It was something of a gymnastic masterpiece, since I was lying–or, rather, standing aslant–on the rough sea-wall, with crannies of brick for foothold and the water plashing below me; but then I had not lived in the Dulcibella for nothing. My chain of thought, I fancy, was this–the tug is to carry my party; I cannot shadow a tug in a rowboat, yet I intend to shadow my party; I must therefore go with them in the tug, and the first and soundest step is to mimic her crew. But the next step was a hard matter, for the crew having finished their job sat side by side on the bulwarks and lit their pipes. However, a little pantomime soon occurred, as amusing as it was inspiriting. They seemed to consult together, looking from the tug to the inn and from the inn to the tug. One of them walked a few paces inn-wards and beckoned to the other, who in his turn called something down the engine-room skylight, and then joined his mate in a scuttle to the inn. Even while I watched the pantomime I was sliding off my boots, and it had not been consummated a second before I had them in my arms and was tripping over the mud in my stocking feet. A dozen noiseless steps and I was over the bulwarks between the wheel and the smoke-stack, casting about for a hiding-place. The conventional stowaway hides in the hold, but there was only a stokehold here, occupied moreover; nor was there an empty apple-barrel, such as Jim of Treasure Island found so useful. As far as I could see–and I dared not venture far for fear of the skylight–the surface of the deck offered nothing secure. But on the farther or starboard side, rather abaft the beam, there was a small boat in davits, swung outboard, to which common sense, and perhaps a vague prescience of its after utility, pointed irresistibly. In any case, discrimination was out of place, so I mounted the bulwark and gently entered my refuge. The tackles creaked a trifle, oars and seats impeded me; but well before the thirsty truants had returned I was settled on the floor boards between two thwarts, so placed that I could, if necessary, peep over the gunwale.
The two sailors returned at a run, and very soon after voices approached, and I recognized that of Herr Schenkel chattering volubly. He and Grimm boarded the tug and went down a companion-way aft, near which, as I peeped over, I saw a second skylight, no bigger than the Dulcibella’s, illuminated from below. Then I heard a cork drawn, and the kiss of glasses, and in a minute or two they re-emerged. It was apparent that Herr Schenkel was inclined to stay and make merry, and that Grimm was anxious to get rid of him, and none too courteous in showing it. The former urged that to-morrow’s tide would do, the latter gave orders to cast off, and at length observed with an angry oath that the water was falling, and he must start; and, to clinch matters, with a curt good-night, he went to the wheel and rang up his engines. Herr Schenkel landed and strutted off in high dudgeon, while the tug’s screw began to revolve. We had only glided a few yards on when the engines stopped, a short blast of the whistle sounded, and, before I had had time to recast the future, I heard a scurry of footsteps from the direction of the dyke, first on the bank, next on the deck. The last of these new arrivals panted audibly as he got aboard and dropped on the planks with an unelastic thud.
Her complement made up, the tug left the harbour, but not alone. While slowly gathering way the hull checked all at once with a sharp jerk, recovered, and increased its speed. We had something in tow–what? The lighter, of course, that had been lying astern of us.
Now I knew what was in that lighter, because I had been to see, half an hour ago. It was no lethal cargo, but coal, common household coal; not a full load of it, I remembered–just a good-sized mound amidships, trimmed with battens fore and aft to prevent shifting. ‘Well,’ thought I, ‘this is intelligible enough. Grimm was ostensibly there to call for a load of coal for Memmert. But does that mean we are going to Memmert?’ At the same time I recalled a phrase overheard at the depot, ‘Only one–half a load.’ Why half a load?
For some few minutes there was a good deal of movement on deck, and of orders shouted by Grimm and answered by a voice from far astern on the lighter. Presently, however, the tug warmed to her work, the hull vibrated with energy, and an ordered peace reigned on board. I also realized that having issued from the boomed channel we had turned westward, for the wind, which had been blowing us fair, now blew strongly over the port beam.
I peeped out of my eyrie and was satisfied in a moment that as long as I made no noise, and observed proper prudence, I was perfectly safe until the boat was wanted. There were no deck lamps; the two skylights diffused but a sickly radiance, and I was abaft the side-lights. I was abaft the wheel also, though thrillingly near it in point of distance–about twelve feet, I should say; and Grimm was steering. The wheel, I should mention here, was raised, as you often see them, on a sort of pulpit, approached by two or three steps and fenced by a breasthigh arc of boarding. Only one of the crew was visible, and he was acting as look-out in the extreme bows, the rays of the masthead lights–for a second had been hoisted in sign of towage–glistening on his oilskin back. The other man, I concluded, was steering the lighter, which I could dimly locate by the pale foam at her bow.
And the passengers? They were all together aft, three of them, leaning over the taffrail, with their backs turned to me. One was short and stout–Böhme unquestionably; the panting and the thud on the planks had prepared me for that, though where he had sprung from I did not know. Two were tall, and one of these must be von Brüning. There ought to be four, I reckoned; but three were all I could see. And what of the third? It must be he who ‘insists on coming’, the unknown superior at whose instance and for whose behoof this secret expedition had been planned. And who could he be? Many times, needless to say, I had asked myself that question, but never till now, when I had found the rendezvous and joined the expedition, did it become one of burning import.
‘Any weather’ was another of those stored-up phrases that were _apropos._ It was a dirty, squally night, not very cold, for the wind still hung in the S.S.W.–an off-shore wind on this coast, causing no appreciable sea on the shoal spaces we were traversing. In the matter of our bearings, I set myself doggedly to overcome that paralysing perplexity, always induced in me by night or fog in these intricate waters; and, by screwing round and round, succeeded so far as to discover and identify two flashing lights–one alternately red and white, far and faint astern; the other right ahead and rather stronger, giving white flashes only. The first and least familiar was, I made out, from the lighthouse on Wangeroog; the second, well known to me as our beacon star in the race from Memmert, was the light on the centre of Norderney Island, about ten miles away.
I had no accurate idea of the time, for I could not see my watch, but I thought we must have started about a quarter past eleven. We were travelling fast, the funnel belching out smoke and the bow-wave curling high; for the tug appeared to be a powerful little craft, and her load was comparatively light.
So much for the general situation. As for my own predicament, I was in no mood to brood on the hazards of this mad adventure, a hundredfold more hazardous than my fog-smothered eavesdropping at Memmert. The crisis, I knew, had come, and the reckless impudence that had brought me here must serve me still and extricate me. Fortune loves rough wooing. I backed my luck and watched.
The behaviour of the passengers struck me as odd. They remained in a row at the taffrail, gazing astern like regretful emigrants, and sometimes, gesticulating and pointing. Now no vestige of the low land was visible, so I was driven to the conclusion that it was the lighter they were discussing; and I date my awakening from the moment that I realized this. But the thread broke prematurely; for the passengers took to pacing the deck, and I had to lie low. When next I was able to raise my head they were round Grimm at the wheel, engaged, as far as I could discover from their gestures, in an argument about our course and the time, for Grimm looked at his watch by the light of a hand-lantern.
We were heading north, and I knew by the swell that we must be near the Accumer Ee, the gap between Langeoog and Baltrum. Were we going out to open sea? It came over me with a rush that we _must,_ if we were to drop this lighter at Memmert. Had I been Davies I should have been quicker to seize certain rigid conditions of this cruise, which no human power could modify. We had left after high tide. The water therefore was falling everywhere; and the tributary channels in rear of the islands were slowly growing impassable. It was quite thirty miles to Memmert, with three watersheds to pass; behind Baltrum, Norderney, and Juist. A skipper with nerve and perfect confidence might take us over one of these in the dark, but most of the run would infallibly have to be made outside. I now better understood the protests of Herr Schenkel to Grimm. Never once had we seen a lighter in tow in the open sea, though plenty behind the barrier of islands; indeed it was the very existence of the sheltered byways that created such traffic as there was. It was only Grimm’s _métier_ and the incubus of the lighter that had suggested Memmert as our destination at all, and I began to doubt it now. That tricky hoop of sand had befooled us before.
At this moment, and as if to corroborate my thought, the telegraph rang and the tug slowed down. I effaced myself and heard Grimm shouting to the man on the lighter to starboard his helm, and to the look-out to come aft. The next order froze my very marrow; it was ‘lower away’. Someone was at the davits of my boat fingering the tackles; the forward fall-rope actually slipped in the block and tilted the boat a fraction. I was just wondering how far it was to swim to Langeoog, when a strong, imperious voice (unknown to me) rang out, ‘No, no! We don’t want the boat. The swell’s nothing; we can jump! Can’t we, Böhme?’ The speaker ended with a jovial laugh. ‘Mercy!’ thought I, ‘are they going to swim to Langeoog?’ but I also gasped for relief. The tug rolled lifelessly in the swell for a little, and footsteps retreated aft. There were cries of ‘Achtung!’ and some laughter, one big bump and a good deal of grinding; and on we moved again, taking the strain of the tow-rope gingerly, and then full-speed ahead. The passengers, it seemed, preferred the lighter to the tug for cruising in; coal-dust and exposure to clean planks and a warm cuddy. When silence reigned again I peeped out. Grimm was at the wheel still, impassively twirling the spokes, with a glance over his shoulder at his precious freight. And, after all, we were going outside.
Close on the port hand lay a black foam-girt shape, the east of spit Baltrum. It fused with the night, while we swung slowly round to windward over the troubled bar. Now we were in the spacious deeps of the North Sea; and feeling it too in increase of swell and volleys of spray.
At this point evolutions began. Grimm gave the wheel up to the look-out, and himself went to the taffrail, whence he roared back orders of ‘Port!’ or ‘Starboard!’ in response to signals from the lighter. We made one complete circle, steering on each point of the wind in succession, after that worked straight out to sea till the water was a good deal rougher, and back again at a tangent, till in earshot of the surf on the island beach. There the manoeuvres, which were clearly in the nature of a trial trip, ended. and we hove to, to transship our passengers. They, when they came aboard, went straight below, and Grimm, having steadied the tug on a settled course and entrusted the wheel to the sailor again, stripped off his dripping oilskin coat, threw it down on the cabin skylight, and followed them. The course he had set was about west, with Norderney light a couple of points off the port bow. The course for Memmert? Possibly; but I cared not, for my mind was far from Memmert to-night. It was the course for England too. Yes, I understood at last. I was assisting at an experimental rehearsal of a great scene, to be enacted, perhaps, in the near future–a scene when multitudes of seagoing lighters, carrying full loads of soldiers, not half loads of coals, should issue simultaneously, in seven ordered fleets, from seven shallow outlets, and, under escort of the Imperial Navy, traverse the North Sea and throw themselves bodily upon English shores.
Indulgent reader, you may be pleased to say that I have been very obtuse; and yet, with humility, I protest against that verdict. Remember that, recent as arc the events I am describing, it is only since they happened that the possibility of an invasion of England by Germany has become a topic of public discussion. Davies and I had never–I was going to say had never considered it; but that would not be accurate, for we had glanced at it once or twice; and if any single incident in his or our joint cruise had provided a semblance of confirmation, he, at any rate, would have kindled to that spark. But you will see how perversely from first to last circumstances drove us deeper and deeper into the wrong groove, till the idea became inveterate that the secret we were seeking was one of defence and not offence. Hence a complete mental somersault was required, and, as an amateur, I found it difficult; the more so that the method of invasion, as I darkly comprehended it now, was of such a strange and unprecedented character; for orthodox invasions start from big ports and involve a fleet of ocean transports, while none of our clues pointed that way. To neglect obvious methods, to draw on the obscure resources of an obscure strip of coast, to improve and exploit a quantity of insignificant streams and tidal outlets, and thence, screened by the islands, to despatch an armada of light-draught barges, capable of flinging themselves on a correspondingly obscure and therefore unexpected portion of the enemy’s coast; that was a conception so daring, aye, and so quixotic in some of its aspects, that even now I was half incredulous. Yet it must be the true one. Bit by bit the fragments of the puzzle fell into order till a coherent whole was adumbrated.
The tug surged on into the night; a squall of rain leapt upon us and swept hissing astern. Baltrum vanished and the strands of Norderney beamed under transient moonlight. Drunk with triumph, I cuddled in my rocking cradle and ransacked every unvisited chamber of the memory, tossing out their dusty contents, to make a joyous bonfire of some, and to see the residue take life and meaning in the light of the great revelation.
My reverie was of things, not persons; of vast national issues rather than of the poignant human interests so closely linked with them. But on a sudden I was recalled, with a shock, to myself, Davies, and the present.
We were changing our course, as I knew by variations in the whirl of draughts which whistled about me. I heard Grimm afoot again, and, choosing my moment, surveyed the scene. Broad on the port-beam were the
garish lights of Norderney town and promenade, and the tug, I perceived, was drawing in to enter the See-Gat. Round she came, hustling through the broken water of the bar, till her nose was south and the wind was on the starboard bow. Not a mile from me were the villa and the yacht, and the three persons of the drama–three, that is, if Davies were safe.
Were we to land at Norderney harbour? Heavens, what a magnificent climax!–if only I could rise to it. My work here was done. At a stroke to rejoin Davies and be free to consummate our designs!
A desperate idea of cutting the davit-tackles–I blush to think of the stupidity–was rejected as soon as it was born, and instead, I endeavoured to imagine our approach to the pier. My boat hung on the starboard side; that would be the side away from the quay, and the tide would be low. I could swarm down the davits during the stir of arrival, drop into the sea and swim the few yards across the dredged-out channel, wade through the mud to within a short distance of the Dulcibella, and swim the rest. I rubbed the salt out of my eyes and wriggled my cramped legs … Hullo! why was Grimm leaving the helm again? Back he went to the cabin, leaving the sailor at the helm. . . We ought to be turning to port now; but no–on we went, south, for the mainland.
Though one plan was frustrated, the longing to get to Davies, once implanted, waxed apace.
Our destination was at last beyond dispute. The channel we were in was the same that we had cut across on our blind voyage to Memmert, and the same my ferry-steamer had followed two days ago. It was a cul-de-sac leading to one place only, the landing stage at Norddeich. The only place on the whole coast, now I came to think of it, where the tug could land at this tide. There the quay would be on the starboard side, and I saw myself tied to my eyrie while the passengers landed and the tug and lighter turned back for Memmert; at Memmert, dawn, and discovery.
There was some way out–some way out, I repeated to myself; some way to reap the fruit of Davies’s long tutelage in the lore of this strange region. What would he do?
For answer there came the familiar frou-frou of gentle surf on drying sands. The swell was dying away, the channel narrowing; dusky and weird on the starboard hand stretched leagues of new-risen sand. Two men only were on deck; the moon was quenched under the vanguard clouds of a fresh squall.
A madcap scheme danced before me. The time, I must know the time! Crouching low and cloaking the flame with my jacket I struck a match; 2.30 a.m.–the tide had been ebbing for about three hours and a half. Low water about five; they would be aground till 7.30. Danger to life? None. Flares and rescuers? Not likely, with ‘him who insists’ on board; besides, no one could come, there being no danger. I should have a fair wind and a fair tide for my trip. Grimm’s coat was on the skylight; we were both clean shaved.
The helmsman gazed ahead, intent on his difficult course, and the wind howled to perfection. I knelt up and examined one of the davit-tackles. There was nothing remarkable about it, a double and a single block (like our own peak halyards), the lower one hooked into a ring in the boat, the hauling part made fast to a cleat on the davit itself. Something there must be to give lateral support or the boat would have racketed abroad in the roll outside. The support, I found, consisted of two lanyards spliced to the davits and rove through holes in the keel. These I leaned over and cut with my pocket-knife; the result being a barely perceptible swaying of the boat, for the tug was under the lee of sands and on an even keel. Then I left my hiding-place, climbing out of the stern sheets by the after-davit, and preparing every successive motion with exquisite tenderness, till I stood on the deck. In another moment I was at the cabin skylight, lifting Grimm’s long oilskin coat. (A second’s yielding to temptation here; but no, the skylight was ground glass, fastened from below. So, on with the coat, up with the collar, and forward to the wheel on tiptoe.) As soon as I was up to the engine-room skylight (that is to say, well ahead of the cabin roof) I assumed a natural step, went up to the pulpit and touched the helmsman on the arm, as I had seen Grimm do. The man stepped aside, grunting something about a light, and I took the wheel from him. Grimm was a man of few words, so I just jogged his satellite, and pointed forward. He went off like a lamb to his customary place in the bows, not having dreamt–why should he?–of examining me, but in him I had instantly recognized one of the crew of the Kormoran.
My ruse developed in all its delicious simplicity. We were, I estimated, about half-way to Norddeich, in the Buse Tief, a channel of a navigable breadth, at the utmost of two hundred yards at this period of the tide. Two faint lights, one above the other, twinkled far ahead. What they meant I neither knew nor cared, since the only use I put them to was to test the effect of the wheel, for this was the first time I had ever tasted the sweets of command on a steamboat. A few cautious essays taught me the rudiments, and nothing could hinder the catastrophe now.
I edged over to starboard–that was the side I had selected–and again a little more, till the glistening back of the look-out gave a slight movement; but he was a well-drilled minion, with implicit trust in the ‘old man’. Now, hard over! and spoke by spoke I gave her the full pressure of the helm. The look-out shouted a warning, and I raised my arm in calm acknowledgement. A cry came from the lighter, and I remember I was just thinking ‘What the dickens’ll happen to her?’ when the end came; a euthanasia so mild and gradual (for the sands are fringed with mud) that the disaster was on us before I was aware of it. There was just the tiniest premonitory shuddering as our keel clove the buttery medium, a cascade of ripples from either beam, and the wheel jammed to rigidity in my hands, as the tug nestled up to her resting-place.
In the scene of panic that followed, it is safe to say that I was the only soul on board who acted with methodical tranquillity. The look-out flew astern like an arrow, bawling to the lighter. Grimm, with the passengers tumbling up after him, was on deck in an instant, storming and cursing; flung himself on the wheel which I had respectfully abandoned, jangled the telegraph, and wrenched at the spokes. The tug listed over under the force of the tide; wind, darkness, and rain aggravated the confusion.
For my part, I stepped back behind the smoke stack, threw off my robe of office, and made for the boat. Long and bitter experience of running aground had told me that that was sure to be wanted. On the way I cannoned into one of the passengers and pressed him into my service; incidentally seeing his face, and verifying an old conjecture. It was one who, in Germany, has a better right to insist than anyone else.
As we reached the davits there was a report like a pistol-shot from the port-side–the tow-rope parting, I believe, as the lighter with her shallower draught swung on past the tug. Fresh tumult arose, in which I heard: ‘Lower the boat,’ from Grimm; but the order was already executed. My ally the Passenger and I had each cast off a tackle, and slacked away with a run; that done, I promptly clutched the wire guy to steady myself, and tumbled in. (It was not far to tumble, for the tug listed heavily to starboard; think of our course, and the set of the ebb stream, and you will see why.) The forward fall unhooked sweetly; but the after one lost play. ‘Slack away,’ I called, peremptorily, and felt for my knife. My helper above obeyed; the hook yielded; I filliped away the loose tackle, and the boat floated away.
[28 We Achieve our Double Aim]
WHEN, exactly, the atmosphere of misunderstanding on the stranded tug was dissipated, I do not know, for by the time I had fitted the rowlocks and shipped sculls, tide and wind had caught me, and were sweeping me merrily back on the road to Norderney, whose lights twinkled through the scud in the north. With my first few strokes I made towards the lighter–which I could see sagging helplessly to leeward–but as soon as I thought I was out of sight of the tug, I pulled round and worked out my own salvation. There was an outburst of shouting which soon died away. Full speed. on a falling tide! They were pinned there for five hours sure. It was impossible to miss the way, and with my stout allies heaving me forward, I made short work of the two-mile passage. There was a sharp tussle at the last, where the Riff-Gat poured its stream across my path, and then I was craning over my shoulder, God knows with what tense anxiety, for the low hull and taper mast of the Dulcibella, Not there! No, not where I had left her. I pulled furiously up the harbour past a sleeping ferry-steamer and–praise Heaven!–came on her warped alongside the jetty.
‘Who’s that?’ came from below, as I stepped on board.
‘Hush! it’s me.’ And Davies and I were pawing one another in the dark of the cabin.
‘Are you all right, old chap?’ said he.
‘Yes; are you? A match! What’s the time? Quick!’
‘Good Heavens, Carruthers, what the blazes have you done to yourself?’ (I suspect I cut a pretty figure after my two days’ outing.)
‘Ten past three. It’s the invasion of England! Is Dollmann at the villa?’
‘Is Dollmann at the villa?’
‘Is the Medusa afloat?’
‘No, on the mud.’
‘The devil! Are we afloat?’
‘I think so still, but they made me shift.’
‘Think! Track her out! Pole her out! Cut those warps!’
For a few strenuous minutes we toiled at the sweeps till the Dulcibella was berthed ahead of the steamer, in deeper water. Meanwhile I had whispered a few facts.
‘How soon can you get under way?’ I asked.
‘Sunrise about seven, first dawn about five. Where are we bound?’
‘Holland, or England.’
‘Are they invading it now?’ said Davies, calmly.
‘No, only rehearsing!’ I laughed, wildly.
‘Then we can wait.’
‘We can wait exactly an hour and a half. Come ashore and knock up Dollmann; we must denounce him, and get them both aboard; it’s now or never. Holy Saints! man, not as you are!’ (He was in pyjamas.) ‘Sea clothes!’
While he put on Christian attire, I resumed my facts and sketched a plan. ‘Are you watched?’ I asked.
‘I think so; by the Kormoran’s men.’
‘Is the Kormoran here?’
‘Not to-night. Grimm called for them in that tug. I was watching. And, Carruthers. the Blitz is here.’
‘In the roads outside–didn’t you see her?’
‘Wasn’t looking. Her skipper’s safe anyway; so’s Böhme, so’s the Tertium Quid, and so are the Kormoran’s men. The coast’s clear–it’s now or never.’
Once more we were traversing the long jetty and the silent streets, rain driving at our backs. We trod on air, I think; I remember no fatigue. Davies sometimes broke into a little run, muttering ‘scoundrel’ to himself.
‘I was right–only upside down,’ he murmured more than once. ‘Always really right–those channels are the key to the whole concern. Chatham, our only eastern base–no North Sea base or squadron–they’d land at one of those God-forsaken flats off the Crouch and Blackwater.’
‘It seems a wild scheme,’ I observed.
‘Wild? In a way. So is any invasion. But it’s thorough; it’s German. No other country could do it. It’s all dawning on me–by Jove! It will be at the Wash–much the nearest, and as sandy as this side.’
‘How’s Dollmann been?’ I asked.
‘Polite, but queer and jumpy. It’s too long a story.’
‘She’s all right. By Jove! Carruthers–never mind.’
We found a night-bell at the villa door and rang it lustily. A window aloft opened, and ‘A message from Commander von Brüning–urgent,’ I called up.
The window shut, and soon after the hall was lighted and the door opened by Dollmann in a dressing-gown.
‘Good morning, Lieutenant X–,’ I said, in English. ‘Stop, we’re friends, you fool!’ as the door was flung nearly to. It opened very slowly again, and we walked in.
‘Silence!’ he hissed. The sweat stood on his steep forehead and a hectic flush on either cheek, but there was a smile–what a smile!–on his lips. Motioning us to tread noiselessly (a vain ideal for me), he led the way to the sitting-room we knew, switched on the light, and faced us.
‘Well?’ he said, in English, still smiling.
I consulted my watch, and I may say that if my hand was an index to my general appearance, I must have looked the most abject ruffian under heaven.
‘We probably understand one another,’ I said, ‘and to explain is to lose time. We sail for Holland, or perhaps England, at five at the latest, and we want the pleasure of your company. We promise you immunity–on certain conditions, which can wait. We have only two berths, so that we can only accommodate Miss Clara besides yourself.’ He smiled on through this terse harangue, but the smile froze, as though beneath it raged some crucial debate. Suddenly he laughed (a low, ironical laugh).
‘You fools,’ he said, ‘you confounded meddlesome young idiots; I thought I had done with you. Promise me immunity? Give me till five? By God, I’ll give you five minutes to be off to England and be damned to you, or else to be locked up for spies! What the devil do you take me for?’
‘A traitor in German service,’ said Davies, none too firmly, We were both taken aback by this slashing attack.
‘A tr–? You pig-headed young marplots! I’m in British service! You’re wrecking the work of years–and on the very threshold of success.’
For an instant Davies and I looked at one another in stupefaction. He lied–I could swear he lied; but how make sure?
‘Why did you try to wreck Davies?’ said I, mechanically.
‘Pshaw! They made me clear him out. I knew he was safe, and safe he is.’
There was only one thing for it–a last finesse, to put him to the proof.
‘Very well,’ I said, after a moment or two, ‘we’ll clear out–silence, Davies!–as it appears we have acted in error; but it’s right to tell you that we know everything.’
‘Not so loud, curse you! What do you know?’
‘I was taking notes at Memmert the other night.’
‘Thanks to Davies. Under difficulties, of course, but I heard quite 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 mobilize 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; barethroated.
‘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 1 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.