CHAPTER VII.

The Missing Page

I woke (on the 1st of October) with that dispiriting sensation that a

hitch has occurred in a settled plan. It was explained when I went on

deck, and I found the _Dulcibella_ wrapped in a fog, silent, clammy,

nothing visible from her decks but the ghostly hull of a galliot at

anchor near us. She must have brought up there in the night, for there

had been nothing so close the evening before; and I remembered that my

sleep had been broken once by sounds of rumbling chain and gruff

voices.

“This looks pretty hopeless for to-day,” I said, with a shiver, to

Davies, who was laying the breakfast.

“Well, we can’t do anything till this fog lifts,” he answered, with a

good deal of resignation. Breakfast was a cheerless meal. The damp

penetrated to the very cabin, whose roof and walls wept a fine dew. I

had dreaded a bathe, and yet missed it, and the ghastly light made the

tablecloth look dirtier than it naturally was, and all the accessories

more sordid. Something had gone wrong with the bacon, and the lack of

egg-cups was not in the least humorous.

Davies was just beginning, in his summary way, to tumble the things

together for washing up, when there was a sound of a step on deck, two

sea-boots appeared on the ladder, and, before we could wonder who the

visitor was, a little man in oilskins and a sou’-wester was stooping

towards us in the cabin door, smiling affectionately at Davies out of a

round grizzled beard.

“Well met, captain,” he said, quietly, in German. “Where are you bound

to this time?”

“Bartels!” exclaimed Davies, jumping up. The two stooping figures,

young and old, beamed at one another like father and son.

“Where have you come from? Have some coffee. How’s the _Johannes_? Was

that you that came in last night? I’m delighted to see you!” (I spare

the reader his uncouth lingo.) The little man was dragged in and seated

on the opposite sofa to me.

“I took my apples to Kappeln,” he said, sedately, “and now I sail to

Kiel, and so to Hamburg, where my wife and children are. It is my last

voyage of the year. You are no longer alone, captain, I see.” He had

taken off his dripping sou’-wester and was bowing ceremoniously towards

me.

“Oh, I quite forgot!” said Davies, who had been kneeling on one knee in

the low doorway, absorbed in his visitor. “This is ‘_meiner Freund_,’

Herr Carruthers. Carruthers, this is my friend, Schiffer Bartels, of

the galliot _Johannes_.”

Was I never to be at an end of the puzzles which Davies presented to

me? All the impulsive heartiness died out of his voice and manner as he

uttered the last few words, and there he was, nervously glancing from

the visitor to me, like one who, against his will or from tactlessness,

has introduced two persons who he knows will disagree.

There was a pause while he fumbled with the cups, poured some cold

coffee out and pondered over it as though it were a chemical

experiment. Then he muttered something about boiling some more water,

and took refuge in the forecastle. I was ill at ease at this period

with seafaring men, but this mild little person was easy ground for a

beginner. Besides, when he took off his oilskin coat he reminded me

less of a sailor than of a homely draper of some country town, with his

clean turned-down collar and neatly fitting frieze jacket. We exchanged

some polite platitudes about the fog and his voyage last night from

Kappeln, which appeared to be a town some fifteen miles up the fiord.

Davies joined in from the forecastle with an excess of warmth which

almost took the words out of my mouth. We exhausted the subject very

soon, and then my _vis-à-vis_ smiled paternally at me, as he had done

at Davies, and said, confidentially:

“It is good that the captain is no more alone. He is a fine young

man—Heaven, what a fine young man! I love him as my son—but he is too

brave, too reckless. It is good for him to have a friend.”

I nodded and laughed, though in reality I was very far from being

amused.

“Where was it you met?” I asked.

“In an ugly place, and in ugly weather,” he answered, gravely, but with

a twinkle of fun in his eye. “But has he not told you?” he added, with

ponderous slyness. “I came just in time. No! what am I saying? He is

brave as a lion and quick as a cat. I think he cannot drown; but still

it was an ugly place and ugly——”

“What are you talking about, Bartels?” interrupted Davies, emerging

noisily with a boiling kettle.

I answered the question. “I was just asking your friend how it was you

made his acquaintance.”

“Oh, he helped me out of a bit of a mess in the North Sea, didn’t you,

Bartels?” he said.

“It was nothing,” said Bartels. “But the North Sea is no place for your

little boat, captain. So I have told you many times. How did you like

Flensburg? A fine town, is it not? Did you find Herr Krank, the

carpenter? I see you have placed a little mizzen-mast. The rudder was

nothing much, but it was well that it held to the Eider. But she is

strong and good, your little ship, and—Heaven!—she had need be so.” He

chuckled, and shook his head at Davies as at a wayward child.

This is all the conversation that I need record. For my part I merely

waited for its end, determined on my course, which was to know the

truth once and for all, and make an end of these distracting

mystifications. Davies plied his friend with coffee, and kept up the

talk gallantly; but affectionate as he was, his manner plainly showed

that he wanted to be alone with me.

The gist of the little skipper’s talk was a parental warning that,

though we were well enough here in the “Ost-See”, it was time for

little boats to be looking for winter quarters. That he himself was

going by the Kiel Canal to Hamburg to spend a cosy winter as a decent

citizen at his warm fireside, and that we should follow his example. He

ended with an invitation to us to visit him on the _Johannes_, and with

suave farewells disappeared into the fog. Davies saw him into his boat,

returned without wasting a moment, and sat down on the sofa opposite

me.

“What did he mean?” I asked.

“I’ll tell you,” said Davies, “I’ll tell you the whole thing. As far as

you’re concerned it’s partly a confession. Last night I had made up my

mind to say nothing, but when Bartels turned up I knew it must all come

out. It’s been fearfully on my mind, and perhaps you’ll be able to help

me. But it’s for you to decide.”

“Fire away!” I said.

“You know what I was saying about the Frisian Islands the other day? A

thing happened there which I never told you, when you were asking about

my cruise.”

“It began near Norderney,” I put in.

“How did you guess that?” he asked.

“You’re a bad hand at duplicity,” I replied. “Go on.”

“Well, you’re quite right, it was there, on September 9. I told you the

sort of thing I was doing at that time, but I don’t think I said that I

made inquiries from one or two people about duck-shooting, and had been

told by some fishermen at Borkum that there was a big sailing-yacht in

those waters, whose owner, a German of the name of Dollmann, shot a

good deal, and might give me some tips. Well, I found this yacht one

evening, knowing it must be her from the description I had. She was

what is called a ‘barge-yacht’, of fifty or sixty tons, built for

shallow water on the lines of a Dutch galliot, with lee-boards and

those queer round bows and square stern. She’s something like those

galliots anchored near us now. You sometimes see the same sort of yacht

in English waters, only there they copy the Thames barges. She looked a

clipper of her sort, and very smart; varnished all over and shining

like gold. I came on her about sunset, after a long day of exploring

round the Ems estuary. She was lying in——”

“Wait a bit, let’s have the chart,” I interrupted.

Davies found it and spread it on the table between us, first pushing

back the cloth and the breakfast things to one end, where they lay in a

slovenly litter. This was one of the only two occasions on which I ever

saw him postpone the rite of washing up, and it spoke volumes for the

urgency of the matter in hand.

“Here it is,” said Davies _[See Map A]_ and I looked with a new and

strange interest at the long string of slender islands, the parallel

line of coast, and the confusion of shoals, banks, and channels which

lay between. “Here’s Norderney, you see. By the way, there’s a harbour

there at the west end of the island, the only real harbour on the whole

line of islands, Dutch or German, except at Terschelling. There’s quite

a big town there, too, a watering place, where Germans go for

sea-bathing in the summer. Well, the _Medusa_, that was her name, was

lying in the Riff Gat roadstead, flying the German ensign, and I

anchored for the night pretty near her. I meant to visit her owner

later on, but I very nearly changed my mind, as I always feel rather a

fool on smart yachts, and my German isn’t very good. However, I thought

I might as well; so, after dinner, when it was dark, I sculled over in

the dinghy, hailed a sailor on deck, said who I was, and asked if I

could see the owner. The sailor was a surly sort of chap, and there was

a good long delay while I waited on deck, feeling more and more

uncomfortable. Presently a steward came up and showed me down the

companion and into the saloon, which, after _this_, looked—well,

horribly gorgeous—you know what I mean, plush lounges, silk cushions,

and that sort of thing. Dinner seemed to be just over, and wine and

fruit were on the table. Herr Dollmann was there at his coffee. I

introduced myself somehow——”

“Stop a moment,” I said; “what was he like?”

“Oh, a tall, thin chap, in evening dress; about fifty I suppose, with

greyish hair and a short beard. I’m not good at describing people. He

had a high, bulging forehead, and there was something about him—but I

think I’d better tell you the bare facts first. I can’t say he seemed

pleased to see me, and he couldn’t speak English, and, in fact, I felt

infernally awkward. Still, I had an object in coming, and as I was

there I thought I might as well gain it.”

The notion of Davies in his Norfolk jacket and rusty flannels

haranguing a frigid German in evening dress in a “gorgeous” saloon

tickled my fancy greatly.

“He seemed very much astonished to see me; had evidently seen the

_Dulcibella_ arrive, and had wondered what she was. I began as soon as

I could about the ducks, but he shut me up at once, said I could do

nothing hereabouts. I put it down to sportsman’s jealousy—you know what

that is. But I saw I had come to the wrong shop, and was just going to

back out and end this unpleasant interview, when he thawed a bit,

offered me some wine, and began talking in quite a friendly way, taking

a great interest in my cruise and my plans for the future. In the end

we sat up quite late, though I never felt really at my ease. He seemed

to be taking stock of me all the time, as though I were some new

animal.” (How I sympathised with that German!) “We parted civilly

enough, and I rowed back and turned in, meaning to potter on eastwards

early next day.

“But I was knocked up at dawn by a sailor with a message from Dollmann

asking if he could come to breakfast with me. I was rather

flabbergasted, but didn’t like to be rude, so I said, ‘Yes.’ Well, he

came, and I returned the call—and—well, the end of it was that I stayed

at anchor there for three days.” This was rather abrupt.

“How did you spend the time?” I asked. Stopping three days anywhere was

an unusual event for him, as I knew from his log.

“Oh, I lunched or dined with him once or twice—with _them_, I ought to

say,” he added, hurriedly. “His daughter was with him. She didn’t

appear the evening I first called.”

“And what was she like?” I asked, promptly, before he could hurry on.

“Oh, she seemed a very nice girl,” was the guarded reply, delivered

with particular unconcern, “and—the end of it was that I and the

_Medusa_ sailed away in company. I must tell you how it came about,

just in a few words for the present.

“It was his suggestion. He said he had to sail to Hamburg, and proposed

that I should go with him in the _Dulcibella_ as far as the Elbe, and

then, if I liked, I could take the ship canal at Brunsbüttel through to

Kiel and the Baltic. I had no very fixed plans of my own, though I had

meant to go on exploring eastwards between the islands and the coast,

and so reach the Elbe in a much slower way. He dissuaded me from this,

sticking to it that I should have no chance of ducks, and urging other

reasons. Anyway, we settled to sail in company direct to Cuxhaven, in

the Elbe. With a fair wind and an early start it should be only one

day’s sail of about sixty miles.

“The plan only came to a head on the evening of the third day, on the

12th of September.

“I told you, I think, that the weather had broken after a long spell of

heat. That very day it had been blowing pretty hard from the west, and

the glass was falling still. I said, of course, that I couldn’t go with

him if the weather was too bad, but he prophesied a good day, said it

was an easy sail, and altogether put me on my mettle. You can guess how

it was. Perhaps I had talked about single-handed cruising as though it

were easier than it was, though I never meant it in a boasting way, for

I hate that sort of thing, and besides there _is_ no danger if you’re

careful——”

“Oh, go on,” I said.

“Anyway, we went next morning at six. It was a dirty-looking day, wind

W.N.W., but his sails were going up and mine followed. I took two reefs

in, and we sailed out into the open and steered E.N.E. along the coast

for the Outer Elbe Lightship about fifty knots off. Here it all is, you

see.” (He showed me the course on the chart.) “The trip was nothing for

his boat, of course, a safe, powerful old tub, forging through the sea

as steady as a house. I kept up with her easily at first. My hands were

pretty full, for there was a hard wind on my quarter and a troublesome

sea; but as long as nothing worse came I knew I should be all right,

though I also knew that I was a fool to have come.

Illustration: Chart A to Illustrate the Stranding of the Dulcibella,

etc.

“All went well till we were off Wangeroog, the last of the

islands—_here_—and then it began to blow really hard. I had half a mind

to chuck it and cut into the Jade River, _down there_,” but I hadn’t

the face to, so I hove to and took in my last reef.” (Simple words,

simply uttered; but I had seen the operation in calm water and

shuddered at the present picture.) “We had been about level till then,

but with my shortened canvas I fell behind. Not that that mattered in

the least. I knew my course, had read up my tides, and, thick as the

weather was, I had no doubt of being able to pick up the lightship. No

change of plan was possible now. The Weser estuary was on my starboard

hand, but the whole place was a lee-shore and a mass of unknown

banks—just look at them. I ran on, the _Dulcibella_ doing her level

best, but we had some narrow shaves of being pooped. I was about

_here_, say six miles south-west of the lightship, _[See Chart A]_ when

I suddenly saw that the _Medusa_ had hove to right ahead, as though

waiting till I came up. She wore round again on the course as I drew

level, and we were alongside for a bit. Dollmann lashed the wheel,

leaned over her quarter, and shouted, very slowly and distinctly so

that I could understand; ‘Follow me—sea too bad for you outside—short

cut through sands—save six miles.’

“It was taking me all my time to manage the tiller, but I knew what he

meant at once, for I had been over the chart carefully the night

before. _[See Map A]_ You see, the whole bay between Wangeroog and the

Elbe is encumbered with sand. A great jagged chunk of it runs out from

Cuxhaven in a north-westerly direction for fifteen miles or so, ending

in a pointed spit, called the _Scharhorn_. To reach the Elbe from the

west you have to go right outside this, round the lightship, which is

off the Scharhorn, and double back. Of course, that’s what all big

vessels do. But, as you see, these sands are intersected here and there

by channels, very shallow and winding, exactly like those behind the

Frisian Islands. Now look at this one, which cuts right through the big

chunk of sand and comes out near Cuxhaven. The _Telte_ _[See Chart A]_

it’s called. It’s miles wide, you see, at the entrance, but later on it

is split into two by the Hohenhörn bank: then it gets shallow and very

complicated, and ends in a mere tidal driblet with another name. It’s

just the sort of channel I should like to worry into on a fine day or

with an off-shore wind. Alone, in thick weather and a heavy sea, it

would have been folly to attempt it, except as a desperate resource.

But, as I said I knew at once that Dollmann was proposing to run for it

and guide me in.

“I didn’t like the idea, because I like doing things for myself, and,

silly as it sounds, I believe I resented being told the sea was too bad

for me, which it certainly was. Yet the short cut did save several

miles and a devil of a tumble off the Scharhorn, where two tides meet.

I had complete faith in Dollmann, and I suppose I decided that I should

be a fool not to take a good chance. I hesitated. I know; but in the

end I nodded, and held up my arm as she forged ahead again. Soon after,

she shifted her course and I followed. You asked me once if I ever took

a pilot. That was the only time.”

He spoke with bitter gravity, flung himself back, and felt his pocket

for his pipe. It was not meant for a dramatic pause, but it certainly

was one. I had just a glimpse of still another Davies—a Davies five

years older throbbing with deep emotions, scorn, passion, and stubborn

purpose; a being above my plane, of sterner stuff, wider scope. Intense

as my interest had become, I waited almost timidly while he

mechanically rammed tobacco into his pipe and struck ineffectual

matches. I felt that whatever the riddle to be solved, it was no mean

one. He repressed himself with an effort, half rose, and made his

circular glance at the clock, barometer, and skylight, and then

resumed.

“We soon came to what I knew must be the beginning of the Telte

channel. All round you could hear the breakers on the sands, though it

was too thick to see them yet. As the water shoaled, the sea, of

course, got shorter and steeper. There was more wind—a whole gale I

should say.

“I kept dead in the wake of the _Medusa_, but to my disgust I found she

was gaining on me very fast. Of course I had taken for granted, when he

said he would lead me in, that he would slow down and keep close to me.

He could easily have done so by getting his men up to check his sheets

or drop his peak. Instead of that he was busting on for all he was

worth. Once, in a rain-squall, I lost sight of him altogether; got him

faintly again, but had enough to do with my own tiller not to want to

be peering through the scud after a runaway pilot. I was all right so

far, but we were fast approaching the worst part of the whole passage,

where the Hohenhörn bank blocks the road, and the channel divides. I

don’t know what it looks like to you on the chart—perhaps fairly

simple, because you can follow the twists of the channels, as on a

ground-plan; but a stranger coming to a place like that (where there

are no buoys, mind you) can tell nothing certain by the eye—unless

perhaps at dead low water, when the banks are high and dry, and in very

clear weather—he must trust to the lead and the compass, and feel his

way step by step. I knew perfectly well that what I should soon see

would be a wall of surf stretching right across and on both sides. To

_feel_ one’s way in that sort of weather is impossible. You must _know_

your way, or else have a pilot. I had one, but he was playing his own

game.

“With a second hand on board to steer while I conned I should have felt

less of an ass. As it was, I knew I ought to be facing the music in the

offing, and cursed myself for having broken my rule and gone blundering

into this confounded short cut. It was giving myself away, doing just

the very thing that you can’t do in single-handed sailing.

“By the time I realised the danger it was far too late to turn and

hammer out to the open. I was deep in the bottle-neck bight of the

sands, jammed on a lee shore, and a strong flood tide sweeping me on.

That tide, by the way, gave just the ghost of a chance. I had the hours

in my head, and knew it was about two-thirds flood, with two hours more

of rising water. That meant the banks would be all covering when I

reached them, and harder than ever to locate; but it also meant that I

_might_ float right over the worst of them if I hit off a lucky place.”

Davies thumped the table in disgust. “Pah! It makes me sick to think of

having to trust to an accident like that, like a lubberly cockney out

for a boozy Bank Holiday sail. Well, just as I foresaw, the wall of

surf appeared clean across the horizon, and curling back to shut me in,

booming like thunder. When I last saw the _Medusa_ she seemed to be

charging it like a horse at a fence, and I took a rough bearing of her

position by a hurried glance at the compass. At that very moment I

_thought_ she seemed to luff and show some of her broadside; but a

squall blotted her out and gave me hell with the tiller. After that she

was lost in the white mist that hung over the line of breakers. I kept

on my bearing as well as I could, but I was already out of the channel.

I knew that by the look of the water, and as we neared the bank I saw

it was all awash and without the vestige of an opening. I wasn’t going

to chuck her on to it without an effort; so, more by instinct than with

any particular hope, I put the helm down, meaning to work her along the

edge on the chance of spotting a way over. She was buried at once by

the beam sea, and the jib flew to blazes; but the reefed stays’l stood,

she recovered gamely, and I held on, though I knew it could only be for

a few minutes, as the centre-plate was up, and she made frightful

leeway towards the bank.

“I was half-blinded by scud, but suddenly I noticed what looked like a

gap, behind a spit which curled out right ahead. I luffed still more to

clear this spit, but she couldn’t weather it. Before you could say

knife she was driving across it, bumped heavily, bucked forward again,

bumped again, and—ripped on in deeper water! I can’t describe the next

few minutes. I was in some sort of channel, but a very narrow one, and

the sea broke everywhere. I hadn’t proper command either; for the

rudder had crocked up somehow at the last bump. I was like a drunken

man running for his life down a dark alley, barking himself at every

corner. It couldn’t last long, and finally we went crash on to

something and stopped there, grinding and banging. So ended that little

trip under a pilot.

“Well, it was like this—there was really no danger”—I opened my eyes at

the characteristic phrase. “I mean, that lucky stumble into a channel

was my salvation. Since then I had struggled through a mile of sands,

all of which lay behind me like a breakwater against the gale. They

were covered, of course, and seething like soapsuds; but the force of

the sea was deadened. The _Dulce_ was bumping, but not too heavily. It

was nearing high tide, and at half ebb she would be high and dry.

“In the ordinary way I should have run out a kedge with the dinghy, and

at the next high water sailed farther in and anchored where I could lie

afloat. The trouble was now that my hand was hurt and my dinghy stove

in, not to mention the rudder business. It was the first bump on the

outer edge that did the damage. There was a heavy swell there, and when

we struck, the dinghy, which was towing astern, came home on her

painter and down with a crash on the yacht’s weather quarter. I stuck

out one hand to ward it off and got it nipped on the gunwale. She was

badly stove in and useless, so I couldn’t run out the kedge”—this was

Greek to me, but I let him go on—“and for the present my hand was too

painful even to stow the boom and sails, which were whipping and

racketing about anyhow. There was the rudder, too, to be mended; and we

were several miles from the nearest land. Of course, if the wind fell,

it was all easy enough; but if it held or increased it was a poor

look-out. There’s a limit to strain of that sort—and other things might

have happened.

“In fact, it was precious lucky that Bartels turned up. His galliot was

at anchor a mile away, up a branch of the channel. In a clear between

squalls he saw us, and, like a brick, rowed his boat out—he and his

boy, and a devil of a pull they must have had. I was glad enough to see

them—no, that’s not true; I was in such a fury of disgust and shame

that I believe I should have been idiot enough to say I didn’t want

help, if he hadn’t just nipped on board and started work. He’s a terror

to work, that little mouse of a chap. In half an hour he had stowed the

sails, unshackled the big anchor, run out fifty fathoms of warp, and

hauled her off there and then into deep water. Then they towed her up

the channel—it was dead to leeward and an easy job—and berthed her near

their own vessel. It was dark by that time, so I gave them a drink, and

said good-night. It blew a howling gale that night, but the place was

safe enough, with good ground-tackle.

“The whole affair was over; and after supper I thought hard about it

all.”