A CONFERENCE AT SEA
North Barrule's blunt cone and the range of Manx hills beyond it cut,
harshly blue, against an angry blaze of saffron that had broken out
when the rain stopped and was now beginning to fade. The sun had sunk
behind the island, and the sky to the northwest was black as ink, but
the tall cliffs of the Mull of Galloway were traced across the
storm-cloud in a neutral-tinted smear. Between them and the _Rowan_
stretched a belt of lead-colored sea, which, in the foreground, rose
in hollow-fronted walls with livid white summits that overweighted
them until they curled and broke in cataracts of foam.
It was blowing hard, and threatened to blow harder soon, but Andrew's
wet face was tranquil as he sat on the weather coaming, braced against
the strain of the helm. Whitney was in the cockpit, where he could
avoid the worst of the spray, but he was cold and sore from
twenty-four hours of savage lurching. Clouds of spray drove across the
boat, striking the canvas and blowing out to lee under the boom, but
some fell short and splashed upon Whitney's lowered head. The _Rowan_,
beating to windward, progressed in jerks and plunges, nearly stopping
with a shock now and then as her bows sank into a comber. Whitney
thought she could not carry her shortened canvas long; but their port
was to windward, and they could not ease her much if they wished to
reach it.
"She's ramming them pretty badly," he remarked, as a white sea boiled
across the deck. "I suppose you'd find her hard to steer if I lowered
the staysail?"
"Yes; she makes my arms ache now. Still, if it doesn't blow much worse
in the next two hours, we'll find smoother water to lee of the
island." Something on the horizon caught Andrew's eye. "Get me the
glasses," he added.
Whitney went below to look for them, and lighted the cabin lamp. The
floor and beams were steeply inclined, and he had to brace his feet
against the centerboard trunk. The narrow cabin throbbed with a
muffled uproar, and water trickled in. There was a pool that splashed
about where the floor boards met the locker. The leather case of the
glasses had swollen, and he spent a minute or two in opening it,
though he made the best speed he could. They had been searching for
Rankine's vessel in weather that had tried their nerve and skill. Once
or twice it had looked as if they must run for shelter, but the breeze
had moderated a trifle, and Andrew had held on. Now, however, he was
making for Ramsey, to Whitney's keen satisfaction.
Andrew wound the tiller-line round one hand as he put the glasses to
his eyes. He saw what he had expected: two slender spars and a funnel,
both sharply slanted, that rose above the back of a distant sea. Then
a patch of dark hull swung into sight, and vanished again.
"The survey boat," he said, giving Whitney the glasses. "She must be
near the edge of King William's Bank, and we'll find an ugly sea
running there. You'd better start the pump."
It was hard work, for when Whitney unscrewed the plug on deck the sea
poured down the pipe to meet the water he forced out, and the boat's
wild plunges threw him against the coaming; but he persevered. As they
were likely to find the sea worse, she must be cleared of water before
more came on board. It was some time before the pump sucked and only
froth came up; then Whitney precariously balanced himself on the
cabin-top with his hand upon the boom while he looked about.
Every now and then the straining storm-jib plunged into a sea that
curled in foam across the bows, throwing showers of spray into the
hollow of the staysail. Then the bowsprit swung high above the turmoil
and the water blew away in streams from the canvas while a frothy
cataract poured aft down the uplifted deck. When he glanced to
windward the spray lashed his face, but he distinguished a rolling
steamer some distance off. There was no smoke about her funnel, and
after watching her for a few moments he did not think she moved.
"Lying head to sea," he said to Andrew. "Rankine might as well run
into the harbor: he won't do much sounding to-night."
"That's plain. It doesn't look as if he thought sounding his most
important job. Haul down the staysail."
Whitney scrambled forward, and when he let go the halyard he dropped
on hands and knees. The straining sail would not run down the wire to
which it was fastened, and he must cross the narrow deck to free it.
He did not want to go; for the _Rowan_ buried her bows as she plunged,
and the foam boiled over them a foot in depth; but the whitening of
the sea to windward showed that a savage squall was on its way. He
reached the inboard end of the bowsprit and held fast while a comber
washed across the rail, and then, rising half upright, he seized the
line that hung from the head of the sail. The loosened canvas thrashed
him; he was swung to and fro, in danger of going overboard; but he
held on until the sail came down with a run and fell on to his knees.
The plunges were not quite so vicious when he got back to the cockpit,
but the alteration in the sail-spread made steering difficult, and
Andrew strained against the pull of the tiller-line as he drove her
through the squall.
In the meantime, the _Rowan_ had drawn nearer to the steamer, which
now lay close ahead, rolling until her deck sloped like a roof, and
then lurching back with her streaming side lifted high above the sea.
Andrew went about and then ran close to leeward, where they checked
the _Rowan_ by hauling her jib aback. A man in oilskins leaned out
from the steamer's bridge, and the fading light touched his wet face.
"It's Rankine," said Andrew. "We must try to make him hear."
The next moment a shout came down across the broken seas that rolled
between the vessels.
"Yacht, ahoy! What d'you want?"
"To see you!" Andrew answered, throwing his voice to windward with all
his force. "Important!"
Rankine steadied himself against the rail, with his glasses at his
eyes.
"The _Rowan_; Mr. Johnstone! Could you jump on board our gig?"
"Can't leave the boat!" shouted Andrew, letting her forge ahead a few
yards nearer.
Rankine made a sign of comprehension.
"Very well. Follow us into shelter!"
Andrew waved his arm, and, trimming the jib over, drove the _Rowan_
ahead. As he did so, the steamer's screw splashed round half out of
water, and she slowly turned toward the north.
"That's not the way to Ramsey," Whitney grumbled.
"No," said Andrew. "I guess he has some reason for not going there. He
means to run in behind the Mull, though it's farther off."
Whitney frowned as he glanced across the wild stretch of foaming water
toward a twinkling stream of light. He was numbed and wet; it was now
getting dark and the bitter wind seemed freshening to a gale; but
Andrew meant to follow the steamer, and there was nothing to be said.
The only comfort was that their change of course brought the wind
farther aft and the _Rowan_ would sail fast.
Rankine's crew hung out a stern light as their vessel left the yacht,
and Whitney, getting down in the cockpit, tried to dodge the spray
while she rolled and tumbled across the high beam-sea. He was sorry
for Andrew, who must sit on the coaming amid the spray; though he
imagined that his comrade would be sufficiently occupied to make him
careless of the wet and cold.
As a matter of fact, Andrew mechanically avoided the rush of the
foaming combers, for he was thinking hard. He shrank from the meeting
he had sought, because he knew he was badly equipped for the
difficult part he must play. He suspected Williamson of practises
which must, at any cost, be stopped, since it was unthinkable that a
traitor should make use of Appleyard. This was bad; but it was worse
to know that Staffer was acting as Williamson's confederate.
The trouble was that if Andrew exposed the men, the innocent would
suffer. Staffer was Mrs. Woodhouse's brother, and Andrew pitied the
quiet woman. Then there was Elsie, whom Staffer had certainly treated
well. She would be crushed by shame if she learned his share in the
plot. Andrew knew her well enough to feel sure of this. Elsie was true
as steel; if he told her his suspicions, she would urge him to do his
duty. Still, she would suffer; and part of Staffer's punishment would
fall on her. It would not be forgotten that she was the niece of a
foreign spy; and her mother might be suspected of complicity.
It was a painful situation; for Andrew gladly would have made any
personal sacrifice that might save the girl a pang. He must try to
find a way of doing his duty without involving her; in some way he
must warn Rankine and yet keep back part of what he knew. This was a
repugnant course, and he frowned as he drove the dripping boat across
the foaming sea.
At times the steamer's stern light almost faded out, but it grew
brighter again, and Andrew knew that Rankine was waiting for him. It
was now blowing hard, and the combers looked very steep and angry,
though he could no longer distinguish them until they broke close to
the yacht. He imagined that they were stirred up by a strong tide, and
several pinnacles of rock rose from deep water in the neighborhood. He
hoped Rankine knew their position as he followed the steamer's light.
At last the sea got smoother and, instead of breaking, ran in a long,
disturbed swell. The wind no longer hove the boat down with a steady
pressure, but lightened until she swung nearly upright and then fell
upon her in furious squalls that sent her staggering along with her
lee deck deep in the foam. A lofty black ridge towered above her port
side, and Andrew knew they were behind the Mull of Galloway. The
water, however, was too deep, and the tide too strong for them to
bring up there, and he supposed Rankine knew of a safe anchorage.
After a time he heard a whistle, and the light ahead stopped; then
there was a roar of running chain, and as he luffed up a shout reached
him.
"Let go and give her plenty scope!"
The chain was nearly all out before Andrew thought she had enough, and
while she rolled and tumbled on the swell a splash of oars came out of
the dark. Then a white gig loomed up alongside, and he and Whitney
jumped on board as the crew backed away. They had to wait a minute or
two close to the steamer's side, until a smooth undulation lapped the
lurching hull, when they seized the ladder and scrambled up.
Rankine took them into a small, teak-paneled room with a brass stove
in a corner. It was remarkably neat, though a cushioned locker, a
small table, and two camp-chairs comprised the furniture. Nautical
instruments occupied a rack, and a large chart of the Irish Sea was
spread upon the table. Rankine put a bottle of wine and some
cigarettes on the chart, and then hung up his wet oilskins.
"We're safe here so long as the wind keeps to the west; and I can give
you a berth if your cabin's wet," he said.
"No, thanks," replied Andrew. "It's an exposed coast."
He tasted the wine Rankine poured out and lighted a cigarette. Whitney
said nothing, and there was silence for a time. Rankine waited, with a
polite smile.
"What are you doing near King William's Bank?" Andrew asked presently;
and the others knew that his question was more to the purpose than
appeared.
"Taking bearings and sounding, until the sea got up. I've made one or
two interesting discoveries about that shoal."
Although he sympathized with Andrew, Whitney felt amused, for he saw
that Rankine would do nothing to help him.
"You gave us a long run," Andrew said. "We would have got better
shelter in Ramsey Bay."
"That's true. I preferred this place."
Andrew frowned at the chart, as if he did not know how to go on; and
Whitney came to his rescue.
"I guess it suits you better to keep away from port; you don't want to
be seen and talked about."
Rankine smiled.
"Am I mistaken in suggesting that we don't make much progress. Now,
after meeting you at Craigwhinnie and inviting you to come on board,
it's a satisfaction to find you have taken me at my word; but if you
have any other reason for the visit, I'm at your command. I understood
this was so."
"The matter is important, and we want to feel we're justified in
talking about it," Whitney replied. "In fact, if your work's confined
to surveying, we'd rather you regarded us as casual guests."
"Then I think you can take it that my job doesn't end there. I'm still
a navy officer, though I'm now assisting the Trinity House."
Whitney laughed.
"Well, I guess that's as much as one could expect you to admit.
British official caution is a remarkable thing." He turned to Andrew.
"You'd better tell him what we've seen."
Andrew began with their adventures on the sands when the lamp went
out, and then mentioned the signal lights on Barennan Crag and what
they had discovered on board the wreck. He told the story well, adding
particulars that had escaped Whitney's observation, and Rankine
followed him closely on the chart.
He looked up with frank appreciation when Andrew had finished.
"I don't think I've ever heard as clear and concise a report before.
May I suggest that you're rather wasting your talents? You ought to be
in the navy."
"I had to leave the army," Andrew replied, coloring. "But that's not
what we have to talk about."
"No," agreed Rankine, and was silent for a while.
Whitney watched him with tranquil interest. The teak-paneled room was
warm and bright, and after long exposure to numbing cold it was
soothing to feel himself getting warm and drowsy; though the men still
held his attention. The navy officer was, no doubt, the cleverer of
the two, but Whitney thought he recognized a strong similarity in
their characters. They were resolute, quiet, and capable, and he felt
sure of their honesty. Rankine's face was now gravely thoughtful, but
Andrew's wore a troubled frown, and Whitney imagined he recognized
that the difficult part of the interview had not yet been reached.
"What you have discovered seems to have one of two meanings," Rankine
said. "It may indicate a signaling of military and political news,
which, strictly speaking, is not my business; or it may have some
bearing on the loss of the A. & P. liner, and perhaps lead to similar
attacks."
"Which _would_ be your business," Whitney drawled.
"I can't talk about that; but Mr. Johnstone did right in telling me,"
Rankine answered, and turned to Andrew. "Have you told any one else?"
"No." There was a curious quietness in Andrew's voice which showed
Whitney that he had decided on his course.
"Why not? If my first surmise is correct, it's a matter for the
military authorities."
"It seems to me the thing's not ripe. I have nothing but vague
suspicions to go upon."
"Then you suspect somebody?"
"Yes."
Rankine looked at him in silence for a few moments.
"I suppose you mean to follow up the clue you've got?" he then asked.
"You may take that for granted," Andrew answered.
"And if you find your suspicions right?"
"When I'm certain of that, I'll act; but not before."
"Well, you no doubt recognize the responsibility you're taking. There
are people appointed to investigate these things who could act with
greater skill and force."
"I see that," Andrew replied quietly. "And when I think the time has
come, I'll go to them, or you."
"But you mean to decide for yourself whether it has come or not?"
"Exactly; I must decide."
Rankine looked hard at him, knitting his brows.
"I cannot tell you what my orders are," he said; "but you put me in an
awkward position. I may do wrong in not reporting our conversation."
"Even if you did report it, I should stick to the line I've taken. If
it led to my arrest, that would, of course, prevent my watching the
coast--and I can do that as well as you."
"Better; for you wouldn't be suspected. Well, as I see you must be
indulged, I'll tell you how to find me when you have something more to
say. You must be careful to follow my instructions."
"Then write them down."
"I think not; I'm rather straining my authority in giving them to you
at all, and secrecy is important."
Whitney got up.
"Perhaps I ought to remind you that I'm not a British subject," he
said.
Rankine smiled.
"Since you are in Mr. Johnstone's confidence, you may remain. He won't
mind my saying that, so far as strictly nautical matters go, he's well
qualified to deal with them, but there are touches about what he told
me that seem to show he has had your help. Now you must exactly follow
these directions--"
He told them how they could learn his movements and send him word.
"That is all," he concluded. "If you think the weather permits it,
I'll be glad to keep you on board over night."
Andrew opened the door, and the bitter draught that swept in lifted
the chart on the table and swirled about the room. They heard the surf
beat upon a rocky beach and the wind scream in the shrouds.
"No, thanks," he said. "It's not a night to leave the boat."
Rankine went out with them and gave an order. Half-seen men ran aft
and dropped into the dark from the vessel's rail, and presently the
gig lay tossing abreast of the gangway. Whitney looked at the warm,
well-lighted deckhouse with regret, and then, buttoning his oilskins,
followed Andrew down into the boat.