The Riddle of the Sands

by Erskine Childers

  XX. The Little Drab Book

  I FOUND Davies at the cabin table, surrounded with a litter of books.The shelf was empty, and its contents were tossed about among thecups and on the floor. We both spoke together.

  'Well, what was it?'

  'Well, what did she say?'

  I gave way, and told my story briefly. He listened in silence,drumming on the table with a book which he held.

  'It's not good-bye,' he said. 'But I don't wonder; look here!' and heheld out to me a small volume, whose appearance was quite familiar tome, if its contents were less so. As I noted in an early chapter,Davies's library, excluding tide-tables, 'pilots', etc., was limitedto two classes of books, those on naval warfare, and those on his ownhobby, cruising in small yachts. He had six or seven of the latter,including Knight's _Falcon in the Baltic,_ Cowper's _Sailing Tours,_Macmullen's _Down Channel_, and other less known stories of adventuroustravel. I had scarcely done more than look into some of them atoff-moments, for our life had left no leisure for reading. Thisparticular volume was--no, I had better not describe it too fully;but I will say that it was old and unpretentious, bound in cheapcloth of a rather antiquated style, with a title which showed it tobe a guide for yachtsmen to a certain British estuary. A white labelpartly scratched away bore the legend '3_d_.' I had glanced at it onceor twice with no special interest.

  'Well?' I said, turning over some yellow pages.

  'Dollmann!' cried Davies. 'Dollmann wrote it.' I turned to thetitle-page, and read: 'By Lieut. X----, R.N.' The name itself conveyednothing to me, but I began to understand. Davies went on: 'The name'son the back, too--and I'm certain it's the last she looked at.'

  'But how do you know?'

  'And there's the man himself. Ass that I am not to have seen itbefore! Look at the frontispiece.'

  It was a sorry piece of illustration of the old-fashioned sort,lacking definition and finish, but effective notwithstanding; for itwas evidently the reproduction, though a cheap and imperfect process,of a photograph. It represented a small yacht at anchor below somewoods, with the owner standing on deck in his shirt sleeves: awell-knit, powerful man, young, of middle height, clean shaved. Thereappeared to be nothing remarkable about the face; the portrait beingon too small a scale, and the expression, such as it was, being ofthe fixed 'photographic' character.

  'How do you know him? You said he was fifty, with a greyish beard.'

  'By the shape of his head; that hasn't changed. Look how it widens atthe top, and then flattens--sort of wedge shaped--with a high, steepforehead; you'd hardly notice it in that' (the points were not verynoticeable, but I saw what Davies meant). 'The height and figure areright, too; and the dates are about right. Look at the bottom.'

  Underneath the picture was the name of a yacht and a date. Thepublisher's date on the title-page was the same.

  'Sixteen years ago,' said Davies. 'He looks thirty odd in that,doesn't he? And fifty now.'

  'Let's work the thing out. Sixteen years ago he was still an Englishman,an officer in Her Majesty's Navy. Now he's a German. At some timebetween this and then, I suppose, he came to grief--disgrace, flight,exile. When did it happen?'

  'They've been here three years; von Br?ning said so.'

  'It was long before that. She has talked German from a child. What'sher age, do you think--nineteen or twenty?'

  'About that.'

  'Say she was four when this book was published. The crash must havecome not long after.'

  'And they've been hiding in Germany since.

  'Is this a well-known book?'

  'I never saw another copy; picked this up on a second-hand bookstallfor threepence.'

  'She looked at it, you say?'

  'Yes, I'm certain of it.'

  'Was she never on board you in September?'

  'No; I asked them both, but Dollmann made excuses.'

  'But _he--he_ came on board? You told me so.'

  'Once; he asked himself to breakfast on the first day. By Jove! yes;you mean he saw the book?

  'It explains a good deal.'

  'It explains everything.'

  We fell into deep reflexion for a minute or two.

  'Do you really mean _everything_?' I said. 'In that case let's sailstraight away and forget the whole affair. He's only some poor devilwith a past, whose secret you stumbled on, and, half mad with fear,he tried to silence you. But you don't want revenge, so it's nobusiness of ours. We can ruin him if we like; but is it worth it?'

  'You don't mean a word you're saying,' said Davies, 'though I knowwhy you say it; and many thanks, old chap. I didn't mean"everything". He's plotting with Germans, or why did Grimm spy on us,and von Br?ning cross-examine us? We've got to find out what he's at,as well as who he is. And as to her--what do you think of her now?'

  I made my _amende_ heartily. 'Innocent and ignorant,' was my verdict.'Ignorant, that is, of her father's treasonable machinations; butaware, clearly, that they were English refugees with a past to hide.'I said other things, but they do not matter. 'Only,' I concluded, 'itmakes the dilemma infinitely worse.'

  'There's no dilemma at all,' said Davies. 'You said at Bensersielthat we couldn't hurt him without hurting her. Well, all I can sayis, we've _got_ to. The time to cut and run, if ever, was when wesighted her dinghy. I had a baddish minute then.'

  'She's given us a clue or two after all.'

  'It wasn't our fault. To refuse to have her on board would have beento give our show away; and the very fact that she's given us cluesdecides the matter. She mustn't suffer for it.'

  'What will she do?'

  'Stick to her father, I suppose.'

  'And what shall we do?'

  'I don't know yet; how can I know? It depends,' said Davies, slowly.'But the point is, that we have two objects, equally important--yes,equally, by Jove!--to scotch him, and save her.'

  There was a pause.

  'That's rather a large order,' I observed. 'Do you realize that atthis very moment we have probably gained the first object? If we wenthome now, walked into the Admiralty and laid our facts before them,what would be the result?'

  'The Admiralty!' said Davies, with ineffable scorn.

  'Well, Scotland Yard, too, then. Both of them want our man, I daresay. It would be strange if between them they couldn't dislodge him,and, incidentally, either discover what's going on here or draw suchattention to this bit of coast as to make further secrecyimpossible.'

  'It's out of the question to let her betray her father, and then runaway! Besides, we don't know enough, and they mightn't believe us.It's a cowardly course, however you look at it.'

  'Oh! that settles it,' I answered, hastily. 'Now I want to go backover the facts. When did you first see her?'

  'That first morning.'

  'She wasn't in the saloon the night before?'

  'No; and he didn't mention her.'

  'You would have gone away next morning if he hadn't called?'

  'Yes; I told you so.'

  'He allowed her to persuade you to make that voyage with them?'

  'I suppose so.'

  'But he sent her below when the pilotage was going on?'

  'Of course.'

  'She said just now, "Father said you would be safe." What had youbeen saying to her?'

  'It was when I met her on the sand. (By the way, it wasn't a chancemeeting; she had been making inquiries and heard about us from askipper who had seen the yacht near Wangeroog, and she had been downthis way before.) She asked at once about that day, and beganapologizing, rather awkwardly, you know, for their rudeness in nothaving waited for me at Cuxhaven. Her father found he must get on toHamburg at once.'

  'But you didn't go to Cuxhaven; you told her that? What exactly _did_you tell her? This is important.'

  'I was in a fearful fix, not knowing what _he_ had told her. So Isaid something vague, and then she asked the very question vonBr?ning did, "Wasn't there a _schrecklich_ sea round the Scharhorn?"'

  'She didn't know you took the short cut, then?'

>   'No; he hadn't dared to tell her.'

  'She knew that _they_ took it?'

  'Yes. He couldn't possibly have hidden that. She would have known bythe look of the sea from the portholes, the shorter time, etc.'

  'But when the 'Medusa' hove to and he shouted to you to followhim--didn't she understand what was happening?'

  'No, evidently not. Mind you, she couldn't possibly have heard whatwe said, in that weather, from below. I couldn't cross-question her,but it was clear enough what she thought; namely, that he had hove tofor exactly the opposite reason, to say _he_ was taking the shortcut, and that I wasn't to attempt to follow him.'

  'That's why she laid stress on _waiting_ for you at Cuxhaven?'

  'Of course; mine would have been the longer passage.'

  'She had no notion of foul play?'

  'None--that I could see. After all, there I was, alive and well.'

  'But she was remorseful for having induced you to sail at all thatday, and for not having waited to see you arrived safely.'

  'That's about it.'

  'Now what did you say about Cuxhaven?'

  'Nothing. I let her understand that I went there, and, not findingthem, went on to the Baltic by the Eider river, having changed mymind about the ship canal.'

  'Now, what about her voyage back from Hamburg? Was she alone?'

  'No; the stepmother joined her.'

  'Did she say she had inquired about you at Brunsb?ttel?'

  'No; I suppose she didn't like to. And there was no need, because mytaking the Eider explained it.'

  I reflected. 'You're sure she hadn't a notion that you took the shortcut?'

  'Quite sure; but she may guess it now. She guessed foul play byseeing that book.'

  'Of course she did; but I was thinking of something else. There aretwo stories afloat now--yours to von Br?ning, the true one, that youfollowed the 'Medusa' to the short cut; and Dollmann's to her, that youwent round the Scharhorn. That's evidently his version of theaffair--the version he would have given if you had been drowned andinquiries were ever made; the version he would have sworn his crew toif they discovered the truth.'

  'But he must drop that yarn when he knows I'm alive and back again.'

  'Yes; but meanwhile, supposing von Br?ning sees him _before_ he knowsyou're back again, and wants to find out the truth about thatincident. If I were von Br?ning I should say, "By the way, what'sbecome of that young Englishman you decoyed away to the Baltic?"Dollmann would give his version, and von Br?ning, having heard ours,would know he was lying, and had tried to drown you.'

  'Does it matter? He must know already that Dollmann's a scoundrel.'

  'So we've been supposing; but we may be wrong. We're still in thedark as to Dollmann's position towards these Germans. They may noteven know he's English, or they may know that and not know his realname and past. What effect your story will have on their relationswith him we can't forecast. But I'm clear about one thing, that it'sour paramount interest to maintain the _status quo_ as long as wecan, to minimize the danger you ran that day, and act as witnesses inhis defence. We can't do that if his story and yours don't tally. Thediscrepancy will not only damn him (that may be immaterial), but itwill throw doubt on us.'

  'Why?'

  'Because if the short cut was so dangerous that he dared not own tohaving led you to it, it was dangerous enough to make you suspectfoul play; the very supposition we want to avoid. We want to bethought mere travellers, with no scores to wipe out, and no secretsto pry after.'

  'Well, what do you propose?'

  'Hitherto I believe we stand fairly well. Let's assume we hoodwinkedvon Br?ning at Bensersiel, and base our policy on that assumption. Itfollows that we must show Dollmann at the earliest possible momentthat you _have_ come back, and give him time to revise his tacticsbefore he commits himself. Now----'

  'But _she'll_ tell him we're back,' interrupted Davies.

  'I don't think so. We've just agreed to keep this afternoon's episodea secret. She expects never to see us again.'

  'Now, he comes to-morrow by the morning boat, she said. What did thatmean? Boat from where?'

  'I know. From Norddeich on the mainland opposite. There's a railwaythere from Norden, and a steam ferry crosses to the island.'

  'At what time?'

  'Your Bradshaw will tell us--here it is: "Winter Service, 8.30 a.m.,due at 9.5."'

  'Let's get away at once.'

  We had a tussle with the tide at first, but once over the watershedthe channel improved, and the haze lightened gradually. A lighthouseappeared among the sand-dunes on the island shore, and beforedarkness fell we dimly saw the spires and roofs of a town, and twolong black piers stretching out southwards. We were scarcely a mileaway when we lost our wind altogether, and had to anchor. Determinedto reach our destination that night we waited till the ebb streammade, and then towed the yacht with the dinghy. In the course of thisa fog dropped on us suddenly, just as it had yesterday. I was towingat the time, and, of course, stopped short; but Davies shouted to mefrom the tiller to go on, that he could manage with the lead andcompass. And the end of it was that, at about nine o'clock, weanchored safely in the five-fathom roadstead, close to the easternpier, as a short reconnaissance proved to us. It had been a littlemasterpiece of adroit seamanship.

  There was utter stillness till our chain rattled down, when a muffledshout came from the direction of the pier, and soon we heard a boatgroping out to us. It was a polite but sleepy port-officer, who askedin a perfunctory way for our particulars, and when he heard them,remembered the _Dulcibella_s' previous visit.

  'Where are you bound to?' he asked.

  'England--sooner or later,' said Davies.

  The man laughed derisively. 'Not this year,' he said; 'there will befogs for another week; it is always so, and then storms. Better leaveyour yawl here. Dues will be only sixpence a month for you.

  'I'll think about it,' said Davies. 'Good-night.'

  The man vanished like a ghost in the thick night.

  'Is the post-office open?' I called after him.

  'No; eight to-morrow,' came back out of the fog.

  We were too excited to sup in comfort, or sleep in peace, or to doanything but plan and speculate. Never till this night had we talkedwith absolute mutual confidence, for Davies broke down the lastbarriers of reserve and let me see his whole mind. He loved this girland he loved his country, two simple passions which for the timeabsorbed his whole moral capacity. There was no room left forcasuistry. To weigh one passion against the other, with thediscordant voices of honour and expediency dinning in his ears, hadtoo long involved him in fruitless torture. Both were right; neithercould be surrendered. If the facts showed them irreconcilable, _tantpis pour les faits._ A way must be found to satisfy both or neither.

  I should have been a spiritless dog if I had not risen to his mood.But in truth his cutting of the knot was at this juncture exactlywhat appealed to me. I, too, was tired of vicarious casuistry, andthe fascination of our enterprise, intensified by the discovery ofthat afternoon, had never been so strong in me. Not to be insincere,I cannot pretend that I viewed the situation with his single mind. Myphilosophy when I left London was of a very worldly sort, and no onecan change his temperament in three weeks. I plainly said as much toDavies, and indeed took perverse satisfaction in stating with brutalemphasis some social truths which bore on this attachment of his tothe daughter of an outlaw. Truths I call them, but I uttered themmore by rote than by conviction, and he heard them unmoved. Andmeanwhile I snatched recklessly at his own solution. If it impartedinto our adventure a strain of crazy chivalry more suited toknights-errant of the Middle Ages than to sober modern youths--well,thank Heaven, I was not too sober, and still young enough to snatchat that fancy with an ardour of imagination, if not of character;perhaps, too, of character, for Galahads are not so common but thatordinary folk must needs draw courage from their example and putsomething of a blind trust in their tenfold strength.

  To reduce a romantic ideal t
o a working plan is a very difficultthing.

  'We shall have to argue backwards,' I said. 'What is to be the finalstage? Because that must govern the others.'

  There was only one answer--to get Dollmann, secrets and all, daughterand all, away from Germany altogether. So only could we satisfy thedouble aim we had set before us. What a joy it is, when beset withdoubts, to find a bed-rock necessity, however unattainable! Wefastened on this one and reasoned back from it. The first lesson wasthat, however many and strong were the enemies we had to contendwith, our sole overt foe must be Dollmann. The issue of the strugglemust be known only to ourselves and him. If we won, and found out'what he was at', we must at all costs conceal our success from hisGerman friends, and detach him from them before he was compromised.(You will remark that to blithely accept this limitation showed avery sanguine spirit in us.) The next question, how to find out whathe was at, was a deal more thorny. If it had not been for thediscovery of Dollmann's identity, we should have found it as hard anut to crack as ever. But this discovery was illuminating. It threwinto relief two methods of action which hitherto we had been hazilyseeking to combine, seesawing between one and the other, each of usinfluenced at different times by different motives. One was to relyon independent research; the other to extort the secret from Dollmanndirect, by craft or threats. The moral of to-day was to abandon thefirst and embrace the second.

  The prospects of independent research were not a whit better thanbefore. There were only two theories in the field, the channel theoryand the Memmert theory. The former languished for lack ofcorroboration; the latter also appeared to be weakened. To Fr?uleinDollmann the wreck-works were evidently what they purported to be,and nothing more. This fact in itself was unimportant, for it wasclear as crystal that she was no party to her father's treacherousintrigues, if he was engaged in such. But if Memmert was his spherefor them, it was disconcerting to find her so familiar with thatsphere, lightly talking of a descent in a diving-bell--hinting, too,that the mystery as to results was only for local consumption.Nevertheless, the charm of Memmert as the place we had traced Grimmto, and as the only tangible clue we had obtained, was still verygreat. The really cogent objection was the insuperable difficulty,known and watched as we were, of learning its significance. If therewas anything important to see there we should never be allowed to seeit, while by trying and failing we risked everything. It was on thispoint that the last of all misunderstandings between me and Davieswas dissipated. At Bensersiel he had been influenced more than heowned by my arguments about Memmert; but at that time (as I hinted)he was biased by a radical prejudice. The channel theory had become asort of religion with him, promising double salvation--not onlyavoidance of the Dollmanns, but success in the quest by methods inwhich he was past master. To have to desert it and resort to spyingon naval defences was an idea he dreaded and distrusted. It was notthe morality of the course that bothered him. He was far tooclear-headed to blink at the essential fact that at heart we werespies on a foreign power in time of peace, or to salve his conscienceby specious distinctions as to our mode of operation. The foreignpower to him was Dollmann, a traitor. There was his finaljustification, fearlessly adopted and held to the last. It was ratherthat, knowing his own limitations, his whole nature shrank from thesort of action entailed by the Memmert theory. And there was strongcommon sense in his antipathy.

  So much for independent research.

  On the other hand the road was now clear for the other method. Daviesno longer feared to face the imbroglio at Norderney; and that dayfortune had given us a new and potent weapon against Dollmann;precisely how potent we could not tell, for we had only a glimpse ofhis past, and his exact relations with the Government were unknown tous. But we knew who he was. Using this knowledge with address, couldwe not wring the rest from him? Feel our way, of course, be guided byhis own conduct, but in the end strike hard and stake everything onthe stroke? Such at any rate was our scheme to-night. Later, tossingin my bunk, I bethought me of the little drab book, lit a candle,and fetched it. A preface explained that it had been written during aspell of two months' leave from naval duty, and expressed a hope thatit might be of service to Corinthian sailors. The style wasunadorned, but scholarly and pithy. There was no trace of thewriter's individuality, save a certain subdued relish in describingbanks and shoals, which reminded me of Davies himself. For the rest,I found the book dull, and, in fact, it sent me to sleep.