Commander von Brüning
To resume my story in narrative form.
I was awakened at ten o’clock on the 19th, after a long and delicious
sleep, by Davies’s voice outside, talking his unmistakable German.
Looking out, in my pyjamas, I saw him on the quay above in conversation
with a man in a long mackintosh coat and a gold-laced navy cap. He had
a close-trimmed auburn beard, a keen, handsome face, and an animated
manner. It was raining in a raw air.
They saw me, and Davies said: “Hullo, Carruthers! Here’s Commander von
Brüning from the _Blitz_—that’s ‘meiner Freund’ Carruthers.” (Davies
was deplorably weak in terminations.)
The Commander smiled broadly at me, and I inclined an uncombed head,
while, for a moment, the quest was a dream, and I myself felt
unutterably squalid and foolish. I ducked down, heard them parting, and
Davies came aboard.
“We’re to meet him at the inn for a talk at twelve,” he said.
His news was that the _Blitz_’s steam-cutter had come in on the morning
tide, and he had met von Brüning when marketing at the inn. Secondly,
the _Kormoran_ had also come in, and was moored close by. It was as
clear as possible, therefore, that the latter had watched us, and was
in touch with the _Blitz_, and that both had seized the opportunity of
our being cooped up in Bensersiel to take further stock of us. What had
passed hitherto? Nothing much. Von Brüning had greeted Davies with
cordial surprise, and said he had wondered yesterday if it was the
_Dulcibella_ that he had seen anchored behind Langeoog. Davies had
explained that we had left the Baltic and were on our way home; taking
the shelter of the islands.
“Supposing he comes on board and asks to see our log?” I said.
“Pull it out,” said Davies, “It’s rot, this hiding, after all, I say. I
rather funk this interview; what are we to say? It’s not in my line.”
We resolved abruptly on an important change of plan, replaced the log
and charts in the rack as the first logical step. They contained
nothing but bearings, courses, and the bare data of navigation. To
Davies they were hard-won secrets of vital import, to be lied for,
however hard and distasteful lying was. I was cooler as to their value,
but in any case the same thing was now in both our minds. There would
be great difficulties in the coming interview if we tried to be too
clever and conceal the fact that we had been exploring. We did not know
how much von Brüning knew. When had our surveillance by the _Kormoran_
begun? Apparently at Wangeroog, but possibly in the estuaries, where we
had not fired a shot at duck. Perhaps he knew even more—Dollmann’s
treachery, Davies’s escape, and our subsequent movements—we could not
tell. On the other hand, exploration was known to be a fad of Davies’s,
and in September he had made no secret of it.
It was safer to be consistent now. After breakfast we determined to
find out something about the _Kormoran_, which lay on the mud at the
other side of the harbour, and accordingly addressed ourselves to two
mighty sailors, whose jerseys bore the legend “Post”, and who towered
conspicuous among a row of stolid Frisians on the quay, all gazing
gravely down at us as at a curious bit of marine bric-à-brac. The twins
(for such they proved to be) were most benignant giants, and asked us
aboard the post-boat galliot for a chat. It was easy to bring the talk
naturally round to the point we wished, and we soon gained some most
interesting information, delivered in the broadest Frisian, but
intelligible enough. They called the _Kormoran_ a Memmert boat, or
“wreck-works” boat. It seemed that off the western end of _Juist_, the
island lying west of Norderney, there lay the bones of a French
war-vessel, wrecked ages ago. She carried bullion which has never been
recovered, in spite of many efforts. A salvage company was trying for
it now, and had works on Memmert, an adjacent sandbank. “That is Herr
Grimm, the overseer himself,” they said, pointing to the bridge above
the sluice-gates. (I call him “Grimm” because it describes him
exactly.) A man in a pilot jacket and peaked cap was leaning over the
parapet.
“What’s he doing here?” I asked.
They answered that he was often up and down the coast, work on the
wreck being impossible in rough weather. They supposed he was bringing
cargo in his galliot from Wilhelmshaven, all the company’s plant and
stores coming from that port. He was a local man from Aurich; an ex-tug
skipper.
We discussed this information while walking out over the sands to see
the channel at low water.
“Did you hear anything about this in September?” I asked.
“Not a word. I didn’t go to Juist. I would have, probably, if I hadn’t
met Dollmann.”
What in the world did it mean? How did it affect our plans?
“Look at his boots if we pass him,” was all Davies had to suggest.
The channel was now a ditch, with a trickle in it, running north by
east, roughly, and edged by a dyke of withies for the first quarter of
a mile. It was still blowing fresh from the north-east, and we saw that
exit was impossible in such a wind.
So back to the village, a paltry, bleak little place. We passed friend
Grimm on the bridge; a dark, clean-shaved, saturnine man, wearing
_shoes._ Approaching the inn:
“We haven’t settled quite enough, have we?” said Davies. “What about
our future plans?”
“Heaven knows, we haven’t,” I said. “But I don’t see how we can. We
must see how things go. It’s past twelve, and it won’t do to be late.”
“Well, I leave it to you.”
“All right, I’ll do my best. All you’ve got to do is to be yourself and
tell one lie, if need be, about the trick Dollmann played you.”
The next scene: von Brüning, Davies, and I, sitting over coffee and
Kümmel at a table in a dingy inn-parlour overlooking the harbour and
the sea, Davies with a full box of matches on the table before him. The
Commander gave us a hearty welcome, and I am bound to say I liked him
at once, as Davies had done; but I feared him, too, for he had honest
eyes, but abominably clever ones.
I had impressed on Davies to talk and question as freely and naturally
as though nothing uncommon had happened since he last saw von Brüning
on the deck of the _Medusa_. He must ask about Dollmann—the mutual
friend—at the outset, and, if questioned about that voyage in his
company to the Elbe, must lie like a trooper as to the danger he had
been in. This was the one clear and essential necessity, where much was
difficult. Davies did his duty with precipitation, and blushed when he
put his question, in a way that horrified me, till I remembered that
his embarrassment was due, and would be ascribed, to another cause.
“Herr Dollmann is away still, I think,” said von Brüning. (So Davies
had been right at Brunsbüttel.) “Were you thinking of looking him up
again?” he added.
“Yes,” said Davies, shortly.
“Well, I’m sure he’s away. But his yacht is back, I believe—and
Fräulein Dollmann, I suppose.”
“H’m!” said Davies; “she’s a very fine boat that.”
Our host smiled, gazing thoughtfully at Davies, who was miserable. I
saw a chance, and took it mercilessly.
“We can call on Fräulein Dollmann, at least, Davies,” I said, with a
meaning smile at von Brüning.
“H’m!” said Davies; “will he be back soon, do you think?”
The Commander had begun to light a cigar, and took his time in
answering. “Probably,” he said, after some puffing, “he’s never away
very long. But you’ve seen them later than I have. Didn’t you sail to
the Elbe together the day after I saw you last?”
“Oh, part of the way,” said Davies, with great negligence. “I haven’t
seen him since. He got there first; outsailed me.”
“Gave you the slip, in fact?”
“Of course he beat me; I was close-reefed. Besides——”
“Oh, I remember; there was a heavy blow—a devil of a heavy blow. I
thought of you that day. How did you manage?”
“Oh, it was a fair wind; it wasn’t far, you see.”
“Grosse Gott! In _that_.” He nodded towards the window whence the
_Dulcibella_’s taper mast could be seen pointing demurely heavenwards.
“She’s a splendid sea-boat,” said Davies, indignantly.
“A thousand pardons!” said von Brüning, laughing.
“Don’t shake my faith in her,” I put in. “I’ve got to get to England in
her.”
“Heaven forbid; I was only thinking that there must have been some sea
round the Scharhorn that day; a tame affair, no doubt, Herr Davies?”
“Scharhorn?” said Davies, who did not catch the idiom in the latter
sentence. “Oh, we didn’t go that way. We cut through the sands—by the
Telte.”
“The Telte! In a north-west gale!” The Commander started, ceased to
smile, and only stared. (It was genuine surprise; I could swear it. He
had heard nothing of this before.)
“Herr Dollmann knew the way,” said Davies, doggedly. “He kindly offered
to pilot me through, and I wouldn’t have gone otherwise.” There was an
awkward little pause.
“He led you well, it seems?” said von Brüning.
“Yes; there’s a nasty surf there, though, isn’t there? But it saves six
miles—and the Scharhorn. Not that I saved distance. I was fool enough
to run aground.”
“Ah!” said the other, with interest.
“It didn’t matter, because I was well inside then. Those sands are
difficult at high water. We’ve come back that way, you know.”
(“And we run aground every day,” I remarked, with resignation.)
“Is that where the _Medusa_ gave you the slip?” asked von Brüning,
still studying Davies with a strange look, which I strove anxiously to
analyse.
“She wouldn’t have noticed,” said Davies. “It was very thick and
squally—and she had got some way ahead. There was no need for her to
stop, anyway. I got off all right; the tide was rising still. But, of
course, I anchored there for the night.”
“Where?”
“Inside there, under the Hohenhörn,” said Davies, simply.
“Under the _what_?”
“The Hohenhörn.”
“Go on—didn’t they wait for you at Cuxhaven?”
“I don’t know; I didn’t go that way.” The Commander looked more and
more puzzled.
“Not by the ship canal, I mean. I changed my mind about it, because the
next day the wind was easterly. It would have been a dead beat across
the sands to Cuxhaven, while it was a fair wind straight out to the
Eider River. So I sailed there, and reached the Baltic that way. It was
all the same.”
There was another pause.
“Well done, Davies,” I thought. He had told his story well, using no
subtlety. I knew it was exactly how he would have told it to anyone
else, if he had not had irrefutable proof of foul play.
The Commander laughed, suddenly and heartily.
“Another liqueur?” he said. Then, to me: “Upon my word, your friend
amuses me. It’s impossible to make him spin a yarn. I expect he had a
bad time of it.”
“That’s nothing to him,” I said; “he prefers it. He anchored me the
other day behind the Hohenhörn in a gale of wind; said it was safer
than a harbour, and more sanitary.”
“I wonder he brought you here last night. It was a fair wind for
England; and not very far.”
“There was no pilot to follow, you see.”
“With a charming daughter—no.”
Davies frowned and glared at me. I was merciful and changed the
subject.
“Besides,” I said, “we’ve left our anchor and chain out there.” And I
made confession of my sin.
“Well, as it’s buoyed, I should advise you to pick it up as soon as you
can,” said von Brüning, carelessly; “or someone else will.”
“Yes, by Jove! Carruthers,” said Davies, eagerly, “we must get out on
this next tide.”
“Oh, there’s no hurry,” I said, partly from policy, partly because the
ease of the shore was on me. To sit on a chair upright is something of
a luxury, however good the cause in which you have crouched like a
monkey over a table at the level of your knees, with a reeking
oil-stove at your ear.
“They’re honest enough about here, aren’t they?” I added. While the
words were on my lips I remembered the midnight visitor at Wangeroog,
and guessed that von Brüning was leading up to a test. Grimm (if he was
the visitor) would have told him of his narrow escape from detection,
and reticence on our part would show we suspected something. I could
have kicked myself, but it was not too late. I took the bull by the
horns, and, before the Commander could answer, added:
“By Jove! Davies, I forgot about that fellow at Wangeroog. The anchor
might be stolen, as he says.”
Davies looked blank, but von Brüning had turned to me.
“We never dreamed there would be thieves among these islands,” I said,
“but the other night I nearly caught a fellow in the act. He thought
the yacht was empty.”
I described the affair in detail, and with what humour I could. Our
host was amused, and apologetic for the islanders.
“They’re excellent folk,” he said, “but they’re born with predatory
instincts. Their fathers made their living out of wrecks on this coast,
and the children inherit a weakness for plunder. When Wangeroog
lighthouse was built they petitioned the Government for compensation,
in perfect good faith. The coast is well lighted now, and windfalls are
rare, but the sight of a stranded yacht, with the owners ashore, would
inflame the old passion; and, depend upon it, someone has seen that
anchor-buoy.”
The word “wrecks” had set me tingling. Was it another test? Impossible
to say; but audacity was safer than reserve, and might save trouble in
the future.
“Isn’t there the wreck of a treasure-ship somewhere farther west?” I
asked. “We heard of it at Wangeroog” (my first inaccuracy). “They said
a company was exploiting it.”
“Quite right,” said the Commander, without a sign of embarrassment. “I
don’t wonder you heard of it. It’s one of the few things folk have to
talk about in these parts. It lies on Juister Riff, a shoal off Juist.
_[See Map B]_ She was a French frigate, the _Corinne_, bound from
Hamburg to Havre in 1811, when Napoleon held Hamburg as tight as Paris.
She carried a million and a half in gold bars, and was insured in
Hamburg; foundered in four fathoms, broke up, and there lies the
treasure.”
“Never been raised?”
“No. The underwriters failed and went bankrupt, and the wreck came into
the hands of your English Lloyd’s. It remained their property till ’75,
but they never got at the bullion. In fact, for fifty years it was
never scratched at, and its very position grew doubtful, for the sand
swallowed every stick. The rights passed through various hands, and in
’86 were held by an enterprising Swedish company, which brought modern
appliances, dived, dredged, and dug, fished up a lot of timber and
bric-à-brac, and then broke. Since then, two Hamburg firms have tackled
the job and lost their capital. Scores of lives have been spent over
it, all told, and probably a million of money. Still there are the
bars, somewhere.”
“And what’s being done now?”
“Well, recently a small local company was formed. It has a depôt at
Memmert, and is working with a good deal of perseverance. An engineer
from Bremen was the principal mover, and a few men from Norderney and
Emden subscribed the capital. By the way, our friend Dollmann is
largely interested in it.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Davies’s tell-tale face growing
troubled with inward questionings.
“We mustn’t get back to him,” I said, laughing. “It’s not fair to my
friend. But all this is very interesting. Will they ever get those
bars?”
“Ah! that’s the point,” said von Brüning, with a mysterious twinkle.
“It’s an undertaking of immense difficulty; for the wreck is wholly
disintegrated, and the gold, being the heaviest part of it, has, of
course, sunk the deepest. Dredging is useless after a certain point;
and the divers have to make excavations in the sand, and shore them up
as best they can. Every gale nullifies half their labour, and weather
like this of the last fortnight plays the mischief with the work. Only
this morning I met the overseer, who happens to be ashore here. He was
as black as thunder over prospects.”
“Well, it’s a romantic speculation,” I said. “They deserve a return for
their money.”
“I hope they’ll get it,” said the Commander. “The fact is, I hold a few
shares myself.”
“Oh, I hope I haven’t been asking indiscreet questions?”
“Oh, dear no; all the world knows what I’ve told you. But you’ll
understand that one has to be reticent as to results in such a case.
It’s a big stake, and the _title is none too sound._ There has been
litigation over it. Not that I worry much about my investment; for I
shan’t lose much by it at the worst. But it gives one an interest in
this abominable coast. I go and see how they’re getting on sometimes,
when I’m down that way.”
“It _is_ an abominable coast,” I agreed heartily, “though you won’t get
Davies to agree.”
“It’s a magnificent place for sailing,” said Davies, looking wistfully
out over the storm-speckled grey of the North Sea.
He underwent some more chaff, and the talk passed to our cruising
adventures in the Baltic and the estuaries. Von Brüning cross-examined
us with the most charming urbanity and skill. Nothing he asked could
cause us the slightest offence; and a responsive frankness was our only
possible course. So, date after date, and incident after incident, were
elicited in the most natural way. As we talked I was astonished to find
how little there was that was worth concealing, and heartily thankful
that we had decided on candour. My fluency gave me the lead, and Davies
followed me; but his own personality was really our tower of strength.
I realised that as I watched the play of his eager features, and heard
him struggle for expression on his favourite hobby; all his pet phrases
translated crudely into the most excruciating German. He was
convincing, because he was himself.
“Are there many like you in England?” asked von Brüning once.
“Like me? Of course—lots,” said Davies.
“I wish there were more in Germany; they play at yachting over here—on
shore half the time, drinking and loafing; paid crews, clean hands,
white trousers; laid up in the middle of September.”
“We haven’t seen many yachts about, said Davies, politely.
For my part, I made no pretence of being a Davies. Faithful to my lower
nature, I vowed the Germans were right, and, not without a secret zest,
drew a lurid picture of the horrors of crewless cruising, and the
drudgery that my remorseless skipper inflicted on me. It was delightful
to see Davies wincing when I described my first night at Flensburg, for
I had my revenge at last, and did not spare him. He bore up gallantly
under my jesting, but I knew very well by his manner that he had not
forgiven me my banter about the “charming daughter”.
“You speak German well,” said von Brüning.
“I have lived in Germany,” said I.
“Studying for a profession, I suppose?”
“Yes,” said I, thinking ahead. “Civil Service,” was my prepared answer
to the next question, but again (morbidly, perhaps) I saw a pitfall.
That letter from my chief awaiting me at Norderney? My name was known,
and we were watched. It might be opened. Lord, how casual we have been!
“May I ask what?”
“The Foreign Office.” It sounded suspicious, but there it was.
“Indeed—in the Government service? When do you have to be back?”
That was how the question of our future intentions was raised,
prematurely by me; for two conflicting theories were clashing in my
brain. But the contents of the letter dogged me now, and “when at a
loss, tell the truth”, was an axiom I was finding sound. So I answered,
“Pretty soon, in about a week. But I’m expecting a letter at Norderney,
which may give me an extension. Davies said it was a good address to
give,” I added, smiling.
“Naturally,” said von Brüning, dryly; the joke had apparently ceased to
amuse him. “But you haven’t much time then, have you?” he added,
“unless you leave your skipper in the lurch. It’s a long way to
England, and the season is late for yachts.”
I felt myself being hurried.
“Oh, you don’t understand,” I explained; “_he’s_ in no hurry. He’s a
man of leisure; aren’t you, Davies?”
“What?” said Davies.
I translated my cruel question.
“Yes,” said Davies, with simple pathos.
“If I have to leave him I shan’t be missed—as an able seaman, at least.
He’ll just potter on down the islands, running aground and kedging-off,
and arrive about Christmas.”
“Or take the first fair gale to Dover,” laughed the Commander.
“Or that. So, you see, we’re in no hurry; and we never make plans. And
as for a passage to England straight, I’m not such a coward as I was at
first, but I draw the line at that.”
“You’re a curious pair of shipmates; what’s your point of view, Herr
Davies?”
“I like this coast,” said Davies. “And—we want to shoot some ducks.” He
was nervous, and forgot himself. I had already satirised our sporting
armament and exploits, and hoped the subject was disposed of. Ducks
were pretexts, and might lead to complications. I particularly wanted a
free hand.
“As to wild fowl,” said our friend, “I would like to give you gentlemen
some advice. There are plenty to be got, now that autumn weather has
set in (you wouldn’t have got a shot in September, Herr Davies; I
remember your asking about them when I saw you last). And even now it’s
early for amateurs. In hard winter weather a child can pick them up;
but they’re wild still, and want crafty hunting. You want a local punt,
and above all a local man (you could stow him in your fo’c’sle), and to
go to work seriously. Now, if you really wish for sport, I could help
you. I could get you a trustworthy——”
“Oh, it’s too good of you,” stammered Davies, in a more unhappy accent
than usual. “We can easily find one for ourselves. A man at Wangeroog
offered——”
“Oh, did he?” interrupted von Brüning, laughing. “I’m not surprised.
You don’t know the Frieslanders. They’re guileless, as I said, but they
cling to their little perquisites.” (I translated to Davies.) “They’ve
been cheated out of wrecks, and they’re all the more sensitive about
ducks, which are more lucrative than fish. A stranger is a poacher.
Your man would have made slight errors as to time and place.”
“You said they were odd in their manner, didn’t you, Davies?” I put in.
“Look here, this is very kind of Commander von Brüning; but hadn’t we
better be certain of my plans before settling down to shoot? Let’s push
on direct to Norderney and get that letter of mine, and then decide.
But we shan’t see you again, I suppose, Commander?”
“Why not? I am cruising westwards, and shall probably call at
Norderney. Come aboard if you’re there, won’t you? I should like to
show you the _Blitz_.”
“Thanks, very much,” said Davies, uneasily.
“Thanks, very much,” said I, as heartily as I could.
Our party broke up soon after this.
“Well, gentlemen, I must take leave of you,” said our friend. “I have
to drive to Esens. I shall be going back to the _Blitz_ on the evening
tide, but you’ll be busy then with your own boat.”
It had been a puzzling interview, but the greatest puzzle was still to
come. As we went towards the door, von Brüning made a sign to me. We
let Davies pass out and remained standing.
“One word in confidence with you, Herr Carruthers,” he said, speaking
low. “You won’t think me officious, I hope. I only speak out of keen
regard for your friend. It is about the Dollmanns—you see how the land
lies? I wouldn’t encourage him.”
“Thanks,” I said, “but really——”
“It’s only a hint. He’s a splendid young fellow, but if anything—you
understand—too honest and simple. I take it you have influence with
him, and I should use it.”
“I was not in earnest,” I said. “I have never seen the Dollmanns; I
thought they were friends of yours,” I added, looking him straight in
the eyes.
“I know them, but”—he shrugged his shoulders—“I know everybody.”
“What’s wrong with them?” I said, point-blank.
“Softly! Herr Carruthers. Remember, I speak out of pure friendliness to
you as strangers, foreigners, and young. You I take to have discretion,
or I should not have said a word. Still, I will add this. We know very
little of Herr Dollmann, of his origin, his antecedents. He is half a
Swede, I believe, certainly not a Prussian; came to Norderney three
years ago, appears to be rich, and has joined in various commercial
undertakings. Little scope about here? Oh, there is more enterprise
than you think—development of bathing resorts, you know, speculation in
land on these islands. Sharp practice? Oh, no! he’s perfectly straight
in that way. But he’s a queer fellow, of eccentric habits, and—and,
well, as I say, little is known of him. That’s all, just a warning.
Come along.”
I saw that to press him further was useless.
“Thanks; I’ll remember,” I said.
“And look here,” he added, as we walked down the passage, “if you take
my advice, you’ll omit that visit to the _Medusa_ altogether.” He gave
me a steady look, smiling gravely.
“How much do you know, and what do you mean?” were the questions that
throbbed in my thoughts; but I could not utter them, so I said nothing
and felt very young.
Outside we joined Davies, who was knitting his brow over prospects.
“It just comes of going into places like this,” he said to me. “We may
be stuck here for days. Too much wind to tow out with the dinghy, and
too narrow a channel to beat in.”
Von Brüning was ready with a new proposal.
“Why didn’t I think of it before?” he said. “I’ll tow you out in my
launch. Be ready at 6.30; we shall have water enough then. My men will
send you a warp.”
It was impossible to refuse, but a sense of being personally conducted
again oppressed me; and the last hope of a bed in the inn vanished.
Davies was none too effusive either. A tug meant a pilot, and he had
had enough of them.
“He objects to towage on principle,” I said.
“Just like him!” laughed the other. “That’s settled, then!” A dogcart
was standing before the inn door in readiness for von Brüning. I was
curious about Esens and his business there. Esens, he said, was the
principal town of the district, four miles inland.
“I have to go there,” he volunteered, “about a poaching case—a Dutchman
trawling inside our limits. That’s my work, you know—police duty.”
Had the words a deeper meaning?
“Do you ever catch an Englishman?” I asked, recklessly.
“Oh, very rarely; your countrymen don’t come so far as this—except on
pleasure.” He bowed to us each and smiled.
“Not much of that to be got in Bensersiel,” I laughed.
“I’m afraid you’ll have a dull afternoon. Look here. I know you can’t
leave your boat altogether, and it’s no use asking Herr Davies; but
will _you_ drive into Esens with me and see a Frisian town—for what
it’s worth? You’re getting a dismal impression of Friesland.”
I excused myself, said I would stop with Davies; we would walk out over
the sands and prospect for the evening’s sail.
“Well, good-bye then,” he said, “till the evening. Be ready for the
warp at 6.30.”
He jumped up, and the cart rattled off through the mud, crossed the
bridge, and disappeared into the dreary hinterland.