The Riddle of the Sands
A Record of Secret Service Recently Achieved
Edited by
Erskine Childers
(1870-1922)
Contents
Preface
I. The Letter
II. The _Dulcibella_
III. Davies
IV. Retrospect
V. Wanted, a North Wind
VI. Schlei Fiord
VII. The Missing Page
VIII. The Theory
IX. I Sign Articles
X. His Chance
XI. The Pathfinders
XII. My Initiation
XIII. The Meaning of our Work
XIV. The First Night in the Islands
XV. Bensersiel
XVI. Commander von Brüning
XVII. Clearing the Air
XVIII. Imperial Escort
XIX. The Rubicon
XX. The Little Drab Book
XXI. Blindfold to Memmert
XXII. The Quartette
XXIII. A Change of Tactics
XXIV. Finesse
XXV. I Double Back
XXVI. The Seven Siels
XXVII. The Luck of the Stowaway
XXVIII. We Achieve our Double Aim
Epilogue
Postscript (March 1903)
Maps and Charts
Map A—General Map Chart A—Chart to Illustrate the Stranding of the
_Dulcibella,_ etc. Map B—Map of East Friesland Chart B—Chart of Juist,
Memmert, and Part of Norderney Sketch—Memmert Salvage Depot
Preface
A word about the origin and authorship of this book.
In October last (1902), my friend “Carruthers” visited me in my
chambers, and, under a provisional pledge of secrecy, told me frankly
the whole of the adventure described in these pages. Till then I had
only known as much as the rest of his friends, namely, that he had
recently undergone experiences during a yachting cruise with a certain
Mr “Davies” which had left a deep mark on his character and habits.
At the end of his narrative—which, from its bearing on studies and
speculations of my own, as well as from its intrinsic interest and racy
delivery, made a very deep impression on me—he added that the important
facts discovered in the course of the cruise had, without a moment’s
delay, been communicated to the proper authorities, who, after some
dignified incredulity, due in part, perhaps, to the pitiful inadequacy
of their own secret service, had, he believed, made use of them, to
avert a great national danger. I say “he believed”, for though it was
beyond question that the danger was averted for the time, it was
doubtful whether they had stirred a foot to combat it, the secret
discovered being of such a nature that mere suspicion of it on this
side was likely to destroy its efficacy.
There, however that may be, the matter rested for a while, as, for
personal reasons which will be manifest to the reader, he and Mr
“Davies” expressly wished it to rest.
But events were driving them to reconsider their decision. These seemed
to show that the information wrung with such peril and labour from the
German Government, and transmitted so promptly to our own, had had none
but the most transitory influence on our policy. Forced to the
conclusion that the national security was really being neglected, the
two friends now had a mind to make their story public; and it was about
this that “Carruthers” wished for my advice. The great drawback was
that an Englishman, bearing an honoured name, was disgracefully
implicated, and that unless infinite delicacy were used, innocent
persons, and, especially, a young lady, would suffer pain and
indignity, if his identity were known. Indeed, troublesome rumours,
containing a grain of truth and a mass of falsehood, were already
afloat.
After weighing both sides of the question, I gave my vote emphatically
for publication. The personal drawbacks could, I thought, with tact be
neutralised; while, from the public point of view, nothing but good
could come from submitting the case to the common sense of the country
at large. Publication, therefore, was agreed upon, and the next point
was the form it should take. “Carruthers”, with the concurrence of Mr
“Davies”, was for a bald exposition of the essential facts, stripped of
their warm human envelope. I was strongly against this course, first,
because it would aggravate instead of allaying the rumours that were
current; secondly, because in such a form the narrative would not carry
conviction, and would thus defeat its own end. The persons and the
events were indissolubly connected; to evade, abridge, suppress, would
be to convey to the reader the idea of a concocted hoax. Indeed, I took
bolder ground still, urging that the story should be made as explicit
and circumstantial as possible, frankly and honestly for the purpose of
entertaining and so of attracting a wide circle of readers. Even
anonymity was undesirable. Nevertheless, certain precautions were
imperatively needed.
To cut the matter short, they asked for my assistance and received it
at once. It was arranged that I should edit the book; that “Carruthers”
should give me his diary and recount to me in fuller detail and from
his own point of view all the phases of the “quest”, as they used to
call it; that Mr “Davies” should meet me with his charts and maps and
do the same; and that the whole story should be written, as from the
mouth of the former, with its humours and errors, its light and its
dark side, just as it happened; with the following few limitations. The
year it belongs to is disguised; the names of persons are throughout
fictitious; and, at my instance certain slight liberties have been
taken to conceal the identity of the English characters.
Remember, also that these persons are living now in the midst of us,
and if you find one topic touched on with a light and hesitating pen,
do not blame the Editor, who, whether they are known or not, would
rather say too little than say a word that might savour of
impertinence.
E. C.
_March_, 1903
NOTE
The maps and charts are based on British and German Admiralty charts,
with irrelevant details omitted.
CHAPTER I.
The Letter
I have read of men who, when forced by their calling to live for long
periods in utter solitude—save for a few black faces—have made it a
rule to dress regularly for dinner in order to maintain their
self-respect and prevent a relapse into barbarism. It was in some such
spirit, with an added touch of self-consciousness, that, at seven
o’clock in the evening of September 23 in a recent year, I was making
my evening toilet in my chambers in Pall Mall. I thought the date and
the place justified the parallel; to my advantage even; for the obscure
Burmese administrator might well be a man of blunted sensibilities and
coarse fibre, and at least he is alone with nature, while I—well, a
young man of condition and fashion, who knows the right people, belongs
to the right clubs, has a safe, possibly a brilliant, future in the
Foreign Office—may be excused for a sense of complacent martyrdom,
when, with his keen appreciation of the social calendar, he is doomed
to the outer solitude of London in September. I say “martyrdom”, but in
fact the case was infinitely worse. For to feel oneself a martyr, as
everybody knows, is a pleasurable thing, and the true tragedy of my
position was that I had passed that stage. I had enjoyed what sweets it
had to offer in ever dwindling degree since the middle of August, when
ties were still fresh and sympathy abundant. I had been conscious that
I was missed at Morven Lodge party. Lady Ashleigh herself had said so
in the kindest possible manner, when she wrote to acknowledge the
letter in which I explained, with an effectively austere reserve of
language, that circumstances compelled me to remain at my office. “We
know how busy you must be just now”, she wrote, “and I do hope you
won’t overwork; we shall _all_ miss you very much.” Friend after friend
“got away” to sport and fresh air, with promises to write and chaffing
condolences, and as each deserted the sinking ship, I took a grim
delight in my misery, positively almost enjoying the first week or two
after my world had been finally dissipated to the four bracing winds of
heaven. I began to take a spurious interest in the remaining five
millions, and wrote several clever letters in a vein of cheap satire,
indirectly suggesting the pathos of my position, but indicating that I
was broad-minded enough to find intellectual entertainment in the
scenes, persons, and habits of London in the dead season. I even did
rational things at the instigation of others. For, though I should have
liked total isolation best, I, of course, found that there was a
sediment of unfortunates like myself, who, unlike me, viewed the
situation in a most prosaic light. There were river excursions, and so
on, after office-hours; but I dislike the river at any time for its
noisy vulgarity, and most of all at this season. So I dropped out of
the fresh air brigade and declined H——’s offer to share a riverside
cottage and run up to town in the mornings. I did spend one or two
week-ends with the Catesbys in Kent; but I was not inconsolable when
they let their house and went abroad, for I found that such partial
compensations did not suit me. Neither did the taste for satirical
observation last. A passing thirst, which I dare say many have shared,
for adventures of the fascinating kind described in the _New Arabian
Nights_ led me on a few evenings into some shady haunts in Soho and
farther eastward; but was finally quenched one sultry Saturday night
after an hour’s immersion in the reeking atmosphere of a low music-hall
in Ratcliffe Highway, where I sat next a portly female who suffered
from the heat, and at frequent intervals refreshed herself and an
infant from a bottle of tepid stout.
By the first week in September I had abandoned all palliatives, and had
settled into the dismal but dignified routine of office, club, and
chambers. And now came the most cruel trial, for the hideous truth
dawned on me that the world I found so indispensable could after all
dispense with me. It was all very well for Lady Ashleigh to assure me
that I was deeply missed; but a letter from F——, who was one of the
party, written “in haste, just starting to shoot”, and coming as a
tardy reply to one of my cleverest, made me aware that the house party
had suffered little from my absence, and that few sighs were wasted on
me, even in the quarter which I had assumed to have been discreetly
alluded to by the underlined _all_ in Lady Ashleigh’s “we shall _all_
miss you”. A thrust which smarted more, if it bit less deeply, came
from my cousin Nesta, who wrote: “It’s horrid for you to have to be
baking in London now; but, after all, it must be a great pleasure to
you” (malicious little wretch!) “to have such interesting and important
work to do.” Here was a nemesis for an innocent illusion I had been
accustomed to foster in the minds of my relations and acquaintances,
especially in the breasts of the trustful and admiring maidens whom I
had taken down to dinner in the last two seasons; a fiction which I had
almost reached the point of believing in myself. For the plain truth
was that my work was neither interesting nor important, and consisted
chiefly at present in smoking cigarettes, in saying that Mr So-and-So
was away and would be back about October 1, in being absent for lunch
from twelve till two, and in my spare moments making _précis_ of—let us
say—the less confidential consular reports, and squeezing the results
into cast-iron schedules. The reason of my detention was not a cloud on
the international horizon—though I may say in passing that there was
such a cloud—but a caprice on the part of a remote and mighty
personage, the effect of which, ramifying downwards, had dislocated the
carefully-laid holiday plans of the humble juniors, and in my own small
case had upset the arrangement between myself and K——, who positively
liked the dog-days in Whitehall.