The adventures of Heine
“Your Excellency,” I said quietly, “I am less influenced by your
threats, though I recognize that being well-born you mean no harm,
than by the knowledge that I am serving our beloved Fatherland, for
whose success and victory I ever pray, and on whose behalf I am
prepared to make the most monumental sacrifices.”
“You talk too much,” he said; “get into the boat.”
We landed at the beach without mishap. It was deserted, and I made my
way along in the direction indicated by the local map, which I had
studied with the commander, and presently found the zig-zag path that
led to the top of the cliffs and to the little village of Siddicombe.
Half an hour’s brisk walk brought me to Quaytown, a large, straggling
town, which was in times of peace a pleasure resort, but which had
been converted in war time to a port of call.
The main roads flank the little harbour which, as I could see,
contained about six ships, and after inquiring from the policeman, I
found my way to the public-house to which I had been directed.
It was nine o’clock when I arrived, so I had only half an hour to
pursue my inquiries. The common bar was filled with a noisy crowd,
mostly sailors and men of the R.N.V.R. I managed to get a drink, and
cast my eyes round for a likely informant, and found one in a common
sailor of the Naval Reserve, who gladly accepted my invitation to
drink, but asked me to bring it to him, because the bar lady had
refused to serve him with any more.
“It’s a hell of a life,” he said, “what with the law and the price of
beer. It’s a dog’s life.”
It was providential that I found him. He was a man with a grievance,
and a man with a grievance is very voluble.
“Come,” I said cheerily, “things are not so bad as you think. We shall
soon have these damned Germans beaten.”
“Don’t you make any mistake about it, my boy,” said the common sailor,
whose name was Jones, “if we are beating the Germans, why are we
keeping our ships in harbour? Look here, mate,” he said, speaking with
the stupidity of a drunken person, “we’ve got six ships in this
harbour. They’ve been lying here for a week. Why? Because there are
two German submarines outside--or rather one,” he corrected himself.
“We’ve looked for them German submarines everywhere. The balloon’s
been out, the aeroplane’s been out, the trawlers and destroyers have
been out, but they haven’t got ’em--at least they haven’t found one,”
he corrected himself again. “What’s going to happen? To-morrow
afternoon at three o’clock when the convoy goes out----”
“To-morrow at three,” I said carelessly, “that’s a curious time to
leave.”
“Never mind if it is curious, or if it isn’t,” said the man rudely
quarrelsome, “they know their own business better than you do, my
lad.”
“Naturally,” I said hastily.
“Well,” he went on, “to-morrow afternoon they go out at three o’clock.
What happens? Them submarines will get ’em--at least one of ’em will,”
he said.
So I had my information. Trust Heine to make a discovery of this kind.
At three o’clock on the following afternoon! The excellent von Gwinner
would be delighted. He would understand perhaps that he had a
different type of man to deal with than what he expected. Possibly he
would send my name into Headquarters for an Iron Cross--that
possibility awakened a thrill of pleasurable anticipation.
“But come, my friend,” I said, “you take too pessimistic a view. Now I
don’t believe that these six ships will be sunk.”
“Not all of ’em,” said the inebriated sailor gloomily, “but one of ’em
will. Them submarines are too artful, or rather,” he said, “one of ’em
is.”
His insistence upon the differentiation piqued my curiosity.
“Tell me, my friend, if it is not betraying any military secret, and
speaking as sailor to sailor----”
“You ain’t no sailor,” said the drunken man commonly.
“Speaking as man to man,” I said in haste to get him off the subject,
“why do you say first that there are two submarines and then you only
refer to one of them.”
He was pulling at a short clay pipe, very dark and very
stomach-revolting, and he pulled for a long time before he spoke.
“Because,” he said at last, “one of ’em’s done hisself in.”
“Sunk?” I said with the same carelessness.
What information to carry to Commander von Gwinner! What a back-slap
he would give me, at the same time saying, “Good old boy, you have
done very well indeed.” I declare to you at that moment that the
thought of serving the Fatherland brought tears of joy to my eyes. I
would collect all the information I could, for already the hands of
the clock were ominously near half-past.
“In what manner has he done himself in? Sunk?” I asked again.
“Well, he ain’t sunk,” admitted the man, “but he soon will be. He was
spotted about an hour ago going into Siddicombe Bay, and all the
bloomin’ fleet is on its way there with nets and trawlers, and depth
charges, and Gawd knows what!”
I held on to the wall for support.
“They’ll have him netted in by half-past ten,” said my friend.
I looked at the clock again. There was time for me to get back to
Siddicombe, but the next words of my acquaintance arrested my
attention.
“He’s bound to spot ’em comin’ and make a run for it, and they’re
bound to ketch ’im,” he said with cruel relish.
I could get back in half an hour. The boat would be there waiting at
ten o’clock. I could warn von Gwinner, and he would “make a run for
it.”
What stupidity! What recklessness! Who are these people, these
air-giving aristocrats, who risk the lives of the true democracy! What
right have they, I thought, to fling men of my intelligence and genius
into terrible and spine-shaking danger and perhaps to death?
The clock pointed to 9.30.
“Well, so long,” said my acquaintance, “is there anything I can do for
you, matey?”
I swallowed my drink and looked at the clock again.
“Yes,” I said firmly, for with my usual quickness of thought I had
made my decision. “Can you recommend me an hotel where I can get a
good bed?”
CHAPTER XIV.
BRETHREN OF THE ORDER
Consider, dear friends, the embarrassing circumstances under which I
found myself! Deported from England by a man whom I admit, is a person
of considerable sagacity, though infinitely inferior to the
Intelligence officers one finds attached to the German army, both in
birth and natural inquisitiveness--a man who had it in his power to
drag me straight away to the execution shed as a spy!
Contrary to all his orders and instructions I had come back! I, one
humble German in a World of Enemies, had denied the law and majesty of
England and had come back! It is true that I did not want to come
back, but that does not alter the fact. We Germans are modest people,
as I have remarked before. We do not ask for praise, we do not invite
approval; we are satisfied, in the words of an English proverb, with
the approval of a good conscience.
I do not want to boast of my own courage. That would be an un-German
thing to do. I merely say that ninety-nine out of every hundred men
who found themselves in my position, alone, with a false registration
card, with no passport, with my disguise as a Chilian penetrated, with
the doors of twenty prisons yawning to receive me, would have sunk
down into their boots and suffered grievously from cold feet. But you,
who know Heine, are well aware that he is not a man to be lightly
scared.
I woke up that morning in Quaytown without fear, a penniless Ishmael,
hunted by the law, the hand of every man against me. Yet I was
cheerful. When I say I was penniless, I speak of course in a
figurative sense. I had a few pounds in my belt. I had a few thousands
in a certain New York bank and in various places in England there
would be men who would help me.
I paid my bill at the little hotel where I had spent the night and
caught the nine o’clock train for London. I got off the train at Bath
and made my way to a certain large stationer’s which accepts
advertisements for the leading London dailies. On payment of a little
extra money those advertisements are telegraphed to London and appear
on the following morning.
The advertisement I inserted was a very simple one. It ran:
“Clerk, over military age, expert book-keeper, with intimate knowledge
of the Argentine, Cuba, Batavia and Holland, requires situation.
Salary £200.”
An innocent advertisement, you may say. Yet, my friend, that was the
S.O.S. of a political agent in distress. On the following morning when
I saw that appear, with a certain box number, in the _Daily
Megaphone_, I should know that I had to wait for two or three days for
one of our industrious agents to answer that advertisement.
The words, “Argentine, Cuba, Batavia, Holland,” in that order meant,
“I am in urgent need of money.” The “£200,” which followed was the
amount I required. Had I advertised that my experience was in France,
Egypt, China, every German agent in England would have known that
special intelligence had been received from Germany and that they must
gather at an agreed rendezvous to receive their orders.
Had I merely written that my experience was in London, Bombay and
Buenos Aires, half the agents in England would have made preparations
to depart from this country without delay.
I arrived in London by night. That was the object of my getting off at
Bath, or rather partly the object, because I had a certain person, a
minor agent, to interview. Fortunately, or unfortunately, he was not
to be found, and it was not until the train came in and I was
preparing to step into my carriage that he made his appearance, rather
out of breath, for he had run all the way from the apartment-house he
kept.
“I found your note,” he said. “Are you alone in this carriage?”
I looked round. There were no other passengers.
“Then,” said he, “I will take the liberty, Herr Heine, of coming to
London with you. I have much to tell you. We thought you had left
England.”
Briefly I explained to him, as the train moved on, the reason I had
returned. I told him how I was carrying important despatches for
America, and how the ship was sunk by a submarine, and of how I had
reached the submarine and had ordered the captain to take me to the
nearest port.
“He landed me at night,” I said, “but I fear the unfortunate man
suffered sadly as a result of his politeness.”
He nodded.
“There was one of our heroic U-boats destroyed this morning in
Siddicombe Bay,” he said. “I got news through one of our men at
Quaytown. That wasn’t your U-boat, Herr Heine?”
“No, no,” I said hastily, “certainly not. I have never been to
Siddicombe in my life. I cannot tell you everything, my friend, there
are some secrets which cannot be revealed.”
He bowed respectfully.
He then went on to tell his news.
“I don’t know whether you have been in touch with Headquarters
lately,” he said, “but we have received information that a new society
has been formed in England called ‘The Sons of Irish Freedom.’ They
are planning a new rebellion, and we have been ordered to give them
every assistance.”
I nodded.
“This information is not new to me,” I said.
It is not the German way to allow underlings to believe that they are
better informed than their superiors.
“But pray go on,” I resumed, “tell me all you know.”
As a matter of fact, he had very little to tell except that the Sons
of Irish Freedom were a numerous body, that they held meetings behind
closed doors, that they had special passwords, grips and penalties,
and that all agents had been instructed to get into touch with their
local branch, not only to offer whatever assistance they could to the
movement, but also to call upon the brethren of the order for whatever
help they required. I made a note of this. It might be of great use to
me.
“What is the password?” I asked.