GREENWOOD SENIOR'S DISCOVERY
EARLY on the following afternoon a train in connection with the night
express for King's Cross arrived at Auldhaig station from Edinburgh.
Amongst the passengers were Mr. Theodore Greenwood and his daughter
Doris. The former's object in making the long and tedious journey
from Devonshire to the bleak north-east coast of Scotland was
twofold. He wanted to hand his daughter over safely to the Naval
Hospital--and this in spite of the nineteen-year-old young lady's
assurances that she was quite capable of travelling alone. He also
thought that there might be a possibility of seeing Eric, since he
knew that the "Pompey's" base was at Auldhaig. Notwithstanding the
fact that the Assistant Paymaster R.N.R. had studiously adhered to
the regulations and had made no mention of where the ship was or what
she was doing, that information had been forthcoming.
Nor was Mr. Greenwood alone in the possession of the supposed secret,
for already several of the officers' wives and families had braved
the rigours of the wintry climate and had taken either furnished
houses or apartments in the town, which since the war had developed
out of all knowledge.
Having duly rid himself of his responsibility of handing Doris over
to the Head Nursing Sister, Mr. Greenwood set out on his quest for
H.M.S. "Pompey." Being naturally of a somewhat nervous disposition,
he hesitated to ask if the cruiser were in harbour, reflecting that
such a question might lead to his arrest as a spy. In his imagination
he fancied that everyone he met eyed him with suspicion.
At length he arrived at the shore of an arm of the intricate harbour.
Lying at moorings in the channel were half a dozen destroyers, but
there were no signs of any vessel approaching the armoured cruiser in
tonnage.
For some moments he stopped to read a notice-board on which was set
forth a list of things that the inhabitants of Auldhaig must or must
not do, the document being signed by the senior naval officer of the
port.
"There's nothing like taking every possible precaution," murmured Mr.
Greenwood approvingly. "One cannot be too particular in wartime."
Just then an old fisherman sauntered by. To him the stranger
addressed himself, inquiring if he knew whether the "Pompey" was in
harbour.
The old Scot shook his head.
"I dinna ken what you say, mon," he said.
Mr. Greenwood repeated his question.
"Oh--ay. Weel, tak yon path----"
He gave his questioner lengthy and bewildering directions which not
only left the Devon man completely tied up in knots, but with also a
reply to a misunderstood question, for the old man had come to the
conclusion that Mr. Greenwood was asking the way to Ponhaugh, a small
fishing-village about four miles from Auldhaig by the cliff-path.
Gaining the outskirts of the town, Mr. Greenwood commenced the long
climb to the edge of the rugged granite cliffs. From the moment he
struck the open country he did not see another person of whom he
might make further inquiries, but with complete reliance upon the old
fisherman's directions he walked briskly along the narrow, winding
path.
This he followed for nearly two miles without finding any signs of
his quest. Instead, he made the disconcerting discovery that the
track split into two parts, one branch trending inland, the other
descending steeply to the beach.
Mr. Greenwood took the latter route. Upon gaining the shore he found
that the track ended at the firm sands that fronted the base of the
rugged and indented line of cliffs.
Undaunted, he proceeded, expecting as he rounded each projection to
find the non-existent harbour in which he supposed H.M.S. "Pompey" to
be lying; but headland after headland was passed without any
satisfactory result.
Presently he arrived at a little bay. The distance between the two
enclosing promontories was less than a hundred yards apart. The shore
was of sand, but, unlike the rest of the beach, was interrupted by a
series of low ledges of rock. Between the water's edge and the base
of the cliffs the distance averaged twenty yards, although the waves
were almost washing the wall of granite at either end of the bay.
Suddenly Mr. Greenwood caught sight of a cylindrical object lying on
the shore. It was a little larger than a football and glistened in
the dull light. At every undulation it was flung upon the sand,
whence it receded in the undertow until thrown back by the succeeding
wave. Attached to it was a short length of frayed rope.
"That must be a mine," decided the alarmed man. "The authorities must
be informed."
Although half inclined to retrace his steps, he walked cautiously
past it, keeping as close to the cliffs as possible, until he gained
the furthermost headland. Here, to his dismay, he found the distant
aspect was a misleading one, for his progress was barred by a deep
gulley through which the tide was surging right up to the wall of
granite.
"I hope the tide is going down," thought Mr. Greenwood.
To satisfy his curiosity on that point he wasted ten precious
minutes, only to be ocularly assured that the tide was on the flood,
and that there was no possible chance of going further.
Again he passed the cylindrical object. By this time it was within a
few feet of one of the ledges of rock.
"When the waves throw it against those rocks it will explode,"
commented Mr. Greenwood. "How dangerous! Thank goodness I have yet
time to put a safe distance between me and that infernal machine."
Thirty seconds later he "brought up all standing." Where a short time
previously had been an expanse of hard sand, the waves were lapping
against the cliff. His retreat was cut off.
Even then, at the expense of wet feet, he might have negotiated the
passage, since the water was only about a foot or eighteen inches in
depth; but Mr. Greenwood hesitated and, figuratively, was lost.
Step by step he retreated before the rapidly rising tide, each step
taking him nearer again to the object of his apprehension. A belt of
seaweed rising six or seven feet from the sand marked the limit of
mean high tides on the face of the cliffs. It was evident that
nowhere within the arms of the bay was safety to be found except by
scaling the frowning precipice.
Discarding his umbrella--he wedged it tightly into a crevice in the
granite in the hope that he might be able to retrieve his trusty
friend--Mr. Greenwood sought for a suitable spot at which to commence
his hazardous feat. At the same time he kept an anxious watch upon
the derelict mine, which, having escaped being cast upon the ledge,
was now being carried close to the main wall of rock.
In his heated imagination he fancied himself fifty or a hundred feet
up the cliff with the powerful explosive going off and hurling him to
a terrible death upon the rocks beneath. He shouted, but only the
echoes of his own voice mocked his appeal for aid. In vain he looked
seaward, where the mists of evening were already creeping over the
wild North Sea. Not a sail was visible.
Mr. Greenwood was one of those men who, by disposition timid and
unassuming, possessed a great reserve of courage and determination
when called upon to extricate themselves from a tight corner. And,
having found himself in a tight corner, he acted accordingly.
After a brief search he discovered a rift in the cliff, which at this
point was not so sheer as it appeared at first sight. In any case the
footholds obtainable extended sufficiently high to enable him to
climb above high-water mark. Here he could wait until the tide fell
and take his chance with the mine.
The first six feet gave him great trouble, for the weed and kelp
afforded little foothold, but beyond this height he was able to
maintain a steady progress. Up and up he climbed, not daring to look
down, although the attraction of that deadly cylinder was almost
irresistible. He wanted to watch its progress towards the base of the
solid rock.
At length, fifty feet above the sea, he gained a fairly broad ledge,
the presence of which was invisible from the beach. Nor could it be
seen from the top of the cliffs, for higher up they projected well
beyond the ledge, the face being so smooth that further climbing was
a matter of sheer impossibility.
"At any rate, I am safe for the time being," soliloquised Mr.
Greenwood. "That is something to be thankful for, although I would
infinitely prefer the comfort of a bed to the prospect of spending a
winter's night less than halfway up a wall of rock. And even if that
mine explodes I think this ledge will provide sufficient protection
to minimise the force of the detonation."
Cautiously extending himself, he peered over the edge. In the
fast-gathering gloom he could just discern the mine as it rolled to
and fro on the shelving sand. The waves had almost borne it to the
base of the rocks.
A new danger now confronted the stranded man. Perilous as the climb
had been, the descent was doubly dangerous. When the time came, he
could no more essay the feat of regaining the beach than he could
hope to clamber up the remaining two hundred feet of beetling cliff.
Unless aid were forthcoming, he was in danger of perishing of cold
and hunger.
Mr. Greenwood's next step was to prepare for his approaching vigil
while there was yet light enough for him to see. The ledge was almost
twelve feet in length and five in its widest part, gradually
diminishing to nothing at either end. One portion was covered by a
withered bush, a circumstance that aroused the investigator's
curiosity, since it seemed remarkable that vegetation could grow on
the face of a granite cliff.
"Thank goodness I have pipe, matches, and tobacco," he thought
philosophically. Now that the immediate danger was past, he
determined to make the best of things.
He again directed his attention upon the bush. To use it as a seat
would be preferable to sitting on the hard, cold rock.
As he sat the bush gave way. In vain he clutched wildly for support.
Toppling backwards, he disappeared into what appeared to be the solid
rock.
For some moments he lay helpless, too dazed to realise what had
occurred. He was almost in darkness. A peculiar pungent smell
assailed his nostrils. Could it be possible that he owed his present
predicament to the explosion of the derelict mine?
After a while Mr. Greenwood raised himself. Grimly he reflected that
his visit to Auldhaig had not been uneventful. Adventures were
crowding upon each other's heels. His zest for excitement was
increasing.
The bush had broken his fall. He found himself on a flat floor of
what appeared to be a cavern. Where the foliage had been, appeared an
irregular opening through which the dim twilight filtered without
sufficient intensity to reveal his surroundings.
"One thing, I've a roof over my head," he soliloquised. "Now I am
getting on. But I really cannot understand this peculiar odour. It
reminds me very forcibly of a garage. Yes, petrol fumes. To be on the
safe side I don't think I'll smoke just at present. In fact, I think
it would be well to investigate."
Cautiously and on all-fours Mr. Greenwood commenced his tour of
discovery, crawling lest there should be a hole in the floor.
Soon his head came in contact with a metallic object. It was a filled
petrol tin, one of dozens, possibly hundreds, stacked in orderly
manner against one wall of the cave.
"Now, that's strange," murmured Mr. Greenwood "It is pretty certain
that that lot would not have been brought into this place from the
cliff, so there must be an outlet besides the hole through which I
tumbled. Why should a place like this be chosen to store petrol? And
why was the hole so carefully hidden with a dead bush? It looks jolly
fishy. Of course I've heard plenty of talk of German secret
petrol-bases in Great Britain, but I never believed the tales. By
smoke! I fancy I've stumbled upon one now. The first question is, how
am I to find a way out without being seen?"
Resuming his cautious crawl, Mr. Greenwood penetrated into the
recesses of the cave, keeping within touch of the rows of petrol-cans
on his right. Contrary to his expectations, the floor was smooth,
though tending to rise in the direction in which he was proceeding.
At about twenty yards from the hole through which he had tumbled, he
remembered that he had left his tracks uncovered. No need to creep on
all-fours now, for he had the irregular patch of light to guide him.
Grasping the displaced bush, he replaced it in the opening, and
chuckling to himself he again resumed his tour of exploration.
His spirits were rising rapidly. The love of adventure, that had lain
dormant for years, was reasserting itself. Also he began to realise
that he had now a chance of doing something definite for his
country--a chance that hitherto had been denied him on account of his
age.
He had quite forgotten the derelict mine. The fears that he had
entertained on that score had been completely dispelled by the
thought that he had lighted upon a discovery of real national
importance--the existence of a secret base for hostile submarines.
For quite a hundred yards he groped his way. The darkness was so
intense that it appeared to have weight--to press upon his eyes. The
tunnel, too, had contracted, for by extending both his arms he could
touch the enclosing walls. Once or twice he stood erect to relieve
the aching muscles of his back. He could then just touch the roof,
which, although of solid rock, was bone-dry.
Suddenly his forehead came in contact with a hard object. It was the
bottommost step of a stout ladder. The steps extended from side to
side, for the tunnel was still contracting. Further progress, except
by the ladder, was impossible, since the wall of rock terminated a
short distance beyond the base of the steps.
Mr. Greenwood examined his surroundings with great exactitude before
attempting the ascent. Everything had to be performed by the sense of
touch. The steps were of far greater thickness than the usual type of
ladder, and were more apart. Apparently they had been constructed to
bear very heavy weights, each one being strengthened by means of a
circular iron bar on the underside.
"I'm half inclined to use a match," thought Mr. Greenwood. "It's
risky, with all those petrol fumes about, but---- No, I won't; I'll
make the best of it."
Slowly he ascended. It reminded him of an infant attempting to climb
a staircase for the first time. The steps, in spite of their
solidity, creaked under his weight. The sounds, intensified by the
enclosed surroundings, added to the uncanniness of the mysterious
cave.
At the eighth step he found a trap-door above his head. It was what
he expected; but the question arose, what was on the other side? He
had no desire to blunder into the presence of half a dozen
desperadoes, who would doubtless have no scruples in knocking him
over the head and toppling his corpse down the cliff.
Even as he was considering the best thing to be done, he heard
footsteps overhead and a deep voice exclaiming, "Now, then, Max;
let's get on with the business. It's quite time we showed the signal.
Hand me yon crowbar and bear a hand to lift this trap. It's heavy."