The Riddle of the Sands Part 31

He had all his preparations made, the lamp lit in advance, the compa.s.s in position, and we started at once; he at the bow-oar, where he had better control over the boat's nose; lamp and compa.s.s on the floor between us. Twilight thickened into darkness--a choking, pasty darkness--and still we sped unfalteringly over that trackless waste, sitting and swinging in our little pool of stifled orange light. To drown fatigue and suspense I conned over my clues, and tried to carve into my memory every fugitive word I had overheard.

'What are there seven of round here?' I called back to Davies once (thinking of A to G). 'Sorry,' I added, for no answer came.

'I see a star,' was my next word, after a long interval. 'Now it's gone. There it is again! Right aft!'

'That's Bork.u.m light,' said Davies, presently; 'the fog's lifting.' A keen wind from the west struck our faces, and as swiftly as it had come the fog rolled away from us, in one mighty ma.s.s, stripping clean and pure the starry dome of heaven, still bright with the western after-glow, and beginning to redden in the east to the rising moon.

Norderney light was flas.h.i.+ng ahead, and Davies could take his tired eyes from the pool of light.

'd.a.m.n!' was all he uttered in the way of grat.i.tude for this mercy, and I felt very much the same; for in a fog Davies in a dinghy was a match for a steamer; in a clear he lost his handicap.

It was a quarter to seven. 'An hour'll do it, if we buck up,' he p.r.o.nounced, after taking a rough bearing with the two lights. He pointed out a star to me, which we were to keep exactly astern, and again I applied to their labour my aching back and smarting palms.

'What did you say about seven of something?' said Davies.

'What are there seven of hereabouts?'

'Islands, of course,' said Davies. 'Is that the clue?'

'Maybe.'

Then followed the most singular of all our confabulations. Two memories are better than one, and the sooner I carved the cipher into his memory as well as mine the better record we should have. So, with rigid economy of breath, I snapped out all my story, and answered his breathless questions. It saved me from being mesmerized by the star, and both of us from the consciousness of over-fatigue.

'Spying at Chatham, the blackguard?' he hissed.

'What do you make of it?' I asked.

'Nothing about battles.h.i.+ps, mines, forts?' he said.

'No.'

'Nothing about the Ems, Emden, Wilhelmshaven?'

'No.'

'Nothing about transports?'

'No.'

'I believe--I was right--after all--something to do--with the channels--behind islands.'

And so that outworn creed took a new lease of life; though for my part the words that clashed with it were those that had sunk the deepest.

'Esens,' I protested; 'that town behind Bensersiel.'

'Wa.s.sertiefe, Lotsen, Schleppboote,' spluttered Davies.

'Kilometre--Eisenbahn,' from me, and so on.

I should earn the just execration of the reader if I continued to report such a dialogue. Suffice to say that we realized very soon that the substance of the plot was still a riddle. On the other hand, there was fresh scent, abundance of it; and the question was already taking shape--were we to follow it up or revert to last night's decision and strike with what weapons we had? It was a pressing question, too, the last of many--was there to be no end to the emergencies of this crowded day?--pressing for reasons I could not define, while convinced that we must be ready with an answer by supper-time to-night.

Meantime, we were nearing Norderney; the See-Gat was crossed, and with the last of the flood tide fair beneath us, and the red light on the west pier burning ahead, we began insensibly to relax our efforts. But I dared not rest, for I was at that point of exhaustion when mechanical movement was my only hope.

'Light astern,' I said, thickly. 'Two--white and red.'

'Steamer,' said Davies; 'going south though.'

'Three now.'

A neat triangle of gems--topaz, ruby, and emerald--hung steady behind us.

'Turned east,' said Davies. 'Buck up--steamer from Juist. No, by Jove! too small. What is it?'

On we laboured, while the gems waxed in brilliancy as the steamer overhauled us.

'Easy,' said Davies, 'I seem to know those lights--the Blitz's launch--don't let's be caught rowing like madmen in a muck sweat.

Paddle insh.o.r.e a bit.' He was right, and, as in a dream, I saw hurrying and palpitating up the same little pinnace that had towed us out of Bensersiel.

'We're done for now,' I remember thinking, for the guilt of the runaway was strong in me; and an old remark of von Bruning's about 'police' was in my ears. But she was level with and past us before I could sink far into despair.

'Three of them behind the hood,' said Davies: 'what are we to do?'

'Follow,' I answered, and essayed a feeble stroke, but the blade scuttered over the surface.

'Let's wait about for a bit,' said Davies. 'We're late anyhow. If they go to the yacht they'll think we're ash.o.r.e.'

'Our sh.o.r.e clothes--lying about.'

'Are you up to talking?'

'No; but we must. The least suspicion'll do for us now.'

'Give me your scull, old chap, and put on your coat.'

He extinguished the lantern, lit a pipe, and then rowed slowly on, while I sat on a slack heap in the stern and devoted my last resources of will to the emanc.i.p.ation of the spirit from the tired flesh.

In ten minutes or so we were rounding the pier, and there was the yacht's top-mast against the sky. I saw, too, that the launch was alongside of her, and told Davies so. Then I lit a cigarette, and made a lamentable effort to whistle. Davies followed suit, and emitted a strange melody which I took to be 'Home, Sweet Home,' but he has not the slightest ear for music.

'Why, they're on board, I believe,' said I; 'the cabin's lighted.

Ahoy there!' I shouted as we came up. 'Who's that?'

'Good evening, sir,' said a sailor, who was fending off the yacht with a boat-hook. 'It's Commander von Bruning's launch. I think the gentlemen want to see you.'

Before we could answer, an exclamation of: 'Why, here they are!' came from the deck of the 'Dulcibella', and the dim form of von Bruning him self emerged from the companion-way. There was something of a scuffle down below, which the commander nearly succeeded in drowning by the breeziness of his greeting. Meanwhile, the ladder creaked under fresh weight, and Dollmann appeared.

'Is that you, Herr Davies?' he said.

'Hullo! Herr Dollmann,' said Davies; 'how are you?'