The Riddle of the Sands
“wreck-works” boat. It seemed that off the western end of _Juist_, the
island lying west of Norderney, there lay the bones of a French
war-vessel, wrecked ages ago. She carried bullion which has never been
recovered, in spite of many efforts. A salvage company was trying for
it now, and had works on Memmert, an adjacent sandbank. “That is Herr
Grimm, the overseer himself,” they said, pointing to the bridge above
the sluice-gates. (I call him “Grimm” because it describes him
exactly.) A man in a pilot jacket and peaked cap was leaning over the
parapet.
“What’s he doing here?” I asked.
They answered that he was often up and down the coast, work on the
wreck being impossible in rough weather. They supposed he was bringing
cargo in his galliot from Wilhelmshaven, all the company’s plant and
stores coming from that port. He was a local man from Aurich; an ex-tug
skipper.
We discussed this information while walking out over the sands to see
the channel at low water.
“Did you hear anything about this in September?” I asked.
“Not a word. I didn’t go to Juist. I would have, probably, if I hadn’t
met Dollmann.”
What in the world did it mean? How did it affect our plans?
“Look at his boots if we pass him,” was all Davies had to suggest.
The channel was now a ditch, with a trickle in it, running north by
east, roughly, and edged by a dyke of withies for the first quarter of
a mile. It was still blowing fresh from the north-east, and we saw that
exit was impossible in such a wind.
So back to the village, a paltry, bleak little place. We passed friend
Grimm on the bridge; a dark, clean-shaved, saturnine man, wearing
_shoes._ Approaching the inn:
“We haven’t settled quite enough, have we?” said Davies. “What about
our future plans?”
“Heaven knows, we haven’t,” I said. “But I don’t see how we can. We
must see how things go. It’s past twelve, and it won’t do to be late.”
“Well, I leave it to you.”
“All right, I’ll do my best. All you’ve got to do is to be yourself and
tell one lie, if need be, about the trick Dollmann played you.”
The next scene: von Brüning, Davies, and I, sitting over coffee and
Kümmel at a table in a dingy inn-parlour overlooking the harbour and
the sea, Davies with a full box of matches on the table before him. The
Commander gave us a hearty welcome, and I am bound to say I liked him
at once, as Davies had done; but I feared him, too, for he had honest
eyes, but abominably clever ones.
I had impressed on Davies to talk and question as freely and naturally
as though nothing uncommon had happened since he last saw von Brüning
on the deck of the _Medusa_. He must ask about Dollmann—the mutual
friend—at the outset, and, if questioned about that voyage in his
company to the Elbe, must lie like a trooper as to the danger he had
been in. This was the one clear and essential necessity, where much was
difficult. Davies did his duty with precipitation, and blushed when he
put his question, in a way that horrified me, till I remembered that
his embarrassment was due, and would be ascribed, to another cause.
“Herr Dollmann is away still, I think,” said von Brüning. (So Davies
had been right at Brunsbüttel.) “Were you thinking of looking him up
again?” he added.
“Yes,” said Davies, shortly.
“Well, I’m sure he’s away. But his yacht is back, I believe—and
Fräulein Dollmann, I suppose.”
“H’m!” said Davies; “she’s a very fine boat that.”
Our host smiled, gazing thoughtfully at Davies, who was miserable. I
saw a chance, and took it mercilessly.
“We can call on Fräulein Dollmann, at least, Davies,” I said, with a
meaning smile at von Brüning.
“H’m!” said Davies; “will he be back soon, do you think?”
The Commander had begun to light a cigar, and took his time in
answering. “Probably,” he said, after some puffing, “he’s never away
very long. But you’ve seen them later than I have. Didn’t you sail to
the Elbe together the day after I saw you last?”
“Oh, part of the way,” said Davies, with great negligence. “I haven’t
seen him since. He got there first; outsailed me.”
“Gave you the slip, in fact?”
“Of course he beat me; I was close-reefed. Besides——”
“Oh, I remember; there was a heavy blow—a devil of a heavy blow. I
thought of you that day. How did you manage?”
“Oh, it was a fair wind; it wasn’t far, you see.”
“Grosse Gott! In _that_.” He nodded towards the window whence the
_Dulcibella_’s taper mast could be seen pointing demurely heavenwards.
“She’s a splendid sea-boat,” said Davies, indignantly.
“A thousand pardons!” said von Brüning, laughing.
“Don’t shake my faith in her,” I put in. “I’ve got to get to England in
her.”
“Heaven forbid; I was only thinking that there must have been some sea
round the Scharhorn that day; a tame affair, no doubt, Herr Davies?”
“Scharhorn?” said Davies, who did not catch the idiom in the latter
sentence. “Oh, we didn’t go that way. We cut through the sands—by the
Telte.”
“The Telte! In a north-west gale!” The Commander started, ceased to
smile, and only stared. (It was genuine surprise; I could swear it. He
had heard nothing of this before.)
“Herr Dollmann knew the way,” said Davies, doggedly. “He kindly offered
to pilot me through, and I wouldn’t have gone otherwise.” There was an
awkward little pause.
“He led you well, it seems?” said von Brüning.
“Yes; there’s a nasty surf there, though, isn’t there? But it saves six
miles—and the Scharhorn. Not that I saved distance. I was fool enough
to run aground.”
“Ah!” said the other, with interest.
“It didn’t matter, because I was well inside then. Those sands are
difficult at high water. We’ve come back that way, you know.”
(“And we run aground every day,” I remarked, with resignation.)
“Is that where the _Medusa_ gave you the slip?” asked von Brüning,
still studying Davies with a strange look, which I strove anxiously to
analyse.
“She wouldn’t have noticed,” said Davies. “It was very thick and
squally—and she had got some way ahead. There was no need for her to
stop, anyway. I got off all right; the tide was rising still. But, of
course, I anchored there for the night.”
“Where?”
“Inside there, under the Hohenhörn,” said Davies, simply.
“Under the _what_?”
“The Hohenhörn.”
“Go on—didn’t they wait for you at Cuxhaven?”
“I don’t know; I didn’t go that way.” The Commander looked more and
more puzzled.
“Not by the ship canal, I mean. I changed my mind about it, because the
next day the wind was easterly. It would have been a dead beat across
the sands to Cuxhaven, while it was a fair wind straight out to the
Eider River. So I sailed there, and reached the Baltic that way. It was
all the same.”
There was another pause.
“Well done, Davies,” I thought. He had told his story well, using no
subtlety. I knew it was exactly how he would have told it to anyone
else, if he had not had irrefutable proof of foul play.
The Commander laughed, suddenly and heartily.
“Another liqueur?” he said. Then, to me: “Upon my word, your friend
amuses me. It’s impossible to make him spin a yarn. I expect he had a
bad time of it.”
“That’s nothing to him,” I said; “he prefers it. He anchored me the
other day behind the Hohenhörn in a gale of wind; said it was safer
than a harbour, and more sanitary.”
“I wonder he brought you here last night. It was a fair wind for
England; and not very far.”
“There was no pilot to follow, you see.”
“With a charming daughter—no.”
Davies frowned and glared at me. I was merciful and changed the
subject.
“Besides,” I said, “we’ve left our anchor and chain out there.” And I
made confession of my sin.
“Well, as it’s buoyed, I should advise you to pick it up as soon as you
can,” said von Brüning, carelessly; “or someone else will.”
“Yes, by Jove! Carruthers,” said Davies, eagerly, “we must get out on
this next tide.”
“Oh, there’s no hurry,” I said, partly from policy, partly because the
ease of the shore was on me. To sit on a chair upright is something of
a luxury, however good the cause in which you have crouched like a
monkey over a table at the level of your knees, with a reeking
oil-stove at your ear.
“They’re honest enough about here, aren’t they?” I added. While the
words were on my lips I remembered the midnight visitor at Wangeroog,
and guessed that von Brüning was leading up to a test. Grimm (if he was
the visitor) would have told him of his narrow escape from detection,
and reticence on our part would show we suspected something. I could
have kicked myself, but it was not too late. I took the bull by the
horns, and, before the Commander could answer, added:
“By Jove! Davies, I forgot about that fellow at Wangeroog. The anchor
might be stolen, as he says.”
Davies looked blank, but von Brüning had turned to me.
“We never dreamed there would be thieves among these islands,” I said,
“but the other night I nearly caught a fellow in the act. He thought
the yacht was empty.”
I described the affair in detail, and with what humour I could. Our
host was amused, and apologetic for the islanders.
“They’re excellent folk,” he said, “but they’re born with predatory
instincts. Their fathers made their living out of wrecks on this coast,
and the children inherit a weakness for plunder. When Wangeroog
lighthouse was built they petitioned the Government for compensation,
in perfect good faith. The coast is well lighted now, and windfalls are
rare, but the sight of a stranded yacht, with the owners ashore, would
inflame the old passion; and, depend upon it, someone has seen that
anchor-buoy.”
The word “wrecks” had set me tingling. Was it another test? Impossible
to say; but audacity was safer than reserve, and might save trouble in
the future.
“Isn’t there the wreck of a treasure-ship somewhere farther west?” I
asked. “We heard of it at Wangeroog” (my first inaccuracy). “They said
a company was exploiting it.”
“Quite right,” said the Commander, without a sign of embarrassment. “I
don’t wonder you heard of it. It’s one of the few things folk have to
talk about in these parts. It lies on Juister Riff, a shoal off Juist.
_[See Map B]_ She was a French frigate, the _Corinne_, bound from
Hamburg to Havre in 1811, when Napoleon held Hamburg as tight as Paris.
She carried a million and a half in gold bars, and was insured in
Hamburg; foundered in four fathoms, broke up, and there lies the
treasure.”
“Never been raised?”
“No. The underwriters failed and went bankrupt, and the wreck came into
the hands of your English Lloyd’s. It remained their property till ’75,
but they never got at the bullion. In fact, for fifty years it was
never scratched at, and its very position grew doubtful, for the sand
swallowed every stick. The rights passed through various hands, and in
’86 were held by an enterprising Swedish company, which brought modern
appliances, dived, dredged, and dug, fished up a lot of timber and
bric-à-brac, and then broke. Since then, two Hamburg firms have tackled
the job and lost their capital. Scores of lives have been spent over
it, all told, and probably a million of money. Still there are the
bars, somewhere.”
“And what’s being done now?”
“Well, recently a small local company was formed. It has a depôt at
Memmert, and is working with a good deal of perseverance. An engineer
from Bremen was the principal mover, and a few men from Norderney and
Emden subscribed the capital. By the way, our friend Dollmann is
largely interested in it.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Davies’s tell-tale face growing
troubled with inward questionings.
“We mustn’t get back to him,” I said, laughing. “It’s not fair to my
friend. But all this is very interesting. Will they ever get those
bars?”
“Ah! that’s the point,” said von Brüning, with a mysterious twinkle.