T. C. Bridges
Martin Crusoe (21) (A Boy’s Adventure on Wizard Island)

XXI. A Forced Landing

Martin felt as fresh as paint as he hurried down to where the Bat lay under a rough housing at the edge of the palace lake. Short as his sleep had been, the bath and, above all, the draught which Hymer had given him, had taken all the ache out of his body. His nerves were steady, and his eyes clear.

With him went the priest and two men who were loaded with bombs. All the time that Martin had been away Hymer had kept his workmen hard at it, and now there was a big store of bombs and of powder in the temple.

Though nearly sunset, the heat was greater than ever. There was not a breath of air moving, and sullen-looking thunder-clouds were banking up in every direction.

It was no sort of weather for flying, and Martin knew it. But the monstrous boulders from Odan’s vast catapult still thundered on the roof of the palace, and gaping holes yawned in the golden casing of the great dome. Whatever was to be done to stop the bombardment had to be done quickly, or they would soon have the whole place about their ears.

There was another danger, too—one which frightened Martin more than the bombardment of the palace. At any minute one of these great stones might pitch on the Bat and smash her into kindling wood. The quicker she was off, the better from every point of view.

They reached the lake; Martin got aboard, and the men began stacking the bombs in the cockpit. Some of them gleamed a rich, reddish yellow in the evening light.

“What on earth are these made of?” asked Martin, as he picked one up to put it in its place.

“Gold,” answered the priest. “There was no more bronze.”

Martin fairly gasped. The priest looked worried.

“Will they not do as well?” he asked anxiously.

“Every bit as well,” Martin answered him. “Only it seems too funny. Gold in my country is the rarest metal. You can buy a ton of bronze for a few ounces of gold.”

“You shall have all the gold you like to ask for if we come out of this safely,” replied Hymer.

“And if you can do what you say you can, we may yet beat off these rebels.”

“Don’t worry,” said Martin. “I think my plan will work. All I am afraid of is that the storm may break too soon.”

“I, too, fear the storm,” said Hymer. “Hasten.”

Martin set his bombs in order. He took the smouldering slow match which the priest handed him, and placed it where it could be reached easily. Suddenly he turned to Hymer.

“Priest,” he said, “will you come too? It would be a tremendous help if you would throw the bombs,” explained Martin.

“If there’s a storm I shall want both hands for the controls.”

The priest’s deep-set eyes glowed.

“I thank you, my friend,” he said. “There is nothing which would please me more greatly.”

Stepping lightly as a boy, he followed Martin into the body of the Bat and took the observer’s seat.

Next moment the great engines roared, and the plane tore forward across the lake.

There was no room to spare, and it took Martin all his time to rise before he reached the far bank. But he did it safely, and a few moments later was circling high above the roof of the palace.

The appearance of the plane caused a sensation among the rebels. Many bolted for cover, but other, bolder, shot arrows at her in showers. Of course these failed to reach her, but all of a sudden the huge catapult twanged, and a stone as big as a twelve-inch shell came whizzing up. It was so well aimed that Martin actually felt the wind of it as it hurtled past.

“Close!” he said sharply, and turned to Hymer.

“I’m going for them,” he shouted. “When I’m over that engine of theirs drop a bomb.”

Hymer nodded to show he understood. His keen old face was glowing with excitement. So far from being frightened, he was actually enjoying his rush through the air.

Knowing how difficult it is to drop a bomb from a plane on a target, Martin had no notion that Hymer would get near the catapult. He swooped within a hundred feet of the ground, and exactly as he got to his lowest point the priest flung two bombs at once overboard.

Suddenly he gave a great shout. Martin, banking and circling, could hardly believe his eyes when he saw the catapult in ruins and the ground strewn with dead rebels.

“Splendid!” he cried in delight. “That’s cooked their goose.”

Hymer smiled grimly.

“That has stopped Odan’s stone-throwing for a time,” he said in Martin’s ear. “But, remember, it is only for a time. He will soon have a fresh catapult at work. Let us not waste more time upon his followers, but strike at once at the spot of which you spoke.”

Martin nodded, and wheeling again shot away across the town.

The storm was rising fast, and the look of the sky reminded Martin of that black evening when he had first reached the island of the Lemurians. Monstrous masses of sooty vapor rose like ranges of mountains on every side, and, even at the height at which they flew, the air was hot, sullen, and lifeless.

Speeding across the town they came to the suburbs where the great houses of the nobles stood, each in its own grounds.

Like all the Lemurian houses, these were built of the same dark red, heavy stone. But the one to which Hymer pointed was larger, more massive, and more gloomy-looking than the rest.

Martin put his lips close to the priest’s ear.

“You are sure there are no women or children?” he asked.

“I am sure,” replied Hymer quietly. “Odan hates women, and has none but men about him. Even his wife is not allowed in this fortress.”

As he spoke he picked up one of the largest bombs, and next instant they were over the house and Martin sent the Bat swinging down close above the roof. Hymer had already touched off the fuse of the bomb. Now he flung it down.

It missed the house, but only by a yard or two, and the bomb exploded in the garden, flinging up a great spurt of earth and smoke. Martin turned instantly, and came back along the same line. This time Hymer made no mistake. His bomb dropped plumb in the center of the roof, and when the smoke cleared there was a hole big enough to drop a piano through.

Half a dozen men came bolting out of the house, and vanished like rabbits into the shrubbery. Martin paid no attention to them, but banked back across the house. This third time Hymer’s bomb went wide, but he was not discouraged. The fourth hit the house, the fifth and sixth did no harm, but the seventh seemed to disappear through the very hole the first had made.

“That’s done it!” shouted Martin triumphantly. “That’s done it!”

“It has!” answered the priest grimly, as red flames came roaring through the gap. “Now to see if the sight of his burning house will draw the rebel.”

Martin circled higher.

“It has!” he cried, a moment later. “Here he comes, and his men with him.”

Sure enough, Odan had left his post on the wharf, and he and a large number of his men were running at full speed towards the blazing house. The Lemurian nobles set great store by their palaces, and Odan’s one idea was to save his mansion from destruction.

“Now for it,” said Martin grimly. “We have them in the open. With any luck we can finish them.”

Hymer’s deep-set eyes glowed with a strange fire.

“If we can kill Odan himself,” he said, “the rebellion is at an end. But swing away, my friend. Fly away so that he may not see the trap we have prepared for him.”

Martin rose higher, and flew inland. He was thinking of nothing but Odan. He knew now that the only way to end the rebellion was to finish off its leader. Once Odan was killed, the whole thing would collapse, and all this horrible fighting and slaying of Odan’s unfortunate followers would be at an end. So set was his mind on this that for the moment he had quite forgotten the storm. Suddenly the dark sky was lit by a blaze of vivid lightning, and on its heels came a dull, heavy rumble, like loaded carts crossing a hollow bridge. Then a gust of cold, wet wind caught the plane, making her dip and stagger with its force.

Instantly Martin wheeled and faced it.

Heavy as the gust was, it was nothing to what followed. In a moment a furious gale was howling through the upper air.

“We must get back!” cried Martin in Hymer’s ear. “We can never face this.”

He opened his throttle to the widest, and headed the Bat back towards the Palace lake. It was too late. With a thrill of horror Martin realized that not all the force of the plane’s great engines could drive her into the teeth of this raging storm.

Spinning like a leaf in the screaming air eddies, the Bat was forced backwards by the fury of the gale, and it was only a matter of seconds before Martin saw that his one chance of saving the lives of himself and Hymer was to make a landing as quickly as possible.

Almost immediately beneath was the open space of Odan’s garden, which was protected on the windward side by a belt of thick trees. If he could reach the ground behind these, he might still save the plane from utter destruction.

From damage, no. That was impossible. the Bat, you will remember, was a seaplane, and had floats, not wheels, beneath her under carriage. Being fitted to alight only on water, Martin could not hope to bring her down on land without serious damage.

Down she went. So fierce was the wind that, although she was descending at a steep angle, Martin had to keep her engines going.

Nearer the ground the gale was not quite so violent as it had been higher up, and Martin was able to cut out. The big machine struck the turf with a heavy shock, and there was a crash which made Martin’s heart sink. The under carriage must surely be reduced to splinters.

But there was no time to think of that. He and Hymer were unhurt, and now the one thing to do was to make the plane fast before the wind could blow her over and wreck her completely.

Luckily he had plenty of rope in the cockpit; luckily, too, the priest’s muscles were equal to those of any two ordinary men. At the end of five minutes the Bat was lashed down so firmly that nothing short of a tornado could have wrenched her from her moorings.

Meantime, the clouds had thickened until it was almost as dark as night, but a darkness riven by flashes of intensely vivid lightning. Overhead the wind shrieked like a thousand demons, while the thunder crashed in deafening peals.

So far not a drop of rain had fallen, but Martin knew it must come very soon. Hymer caught him by the arm and said something, but the din of wind and thunder together was so terrific that Martin could not hear a word.

All the same, he understood. The priest was pointing towards Odan’s house, which was blazing to the skies. Vast sheets of flame seized by the wind were carried away like torches. The glare lit the whole garden like day. All around the house men were working frantically, rushing up buckets of water from a pool in the garden. At their head was the monstrous figure of Odan himself, the crimson glow glaring on his golden armor.

It was too late. At that moment Odan, turning, caught sight of the plane. The roar that came from his deep throat rose even above the hideous racket of the storm, and, drawing his sword, he came rushing across the turf.