Part 6 (1/2)
Algy sprang in beside him. ”What was in the box?” he yelled.
Biggles's reply was lost in the roar of the engine as it sprang to life. Without another glance at the schooner he thrust the throttle wide open, swung up into the rapidly thickening haze, and banked in a steep climbing turn, towards the island five or six miles away. They were still * two miles from the lagoon, and the black belt of the' typhoon almost overhead, when he yelled, ”Strap in!”
They were just in time. Something solid seemed to rise up under the machine and lift it bodily a thousand feet or more into the air at the speed of an express lift.
Then the invisible force seemed to be suddenly s.n.a.t.c.hed away and they braced themselves against the sides of the cabin as the machine dropped like a stone over a colossal ”b.u.mp”.
Biggles knew that it was the first wave of compressed air, packed into fluid-like density by the pressure of the oncoming typhoon. He caught his breath as they struck the firm air at the bottom of the b.u.mp with a force that made the machine vibrate from propeller-bosses to tail-wheel. Again the machine quivered and soared vertically, forcing them down in their seats, as an inferno of wind struck it. The pilot thrust the control-column forward with both hands and raced towards the sheltered lagoon on the leeward side of the island.
Algy glanced below and saw that the sea had turned grey. There were no waves, but a raging wind was ripping the surface off the water in a smother of spray; it was like looking down on to the top of a bank of nimbus-cloud. There was no sign of the Sea Eagle.
A spatter of hailstones struck the machine like a burst of machine-gun bullets, and the pilot, knowing full well that hailstones travelling horizontally with the wind, would smash the propellers to pieces as effectively as shrapnel, kicked out his left foot, turned the control-column, and then dragged it back into his right thigh. The ”Vandal” turned and sped away like a leaf before the storm.
The island disappeared from sight instantly, for they were now travelling downwind at a terrific rate. Presently they pa.s.sed the schooner, scudding under bare poles through the raging spindrift. Another island flashed below in a whirl of white-lashed green and brown; a cloud of palm fronds, branches and debris swirled high into the air and trailed away like smoke over the open sea.
The pilot caught his breath. Ericson and his schooner were doomed, for an island with its jagged reef lay right across their path. It looked as if Bob's box would merely change its position on the bottom of the sea. He tried hard to visualise the map in an effort to remember what land, if any, lay ahead of them. Fortunately the ”Vandal's” tanks were nearly full, and at their present speed they could cover a thousand miles, or more, if necessary.
The hours pa.s.sed slowly. From time to time islands swept by below in a blur of writhing palms and foam-lashed rock, and the pilot scrutinized each one anxiously for a possible anchorage, knowing that they were now too far away from Gospel Island to return, even if the storm abated. Most of the islands held lagoons, some on the leeward side, but the floating and air-borne debris made landing out of the question. He was prepared to land anywhere that would afford a reasonably safe anchorage, where they could wait until the typhoon had pa.s.sed or blown itself out, and then look for an inhabited island from which to learn their position. Already the storm was abating, or had s.h.i.+fted its course.
”What was in the box?” yelled Algy in the pilot's ear, but Biggles was not listening.
With outstretched finger he pointed ahead to where a long dark coastline stretched across their path. At one place it bayed into a wide estuary, with a river winding like a silver thread behind it into the grey distance. A long bungalow with several outbuildings stood on the edge of a sheltered backwater. As the pilot throttled back and dropped lower he could see a motor-boat with a Union Jack at the bow moored near by.
”Where are we?” he yelled, as he taxied up to the bank, where a man in white ducks, with several natives in uniform, stood awaiting them.
”Fly River, New Guinea. My name's Davidson. I'm the Resident Magistrate. Come in.
You another one of these record-breakers?”
”We've just established a record from Gospel Island to here that will take some beating,”
observed the pilot soberly.
”Never mind records; what I want to know is, what was in the box?” broke in Algy, impatiently.
”Box? Oh, yes-a picture.”
”A picture?” stammered Algy uncomprehendingly.
”Yes, a little oil-painting in a gold frame of a girl-Bob's wife, I expect. That was his treasure,” added the pilot quietly, pa.s.sing his hand wearily over his face.
CHAPTER 7.
SAVAGES AND WINGS.
THE TINY rose-pink early-morning clouds were fast fading in the turquoise sky as the tropical sun mounted rapidly above the horizon. Already its outflung rays were striking the palm-tops and the hills beyond in white bars of heat as Biggles and Algy left their hotel in Port Moresby, New Guinea, whither they had made their way after being driven far from their course by the typhoon.
Unhurriedly they strolled towards the beach to make the daily visit of inspection to the ”
Vandal” before proceeding to Government House to report their presence and pay their respects to the Governor of the Island.
In the lattice-like shade of a group of palms a man was lying, chin cupped in the palm of his hand, looking steadfastly at the ”Vandal” as it rode the gentle swell near the sh.o.r.e. He was dressed in a loose cotton s.h.i.+rt, open at the throat, and drill trousers that had once been white but that were now creased and soiled by long service. Canvas shoes were thrust loosely on his feet.
It struck Algy that he must have been good-looking before dissipation and fever left their unmistakable marks upon his careworn face.
”This is the fellow who was hanging about the hotel lounge last night, isn't it?” he murmured in an undertone to Biggles as they drew level.
The pilot nodded. ”Yes,” he said quietly, ”and do you know, I can't get away from the idea that I've seen him before somewhere, but I'm dashed if I can remember where.”
They were about to pa.s.s when the man rose to his feet and came towards them. ”That's your machine out there, isn't it?” he asked in a tired but cultured voice.
”It is,” admitted Biggles. ”Why?”
”Oh, nothing, really. I was interested, that's all; haven't seen an aeroplane so close before. I used to be a bit of an engineer before I-well, you can see how things are now. I wonder ifyou would show me over it sometime?”
”Certainly, only too pleased,” replied Biggles readily. ”I'm going aboard presently; come and look round, by all means. In fact, Algy,” he went on, turning to his partner, ”if you don't mind going to see the old man alone I might as well look over her now, before the sun gets up. There are two or three little jobs I want to do and there is no need for us both to go up the hill.”
”Righto,” agreed Algy. ”I'll come back and join you here; I shan't be more than half an hour. Cheerio.”
A shock-headed Papuan, his skin gleaming under a new coat of oil and with a scarlet flower tucked behind his ear, paddled Biggles and his new acquaintance out to the machine.
The stranger looked about him with interest. ”What are all these things?” he asked, pointing to the row of dials on the instrument board, and for nearly half an hour he listened in rapt attention while the pilot explained, with professional enthusiasm, the functions of the instruments and showed him how the starter and the wheels operated.
”Mind your head,” said Biggles, as the stranger turned to look at the pa.s.senger accommodation.
Obediently the other ducked through the low doorway and then stood upright. Biggles bent low to follow. As he put his head down he remembered with a spasm of anger where he had seen the stranger before.
”Why-?” he began, and even as the world exploded inside his head in a sheet of purple flame that faded slowly to blackness he knew that the man had struck him. He pitched forward limply on his face and lay still.
Algy, wending his way slowly down the hillside from Government House, saw the ”
Vandal” swing slowly round until she faced the slight sea breeze, skim lightly over the blue water, and rise like a gull into the sun-soaked sky. ”Must be giving him a joy-ride, the generous cuss,” he 'soliloquised casually, but his brow puckered in surprise as the machine swung round towards the land and then struck off on a steady course towards the blue mountains in the distance. Puzzled, he watched it until it was a mere speck in the sky, and then, deep in thought, returned to the beach, where he flung himself down on the sand to 'await its return.
An hour pa.s.sed slowly. Smyth, their mechanic, joined him, but could offer no solution to the mystery. Another two hours pa.s.sed in doubt and vague speculation, and then Algy rose briskly to his feet.
”He's down,” he said tersely. ”He hadn't four hours petrol on board; I'd better go and see the Governor.”
II.
Biggles's first conscious realisation as he slowly opened his eyes was that his head ached unmercifully; he next perceived that he was lying on the floor of the cabin, but it was not until he tried to raise his arm to his head to feel the extent of the damage that he made the painful and annoying discovery that his wrists and ankles were firmly tied. At the same moment the roar of the engine died away suddenly, and the floor tilted at an angle which told -him they were gliding down. He tried to raise himself high enough to see out of the cabin-windows, but it was impossible, and his lips turned dry at the thought of a forced landing in his present position He breathed a sigh of relief and then muttered an exclamation of surprise as the wheels touched solid ground and rumbled slowly to a standstill. The engine was switched off; the door of the cabin opened and the stranger stood before him.
”What's the idea, Dawne?” said Biggles coldly. ”You remember me, eh?” replied the other.
”I remembered you a trifle too late,” admitted Biggles. ”You were at Calshot, weren't you, on a Short Service Commission ?”
”You ought to know,” replied the other grimly. ”Why?”