Читать книгу Biggles Flies Again - W E Johns - Страница 5

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“Here he comes!” Biggles, leaning over the side of the “Vandal”, flung the words back over his shoulder to Algy, who was peering into the early-morning haze on the other side of the machine. A canoe, paddled by a negro, bumped alongside, and their acquaintance of the previous evening scrambled aboard. He flung the boatman a coin and turned to Biggles.

“We go,” he said in a sibilant hiss. “Waste no time.”

His face was pale, and he was panting as if he had been running; Biggles glanced significantly at Algy as he dropped into his seat.

Biggles started up the engine, which broke the silence with its powerful roar. As he sat back to allow it to warm up he looked around for the stranger and saw him peering anxiously out of the cabin-window at the quickly forming group of natives on the bank.

“You’d better come and sit next to me,” he called; “you’ve got to show me the way.”

Obediently the passenger crawled through the small cabin door into the vacant seat next to the pilot, which was normally occupied by Algy.

“You’ll have to stay in the cabin with Smyth,” Biggles told his second pilot apologetically.

He glanced at the thermometer, raced the engine for a moment, and then taxied quickly towards the open water near the harbour mouth. When he saw that he had a clear run he pushed the throttle open and soared through the screaming gulls towards the turquoise-blue sky above. For a few minutes he circled widely, climbing steadily for height, and then nudged his companion, who was looking over the side with an expression of mingled surprise and apprehension on his face.

“Which way?” he yelled.

For answer the man thrust a sketch-map into his hand. The pilot set the machine on even keel and allowed it to fly “hands off” while he examined the map closely. He had become sufficiently familiar with the coast to recognize the locality instantly; it was the delta of the Orinoco. In a backwater of the mighty estuary a spot was marked in red; he glanced at his companion, who was watching him anxiously, and raised his eyebrows inquiringly, with his finger on the spot. The man nodded. Biggles handed him back the map, which he no longer needed, and set his course north-west to follow the coastline he knew so well. He throttled back to three-quarter throttle and settled himself down for a two-hours’ cruise.

On his right lay the deep green of the Atlantic, sweeping away until it kissed the horizon in the infinite distance. Below, an irregular white line marked where the surf waged eternal war on the broad belt of silvery sand. To the left, the dark, untrodden forest lay like a great stain between sea and sky until it melted at last into the purple haze of the dim beyond. There was little risk of losing the way, and except for keeping the nose of the machine on the unmistakable white surf-line by an occasional touch on the rudder-bar the pilot had little to do. The time passed slowly, but at last the breakers curled round to the east, and when the mouth of the mighty river lay before them he throttled back and commenced a long glide towards the backwater that was their destination.

Reaching it, he circled once very low to make sure there were no obstructions, then sank lightly on to the still water and taxied up the silvery, sandy beach into the shade of a clump of coconut palms. He switched off, and climbed out. A humming bird hovered over the nose of the machine for an instant, and then darted towards a clump of exotic flowers that thrust themselves above the undergrowth near the edge of the forest.

“Nice spot,” Biggles observed approvingly as he glanced around. “Where do we start digging?”

The tropical beauty of the scene was evidently lost on their passenger, for no sooner had their wheels touched the shore than he leapt lightly to the ground and hurried along the strip of beach, looking eagerly to right and left. He stopped suddenly and waved to them triumphantly.

“Here it is!” he shouted.

Hurrying to the spot, the airmen examined the cause of his excitement dubiously. It was a piece of charred wood protruding from the sand. Several similar pieces formed a rough curve.

“They’re the bones of a ship, no doubt of that; burnt to the water’s edge, by the look of it,” observed Biggles. “Let’s get the spades.”

Two hours later he paused to wipe the perspiration from his face. “Phew!” he gasped. “We shall have to steady the pace a bit. There’s more sand here than meets the eye.”

Algy straightened his back stiffly. “Where does it all come from anyway? I didn’t know there was so much sand in the world,” he observed, gloomily.

A glance around the scene of their labours revealed the truth of Biggles’s words. For two hours they had shovelled sand madly aside, without pause and with hardly a word, but the only visible result was four great holes exposing still more sand. The ribs around which they had been working showed a little more of their length, that was all.

“Let’s knock off for a bit,” he suggested. “The stuff’s been here for five hundred years, so another minute or two shouldn’t hurt it.”

They returned to the machine, unpacked some provisions, and with difficulty persuaded their passenger to desist and join them in a frugal meal. A few minutes later they resumed their task, digging feverishly into the yielding but heavy sand. By sunset the holes were appreciably deeper, but there was still no sign of anything but sand.

“Hullo! What’s this?” Algy bent forward and eagerly picked up a small, roughly-round object that lay at his feet. The others were around him instantly, examining the find with intense interest.

Algy rubbed the disc vigorously on the seat of his trousers and then held it up again for inspection. It was undoubtedly a coin of some sort, and an inscription was faintly legible.

“Phillipofour, one-six-two-one,” he read slowly, and turned it over. Amongst a mass of hieroglyphics two castles could be distinguished. “What the dickens is it?” he asked.

“Piece of eight; eight reales—a silver coin minted in Peru in sixteen twenty-one,” explained the passenger blandly.

“You seem to know all about it,” said Biggles, quickly.

“I have seen them before.”

“Well, let’s find some more; silver is better than nothing,” observed the pilot, picking up his spade.

But the sun dropped over the horizon with tropical suddenness and they had no choice but to return to the “Vandal” to make preparations for the night. A faint hum, slowly increasing in volume, became audible in the still air.

“Here come the enemy,” said Biggles dryly.

“Enemy! Where?” The passenger sprang to his feet in alarm and stared out over the sea.

“Are you expecting them to come that way?” asked the pilot evenly. “I was talking about mosquitoes,” he added. “We’d better oil ourselves or we shall be torn to pieces.”