Fairbairn chuckled and observed:
“I think Herr Zimmermann might be provided with a number of such good and reliable soldiers selected by our General Staff,” and he added with a truculent snort, “We could do with that sum of a thousand pounds here. You must put in a claim for it, Hillyard. Otherwise they’ll snaffle it in London.”
Fairbairn, once a mild north-country schoolmaster, of correct phraseology and respectable demeanour, had, under the pressure of his service, developed like that white sheet of notepaper. He had suffered
“A sea-change
Into something rich and strange”
and from a schoolmaster had become a buccaneer with a truculent manner and a mind of violence. London, under which name he classed all Government officials, offices, departments, and administrations, particularly roused his ire. London was ignorant, London was stupid, London was always doing him and the other buccaneers down, was always snaffling something which he ought to have. Fairbairn, uttering one snort of satisfaction, would have shot it with his Browning.
“Get it off your chest, old man,” said Hillyard soothingly, “and we’ll go on with this letter. It looks to me as if — —” He was glancing onwards and checked himself with an exclamation. His face became grave and set.
“Listen to this,” and he read aloud, translating as he went along.
“Since the tubes have been successful in France, the device should be extended to England. B45 is obviously suitable for the work. A submarine will sink letters for the Embassy in Madrid and a parcel of the tubes between the twenty-seventh and the thirtieth of July, within Spanish territorial waters off the Cabo de Cabron. A green light will be shown in three short flashes from the sea and it should be answered from the shore by a red and a white and two reds.”
Hillyard leaned back in his chair.
“B45,” he cried in exasperation. “We get no nearer to him.”
“Wait a bit!” Fairbairn interposed. “We are a deal nearer to him through Zimmermann’s very letter here. What are these tubes which have been so successful in France? Once we get hold of them and understand them and know what end they are to serve, we may get an idea of the kind of man obviously suitable for handling them.”
“Like B45,” said Hillyard.
“Yes! The search will be narrowed to one kind of man. Oh, we shall be much nearer, if only we get the tubes — if only the Germans in Madrid don’t guess this letter’s gone astray to us.”
Hillyard had reflected already upon that contingency.
“But why should they? The sleeping-car man is held incomunicado. There is no reason why they should know anything about this letter at all, if we lay our plans carefully.”
He folded up the letter and locked it away in the drawer. He looked for a while out of the window of the saloon. The yacht had rounded the Cabo San Antonio. It was still the forenoon.
“This is where José Medina has got to come in,” he declared. “You must go to Madrid, Fairbairn, and keep an eye on Mr. Jack Williams. Meanwhile, here José Medina has got to come in.”
Fairbairn reluctantly agreed. He would much rather have stayed upon the coast and shared in the adventure, but it was obviously necessary that a keen watch should be kept in Madrid.
“Very well,” he said, “unless, of course, you would like to go to Madrid yourself.”
Hillyard laughed.
“I think not, old man.”
He mounted the ladder to the bridge and gave the instructions to the Captain, and early that evening the Dragonfly was piloted into the harbour of Alicante. Hillyard and Fairbairn went ashore. They had some hours to get through before they could take the journey they intended. They sauntered accordingly along the esplanade beneath the palm trees until they came to the Casino. Both were temporary members of that club, and they sat down upon the cane chairs on the broad side-walk. A military band was playing on the esplanade a little to their right, and in front of them a throng of visitors and townspeople strolled and sat in the evening air. Hillyard smiled as he watched the kaleidoscopic grouping and re-grouping of men and children and women. The revolutions of his life, a subject which in the press of other and urgent matters had fallen of late into the background of his thoughts, struck him again as wondrous and admirable. He began to laugh with enjoyment. He looked at Fairbairn. How dull in comparison the regular sequences of his career!
“I wandered about here barefoot and penniless,” he said, “not so very long ago. On this very pavement!” He struck it with his foot, commending to Fairbairn the amazing fact. “I have cleaned boots,” and he called to a boy who was lying in wait with a boot-black’s apparatus on his back for any dusty foot. “Chico, come and clean my shoes.” He jested with the boy with the kindliness of a Spaniard, and gave him a shining peseta. Hillyard was revelling in the romance of his life under the spur of the excitement which the affair of the letter had fired in him. “Yes, I wandered here, passing up and down in front of this very Casino.”
And Fairbairn saw his face change and his eyes widen as though he recognised some one in the throng beneath the trees.
“What is it?” Fairbairn asked, and for a little while Hillyard did not answer. His eyes were not following any movements under the trees. They saw no one present in Alicante that day. Slowly he turned to Fairbairn, and answered in voice of suspense:
“Nothing! I was just remembering — and wondering!”
He remained sunk in abstraction for a long time. “It can’t be!” at grips with “If it could be!” and a rising inspiration that “It was!” A man had once tried him out with questions about Alicante, a man who was afraid lest he should have seen too much. But Hillyard had learnt to hold his tongue when he had only inspirations to go upon, and he disclosed nothing of this to Fairbairn.
Later on, when darkness had fallen, the two men drove in a motor-car southwards round the bay and through a shallow valley to the fishing village of Torrevieja. When you came upon its broad beach of shingle and sand, with its black-tarred boats hauled up, and its market booths, you might dream that you had been transported to Broadstairs — except for one fact. The houses are built in a single story, since the village is afflicted with earthquakes. Two houses rise higher than the rest, the hotel and the Casino. In the Casino Hillyard found José Medina’s agent for those parts sitting over his great mug of beer; and they talked together quietly for a long while.
Thus Martin Hillyard fared in those days. He played with life and death, enjoying vividly the one and ever on the brink of the other, but the deep, innermost realities of either had as yet touched him not at all.
CHAPTER XVII
On a Cape of Spain
THE GREAT CAPE thrusts its knees far out into the Mediterranean, and close down by the sea on the very point a lighthouse stands out from the green mass like a white pencil. South-westwards the land runs sharply back in heights of tangled undergrowths and trees, overhangs a wide bay and drops at the end of the bay to the mouth of a spacious, empty harbour. Eastwards the cape slopes inland at a gentler angle with an undercliff, a narrow plateau, and behind the plateau mountain walls. Two tiny fishing villages cluster a mile or two apart at the water’s edge, and high up on the cape’s flanks here and there a small rude settlement clings to the hillside. There are no roads to the cape. From the east you may ride a horse towards it, and lose your way. From the west you must approach by boat. So remote and unvisited is this region that the women in these high villages, their homes cut out of the actual brown rock, still cover their faces with the Moorish veil.
There are no roads, but José Medina was never deterred by the lack of roads. His business, indeed, was a shy one, and led him to prefer wild country. A high police official in one great town said of him:
“For endurance and activity there is no one like José Medina between the sea and the Pyrenees. You think him safe in Mallorca and look! He lands one morning from the steamer, jumps into a motor-car, and in five minutes — whish! — he is gone like the smoke of my c
igarette. He will drive his car through our mountains by tracks, of which the guardia civil does not even know the existence.”
By devious tracks, then, now through narrow gullies in brown and barren mountains, now striking some village path amidst peach trees and marguerites, José Medina drove Martin Hillyard down to the edge of the sea. Here amongst cactus bushes in flower, with turf for a carpet, a camp had been prepared near to one of the two tiny villages. José Medina was king in this region. The party arrived in the afternoon of the twenty-sixth day of the month, all of the colour of saffron from the dust-clouds the car had raised, and Hillyard so stiff and bruised with the intolerable jolting over ruts baked to iron, that he could hardly climb down on to the ground. He slept that night amidst such a music of birds as he had never believed possible one country could produce. Through the night of the twenty-sixth he and José Medina watched; their lanterns ready to their hands. Lights there were in plenty on the sea, but they were the lights of acetylene lamps used by the fishermen of those parts to attract the fish; and the morning broke with the lighthouse flashing wanly over a smooth sea, pale as fine jade.
“There are three more nights,” said Hillyard. He was a little dispirited after the fatigue of the day before and the long, empty vigil on the top of the day.
The next watch brought no better fortune. There was no moon; the night was of a darkness so clear that the stars threw pale and tremulous paths over the surface of the water, and from far away the still air vibrated from time to time with the throbbing of propellers as the ships without lights passed along the coast.
Hillyard rose from the blanket on which he and José Medina had been lying during the night. It had been spread on a patch of turf in a break of the hill some hundreds of feet above the sea. He was cold. The blanket was drenched and the dew hung like a frost on bush and grass.
“It looks as if they had found out,” he said.
“This is only the second night,” said José Medina.
“It all means so much to me,” replied Hillyard, shivering in the briskness of the morning.
“Courage, the little Marteen!” cried José Medina. “After breakfast and a few hours’ sleep, we shall take a rosier view.”
Hillyard, however, could not compose himself to those few hours. The dread lest the Germans should have discovered the interception of their letters weighed too heavily upon him. Even in the daylight he needs must look out over that placid sunlit sea and imagine here and there upon its surface the low tower and grey turtle-back of a submarine. Success here might be so great a thing, so great a saving of lives, so dire a blow to the enemy. Somehow that day slowly dragged its burning hours to sunset, the coolness of the evening came, and the swift darkness upon its heels, and once more, high up on the hillside, the vigil was renewed. And at half-past one in the morning, far away at sea, a green light, bright as an emerald, flashed thrice and was gone.
“Did I not say to you, ‘Have courage’?” said José Medina.
“Quick! the Lanterns!” replied Hillyard. “The red first! Good! Now the white. So! And the red again. Now we must wait!” and he sank down again upon the blanket. All the impatience and languor were gone from him. The moment had come. He was at once steel to meet it.
“Yes,” said José Medina, “we shall see nothing more now for a long while.”
They heard no sound in that still night; they saw no gleam of lights. It seemed to Hillyard that æons passed before José touched him on the elbow and pointed downwards.
“Look!” he whispered excitedly.
Right at their very feet the long, grim vessel lay, so near that Hillyard had the illusion he could pitch a stone on to the conning tower. He now held his breath, lest his breathing should be heard. Then the water splashed, and a moment afterwards the submarine turned and moved to sea. They gave it five minutes, and then climbed down to a tiny creek. A rowing-boat lay in readiness there, with one man at the tiller and two at the oars.
“You saw it, Manuel?” said Medina as he and Hillyard stepped in.
“Yes, Señor José. It was very close. Oh, they know these waters!”
The oars churned the phosphorescent water into green fire, and the foam from the stem of the boat sparkled as though jewels were scattered into it by the oarsmen as they rowed. They stopped alongside a little white buoy which floated on the water. The buoy was attached to a rope; that again to a chain. A mat was folded over the side of the boat and the chain drawn cautiously in and coiled without noise. Hillyard saw the two men who were hauling it in bend suddenly at their work and heave with a greater effort.
“It is coming,” said one of them, and the man at the tiller went forward to help them. Hillyard leaned over the side of the heavy boat and stared down into the water. But the night was too dark for him to see anything but the swirl of green fire made by the movement of the chain and the fire-drops falling from the links. At last something heavy knocked against the boat’s flanks.
“Once more,” whispered the man from the tiller. “Now!”
And the load was perched upon the gunwale and lowered into the boat. It consisted of three square and bulky metal cases, bound together by the chain.
“We have it, my friend Marteen,” whispered José Medina, with a laugh of sheer excitement. He was indeed hardly less stirred than Hillyard himself. “Not for nothing did the little Marteen lead the horse across the beach of Benicassim. Now we will row back quickly. We must be far away from here by the time the world is stirring.”
The boatmen bent to their oars with a will, and the boat leaped upon the water. They had rowed for fifty yards when suddenly far away a cannon boomed. The crew stopped, and every one in the boat strained his eyes seawards. Some one whispered, and Hillyard held up his hand for silence. Thus they sat immobile as figures of wax for the space of ten minutes. Then Hillyard relaxed from his attention.
“They must have got her plump with the first shot,” he said; and, indeed, there was no other explanation for that boom of a solitary cannon across the midnight sea.
José Medina laughed.
“So the little Marteen had made his arrangements?”
“What else am I here for?” retorted the little Marteen, and though he too laughed, a thrill of triumph ran through the laugh. “It just needed that shot to round all off. I was so afraid that we should not hear it, that it might never be fired. Now it will never be known, if your men keep silent, whether they sunk their cargo or were sunk with it on board.”
The crew once more drove the blades of their oars through the water, and did not slacken till the shore was reached. They clambered up the rocks to their camp bearing their treasure, and up from the camp again to the spot where José’s motor-car was hidden. José talked to the boatmen while the cans were stowed away in the bottom of the car, and then turned to Hillyard.
“There will be no sign of our camp at daybreak. The tent will be gone — everything. If our luck holds — and why should it not? — no one need ever know that the Señor Marteen and his friend José Medina picnicked for three days upon that cape.”
“But the lighthouse-keepers! What of them?” objected Hillyard. In him, too, hope and excitement were leaping high. But this objection he offered up on the altars of the gods who chastise men for the insolence of triumph.
“What of them?” José Medina repeated gaily. “They, too, are my friends this many a year.” He seated himself at the wheel of the car. “Come, for we cannot drive fast amongst these hills in the dark.”
Hillyard will never forget to the day of his death that wild passage through the mountains. Now it was some sudden twist to avoid a precipice, now a jerk and a halt whilst José stared into the darkness ahead of him; here the car jolted suddenly over great stones, then it sank to the axle in soft dust; at another place the bushes whipped their faces; and again they must descend and build a little bridge of boughs and undergrowth over a rivulet. But so high an elation possessed him that he was unconscious both of the peril and the bruises. He could h
ave sung aloud. They stopped an hour after daybreak and breakfasted by the side of the car in a high country of wild flowers. The sun was hidden from them by a barrier of hills.
“We shall strike an old mine-road in half an hour,” said José Medina, “and make good going.”
They came into a district of grey, weathered rock, and, making a wide circuit all that day, crept towards nightfall down to the road between Aguilas and Cartagena; and once more the sea lay before them.
“We are a little early,” said Medina. “We will wait here until it is dark. The carabineros are not at all well disposed to me, and there are a number of them patrolling the road.”
They were above the road and hidden from it by a hedge of thick bushes. Between the leaves Hillyard could see a large felucca moving westwards some miles from the shore and a long way off on the road below two tiny specks. The specks grew larger and became two men on horses. They became larger still, and in the failing light Hillyard was just able to distinguish that they wore the grey uniform of the Guardia Civil.
“Let us pray,” said Medina with a note of anxiety in his voice, “that they do not become curious about our fishing-boat out there!”
As he spoke the two horsemen halted, and did look out to sea. They conversed each with the other.
“If I were near enough to hear them!” said José Medina, and he suddenly turned in alarm upon Hillyard. “What are you doing?” he said.
Hillyard had taken a large.38 Colt automatic pistol from his pocket. His face was drawn and white and very set.
“I am doing nothing — for the moment,” he answered. “But those two men must ride on before it is dark and too late for me to see them.”
“But they are of the Guardia Civil,” José Medina expostulated in awed tones.
To the Spaniard, the mere name of the Guardia Civil, so great is its prestige, and so competent its personnel, inspires respect.
Complete Works of a E W Mason Page 548