THE DOOMSCHEN
"I suppose," Mr. Sabin began, closing the door of the cabin behind him,
"that I may take it--this episode--as an indication of your refusal to
accept the proposals I made to you?"
Mr. Watson did not immediately reply. He had seated himself on the
corner of a lounge and was leaning forward, his head resting moodily
upon his hands. His sallow face was paler even than usual, and his
expression was sullen. He looked, as he undoubtedly was, in an evil
humour with himself and all things.
"It was not a matter of choice with me," he muttered. "Look out of your
window there and you will see that even here upon the ocean I am under
surveillance."
Mr. Sabin's eyes followed the man's forefinger. Far away across the
ocean he could see a dim green light almost upon the horizon. It was the
German man-of-war.
"That is quite true," Mr. Sabin said. "I admit that there are
difficulties, but it seems to me that you have overlooked the crux of
the whole matter. I have offered you enough to live on for the rest of
your days, without ever returning to Europe. You know very well that you
can step off this ship arm-in-arm with me when we reach Boston, even
though your man-of-war be alongside the dock. They could not touch
you--you could leave your--pardon me--not too honourable occupation once
and for ever. America is not the country in which one would choose to
live, but it has its resources--it can give you big game and charming
women. I have lived there and I know. It is not Europe, but it is the
next best thing. Come, you had better accept my terms!"
The man had listened without moving a muscle of his face. There was
something almost pitiable in its white, sullen despair. Then his lips
parted.
"Would to God I could!" he moaned. "Would to God I had the power to
listen to you!"
Mr. Sabin flicked the ash off his cigarette and looked thoughtful. He
stroked his grey imperial and kept his eyes on his companion.
"The extradition laws," the other interrupted savagely.
Mr. Sabin shrugged his shoulders. "By all means," he murmured.
"Personally I have no interest in them; but if you would talk like a
reasonable man and tell me where your difficulty lies I might be able to
help you."
The man who had called himself Watson raised his head slowly. His
expression remained altogether hopeless. He had the appearance of a man
given wholly over to despair.
"Have you ever heard of the Doomschen?" he asked slowly.
Mr. Sabin shuddered. He became suddenly very grave. "You are not one of
them?" he exclaimed.
The man bowed his head.
"I am one of those devils," he admitted.
Mr. Sabin rose to his feet and walked up and down the little room.
"Of course," he remarked, "that complicates matters, but there ought to
be a way out of it. Let me think for a moment."
The man on the lounge sat still with unchanging face. In his heart he
knew that there was no way out of it. The chains which bound him were
such as the hand of man had no power to destroy. The arm of his master
was long. It had reached him here--it would reach him to the farthermost
corner of the world. Nor could Mr. Sabin for the moment see any light.
The man was under perpetual sentence of death. There was no country in
the world which would not give him up, if called upon to do so.
"What you have told me," Mr. Sabin said, "explains, of course to a
certain extent, your present indifference to my offers. But when I first
approached you in this way you certainly led me to think----"
"That was before that cursed _Kaiser Wilhelm_ came up," Watson
interrupted. "I had a plan--I might have made a rush for liberty at any
rate!"
"But surely you would have been marked down at Boston," Mr. Sabin said.
"The only friend I have in the world," the other said slowly, "is the
manager of the Government's Secret Cable Office at Berlin. He was on my
side. It would have given me a chance, but now"--he looked out of the
window--"it is hopeless!"
Mr. Sabin resumed his chair and lit a fresh cigarette. He had thought
the matter out and began to see light.
"It is rather an awkward fix," he said, "but 'hopeless' is a word which
I do not understand. As regards our present dilemma I think that I see
an excellent way out of it."
A momentary ray of hope flashed across the man's face. Then he shook his
head.
"It is not possible," he murmured.
Mr. Sabin smiled quietly.
"My friend," he said, "I perceive that you are a pessimist! You will
find yourself in a very short time a free man with the best of your life
before you. Take my advice. Whatever career you embark in do so in a
more sanguine spirit. Difficulties to the man who faces them boldly lose
half their strength. But to proceed. You are one of those who are called
'Doomschen.' That means, I believe, that you have committed a crime
punishable by death,--that you are on parole only so long as you remain
in the service of the Secret Police of your country. That is so, is it
not?"
The man assented grimly. Mr. Sabin continued--
"If you were to abandon your present task and fail to offer satisfactory
explanations--if you were to attempt to settle down in America, your
extradition, I presume, would at once be applied for. You would be given
no second chance."
"I should be shot without a moment's hesitation," Watson admitted
grimly.
"Exactly; and there is, I believe, another contingency. If you should
succeed in your present enterprise, which, I presume, is my
extermination, you would obtain your freedom."
The man on the lounge nodded. A species of despair was upon him. This
man was his master in all ways. He would be his master to the end.
"That brings us," Mr. Sabin continued, "to my proposition. I must admit
that the details I have not fully thought out yet, but that is a matter
of only half an hour or so. I propose that you should kill me in Boston
Harbour and escape to your man-of-war. They will, of course, refuse to
give you up, and on your return to Germany you will receive your
freedom."
"But--but you," Watson exclaimed, bewildered, "you don't want to be
killed, surely?"
"I do not intend to be--actually," Mr. Sabin explained. "Exactly how I
am going to manage it I can't tell you just now, but it will be quite
easy. I shall be dead to the belief of everybody on board here except
the captain, and he will be our accomplice. I shall remain hidden until
your _Kaiser Wilhelm_ has left, and when I do land in America--it shall
not be as Mr. Sabin."
Watson rose to his feet He was a transformed man. A sudden hope had
brightened his face. His eyes were on fire.
"It is a wonderful scheme!" he exclaimed. "But the captain--surely he
will never consent to help?"
"On the contrary," Mr. Sabin answered, "he will do it for the asking.
There is not a single difficulty which we cannot easily surmount."
"There is my companion," Watson remarked; "she will have to be reckoned
with."
"Leave her," Mr. Sabin said, "to me. I will undertake that she shall be
on our side before many hours are passed. You had better go down to your
room now. It is getting light and I want to rest."
Watson paused upon the threshold. He pointed in some embarrassment to
the table by the side of the bed.
"Is it any use," he murmured in a low tone, "saying that I am sorry for
this?"
"You only did--what--in a sense was your duty," Mr. Sabin answered. "I
bear no malice--especially since I escaped."
Watson closed the door and Mr. Sabin glanced at the bed. For a moment or
two he hesitated, although the desire for sleep had gone by. Then he
stepped out on to the deck and leaned thoughtfully over the white
railing. Far away eastwards there were signs already of the coming day.
A soft grey twilight rested upon the sea; darker and blacker the waters
seemed just then by contrast with the lightening skies. A fresh breeze
was blowing. There was no living thing within sight save that faint
green light where the rolling sea touched the clouds. Mr. Sabin's eyes
grew fixed. A curious depression came over him in that half hour before
the dawn when all emotion is quickened by that intense brooding
stillness. He was passing, he felt, into perpetual exile. He who had
been so intimately in touch with the large things of the world had come
to that point when after all he was bound to write his life down a
failure. For its great desire was no nearer consummation. He had made
his grand effort and he had failed. He had been very near success. He
had seen closely into the Promised Land. Perhaps it was such thoughts as
these which made his non-success the more bitter, and then, with the
instincts of a philosopher, he asked himself now, surrounded in fancy by
the fragments of his broken dreams, whether it had been worth while.
That love of the beautiful and picturesque side of his country which had
been his first inspiration, which had been at the root of his passionate
patriotism, seemed just then in the grey moments of his despair so weak
a thing. He had sacrificed so much to it--his whole life had been
moulded and shaped to that one end. There had been other ways in which
he might have found happiness. Was he growing morbid, he wondered,
bitterly but unresistingly, that her face should suddenly float before
his eyes. In fancy he could see her coming towards him there across the
still waters, the old brilliant smile upon her lips, the lovelight in
her eyes, that calm disdain of all other men written so plainly on the
face which should surely have been a queen's.
Mr. Sabin thought of those things which had passed, and he thought of
what was to come, and a moment of bitterness crept into his life which
he knew must leave its mark for ever. His head drooped into his hands
and remained buried there. Thus he stood until the first ray of sunlight
travelling across the water fell upon him, and he knew that morning had
come. He crossed the deck, and entering his cabin closed the door.