The Riddle of the Sands
Davies scorned them, and I had felt only a faint curiosity in these
insignificant hamlets, influenced, I am afraid, chiefly by a hankering
after _terra firma_ which the pitiless rigour of his training had been
unable to cure.
But it was imprudent to neglect the slightest chance. It was three
o’clock, and I think both our brains were beginning to be addled with
thinking in close confinement. I suggested that we should finish our
council of war in the open, and we both donned oilskins and turned out.
The sky had hardened and banked into an even canopy of lead, and the
wind drove before it a fine cold rain. You could hear the murmur of the
rising flood on the sands outside, but the harbour was high above it
still, and the _Dulcibella_ and the other boats squatted low in a bed
of black slime. Native interest seemed to be at last assuaged, for not
a soul was visible on the bank (I cannot call it a quay); but the top
of a black sou’wester with a feather of smoke curling round it showed
above the forehatch of the _Kormoran_.
“I wish I could get a look at your cargo, my friend,” I thought to
myself.
We gazed at Bensersiel in silence.
“There can’t be anything _here_?” I said.
“What _can_ there be?” said Davies.
“What about that dyke?” I said, with a sudden inspiration.
From the bank we could see all along the coast-line, which is dyked
continuously, as I have already said. The dyke was here a substantial
brick-faced embankment, very similar, though on a smaller scale, to
that which had bordered the Elbe near Cuxhaven, and over whose summit
we had seen the snouts of guns.
“I say, Davies,” I said, “do you think this coast could be invaded?
Along here, I mean, behind these islands?”
Davies shook his head. “I’ve thought of that,” he said. “There’s
nothing in it. It’s just the very last place on earth where a landing
would be possible. No transport could get nearer than where the _Blitz_
is lying, four miles out.”
“Well, you say every inch of this coast is important?”
“Yes, but it’s the _water_ I mean.”
“Well, I want to see that dyke. Let’s walk along it.”
My mushroom theory died directly I set foot on it. It was the most
innocent structure in the world—like a thousand others in Essex and
Holland—topped by a narrow path, where we walked in single file with
arms akimbo to keep our balance in the gusts of wind. Below us lay the
sands on one side and rank fens on the other, interspersed with squares
of pasture ringed in with ditches. After half a mile we dropped down
and came back by a short circuit inland, following a mazy path—which
was mostly right angles and minute plank bridges, till we came to the
Esens road. We crossed this and soon after found our way barred by the
stream I spoke of. This involved a _détour_ to the bridge in the
village, and a stealthy avoidance of the post-office, for dread of its
garrulous occupant. Then we followed the dyke in the other direction,
and ended by a circuit over the sands, which were fast being covered by
the tide, and so back to the yacht.
Nobody appeared to have taken the slightest notice of our movements.
As we walked we had tackled the last question, “What are we to do?” and
found very little to say on it. We were to leave to-night (unless the
Esens police appeared on the scene), and were committed to sailing
direct to Norderney, as the only alternative to duck-shooting under the
espionage of a “trustworthy” nominee of von Brüning’s. Beyond
that—vagueness and difficulty of every sort.
At Norderney I should be fettered by my letter. If it seemed to have
been opened and it ordered my return, I was limited to a week, or must
risk suspicion by staying. Dollmann was away (according to von
Brüning), “would probably be back soon”; but how soon? Beyond Norderney
lay Memmert. How to probe its secret? The ardour it had roused in me
was giving way to a mortifying sense of impotence. The sight of the
_Kormoran_, with her crew preparing for sea, was a pointed comment on
my diplomacy, and most of all on my ridiculous survey of the dykes.
When all was said and done we were _protégés_ of von Brüning, and
dogged by Grimm. Was it likely they would let us succeed?
The tide was swirling into the harbour in whorls of chocolate froth,
and as it rose all Bensersiel, dominated as before by Herr Schenkel,
straggled down to the quay to watch the movements of shipping during
the transient but momentous hour when the mud-hole was a seaport. The
captain’s steam-cutter was already afloat, and her sailors busy with
sidelights and engines. When it became known that we, too, were to
sail, and under such distinguished escort, the excitement intensified.
Again our friend of the Customs was spreading out papers to sign, while
a throng of helpful Frisians, headed by the twin giants of the
post-boat, thronged our decks and made us ready for sea in their own
confused fashion. Again we were carried up to the inn and overwhelmed
with advice, and warnings, and farewell toasts. Then back again to find
the _Dulcibella_ afloat, and von Brüning just arrived, cursing the
weather and the mud, chaffing Davies, genial and _débonnaire_ as ever.
“Stow that mainsail, you won’t want it,” he said. “I’ll tow you right
out to Spiekeroog. It’s your only anchorage for the night in this
wind—under the island, near the _Blitz_, and that would mean a dead
beat for you in the dark.”
The fact was so true, and the offer so timely, that Davies’s faint
protests were swept aside in a torrent of ridicule.
“And now I think of it,” the Commander ended, “I’ll make the trip with
you, if I may. It’ll be pleasanter and drier.”
We all three boarded the _Dulcibella_, and then the end came. Our
tow-rope was attached, and at half-past six the little launch jumped
into the collar, and amidst a demonstration that could not have been
more hearty if we had been ambassadors on a visit to a friendly power,
we sidled out through the jetties.
It took us more than an hour to cover the five miles to Spiekeroog, for
the _Dulcibella_ was a heavy load in the stiff head wind, and Davies,
though he said nothing, showed undisguised distrust of our tug’s
capacities. He at once left the helm to me and flung himself on the
gear, not resting till every rope was ready to hand, the mainsail
reefed, the binnacle lighted, and all ready for setting sail or
anchoring at a moment’s notice. Our guest watched these precautions
with infinite amusement. He was in the highest and most mischievous
humour, raining banter on Davies and mock sympathy on me, laughing at
our huge compass, heaving the lead himself, startling us with imaginary
soundings, and doubting if his men were sober. I offered entertainment
and warmth below, but he declined on the ground that Davies would be
tempted to cut the tow-rope and make us pass the night on a safe
sandbank. Davies took the raillery unmoved. His work done, he took the
tiller and sat bareheaded, intent on the launch, the course, the
details, and chances of the present. I brought up cigars and we settled
ourselves facing him, our backs to the wind and spray. And so we made
the rest of the passage, von Brüning cuddled against me and the
cabin-hatch, alternately shouting a jest to Davies and talking to me in
a light and charming vein, with just that shade of patronage that the
disparity in our ages warranted, about my time in Germany, places,
people, and books I knew, and about life, especially young men’s life,
in England, a country he had never visited, but hoped to; I responding
as well as I could, striving to meet his mood, acquit myself like a
man, draw zest instead of humiliation from the irony of our position,
but scarcely able to make headway against a numbing sense of defeat and
incapacity. A queer thought was haunting me, too, that such skill and
judgement as I possessed was slipping from me as we left the land and
faced again the rigours of this exacting sea. Davies, I very well knew,
was under exactly the opposite spell—a spell which even the reproach of
the tow-rope could not annul. His face, in the glow of the binnacle,
was beginning to wear that same look of contentment and resolve that I
had seen on it that night we had sailed to Kiel from Schlei Fiord.
Heaven knows he had more cause for worry than I—a casual comrade in an
adventure which was peculiarly his, which meant everything on earth to
him; but there he was, washing away perplexity in the salt wind,
drawing counsel and confidence from the unfailing source of all his
inspirations—the sea.
“Looks happy, doesn’t he?” said the captain once. I grunted that he
did, ashamed to find how irritated the remark made me.
“You’ll remember what I said,” he added in my ear.
“Yes,” I said. “But I should like to see her. What _is_ she like?”
“Dangerous.” I could well believe it.
The hull of the _Blitz_ loomed up, and a minute later our kedge was
splashing overboard and the launch was backing alongside.
“Good-night, gentlemen,” said our passenger. “You’re safe enough here,
and you can run across in ten minutes in the morning and pick up your
anchor, if it’s there still. Then you’ve a fair wind west—to England if
you like. If you decide to stay a little longer in these parts, and I’m
in reach, count on me to help you, to sport or anything else.”
We thanked him, shook hands, and he was gone.
“He’s a thundering good chap, anyhow,” said Davies; and I heartily
agreed.
The narrow vigilant life began again at once. We were “safe enough” in
a sense, but a warp and a twenty-pound anchor were poor security if the
wind backed or increased. Plans for contingencies had to be made, and
deck-watches kept till midnight, when the weather seemed to improve,
and stars appeared. The glass was rising, so we turned in and slept
under the very wing, so to speak, of the Imperial Government.
“Davies,” I said, when we were settled in our bunks, “it’s only a day’s
sail to Norderney, isn’t it?”
“With a fair wind, less, if we go outside the islands direct.”
“Well, it’s settled that we do that to-morrow?”
“I suppose so. We’ve got to get the anchor first. Good-night.”
CHAPTER XIX.
The Rubicon
It was a cold, vaporous dawn, the glass rising, and the wind fallen to
a light air still from the north-east. Our creased and sodden sails
scarcely answered to it as we crept across the oily swell to Langeoog.
“Fogs and calms,” Davies prophesied. The _Blitz_ was astir when we
passed her, and soon after steamed out to sea. Once over the bar, she
turned westward and was lost to view in the haze. I should be sorry to
have to explain how we found that tiny anchor-buoy, on the
expressionless waste of grey. I only know that I hove the lead
incessantly while Davies conned, till at last he was grabbing overside
with the boathook, and there was the buoy on deck. The cable was soon
following it, and finally the rusty monster himself, more loathsome
than usual, after his long sojourn in the slime.
“That’s all right,” said Davies. “Now we can go anywhere.”
“Well, it’s Norderney, isn’t it? We’ve settled that.”
“Yes, I suppose we have. I was wondering whether it wouldn’t be
shortest to go inside Langeoog after all.”
“Surely not,” I urged. “The tide’s ebbing now, and the light’s bad;
it’s new ground, with a ‘watershed’ to cross, and we’re safe to get
aground.”
“All right—outside. Ready about.” We swung lazily round and headed for
the open sea. I record the fact, but in truth Davies might have taken
me where he liked, for no land was visible, only a couple of ghostly
booms.
“It seems a pity to miss over that channel,” said Davies with a sigh;
“just when the _Kormoran_ can’t watch us.” (We had not seen her at all
this morning.)
I set myself to the lead again, averse to reopening a barren argument.