The Riddle of the Sands

by Erskine Childers

  XIV. The First Night in the Islands

  A LOW line of sandhills, pink and fawn in the setting sun, at one endof them a little white village huddled round the base of a massivefour-square lighthouse--such was Wangeroog, the easternmost of theFrisian Islands, as I saw it on the evening of October 15. We haddecided to make it our first landing-place; and since it possesses noharbour, and is hedged by a mile of sand at low water, we had run inon the rising tide till the yacht grounded, in order to saveourselves as much labour as possible in the carriage to and fro ofthe heavy water-breakers and oil-cans which we had to replenish. Infaint outline three miles to the south of us was the flat plain ofFriesland, broken only by some trees, a windmill or two, and a churchspire. Between, the shallow expanse of sea was already beginning toshrink away into lagoons, chief among which was the narrow passage bywhich we had approached from the east. This continued its coursewest, directly parallel to the island, and in it, at a distance ofhalf a mile from us, three galliots lay at anchor.

  Before supper was over the yacht was high and dry, and when we hadeaten, Davies loaded himself with cans and breakers. I was for takingmy share, but he induced me to stay aboard; for I was dead tiredafter an unusually long and trying day, which had begun at 2 a.m.,when, using a precious instalment of east wind, we had started on acomplete passage of the sands from the Elbe to the Jade. It was abarely possible feat for a boat of our low speed to perform in onlytwo tides; and though we just succeeded, it was only by dint oftireless vigilance and severe physical strain.

  'Lay out the anchor when you've had a smoke,' said Davies, 'and keepan eye on the riding-light; it's my only guide back.'

  He lowered himself, and I heard the scrunch of his sea-boots as hedisappeared in the darkness. It was a fine starry night, with a touchof frost in the air. I lit a cigar, and stretched myself on a sofaclose to the glow of the stove. The cigar soon languished anddropped, and I dozed uneasily, for the riding-light was on my mind. Igot up once and squinted at it through the half-raised skylight, sawit burning steadily, and lay down again. The cabin lamp wanted oiland was dying down to a red-hot wick, but I was too drowsy to attendto it, and it went out. I lit my cigar stump again, and tried to keepawake by thinking. It was the first time I and Davies had beenseparated for so long; yet so used had we grown to freedom frominterference that this would not have disturbed me in the least wereit not for a sudden presentiment that on this first night of thesecond stage of our labours something would happen. All at once Iheard a sound outside, a splashing footstep as of a man stepping in apuddle. I was wide awake in an instant, but never thought of shouting'Is that you, Davies?' for I knew in a flash that it was not he. Itwas the slip of a stealthy man. Presently I heard anotherfootstep--the pad of a boot on the sand--this time close to my ear,just outside the hull; then some more, fainter and farther aft. Igently rose and peered aft through the skylight. A glimmer of light,reflected from below, was wavering over the mizzen-mast and bumpkin;it had nothing to do with the riding-light, which hung on theforestay. My prowler, I understood, had struck a match and wasreading the name on the stern. How much farther would his curiositycarry him? The match went out, and footsteps were audible again. Thena strong, guttural voice called in German, 'Yacht ahoy!' I keptsilence. 'Yacht ahoy!' a little louder this time. A pause, and then avibration of the hull as boots scraped on it and hands grasped thegunwale. My visitor was on deck. I bobbed down, sat on the sofa, andI heard him moving along the deck, quickly and confidently, firstforward to the bows, where he stopped, then back to the companionamidships. Inside the cabin it was pitch dark, but I heard his bootson the ladder, feeling for the steps. In another moment he would bein the doorway lighting his second match. Surely it was darker thanbefore? There had been a little glow from the riding-lamp reflectedon to the skylight, but it had disappeared. I looked up, realized,and made a fool of myself. In a few seconds more I should have seenmy visitor face to face, perhaps had an interview: but I was new tothis sort of work and lost my head. All I thought of was Davies'slast words, and saw him astray on the sands, with no light to guidehim back, the tide rising, and a heavy load. I started upinvoluntarily, bumped against the table, and set the stove jingling.A long step and a grab at the ladder, but just too late! I graspedsomething damp and greasy, there was tugging and hard breathing, andI was left clasping a big sea-boot, whose owner I heard jump on tothe sand and run. I scrambled out, vaulted overboard, and followedblindly by the sound. He had doubled round the bows of the yacht, andI did the same, ducked under the bowsprit, forgetting the bobstay,and fell violently on my head, with all the wind knocked out of me bya wire rope and block whose strength and bulk was one of the gloriesof the _Dulcibella_. I struggled on as soon as I got some breath, butmy invisible quarry was far ahead. I pulled off my heavy boots,carried them, and ran in my stockings, promptly cutting my foot onsome cockle-shells. Pursuit was hopeless, and a final stumble over abit of driftwood sent me sprawling with agony in my toes.

  Limping back, I decided that I had made a very poor beginning as anactive adventurer. I had gained nothing, and lost a great deal ofbreath and skin, and did not even know for certain where I was. Theyacht's light was extinguished, and, even with Wangeroog Lighthouseto guide me, I found it no easy matter to find her. She had no anchorout, if the tide rose. And how was Davies to find her? After muchfeeble circling I took to lying flat at intervals in the hopes ofseeing her silhouetted against the starry sky. This plan succeeded atlast, and with relief and humility I boarded her, relit theriding-light, and carried off the kedge anchor. The strange boot layat the foot of the ladder, but it told no tales when I examined it.It was eleven o'clock, past low water. Davies was cutting it fine ifhe was to get aboard without the dinghy's help. But eventually hereappeared in the most prosaic way, exhausted with his heavy load,but full of talk about his visit ashore. He began while we were stillon deck.

  'Look here, we ought to have settled more about what we're to saywhen we're asked questions. I chose a quiet-looking shop, but itturned out to be a sort of inn, where they were drinking pinkgin--all very friendly, as usual, and I found myself under a fire ofquestions. I said we were on our way back to England. There was theusual rot about the smallness of the boat, etc. It struck me that weshould want some other pretence for going so slow and stopping toexplore, so I had to bring in the ducks, though goodness knows wedon't want to waste time over _them._ The subject wasn't quite asuccess. They said it was too early--jealous, I suppose; but then twofellows spoke up, and asked to be taken on to help. Said they wouldbring their punt; without local help we should do no good. All trueenough, no doubt, but what a nuisance they'd be. I got out of it----'

  'It's just as well you did,' I interposed. 'We shall never be able toleave the boat by herself. I believe we're watched,' and I related myexperience.

  'H'm! It's a pity you didn't see who it was. Confound that bobstay!'(his tactful way of reflecting on my clumsiness); 'which way did herun?' I pointed vaguely into the west. 'Not towards the island? Iwonder if it's someone off one of those galliots. There are threeanchored in the channel over there; you can see their lights. Youdidn't hear a boat pulling off?'

  I explained that I had been a miserable failure as a detective.

  'You've done jolly well, I think,' said Davies. 'If you had shoutedwhen you first heard him we should know less still. And we've got aboot, which may come in useful. Anchor out all right? Let's getbelow.'

  We smoked and talked till the new flood, lapping softly round the_Dulcibella_, raised her without a jar.

  Of course, I argued, there might be nothing in it. The visitor mighthave been a commonplace thief; an apparently deserted yacht was atempting bait. Davies scouted this possibility from the first.

  'They're not like that in Germany,' he said. 'In Holland, if youlike, they'll do anything. And I don't like that turning out of thelantern to gain time, if we were away.'

  Nor did I. In spite of my blundering in details, I welcomed theincident as the first concrete proof that the object of
our quest wasno mare's nest. The next point was what was the visitor's object? Ifto search, what would he have found?

  'The charts, of course, with all our corrections and notes, and thelog. They'd give us away,' was Davies's instant conclusion. Nothaving his faith in the channel theory, I was lukewarm about hisprecious charts.

  'After all, we're doing nothing wrong, as you've often saidyourself,' I said.

  Still, as a true index to our mode of life they were the only thingson board that could possibly compromise us or suggest that we wereanything more than eccentric young Englishmen cruising for sport(witness the duck-guns) and pleasure. We had two sets of charts,German and English. The former we decided to use in practice, and tohide, together with the log, if occasion demanded. My diary, Iresolved, should never leave my person. Then there were the navalbooks. Davies scanned them with a look I knew well.

  'There are too many of them,' he said, in the tone of a cook fixingthe fate of superfluous kittens. 'Let's throw them overboard. They'revery old anyhow, and I know them by heart.'

  'Well, not here!' I protested, for he was laying greedy hands on theshelf; 'they'll be found at low water. In fact, I should leave themas they are. You had them when you were here before, and Dollmannknows you had them. If you return without them, it will look queer.'They were spared.

  The English charts, being relatively useless, though more suitable toour _r?le_ as English yachtsmen, were to be left in evidence, asshining proofs of our innocence. It was all delightfully casual, Icould not help thinking. A seven-ton yacht does not abound in (dry)hiding-places, and we were helpless against a drastic search. Ifthere _were_ secrets on this coast to guard, and we were suspected asspies, there was nothing to prevent an official visit and warning.There need be no prowlers scuttling off when alarmed, unless indeedit was thought wisest to let well alone, if we _were_ harmless, andnot to arouse suspicions where there were none. Here we lostourselves in conjecture. Whose agent was the prowler? If Dollmann's,did Dollmann know now that the _Dulcibella_ was safe, and back in theregion he had expelled her from? If so, was he likely to return tothe policy of violence? We found ourselves both glancing at the duck-gunsstrung up under the racks, and then we both laughed and lookedfoolish. 'A war of wits, and not of duck-guns,' I opined. 'Let's lookat the chart.'

  Map B of East Friesland.]

  The reader is already familiar with the general aspect of thissingular region, and I need only remind him that the mainland is thatdistrict of Prussia which is known as East Friesland. It is a _[SeeMap B]_ short, flat-topped peninsula, bounded on the west by the Emsestuary and beyond that by Holland, and on the east by the Jadeestuary; a low-lying country, containing great tracts of marsh andheath, and few towns of any size; on the north side none. Sevenislands lie off the coast. All, except Borkum, which is round, areattenuated strips, slightly crescent-shaped, rarely more than a milebroad, and tapering at the ends; in length averaging about six miles,from Norderney and Juist, which are seven and nine respectively, tolittle Baltrum, which is only two and a half.

  Of the shoal spaces which lie between them and the mainland,two-thirds dry at low-water, and the remaining third becomes a systemof lagoons whose distribution is controlled by the natural drift ofthe North Sea as it forces its way through the intervals between theislands. Each of these intervals resembles the bar of a river, and isobstructed by dangerous banks, over which the sea pours at every tidescooping out a deep pool. This fans out and ramifies to east and westas the pent-up current frees itself, encircles the islands, andspreads over the intervening flats. But the farther it penetrates theless coursing force it has, and as a result no island is girtcompletely by a low-water channel. About midway at the back of eachof them is a 'watershed', only covered for five or six hours out ofthe twelve. A boat, even of the lightest draught, navigating behindthe islands must choose its moment for passing these. As tonavigability, the _North Sea Pilot_ sums up the matter in these dryterms: 'The channels dividing these islands from each other and theshore afford to the small craft of the country the means ofcommunication between the Ems and the Jade, to which description ofvessels only they are available.' The islands are dismissed with abrief note or two about beacons and lights.

  The more I looked at the chart the more puzzled I became. The islandswere evidently mere sandbanks, with a cluster of houses and a churchon each, the only hint of animation in their desolate _ensemble_being the occasional word 'Bade-strand', suggesting that they werevisited in the summer months by a handful of townsfolk for thesea-bathing. Norderney, of course, was conspicuous in this respect;but even its town, which I know by repute as a gay and fashionablewatering-place, would be dead and empty for some months in the year,and could have no commercial importance. No man could do anything onthe mainland coast--a monotonous line of dyke punctuated at intervalsby an infinitesimal village. Glancing idly at the names of thesevillages, I noticed that they most of them ended in siel--a repulsivetermination, that seemed appropriate to the whole region. There wereCarolinensiel, Bensersiel, etc. Siel means either a sewer or asluice, the latter probably in this case, for I noticed that eachvillage stood at the outlet of a little stream which evidentlycarried off the drainage of the lowlands behind. A sluice, or lock,would be necessary at the mouth, for at high tide the land is belowthe level of the sea. Looking next at the sands outside, I noticedthat across them and towards each outlet a line of booms was marked,showing that there was some sort of tidal approach to the village,evidently formed by the scour of the little stream.

  'Are we going to explore those?' I asked Davies.

  'I don't see the use,' he answered; 'they only lead to those pottylittle places. I suppose local galliots use them.'

  'How about your torpedo-boats and patrol-boats?'

  'They _might,_ at certain tides. But I can't see what value they'dbe, unless as a refuge for a German boat in the last resort. Theylead to no harbours. Wait! There's a little notch in the dyke atNeuharlingersiel and Dornumersiel, which may mean some sort of a quayarrangement, but what's the use of that?'

  'We may as well visit one or two, I suppose?'

  'I suppose so; but we don't want to be playing round villages.There's heaps of really important work to do, farther out.'

  'Well, what _do_ you make of this coast?'

  Davies had nothing but the same old theory, but he urged it with aforce and keenness that impressed me more deeply than ever.

  'Look at those islands!' he said. 'They're clearly the old line ofcoast, hammered into breaches by the sea. The space behind them islike an immense tidal harbour, thirty miles by five, and they screenit impenetrably. It's absolutely _made_ for shallow war-boats underskilled pilotage. They can nip in and out of the gaps, and dodgeabout from end to end. On one side is the Ems, on the other the bigestuaries. It's a perfect base for torpedo-craft.'

  I agreed (and agree still), but still I shrugged my shoulders.

  'We go on exploring, then, in the same way?'

  'Yes; keeping a sharp look-out, though. Remember, we shall always bein sight of land now.'

  'What's the glass doing?'

  'Higher than for a long time. I hope it won't bring fog. I know thisdistrict is famous for fogs, and fine weather at this time of theyear is bad for them anywhere. I would rather it blew, if it wasn'tfor exploring those gaps, where an on-shore wind would be nasty.Six-thirty to-morrow; not later. I think I'll sleep in the saloon forthe future, after what happened to-night.'