CHAPTER XVIII.

Imperial Escort

Memmert gripped me, then, to the exclusion of a rival notion which had

given me no little perplexity during the conversation with von Brüning.

His reiterated advice that we should lose no time in picking up our

anchor and chain had ended by giving me the idea that he was anxious to

get us away from Bensersiel and the mainland. At first I had taken the

advice partly as a test of our veracity (as I gave the reader to

understand), and partly as an indirect method of lulling any suspicions

which Grimm’s midnight visit may have caused. Then it struck me that

this might be over-subtlety on my part, and the idea recurred when the

question of our future plans cropped up, and hampered me in deciding on

a course. It returned again when von Brüning offered to tow us out in

the evening. It was in my mind when I questioned him as to his business

ashore, for it occurred to me that perhaps his landing here was not

solely due to a wish to inspect the crew of the _Dulcibella_. Then came

his perfectly frank explanation (with its sinister _double entente_ for

us), coupled with an invitation to me to accompany him to Esens. But,

on the principle of _timeo Danaos_ etc., I instantly smelt a ruse, not

that I dreamt that I was to be decoyed into captivity; but if there was

anything here which we two might discover in the few hours left to us,

it was an ingenious plan to remove the most observant of the two till

the hour of departure.

Davies scorned them, and I had felt only a faint curiosity in these

insignificant hamlets, influenced, I am afraid, chiefly by a hankering

after _terra firma_ which the pitiless rigour of his training had been

unable to cure.

But it was imprudent to neglect the slightest chance. It was three

o’clock, and I think both our brains were beginning to be addled with

thinking in close confinement. I suggested that we should finish our

council of war in the open, and we both donned oilskins and turned out.

The sky had hardened and banked into an even canopy of lead, and the

wind drove before it a fine cold rain. You could hear the murmur of the

rising flood on the sands outside, but the harbour was high above it

still, and the _Dulcibella_ and the other boats squatted low in a bed

of black slime. Native interest seemed to be at last assuaged, for not

a soul was visible on the bank (I cannot call it a quay); but the top

of a black sou’wester with a feather of smoke curling round it showed

above the forehatch of the _Kormoran_.

“I wish I could get a look at your cargo, my friend,” I thought to

myself.

We gazed at Bensersiel in silence.

“There can’t be anything _here_?” I said.

“What _can_ there be?” said Davies.

“What about that dyke?” I said, with a sudden inspiration.

From the bank we could see all along the coast-line, which is dyked

continuously, as I have already said. The dyke was here a substantial

brick-faced embankment, very similar, though on a smaller scale, to

that which had bordered the Elbe near Cuxhaven, and over whose summit

we had seen the snouts of guns.

“I say, Davies,” I said, “do you think this coast could be invaded?

Along here, I mean, behind these islands?”

Davies shook his head. “I’ve thought of that,” he said. “There’s

nothing in it. It’s just the very last place on earth where a landing

would be possible. No transport could get nearer than where the _Blitz_

is lying, four miles out.”

“Well, you say every inch of this coast is important?”

“Yes, but it’s the _water_ I mean.”

“Well, I want to see that dyke. Let’s walk along it.”

My mushroom theory died directly I set foot on it. It was the most

innocent structure in the world—like a thousand others in Essex and

Holland—topped by a narrow path, where we walked in single file with

arms akimbo to keep our balance in the gusts of wind. Below us lay the

sands on one side and rank fens on the other, interspersed with squares

of pasture ringed in with ditches. After half a mile we dropped down

and came back by a short circuit inland, following a mazy path—which

was mostly right angles and minute plank bridges, till we came to the

Esens road. We crossed this and soon after found our way barred by the

stream I spoke of. This involved a _détour_ to the bridge in the

village, and a stealthy avoidance of the post-office, for dread of its

garrulous occupant. Then we followed the dyke in the other direction,

and ended by a circuit over the sands, which were fast being covered by

the tide, and so back to the yacht.

Nobody appeared to have taken the slightest notice of our movements.

As we walked we had tackled the last question, “What are we to do?” and

found very little to say on it. We were to leave to-night (unless the

Esens police appeared on the scene), and were committed to sailing

direct to Norderney, as the only alternative to duck-shooting under the

espionage of a “trustworthy” nominee of von Brüning’s. Beyond

that—vagueness and difficulty of every sort.

At Norderney I should be fettered by my letter. If it seemed to have

been opened and it ordered my return, I was limited to a week, or must

risk suspicion by staying. Dollmann was away (according to von

Brüning), “would probably be back soon”; but how soon? Beyond Norderney

lay Memmert. How to probe its secret? The ardour it had roused in me

was giving way to a mortifying sense of impotence. The sight of the

_Kormoran_, with her crew preparing for sea, was a pointed comment on

my diplomacy, and most of all on my ridiculous survey of the dykes.

When all was said and done we were _protégés_ of von Brüning, and

dogged by Grimm. Was it likely they would let us succeed?

The tide was swirling into the harbour in whorls of chocolate froth,

and as it rose all Bensersiel, dominated as before by Herr Schenkel,

straggled down to the quay to watch the movements of shipping during

the transient but momentous hour when the mud-hole was a seaport. The

captain’s steam-cutter was already afloat, and her sailors busy with

sidelights and engines. When it became known that we, too, were to

sail, and under such distinguished escort, the excitement intensified.

Again our friend of the Customs was spreading out papers to sign, while

a throng of helpful Frisians, headed by the twin giants of the

post-boat, thronged our decks and made us ready for sea in their own

confused fashion. Again we were carried up to the inn and overwhelmed

with advice, and warnings, and farewell toasts. Then back again to find

the _Dulcibella_ afloat, and von Brüning just arrived, cursing the

weather and the mud, chaffing Davies, genial and _débonnaire_ as ever.

“Stow that mainsail, you won’t want it,” he said. “I’ll tow you right

out to Spiekeroog. It’s your only anchorage for the night in this

wind—under the island, near the _Blitz_, and that would mean a dead

beat for you in the dark.”

The fact was so true, and the offer so timely, that Davies’s faint

protests were swept aside in a torrent of ridicule.

“And now I think of it,” the Commander ended, “I’ll make the trip with

you, if I may. It’ll be pleasanter and drier.”

We all three boarded the _Dulcibella_, and then the end came. Our

tow-rope was attached, and at half-past six the little launch jumped

into the collar, and amidst a demonstration that could not have been

more hearty if we had been ambassadors on a visit to a friendly power,

we sidled out through the jetties.

It took us more than an hour to cover the five miles to Spiekeroog, for

the _Dulcibella_ was a heavy load in the stiff head wind, and Davies,

though he said nothing, showed undisguised distrust of our tug’s

capacities. He at once left the helm to me and flung himself on the

gear, not resting till every rope was ready to hand, the mainsail

reefed, the binnacle lighted, and all ready for setting sail or

anchoring at a moment’s notice. Our guest watched these precautions

with infinite amusement. He was in the highest and most mischievous

humour, raining banter on Davies and mock sympathy on me, laughing at

our huge compass, heaving the lead himself, startling us with imaginary

soundings, and doubting if his men were sober. I offered entertainment

and warmth below, but he declined on the ground that Davies would be

tempted to cut the tow-rope and make us pass the night on a safe

sandbank. Davies took the raillery unmoved. His work done, he took the

tiller and sat bareheaded, intent on the launch, the course, the

details, and chances of the present. I brought up cigars and we settled

ourselves facing him, our backs to the wind and spray. And so we made

the rest of the passage, von Brüning cuddled against me and the

cabin-hatch, alternately shouting a jest to Davies and talking to me in

a light and charming vein, with just that shade of patronage that the

disparity in our ages warranted, about my time in Germany, places,

people, and books I knew, and about life, especially young men’s life,

in England, a country he had never visited, but hoped to; I responding

as well as I could, striving to meet his mood, acquit myself like a

man, draw zest instead of humiliation from the irony of our position,

but scarcely able to make headway against a numbing sense of defeat and

incapacity. A queer thought was haunting me, too, that such skill and

judgement as I possessed was slipping from me as we left the land and

faced again the rigours of this exacting sea. Davies, I very well knew,

was under exactly the opposite spell—a spell which even the reproach of

the tow-rope could not annul. His face, in the glow of the binnacle,

was beginning to wear that same look of contentment and resolve that I

had seen on it that night we had sailed to Kiel from Schlei Fiord.

Heaven knows he had more cause for worry than I—a casual comrade in an

adventure which was peculiarly his, which meant everything on earth to

him; but there he was, washing away perplexity in the salt wind,

drawing counsel and confidence from the unfailing source of all his

inspirations—the sea.

“Looks happy, doesn’t he?” said the captain once. I grunted that he

did, ashamed to find how irritated the remark made me.

“You’ll remember what I said,” he added in my ear.

“Yes,” I said. “But I should like to see her. What _is_ she like?”

“Dangerous.” I could well believe it.

The hull of the _Blitz_ loomed up, and a minute later our kedge was

splashing overboard and the launch was backing alongside.

“Good-night, gentlemen,” said our passenger. “You’re safe enough here,

and you can run across in ten minutes in the morning and pick up your

anchor, if it’s there still. Then you’ve a fair wind west—to England if

you like. If you decide to stay a little longer in these parts, and I’m

in reach, count on me to help you, to sport or anything else.”

We thanked him, shook hands, and he was gone.

“He’s a thundering good chap, anyhow,” said Davies; and I heartily

agreed.

The narrow vigilant life began again at once. We were “safe enough” in

a sense, but a warp and a twenty-pound anchor were poor security if the

wind backed or increased. Plans for contingencies had to be made, and

deck-watches kept till midnight, when the weather seemed to improve,

and stars appeared. The glass was rising, so we turned in and slept

under the very wing, so to speak, of the Imperial Government.

“Davies,” I said, when we were settled in our bunks, “it’s only a day’s

sail to Norderney, isn’t it?”

“With a fair wind, less, if we go outside the islands direct.”

“Well, it’s settled that we do that to-morrow?”

“I suppose so. We’ve got to get the anchor first. Good-night.”