The Riddle of the Sands
“It’s an undertaking of immense difficulty; for the wreck is wholly
disintegrated, and the gold, being the heaviest part of it, has, of
course, sunk the deepest. Dredging is useless after a certain point;
and the divers have to make excavations in the sand, and shore them up
as best they can. Every gale nullifies half their labour, and weather
like this of the last fortnight plays the mischief with the work. Only
this morning I met the overseer, who happens to be ashore here. He was
as black as thunder over prospects.”
“Well, it’s a romantic speculation,” I said. “They deserve a return for
their money.”
“I hope they’ll get it,” said the Commander. “The fact is, I hold a few
shares myself.”
“Oh, I hope I haven’t been asking indiscreet questions?”
“Oh, dear no; all the world knows what I’ve told you. But you’ll
understand that one has to be reticent as to results in such a case.
It’s a big stake, and the _title is none too sound._ There has been
litigation over it. Not that I worry much about my investment; for I
shan’t lose much by it at the worst. But it gives one an interest in
this abominable coast. I go and see how they’re getting on sometimes,
when I’m down that way.”
“It _is_ an abominable coast,” I agreed heartily, “though you won’t get
Davies to agree.”
“It’s a magnificent place for sailing,” said Davies, looking wistfully
out over the storm-speckled grey of the North Sea.
He underwent some more chaff, and the talk passed to our cruising
adventures in the Baltic and the estuaries. Von Brüning cross-examined
us with the most charming urbanity and skill. Nothing he asked could
cause us the slightest offence; and a responsive frankness was our only
possible course. So, date after date, and incident after incident, were
elicited in the most natural way. As we talked I was astonished to find
how little there was that was worth concealing, and heartily thankful
that we had decided on candour. My fluency gave me the lead, and Davies
followed me; but his own personality was really our tower of strength.
I realised that as I watched the play of his eager features, and heard
him struggle for expression on his favourite hobby; all his pet phrases
translated crudely into the most excruciating German. He was
convincing, because he was himself.
“Are there many like you in England?” asked von Brüning once.
“Like me? Of course—lots,” said Davies.
“I wish there were more in Germany; they play at yachting over here—on
shore half the time, drinking and loafing; paid crews, clean hands,
white trousers; laid up in the middle of September.”
“We haven’t seen many yachts about, said Davies, politely.
For my part, I made no pretence of being a Davies. Faithful to my lower
nature, I vowed the Germans were right, and, not without a secret zest,
drew a lurid picture of the horrors of crewless cruising, and the
drudgery that my remorseless skipper inflicted on me. It was delightful
to see Davies wincing when I described my first night at Flensburg, for
I had my revenge at last, and did not spare him. He bore up gallantly
under my jesting, but I knew very well by his manner that he had not
forgiven me my banter about the “charming daughter”.
“You speak German well,” said von Brüning.
“I have lived in Germany,” said I.
“Studying for a profession, I suppose?”
“Yes,” said I, thinking ahead. “Civil Service,” was my prepared answer
to the next question, but again (morbidly, perhaps) I saw a pitfall.
That letter from my chief awaiting me at Norderney? My name was known,
and we were watched. It might be opened. Lord, how casual we have been!
“May I ask what?”
“The Foreign Office.” It sounded suspicious, but there it was.
“Indeed—in the Government service? When do you have to be back?”
That was how the question of our future intentions was raised,
prematurely by me; for two conflicting theories were clashing in my
brain. But the contents of the letter dogged me now, and “when at a
loss, tell the truth”, was an axiom I was finding sound. So I answered,
“Pretty soon, in about a week. But I’m expecting a letter at Norderney,
which may give me an extension. Davies said it was a good address to
give,” I added, smiling.
“Naturally,” said von Brüning, dryly; the joke had apparently ceased to
amuse him. “But you haven’t much time then, have you?” he added,
“unless you leave your skipper in the lurch. It’s a long way to
England, and the season is late for yachts.”
I felt myself being hurried.
“Oh, you don’t understand,” I explained; “_he’s_ in no hurry. He’s a
man of leisure; aren’t you, Davies?”
“What?” said Davies.
I translated my cruel question.
“Yes,” said Davies, with simple pathos.
“If I have to leave him I shan’t be missed—as an able seaman, at least.
He’ll just potter on down the islands, running aground and kedging-off,
and arrive about Christmas.”
“Or take the first fair gale to Dover,” laughed the Commander.
“Or that. So, you see, we’re in no hurry; and we never make plans. And
as for a passage to England straight, I’m not such a coward as I was at
first, but I draw the line at that.”
“You’re a curious pair of shipmates; what’s your point of view, Herr
Davies?”
“I like this coast,” said Davies. “And—we want to shoot some ducks.” He
was nervous, and forgot himself. I had already satirised our sporting
armament and exploits, and hoped the subject was disposed of. Ducks
were pretexts, and might lead to complications. I particularly wanted a
free hand.
“As to wild fowl,” said our friend, “I would like to give you gentlemen
some advice. There are plenty to be got, now that autumn weather has
set in (you wouldn’t have got a shot in September, Herr Davies; I
remember your asking about them when I saw you last). And even now it’s
early for amateurs. In hard winter weather a child can pick them up;
but they’re wild still, and want crafty hunting. You want a local punt,
and above all a local man (you could stow him in your fo’c’sle), and to
go to work seriously. Now, if you really wish for sport, I could help
you. I could get you a trustworthy——”
“Oh, it’s too good of you,” stammered Davies, in a more unhappy accent
than usual. “We can easily find one for ourselves. A man at Wangeroog
offered——”
“Oh, did he?” interrupted von Brüning, laughing. “I’m not surprised.
You don’t know the Frieslanders. They’re guileless, as I said, but they
cling to their little perquisites.” (I translated to Davies.) “They’ve
been cheated out of wrecks, and they’re all the more sensitive about
ducks, which are more lucrative than fish. A stranger is a poacher.
Your man would have made slight errors as to time and place.”
“You said they were odd in their manner, didn’t you, Davies?” I put in.
“Look here, this is very kind of Commander von Brüning; but hadn’t we
better be certain of my plans before settling down to shoot? Let’s push
on direct to Norderney and get that letter of mine, and then decide.
But we shan’t see you again, I suppose, Commander?”
“Why not? I am cruising westwards, and shall probably call at
Norderney. Come aboard if you’re there, won’t you? I should like to
show you the _Blitz_.”
“Thanks, very much,” said Davies, uneasily.
“Thanks, very much,” said I, as heartily as I could.
Our party broke up soon after this.
“Well, gentlemen, I must take leave of you,” said our friend. “I have
to drive to Esens. I shall be going back to the _Blitz_ on the evening
tide, but you’ll be busy then with your own boat.”
It had been a puzzling interview, but the greatest puzzle was still to
come. As we went towards the door, von Brüning made a sign to me. We
let Davies pass out and remained standing.
“One word in confidence with you, Herr Carruthers,” he said, speaking
low. “You won’t think me officious, I hope. I only speak out of keen
regard for your friend. It is about the Dollmanns—you see how the land
lies? I wouldn’t encourage him.”
“Thanks,” I said, “but really——”
“It’s only a hint. He’s a splendid young fellow, but if anything—you
understand—too honest and simple. I take it you have influence with
him, and I should use it.”
“I was not in earnest,” I said. “I have never seen the Dollmanns; I
thought they were friends of yours,” I added, looking him straight in
the eyes.
“I know them, but”—he shrugged his shoulders—“I know everybody.”
“What’s wrong with them?” I said, point-blank.
“Softly! Herr Carruthers. Remember, I speak out of pure friendliness to
you as strangers, foreigners, and young. You I take to have discretion,
or I should not have said a word. Still, I will add this. We know very
little of Herr Dollmann, of his origin, his antecedents. He is half a
Swede, I believe, certainly not a Prussian; came to Norderney three
years ago, appears to be rich, and has joined in various commercial
undertakings. Little scope about here? Oh, there is more enterprise
than you think—development of bathing resorts, you know, speculation in
land on these islands. Sharp practice? Oh, no! he’s perfectly straight
in that way. But he’s a queer fellow, of eccentric habits, and—and,
well, as I say, little is known of him. That’s all, just a warning.
Come along.”
I saw that to press him further was useless.
“Thanks; I’ll remember,” I said.
“And look here,” he added, as we walked down the passage, “if you take
my advice, you’ll omit that visit to the _Medusa_ altogether.” He gave
me a steady look, smiling gravely.
“How much do you know, and what do you mean?” were the questions that
throbbed in my thoughts; but I could not utter them, so I said nothing
and felt very young.
Outside we joined Davies, who was knitting his brow over prospects.
“It just comes of going into places like this,” he said to me. “We may
be stuck here for days. Too much wind to tow out with the dinghy, and
too narrow a channel to beat in.”
Von Brüning was ready with a new proposal.
“Why didn’t I think of it before?” he said. “I’ll tow you out in my
launch. Be ready at 6.30; we shall have water enough then. My men will
send you a warp.”
It was impossible to refuse, but a sense of being personally conducted
again oppressed me; and the last hope of a bed in the inn vanished.
Davies was none too effusive either. A tug meant a pilot, and he had
had enough of them.
“He objects to towage on principle,” I said.
“Just like him!” laughed the other. “That’s settled, then!” A dogcart
was standing before the inn door in readiness for von Brüning. I was
curious about Esens and his business there. Esens, he said, was the
principal town of the district, four miles inland.
“I have to go there,” he volunteered, “about a poaching case—a Dutchman
trawling inside our limits. That’s my work, you know—police duty.”
Had the words a deeper meaning?
“Do you ever catch an Englishman?” I asked, recklessly.
“Oh, very rarely; your countrymen don’t come so far as this—except on
pleasure.” He bowed to us each and smiled.
“Not much of that to be got in Bensersiel,” I laughed.
“I’m afraid you’ll have a dull afternoon. Look here. I know you can’t
leave your boat altogether, and it’s no use asking Herr Davies; but
will _you_ drive into Esens with me and see a Frisian town—for what
it’s worth? You’re getting a dismal impression of Friesland.”
I excused myself, said I would stop with Davies; we would walk out over
the sands and prospect for the evening’s sail.
“Well, good-bye then,” he said, “till the evening. Be ready for the
warp at 6.30.”
He jumped up, and the cart rattled off through the mud, crossed the
bridge, and disappeared into the dreary hinterland.
CHAPTER XVII.
Clearing the Air
“Has he gone to get the police, do you think?” said Davies, grimly.
“I don’t think so,” said I. “Let’s go aboard before that Customs fellow
buttonholes us.”