The Sea-girt Fortress: A Story of Heligoland

  CHAPTER IX

  On the Scent

  "THANK goodness we are on board at last!" exclaimed Octavius Smith, asthe two chums entered the companion-way of the _Diomeda_. "ThoseDutchmen seem the essence of honesty. As far as I can see not a thingis missing."

  "Except the papers," added Stirling.

  "Of course; but I mean since the yacht was picked up. We'll have anoverhaul to make sure."

  "Strikes me I am not setting the Thames on fire over this business,"remarked Stirling ruefully. "I've sent off three separate reports,but, between you and me, they are not startling enough to merit theexpense of sending me out here. I suppose I lack journalistic abilityto put the finishing touches to a rather bald account of theaccident."

  "Conjecture ought to be the journalist's sheet-anchor."

  "Unless his theories are contradicted in the next issue, my dearchap. Then there's a breeze. But when do you propose sailing?"

  "As soon as we get a fair slant of wind. I've no mind to go pluggingagainst a south-wester for a week on end."

  "I hope to goodness we get a fair breeze before that, or my leavewill be up. But let's to work! We'll examine everything carefully andmake an inventory of all that belongs to the late charterers. We'llturn out the contents of that rack first."

  "Hold on; here's the logbook," exclaimed Smith. "I wonder ifHamerton--poor chap--entered anything in it. By George, he has!"

  The entries extended up to 1 a.m. on the fateful Tuesday morning. Thesighting of the Norderney light, the error in the compass course, andthe fact that the yacht had been steered in a north-westerlydirection to claw off the sandbanks and the mouth of the Elbe wereset down in the Sub's handwriting.

  "Five fathoms. Something wrong. Still heavy rain," read the lastentry.

  "Seems funny," remarked Stirling thoughtfully. "They speak of a strongbreeze, and sailing under reefed mainsail, close-reefed mizen, andstorm jib. That is early on Tuesday morning. That same evening theyacht is picked up forty miles in almost the opposite direction tothe course shown in the log. Her reefs were all shaken out, and shehad her large jib."

  "Perhaps the wind dropped during the day."

  "Then why wasn't that part recorded in the log? Hamerton seems tohave been most conscientious in writing it up. Every hour there is afresh entry, yet at 1 a.m., when it is blowing hard, there is asudden break."

  "H'm! I don't know. There's your chance to use your gift ofconjecture."

  The work of clearing the rack on the port side of the cabin proceededapace. It was not a congenial task separating the effects of the twomissing men from such articles as belonged to the owner.

  Suddenly Stirling gave a low whistle.

  "What do you make of that, old man?" he asked, holding up a carefullyfolded newspaper.

  "Nothing," replied Smith laconically. "I can't make head or tail ofGerman: never could, and don't want to--why?"

  "It's a copy of the _Tageblatt_."

  "And what of it?"

  "Look at the date: Tuesday the 10th inst. Now how would Hamerton gethold of a German newspaper without going ashore? Mind you, this isthe date on which the accident is suppose to have occurred."

  "Rather extraordinary. But perhaps the skipper of the _Hoorn_ left itthere."

  "Hardly likely. He had been out in the North Sea for a week before hepicked up the yacht. Directly he brought her in here she was handedover to the harbourmaster. I think I'll see Van Wyk. He may be ableto throw some light upon the matter."

  "Wait till after lunch. He's bound to be out somewhere. Look here!I'll finish this sorting business; suppose you carry on and fry thatsteak."

  "Righto!" replied Stirling, and reaching for a paper parcelcontaining a pound of very juicy steak he disappeared into thefo'c'sle.

  Very soon the "Primus" stove began to roar, and an appetizing odourfilled the interior of the little craft.

  Smith cleared away the pile of articles from the rack and proceededto prepare the table for the meal. In the midst of his activities thesliding door of the fo'c'sle was thrust back, and Stirling's head andshoulder's appeared, backed by a cloud of vapour with which thelittle compartment was filled.

  "Blessed if I can understand what's wrong with the oven," heexclaimed, wiping the tears from his eyes, for the smoke had causedthem to water freely. "It went all right for about five minutes, thenthere was a regular burst of beastly smelling smoke."

  "Let me have a look at it," said Smith, with grim determination in hisvoice. "I'll soon see what's wrong. Open that forehatch, old chap, andlet's get rid of the infernal smoke."

  The raising of the hatch and the accompanying cloud of vapour was thesignal for a chorus of exclamations from the line of phlegmaticDutchmen on the quay, who, for want of something better to do, werepassing the time in meditative contemplation of the _Diomeda_. Theroaring of the stove deadened all external sound, but a minute laterthe occupants of the fo'c'sle were saluted by a deluge of water.Imagining that a fire had broken out on board, two of the good folkof Delfzyl had adroitly poured a couple of buckets of water down theforehatch.

  Hurried explanations and a profound apology from the well-meaningDutchmen followed. The crew of the _Diomeda_ once more dived below tochange their saturated garments.

  "Now let's have another shot at it," said Smith, as he removed thesteak, soaked with salt water, to a safe distance from the stove."There's something fizzling away in the double bottom. Hand me thatscrewdriver, my young friend."

  It was an easy task to remove the front of the stove, revealing adeep cavity in which was a steaming mass of paper.

  "That's the cause of it all," announced Octavius Smith, as he hookedout the offending object. "It's a book. How on earth did it getthere?"

  Stirling took the still moistened volume and examined the title page.

  "It's a German book," he said. "Something to do with torpedoes."

  "Is it?" grunted Smith. "I'll swear it wasn't there a fortnight ago.Anyway, I don't want to get into trouble about it in case we have toput into a German port. Heave the blessed thing overboard."

  "Not much!" replied Stirling, quietly but firmly.

  Smith looked at his companion with surprise depicted on his features.Stirling was generally of a complaisant disposition.

  "Why not, you silly cuckoo? That will be enough to get us five yearsin a fortress, like my sixty-ninth cousins, John and Bill Smith. I'mnot taking any, thank you."

  "All the same, I don't think I'll throw it overboard. I've got to goashore for more steak; we can't possibly eat that stuff--it'ssmothered with salt water. I'll pack up the book and send it to myaddress by registered post."

  "Please yourself," retorted Smith ungraciously. "So long as it isn'ton board I don't mind, but I'm hanged if I can see what possible useit can be to you."

  "Never know your luck," replied Stirling as he backed into the cabin."I wonder if there's any brown paper on board."

  "Why not dry the blessed thing first?" asked Smith, always morethoughtful for others' pockets than he was for his own. "It won'tcost so much for postage."

  "Not a bad idea," was the reply. "I'll hang it up under the skylight.That's it. Now for the shore."

  Presently Stirling returned with a fresh supply of steak. Once morethe stove was lighted, and without further mishap the meat wasserved.

  "Can't help thinking about those fellows who were collared atHeligoland," remarked Stirling.

  "Don't see why you need worry about them," said Smith. "I wonder youdon't suggest that they are our friends Hamerton & Co. in disguise.Anyhow, they took the risk and failed. Spying is a rotten game, whenall's said and done."

  "There I don't agree with you. It's an honourable profession. A fewmen risk their liberty in trying to gain information that in theevent of war will save hundreds of their fellow countrymen's lives.It's necessary; both Great Britain and Germany have regular men forthe purpose of espionage."

  "Hanged if I looked upon it from that point of view; but it seems adownright low trick for a fellow to se
ll naval and military secrets."

  "Rather! There I agree with you. There's a vast difference between aspy and an informer. The first is, I might also say, a humanitarian;the second is a traitor. There's no doubt about it, the Germans havethe advantage of us in the espionage line. There isn't a Governmentbuilding, dock, or battery on the east coast but is known to theGerman Government. They have spies everywhere."

  "We have caught a few."

  "Yes, we began at first by letting them off with a caution--gavekindly advice, so to speak. Then they collared some of oursecret-service men and gave it to them fairly stiff. We retaliated,and the business became a ding-dong affair, each country increasingthe severity of the punishments inflicted upon the spies theydetected. But, as you said, five years is a bit stiff."

  "Hallo! There's the harbourmaster!" exclaimed Stirling, catchingsight of the official through one of the scuttles of the cabin. "I'llask him about the newspaper."

  Both men ran on deck. The crowd of Dutchmen was still in evidence,only the attention of the idlers was directed seaward, A telescopewas being handed round, the usually stolid Delfzylers showingconsiderable eagerness to obtain a loan of the instrument.

  "What is the matter, Mynheer van Wyk?" asked Smith.

  "Only a German torpedo boat," replied the harbourmaster. "She islying off the Dollart, though why I cannot make out."

  "Nothing out of the way, is it?" asked Stirling. "It's Germanterritory across the Dollart, isn't it?"

  "Aye," replied Van Wyk. "But it is out of the common for a vessel ofwar to remain there. We are sending out a tug to see if she requiresassistance. Look! We have signalled her, but she has made no reply."

  "Are you busy for a moment, Mynheer?" asked Stirling. "We've found aGerman newspaper on board, and we want to know how it got there."

  "I do not love the Germans, Mynheer, nor do I ever look at a Germanpaper. I did not put it there. Perhaps your unfortunate fellowcountryman placed it there?"

  "We think not. We have a reason for asking. Do you think the masterof the _Hoorn_ left it on board?"

  "There stands Dick Apeldoorn, the mate of the _Hoorn_," said theharbourmaster, pointing to a little wizened man leaning against abollard and looking at the torpedo craft through a pair ofbinoculars. "He was the only man who went below, besides myself. Whynot ask him?"

  Dick Apeldoorn was positive he had not handled a newspaper for days,let alone a German one. He was a true Hollander, who looked upon theGermans as land grabbers, intent upon overrunning Holland directlythey had an opportunity--if they could. He would scorn to be beholdento the _Tageblatt_ for any information.

  "That settles one point," remarked Stirling to his companion. "TheDutchman didn't put the paper in the rack of the cabin; it's morallycertain Hamerton couldn't; so who did?"

  "Speculate upon it, my dear fellow. It's worth a page in _TheYachtsman's Journal_. Conjecture something startling, only leave mein peace this afternoon. I must knock up a pot-boiler for _TheGentlewoman of Fashion_, or there will be no shot in the locker whenI get home. As it is, this blessed salvage business has seriouslydepleted the treasury."

  Octavius Smith produced a "block" and a fountain pen, and was soonlost to his surroundings in dashing off about a thousand words anhour. When he did work he worked at a tremendous pace, and hiscompanion knew the risk he incurred should he disturb him. SoStirling took up the log of the _Diomeda_ and began to follow it fromthe time the yacht left Lowestoft on her momentous cruise.

  As he read he compared the log with the chart, following Hamerton'snotations with the deepest interest.

  Suddenly he gave an exclamation of surprise. Smith, deep in his work,went on unheedingly. Stirling had come to the incident of the_Diomeda's_ meeting with the German torpedo boats and the rescue ofHans Pfeil.

  "H'm! I wonder if I could get into touch with this fellow Pfeil," hemeditated. "Perhaps he might be able to throw some light on thematter. At any rate I'll try. Here's the making of a sensational yarnin the log. But, hang it all! would 'Hans Pfeil, H.I.M. Navy,Germany,' be a sufficient address?"

  Something prompted him to reach for the torpedo manual that hung froma hook under the skylight. Its pages were now almost dry, but itrequired a certain amount of caution to separate the leaves.

  "Hurrah!" exclaimed Stirling.

  "Shut up, can't you!" ejaculated Smith.

  "Not much!" retorted Stirling, for on the flyleaf appeared the words:"Hans Pfeil. S.167;" and the counter-signature of the lieutenantcommanding the torpedo-boat destroyer. "Not much! Chuck it, for thetime being, old man, and listen. I've found out how the torpedo bookcame on board. At least I think I have. Hamerton mentions that herescued a seaman washed overboard from a German destroyer. He givesthe man's name. It is the same as the one appearing in the book."

  "Well?"

  "This Hans Pfeil might be able to give us some definite information.Of course I won't say a word about this book."

  "I don't see what the fellow can do or say in the matter," objectedSmith. "Hamerton in the log says he was transferred to a trampsteamer. That ends the business. Whatever happened to Hamerton andDetroit occurred some time after the incident."

  "All the same I'll have a shot at it. I'll write, and pack up thetorpedo book at the same time."

  "All right!" drawled Smith. "Please yourself."

  And with that he refilled his pipe and resumed work.