Riddle of the Sands by Erskine Childers (page 4)

couldn’t resist adding this). But directly you really _want_ me you turn round and go for me.’

‘Oh, I didn’t mean all that, really,’ said Davies; ‘I’m sorry–I was worried.’

‘I know; but it’s your own fault. You haven’t been fair with me. There’s a complication in this business that you’ve never talked about. I’ve never pressed you because I thought you would confide in me. You–‘

‘I know I haven’t,’ said Davies.

‘Well, you see the result. Our hand was forced. To have said nothing about Dollmann was folly–to have said he tried to wreck you was equal folly. The story we agreed on was the best and safest, and you told it splendidly. But for two reasons I had to harp on the daughter–one because your manner when they were mentioned was so confused as to imperil our whole position. Two, because your story, though the safest, was, at the best, suspicious. Even on your own showing Dollmann treated you badly–discourteously, say: though you pretended not to have seen it. You want a motive to neutralize that, and induce you to revisit him in a friendly way. I supplied it, or rather I only encouraged von Brüning to supply it.’

‘Why revisit him, after all?’ said Davies.

‘Oh, come–‘

‘But don’t you see what a hideous fix you’ve put me in? How caddish I feel about it?’

I did see, and I felt a cad myself, as his full distress came home to me. But I felt, too, that, whosesoever the fault, we had drifted into a ridiculous situation, and were like characters in one of those tiresome plays where misunderstandings are manufactured and so carefully sustained that the audience are too bored to wait for the _dénouement._ You can do that on the stage; but we wanted our _dénouement._

‘I’m very sorry,’ I said, ‘but I wish you had told me all about it. Won’t you now? Just the bare, matter-of-fact truth. I hate sentiment, and so do you.’

‘I find it very difficult to tell people things,’ said Davies, ‘things like this.’ I waited. ‘I did like her–very much.’ Our eyes met for a second, in which all was said that need be said, as between two of our phlegmatic race. ‘And she’s–separate from him. That was the reason of all my indecisions.’ he hurried on. ‘I only told you half at Schlei. I know I ought to have been open, and asked your advice. But I let it slide. I’ve been hoping all along that we might find what we want and win the game without coming to close quarters again.’

I no longer wondered at his devotion to the channel theory, since, built on conviction, it was thus doubly fortified.

‘Yet you always knew what might happen,’ I said. ‘At Schlei you spoke of “settling with” Dollmann.’

‘I know. When I thought of him I was mad. I made myself forget the other part.’

‘Which recurred at Brunsbüttel?’ I thought of the news we had there.

‘Yes.’

‘Davies, we must have no more secrets. I’m going to speak out. Are you sure you’ve not misunderstood her? You say–and I’m willing to assume it–that Dollmann’s a traitor and a murderer.’

‘Oh, hang the murder part!’ said Davies, impatiently. ‘What does _that_ matter?’

‘Well, traitor. Very good; but in that case I suspect his daughter. No! let me go on. She was useful, to say the least. She encouraged you–you’ve told me that–to make that passage with them.’

‘Stop, Carruthers,’ said Davies, firmly. ‘I know you mean kindly; but it’s no use. I believe in her.’

I thought for a moment.

‘In that case,’ I said, ‘I’ve something to propose. When we get out of this place let’s sail straight away to England.’ ‘(There, Commander von Brüning,’ I thought, ‘you never can say I neglected your advice.’)

‘No!’ exclaimed Davies, starting up and facing me. ‘I’m hanged if we will. Think what’s at stake. Think of that traitor–plotting with Germans. My God!’

‘Very good,’ I said. ‘I’m with you for going on. But let’s face facts. We _must_ scotch Dollmann. We can’t do so without hurting _her_.’

‘Can’t we _possibly_?’

‘Of course not; be sensible, man. Face that. Next point; it’s absurd to hope that we need not revisit them–it’s ten to one that we must, if we’re to succeed. His attempt on you is the whole foundation of our suspicions. And we don’t even know for certain who he _is_ yet. We’re committed, I know, to going straight to Norderney now; but even if we weren’t, should we do any good by exploring and prying? It’s very doubtful. We know we’re watched, if not suspected, and that disposes of nine-tenths of our power. The channels? Yes, but is it likely they’ll let us learn them by heart, if they’re of such vital importance, even if we are thought to be _bona fide_ yachtsmen? And, seriously, apart from their value in war, which I don’t deny, are they at the root of this business? But we’ll talk about that in a moment. The point now is, what shall we do if we meet the Dollmanns?’

Beads of sweat stood on Davies’s brow. I felt like a torturer, but it could not be helped. ‘Tax him with having wrecked you? Our quest would be at an end! We must be friendly. You must tell the story you told to-day, and chance his believing it. If he does, so much the better; if he doesn’t, he won’t dare say so, and we still have chances. We gain time, and have a tremendous hold on him–_if_ we’re friendly.’ Davies winced. I gave another turn to the screw. ‘Friendly with them _both,_ of course. You were before, you know; you liked her very much–you must seem to still.’

‘Oh, stop your infernal logic.’

‘Shall we chuck it and go to England?’ 1 asked again, as an inquisitor might say, ‘Have you had enough?’ No answer. I went on: ‘To make it easier, you _do_ like her still.’ I had roused my victim at last.

‘What the devil do you mean, Carruthers? That I’m to trade on my liking for her–on her innocence, to–good God! what _do_ you mean?’

‘No, no, not that. I’m not such a cad, or such a fool, or so ignorant of you. If she knows nothing of her father’s character and likes you–and you like her–and you are what you are–oh Heavens! man, face it, realize it! But what I mean is this: is she, _can_ she be, what you think? Imagine his position if we’re right about him; the vilest creature on God’s earth–a disgraceful past to have been driven to this–in the pay of Germany. I want to spare you misery.’ I was going to add: ‘And if you’re on your guard, to increase our chances.’ But the utter futility of such suggestions silenced me. What a plan I had foreshadowed! An enticing plan and a fair one, too, as against such adversaries; turning this baffling cross-current to advantage as many a time we had worked eddies of an adverse tide in these difficult seas. But Davies was Davies, and there was an end of it; his faith and simplicity shamed me. And the pity of it, the cruelty of it, was that his very qualities were his last torture, raising to the acutest pitch the conflict between love and patriotism. Remember that the latter was his dominant life-motive, and that here and now was his chance–if you would gauge the bitterness of that conflict.

It was in its last throes now. His elbows were on the table, and his twitching hands pressed on his forehead. He took them away.

‘Of course we must go on. It can’t be helped, that’s all.’

‘And you believe in her?’

‘I’ll remember what you’ve said. There may be some way out. And–I’d rather not talk about that any more. What about the wreck?’

Further argument was futile. Davies by an effort seemed to sweep the subject from his thoughts, and I did my best to do the same. At any rate the air was cleared–we were friends; and it only remained to grapple with the main problem in the light of the morning’s interview.

Every word that I could recollect of that critical conversation I reviewed with Davies, who had imperfectly understood what he had not been directly concerned in; and, as I did so, I began to see with what cleverness each succeeding sentence of von Brüning’s was designed to suit both of two contingencies. If we were innocent travellers, he was the genial host, communicative and helpful. If we were spies, his tactics had been equally applicable. He had outdone us in apparent candour, hiding nothing which he knew we would discover for ourselves, and contriving at the same time both to gain knowledge and control of our movements, and to convey us warnings, which would only be understood if we were guilty, that we were playing an idle and perilous game, and had better desist. But in one respect we had had the advantage, and that was in the version Davies had given of his stranding on the Hohenhörn. Inscrutable as our questioner was, he let it appear not only that the incident was new to him, but that he conjectured at its sinister significance. A little cross-examination on detail would have been fatal to Davies’s version; but that was where our strength lay; he dared not cross-examine for fear of suggesting to Davies suspicions which he might never have felt. Indeed, I thought I detected that fear underlying his whole attitude towards us, and it strengthened a conviction which had been growing in me since Grimm’s furtive midnight visit, that the secret of this coast was of so important and delicate a nature that rather than attract attention to it at all, overt action against intruders would be taken only in the last resort, and on irrefragable proofs of guilty intention.

Now for our clues. I had come away with two, each the germ of a distinct theory, and both obscured by the prevailing ambiguity. Now, however, as we thumbed the chart and I gave full rein to my fancy, one of them, the idea of Memmert, gained precision and vigour every moment. True, such information as we had about the French wreck and his own connection with it was placed most readily at our disposal by von Brüning; but I took it to be information calculated only to forestall suspicion, since he was aware that we already associated him with Dollmann, possibly also with Grimm, and it was only likely that in the ordinary course we should learn that the trio were jointly concerned in Memmert. So much for the facts; as for the construction he wished us to put on them, I felt sure it was absolutely false. He wished to give us the impression that the buried treasure itself was at the root of any mystery we might have scented. I do not know if the reader fully appreciated that astute suggestion–the hint that secrecy as to results was necessary owing both to the great sum at stake and the flaw in the title, which he had been careful to inform us had passed through British hands. What he meant to imply was, ‘Don’t be surprised if you have midnight visitors; Englishmen prowling along this coast are suspected of being Lloyd’s agents.’ An ingenious insinuation, which, at the time it was made, had caused me to contemplate a new and much more commonplace solution of our enigma than had ever occurred to us; but it was only a passing doubt, and I dismissed it altogether now.

The fact was, it either explained everything or nothing. As long as we held to our fundamental assumption–that Davies had been decoyed into a death-trap in September–it explained nothing. It was too fantastic to suppose that the exigencies of a commercial speculation would lead to such extremities as that. We were not in the South Sea Islands; nor were we the puppets of a romance. We were in Europe, dealing not only with a Dollmann, but with an officer of the German Imperial Navy, who would scarcely be connected with a commercial enterprise which could conceivably be reduced to forwarding its objects in such a fashion. It was shocking enough to find him in relations with such a scoundrel at all, but it was explicable if the motive were imperial–not so if it were financial. No; to accept the suggestion we must declare the whole quest a mare’s nest from beginning to end; the attempt on Davies a delusion of his own fancy, the whole structure we had built on it, baseless.

‘Well,’ I can hear the reader saying, ‘why not? You, at any rate, were always a little sceptical.’

Granted; yet I can truthfully say I scarcely faltered for a moment. Much had happened since Schlei Fiord. I had seen the mechanism of the death-trap; I had lived with Davies for a stormy fortnight, every hour of which had increased my reliance on his seamanship, and also, therefore, on his account of an event which depended largely for its correct interpretation on a balanced nautical judgement. Finally, I had been unconsciously realizing, and knew from his mouth to-day, that he had exercised and acted on that judgement in the teeth of personal considerations, which his loyal nature made overwhelming in their force.

What, then, was the meaning of Memmert? At the outset it riveted my attention on the Ems estuary, whose mouth it adjoins. We had always rather neglected the Ems in our calculations; with some excuse, too, for at first sight its importance bears no proportion to that of the three greater estuaries. The latter bear vessels of the largest tonnage and deepest draught to the very quays of Hamburg, Bremerhaven, and the naval dockyard of Wilhelmshaven; while two of them, the Elbe and the Weser, arc commerce carriers on the vastest scale for the whole empire. The Ems, on the other hand, only serves towns of the second class. A glance at the chart explains this. You see a most imposing estuary on a grander scale than any of the other three taken singly, with a length of thirty miles and a frontage on the North Sea of ten miles. or one-seventieth, roughly, of the whole seaboard; encumbered by outlying shoals, and blocked in the centre by the island of Borkum, but presenting two fine deep-water channels to the incoming vessel. These roll superbly through enormous sheets of sand, unite and approach the mainland in one stately stream three miles in breadth. But then comes a sad falling off. The navigable fairway shoals and shrinks, middle grounds obstruct it, and shelving foreshores persistently deny it that easy access to the land that alone can create great seaboard cities. All the ports of the Ems are tidal; the harbour of Delfzyl, on the Dutch side, dries at low water, and Emden, the principal German port, can only be reached by a lock and a mile of canal.

But this depreciation is only relative. Judged on its merits, and not by the standard of the Elbe, it is a very important river. Emden is a flourishing and growing port. For shallow craft the stream is navigable far into the interior, where, aided by tributaries and allied canals (notably the connection with the Rhine at Dortmund, then approaching completion), it taps the resources of a great area. Strategically there was still less reason for underrating it. It is one of the great maritime gates of Germany; and it is the westernmost gate, the nearest to Great Britain and France. contiguous to Holland. Its great forked delta presents two yawning breaches in that singular rampart of islets and shoals which masks the German seaboard–a seaboard itself so short in proportion to the empire’s bulk, that, as Davies used to say, every inch of it must be important’. Warships could force these breaches, and so threaten the mainland at one of its few vulnerable points. Quay accommodation is no object to such visitors; intricate navigation no deterrent. Even the heaviest battleships could approach within striking distance of the land, while cruisers and military transports could penetrate to the level of Emden itself. Emden, as Davies had often pointed out, is connected by canal with Wilhelmshaven on the Jade, a strategic canal, designed to carry gunboats as well as merchandise.

Now Memmert was part of the outer rampart; its tapering sickle of sand directly commanded the eastern breach; it _must_ be connected with the defence of this breach. No more admirable base could be imagined; self-contained and isolated, yet sheltered, accessible–better than Juist and Borkum. And supposing it were desired to shroud the nature of the work in absolute secrecy, what a pretext lay to hand in the wreck and its buried bullion, which lay in the offing opposite the fairway!

On Memmert was the depot for the salvage operations. Salvage work, with its dredging and diving, offered precisely the disguise that was needed. It was submarine, and so are some of the most important defences of ports, mines, and dirigible torpedoes. All the details of the story were suggestive: the ‘small local company’; the ‘engineer from Bremen’ (who, I wondered, was he?); the few shares held by von Brüning, enough to explain his visits; the stores and gear coming from Wilhelmshaven, a naval dockyard.

Try as I would I could not stir Davies’s imagination as mine was stirred. He was bent on only seeing the objections, which, of course, were numerous enough. Could secrecy be ensured under pretext of salving a wreck? It must be a secret shared by many–divers, crews of tugs, employees of all sorts. I answered that trade secrets are often preserved under no less difficult conditions, and why not imperial secrets?

‘Why the Ems and not the Elbe?’ he asked.

‘Perhaps,’ I replied, ‘the Elbe, too, holds similar mysteries.’ Neuerk Island might, for all we knew, be another Memmert; when cruising in that region we had had no eyes for such things, absorbed in a preconceived theory of our own. Besides, we must not take ourselves too seriously. We were amateurs, not experts in coast defence, and on such vague grounds to fastidiously reject a clue which went so far as this one was to quarrel with our luck. There was a disheartening corollary to this latter argument that in my new-born zeal I shut my eyes to. As amateurs, were we capable of using our clue and gaining exact knowledge of the defences in question? Davies, I knew, felt this strongly, and I think it accounted for his lukewarm view of Memmert more than he was aware. He clung more obstinately than ever to his ‘channel theory’, conscious that it offered the one sort of opportunity of which with his peculiar gifts he was able to take advantage. He admitted, however, that it was under a cloud at present, for if knowledge of the coastwise navigation were a crime in itself we should scarcely be sitting here now. ‘It’s something to do with it, anyhow!’ he persisted.

18 Imperial Escort

MEMMERT gripped me, then, to the exclusion of a rival notion which had given me no little perplexity during the conversation with von Brüning. His reiterated advice that we should lose no time in picking up our anchor and chain had ended by giving me the idea that he was anxious to get us away from Bensersiel and the mainland. At first I had taken the advice partly as a test of our veracity (as I gave the reader to understand), and partly as an indirect method of lulling any suspicions which Grimm’s midnight visit may have caused. Then it struck me that this might be over-subtlety on my part, and the idea recurred when the question of our future plans cropped up, and hampered me in deciding on a course. It returned again when von Brüning offered to tow us out in the evening. It was in my mind when I questioned him as to his business ashore, for it occurred to me that perhaps his landing here was not solely due to a wish to inspect the crew of the Dulcibella. Then came his perfectly frank explanation (with its sinister _double entente_ for us), coupled with an invitation to me to accompany him to Esens. But, on the principle of _’tinieo Danaos’_ etc., I instantly smelt a ruse, not that I dreamt that I was to be decoyed into captivity; but if there was anything here which we two might discover in the few hours left to us, it was an ingenious plan to remove the most observant of the two till the hour of departure.

Davies scorned them, and I had felt only a faint curiosity in these insignificant hamlets, influenced, I am afraid, chiefly by a hankering after _terra firma_ which the pitiless rigour of his training had been unable to cure.

But it was imprudent to neglect the slightest chance. It was three o’clock, and I think both our brains were beginning to be addled with thinking in close confinement. I suggested that we should finish our council of war in the open, and we both donned oilskins and turned out. The sky had hardened and banked into an even canopy of lead, and the wind drove before it a fine cold rain. You could hear the murmur of the rising flood on the sands outside, but the harbour was high above it still, and the Dulcibella and the other boats squatted low in a bed of black slime. Native interest seemed to be at last assuaged, for not a soul was visible on the bank (I cannot call it a quay); but the top of a black sou’wester with a feather of smoke curling round it showed above the forehatch of the Kormoran.

‘I wish I could get a look at your cargo, my friend,’ I thought to myself.

We gazed at Bensersiel in silence.

‘There can’t be anything _here_?’ I said.

‘What _can_ there be?’ said Davies.

‘What about that dyke?’ I said, with a sudden inspiration.

From the bank we could see all along the coast-line, which is dyked continuously, as I have already said. The dyke was here a substantial brick-faced embankment, very similar, though on a smaller scale, to that which had bordered the Elbe near Cuxhaven, and over whose summit we had seen the snouts of guns.

‘I say, Davies,’ I said, ‘do you think this coast could be invaded? Along here, I mean, behind these islands?’

Davies shook his head. ‘I’ve thought of that,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing in it. It’s just the very last place on earth where a landing would be possible. No transport could get nearer than where the Blitz is lying, four miles out.’

‘Well, you say every inch of this coast is important?’

‘Yes, but it’s the _water_ I mean.’

‘Well, I want to see that dyke. Let’s walk along it.’

My mushroom theory died directly I set foot on it. It was the most innocent structure in the world–like a thousand others in Essex and Holland–topped by a narrow path, where we walked in single file with arms akimbo to keep our balance in the gusts of wind. Below us lay the sands on one side and rank fens on the other, interspersed with squares of pasture ringed in with ditches. After half a mile we dropped down and came back by a short circuit inland, following a mazy path–which was mostly right angles and minute plank bridges, till we came to the Esens road. We crossed this and soon after found our way barred by the stream I spoke of. This involved a _détour_ to the bridge in the village, and a stealthy avoidance of the post-office, for dread of its garrulous occupant. Then we followed the dyke in the other direction, and ended by a circuit over the sands, which were fast being covered by the tide, and so back to the yacht.

Nobody appeared to have taken the slightest notice of our movements.

As we walked we had tackled the last question, ‘What are we to do?’ and found very little to say on it. We were to leave to-night (unless the Esens police appeared on the scene), and were committed to sailing direct to Norderney, as the only alternative to duck shooting under the espionage of a ‘trustworthy’ nominee of von Brüning’s. Beyond that–vagueness and difficulty of every sort.

At Norderney I should be fettered by my letter. If it seemed to have been opened and it ordered my return, I was limited to a week, or must risk suspicion by staying. Dollmann was away (according to von Brüning), ‘would probably be back soon’; but how soon? Beyond Norderney lay Memmert. How to probe its secret? The ardour it had roused in me was giving way to a mortifying sense of impotence. The sight of the Kormoran, with her crew preparing for sea, was a pointed comment on my diplomacy, and most of all on my ridiculous survey of the dykes. When all was said and done we were _protégés_ of von Brüning, and dogged by Grimm. Was it likely they would let us succeed?

The tide was swirling into the harbour in whorls of chocolate froth, and as it rose all Bensersiel, dominated as before by Herr Schenkel, straggled down to the quay to watch the movements of shipping during the transient but momentous hour when the mud-hole was a seaport. The captain’s steam-cutter was already afloat, and her sailors busy with sidelights and engines. When it became known that we, too, were to sail, and under such distinguished escort, the excitement intensified.

Again our friend of the customs was spreading out papers to sign, while a throng of helpful Frisians, headed by the twin giants of the post-boat, thronged our decks and made us ready for sea in their own confused fashion. Again we were carried up to the inn and overwhelmed with advice, and warnings, and farewell toasts. Then back again to find the Dulcibella afloat, and von Brüning just arrived, cursing the weather and the mud, chaffing Davies, genial and _débonnaire_ as ever.

‘Stow that mainsail, you won’t want it,’ he said. ‘I’ll tow you right out to Spiekeroog. It’s your only anchorage for the night in this wind–under the island, near the Blitz, and that would mean a dead beat for you in the dark.’

The fact was so true, and the offer so timely, that Davies’s faint protests were swept aside in a torrent of ridicule.

‘And now I think of it,’ the commander ended, ‘I’ll make the trip with you, if I may. It’ll be pleasanter and drier.’

We all three boarded the Dulcibella, and then the end came. Our tow-rope was attached, and at half-past six the little launch jumped into the collar, and amidst a demonstration that could not have been more hearty if we had been ambassadors on a visit to a friendly power, we sidled out through the jetties.

It took us more than an hour to cover the five miles to Spiekeroog, for the Dulcibella was a heavy load in the stiff head wind, and Davies, though he said nothing, showed undisguised distrust of our tug’s capacities. He at once left the helm to me and flung himself on the gear, not resting till every rope was ready to hand, the mainsail reefed, the binnacle lighted, and all ready for setting sail or anchoring at a moment’s notice. Our guest watched these precautions with infinite amusement. He was in the highest and most mischievous humour, raining banter on Davies and mock sympathy on me, laughing at our huge compass, heaving the lead himself, startling us with imaginary soundings, and doubting if his men were sober. I offered entertainment and warmth below, but he declined on the ground that Davies would be tempted to cut the tow-rope and make us pass the night on a safe sandbank. Davies took the raillery unmoved. His work done, he took the tiller and sat bareheaded, intent on the launch, the course, the details, and chances of the present. I brought up cigars and we settled ourselves facing him, our backs to the wind and spray. And so we made the rest of the passage, von Brüning cuddled against me and the cabin-hatch, alternately shouting a jest to Davies and talking to me in a light and charming vein, with just that shade of patronage that the disparity in our ages warranted, about my time in Germany, places, people, and books I knew, and about life, especially young men’s life, in England, a country he had never visited, but hoped to; I responding as well as I could, striving to meet his mood, acquit myself like a man, draw zest instead of humiliation from the irony of our position, but scarcely able to make headway against a numbing sense of defeat and incapacity. A queer thought was haunting me, too, that such skill and judgement as I possessed was slipping from me as we left the land and faced again the rigours of this exacting sea. Davies, I very well knew, was under exactly the opposite spell–a spell which even the reproach of the tow-rope could not annul. His face, in the glow of the binnacle, was beginning to wear that same look of contentment and resolve that I had seen on it that night we had sailed to Kiel from Schlei Fiord. Heaven knows he had more cause for worry than I–a casual comrade in an adventure which was peculiarly his, which meant everything on earth to him; but there he was, washing away perplexity in the salt wind, drawing counsel and confidence from the unfailing source of all his inspirations–the sea.

‘Looks happy, doesn’t he?’ said the captain once. I grunted that he did, ashamed to find how irritated the remark made me.

‘You’ll remember what I said,’ he added in my ear.

OTE

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But I should like to see her. What is she like?’

‘Dangerous.’ I could well believe it.

The hull of the Blitz loomed up, and a minute later our kedge was splashing overboard and the launch was backing alongside.

‘Good-night, gentlemen,’ said our passenger. ‘You’re safe enough here, and you can run across in ten minutes in the morning and pick up your anchor, if it’s there still. Then you’ve a fair wind west–to England if you like. If you decide to stay a little longer in these parts, and I’m in reach, count on me to help you, to sport or anything else.’

We thanked him, shook hands, and he was gone.

‘He’s a thundering good chap, anyhow,’ said Davies; and I heartily agreed.

The narrow vigilant life began again at once. We were ‘safe enough’ in a sense, but a warp and a twenty-pound anchor were poor security if the wind backed or increased. Plans for contingencies had to be made, and deck-watches kept till midnight, when the weather seemed to improve, and stars appeared. The glass was rising, so we turned in and slept under the very wing, so to speak, of the Imperial Government.

‘Davies,’ I said, when we were settled in our bunks, ‘it’s only a day’s sail to Norderney, isn’t it?’

‘With a fair wind, less, if we go outside the islands direct.’

‘Well, it’s settled that we do that to-morrow?’

‘I suppose so. We’ve got to get the anchor first. Good-night.’

19 The Rubicon

IT was a cold, vaporous dawn, the glass rising, and the wind fallen to a light air still from the north-east. Our creased and sodden sails scarcely answered to it as we crept across the oily swell to Langeoog. ‘Fogs and calms,’ Davies prophesied. The Blitz was astir when we passed her, and soon after steamed out to sea. Once over the bar, she turned westward and was lost to view in the haze. I should be sorry to have to explain how we found that tiny anchor-buoy, on the expressionless waste of grey. I only know that I hove the lead incessantly while Davies conned, till at last he was grabbing overside with the boat-hook, and there was the buoy on deck. The cable was soon following it, and finally the rusty monster himself, more loathsome than usual, after his long sojourn in the slime.

‘That’s all right,’ said Davies. ‘Now we can go anywhere.’

‘Well, it’s Norderney, isn’t it? We’ve settled that.’

‘Yes, I suppose we have. I was wondering whether it wouldn’t be shortest to go inside the Langeoog after all.’

‘Surely not,’ I urged. ‘The tide’s ebbing now, and the light’s bad; it’s new ground, with a “watershed” to cross, and we’re safe to get aground.’

‘All right–outside. Ready about.’ We swung lazily round and headed for the open sea. I record the fact, but in truth Davies might have taken me where he liked, for no land was visible, only a couple of ghostly booms.

‘It seems a pity to miss over that channel,’ said Davies with a sigh; ‘just when the Kormoran can’t watch us.’ (We had not seen her at all this morning.)

I set myself to the lead again, averse to reopening a barren argument. Grimm had done his work for the present, I felt certain, and was on his way by the shortest road to Norderney and Memmert.

We were soon outside and heading west, our boom squared away and the island sand-dunes just apparent under our lee. Then the breeze died to the merest draught, and left us rolling inert in a long swell. Consumed with impatience to get on I saw fatality in this failure of wind, after a fortnight of unprofitable meanderings, when we had generally had too much of it, and always enough for our purpose. I tried to read below, but the vile squirting of the centre-board drove me up.

‘Can’t we go any faster?’ I burst out once. I felt that there ought to be a pyramid of gauzy canvas aloft, spinnakers, flying jibs, and what not.

‘I don’t go in for speed,’ said Davies, shortly. He loyally did his best to ‘shove her’ along, but puffs and calms were the rule all day, and it was only by towing in the dinghy for two hours in the afternoon that we covered the length of Langeoog, and crept before dark to an anchorage behind Baltrum, its slug-shaped neighbour on the west. Strictly, I believe, we should have kept the sea all night; but I had not the grit to suggest that course, and Davies was only too glad of an excuse for threading the shoals of the Accumer Ee on a rising tide. The atmosphere had been slowly clearing as the day wore on; but we had scarcely anchored ten minutes before a blanket of white fog, rolling in from seaward, swallowed us up. Davies was already afield in the dinghy, and I had to guide him back with a foghorn, whose music roused hosts of sea birds from the surrounding flats, and brought them wheeling and complaining round us, a weird invisible chorus to my mournful solo.

The fog hung heavy still at daybreak on the 20th, but dispersed partially under a catspaw from the south about eight o’clock, in time for us to traverse the boomed channel behind Baltrum, before the tide left the watershed.

‘We shan’t get far to-day,’ said Davies, with philosophy. ‘And this sort of thing may go on for any time. It’s a regular autumn anti-cyclone–glass thirty point five and steady. That gale was the last of a stormy equinox.’

We took the inside route as a matter of course to-day. It was now the shortest to Norderney harbour, and scarcely less intricate than the Wichter Ee, which appeared to be almost totally blocked by banks, and is, in fact, the most impassable of all these outlets to the North Sea. But, as I say, this sort of navigation, always puzzling to me, was utterly bewildering in hazy weather. Any attempt at orientation made me giddy. So I slaved at the lead, varying my labour with a fierce bout of kedge-work when we grounded somewhere. I had two rests before two o’clock, one of an hour, when we ran into a patch of windless fog; another of a few moments, when Davies said, ‘There’s Norderney!’ and I saw, surmounting a long slope of weedy sand, still wet with the receding sea, a cluster of sandhills exactly like a hundred others I had seen of late, but fraught with a new and unique interest.

The usual formula, ‘What have you got now?’ checked my reverie, and ‘Helm’s a-lee,’ ended it for the time. We tacked on (for the wind had headed us) in very shoal water.

Suddenly Davies said: ‘Is that a boat ahead?’

‘Do you mean that galliot?’ I asked. I could plainly distinguish one of those familiar craft about half a mile away, just within the limit of vision.

‘The Kormoran, do you think?’ I added. Davies said nothing, but grew inattentive to his work. ‘Barely four,’ from me passed unnoticed, and we touched once, but swung off under some play of the current. Then came abruptly, ‘Stand by the anchor. Let go,’ and we brought up in mid-stream of the narrow creek we were following. I triced up the main-tack, and stowed the headsails unaided. When I had done Davies was still gazing to windward through his binoculars, and, to my astonishment, I noticed that his hands were trembling violently. I had never seen this happen before, even at moments when a false turn of the wrist meant death on a surf-battered bank.

‘What is it?’ I asked; ‘are you cold?’

‘That little boat,’ he said. I gazed to windward, too, and now saw a scrap of white in the distance, in sharp relief.

‘Small standing lug and jib; it’s her, right enough,’ said Davies to himself, in a sort of nervous stammer.

‘Who? What?’

‘Medusa’s dinghy.’

He handed, or rather pushed, me the glasses, still gazing.

‘Dollmann?’ I exclaimed.

‘No, it’s _hers_–the one she always sails. She’s come to meet m–, us.’

Through the glasses the white scrap became a graceful little sail, squared away for the light following breeze. An angle of the creek hid the hull, then it glided into view. Someone was sitting aft steering, man or woman I could not say, for the sail hid most of the figure. For full two minutes–two long, pregnant minutes–we watched it in silence. The damp air was fogging the lenses, but I kept them to my eyes; for I did not want to look at Davies. At last I heard him draw a deep breath, straighten himself up, and give one of his characteristic ‘h’ms’. Then he turned briskly aft, cast off the dinghy’s painter, and pulled her up alongside.

‘You come too,’ he said, jumping in, and fixing the rowlocks. (His hands were steady again.) I laughed, and shoved the dinghy off.

‘I’d rather you did,’ he said, defiantly.

‘I’d rather stay. I’ll tidy up, and put the kettle on.’ Davies had taken a half stroke, but paused.

‘She oughtn’t to come aboard.’ he said.

‘She might like to,’ I suggested. ‘Chilly day, long way from home, common courtesy–,

‘Carruthers,’ said Davies, ‘if she comes aboard, please remember that she’s outside this business. There are no clues to be got from _her_.’

A little lecture which would have nettled me more if I had not been exultantly telling myself that, once and for all, for good or ill, the Rubicon was passed.

‘It’s your affair this time,’ I said; ‘run it as you please.’

He sculled away with vigorous strokes. ‘Just as he is,’ I thought to myself: bare head, beaded with fog-dew, ancient oilskin coat (only one button); grey jersey; grey woollen trousers (like a deep-sea fisherman’s) stuffed into long boots. A vision of his antitype, the Cowes Philanderer, crossed me for a second. As to his face–well, I could only judge by it, and marvel, that he was gripping his dilemma by either horn, as firmly as he gripped his sculls.

I watched the two boats converging. They would meet in the natural course about three hundred yards away, but a hitch occurred. First, the sail-boat checked and slewed; ‘aground,’ I concluded. The row-boat leapt forward still; then checked, too. From both a great splashing of sculls floated across the still air, then silence. The summit of the watershed, a physical Rubicon, prosaic and slimy, had still to be crossed, it seemed. But it could be evaded. Both boats headed for the northern side of the creek: two figures were out on the brink, hauling on two painters. Then Davies was striding over the sand, and a girl–I could see her now–was coming to meet him. And then I thought it was time to go below and tidy up.

Nothing on earth could have made the Dulcibella’s saloon a worthy reception-room for a lady. I could only use hurried efforts to make it look its best by plying a bunch of cotton-waste and a floor-brush; by pitching into racks and lockers the litter of pipes, charts, oddments of apparel, and so on, that had a way of collecting afresh, however recently we had tidied up; by neatly arranging our demoralized library, and by lighting the stove and veiling the table under a clean white cloth.

I suppose about twenty minutes had elapsed, and I was scrubbing fruitlessly at the smoky patch on the ceiling, when I heard the sound of oars and voices outside. I threw the cotton-waste into the fo’c’sle, made an onslaught on my hands, and then mounted the companion ladder. Our own dinghy was just rounding up alongside, Davies sculling in the bows, facing him in the stern a young girl in a grey tam-o’-shanter, loose waterproof jacket and dark serge skirt, the latter, to be frigidly accurate, disclosing a pair of workman-like rubber boots which, _mutatis mutandis,_ were very like those Davies was wearing. Her hair, like his, was spangled with moisture. and her rose-brown skin struck a note of delicious colour against the sullen Stygian background.

‘There he is,’ said Davies. Never did his ‘meiner Freund, Carruthers,’ sound so pleasantly in my ears; never so discordantly the ‘Fräulein Dollmann’ that followed it. Every syllable of the four was a lie. Two honest English eyes were looking up into mine; an honest English hand–is this insular nonsense? Perhaps so, but I stick to it–a brown, firm hand–no, not so very small, my sentimental reader–was clasping mine. Of course I had strong reasons, apart from the racial instinct, for thinking her to be English, but I believe that if I had had none at all I should at any rate have congratulated Germany on a clever bit of plagiarism. By her voice, when she spoke, I knew that she must have talked German habitually from childhood; diction and accent were faultless, at least to my English ear; but the native constitutional ring was wanting.

She came on board. There was a hollow discussion first about time and weather, but it ended as we all in our hearts wished it to end. None of us uttered our real scruples. Mine, indeed, were too new and rudimentary to be worth uttering, so I said common-sense things about tea and warmth; but I began to think about my compact with Davies.

‘Just for a few minutes, then,’ she said.

I held out my hand and swung her up. She gazed round the deck and rigging with profound interest–a breathless, hungry interest–touching to see.

‘You’ve seen her before, haven’t you?’ I said.

‘I’ve not been on board before,’ she answered.

This struck me in passing as odd; but then I had only too few details from Davies about his days at Norderney in September.

‘Of course, _that_ is what puzzled me,’ she exclaimed, suddenly, pointing to the mizzen. ‘I knew there was something different.’

Davies had belayed the painter, and now had to explain the origin of the mizzen. This was a cumbrous process, and his hearer’s attention soon wandered from the subject and became centred in him–his was already more than half in her–and the result was a golden opportunity for the discerning onlooker. It was very brief, but I made the most of it; buried deep a few regrets, did a little heartfelt penance, told myself I had been a cynical fool not to have foreseen this, and faced the new situation with a sinking heart; I am not ashamed to admit that, for I was fond of Davies, and I was keen about the quest.

She had never been a guilty agent in that attempt on Davies. Had she been an unconscious tool or only an unwilling one? If the latter, did she know the secret we were seeking? In the last degree unlikely, I decided. But, true to the compact, whose importance I now fully appreciated, I flung aside my diplomatic weapons, recoiling, as strongly, or nearly as strongly, let us say, from any effort direct or indirect to gain information from such a source. It was not our fault if by her own conversation and behaviour she gave us some idea of how matters stood. Davies already knew more than I did.

We spent a few minutes on deck while she asked eager questions about our build and gear and seaworthiness, with a quaint mixture of professional acumen and personal curiosity.

‘How _did_ you manage alone that day?’ she asked Davies, suddenly.

‘Oh, it was quite safe,’ was the reply. ‘But it’s much better to have a friend.’

She looked at me; and–well, I would have died for Davies there and then.

‘Father said you would be safe,’ she remarked, with decision–a slight excess of decision, I thought. And at that turned to some rope or block and pursued her questioning. She found the compass impressive, and the trappings of that hateful centre-board had a peculiar fascination for her. Was this the way we did it in England? was her constant query.

Yet, in spite of a superficial freedom, we were all shy and constrained. The descent below was a welcome diversion, for we should have been less than human if we had not extracted some spontaneous fun from the humours of the saloon. I went down first to see about the tea, leaving them struggling for mutual comprehension over the theory of an English lifeboat. They soon followed, and I can see her now stooping in at the doorway, treading delicately, like a kitten, past the obstructive centre-board to a place on the starboard sofa, then taking in her surroundings with a timid rapture that broke into delight at all the primitive arrangements and dingy amenities of our den. She explored the cavernous recesses of the Rippingille, fingered the duck-guns and the miscellany in the racks, and peeped into the fo’c’sle with dainty awe. Everything was a source of merriment, from our cramped attitudes to the painful deficiency of spoons and the ‘yachtiness’ (there is no other word to describe it) of the bread, which had been bought at Bensersiel, and had suffered from incarceration and the climate. This fact came out, and led to some questions, while we waited for the water to boil, about the gale and our visit there. The topic, a pregnant one for us, appeared to have no special significance to her. At the mention of von Brüning she showed no emotion of any sort; on the contrary, she went out of her way, from an innocent motive that anyone could have guessed, to show that she could talk about him with dispassionate detachment.

‘He came to see us when you were here last, didn’t he?’ she said to Davies. ‘He often comes. He goes with father to Memmert sometimes. You know about Memmert? They are diving for money out of an old wreck.’

Yes, we had heard about it.

‘Of course you have. Father is a director of the company, and Commander von Brüning takes great interest in it; they took me down in a diving-bell once.’

I murmured, ‘Indeed!’ and Davies sawed laboriously at the bread. She must have misconstrued our sheepish silence, for she stopped and drew herself up with just a touch of momentary hauteur, utterly lost on Davies. I could have laughed aloud at this transient little comedy of errors.

‘Did you see any gold?’ said Davies at last, with husky solemnity. Something had to be said or we should defeat our own end; but I let him say it. He had not my faith in Memmert.

‘No, only mud and timber–oh, I forgot–‘

‘You mustn’t betray the company’s secrets,’ I said, laughing; ‘Commander von Brüning wouldn’t tell us a word about the gold.’ (‘There’s self-denial!’ I said to myself.)

‘Oh, I don’t think it matters much,’ she answered, laughing too. ‘You are only visitors.’

‘That’s all,’ I remarked, demurely. ‘Just passing travellers.’

‘You will stop at Norderney?’ she said, with naive anxiety. ‘Herr Davies said–‘

I looked to Davies; it was his affair. Fair and square came his answer, in blunt dog-German.

‘Yes, of course, we shall. I should like to see your father again.’

Up to this moment I had been doubtful of his final decision; for ever since our explanation at Bensersiel I had had the feeling that I was holding his nose to a very cruel grindstone. This straight word, clear and direct, beyond anything I had hoped for, brought me to my senses and showed me that his mind had been working far in advance of mine; and more, shaping a double purpose that I had never dreamt of.

‘My father?’ said Fräulein Dollmann; ‘yes, I am sure he will be very glad to see you.

There was no conviction in her tone, and her eyes were distant and troubled.

‘He’s not at home now, is he?’ I asked.

‘How did you know?’ (a little maidenly confusion). ‘Oh, Commander von Brüning.’

I might have added that it had been clear as daylight all along that this visit was in the nature of an escapade of which her father might not approve. I tried to say ‘I won’t tell,’ without words, and may have succeeded.

‘I told Mr Davies when we first met,’ she went on. ‘I expect him back very soon–to-morrow in fact; he wrote from Amsterdam. He left me at Hamburg and has been away since. Of course, he will not know your yacht is back again. I think he expected Mr Davies would stay in the Baltic, as the season was so late. But–but I am sure he will be glad to see you.’

‘Is the Medusa in harbour?’ said Davies.

‘Yes; but we are not living on her now. We are at our villa in the Schwannallée–my stepmother and I, that is.’ She added some details, and Davies gravely pencilled down the address on a leaf of the log-book; a formality which somehow seemed to regularize the present position.

‘We shall be at Norderney to-morrow,’ he said.

Meanwhile the kettle was boiling merrily, and I made the tea–cocoa, I should say, for the menu was changed in deference to our visitor’s tastes. ‘This _is_ fun!’ she said. And by common consent we abandoned ourselves, three youthful, hungry mariners, to the enjoyment of this impromptu picnic. Such a chance might never occur again–_carpamus diem._

But the banquet was never celebrated. As at Belshazzar’s feast, there was a writing on the wall; no supernatural inscription, but just a printed name; an English surname with title and initials, in cheap gilt lettering on the back of an old book; a silent, sneering witness of our snug party. The catastrophe came and passed so suddenly that at the time I had scarcely even an inkling of what caused it; but I know now that this is how it happened. Our visitor was sitting at the forward end of the starboard sofa, close to the bulkhead. Davies and I were opposite her. Across the bulkhead, on a level with our heads, ran the bookshelf, whose contents, remember, I had carefully straightened only half an hour ago, little dreaming of the consequence. Some trifle, probably the logbook which Davies had reached down from the shelf, called her attention to the rest of our library. While busied with the cocoa I heard her spelling out some titles, fingering leaves, and twitting Davies with the little care he took of his books. Suddenly there was a silence which made me look up, to see a startled and pitiful change in her. She was staring at Davies with wide eyes and parted lips, a burning flush mounting on her forehead, and such an expression on her face as a sleep-walker might wear, who wakes in fear he knows not where.

Half her mind was far away, labouring to construe some hideous dream of the past; half was in the present, cringing before some sickening reality. She remained so for perhaps ten seconds, and then–plucky girl that she was–she mastered herself, looked deliberately round and up with a circular glance, strangely in the manner of Davies himself, and spoke. How late it was, she must be going–her boat was not safe. At the same time she rose to go, or rather slid herself along the sofa, for rising was impossible. We sat like mannerless louts, in blank amazement. Davies at the outset had said, ‘What’s the matter?’ in plain English, and then relapsed into stupefaction. I recovered myself the first, and protested in some awkward fashion about the cocoa, the time, the absence of fog. In trying to answer, her self-possession broke down, poor child, and her retreat became a blind flight, like that of a wounded animal, while every sordid circumstance seemed to accentuate her panic.

She tilted the corner of the table in leaving the sofa and spilt cocoa over her skirt; she knocked her head with painful force against the sharp lintel of the doorway, and stumbled on the steps of the ladder. I was close behind, but when I reached the deck she was already on the counter hauling up the dinghy. She had even jumped in and laid hands on the sculls before any check came in her precipitate movements. Now there occurred to her the patent fact that the dinghy was ours, and that someone must accompany her to bring it back.

‘Davies will row you over,’ I said.

‘Oh no, thank you,’ she stammered. ‘If you will be so kind, Herr Carruthers. It is your turn. No, I mean, I want–‘

‘Go on,’ said Davies to me in English.

I stepped into the dinghy and motioned to take the sculls from her. She seemed not to see me, and pushed off while Davies handed down her jacket, which she had left in the cabin. Neither of us tried to better the situation by conventional apologies. It was left to her, at the last moment, to make a show of excusing herself, an attempt so brave and yet so wretchedly lame that I tingled all over with hot shame. She only made matters worse, and Davies interrupted her.

‘_Auf Wiedersehen_,’ he said, simply.

She shook her head, did not even offer her hand, and pulled away; Davies turned sharp round and went below.

There was now no muddy Rubicon to obstruct us, for the tide had risen a good deal, and the sands were covering. I offered again to take the sculls, but she took no notice and rowed on, so that I was a silent passenger on the stem seat till we reached her boat, a spruce little yacht’s gig, built to the native model, with a spoon-bow and tiny lee-boards. It was already afloat, but riding quite safely to a rope and a little grapnel, which she proceeded to haul in.

‘It was quite safe after all, you see,’ I said.

‘Yes, but I could not stay. Herr Carruthers, I want to say something to you.’ (I knew it was coming; von Brüning’s warning over again.) ‘I made a mistake just now; it is no use your calling on us to-morrow.’

‘Why not?’

‘You will not see my father.’

‘I thought you said he was coming back?’

‘Yes, by the morning steamer; but he will be very busy.’

‘We can wait. We have several days to spare, and we have to call for letters anyhow.’

‘You must not delay on our account. The weather is very fine at last. It would be a pity to lose a chance of a smooth voyage to England. The season–‘

‘We have no fixed plans. Davies wants to get some shooting.

‘My father will be much occupied.’

‘We can see _you_.’

I insisted on being obtuse, for though this fencing with an unstrung girl was hateful work, the quest was at stake. We were going to Norderney, come what might, and sooner or later we must see Dollmann. It was no use promising not to. I had given no pledge to von Brüning, and I would give none to her. The only alternative was to violate the compact (which the present fiasco had surely weakened), speak out, and try and make an ally of her. Against her own father? I shrank from the responsibility and counted the cost of failure–certain failure, to judge by her conduct. She began to hoist her lugsail in a dazed, shiftless fashion, while our two boats drifted slowly to leeward.

‘Father might not like it,’ she said, so low and from such tremulous lips that I scarcely caught her words. ‘He does not like foreigners much. I am afraid … he did not want to see Herr Davies again.’

‘But I thought–‘

‘It was wrong of me to come aboard–I suddenly remembered; but 1 could not tell Herr Davies.’

‘I see,’ I answered. ‘I will tell him.’

‘Yes, that he must not come near us.

‘He will understand. I know he will be very sorry, but,’ I added, firmly, ‘you can trust him implicitly to do the right thing.’ And how I prayed that this would content her! Thank Heaven, it did.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I am afraid I did not say good-bye to him. You will do so?’ She gave me her hand.

‘One thing more,’ I added, holding it, ‘nothing had better be said about this meeting?’

‘No, no, nothing. It must never be known.’

I let go the gig’s gunwale and watched her tighten her sheet and make a tack or two to windward. Then I rowed back to the Dulcibella as hard as I could.

20 The Little Drab Book

I FOUND Davies at the cabin table, surrounded with a litter of books. The shelf was empty, and its contents were tossed about among the cups and on the floor. We both spoke together.

‘Well, what was it?’

‘Well, what did she say?’

I gave way, and told my story briefly. He listened in silence, drumming on the table with a book which he held.

‘It’s not good-bye,’ he said. ‘But I don’t wonder; look here!’ and he held out to me a small volume, whose appearance was quite familiar to me, if its contents were less so. As I noted in an early chapter, Davies’s library, excluding tide-tables, ‘pilots’, etc., was limited to two classes of books, those on naval warfare, and those on his own hobby, cruising in small yachts. He had six or seven of the latter, including Knight’s Falcon in the Baltic, Cowper’s Sailing Tours, Macmullen’s Down Channel, and other less-known stories of adventurous travel. I had scarcely done more than look into some of them at off-moments, for our life had left no leisure for reading. This particular volume was–no, I had better not describe it too fully; but I will say that it was old and unpretentious, bound in cheap cloth of a rather antiquated style, with a title which showed it to be a guide for yachtsmen to a certain British estuary. A white label partly scratched away bore the legend ‘3d.’ I had glanced at it once or twice with no special interest.

‘Well?’ I said, turning over some yellow pages.

‘Dollmann!’ cried Davies. ‘Dollmann wrote it.’ I turned to the title-page, and read: ‘By Lieut. X–, R.N.’ The name itself conveyed nothing to me, but I began to understand. Davies went on: The name’s on the back, too–and I’m certain it’s the last she looked at.’

‘But how do you know?’

‘And there’s the man himself. Ass that I am not to have seen it before! Look at the frontispiece.’

It was a sorry piece of illustration of the old-fashioned sort, lacking definition and finish, but effective notwithstanding; for it was evidently the reproduction, though a cheap and imperfect process, of a photograph. It represented a small yacht at anchor below some woods, with the owner standing on deck in his shirt sleeves: a well-knit, powerful man, young, of middle height, clean shaved. There appeared to be nothing remarkable about the face; the portrait being on too small a scale, and the expression, such as it was, being of the fixed ‘photographic’ character.

‘How do you know him? You said he was fifty, with a greyish beard.’

‘By the shape of his head; that hasn’t changed. Look how it widens at the top, and then flattens–sort of wedge shaped–with a high, steep forehead; you’d hardly notice it in that’ (the points were not very noticeable, but I saw what Davies meant). ‘The height and figure are right, too; and the dates are about right. Look at the bottom.’

Underneath the picture was the name of a yacht and a date. The publisher’s date on the title-page was the same.

‘Sixteen years ago,’ said Davies. ‘He looks thirty odd in that, doesn’t he? And fifty now.’

‘Let’s work the thing out. Sixteen years ago he was still an Englishman, an officer in Her Majesty’s Navy. Now he’s a German. At some time between this and then, I suppose, he came to grief–disgrace, flight, exile. When did it happen?’

‘They’ve been here three years; von Brüning said so.’

‘It was long before that. She has talked German from a child. What’s her age, do you think–nineteen or twenty?’

‘About that.’

‘Say she was four when this book was published. The crash must have come not long after.’

‘And they’ve been hiding in Germany since.

‘Is this a well-known book?’

‘I never saw another copy; picked this up on a second-hand bookstall for threepence.’

‘She looked at it, you say?’

‘Yes, I’m certain of it.’

‘Was she never on board you in September?’

‘No; I asked them both, but Dollmann made excuses.’

‘But _he–he_ came on board? You told me so.’

‘Once; he asked himself to breakfast on the first day. By Jove! yes; you mean he saw the book?

‘It explains a good deal.’

‘It explains everything.’

We fell into deep reflexion for a minute or two.

‘Do you really mean _everything_?’ I said. ‘In that case let’s sail straight away and forget the whole affair. He’s only some poor devil with a past, whose secret you stumbled on, and, half mad with fear, he tried to silence you. But you don’t want revenge, so it’s no business of ours. We can ruin him if we like; but is it worth it?’

‘You don’t mean a word you’re saying,’ said Davies, ‘though I know why you say it; and many thanks, old chap. I didn’t mean “everything”. He’s plotting with Germans, or why did Grimm spy on us, and von Brüning cross-examine us? We’ve got to find out what he’s at, as well as who he is. And as to her–what do you think of her now?’

I made my _amende_ heartily. ‘Innocent and ignorant,’ was my verdict. ‘Ignorant, that is, of her father’s treasonable machinations; but aware, clearly, that they were English refugees with a past to hide.’ I said other things, but they do not matter. ‘Only,’ I concluded, ‘it makes the dilemma infinitely worse.’

‘There’s no dilemma at all,’ said Davies. ‘You said at Bensersiel that we couldn’t hurt him without hurting her. Well, all I can say is, we’ve _got_ to. The time to cut and run, if ever, was when we sighted her dinghy. I had a baddish minute then.’

‘She’s given us a clue or two after all.’

‘It wasn’t our fault. To refuse to have her on board would have been to give our show away; and the very fact that she’s given us clues decides the matter. She mustn’t suffer for it.’

‘What will she do?’

‘Stick to her father, I suppose.’

‘And what shall we do?’

‘I don’t know yet; how can I know? It depends,’ said Davies, slowly. ‘But the point is, that we have two objects, equally important–yes, equally, by Jove!–to scotch him, and save her.’

There was a pause.

‘That’s rather a large order,’ I observed. ‘Do you realize that at this very moment we have probably gained the first object? If we went home now, walked into the Admiralty and laid our facts before them, what would be the result?’

‘The Admiralty!’ said Davies, with ineffable scorn.

‘Well, Scotland Yard, too, then. Both of them want our man, I dare say. It would be strange if between them they couldn’t dislodge him, and, incidentally, either discover what’s going on here or draw such attention to this bit of coast as to make further secrecy impossible.’

‘It’s out of the question to let her betray her father, and then run away! Besides, we don’t know enough, and they mightn’t believe us. It’s a cowardly course, however you look at it.’

‘Oh! that settles it,’ I answered, hastily. ‘Now I want to go back over the facts. When did you first see her?’

‘That first morning.’

‘She wasn’t in the saloon the night before?’

‘No; and he didn’t mention her.’

‘You would have gone away next morning if he hadn’t called?’

‘Yes; I told you so.’

‘He allowed her to persuade you to make that voyage with them?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘But he sent her below when the pilotage was going on?’

‘Of course.’

‘She said just now, “Father said you would be safe.” What had you been saying to her?’

‘It was when I met her on the sand. (By the way, it wasn’t a chance meeting; she had been making inquiries and heard about us from a skipper who had seen the yacht near Wangeroog, and she had been down this way before.) She asked at once about that day, and began apologizing, rather awkwardly, you know, for their rudeness in not having waited for me at Cuxhaven. Her father found he must get on to Hamburg at once.’

‘But you didn’t go to Cuxhaven; you told her that? What exactly _did_ you tell her? This is important.’

‘I was in a fearful fix, not knowing what _he_ had told her. So I said something vague, and then she asked the very question von Brüning did, “Wasn’t there a _schrecklich_ sea round the Scharhorn?”‘

‘She didn’t know you took the short cut, then?’

‘No; he hadn’t dared to tell her.’

‘She knew that _they_ took it?’

‘Yes. He couldn’t possibly have hidden that. She would have known by the look of the sea from the portholes, the shorter time, etc.’

‘But when the Medusa hove to and he shouted to you to follow him–didn’t she understand what was happening?’

‘No, evidently not. Mind you, she couldn’t possibly have heard what we said, in that weather, from below. I couldn’t cross-question her, but it was clear enough what she thought; namely, that he had hove to for exactly the opposite reason, to say _he_ was taking the short cut, and that I wasn’t to attempt to follow him.’

‘That’s why she laid stress on _waiting_ for you at Cuxhaven?’

‘ Of course; mine would have been the longer passage.’

‘She had no notion of foul play?’

‘None–that I could see. After all, there I was, alive and well.’

‘But she was remorseful for having induced you to sail at all that day, and for not having waited to see you arrived safely.’

‘That’s about it.’

‘Now what did you say about Cuxhaven?’

‘Nothing. I let her understand that I went there, and, not finding them, went on to the Baltic by the Eider river, having changed my mind about the ship canal.’

‘Now, what about her voyage back from Hamburg? Was she alone?’

‘No; the stepmother joined her.’

‘Did she say she had inquired about you at Brunsbüttel?’

‘No; I suppose she didn’t like to. And there was no need, because my taking the Eider explained it.’

I reflected. ‘You’re sure she hadn’t a notion that you took the short cut?’

‘Quite sure; but she may guess it now. She guessed foul play by seeing that book.’

‘Of course she did; but I was thinking of something else. There are two stories afloat now–yours to von Brüning, the true one, that you followed the Medusa to the short cut; and Dollmann’s to her, that you went round the Scharhorn. That’s evidently his version of the affair–the version he would have given if you had been drowned and inquiries were ever made; the version he would have sworn his crew to if they discovered the truth.’

‘But he must drop that yarn when he knows I’m alive and back again.’

‘Yes; but meanwhile, supposing von Brüning sees him _before_ he knows you’re back again, and wants to find out the truth about that incident. If I were von Brüning I should say, “By the way, what’s become of that young Englishman you decoyed away to the Baltic?” Dollmann would give his version, and von Brüning. having heard ours, would know he was lying, and had tried to drown you.’

‘Does it matter? He must know already that Dollmann’s a scoundrel.’

‘So we’ve been supposing; but we may be wrong. We’re still in the dark as to Dollmann’s position towards these Germans. They may not even know he’s English, or they may know that and not know his real name and past. What effect your story will have on their relations with him we can’t forecast. But I’m clear about one thing, that it’s our paramount interest to maintain the _status quo_ as long as we can, to minimize the danger you ran that day, and act as witnesses in his defence. We can’t do that if his story and yours don’t tally. The discrepancy will not only damn him (that may be immaterial), but it will throw doubt on us.’

‘Why?’

‘Because if the short cut was so dangerous that he dared not own to having led you to it, it was dangerous enough to make you suspect foul play; the very supposition we want to avoid. We want to be thought mere travellers, with no scores to wipe out, and no secrets to pry after.’

‘Well, what do you propose?’

‘Hitherto I believe we stand fairly well. Let’s assume we hoodwinked von Brüning at Bensersiel, and base our policy on that assumption. It follows that we must show Dollmann at the earliest possible moment that you _have_ come back, and give him time to revise his tactics before he commits himself. Now–‘

‘But _she’ll_ tell him we’re back,’ interrupted Davies.

‘I don’t think so. We’ve just agreed to keep this afternoon’s episode a secret. She expects never to see us again.’

Now, he comes to-morrow by the morning boat, she said. What did that mean? Boat from where?’

‘I know. From Norddeich on the mainland opposite. There’s a railway there from Norden, and a steam ferry crosses to the island.’

‘At what time?’

‘Your Bradshaw will tell us–here it is: “Winter Service, 8.30 a.m., due at 9.5.”‘

‘Let’s get away at once.’

We had a tussle with the tide at first, but once over the watershed the channel improved, and the haze lightened gradually. A lighthouse appeared among the sand-dunes on the island shore, and before darkness fell we dimly saw the spires and roofs of a town, and two long black piers stretching out southwards. We were scarcely a mile away when we lost our wind altogether, and had to anchor. Determined to reach our destination that night we waited till the ebb stream made, and then towed the yacht with the dinghy. In the course of this a fog dropped on us suddenly, just as it had yesterday. I was towing at the time, and, of course, stopped short; but Davies shouted to me from the tiller to go on, that he could manage with the lead and compass. And the end of it was that, at about nine o’clock, we anchored safely in the five-fathom roadstead, close to the eastern pier, as a short reconnaissance proved to us. It had been a little masterpiece of adroit seamanship.

There was utter stillness till our chain rattled down, when a muffled shout came from the direction of the pier, and soon we heard a boat groping out to us. It was a polite but sleepy portofficer, who asked in a perfunctory way for our particulars, and when he heard them, remembered the Dulcibella’s previous visit.

‘Where are you bound to?’ he asked.

‘England–sooner or later,’ said Davies.

The man laughed derisively. ‘Not this year,’ he said; ‘there will be fogs for another week; it is always so, and then storms. Better leave your yawl here. Dues will be only sixpence a month for you.

‘I’ll think about it,’ said Davies. ‘Good-night.’

The man vanished like a ghost in the thick night.

‘Is the post-office open?’ I called after him.

‘No; eight to-morrow,’ came back out of the fog.

We were too excited to sup in comfort, or sleep in peace, or to do anything but plan and speculate. Never till this night had we talked with absolute mutual confidence, for Davies broke down the last barriers of reserve and let me see his whole mind. He loved this girl and he loved his country, two simple passions which for the time absorbed his whole moral capacity. There was no room left for casuistry. To weigh one passion against the other, with the discordant voices of honour and expediency dinning in his ears, had too long involved him in fruitless torture. Both were right; neither could be surrendered. If the facts showed them irreconcilable, _tant pis pour les faits._ A way must be found to satisfy both or neither.

I should have been a spiritless dog if I had not risen to his mood. But in truth his cutting of the knot was at this juncture exactly what appealed to me. I, too, was tired of vicarious casuistry, and the fascination of our enterprise, intensified by the discovery of that afternoon, had never been so strong in me. Not to be insincere, I cannot pretend that I viewed the situation with his single mind. My philosophy when I left London was of a very worldly sort, and no one can change his temperament in three weeks. I plainly said as much to Davies, and indeed took perverse satisfaction in stating with brutal emphasis some social truths which bore on this attachment of his to the daughter of an outlaw. Truths I call them, but I uttered them more by rote than by conviction, and he heard them unmoved. And meanwhile I snatched recklessly at his own solution. If it imparted into our adventure a strain of crazy chivalry more suited to knights-errant of the Middle Ages than to sober modern youths–well, thank Heaven, I was not too sober, and still young enough to snatch at that fancy with an ardour of imagination, if not of character; perhaps, too, of character, for Galahads are not so common but that ordinary folk must needs draw courage from their example and put something of a blind trust in their tenfold strength.

To reduce a romantic ideal to a working plan is a very difficult thing.

‘We shall have to argue backwards,’ I said. ‘What is to be the final stage? Because that must govern the others.’

There was only one answer–to get Dollmann, secrets and all, daughter and all, away from Germany altogether. So only could we satisfy the double aim we had set before us. What a joy it is, when beset with doubts, to find a bed-rock necessity, however unattainable! We fastened on this one and reasoned back from it. The first lesson was that, however many and strong were the enemies we had to contend with, our sole overt fee must be Dollmann. The issue of the struggle must be known only to ourselves and him. If we won, and found out ‘what he was at’, we must at all costs conceal our success from his German friends, and detach him from them before he was compromised. (You will remark that to blithely accept this limitation showed a very sanguine spirit in us.) The next question, how to find out what he was at, was a deal more thorny. If it had not been for the discovery of Dollmann’s identity, we should have found it as hard a nut to crack as ever. But this discovery was illuminating. It threw into relief two methods of action which hitherto we had been hazily seeking to combine, seesawing between one and the other, each of us influenced at different times by different motives. One was to rely on independent research; the other to extort the secret from Dollmann direct, by craft or threats. The moral of to-day was to abandon the first and embrace the second.

The prospects of independent research were not a whit better than before. There were only two theories in the field, the channel theory and the Memmert theory. The former languished for lack of corroboration; the latter also appeared to be weakened. To Fräulein Dollmann the wreck-works were evidently what they purported to be, and nothing more. This fact in itself was unimportant, for it was clear as crystal that she was no party to her father’s treacherous intrigues, if he was engaged in such. But if Memmert was his sphere for them, it was disconcerting to find her so familiar with that sphere, lightly talking of a descent in a diving-bell–hinting, too, that the mystery as to results was only for local consumption. Nevertheless, the charm of Memmert as the place we had traced Grimm to, and as the only tangible clue we had obtained, was still very great. The really cogent objection was the insuperable difficulty, known and watched as we were, of learning its significance. If there was anything important to see there we should never be allowed to see it, while by trying and failing we risked everything. It was on this point that the last of all misunderstandings between me and Davies was dissipated. At Bensersiel he had been influenced more than he owned by my arguments about Memmert; but at that time (as I hinted) he was biased by a radical prejudice. The channel theory had become a sort of religion with him, promising double salvation–not only avoidance of the Dollmanns, but success in the quest by methods in which he was past master. To have to desert it and resort to spying on naval defences was an idea he dreaded and distrusted. It was not the morality of the course that bothered him. He was far too clear-headed to blink at the essential fact that at heart we were spies on a foreign power in time of peace, or to salve his conscience by specious distinctions as to our mode of operation. The foreign power to him was Dollmann, a traitor. There was his final justification, fearlessly adopted and held to the last. It was rather that, knowing his own limitations, his whole nature shrank from the sort of action entailed by the Memmert theory. And there was strong common sense in his antipathy.

So much for independent research.

On the other hand the road was now clear for the other method. Davies no longer feared to face the imbroglio at Norderney; and that day fortune had given us a new and potent weapon against Dollmann; precisely how potent we could not tell, for we had only a glimpse of his past, and his exact relations with the Government were unknown to us. But we knew who he was. Using this knowledge with address, could we not wring the rest from him? Feel our way, of course, be guided by his own conduct, but in the end strike hard and stake everything on the stroke? Such at any rate was our scheme to-night. Later, tossing in my bunk, I be-thought me of the little drab book, lit a candle, and fetched it. A preface explained that it had been written during a spell of two months’ leave from naval duty, and expressed a hope that it might be of service to Corinthian sailors. The style was unadorned, but scholarly and pithy. There was no trace of the writer’s individuality, save a certain subdued relish in describing banks and shoals, which reminded me of Davies himself. For the rest, I found the book dull, and, in fact, it sent me to sleep.

21 Blindfold to Memmert

‘HERE she comes,’ said Davies. It was nine o’clock on the next day, 22nd October, and we were on deck waiting for the arrival of the steamer from Norddeich. There was no change in the weather–still the same stringent cold, with a high barometer, and only fickle flaws of air; but the morning was gloriously clear, except for a wreath or two of mist curling like smoke from the sea, and an attenuated belt of opaque fog on the northern horizon. The harbour lay open before us, and very commodious and civilized it looked, enclosed between two long piers which ran quite half a mile out from the land to the road-stead (Riff-Gat by name) where we lay. A stranger might have taken it for a deep and spacious haven; but this, of course, was an illusion, due to the high water. Davies knew that three-quarters of it was mud, the remainder being a dredged-out channel along the western pier. A couple of tugs, a dredger, and a ferry packet with steam up, were moored on that side–a small stack of galliots on the other. Beyond these was another vessel, a galliot in build, but radiant as a queen among sluts; her varnished sides and spars flashing orange in the sun. These, and her snow-white sail-covers and the twinkle of brass and gun-metal, proclaimed her to be a yacht. I had already studied her through the glasses and read on her stern Medusa. A couple of sailors were swabbing her decks; you could hear the slush of the water and the scratching of the deck-brooms. ‘_They_ can see us anyway,’ Davies had said.

For that matter all the world could see us–certainly the incoming steamer must; for we lay as near to the pier as safety permitted, abreast of the berth she would occupy, as we knew by a gangway and a knot of sailors.

A packet boat, not bigger than a big tug, was approaching from the south.

‘Remember, we’re not supposed to know he’s coming,’ I said; ‘let’s go below.’ Besides the skylight, our ‘coach-house’ cabin top had little oblong side windows. We wiped clean those on the port side and watched events from them, kneeling on the sofa.

The steamer backed her paddles, flinging out a wash that set us rolling to our scuppers. There seemed to be very few passengers aboard, but all of them were gazing at the Dulcibella while the packet was warped alongside. On the forward deck there were some market-women with baskets, a postman, and a weedy youth who might be an hotel waiter; on the after-deck, standing close together, were two men in ulsters and soft felt hats.

‘There he is!’ said Davies, in a tense whisper; ‘the tall one.’ But the tall one turned abruptly as Davies spoke and strode away behind the deck-house, leaving me just a lightning impression of a grey beard and a steep tanned forehead, behind a cloud of cigar smoke. It was perverse of me, but, to tell the truth, I hardly missed him, so occupied was I by the short one, who remained leaning on the rail, thoughtfully contemplating the Dulcibella through gold-rimmed pince-nez: a sallow, wizened old fellow, beetlebrowed, with a bush of grizzled moustache and a jet-black tuft of beard on his chin. The most remarkable feature was the nose, which was broad and flat, merging almost imperceptibly in the wrinkled cheeks. Lightly beaked at the nether extremity, it drooped towards an enormous cigar which was pointing at us like a gun just discharged. He looked wise as Satan, and you would say he was smiling inwardly.

‘Who’s that?’ I whispered to Davies. (There was no need to talk in whispers, but we did so instinctively.)

‘Can’t think,’ said Davies. ‘Hullo! she’s backing off, and they’ve not landed.’

Some parcels and mail-bags had been thrown up, and the weedy waiter and two market-women had gone up the gangway, which was now being hauled up, and were standing on the quay. I think one or two other persons had first come aboard unnoticed by us, but at the last moment a man we had not seen before jumped down to the forward deck. ‘Grimm!’ we both ejaculated at once.

The steamer whistled sharply, circled backwards into the road-stead, and then steamed away. The pier soon hid her, but her smoke showed she was steering towards the North Sea.

‘What does this mean?’ I asked.

‘There must be some other quay to stop at nearer the town,’ said Davies. ‘Let’s go ashore and get your letters.’

We had made a long and painful toilette that morning, and felt quite shy of one another as we sculled towards the pier, in much-creased blue suits, conventional collars, and brown boots. It was the first time for two years that I had seen Davies in anything approaching a respectable garb; but a fashionable watering-place, even in the dead season, exacts respect; and, besides, we had friends to visit.

We tied up the dinghy to an iron ladder, and on the pier found our inquisitor of the night before smoking in the doorway of a shed marked ‘Harbour Master’. After some civilities we inquired about the steamer. The answer was that it was Saturday, and she had, therefore, gone on to Juist. Did we want a good hotel? The ‘Vier Jahreszeiten’ was still open, etc.

‘Juist, by Jove!’ said Davies, as we walked on. ‘Why are those three going to Juist?’

‘I should have thought it was pretty clear. They’re on their way to Memmert.’

Davies agreed, and we both looked longingly westward at a straw-coloured streak on the sea.

‘Is it some meeting, do you think?’ said Davies.

‘Looks like it. We shall probably find the Kormoran here, wind-bound.’

And find her we did soon after, the outermost of the stack of galliots, on the farther side of the harbour. Two men, whose faces we took a good look at, were sitting on her hatch, mending a sail.

Flooded with sun, yet still as the grave, the town was like a dead butterfly for whom the healing rays had come too late. We crossed some deserted public gardens commanded by a gorgeous casino, its porticos heaped with chairs and tables; so past kiosques and _cafés,_ great white hotels with boarded windows, bazaars and booths, and all the stale lees of vulgar frivolity, to the post-office, which at least was alive. I received a packet of letters and purchased a local time-table, from which we learned that the steamer sailed daily to Borkum _via_ Norderney, touching three times a week at Juist (weather permitting). On the return journey to-day it was due at Norderney at 7.30 p.m. Then I inquired the way to the ‘Vier Jahreszeiten’. ‘For whatever your principles,

Davies,’ I said, ‘we are going to have the best breakfast money can buy! We’ve got the whole day before us.’

The ‘Four Seasons’ Hotel was on the esplanade facing the northern beach. Living up to its name, it announced on an illuminated sign-board, ‘Inclusive terms for winter visitors; special attention to invalids, etc.’ Here in a great glass restaurant, with the unruffled blue of ocean spread out before us, we ate the king of breakfasts, dismissed the waiter, and over long and fragrant Havanas examined my mail at leisure.

‘What a waste of good diplomacy!’ was my first thought, for nothing had been tampered with, so far as we could judge from the minutest scrutiny, directed, of course, in particular to the franked official letters (for to my surprise there were two) from Whitehall.

The first in order of date (6th Oct.) ran: ‘Dear Carruthers.–Take another week by all means.–Yours, etc.’

The second (marked ‘urgent’) had been sent to my home address and forwarded. It was dated 15th October, and cancelled the previous letter, requesting me to return to London without delay–‘I am sorry to abridge your holiday, but we are very busy, and, at present, short-handed.–Yours, etc.’ There was a dry postscript to the effect that another time I was to be good enough to leave more regular and definite information as to my whereabouts when absent.

‘I’m afraid I never got this!’ I said, handing it to Davies.

‘You won’t go, will you?’ said he, looking, nevertheless, with unconcealed awe at the great man’s handwriting under the haughty official crest. Meanwhile I discovered an endorsement on a corner of the envelope: ‘Don’t worry; it’s only the chief’s fuss.–M–‘ I promptly tore up the envelope. There are domestic mysteries which it would be indecent and disloyal to reveal, even to one’s best friend. The rest of my letters need no remark; I smiled over some and blushed over others–all were voices from a life which was infinitely far away. Davies, meanwhile, was deep in the foreign intelligence of a newspaper, spelling it out line by line, and referring impatiently to me for the meaning of words.

‘Hullo!’ he said, suddenly; ‘same old game! Hear that siren?’ A curtain of fog had grown on the northern horizon and was drawing shorewards slowly but surely.

‘It doesn’t matter, does it?’ I said.

‘Well, we must get back to the yacht. We can’t leave her alone in the fog.’

There was some marketing to be done on the way back, and in the course of looking for the shops we wanted we came on the Schwannallée and noted its position. Before we reached the harbour the fog was on us, charging up the streets in dense masses. Happily a tramline led right up to the pier-head, or we should have lost our way and wasted time, which, in the event, was of priceless value. Presently we stumbled up against the Harbour Office, which was our landmark for the steps where we had tied up the dinghy. The same official appeared and good-naturedly held the painter while we handed in our parcels. He wanted to know why we had left the flesh-pots of the ‘Vier Jahreszeiten’. To look after our yacht, of course. There was no need, he objected; there would be no traffic moving while the fog lasted, and the fog, having come on at that hour, had come to stay. If it did clear he would keep an eye on the yacht for us. We thanked him, but thought we would go aboard.

‘You’ll have a job to find her now,’ he said.

The distance was eighty yards at the most, but we had to use a scientific method, the same one, in fact, that Davies had used last night in the approach to the eastern pier.

‘Row straight out at right angles to the pier,’ he said now. I did so, Davies sounding with his scull between the strokes. He found the bottom after twenty yards, that being the width of the dredged-out channel at this point. Then we turned to the right, and moved gently forward, keeping touch with the edge of the mud-bank (for all the world like blind men tapping along a kerbstone) and taking short excursions from it, till the Dulcibella hove in view. ‘That’s partly luck,’ Davies .commented; ‘we ought to have had the compass as well.’

We exchanged shouts with the man on the pier to show we had arrived.

‘It’s very good practice, that sort of thing,’ said Davies, when we had disembarked.

‘You’ve got a sixth sense,’ I observed. ‘How far could you go like that?’

‘Don’t know. Let’s have another try. I can’t sit still all day. Let’s explore this channel.’

_

‘Why not go to Memmert?’_ I said, in fun.

‘To Memmert?’ said Davies, slowly; ‘by Jove! that’s an idea!’

‘Good Heavens, man! I was joking. Why, it’s ten mortal miles.’

‘More,’ said Davies, absently. ‘It’s not so much the distance–what’s the time? Ten fifteen; quarter ebb–What am I talking about? We made our plans last night.’

But seeing him, to my amazement, serious, I was stung by the splendour of the idea I had awakened. Confidence in his skill was second nature to me. I swept straight on to the logic of the thing, the greatness, the completeness of the opportunity, if by a miracle it could be seized and used. Something was going on at Memmert to-day; our men had gone there; here were we, ten miles away, in a smothering, blinding fog. It was known we were here–Dollmann and Grimm knew it; the crew of the Medusa knew it; the crew of the Kormoran knew it; the man on the pier, whether he cared or not, knew it. But none of them knew Davies as I knew him. Would anyone dream for an instant–?

‘Stop a second,’ said Davies; ‘give me two minutes.’ He whipped out the German chart. ‘Where exactly should we go?’ (‘Exactly!’ The word tickled me hugely.)

‘To the depot, of course; it’s our only chance.’

‘Listen then–there are two routes: the outside one by the open sea, right round Juist, and doubling south–the simplest, but the longest; the depot’s at the south point of Memmert, and Memmert’s nearly two miles long.’ _[See Chart B]_

‘How far would that way be?’

‘Sixteen miles good. And we should have to row in a breaking swell most of the way, close to land.’

‘Out of the question; it’s too public, too, if it clears. The steamer went that way, and will come back that way. We must go inside over the sands. Am I dreaming, though? Can you possibly find the way?’

‘I shouldn’t wonder. But I don’t believe you see the hitch. It’s the _time_ and the falling tide. High water was about 8.15: it’s now 10.15, and all those sands are drying off. We must cross the See-Gat and strike that boomed channel, the Memmert Balje; strike it, freeze on to it–can’t cut off an inch–and pass that “watershed” you see there before it’s too late. It’s an infernally bad one, I can see. Not even a dinghy will cross it for an hour each side of low water.’

‘Well, how far is the “watershed”?’

‘Good Lord! What are we talking for? Change, man, change! Talk while we’re changing.’ (He began flinging off his shore clothes, and I did the same.) ‘It’s at least five miles to the end of it; six, allowing for bends; hour and a half hard pulling; two, allowing for checks. Are you fit? You’ll have to pull the most. Then there are six or seven more miles–easier ones. And then–What are we to do when we get there?’

‘Leave that to me,’ I said. ‘You get me there.’

‘Supposing it clears?’

‘After we get there? Bad; but we must risk that. If it clears on the way there it doesn’t matter by this route; we shall be miles from land.’

‘What about getting back?’

‘We shall have a rising tide, anyway. If the fog lasts–can you manage in a fog _and_ dark?’

‘The dark makes it no more difficult, if we’ve a light to see the compass and chart by. You trim the binnacle lamp–no, the riding-light. Now give me the scissors, and don’t speak a word for ten minutes. Meanwhile, think it out, and load the dinghy–(by Jove! though, don’t make a sound)–some grub and whisky, the boat-compass, lead, riding-light, matches, _small_ boat-hook, grapnel and line.’

‘Foghorn?’

‘Yes, and the whistle too.’

‘A gun?’

‘What for?’

‘We’re after ducks.’

‘All right. And muffle the rowlocks with cotton-waste.’

I left Davies absorbed in the charts, and softly went about my own functions. In ten minutes he was on the ladder, beckoning.

‘I’ve done,’ he whispered. ‘Now _shall_ we go?’

‘I’ve thought it out. Yes,’ I answered.

This was only roughly true, for I could not have stated in words all the pros and cons that I had balanced. It was an impulse that drove me forward; but an impulse founded on reason, with just a tinge, perhaps, of superstition; for the quest had begun in a fog and might fitly end in one.

It was twenty-five minutes to eleven when we noiselessly pushed off. ‘Let her drift,’ whispered Davies, ‘the ebb’ll carry her past the pier.’

We slid by the Dulcibella, and she disappeared. Then we sat without speech or movement for about five minutes, while the gurgle of tide through piles approached and passed. The dinghy appeared to be motionless, just as a balloon in the clouds may appear to its occupants to be motionless, though urged by a current of air. In reality we were driving out of the Riff-Gat into the See-Gat. The dinghy swayed to a light swell.

‘Now, pull,’ said Davies, under his breath; ‘keep it long and steady, above all steady–both arms with equal force.’

I was on the bow-thwart; he _vis-à-vis_ to me on the stern seat, his left hand behind him on the tiller, his right forefinger on a small square of paper which lay on his knees; this was a section cut out from the big German chart. _[See Chart B]_ On the midship-thwart between us lay the compass and a watch. Between these three objects–compass, watch, and chart–his eyes darted constantly, never looking up or out, save occasionally for a sharp glance over the side at the flying bubbles, to see if I was sustaining a regular speed. My duty was to be his automaton, the human equivalent of a marine engine whose revolutions can be counted and used as data by the navigator. My arms must be regular as twin pistons; the energy that drove them as controllable as steam. It was a hard ideal to reach, for the complex mortal tends to rely on all the senses God has given him, so unfitting himself for mechanical exactitude when a sense (eyesight, in my case) fails him. At first it was constantly ‘left’ or ‘right’ from Davies, accompanied by a bubbling from the rudder.

‘This won’t do, too much helm,’ said Davies, without looking up. ‘Keep your stroke, but listen to me. Can you see the compass card?’

‘When I come forward.’

‘Take your time, and don’t get flurried, but each time you come forward have a good look at it. The course is sou’-west half-west. You take the opposite, north-east half-east, and keep her _stern_ on that. It’ll be rough, but it’ll save some helm, and give me a hand free if I want it.’

I did as he said, not without effort, and our progress gradually became smoother, till he had no need to speak at all. The only sound now was one like the gentle simmer of a saucepan away to port–the lisp of surf I knew it to be–and the muffled grunt of the rowlocks. I broke the silence once to say ‘It’s very shallow.’ I had touched sand with my right scull.

‘Don’t talk,’ said Davies.

About half an hour passed, and then he added sounding to his other occupations. ‘Plump’ went the lead at regular intervals, and he steered with his hip while pulling in the line. Very little of it went out at first, then less still. Again I struck bottom, and, glancing aside, saw weeds. Suddenly he got a deep cast, and the dinghy, freed from the slight drag which shallow water always inflicts on a small boat, leapt buoyantly forward. At the same time, I knew by boils on the smooth surface that we were in a strong tideway.

‘The Buse Tief,’ _[See Chart B]_ muttered Davies. ‘Row hard now, and steady as a clock.’

For a hundred yards or more I bent to my sculls and made her fly. Davies was getting six fathom casts, till, just as suddenly as it had deepened, the water shoaled–ten feet, six, three, one–the dinghy grounded.

‘Good!’ said Davies. ‘Back her off! Pull your right only.’ The dinghy spun round with her bow to N.N.W. ‘Both arms together! Don’t you worry about the compass now; just pull, and listen for orders. There’s a tricky bit coming.’

He put aside the chart, kicked the lead under the seat, and, kneeling on the dripping coils of line, sounded continuously with the butt-end of the boat-hook, a stumpy little implement, notched at intervals of