Part 6 (2/2)
”You were President of the Court that smashed me.”
Biggles opened his eyes wide in astonishment.
”Yes, I remember,” he said slowly. ”You were court-martialled for cas.h.i.+ng dud cheques.
It was some time ago --I had forgotten it.”
”I haven't,” returned Dawne curtly. ”Well, I don't bear you any malice for that; but listen.
I need hardly tell you that I've a very good reason for coming here. A journey overland would have taken me three months and cost a lot more money than I'm ever likely to get.
Moreover, I didn't want anybody else about, which is another reason why I couldn't bring a party. I couldn't come alone except this way because, as you no doubt know, the local gentry have a penchant for head-hunting, and hiking in these woods is neither a pleasant nor a profitable past-time. Naturally, I never thought I should have the opportunity of flying here. I nearly pitched you the whole yarn last night in the hope that. you would carve in with me; in fact, I would have done if I could have believed that you would have fallen into line. But I knew you wouldn't.”
”Still crooked, eh?” observed Biggles.
”Yes, and likely to be,” admitted Dawne. ”Don't get personal though; that won't help you.
Keep quiet and I'll give you a break. When I've finished here I'll turn you loose. I shall fly back, but not to Moresby. With a bit of luck you might get back to Moresby in a month or two, and by that time I shall be well out of the way. I'll give you a gun if you'll give me your word that you won't use it against me until I get off the ground.”
”Your generosity staggers me,” sneered Biggles.
”I'll stagger you with something else if you try to be funny. I'm no murderer, Bigglesworth, but I'm not going to stand any nonsense; this is the first real chance I've had since I was smashed.”
”How about cutting these straps,” suggested Biggles, indicating his bound wrists.
”I will if you'll give me your parole,” offered the other. ”I'm dashed if I do,” replied Biggles through set teeth.
as you like,” nodded Dawne, with a shrug. ”I'm moving off now; shall be back in a couple of hours or so. Cheerio !”
Biggles made no reply. For some time he lay still, trying to think out a plan of action, but there seemed little he could do. His wrists were tightly bound, and try as he would he found it impossible to loosen them; neither was there a single projection inside the hull against which he could chafe his bonds in the hope of fraying them. He had no idea of where they were or how far they were from Port Moresby nor could he ascertain whether they were on a beach or in a glade in the forest, although the shrill cries of parrots suggested the latter. The heat in the cabin was stifling and the hours pa.s.sed slowly.
It was with some relief that he heard the returning footsteps of his abductor. The outside door of the cabin was opened and the ex-officer swung a heavy bag inside. Perspiration streamed down his face, which was flushed with heat and excitement.
”Do you know what that is?” he asked, with a grin. ”I neither know nor care,” answered Biggles coldly.
”I'll show you.” So saying, Dawne opened the top of the bag and inserted his hand; withdrawing it, he allowed a gleaming yellow stream to trickle through his fingers. ”
Gold-dust,” he muttered in a voice hoa.r.s.e with triumph.
In spite of his precarious position, Biggles stared incredulously.
” One more load like that and I'm through,” went on Dawne. ”Shan't be long.”
The door closed again and Biggles heard the footsteps recede into the distance. For an hour all was quiet except for the occasional raucous cry of a bird or chatter of a monkey, and the pilot lay lost in thought, trying to solve the desperate problem with which he was faced. Subconsciously he heard a slight thud on the outside of the hull, as if a twig had dropped on it, but he paid little attention. The prospect of being left to struggle back to Port Moresby on foot appalled him. He knew little of the country, but sufficient to understand that not even an experienced prospector with a knowledge of the native dialects would lightly undertake such a task alone. The jungle, except for native tracks, was impenetrable, swarming with leeches, poisonous snakes, and centipedes. The natives, headhunters and cannibals to a man were the most treacherous in the world. The rivers were the only highways, and except for the rare visit of an armed trader or government official were used only by the native canoes and crocodiles.
No, the prospect was not pleasant. Dawne's proposal to turn him loose was little better than a death-sentence, .yet he could understand the ex-officer's disinclination to take him back to Port Moresby, where the arm of the law would speedily upset his plans.
At intervals he heard the soft thud on the outside of the hull that he had heard before, and he wondered vaguely if an inquisitive monkey was exploring the machine. A sudden splintering blow brought him back to realities with a start, and he stared in petrified horror at something that had appeared in the cabin wall just above his face. It was the business end of a spear, nine inches of gleaming steel, still quivering. Another sharp thud on the other side of the cabin made him turn quickly to where an unmistakable arrowhead projected through the thin woodwork of the hull. He noted the dirty brown point and recalled the Papuan's notorious habit of poisoning his arrows. He shuddered, and then a gleam of hope flashed in his eyes. It was the work of a moment to raise his feet and cut the cord that bound them on the razor-edge of the spearhead. Scrambling to his knees, he severed the cords that tied his wrists and worked his numb fingers to restore the circulation.
He risked a cautious peep out of the cabin-window. The machine was standing under a large tree on a wide but undulating gra.s.sy plateau. Turning, he looked through the opposite window and saw that he was within fifty yards of the jungle. There were no signs of natives. Above him the parakeets swung lazily by bill and claw in the tree, over which a cascade of bougainvillaea spread like a purple stain. There were no more arrows; no scene could have appeared more peaceful, but he knew that from the sylvan wall of the forest many b.e.s.t.i.a.l eyes were fixed on the amphibian in hate and fear. Again the pilot turned towards the open ground on the other side to ascertain the best direction for a take-off; and he knew at once why the arrows had ceased. Dawne, with a bag slung over his shoulder, was hurrying across the plateau, perhaps a hundred yards distant.
Biggles moved swiftly. He dived through into the pilot's seat, whirled the self-starter, and then yelled as the engine came to life.
”Look out!” he shouted to the approaching man, who, when the engine started, stopped dead in his tracks, then dropped the bag and raced towards the machine. He swerved like a rugby-player as a flight of arrows whistled from the brushwood, and, crouching low,, sprinted for the machine, now taxi-ing slowly towards him.
”Come on! You've made it,” yelled Biggles.
Dawne, now thoroughly conscious of his danger, emptied his revolver into the undergrowth as he ran, and then dived under the wing of the machine to reach the door of the cabin. Even as he reached the door he stumbled and pitched forward on to his face, with the handle of a throwing-spear projecting from between his shoulder-blades.
Biggles turned stone-cold at the sight and acted purely on impulse. White-faced, he s.n.a.t.c.hed the throttle back, dived under the low doorway, flung open the cabin door and dragged the fallen man inside. As he slammed the door behind him there was a yell from the wood and a shower of arrows struck the machine. There was another yell as the natives, seeing their prey about to escape,, broke cover and charged.
Biggles darted back to the pilot's seat, and thrust the throttle wide open, just as the leading native reached the tail and aimed a blow at it with an axe, which, had it reached its mark, would have cut the empennage in halves; but he staggered back with an animal bark of alarm as the full slipstream of the propeller smote him.
The next few seconds, as the machine b.u.mped with swiftly increasing speed over the rough ground, seemed an eternity of time to the pilot, and he relaxed limply with reaction as it lifted at last and soared skyward.
For a minute or two he held on his course, wondering which direction to take. Dawne was in the cabin, probably dying, but he could not leave the controls to help him or ask him where they were. On all sides stretched the forest, dark and forbidding. Almost immediately below, a fairly wide river lay like a carelessly dropped grey thread among the trees. In the distance to his left towered the jagged peaks of a mountain range, while far away to the right a broader river twisted and coiled upon itself a hundred times as it meandered towards the sea. But which was the nearest way to the sea? Biggles did not know, but with the ever-present possibility of a forced landing in his mind he headed instinctively towards the river, but before he reached it the smell of petrol made him look around in grey-faced anxiety. Petrol was on the floor, and the feathered end of an arrow projecting from the main tank told its own story.
The engine spluttered and faded out just as he reached the river, and he switched over to the gravity tank, which allowed him another twenty minutes' grace. It was impossible to tell which way the river flowed, but he turned the nose of the machine towards its broader end in the hope of reaching the sea, knowing that the nearer he was to the coast the safer he would be. He breathed a sigh of relief as presently the sea rose up on the horizon, but he was still some distance away when the steady roar of his engine became an intermittent splutter and then died away completely. The propeller gave a final kick and then stopped.
The pilot coolly studied the river to pick out the best spot within range for the inevitable landing. There were several straight reaches, and he automatically chose the longest, which fortunately happened to be the one nearest the sea. At a thousand feet he pa.s.sed over a native village standing on stilt-like legs in the mud on the edge of the river, and he noted with satisfaction that it seemed deserted.
The tree-tops were motionless, so he concluded that there was little wind, if any, to be taken into account, and he flattened out confidently over the middle of the river. He skimmed over a great tree floating in the water and hoped desperately that there were no more; but his fears were groundless. The ”Vandal” surged slowly to a standstill on the muddy water, and then commenced to float slowly downstream with the current. The pilot could do no more; he was even powerless to reach the bank, so after a swift glance around he hurried through into the cabin.
Dawne was lying on his side on the floor just as he had left him. His face was ashen, but his eyes were open.
”Don't take it out,” he said quietly, as he saw the pilot's eyes turn towards the spear in his back. ”It will be all over if you do. It will soon be all over, anyway,” he went on, ”but before I go topsides I want to apologise to you, Bigglesworth ”.
”Don't worry about that, Dawne,” said Biggles softly, as he folded his jacket and placed it under the wounded man's head. ”I'm sorry I couldn't make Moresby, but they holed my tank.”
”Where are we now?” asked Dawne.
”On the river,” replied Biggles.
”Do you mean the big river east of where I landed?” Biggles nodded. A drum began beating fitfully in the bush not far away.
”You'll be all right then, if you are fairly near the sea,” went on Dawne. ”Most of the villages are friendly here.”
There was silence for a few minutes, and the pilot, squatting on the floor, watched the stricken man compa.s.sionately.
”Just my luck,” muttered the ex-pilot bitterly. ”I would get this just as I had my hands on that.” His eyes sought the bag of gold-dust lying on the floor. ”I never did have much luck,” he concluded ruefully.
”It's tough, very tough, I'll admit,” agreed Biggles, ”but you were asking for trouble the way you went to work.”
”There wasn't any other way,” muttered the wounded man.
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