The Riddle of the Sands
short, flat-topped peninsula, bounded on the west by the Ems estuary
and beyond that by Holland, and on the east by the Jade estuary; a
low-lying country, containing great tracts of marsh and heath, and few
towns of any size; on the north side none. Seven islands lie off the
coast. All, except Borkum, which is round, are attenuated strips,
slightly crescent-shaped, rarely more than a mile broad, and tapering
at the ends; in length averaging about six miles, from Norderney and
Juist, which are seven and nine respectively, to little Baltrum, which
is only two and a half.
Of the shoal spaces which lie between them and the mainland, two-thirds
dry at low-water, and the remaining third becomes a system of lagoons
whose distribution is controlled by the natural drift of the North Sea
as it forces its way through the intervals between the islands. Each of
these intervals resembles the bar of a river, and is obstructed by
dangerous banks, over which the sea pours at every tide scooping out a
deep pool. This fans out and ramifies to east and west as the pent-up
current frees itself, encircles the islands, and spreads over the
intervening flats. But the farther it penetrates the less coursing
force it has, and as a result no island is girt completely by a
low-water channel. About midway at the back of each of them is a
“watershed”, only covered for five or six hours out of the twelve. A
boat, even of the lightest draught, navigating behind the islands must
choose its moment for passing these. As to navigability, the _North Sea
Pilot_ sums up the matter in these dry terms: “The channels dividing
these islands from each other and the shore afford to the small craft
of the country the means of communication between the Ems and the Jade,
to which description of vessels only they are available.” The islands
are dismissed with a brief note or two about beacons and lights.
The more I looked at the chart the more puzzled I became. The islands
were evidently mere sandbanks, with a cluster of houses and a church on
each, the only hint of animation in their desolate _ensemble_ being the
occasional word “Bade-strand”, suggesting that they were visited in the
summer months by a handful of townsfolk for the sea-bathing. Norderney,
of course, was conspicuous in this respect; but even its town, which I
know by repute as a gay and fashionable watering-place, would be dead
and empty for some months in the year, and could have no commercial
importance. No man could do anything on the mainland coast—a monotonous
line of dyke punctuated at intervals by an infinitesimal village.
Glancing idly at the names of these villages, I noticed that they most
of them ended in siel—a repulsive termination, that seemed appropriate
to the whole region. There were Carolinensiel, Bensersiel, etc. Siel
means either a sewer or a sluice, the latter probably in this case, for
I noticed that each village stood at the outlet of a little stream
which evidently carried off the drainage of the lowlands behind. A
sluice, or lock, would be necessary at the mouth, for at high tide the
land is below the level of the sea. Looking next at the sands outside,
I noticed that across them and towards each outlet a line of booms was
marked, showing that there was some sort of tidal approach to the
village, evidently formed by the scour of the little stream.
“Are we going to explore those?” I asked Davies.
“I don’t see the use,” he answered; “they only lead to those potty
little places. I suppose local galliots use them.”
“How about your torpedo-boats and patrol-boats?”
“They _might,_ at certain tides. But I can’t see what value they’d be,
unless as a refuge for a German boat in the last resort. They lead to
no harbours. Wait! There’s a little notch in the dyke at
Neuharlingersiel and Dornumersiel, which may mean some sort of a quay
arrangement, but what’s the use of that?”
“We may as well visit one or two, I suppose?”
“I suppose so; but we don’t want to be playing round villages. There’s
heaps of really important work to do, farther out.”
“Well, what _do_ you make of this coast?”
Davies had nothing but the same old theory, but he urged it with a
force and keenness that impressed me more deeply than ever.
“Look at those islands!” he said. “They’re clearly the old line of
coast, hammered into breaches by the sea. The space behind them is like
an immense tidal harbour, thirty miles by five, and they screen it
impenetrably. It’s absolutely _made_ for shallow war-boats under
skilled pilotage. They can nip in and out of the gaps, and dodge about
from end to end. On one side is the Ems, on the other the big
estuaries. It’s a perfect base for torpedo-craft.”
I agreed (and agree still), but still I shrugged my shoulders.
“We go on exploring, then, in the same way?”
“Yes; keeping a sharp look-out, though. Remember, we shall always be in
sight of land now.”
“What’s the glass doing?”
“Higher than for a long time. I hope it won’t bring fog. I know this
district is famous for fogs, and fine weather at this time of the year
is bad for them anywhere. I would rather it blew, if it wasn’t for
exploring those gaps, where an on-shore wind would be nasty. Six-thirty
to-morrow; not later. I think I’ll sleep in the saloon for the future,
after what happened to-night.”
CHAPTER XV.
Bensersiel
[For this chapter see Map B.]
The decisive incidents of our cruise were now fast approaching. Looking
back on the steps that led to them, and anxious that the reader should
be wholly with us in our point of view, I think I cannot do better than
give extracts from my diary of the next three days:
“_Oct._ 16 (up at 6.30, yacht high and dry). Of the three galliots out
at anchor in the channel yesterday, only one is left.... I took my turn
with the breakers this morning and walked to Wangeroog, whose village I
found half lost in sand drifts, which are planted with tufts of
marram-grass in mathematical rows, to give stability and prevent a
catastrophe like that at Pompeii. A friendly grocer told me all there
is to know, which is little. The islands are what we thought
them—barren for the most part, with a small fishing population, and a
scanty accession of summer visitors for bathing. The season is over
now, and business slack for him. There is still, however, a little
trade with the mainland in galliots and lighters, a few of which come
from the ‘siels’ on the mainland. ‘Had these harbours?’ I asked.
‘Mud-holes!’ he replied, with a contemptuous laugh. (He is a settler in
these wilds, not a native.) Said he had heard of schemes for improving
them, so as to develop the islands as health-resorts, but thought it
was only a wild speculation.
“A heavy tramp back to the yacht, nearly crushed by impedimenta. While
Davies made yet another trip, I stalked some birds with a gun, and
obtained what resembled a specimen of the smallest variety of
jack-snipe, and small at that; but I made a great noise, which I hope
persuaded somebody of the purity of our motives.
“We weighed anchor at one o’clock, and in passing the anchored galliot
took a good look at her. _Kormoran_ was on her stern; otherwise she was
just like a hundred others. Nobody was on deck.
“We spent the whole afternoon till dark exploring the Harle, or gap
between Wangeroog and Spiekeroog; the sea breaking heavily on the banks
outside.... Fine as the day was, the scene from the offing was desolate
to the last degree. The naked spots of the two islands are hideous in
their sterility: melancholy bits of wreck-wood their only relief, save
for one or two grotesque beacons, and, most _bizarre_ of all, a great
church-tower, standing actually _in_ the water, on the north side of
Wangeroog, a striking witness to the encroachment of the sea. On the
mainland, which was barely visible, there was one very prominent
landmark, a spire, which from the chart we took to be that of _Esens,_
a town four miles inland.
“The days are growing short. Sunset is soon after five, and an hour
later it is too dark to see booms and buoys distinctly. The tides also
are awkward just now.[1] High-water at morning and evening is between
five and six—just at twilight. For the night, we groped with the lead
into the Muschel Balge, the tributary channel which laps round the
inside of Spiekeroog, and lay in two fathoms, clear of the outer swell,
but rolling a little when the ebb set in strong against the wind.
[1] I exclude all the technicalities that I can, but the reader should
take note that the tide-table is very important henceforward.
“A galliot passed us, going west, just as we were stowing sails; too
dark to see her name. Later, we saw her anchor-light higher up our
channel.
“The great event of the day has been the sighting of a small German
gunboat, steaming slowly west along the coast. That was about half-past
four, when we were sounding along the Harle.
“Davies identified her at once as the _Blitz_, Commander von Brüning’s
gunboat. We wondered if he recognised the _Dulcibella_, but, anyway,
she seemed to take no notice of us and steamed slowly on. We quite
expected to fall in with her when we came to the islands, but the
actual sight of her has excited us a good deal. She is an ugly, cranky
little vessel, painted grey, with one funnel. Davis is contemptuous
about her low freeboard forward; says he would rather go to sea in the
_Dulce_. He has her dimensions and armament (learnt from Brassey) at
his fingers’ ends: one hundred and forty feet by twenty-five, one 4.9
gun, one 3.4, and four maxims—an old type. Just going to bed; a
bitterly cold night.
“_Oct._ 17.—Glass falling heavily this morning, to our great disgust.
Wind back in the SW and much warmer. Starting at 5.30 we tacked on the
tide over the ‘watershed’ behind Spiekeroog. So did the galliot we had
seen last night, but we again missed identifying her, as she weighed
anchor before we came up to her berth. Davies, however, swore she was
the _Kormoran_. We lost sight of her altogether for the greater part of
the day, which we spent in exploring the Otzumer Ee (the gap between
Langeoog and Spiekeroog), now and then firing some perfunctory shots at
seals and sea-birds . . . (nautical details omitted). . . . In the
evening we were hurrying back to an inside anchorage, when we made a
bad mistake; did, in fact, what we had never done before, ran aground
on the very top of high water, and are now sitting hard and fast on the
edge of the Rute Flat, south of the east spit of Langeoog. The light
was bad, and a misplaced boom tricked us; kedging-off failed, and at 8
p.m. we were left on a perfect Ararat of sand, and only a yard or two
from that accursed boom, which is perched on the very summit, as a lure
to the unwary. It is going to blow hard too, though that is no great
matter, as we are sheltered by banks on the sou’-west and nor’-west
sides, the likely quarters. We hope to float at 6.15 to-morrow morning,
but to make sure of being able to get her off, we have been
transferring some ballast to the dinghy, by way of lightening the
yacht—a horrid business handling the pigs of lead, heavy, greasy, and
black. The saloon is an inferno, the deck like a collier’s, and
ourselves like sweeps.
“The anchors are laid out, and there is nothing more to be done.
“_Oct._ 18—Half a gale from the sou’-west when we turned out, but it
helped us to float off safely at six. The dinghy was very nearly
swamped with the weight of lead in it, and getting the ballast back
into the yacht was the toughest job of all. We got the dinghy
alongside, and Davies jumped in (nearly sinking it for good), balanced
himself, fended off, and, whenever he got a chance, attached the pigs
one by one on to a bight of rope, secured to the peak halyards, on