A STIRRING HOLIDAY.
TO be rudely routed out of a snug nest in a feather bed at 3 o'clock
in the morning--a morning with a real chill in it--is not a desirable
experience for the average house-bred boy, and even such seasoned
campaigners as Billy Barry and Henri Trouville were inclined to grumble
when the giant Zorn yanked the covers from their downy couch and
gruffly ordered them to get up and dress, and to make haste about it.
By the pale gleam of a couple of candles, and the slight warmth from a
newly kindled fire in a white china stove, the "Blitz boys" made their
toilets of the interesting characters they were to assume.
"What time is it anyway?" yawned Henri.
"I guess I'm not good enough in higher mathematics to figure it out for
you," growled Billy, as he tussled with leather shoestrings that tied,
he said, "seven ways for Sunday."
The voice of "Dr. Blitz" sounded at the foot of the stairway, in the
lower regions of the house. There was no "young sirs" about it. The
"good merchant of Hamburg" was on vacation.
"Crawl lively there, you snails," were the words that ascended.
"Wonder what tip he is working on now?" whispered Billy.
"You will never know until you get to it." Henri had before been
impressed with the fact that Roque was not in the habit of springing
until he got on the board.
"Good morning, Dr. Blitz," was Billy's cheery greeting to the man who
was making hasty breakfast at a table drawn up before a crackling fire
in a big brick cavern. He could not have testified from side view that
it was Roque, so he took a chance on "Blitz."
Along with a gulp of coffee the imposing person addressed shot a remark
in German over his shoulder, which Henri afterward explained to Billy
was very near to profanity.
The boys edged into chairs at the table, but missed a round of muffins
through staring at the "doctor."
The merchant masquerade was wholly outclassed by this new display of
the make-up art.
Billy wanted to say "ring the night bell," but sheer admiration kept
him silent.
Whether it was the combined effects of the steaming coffee, hot
muffins, and a big black cigar that followed, or the silent tribute in
the eyes of his young guests, it was, nevertheless, a speedily noted
fact that Roque was thawing into more gracious manner.
"I suppose you know that it is only a few hours now until Christmas,
and we must find some special way to observe it."
Billy and Henri could not get the straight line on Roque's remark, but
later realized that the holiday was of the like they had never before
passed.
With a cutting wind from off the icy flow of the mighty river Elbe in
their faces, the boys followed their leader to the docks, where they
boarded a small craft, evidently built for speed, which had steam up
and manned for instant start.
The captain was the same who commanded the deck when the boys had
accompanied Roque on a previous exciting excursion. This official,
standing at attention, stiff as a ramrod, gave no visible mark of
recognition as the passengers boarded the boat, but Billy could have
sworn that he saw something like a twinkle in the captain's right eye
when they passed the gangplank.
"No use asking where we are bound for," lamented Henri.
"Not a bit of use," agreed Billy.
They were out of earshot of Roque, whose tall form, in rusty black, was
outlined in the dawnlight near the wheel of the churning steamer.
The first intimation of what was to be their next landing place came in
the word "Cuxhaven," passed by one sailor to another. The talk was in
rapid German, but Henri caught the drift of the conversation without
difficulty.
"By George," he whispered to his chum, "Cuxhaven is the place mentioned
in Anglin's message."
"You mean Ardelle's message," corrected Billy.
"That's right," chuckled Henri. "I forgot that Anglin had become the
big noise. Yes, it's the very place," he continued, "and it's a great
naval base."
"It's a safe bet that Roque never hits a trail that isn't warm. Take
it from me," and Billy was in great earnest when he said it, "there is
going to be something doing."
Billy's prediction chanced, in this instance, to be more accurate than
are some of the forecasts made by professionals.
It was in a dense fog that Christmas eve when the little steamer ceased
chugging in the wide mouth of the Elbe, and the harbor lights burned
blue. The captain condemned the weather in no uncertain terms, but
Roque seemingly had no care for aught but his thoughts, as he leaned
against the rail, with moody gaze fixed upon the anchored ships and the
dim lines of the city beyond.
As he had shaped, not long ago, the famous raid of the German fleet
upon English seaports, Roque did not underestimate the ability of his
great rival, Ardelle, to open the way for a counter attack. Ardelle was
known by the secret service to be on this very soil--and, surely, for
some big purpose. Minnows were not sent to stir up a pool of this size.
"But they'll find no sleepy towns to blow up here," said Roque to
himself.
He was all for precaution, however, and his intuition was nothing short
of marvelous.
When "Dr. Blitz" and his "sons" went ashore it was the foggiest kind of
a Christmas morning.
A stalwart marine attempted to put the doctor through the question
paces, but the real Roque whispered a fierce something into the ear of
the would-be questioner that set the latter back-tracking in a jiffy.
It was a curious and remarkable fact, but true, that an hour after the
eminent secret agent and his young charges had landed in Cuxhaven,
Billy's prediction, "that wherever Roque is there's something doing,"
was verified. Every submarine cable connecting the fortresses of this
coast sounded alarm, particularly high-keyed the frantic signal from
Helgoland, the fortress island, thirty-nine miles away.
Roque dropped his doctor character like a hot potato when he learned
the import of the flashes. He tossed his traveling case of surgical
instruments into the first open doorway he passed, and the boys were
compelled to run to keep up with his long stride.
Bombs were falling from aloft, exploding among the shipping behind
them, while in front one of the projectiles crashed upon a huge gas
tank.
"The nerve of the devil mapped this out!"
The bitter emphasis of Roque indicated that he laid the blame of this
unexpected invasion upon one head--that of Ardelle.
In the meantime, the fog-ridden atmosphere was riven by blazes of
powder from the shore guns, trained upward, and the air squadron,
Zeppelins and naval seaplanes, were leaping skyward to meet their kind
in aërial battle.
Roque charged madly into the air station, dragging the boys after him.
A seaplane was balanced on the polished ways for the sweeping plunge.
"In the name of the Emperor!" he shouted, shouldering aside the men
holding the poised craft. The same fierce whisper in the ear of the
aviation lieutenant had effect identical with that upon the marine at
the docks.
"Get to your places, you moonfaces"--this stern command hurled at the
boys. Henri bounced into the motor section, Billy settled behind the
rudder wheel, and Roque swung himself into the bow seat.
The long hull was launched with the snap of training, and with motors
humming left the water without a wrench from its skimming start.
The Boy Aviators, certified masters of the air, were at their trade.
They had need of all their skill and daring that day!
"Set your course northwest," loudly ordered Roque. "Hit for Helgoland
like a bolt."
"Look out that you don't hit something on the way!" shouted Henri from
the rear.
The last warning was timely, if Billy had need of warning at all. There
was peril in the foggy stretches.
The upper regions were literally lined with aircraft. No less than
seven naval seaplanes had traveled in advance of the British warship
invasion of the German bay. Having dropped all the bombs they could
through the mist, they were in full return flight to the convoying
vessels. Zeppelins and hostile seaplanes zigzagged on their trail, and
other dirigibles and fighting craft menaced their retreat still further
on.
Billy guided the seaplane he was driving to the higher strata in order
to escape mix-up with the contending airships, but on the thirtieth
mile recorded, Roque, who had constantly demanded distance figures,
ordered a lower flight, and, the fog clearing, the flyers could plainly
see on the waves far below the floating warcraft of the invaders--light
cruisers, destroyers and submarines. The Germans were combating this
array with aircraft and submarines, but so great was Roque's impatience
to reach the fortified island that the motors were put by Henri to the
limit of speed, and so that part of the conflict is not in the record
of the Aëroplane Scouts.
Just off Helgoland, though, the boys had the shock of noting the
crumpling of one of the British seaplanes and the end of a brave airman.
"There's no escape when death stalks you up here," sighed Billy.
"Ware away, boy," called Roque, when the seaplane hovered over
Helgoland, "wait until they see the color of the bottom of the machine
or we will look like a sieve before we light."
Billy "wared away," and with motors at half speed, the seaplane circled
over the supposed most impregnable stronghold in the world, awaiting
some signal of recognition from the fortress.
It was finally given, and Roque directed immediate descent.
On the ground once more, Billy and Henri relapsed into their dutiful
service as "sons" and rear guards of the renowned "Dr. Blitz." The
glazed caps had gone the way of the winds, but, as Billy put it, "we
are still dressed up to beat the band."
The boys noticed that, barring a few skilled workmen and engineers,
they were the only civilians in the streets that evening. They did not
count Roque, for he might turn out to be a general, if occasion served.
The latter had a busy hour with the garrison officers, while the boys
had an idle one, with about as much activity as is allowed a hobbled
horse. It was evident that "Dr. Blitz" held this island as a holy of
holies, secret even to his "sons."
"It beats me," observed Billy, edging away as far as possible from the
guard stationed to keep them out of mischief, "how those Britishers
ever got by this place."
"The bigger question," asserted Henri, "is, if they got by, how in the
world did they ever get back?"
"That's what Roque is evidently trying to find out," intimated Billy.
The boys, while puzzling over the problem of "get by and get back,"
were looking at the huge fortress so tremendously fortified and noting
everywhere an uninterrupted view of the sea.
They also surmised that an alert garrison was ever carefully watching
the waters, day after day, night after night, hour after hour, in order
not to be surprised by the powerful enemy.
"I guess the fog helped some," was the conclusion finally advanced by
Billy.
"And Ardelle somewhere behind the curtain," suggested Henri.
"Oh, go 'way, man; Roque has given you the Ardelle fever."
Billy just then caught sight of Roque bearing down upon them under full
stride.
"Speak of the dickens," he exclaimed, "here he comes now."
The shadows of evening continued to gather, and here and there on the
island lights showed like glowworms. Roque shook hands with his officer
companions. He evidently contemplated leaving in the same impetuous way
that he came, but evidently not by the seaplane route.
A little steam launch tugged at its holding rope, in readiness to dash
away into the misty deep. Two men muffled to the throat waited the
order. Roque, with never a word to the boys, directed them by gestures
to get aboard, quickly following. The launch cut through the now pitchy
darkness of the Helgoland waters. With the island lights no longer
visible, there could only be seen the lantern in front of the little
boat, and it was a dangerous speed to be making, when the helmsman had
scant view of hardly a yard ahead.
But the man at the wheel was in familiar element, to him, and the
scudding vessel never came to drift movement until a glimmering signal
guided to the landing place, the name of which would have meant nothing
to the boys if they had had the care to inquire.
This was Christmas night in the Bight of Helgoland.