The Riddle of the Sands

by Erskine Childers

  XIX. The Rubicon

  IT was a cold, vaporous dawn, the glass rising, and the wind fallento a light air still from the north-east. Our creased and soddensails scarcely answered to it as we crept across the oily swell toLangeoog. 'Fogs and calms,' Davies prophesied. The _Blitz_ was astirwhen we passed her, and soon after steamed out to sea. Once over thebar, she turned westward and was lost to view in the haze. I shouldbe sorry to have to explain how we found that tiny anchor-buoy, onthe expressionless waste of grey. I only know that I hove the leadincessantly while Davies conned, till at last he was grabbingoverside with the boathook, and there was the buoy on deck. Thecable was soon following it, and finally the rusty monster himself,more loathsome than usual, after his long sojourn in the slime.

  'That's all right,' said Davies. 'Now we can go anywhere.'

  'Well, it's Norderney, isn't it? We've settled that.'

  'Yes, I suppose we have. I was wondering whether it wouldn't beshortest to go inside Langeoog after all.'

  'Surely not,' I urged. 'The tide's ebbing now, and the light's bad;it's new ground, with a "watershed" to cross, and we're safe to getaground.'

  'All right--outside. Ready about.' We swung lazily round and headedfor the open sea. I record the fact, but in truth Davies might havetaken me where he liked, for no land was visible, only a couple ofghostly booms.

  'It seems a pity to miss over that channel,' said Davies with a sigh;'just when the 'Kormoran' can't watch us.' (We had not seen her at allthis morning.)

  I set myself to the lead again, averse to reopening a barrenargument. Grimm had done his work for the present, I felt certain,and was on his way by the shortest road to Norderney and Memmert.

  We were soon outside and heading west, our boom squared away and theisland sand-dunes just apparent under our lee. Then the breeze diedto the merest draught, and left us rolling inert in a long swell.Consumed with impatience to get on I saw fatality in this failure ofwind, after a fortnight of unprofitable meanderings, when we hadgenerally had too much of it, and always enough for our purpose. Itried to read below, but the vile squirting of the centreboard droveme up.

  'Can't we go any faster?' I burst out once. I felt that there oughtto be a pyramid of gauzy canvas aloft, spinnakers, flying jibs andwhat not.

  'I don't go in for speed,' said Davies, shortly. He loyally did hisbest to 'shove her' along, but puffs and calms were the rule all day,and it was only by towing in the dinghy for two hours in theafternoon that we covered the length of Langeoog, and crept beforedark to an anchorage behind Baltrum, its slug-shaped neighbour on thewest. Strictly, I believe, we should have kept the sea all night; butI had not the grit to suggest that course, and Davies was only tooglad of an excuse for threading the shoals of the Accumer Ee on arising tide. The atmosphere had been slowly clearing as the day woreon; but we had scarcely anchored ten minutes before a blanket ofwhite fog, rolling in from seaward, swallowed us up. Davies wasalready afield in the dinghy, and I had to guide him back with afoghorn, whose music roused hosts of sea birds from the surroundingflats, and brought them wheeling and complaining round us, a weirdinvisible chorus to my mournful solo.

  The fog hung heavy still at daybreak on the 20th, but dispersedpartially under a catspaw from the south about eight o'clock, in timefor us to traverse the boomed channel behind Baltrum, before the tideleft the watershed.

  'We shan't get far to-day,' said Davies, with philosophy. 'And thissort of thing may go on for any time. It's a regular autumnanti-cyclone--glass thirty point five and steady. That gale was thelast of a stormy equinox.'

  We took the inside route as a matter of course to-day. It was now theshortest to Norderney harbour, and scarcely less intricate than theWichter Ee, which appeared to be almost totally blocked by banks, andis, in fact, the most impassable of all these outlets to the NorthSea. But, as I say, this sort of navigation, always puzzling to me,was utterly bewildering in hazy weather. Any attempt at orientationmade me giddy. So I slaved at the lead, varying my labour with afierce bout of kedge-work when we grounded somewhere. I had two restsbefore two o'clock, one of an hour, when we ran into a patch ofwindless fog; another of a few moments, when Davies said, 'There'sNorderney!' and I saw, surmounting a long slope of weedy sand, stillwet with the receding sea, a cluster of sandhills exactly like ahundred others I had seen of late, but fraught with a new and uniqueinterest.

  The usual formula, 'What have you got now?' checked my reverie, and'Helm's a-lee,' ended it for the time. We tacked on (for the wind hadheaded us) in very shoal water.

  Suddenly Davies said: 'Is that a boat ahead?'

  'Do you mean that galliot?' I asked. I could plainly distinguish oneof those familiar craft about half a mile away, just within the limitof vision.

  'The 'Kormoran', do you think?' I added. Davies said nothing, but grewinattentive to his work. 'Barely four,' from me passed unnoticed, andwe touched once, but swung off under some play of the current. Thencame abruptly, 'Stand by the anchor. Let go,' and we brought up inmid-stream of the narrow creek we were following. I triced up themain-tack, and stowed the headsails unaided. When I had done Davieswas still gazing to windward through his binoculars, and, to myastonishment, I noticed that his hands were trembling violently. Ihad never seen this happen before, even at moments when a false turnof the wrist meant death on a surf-battered bank.

  'What is it?' I asked; 'are you cold?'

  'That little boat,' he said. I gazed to windward, too, and now saw ascrap of white in the distance, in sharp relief.

  'Small standing lug and jib; it's her, right enough,' said Davies tohimself, in a sort of nervous stammer.

  'Who? What?'

  ''Medusa's' dinghy.'

  He handed, or rather pushed, me the glasses, still gazing.

  'Dollmann?' I exclaimed.

  'No, it's _hers_--the one she always sails. She's come to meet m--,us.'

  Through the glasses the white scrap became a graceful little sail,squared away for the light following breeze. An angle of the creekhid the hull, then it glided into view. Someone was sitting aftsteering, man or woman I could not say, for the sail hid most of thefigure. For full two minutes--two long, pregnant minutes--we watchedit in silence. The damp air was fogging the lenses, but I kept themto my eyes; for I did not want to look at Davies. At last I heard himdraw a deep breath, straighten himself up, and give one of hischaracteristic 'h'ms'. Then he turned briskly aft, cast off thedinghy's painter, and pulled her up alongside.

  'You come too,' he said, jumping in, and fixing the rowlocks. (Hishands were steady again.) I laughed, and shoved the dinghy off.

  'I'd rather you did,' he said, defiantly.

  'I'd rather stay. I'll tidy up, and put the kettle on.' Davies hadtaken a half stroke, but paused.

  'She oughtn't to come aboard.' he said.

  'She might like to,' I suggested. 'Chilly day, long way from home,common courtesy----'

  'Carruthers,' said Davies, 'if she comes aboard, please remember thatshe's outside this business. There are no clues to be got from_her_.'

  A little lecture which would have nettled me more if I had not beenexultantly telling myself that, once and for all, for good or ill,the Rubicon was passed.

  'It's your affair this time,' I said; 'run it as you please.'

  He sculled away with vigorous strokes. 'Just as he is,' I thought tomyself: bare head, beaded with fog-dew, ancient oilskin coat (onlyone button); grey jersey; grey woollen trousers (like a deep-seafisherman's) stuffed into long boots. A vision of his antitype, theCowes Philanderer, crossed me for a second. As to his face--well, Icould only judge by it, and marvel, that he was gripping his dilemmaby either horn, as firmly as he gripped his sculls.

  I watched the two boats converging. They would meet in the naturalcourse about three hundred yards away, but a hitch occurred. First,the sail-boat checked and slewed; 'aground,' I concluded. Therowboat leapt forward still; then checked, too. From both a greatsplashing of sculls floated across the still air, then silence. Thesummit of the w
atershed, a physical Rubicon, prosaic and slimy, hadstill to be crossed, it seemed. But it could be evaded. Both boatsheaded for the northern side of the creek: two figures were out onthe brink, hauling on two painters. Then Davies was striding over thesand, and a girl--I could see her now--was coming to meet him. Andthen I thought it was time to go below and tidy up.

  Nothing on earth could have made the _Dulcibella_s' saloon a worthyreception-room for a lady. I could only use hurried efforts to makeit look its best by plying a bunch of cotton-waste and a floor-brush;by pitching into racks and lockers the litter of pipes, charts,oddments of apparel, and so on, that had a way of collecting afresh,however recently we had tidied up; by neatly arranging ourdemoralized library, and by lighting the stove and veiling the tableunder a clean white cloth.

  I suppose about twenty minutes had elapsed, and I was scrubbingfruitlessly at the smoky patch on the ceiling, when I heard the soundof oars and voices outside. I threw the cotton-waste into thefo'c'sle, made an onslaught on my hands, and then mounted thecompanion ladder. Our own dinghy was just rounding up alongside,Davies sculling in the bows, facing him in the stern a young girl ina grey tam-o'-shanter, loose waterproof jacket and dark serge skirt,the latter, to be frigidly accurate, disclosing a pair ofworkman-like rubber boots which, _mutatis mutandis,_ were very likethose Davies was wearing. Her hair, like his, was spangled withmoisture, and her rose-brown skin struck a note of delicious colouragainst the sullen Stygian background.

  'There he is,' said Davies. Never did his 'meiner Freund,Carruthers,' sound so pleasantly in my ears; never so discordantlythe 'Fr?ulein Dollmann' that followed it. Every syllable of the fourwas a lie. Two honest English eyes were looking up into mine; anhonest English hand--is this insular nonsense? Perhaps so, but Istick to it--a brown, firm hand--no, not so very small, mysentimental reader--was clasping mine. Of course I had strongreasons, apart from the racial instinct, for thinking her to beEnglish, but I believe that if I had had none at all I should at anyrate have congratulated Germany on a clever bit of plagiarism. By hervoice, when she spoke, I knew that she must have talked Germanhabitually from childhood; diction and accent were faultless, atleast to my English ear; but the native constitutional ring waswanting.

  She came on board. There was a hollow discussion first about time andweather, but it ended as we all in our hearts wished it to end. Noneof us uttered our real scruples. Mine, indeed, were too new andrudimentary to be worth uttering, so I said common-sense things abouttea and warmth; but I began to think about my compact with Davies.

  'Just for a few minutes, then,' she said.

  I held out my hand and swung her up. She gazed round the deck andrigging with profound interest--a breathless, hungry interest--touchingto see.

  'You've seen her before, haven't you?' I said.

  'I've not been on board before,' she answered.

  This struck me in passing as odd; but then I had only too few detailsfrom Davies about his days at Norderney in September.

  'Of course, _that_ is what puzzled me,' she exclaimed, suddenly,pointing to the mizzen. 'I knew there was something different.'

  Davies had belayed the painter, and now had to explain the origin ofthe mizzen. This was a cumbrous process, and his hearer's attentionsoon wandered from the subject and became centred in him--his wasalready more than half in her--and the result was a goldenopportunity for the discerning onlooker. It was very brief, but Imade the most of it; buried deep a few regrets, did a littleheartfelt penance, told myself I had been a cynical fool not to haveforeseen this, and faced the new situation with a sinking heart; I amnot ashamed to admit that, for I was fond of Davies, and I was keenabout the quest.

  She had never been a guilty agent in that attempt on Davies. Had shebeen an unconscious tool or only an unwilling one? If the latter, didshe know the secret we were seeking? In the last degree unlikely, Idecided. But, true to the compact, whose importance I now fullyappreciated, I flung aside my diplomatic weapons, recoiling, asstrongly, or nearly as strongly, let us say, from any effort director indirect to gain information from such a source. It was not ourfault if by her own conversation and behaviour she gave us some ideaof how matters stood. Davies already knew more than I did.

  We spent a few minutes on deck while she asked eager questions aboutour build and gear and seaworthiness, with a quaint mixture ofprofessional acumen and personal curiosity.

  'How _did_ you manage alone that day?' she asked Davies, suddenly.

  'Oh, it was quite safe,' was the reply. 'But it's much better to havea friend.'

  She looked at me; and--well, I would have died for Davies there andthen.

  'Father said you would be safe,' she remarked, with decision--aslight excess of decision, I thought. And at that turned to some ropeor block and pursued her questioning. She found the compassimpressive, and the trappings of that hateful centreboard had apeculiar fascination for her. Was this the way we did it in England?was her constant query.

  Yet, in spite of a superficial freedom, we were all shy andconstrained. The descent below was a welcome diversion, for we shouldhave been less than human if we had not extracted some spontaneousfun from the humours of the saloon. I went down first to see aboutthe tea, leaving them struggling for mutual comprehension over thetheory of an English lifeboat. They soon followed, and I can see hernow stooping in at the doorway, treading delicately, like a kitten,past the obstructive centreboard to a place on the starboard sofa,then taking in her surroundings with a timid rapture that broke intodelight at all the primitive arrangements and dingy amenities of ourden. She explored the cavernous recesses of the Rippingille, fingeredthe duck-guns and the miscellany in the racks, and peeped into thefo'c'sle with dainty awe. Everything was a source of merriment, fromour cramped attitudes to the painful deficiency of spoons and the'yachtiness' (there is no other word to describe it) of the bread,which had been bought at Bensersiel, and had suffered fromincarceration and the climate. This fact came out, and led to somequestions, while we waited for the water to boil, about the gale andour visit there. The topic, a pregnant one for us, appeared to haveno special significance to her. At the mention of von Br?ning sheshowed no emotion of any sort; on the contrary, she went out of herway, from an innocent motive that anyone could have guessed, to showthat she could talk about him with dispassionate detachment.

  'He came to see us when you were here last, didn't he?' she said toDavies. 'He often comes. He goes with father to Memmert sometimes.You know about Memmert? They are diving for money out of an oldwreck.'

  'Yes, we had heard about it.'

  'Of course you have. Father is a director of the company, andCommander von Br?ning takes great interest in it; they took me downin a diving-bell once.'

  I murmured, 'Indeed!' and Davies sawed laboriously at the bread. Shemust have misconstrued our sheepish silence, for she stopped and drewherself up with just a touch of momentary _hauteur_, utterly lost onDavies. I could have laughed aloud at this transient little comedy oferrors.

  'Did you see any gold?' said Davies at last, with husky solemnity.Something had to be said or we should defeat our own end; but I lethim say it. He had not my faith in Memmert.

  'No, only mud and timber--oh, I forgot----'

  'You mustn't betray the company's secrets,' I said, laughing;'Commander von Br?ning wouldn't tell us a word about the gold.'('There's self-denial!' I said to myself.)

  'Oh, I don't think it matters much,' she answered, laughing too. 'Youare only visitors.'

  'That's all,' I remarked, demurely. 'Just passing travellers.'

  'You will stop at Norderney?' she said, with na?ve anxiety. 'HerrDavies said----'

  I looked to Davies; it was his affair. Fair and square came hisanswer, in blunt dog-German.

  'Yes, of course, we shall. I should like to see your father again.'

  Up to this moment I had been doubtful of his final decision; for eversince our explanation at Bensersiel I had had the feeling that I washolding his nose to a very cruel grindstone. This straight word,c
lear and direct, beyond anything I had hoped for, brought me to mysenses and showed me that his mind had been working far in advance ofmine; and more, shaping a double purpose that I had never dreamt of.

  'My father?' said Fr?ulein Dollmann; 'yes, I am sure he will be veryglad to see you.

  There was no conviction in her tone, and her eyes were distant andtroubled.

  'He's not at home now, is he?' I asked.

  'How did you know?' (a little maidenly confusion). 'Oh, Commander vonBr?ning.'

  I might have added that it had been clear as daylight all along thatthis visit was in the nature of an escapade of which her father mightnot approve. I tried to say 'I won't tell,' without words, and mayhave succeeded.

  'I told Mr Davies when we first met,' she went on. 'I expect him backvery soon--to-morrow in fact; he wrote from Amsterdam. He left me atHamburg and has been away since. Of course, he will not know youryacht is back again. I think he expected Mr Davies would stay in theBaltic, as the season was so late. But--but I am sure he will be gladto see you.'

  'Is the 'Medusa' in harbour?' said Davies.

  'Yes; but we are not living on her now. We are at our villa in theSchwannall?e--my stepmother and I, that is.' She added some details,and Davies gravely pencilled down the address on a leaf of thelog-book; a formality which somehow seemed to regularize the presentposition.

  'We shall be at Norderney to-morrow,' he said.

  Meanwhile the kettle was boiling merrily, and I made the tea--cocoa,I should say, for the menu was changed in deference to our visitor'stastes. 'This _is_ fun!' she said. And by common consent we abandonedourselves, three youthful, hungry mariners, to the enjoyment of thisimpromptu picnic. Such a chance might never occur again--_carpamusdiem._

  But the banquet was never celebrated. As at Belshazzar's feast, therewas a writing on the wall; no supernatural inscription, but just aprinted name; an English surname with title and initials, in cheapgilt lettering on the back of an old book; a silent, sneering witnessof our snug party. The catastrophe came and passed so suddenly thatat the time I had scarcely even an inkling of what caused it; but Iknow now that this is how it happened. Our visitor was sitting at theforward end of the starboard sofa, close to the bulkhead. Davies andI were opposite her. Across the bulkhead, on a level with our heads,ran the bookshelf, whose contents, remember, I had carefullystraightened only half an hour ago, little dreaming of theconsequence. Some trifle, probably the logbook which Davies hadreached down from the shelf, called her attention to the rest of ourlibrary. While busied with the cocoa I heard her spelling out sometitles, fingering leaves, and twitting Davies with the little care hetook of his books. Suddenly there was a silence which made me lookup, to see a startled and pitiful change in her. She was staring atDavies with wide eyes and parted lips, a burning flush mounting onher forehead, and such an expression on her face as a sleep-walkermight wear, who wakes in fear he knows not where.

  Half her mind was far away, labouring to construe some hideous dreamof the past; half was in the present, cringing before some sickeningreality. She remained so for perhaps ten seconds, and then--pluckygirl that she was--she mastered herself, looked deliberately roundand up with a circular glance, strangely in the manner of Davieshimself, and spoke. How late it was, she must be going--her boat wasnot safe. At the same time she rose to go, or rather slid herselfalong the sofa, for rising was impossible. We sat like mannerlesslouts, in blank amazement. Davies at the outset had said, 'What's thematter?' in plain English, and then relapsed into stupefaction. Irecovered myself the first, and protested in some awkward fashionabout the cocoa, the time, the absence of fog. In trying to answer,her self-possession broke down, poor child, and her retreat became ablind flight, like that of a wounded animal, while every sordidcircumstance seemed to accentuate her panic.

  She tilted the corner of the table in leaving the sofa and spiltcocoa over her skirt; she knocked her head with painful force againstthe sharp lintel of the doorway, and stumbled on the steps of theladder. I was close behind, but when I reached the deck she wasalready on the counter hauling up the dinghy. She had even jumped inand laid hands on the sculls before any check came in her precipitatemovements. Now there occurred to her the patent fact that the dinghywas ours, and that someone must accompany her to bring it back.

  'Davies will row you over,' I said.

  'Oh no, thank you,' she stammered. 'If you will be so kind, HerrCarruthers. It is your turn. No, I mean, I want----'

  'Go on,' said Davies to me in English.

  I stepped into the dinghy and motioned to take the sculls from her.She seemed not to see me, and pushed off while Davies handed down herjacket, which she had left in the cabin. Neither of us tried tobetter the situation by conventional apologies. It was left to her,at the last moment, to make a show of excusing herself, an attempt sobrave and yet so wretchedly lame that I tingled all over with hotshame. She only made matters worse, and Davies interrupted her.

  '_Auf Wiedersehen_,' he said, simply.

  She shook her head, did not even offer her hand, and pulled away;Davies turned sharp round and went below.

  There was now no muddy Rubicon to obstruct us, for the tide had risena good deal, and the sands were covering. I offered again to take thesculls, but she took no notice and rowed on, so that I was a silentpassenger on the stem seat till we reached her boat, a spruce littleyacht's gig, built to the native model, with a spoon-bow and tinylee-boards. It was already afloat, but riding quite safely to a ropeand a little grapnel, which she proceeded to haul in.

  'It was quite safe after all, you see,' I said.

  'Yes, but I could not stay. Herr Carruthers, I want to say somethingto you.' (I knew it was coming; von Br?ning's warning over again.) 'Imade a mistake just now; it is no use your calling on us to-morrow.'

  'Why not?'

  'You will not see my father.'

  'I thought you said he was coming back?'

  'Yes, by the morning steamer; but he will be very busy.'

  'We can wait. We have several days to spare, and we have to call forletters anyhow.'

  'You must not delay on our account. The weather is very fine at last.It would be a pity to lose a chance of a smooth voyage to England.The season----'

  'We have no fixed plans. Davies wants to get some shooting.

  'My father will be much occupied.'

  'We can see _you_.'

  I insisted on being obtuse, for though this fencing with an unstrunggirl was hateful work, the quest was at stake. We were going toNorderney, come what might, and sooner or later we must see Dollmann.It was no use promising not to. I had given no pledge to von Br?ning,and I would give none to her. The only alternative was to violate thecompact (which the present fiasco had surely weakened), speak out,and try and make an ally of her. Against her own father? I shrankfrom the responsibility and counted the cost of failure--certainfailure, to judge by her conduct. She began to hoist her lugsail in adazed, shiftless fashion, while our two boats drifted slowly toleeward.

  'Father might not like it,' she said, so low and from such tremulouslips that I scarcely caught her words. 'He does not like foreignersmuch. I am afraid ... he did not want to see Herr Davies again.'

  'But I thought----'

  'It was wrong of me to come aboard--I suddenly remembered; but Icould not tell Herr Davies.'

  'I see,' I answered. 'I will tell him.'

  'Yes, that he must not come near us.

  'He will understand. I know he will be very sorry, but,' I added,firmly, 'you can trust him implicitly to do the right thing.' And howI prayed that this would content her! Thank Heaven, it did.

  'Yes,' she said, 'I am afraid I did not say good-bye to him. You willdo so?' She gave me her hand.

  'One thing more,' I added, holding it, 'nothing had better be saidabout this meeting?'

  'No, no, nothing. It must never be known.'

  I let go the gig's gunwale and watched her tighten her sheet and makea tack or two to windward. Then I rowed back to the _Dulcibella_ a
shard as I could.