Dawn was breaking, chill and stormy, over the grey North Sea.
On the far, misty horizon showed four little puffs of black smoke at
regular intervals upon the sky-line--four British destroyers steaming on
patrol duty.
Beyond, as Lewin Rodwell approached Tom Small's cottage, he also
distinguished two trawlers moving towards the left, off Sutton-on-Sea,
engaged in the perilous work of mine-sweeping.
Rodwell, wearing a thick and somewhat shabby overcoat, and a golf-cap
pulled well down, had trudged across from those branch roads where
Penney had dropped him after his night run of nearly a hundred and sixty
miles. He was tired, yet he plodded forward through the mud, for the
little low-built old tarred cottage was at last in sight.
"If we can get those troop-ships it will be a grand _coup_ for us.
Molly is quite right," he exclaimed to himself in German. "From
Norddeich they can wireless away to Pola, on the Adriatic, and the
Austrian submarines can go out to meet them in the Mediterranean--
providing we have no undersea boats there just now."
Old Tom Small was outside his door mending a net when Rodwell
approached.
"Hulloa, Tom!" cried the visitor cheerily. "Didn't expect me--eh?"
"No, sir," grinned the bronzed, wrinkle-faced old fellow in the tanned
smock--tanned in the same tub as his lines and nets. "This is unusual
for you to come 'ere at this 'our--isn't it?"
"Yes. I've just come from London," he explained, as he entered the
little sitting-room, which smelt so strongly of stale fish and rank
tobacco. "Where's Ted?"
"'E's gone along to Skegness to get me some tackle. 'E only started
'arf an 'our ago."
"Well," asked Rodwell, throwing off his coat and cap, and flinging
himself upon the old wooden armchair. "Anything happened since I was
here last week?"
"Not much--only that there Judd, the coastguard from Chapel Point, seems
to be always a passin' or comin' in to smoke--as though he suspects
summat."
"Ah! you're getting nervy again, Tom, I see," laughed Rodwell. "What
the dickens can he suspect if he doesn't see me, and you and Ted are
both discreet and keep still tongues! Why, there's no more respectable
fisherman along the whole coast here than Tom Small," he added.
"Well, sir," replied the old fellow, "I've tried to keep respectable
always, till now. And I wouldn't ha' done this dirty work--no, not for
a fortune, had I known what was intended."
"No, I don't really suppose you would," remarked Rodwell with quiet
sarcasm. "But, having begun, you've got to go on--or else be shot, both
of you, as traitors to your country. Nevertheless, don't let's discuss
that: it serves no purpose. I must get to work. Is the line all in
order?"
"Yes, sir," was the reply. "I tested just before six--as soon as I got
up. Mr Stendel is on duty on the other side. He asked Ted if we'd
seen you lately, and 'e told 'im you 'adn't been down this week."
"Did he want to speak to me?"
"Yes, sir. I think 'e did."
Old Small did not know the Morse code, except the testing signals, but
young Ted had, before the war, been sent for a course to a wireless and
cable-school in Glasgow, on the pretext that he wanted to act as
wireless operator on board a Grimsby trawler. Therefore Ted always
transmitted and received messages.
When they wanted to speak urgently from Wangeroog, the German operator
rang up Ted and informed him. Then Ted would walk into Huttoft, Alford,
Chapel St Leonard's, or one or other of the neighbouring villages where
there was a telegraph-office, and despatch a perfectly innocent-looking
message addressed to either the chauffeur Penney, or to Mrs Kirby, such
as "Received your letter--Small," "My daughter left yesterday--Small,"
"Thanks, am writing--Ted," or "Will send fish to-morrow--T. Small."
The wording of the message did not matter in the least; as long as
Rodwell received the name "Tom," "Ted," or "Small," he knew that he was
wanted at the end of the secret cable.
The gentleman from London passed into the stuffy little bedroom, drew
aside the old damask curtain and took off the top of the big tailors'
sewing-machine displaying the instruments beneath. Through the little
window the grey, dispiriting light grew brighter as the dawn spread.
The tide was out, and there was very little wind. The sea lay unusually
calm in the morning mist. In the air was a salt smell of seaweed, and
when he seated himself upon the old rush chair he could hear the low,
monotonous lapping of the waves up and down the beach. That February
morning was raw and chill upon the bleak, open coast of Lincolnshire,
and while old Tom bustled about to get "Muster Rodwell" a slice of
cooked bacon, the spy of the "All Highest of Germany" busied himself in
looking through the intricate-looking array of cable instruments, the
hidden batteries of which he had recharged a week ago, spending a whole
night there working in his shirt-sleeves and perspiring freely.
Presently, settling himself down to his work, he touched the ebonite
tapping-key and in dot-and-dash he sent under the sea the letters
"M.X.Q.Q.," the German war-code for "Are you ready to receive message?"
Thrice he despatched the letters, and then awaited the answering click.
There was no response.
"Stendel is always so slow!" he growled to himself. Already the
appetising smell of frying bacon had greeted his nostrils. Old Tom's
daughter was away. Indeed, he kept her away as much as possible, as Mr
Rodwell had no desire to have women "poking their noses into things that
did not concern them"--as he once remarked.
Thrice again did the man at the end of that unsuspected cable tap out
those four code-letters.
At last, however, came the answering sound upon the receiver.
"B.S.Q.--B.S.Q.," came up rapidly from the depths of the sea. "Who are
you?" Wangeroog was asking.
"Rodwell is here," tapped out the spy. "Is Stendel there?"
In a moment came the answer.
"Yes. Stendel is speaking. I have a message for you."
"Mine is most urgent. Please put me through at once to J.A.J.70."
"Your signals are good. Cuxhaven is engaged with Copenhagen. Wait, and
I will put you through. While waiting will you take my message?"
"S.S.," answered Rodwell, which meant, "All right. I understand." Then
he added "O.O.," by which the German operator on the island of Wangeroog
knew that he was to proceed.
After a few seconds' pause the recorder began to click, and upon its
green receiving "tape" there came out the following:
"J. Number 6834115. Berlin, February 21st, 1915.
"_Ueber die zustaende_ 1828, 59361 _sind folgende Nachrichten_ 0083
_joasckcumf_ 2122: 298511, 3826, 3278: 2564: 8392 _schmutzig_: 6111:
_sparsam: dannen: schiene_: 2568, _tbsxic zerreiben_. 3286
_zeilverlust_."
Slowly it came out accurately registered on the long green paper ribbon,
which, when it stopped, Rodwell tore off and carefully rolled up in
order to decipher it at his leisure by aid of his little cipher-book.
Then, after a brief pause, he placed his fingers upon the key and, with
an expert touch, inquired if he were yet through to Number Seventy
Berlin?
The answer came in the affirmative.
A few moments later he tapped out the letters G.S.F.A.--the code
pass-word which automatically by the calendar was so often changed. He
received the answer G.L.G.S. Then, according to rule, he gave his own
registered number--that of "0740." Every spy of Germany is registered
by number in the department presided over by Dr Steinhauer.
Fully five minutes elapsed before he received the permission to proceed.
Then, finding himself in direct communication with the headquarters of
the Imperial Secret Service, that argus-eyed bureau known as "Number 70
Berlin," he began his report with the usual preamble, as follows:
"On Imperial War Service. Most Urgent. Naval. From 0740, to Berlin
70. Transmitted Personally. February 22nd, 1915.
"Source of information G.27, British Admiralty. American liners
_Ellenborough_ and _Desborough_ leave Plymouth to-day with drafts for
Alexandria. Four troop-ships also leave Plymouth for Dardanelles on
Friday next, and three leave Southampton to-day. Names of latter are
_Cardigan_, _Lamberhead_, and _Turleigh_. All are escorted to
Gibraltar, but not farther. In future all drafts for Mediterranean
ports embark at Plymouth. Suggest Pola be informed by wireless, if
none of our submarines are in Mediterranean. Are there any? Await
reply. Burchardt Number 6503 left for Amsterdam with important
information last night. Grossman 3684 was arrested in Hartlepool
yesterday. Nothing found upon him. Will probably be released.
Expecting visit of B--shortly. Tell him to call in secret upon 0740
in London. End of message."
Then he sat back and waited for the reply to his inquiry regarding the
submarines of the Fatherland. He knew that even at that early hour the
great bureau in the Koeniger-gratzerstrasse, the eyes and ears of the
German nation, was all agog, and that one of the sub-directors would
certainly be on duty. They never failed to answer any question put to
them.
Old Small entered with the news that the bacon was ready, therefore he
ordered it to be brought in, and as he sat at the table of the old
sewing-machine awaiting the response, he ate the homely breakfast with a
distinct relish. He did not notice the look of hatred in old Small's
eyes.
Suddenly Stendel, on Wangeroog, asked if he had finished with Berlin, to
which message he answered that he was waiting for a reply.
"I have another message," Stendel tapped out. "Will you take it?--very
short."
"G.G.F.," replied Rodwell, which in the war-code meant "Am ready to
receive message."
Then came the following from beneath the cold waters which divided the
two nations at war, a combination of German words and the numerical
code--
"J.S.F.: 26378: _Mowe_: (sea-gull) J.S.J.J: _schimpflich_ (infamous)
Ozstc: 32; _Schandfleck_ (blot) _tollkuhn_ (foolhardy)."
And it was followed by the affix of the sender, "10,111, and the word
_zerren_" (pull).
Again Rodwell tore off the piece of pale green "tape" and placed it
carefully in his pocket, in order to decode it later on.
Then he leisurely finished his bacon and declared to Tom that he felt
the better for it.
"I 'ear as 'ow the pay-pers are a sayin' that the German submarines are
a torpedoin' our ships 'olesale, sir," remarked old Tom, when the
recorder was silent again. "It's a great shame, surely. That ain't
war--to kill women an' children on board ship. Why, the most brutal of
all foreigners in the world would go out and rescue women an' children
from a sinkin' ship!"
"It's war, my dear man--war?" replied Rodwell. "You people, living on
the shores of England, don't yet know what war means. It means that, at
all hazards and at all costs, you must vanquish your enemy. No
kid-glove or polite speeches. The silly peace ideas of humanity, and
all that rubbish, don't count nowadays. The German super-man does not
understand such silly manoeuvres when he is out to vanquish his enemy.
Why, you and your daughter and Ted would be far better off under our own
Kaiser than you are to-day, with all this shuttlecock policy of your
out-of-date rule-of-thumb Government, and your strangulating taxation
consequent upon it. Your English sovereign is only worth fifteen
shillings to-day."
"Yes, but I don't understand how it is that you German people have put
us under your thumbs, as you have done."
"Merely because you British people are trustful fools," laughed Rodwell
merrily. "You never listened to Lord Roberts, a great soldier and
strategist greater than any we have to-day in Germany. You all laughed
at his warnings. And now you'll have to laugh on the other side of your
mouths. That's the real, plain, brutal truth of it all. You can't
conceal it. If you English had taken the advice of your popular hero
`Bobs,' there would have been no war to-day. You would have been far
too strong for our Fatherland."
"But why should we sacrifice our lives any further?" asked the toiler of
the sea. "I'm sick and tired of the whole affair, as I said to Ted only
this morning."
"I quite appreciate that," was Rodwell's reply. "But--"
A click sounded upon the instrument, and Rodwell, breaking off, bent
eagerly to read the tape.
The words, in German, which came out upon it were: "Reply to 0740.
Eight undersea boats are in Mediterranean. Message will be sent by
wireless to Trieste and Pola for re-transmission. Any report from 6839?
Await reply."
Rodwell hesitated. The number quoted was that of his friend Mrs Kirby.
In a few moments he tapped out the reply.
"Number 6839 is in close touch with Minister, as reported by me a week
ago. She will make cable report as soon as accurate information can be
obtained. Our activity on the Clyde is progressing. The engineers are
out and other branches of labour are threatening to strike. Unrest also
in South Wales. Good work in progress there."
Then, for some minutes, the instruments were silent, and he watched the
receiver intently.
At last it again clicked, and the green tape once more began to unwind.
"To 0740.--From O. Meiszner--Headquarters Imperial Intelligence
Staff. Order 0213 to do utmost possible with Clyde workers.
Information will reach him from Holland by Route Number 6 regarding
South Wales and dockers. Report all movements of troops to
Dardanelles, also movements from Aldershot to Flanders. Nothing from
0802 at Portsmouth. Please inquire reason and reply: urgent. Are you
on good terms with G.27 British Admiralty? Reply."
The number "G.27" meant Charles Trustram, for as such he had been
reported by Rodwell, and duly registered in the _dossiers_ of the great
spy-bureau in Berlin.
"Yes. On excellent terms with G.27. But he is not yet indebted to us,"
he replied, swiftly tapping the instrument.
"He should be. Please see to it. His information is always good, and
may be as extremely useful as that regarding the plot to entrap our
Navy. I am sending Number 0324 to you as an American citizen. He bears
urgent instructions, and is travelling via New York, and due in
Liverpool about March 10th. He will report personally on arrival in
London. End of message."
"SS." were the letters tapped out--three dots, succeeded by three more
dots--and by it Dr Otto Meiszner, seated at the headquarters of German
espionage in Berlin, knew that his friend had received and understood
what he had transmitted from the heart of the Fatherland.
Rodwell, having replaced the cover over the instruments, lay back for a
moment to think.
He knew that ere long the unseen rays of wireless would flash in code
the news from Hanover away across Europe, to the Austrian station at
Pola, on the Adriatic, reporting the departure of those troop-ships,
which, after passing through the Straits of Gibraltar, would be at the
mercy of the German submarines lurking in readiness in the
Mediterranean.
Upon his hard mouth was an evil grin, as he rose, pushed the old chair
aside and, striding into the adjoining room, joined the weatherbeaten
old fisherman--the man who was held so dumb and powerless in the
far-reaching tentacles of that terrible Teuton octopus, that was slowly,
but surely, strangling all civilisation.