threatening aspect; one of impending peril; all the more intense because it could not be seen or gauged.

  For a minute or two longer they stood still, tense, staring about them, as if expecting something to happen. An uncomfortable feeling grew on Ginger that they were being watched by unseen eyes.

  “Could it be men from Robinson’s ship?” asked Marcel in a low voice.

  “No,” answered Ginger flatly. “Had it been, they would have seen or heard the machine arrive, and would have shown themselves by now. Besides, they would have fixed up a distress signal—a flag, or something. No. Take it from me, the people here don’t want to be rescued.”

  He hastened forward, released the rabbit, which scampered away, and held up the wire noose significantly. “This is new brass wire,” he said. “Shipwrecked seamen would hardly have new brass cable wire in their pockets. Look at the peg. It’s hard wood, properly made, the sort that you buy at the shop for the job. It didn’t get here by accident. It was brought deliberately for the purpose for which it is being used. Rabbits are food, don’t forget, and fresh food on Hog Island must be a welcome change from canned stuff. Incidentally, this place was supposed to be overrun with rabbits. Where are they? I don’t see many. My guess is that most of them have gone into the pot.”

  “What shall we do? Shall we find these people?”

  “I think we’d be wise to get out before they find us.”

  “You think they haven’t seen us yet?”

  “I don’t know. It may suit them to hide, hoping that we’ll go away without suspecting they’re here. But if once they realise that we do know, they’ll see to it that we don’t go off and tell the world that there are settlers in the Crozets. I’m not suggesting that they might guess the reason why we are here. If they saw us they’d probably take us to be casual visitors—naturalists, or something of the sort. But you may be sure they don’t want anybody to know they are here, much less what they’re doing.”

  “Alors! Then you think we shall run away?”

  “We needn’t run, but we’d better go. What else can we do? What could we do if we found these people? Tell them to go? They’d laugh at us—or shoot us. That would be asking for trouble. Our line is to keep clear of trouble until we can tell Biggles about this. Let’s move off.”

  Marcel agreed reluctantly. “I do not like this running away on soil that belongs to France, but perhaps you are right. If we are killed it will help nobody.”

  “Us, least of all,” asserted Ginger grimly. “Come on!”

  At a brisk pace, eyeing the surrounding rocks suspiciously, they started to retrace their steps.

  They were about half way back to the bay when Ginger was startled, if not bewildered, to hear the Sunderland’s engines start up. There was no sign of a change in the weather, but he knew that something demanding urgent action must have occurred. The starting of the engines could mean nothing else. What puzzled him, and to some extent allayed his anxiety, was the fact that the pre-arranged recall signal had not been fired. “We’d better hurry,” he said, and broke into a run.

  As they ran, they heard the roar of the engines rise to a pitch that could only mean that the flying-boat was taking off. For what possible reason it should leave without them was more than he could imagine. He was soon to know. Cutting through the bellowing engines came the chatter of machine guns, to be followed a moment later by the grunting bark of an automatic cannon. That this was not from the aircraft he knew, for it carried no such armament. Coming to an abrupt stop he turned a distraught face to Marcel. He said nothing. There seemed to be no need to say anything. The sounds spoke for themselves.

  As they went on again, panting and speechless, they saw the Sunderland soar into view, heading out to sea. As they watched it they saw it swing south as if making for Possession or one of the other islands.

  “What do we do?” asked Marcel, in a strangely calm voice.

  Ginger did not answer. He hurried on to the last ridge, and looking over the rocks saw the answer to everything. He was not particularly surprised by what he saw, either, for by this time he had worked out that there could be only one explanation.

  Moving slowly into Deliverance Bay was a drab-painted submarine.

  On how and from where it had so suddenly appeared Ginger wasted no time in conjecture. The fact that it was there was enough. Turning to Marcel, taking care not to let himself be seen from the bay, he simply said: “We’d better find somewhere to hide.”

  Marcel was aghast. “But how can we stay here? We have no house, no food, no fire. We shall die.”

  “Listen, Marcel,” answered Ginger, speaking distinctly. “We shall die even more quickly if the toughs in that submarine catch us. From the way they shot at the machine we need be in no doubt as to how they feel about visitors.”

  “But how shall we live?”

  “I haven’t a clue,” admitted Ginger. “The problem won’t arise if we stand here yammering much longer. Let’s get out of sight for a start.”

  They set off, not going in any particular direction, for knowing practically nothing about the island one way seemed as good as another. Nor did they really know what they were looking for. Instinctively, they kept low among the rocks, near the shore, to reduce their chances of being seen.

  In this way they travelled for perhaps a quarter of a mile, and then, after considering several cavities between or under the rocks, found a crevice that appeared to suit their purpose so well that they went no farther. At first Ginger assumed that it was an entirely natural one, ov
erlooking the sea; but on exploring the retreat he observed with mixed feelings that they are not the first occupants. Someone had laid lengths of wood, that looked like the planks of a small boat, from rock to rock across the top, which otherwise would have been open. On these had been piled slabs of peat, held down by lumps of rock, to form a roof. That all this had been done long ago was evident from the rotting and dilapidated state of the whole miserable affair. It seemed doubtful if the roof any longer served its original purpose of keeping off the rain.

  Wondering vaguely what unfortunate wretch had been forced to resort to such a primitive dwelling, he went inside and saw the answer lying on the ground. He was still there—or rather, an untidy litter of bones that had been his skeleton. Bleached and broken by long exposure, they had obviously been there for a long time.

  For a moment or two Ginger and Marcel looked at each other with expressions of repugnance, and but for the desperate state of their own affairs they would no doubt have departed promptly to look for somewhere less suggestive of their own ultimate fate. Then Ginger braced himself and put on as bold a front as he could muster. “I’m staying here,” he announced. “We’ve come a bit late to help this poor blighter, but he won’t mind us using his dug-out, I’m sure. We should be able to keep reasonably dry here. If we get wet through in this brutal cold, with no means of drying ourselves, we’ve had it.”

  Investigating further they found roughly painted on the rock in lamp black, the name ‘Adam Grey.’ Below was the date, ‘1772’.

  “I hope we don’t have to stay here as long as he has,” observed Ginger, with a rather feeble attempt at humour. “Let’s have a look and see what’s happening,” he went on. “The next move, I imagine, will depend on whether or not these land grabbers know we are here. We shall soon know.”

  Peeping over the rocks, with renewed alarm they saw a heavily-built, bearded man emerging from just beyond the place where they had found the rabbit. He was walking towards the bay, from which direction six men in dark uniforms were advancing to meet him. The two parties soon met, and held what was obviously an earnest discussion. Then they all walked towards the bay and disappeared from sight.

  “So there was a man here,” said Marcel.

  “One at least,” answered Ginger.

  “Perhaps he goes now, in the submarine, with the others.”

  “That would suit us fine. We’ll see. There’s nothing we can do except stay here and let things sort themselves out.”

  “Biggles will come.”

  “Of course he will, but not yet. Today is only Thursday, remember. He won’t be back at Cape Town until Saturday evening at the earliest, so it’s no use expecting him before Sunday.”

  “Perhaps Algy will do something.”

  “He does at least know we’re here, but I don’t see how he can do anything while that submarine is in the bay—even if he’s in a state to do anything.”

  “Tiens! What are you saying?”

  “From the way the machine was flying, I’ve got an uncomfortable feeling that it had been hit,” answered Ginger gloomily. “Algy started off straight out to sea. No doubt he’d do that to try to kid the people on the submarine that all his crew was aboard and he was making for home. Why, then, did he suddenly swing round towards Possession Island? I can only think it was because he discovered that he’d been hit. That’s how it strikes me, but it’s no use guessing. We shall just have to sit tight and wait for somebody else to make a move.”

  They went back into the dug-out, as the shelter was automatically called. With scant ceremony Marcel moved the bones of the long dead sailor aside with his foot and sat down on a square stone which, from the position in which it had been placed, had been the chair of the unlucky mariner. Ginger, brooding, wondered how many solitary hours the man had sat on it, watching the sea for help that never came.

  This sombre thought brought home the seriousness of their own plight. It was not as hopeless as that, but it was bad enough. Strangely, their greatest danger lay not in remaining undiscovered, but in being found before Biggles or Algy arrived to take them off, as they were sure would happen sooner or later.

  They should, he thought, be able to hold out until Sunday, if necessary without food, supposing that Algy did not turn up in the meantime. So their prospect, with the inevitable privations that would have to be endured, while not an enviable one, was not hopeless. The real peril was the presence on the island of men who, having been brought up to believe that ruthlessness was efficiency, would ensure their silence, if they found them, by destroying them. Witness the way they had, without provocation, fired on the flying boat.

  What had happened in the bay needed no great effort to visualise. The submarine must have been travelling under water when the Sunderland approached the island; or possibly it had been on the surface, but hearing an aircraft approaching, had submerged. Either way the result was the same. Algy or Bertie must have seen it coming, and rather than risk an encounter that would almost certainly have been fatal to all of them, had taken off as the only hope of saving the aircraft and its crew.

  Presumably the submarine had been close in when it surfaced; at all events, Bertie had not had time to fetch them or even make the necessary signal. Algy would realise that they would hear the machine take off, and from that take warning that something was amiss—as did in fact happen. It was hard to see what else he could do in the circumstances. What he would do next would depend on whether or not the aircraft had been damaged. If the machine had to be ditched, or crash-landed on Possession Island—but Ginger preferred not to think about that. The Sunderland had picked up its dinghy. At any rate, Ginger could not remember seeing it in the bay. True, he hadn’t looked for it, but he felt sure he would have noticed it, had it been abandoned. He took comfort from the thought that if Algy was all right he knew where they were and how they were fixed.

  Still pondering the matter, he perceived that much would depend on whether their presence on the island was known to the people already there, or to those on the submarine, which would be the same thing. If they supposed, as they might, that the aircraft had its full complement on board when it had taken off, they were likely to be left in peace. On the other hand, if it were known that two members of its crew had been left ashore, all hands would be turned to the task of finding them, to find out who they were and what they were doing there. For in view of the illegal nature of their undertaking the Russians could hardly fail to be disturbed in their minds to find an aircraft on the sea.

  Ginger went out and took another cautious peep over the rocks. On all sides the island lay bleak and bare. Not a soul was in sight. He returned to Marcel, whose eyebrows asked a question.

  “Can’t see anybody,” said Ginger. “But we should be silly, I think, to start moving about just yet.”

  Marcel agreed.

  “The important thing to us is this; will that chap who was on the island stay with the submarine or go back to wherever he came from? Everything really depends on knowing where he is. We ought to keep watch. I suggest we take turns—anyway until it gets too dark to see.”

  Again Marcel agreed.

  “All right, I’ll start,” offered Ginger.

  He went out again, and finding a niche in the rocks that commanded a view in the desired direction, settled down to what he knew would be a cheerless vigil. The rocks were damp, and like blocks of ice to the touch. The air, too, was bitterly cold and had a penetrating quality that was more chilling than clean dry frost. The only moving things that he could see were the gulls that drifted about in an aimless sort of way. He wondered if he would be reduced to eating them.

  Slowly the day began to die. Of human life still there was no sign.

  VII

  STRANGE HARBOUR

  GINGER’S summing up of the situation as far as Algy and Bertie was concerned was accurate almost to the last detail. It was Bertie who had first seen the submarine, for Algy, with nothing particularly on his mind, was in the navigation cabin, c
hecking courses to the other islands of the group preparatory to making a complete round of them. Not that he expected to see anything on The Apostles, ten of which are mere towering rocks.

  Bertie was sitting on the shore, behind a mass of tufa that sheltered him from the slight but keen breeze, nibbling a chocolate biscuit as he gazed across the unbroken expanse of grey water that surrounded them. There was too much of it, he soliloquised, much too much. Hog was a good name for an island condemned to such isolation and he would be glad to see the last of it. Even the hogs had died. No wonder.

  Still musing, he suddenly stopped munching, his mouth half open, his eyes focused on a spot about half a mile away. Was he seeing things ? He would have sworn that a minute before there was nothing there. But there was something there now, and he had no difficulty in identifying it. It was the conning tower of a submarine. The steel hull was still awash, but surfacing, from the way it was spilling water.

  Bertie wasted no time admiring the spectacle. He knew the probable nationality and business of any submarine likely to be in the vicinity of the Crozet Islands. With a shout he sprang to his feet and without waiting for Algy to answer jumped into the dinghy and began paddling furiously towards the aircraft. Seeing Algy appear he desisted for a moment to point, and then resumed his high-speed exercise. He next saw Algy in the bows, cutting the cable. By the time he reached the cabin door, Algy was back, waiting to grab the paddle that he held out to him in order to pull the dinghy in. Bertie jumped out.

  Algy hung on to the dinghy. “We shall need it to pick up the others,” he muttered. Together they dragged the unwieldy craft inboard.