The Sea-girt Fortress: A Story of Heligoland

  CHAPTER VII

  Official Hindrances

  ON the day following the preliminary examination of the two allegedspies the London evening papers published with double-leadedheadlines:

  "TWO ENGLISHMEN ARRESTED AS SPIES" (_Reuters Special._)

  "Hamburg, Tuesday, 5 p.m. Telegraphic advice fromHeligoland reports that two Englishmen, giving thenames of John and William Smith, and aged about forty,were arrested on a charge of espionage early thismorning. It is alleged that the prisoners, takingadvantage of a dark and rainy night, eluded the cordonof patrol boats and succeeded in landing uponSandinsel. When arrested they were in the act ofphotographing a highly important part of the defences.The open motor boat in which they visited the islandhas been seized, and drawings and photographs ofvarious government establishments and ships were foundconcealed behind the petrol tanks. The accused, whoadmitted that they were in the employ of the BritishIntelligence Department, will be tried summarily by theGovernor of Heligoland, General Heinrich vonWittelsbach, on Friday next. It is understood that theBritish Consul at Bremen has applied to have access tothe prisoners."

  This announcement naturally caused a great deal of comment amongstthe British public. The general opinion was that the alleged spiesknew the risk they were running and must take the consequences.Various attempts were made on the part of the press to discover theidentity of John and William Smith. Enquiries at the NavalIntelligence Department gave no tangible result. The authoritiesthere expressed their ignorance of the whole business.

  The morning editions on the following day came out with highlycoloured reports emanating from imaginative German journalists; butthe only particle of truth was the information that the request ofthe British Consul at Bremen had been refused. In order to give theaccused every possible advantage a military officer of high rank hadbeen dispatched from Berlin to act as "prisoners' friend". Owing tothe possibilities of important military and naval secrets beingdisclosed at the impending trial, the proceedings were to beconducted behind closed doors.

  Even with this announcement the Great British Public maintained itscustomary apathy. Had some Polish revolutionary been tried undersimilar circumstances in far-off Russia a certain section of theBritish Press would have howled itself black in the face at theinjustice and inhumanity of the proceedings. In this instance it wasmerely an attempt on the part of two venturesome Englishmen to gainnotoriety at the expense of risking our amiable relations with afriendly State. John and William Smith must take the consequences.

  In a paper of the same date appeared a short column headed:

  "FEARED FATALITY TO TWO ENGLISH YACHTSMEN

  "A ketch yacht, named _Diomeda_, has been brought intothe port of Delfzyl by the Dutch steam trawler _Hoorn_.The master of the trawler reports having found theyacht derelict, with all sails set, nine miles N.N.W.of Norderney. There are three yachts named _Diomeda_ inLloyd's Register, but from the Dutch skipper'sdescription the abandoned yacht is the property of Mr.Octavius Valerian Smith of Lowestoft."

  At ten o'clock a telegram was handed in at the London offices of _TheYachtsman's Journal_. It was from that paper's Lowestoftcorrespondent:

  "Smith, owner _Diomeda_, reports yacht charteredSub-Lieutenant Hamerton, R. N. Owner starting Delfzylimmediately. Shall I accompany?--Stirling."

  The editor thought over the message for some minutes. Here was achance of obtaining copy direct from the scene of the disaster. Hewould dearly like to steal a march on his contemporaries. The mysterymight prove far more exciting than it looked according to the morningdailies. But there was the expense; _The Yachtman's Journal_ had nota large amount of capital behind it. Of course, Stirling would notwant a large sum for the trip, but there were the travellingexpenses.

  A thought struck him: why not consult his friend Thompson, the newseditor of the influential _Westminster Daily Record_?

  "Is that you, Thompson?" he asked on the telephone after several vainattempts to get through.

  "Yes, old man," replied the editor of _The Westminster Daily Record_,who recognized his friend's voice.

  "Anything fresh about the yacht found adrift in the North Sea?"

  "Nothing--why?"

  "Just heard she was chartered by a naval officer. I fancy there'ssomething behind this. Stirling, my Lowestoft correspondent--a smart,reliable fellow; I know him personally--has just wired to ask if heshould go to Holland."

  "Well?"

  "He can speak German and Dutch remarkably well."

  "Hanged if I can see what you are driving at, old man. Send the youngchap by all means if you want to. By the by, what's the navalofficer's name?"

  The editor of _The Yachtsman's Journal_ diplomatically ignored thelatter question.

  "I'd send him like a shot," he replied, "only it's a question of, _?,s., d._ What do you say? Will you guarantee half the expenses? It's achance of a good scoop, the information to be solely for our jointuse."

  Thompson grunted.

  "No," he said brusquely; "can't be done. It's not of sufficientinterest to the general public."

  "Not when a naval officer is involved?"

  "H'm--well, I'll tell you. Send your man. If the stuff's of use to uswe'll pay all expenses. Anything out of the ordinary he can wire us.If there's nothing meriting notice we'll only pay a quarter of theexpenses. Game?"

  Something seemed to whisper in the mind of the _Yachtman's Journal_editor: "Accept his terms. You'll be sorry if you don't."

  "Agreed," he replied.

  "Right! Ring off," was Thompson's laconic acceptance, and he resumedhis chair in order to tackle the final proofs of the evening's issue.

  Shortly after eleven Gordon Stirling, amateur yachtsman and yachtingcorrespondent of _The Yachtman's Journal_, received a wire from town:

  "Proceed to Delfzyl. Wire report if urgent. All expensesguaranteed. "EDITOR."

  Stirling gave a whoop of delight when he read his sailing orders, andconsiderably astonished his landlady by executing a dance round theroom. Perhaps such an exhibition was pardonable in a high-spiritedyouth of nineteen, but Mrs. Grimmer surveyed her paying guest withevident concern and unrestrained curiosity.

  "It's all right, Mrs. Grimmer," he explained. "I'm off to Holland fora few days."

  "Not in that little boat of yours, sir?"

  "No, by steamer. I'll have to leave here before twelve. Now I mustpack my bag. You might ask Dick to take a note round to Mr. Smith forme."

  The note was simply to the effect that the writer had madearrangements to accompany the owner of the _Diomeda_ to Delfzyl, andwould meet him at the station at 12.15.

  This written and dispatched, Gordon Stirling proceeded to cram avariety of clothing into a serviceable leather bag, regardless of howthey were stowed so long as the bag could be closed.

  Stirling was very fortunately situated. He held an appointment atLowestoft under the Inland Revenue; he had just started his annualleave and was meditating a trip on the Broads. To that end he haddrawn a small sum from the savings bank, to which was added thegreater part of his last month's salary, and thus he found himselfwith a little over twenty pounds in his pocket and fourteen days inwhich to spend it. Here was a chance of having a holiday on theContinent, with the prospects of getting hold of some exciting newsand recouping all his expenses. Truly he was in luck's way.

  "Glad you managed it," was Octavius Smith's greeting as the two metat the railway station. "Look alive and get your ticket. Single toHarwich only, mind."

  Octavius Valerian Smith was a striking contrast to his companion, forStirling was a short, thick-set fellow with a perpetual beam on hisrounded features, whereas the owner of the _Diomeda_ was over sixfeet in height and as slender as the proverbial barber's pole. Itwould be difficult to describe his complexion. Exposure to thesalt-laden breezes of the North Sea had tanned his features to abrick-red colour. In spite of his approximation to Euclid'sdefinition of a line he was muscular and sinewy, and as hard asn
ails. Possessed of small private means, he augmented his income bywriting, and made a fairly good thing out of it. Few of the hundredsof love-sick maidens who read the romantic stories appearing invarious women's journals under the name of "Reginald Beaucaire"would recognize their favourite author in the person of thetaciturn-featured O. V. Smith.

  Yet even in the flood tide of literary success there are irritatingcounter-eddies--periods of pecuniary embarrassment. The owner of the_Diomeda_, always careless with his money while he possessed any, hada few days before found himself in low water.

  This inevitable condition compelled him, much against his will, tocharter the yacht to Sub-Lieutenant Hamerton, and now he was on hisway to recover his most precious possession from the hands of theDutch salvors.

  "You've got the yacht's papers, I hope?" asked Stirling as the trainglided out of the station.

  "No, I haven't. How could I? They went with the boat."

  "Then how do you propose to establish your identity? The Dutchmenwon't feel inclined to hand the _Diomeda_ over until you prove youare the lawful owner."

  "I've sufficient documentary evidence," replied Smith. "You leavethat to me."

  "If you're satisfied I am," remarked Stirling. "By the by, what werethose fellows like who chartered her?"

  The _Diomeda's_ owner proceeded to give a detailed description of theunfortunate Hamerton and his chum Detroit. This done, he took up anewspaper and began to read, while Stirling wrote an account of thetwo supposed victims for the benefit of the patrons of _TheYachtman's Journal_.

  "By the by," said Stirling, "is there any more news about that spycase? I suppose the two men are no relations of yours?"

  "We all belong to the great and noble family of Smiths," replied theliterary man oracularly. "It's a bit confusing at times, especiallywhen one receives a blue envelope intended for a very distantrelation. I've had some."

  Octavius once more buried himself in his paper. Stirling resumed hisscribbling, and thus the time passed until the train reached Harwich.

  It was half-past eleven on the Thursday morning when Smith and hiscompanion arrived at Delfzyl. Both were dead tired, for the tediousrailway journey, especially between Zwolle and their destination, wasthe last straw.

  The good folk of Delfzyl were evidently thought-readers, for directlythe Englishmen left the station they were surrounded by agesticulating mob, every man, woman, and child in the crowd pointingout the way to the quay where the _Diomeda_ lay.

  It was low tide, the Dollart and the estuary of the Ems River wereone expanse of sand and mud. The yacht lay against a staging ofmassive piles. On the quay was a line of stolid Dutchmen, allpeculiarly garbed in quaint cutaway coats, baggy trousers, klompen orwooden shoes, and dull-black high-crowned hats. There they stood,hands in pockets, long pipes in their mouths. Hardly a word was beingspoken. They seemed perfectly content to stand on the quay-side andgaze meditatively at the mysterious craft that the steam-drifter_Hoorn_ had brought in.

  The arrival of the Englishmen with their attendant throng roused thelethargic Dutchmen. They too added their voices to those of theirfellow townsfolk.

  "Thank goodness the yacht seems all right," ejaculated Smithfervently. "Let's get on board. It's the only way to escape thebabel."

  The _Diomeda_ looked exactly as if she had been lying on her ownmoorings in Lowestoft harbour. Her sails were neatly furled, herflemished ropes were exactly where they ought to be, her decks hadbeen washed down, her brasswork glittered in the sunlight.

  "How are we going to get on board?" asked Stirling, regarding thetwelve-foot drop from the stage on to the deck with apprehension."Besides, the cabin is locked, and you haven't the keys."

  "I'll manage it," replied the owner confidently. "Stand by and throwme down the luggage when I reach the deck."

  At this juncture a man interposed his bulky frame and held up hishands.

  "Mynheer Englishman must see the harbourmaster," he announced.

  "Where is the harbourmaster?" asked Smith.

  A score of voices joined in giving him directions. Forty hands ormore pointed in the direction of the red-tiled house, with greendoors and window frames, where dwelt Cornelius van Wyk, the guardianof the maritime interests of Delfzyl.

  "You do the tongue-wagging, old chap," said Smith to his companion asthey were ushered into a spotlessly clean parlour. The mob of curioustownsfolk, debarred from entering by the sturdy demonstrations of theharbourmaster's _hus-vrow_, lapsed into comparative silence. Pipeswere filled, precious matches handed round, and the expectant throngwaited for the Englishmen's reappearance.

  The two travellers had to wait nearly an hour for the official'sappearance. Van Wyk had gone down the estuary on duty. Meanwhile hiswife brought refreshments, for which both men were truly thankful, asthey had eaten nothing since leaving The Hook.

  "You, Mynheer, are the owner of this yacht?" asked the harbourmasteron his return. He spoke excellent English, with an East Anglianaccent, acquired by reason of his frequent intercourse with vesselshailing from the ports of Norfolk and Suffolk. "You, of course, havethe papers?"

  "No," replied Smith. "They are on board."

  "I think not, Mynheer. I had to make examination, and there are nopapers."

  "They were in a cupboard on the port side of the for'ard bulkhead,"asserted the owner.

  Van Wyk shook his head.

  "I remember that cupboard. It is empty."

  "Is it likely that two men should disappear and take the yacht'spapers with them?" asked Smith.

  The harbourmaster shook his head.

  "Curious things happen at sea," he said. "Dirk Apeldoorn, the mate ofthe _Hoorn_, told me the yacht had all her sails set. The tiller wasnot lashed; her dingy was towing astern. She was pointing towards theland, first on one tack and then on the other. It was this strangething that attracted his attention. But, Mynheer, why should thepapers disappear? Without them who can tell who is the owner?"

  "I have these," replied Smith, pulling out several documents relatingto the transaction between Hamerton and himself.

  "Heaven forbid that I should doubt you," exclaimed Van Wyk, "but dutyis duty. I have the keys; I am authorized to receive the money duefor salvage; but before I can allow you on board I must have adeclaration on oath that you are in truth the owner, and a copy ofthe yacht's papers."

  "But," expostulated Smith, "I am the owner, you know."

  "It is easy to say so, Mynheer. I might say I am the Prince Consort,but without proof----?"

  "This looks like a week's business," said Smith savagely, as thetwain regained the cobbled street. "I suppose the old chap is withinhis rights. We'll have to write off to the Board of Trade forduplicates of the Certificate of Registry and the Declaration ofOwnership."

  "And make a sworn declaration before a lawyer that you are indeedOctavius V. Smith," added Stirling.

  Two days later the owner of the _Diomeda_ skipped out of the postoffice at Delfzyl, holding in triumph a blue envelope with theinscription "On His Majesty's Service". Ten seconds later hisexultation was changed into deep disgust, for the Board of Tradeauthorities had asked for additional information. They had alreadyheard that the yacht had been picked up practically intact. Herpapers were known to be on board when she left Lowestoft; whatexplanation, they asked, had Mr. Smith to offer for theirdisappearance? Pending satisfactory evidence the Board declined toissue duplicate certificates.

  Time was pressing. In desperation Octavius Smith penned a lengthyepistle explaining that he was in utter ignorance of the fate of thedocuments, and that the harbourmaster of Delfzyl had flatly refusedto give up possession of the _Diomeda_ until such documentaryevidence were forthcoming.

  Two more days passed. Then, with a promptitude surprising for aBritish Government Department, the duplicates arrived.

  "Ah! That is all in order," exclaimed Mynheer van Wyk. "All that isnow required is to pay the salvage. Then you take possession."

  "I see," agreed Octavius Smith, though not with any degree ofen
thusiasm. He had no doubt that the executors of the supposeddeceased Jack Hamerton would ultimately pay all expenses inconnection with the redemption of the _Diomeda_, but for the presenthe would have to be out of pocket. "What is the value of your yacht?"asked the harbourmaster, who also held the office corresponding tothat of British Receiver of Wrecks.

  "Two hundred pounds," replied the owner.

  Van Wyk slowly turned over the documents before him.

  "That may be so," he remarked; "but I see no copy of the bill ofsale. How am I to know that this is the value of the yacht?"

  "My word for it," replied Smith heatedly.

  "Is not good enough," added the harbourmaster.

  "Then why in the name of thunder didn't you ask me to get it with theother papers?"

  Van Wyk shrugged his shoulders.

  "I shall require it," he said simply.

  "What's wrong now?" asked Stirling, as his chum rejoined him in thestreet.

  "Every mortal thing. Wants a copy of the bill of sale to prove howmuch I gave for the yacht. Luckily I have that at home. I'll wire forit. This petty officialdom is enough to make a fellow wild."

  "I thought petty officialdom existed only in England. Such used to beyour opinion," said Stirling slyly. "Buck up, old man, we'll soon beafloat. By the by, here is a newspaper. They've given thesesixty-ninth cousins of yours pretty stiff sentences, by Jove!"

  Octavius Smith glanced at the printed matter, "'Pon my word, theyhave," he replied. "After all, they were asking for it."