The Riddle of the Sands
enough. You were reporting your English tour—Chatham, you know, and the
English scheme of attack, a mythical one, no doubt, as you’re on the
right side! Böhme and the rest were dealing with the German scheme of
defence A to G—I heard it all—the seven islands and the seven channels
between them (Davies knows every one of them by heart); and then on
land, the ring of railway, Esens the centre, the army corps to mobilise
and entrench—all nugatory, wasted, ha! ha!—as you’re on the right s——”
“Not so loud, you fiend of mischief!” He turned his back, and made an
irresolute pace or two towards the door, his hands kneading the folds
of his dressing-gown as they had kneaded the curtain at Memmert. Twice
he began a question and twice broke off. “I congratulate you,
gentlemen,” he said, finally, and with more composure, facing us again,
“you have done marvels in your misplaced zeal; but you have compromised
me too much already. I shall have to have you arrested—purely for
form’s sake——”
“Thank you,” I broke in. “We have wasted five minutes, and time
presses. We sail at five, and—purely for form’s sake—would rather have
you with us.”
“What do you mean?” he snarled.
“I had the advantage of _you_ at Memmert, in spite of acoustic
obstacles. Your friends made an appointment behind your back, and I, in
my misplaced zeal, have taken some trouble to attend it; so that I’ve
had a working demonstration on another matter, the invasion of England
from the seven _siels_.” (Davies nudged me.) “No, I should let that
pistol alone; and no, I wouldn’t ring the bell. You can arrest us if
you like, but the secret’s in safe hands.”
“You lie!” He was right there; but he could not know it.
“Do you suppose I haven’t taken that precaution? But no names are
mentioned.” He gave a sort of groan, sank into a chair, and seemed to
age and grizzle before our very eyes.
“What did you say about immunity, and Clara?” he muttered.
“We’re friends—we’re friends!” burst out Davies, with a gulp in his
voice. “We want to help you both.” (Through a sudden mist that filmed
my eyes I saw him impetuously walk over and lay his hand on the other’s
shoulder.) “Those chaps are on our track and yours. Come with us. Wake
her, tell her. It’ll be too late soon.”
X—— shrank from his touch. “Tell her? I can’t tell her. You tell her,
boy.” He was huddling back into his chair. Davies turned to me.
“Where’s her room?” I said, sharply.
“Above this one.”
“Go up, Carruthers,” said Davies.
“Not I—I shall frighten her into a fit.”
“I don’t like to.”
“Nonsense, man! We’ll both go then.”
“Don’t make a noise,” said a dazed voice. We left that huddled figure
and stole upstairs—thickly carpeted stairs, luckily. The door we wanted
was half open, and the room behind it lighted. On the threshold stood a
slim white figure, bare-footed; bare-throated.
“What is it, father?” she called in a whisper. “Whom have you been
talking to?” I pushed Davies forward, but he hung back.
“Hush, don’t be frightened,” I said, “it’s I, Carruthers, and
Davies—and Davies. May we come in, just for one moment?”
I gently widened the opening of the door, while she stepped back and
put one hand to her throat.
“Please come to your father,” I said. “We are going to take you both to
England in the _Dulcibella_—now, at once.”
She had heard me, but her eyes wandered to Davies.
“I understand not,” she faltered, trembling and cowering in such
touching bewilderment that I could not bear to look at her.
“For God’s sake, say something, Davies,” I muttered.
“Clara!” said Davies, “will you not trust us?”
I heard a little gasp from her. There was a flutter of lace and cambric
and she was in his arms, sobbing like a tired child, her little white
feet between his great clumsy sea-boots—her rose-brown cheek on his
rough jersey.
“It’s past four, old chap,” I remarked, brutally. “I’m going down to
him again. No packing to speak of, mind. They must be out of this in
half an hour.” I stumbled awkwardly on the stairs (again that tiresome
film!) and found him stuffing some papers pell-mell into the stove.
There were only slumbering embers in it, but he did not seem to notice
that. “You must be dressed in half an hour,” I said, furtively
pocketing a pistol which lay on the table.
“Have you told her? Take her to England, you two boys. I think I’ll
stay.” He sank into a chair again.
“Nonsense, she won’t go without you. You must, for her sake—in half an
hour, too.”
I prefer to pass that half-hour lightly over. Davies left before me to
prepare the yacht for sea, and I had to bear the brunt of what
followed, including (as a mere episode) a scene with the step-mother,
the memory of which rankles in me yet. After all, she was a sensible
woman.
As for the other two, the girl when I saw her next, in her short
boating skirt and tam-o’-shanter, was a miracle of coolness and pluck.
But for her I should never have got him away. And ah! how good it was
to be out in the wholesome rain again, hurrying to the harbour with my
two charges, hurrying them down the greasy ladder to that frail atom of
English soil, their first guerdon of home and safety.
Our flight from the harbour was unmolested, unnoticed. Only the first
ghastly evidences of dawn were mingling with the strangled moonlight,
as we tacked round the pier-head and headed close-reefed down the Riff
Gat on the lees of the ebb-tide. We had to pass under the very quarter
of the _Blitz_, so Davies said; for, of course, he alone was on deck
till we reached the open sea. Day was breaking then. It was dead low
water, and, far away to the south, between dun swathes of sand, I
thought I saw—but probably it was only a fancy—two black stranded
specks. Rail awash, and decks streaming, we took the outer swell and
clawed close-hauled under the lee of Juist, westward, hurrying
westward.
“Up the Ems on the flood, and to Dutch Delfzyl,” I urged. No, thought
Davies; it was too near Germany, and there was a tidal cut through from
Buse Tief. Better to dodge in behind Rottum Island. So on we pressed,
past Memmert, over the Juister Reef and the _Corinne_’s buried
millions, across the two broad and yeasty mouths of the Ems, till
Rottum, a wee lonesome wafer of an islet, the first of the Dutch
archipelago, was close on the weather-bow.
“We must get in behind that,” said Davies, “then we shall be safe; I
think I know the way, but get the next chart; and then take a rest, old
chap. Clara and I can manage.” (She had been on deck most of the time,
as capable a hand as you could wish for, better far than I in my
present state of exhaustion.) I crawled along the slippery sloping
planks and went below.
“Where are we?” cried Dollmann, starting up from the lee sofa, where he
seemed to have been lying in a sort of trance. A book, his own book,
slipped from his knees, and I saw the frontispiece lying on the floor
in a pool of oil; for the stove had gone adrift, and the saloon was in
a wretched state of squalor and litter.
“Off Rottum,” I said, and knelt up to find the chart. There was a look
in his eyes that I suppose I ought to have understood, but I can
scarcely blame myself, for the accumulated strain, not only of the last
three days and nights, but of the whole arduous month of my cruise with
Davies, was beginning to tell on me, now that safety and success were
at hand. I handed up the chart through the companion, and then crept
into the reeling fo’c’sle and lay down on the spare sail-bags, with the
thunder and thump of the seas around and above me.
I must quote Davies for the event that happened now; for by the time I
had responded to the alarm and climbed up through the fore-hatch, the
whole tragedy was over and done with.
“X—— came up the companion,” he says, “soon after you went down. He
held on by the runner, and stared to windward at Rottum, as though he
knew the place quite well. And then he came towards us, moving so
unsteadily that I gave Clara the tiller, and went to help him. I tried
to make him go down again, but he wouldn’t, and came aft.
“‘Give me the helm,’ he said, half to himself. ‘Sea’s too bad
outside—there’s a short cut here.’
“‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘I know this one.’ (I don’t think I meant to be
sarcastic.) He said nothing, and settled himself on the counter behind
us, safe enough, with his feet against the lee-rail, and then, to my
astonishment, began to talk over my shoulder jolly sensibly about the
course, pointing out a buoy which is wrong on the chart (as I knew),
and telling me it was wrong, and so on. Well, we came to the bar of the
Schild, and had to turn south for that twisty bit of beating between
Rottum and Bosch Flat. Clara was at the jib-sheet, I had the chart and
the tiller (you know how absent I get like that); there was a bobble of
sea, and we both had heaps to do, and—well—I happened to look round,
and he was gone. He hadn’t spoken for a minute or two, but I believe
the last thing I heard him say (I was hardly attending at the time, for
we were in the thick of it) was something about a ‘short cut’ again. He
must have slipped over quietly.... He had an ulster and big boots on.”
We cruised about for a time, but never found him.
That evening, after threading the maze of shoals between the Dutch
mainland and islands, we anchored off the little hamlet of Ostmahorn,
_[See Map A]_ gave the yacht in charge of some astonished fishermen,
and thence by road and rail, hurrying still, gained Harlingen, and took
passage on a steamer to London. From that point our personal history is
of no concern to the outside world, and here, therefore, I bring this
narrative to an end.
Epilogue
BY THE EDITOR
[For this chapter see Map A.]
An interesting document, somewhat damaged by fire, lies on my study
table.
It is a copy (in cipher) of a confidential memorandum to the German
Government embodying a scheme for the invasion of England by Germany.
It is unsigned, but internal evidence, and the fact that it was taken
by Mr “Carruthers” from the stove of the villa at Norderney, leave no
doubt as to its authorship. For many reasons it is out of the question
to print the textual translation of it, as deciphered; but I propose to
give an outline of its contents.
Even this must strain discretion to its uttermost limits, and had I
only to consider the instructed few who follow the trend of
professional opinion on such subjects, I should leave the foregoing
narrative to speak for itself. But, as was stated in the preface, our
primary purpose is to reach everyone; and there may be many who, in
spite of able and authoritative warnings frequently uttered since these
events occurred, are still prone to treat the German danger as an idle
“bogey”, and may be disposed, in this case, to imagine that a baseless
romance has been foisted on them.
A few persons (English as well as German) hold that Germany is strong
enough now to meet us single-handed, and throw an army on our shores.
The memorandum rejects this view, deferring isolated action for at
least a decade; and supposing, for present purposes, a coalition of
three Powers against Great Britain. And subsequent researches through
the usual channels place it beyond dispute that this condition was
relied on by the German Government in adopting the scheme. They
realised that even if, owing to our widely scattered forces, they
gained that temporary command of the North Sea which would be essential
for a successful landing, they would inevitably lose it when our
standing fleets were concentrated and our reserve ships mobilised. With
its sea-communications cut, the prospects of the invading army would be
too dubious. I state it in that mild way, for it seems not to have been
held that failure was absolutely certain; and rightly, I think, in