XXI. Blindfold to Memmert
'HERE she comes,' said Davies. It was nine o'clock on the next day,October 22, and we were on deck waiting for the arrival of thesteamer from Norddeich. There was no change in the weather--still thesame stringent cold, with a high barometer, and only fickle flaws ofair; but the morning was gloriously clear, except for a wreath or twoof mist curling like smoke from the sea, and an attenuated belt ofopaque fog on the northern horizon. The harbour lay open before us,and very commodious and civilized it looked, enclosed between twolong piers which ran quite half a mile out from the land to theroadstead (Riff Gat by name) where we lay. A stranger might havetaken it for a deep and spacious haven; but this, of course, was anillusion, due to the high water. Davies knew that three-quarters ofit was mud, the remainder being a dredged-out channel along thewestern pier. A couple of tugs, a dredger, and a ferry packet withsteam up, were moored on that side--a small stack of galliots on theother. Beyond these was another vessel, a galliot in build, butradiant as a queen among sluts; her varnished sides and sparsflashing orange in the sun. These, and her snow-white sailcovers andthe twinkle of brass and gun-metal, proclaimed her to be a yacht. Ihad already studied her through the glasses and read on her stern'Medusa'. A couple of sailors were swabbing her decks; you could hearthe slush of the water and the scratching of the deck-brooms. '_They_can see us anyway,' Davies had said.
For that matter all the world could see us--certainly the incomingsteamer must; for we lay as near to the pier as safety permitted,abreast of the berth she would occupy, as we knew by a gangway and aknot of sailors.
A packet boat, not bigger than a big tug, was approaching from thesouth.
'Remember, we're not supposed to know he's coming,' I said; 'let's gobelow.' Besides the skylight, our 'coach-house' cabin top had littleoblong side windows. We wiped clean those on the port side andwatched events from them, kneeling on the sofa.
The steamer backed her paddles, flinging out a wash that set usrolling to our scuppers. There seemed to be very few passengersaboard, but all of them were gazing at the _Dulcibella_ while thepacket was warped alongside. On the forward deck there were somemarket-women with baskets, a postman, and a weedy youth who might bean hotel-waiter; on the after-deck, standing close together, were twomen in ulsters and soft felt hats.
'There he is!' said Davies, in a tense whisper; 'the tall one.' Butthe tall one turned abruptly as Davies spoke and strode away behindthe deck-house, leaving me just a lightning impression of a greybeard and a steep tanned forehead, behind a cloud of cigar-smoke. Itwas perverse of me, but, to tell the truth, I hardly missed him, sooccupied was I by the short one, who remained leaning on the rail,thoughtfully contemplating the _Dulcibella_ through gold-rimmedpince-nez: a sallow, wizened old fellow, beetlebrowed, with a bush ofgrizzled moustache and a jet-black tuft of beard on his chin. Themost remarkable feature was the nose, which was broad and flat,merging almost imperceptibly in the wrinkled cheeks. Lightly beakedat the nether extremity, it drooped towards an enormous cigar whichwas pointing at us like a gun just discharged. He looked wise asSatan, and you would say he was smiling inwardly.
'Who's that?' I whispered to Davies. (There was no need to talk inwhispers, but we did so instinctively.)
'Can't think,' said Davies. 'Hullo! she's backing off, and they'venot landed.'
Some parcels and mail-bags had been thrown up, and the weedy waiterand two market-women had gone up the gangway, which was now beinghauled up, and were standing on the quay. I think one or two otherpersons had first come aboard unnoticed by us, but at the last momenta man we had not seen before jumped down to the forward deck.'Grimm!' we both ejaculated at once.
The steamer whistled sharply, circled backwards into the roadstead,and then steamed away. The pier soon hid her, but her smoke showedshe was steering towards the North Sea.
'What does this mean?' I asked.
'There must be some other quay to stop at nearer the town,' saidDavies. 'Let's go ashore and get your letters.'
We had made a long and painful toilette that morning, and felt quiteshy of one another as we sculled towards the pier, in much-creasedblue suits, conventional collars, and brown boots. It was the firsttime for two years that I had seen Davies in anything approaching arespectable garb; but a fashionable watering-place, even in the deadseason, exacts respect; and, besides, we had friends to visit.
We tied up the dinghy to an iron ladder, and on the pier found ourinquisitor of the night before smoking in the doorway of a shedmarked 'Harbour Master'. After some civilities we inquired about thesteamer. The answer was that it was Saturday, and she had, therefore,gone on to Juist. Did we want a good hotel? The 'Vier Jahreszeiten'was still open, etc.
'Juist, by Jove!' said Davies, as we walked on. 'Why are those threegoing to Juist?'
'I should have thought it was pretty clear. They're on their way toMemmert.'
Davies agreed, and we both looked longingly westward at astraw-coloured streak on the sea.
'Is it some meeting, do you think?' said Davies.
'Looks like it. We shall probably find the 'Kormoran' here,wind-bound.'
And find her we did soon after, the outermost of the stack ofgalliots, on the farther side of the harbour. Two men, whose faces wetook a good look at, were sitting on her hatch, mending a sail.
Flooded with sun, yet still as the grave, the town was like a deadbutterfly for whom the healing rays had come too late. We crossed somedeserted public gardens commanded by a gorgeous casino, its porticosheaped with chairs and tables; so past kiosques and _caf?s,_ great whitehotels with boarded windows, bazaars and booths, and all the stale leesof vulgar frivolity, to the post-office, which at least was alive. Ireceived a packet of letters and purchased a local time-table, fromwhich we learned that the steamer sailed daily to Borkum _via_Norderney, touching three times a week at Juist (weather permitting). Onthe return journey to-day it was due at Norderney at 7.30 p.m. Then Iinquired the way to the 'Vier Jahreszeiten'. 'For whatever yourprinciples, Davies,' I said, 'we are going to have the best breakfastmoney can buy! We've got the whole day before us.'
The 'Four Seasons' Hotel was on the esplanade facing the northernbeach. Living up to its name, it announced on an illuminatedsignboard, 'Inclusive terms for winter visitors; special attentionto invalids, etc.' Here in a great glass restaurant, with theunruffled blue of ocean spread out before us, we ate the king ofbreakfasts, dismissed the waiter, and over long and fragrant Havanasexamined my mail at leisure.
'What a waste of good diplomacy!' was my first thought, for nothinghad been tampered with, so far as we could judge from the minutestscrutiny, directed, of course, in particular to the franked officialletters (for to my surprise there were two) from Whitehall.
The first in order of date (October 6) ran: 'Dear Carruthers.--Takeanother week by all means.--Yours, etc.'
The second (marked 'urgent') had been sent to my home address andforwarded. It was dated October 15, and cancelled the previousletter, requesting me to return to London without delay--'I am sorryto abridge your holiday, but we are very busy, and, at present,short-handed.--Yours, etc.' There was a dry postscript to the effectthat another time I was to be good enough to leave more regular anddefinite information as to my whereabouts when absent.
'I'm afraid I never got this!' I said, handing it to Davies.
'You won't go, will you?' said he, looking, nevertheless, withunconcealed awe at the great man's handwriting under the haughtyofficial crest. Meanwhile I discovered an endorsement on a corner ofthe envelope: 'Don't worry; it's only the chief's fuss.--M----' Ipromptly tore up the envelope. There are domestic mysteries which itwould be indecent and disloyal to reveal, even to one's best friend.The rest of my letters need no remark; I smiled over some and blushedover others--all were voices from a life which was infinitely faraway. Davies, meanwhile, was deep in the foreign intelligence of anewspaper, spelling it out line by line, and referring impatiently tome for the meaning of words.
'Hullo!' he said, sudd
enly; 'same old game! Hear that siren?' Acurtain of fog had grown on the northern horizon and was drawingshorewards slowly but surely.
'It doesn't matter, does it?' I said.
'Well, we must get back to the yacht. We can't leave her alone in thefog.'
There was some marketing to be done on the way back, and in thecourse of looking for the shops we wanted we came on the Schwannall?eand noted its position. Before we reached the harbour the fog was onus, charging up the streets in dense masses. Happily a tramline ledright up to the pier-head, or we should have lost our way and wastedtime, which, in the event, was of priceless value. Presently westumbled up against the Harbour Office, which was our landmark forthe steps where we had tied up the dinghy. The same official appearedand good-naturedly held the painter while we handed in our parcels.He wanted to know why we had left the flesh-pots of the 'VierJahreszeiten'. To look after our yacht, of course. There was no need,he objected; there would be no traffic moving while the fog lasted,and the fog, having come on at that hour, had come to stay. If it didclear he would keep an eye on the yacht for us. We thanked him, butthought we would go aboard.
'You'll have a job to find her now,' he said.
The distance was eighty yards at the most, but we had to use ascientific method, the same one, in fact, that Davies had used lastnight in the approach to the eastern pier.
'Row straight out at right angles to the pier,' he said now. I didso, Davies sounding with his scull between the strokes. He found thebottom after twenty yards, that being the width of the dredged-outchannel at this point. Then we turned to the right, and moved gentlyforward, keeping touch with the edge of the mud-bank (for all theworld like blind men tapping along a kerbstone) and taking shortexcursions from it, till the _Dulcibella_ hove in view. 'That's partlyluck,' Davies commented; 'we ought to have had the compass as well.'
We exchanged shouts with the man on the pier to show we had arrived.
Chart B of Juist, Memmert, and Part of Norderney]
'It's very good practice, that sort of thing,' said Davies, when wehad disembarked.
'You've got a sixth sense,' I observed. 'How far could you go likethat?'
'Don't know. Let's have another try. I can't sit still all day. Let'sexplore this channel.'
'_Why not go to Memmert?'_ I said, in fun.
'To Memmert?' said Davies, slowly; 'by Jove! that's an idea!'
'Good Heavens, man! I was joking. Why, it's ten mortal miles.'
'More,' said Davies, absently. 'It's not so much the distance--what'sthe time? Ten fifteen; quarter ebb---- What am I talking about? We madeour plans last night.'
But seeing him, to my amazement, serious, I was stung by thesplendour of the idea I had awakened. Confidence in his skill wassecond nature to me. I swept straight on to the logic of the thing,the greatness, the completeness of the opportunity, if by a miracleit could be seized and used. Something was going on at Memmertto-day; our men had gone there; here were we, ten miles away, in asmothering, blinding fog. It was known we were here--Dollmann andGrimm knew it; the crew of the 'Medusa' knew it; the crew of the'Kormoran' knew it; the man on the pier, whether he cared or not, knewit. But none of them knew Davies as I knew him. Would anyone dreamfor an instant----?
'Stop a second,' said Davies; 'give me two minutes.' He whipped outthe German chart. 'Where exactly should we go?' ('Exactly!' The wordtickled me hugely.)
'To the dep?t, of course; it's our only chance.'
'Listen then--there are two routes: the outside one by the open sea,right round Juist, and doubling south--the simplest, but the longest;the dep?t's at the south point of Memmert, and Memmert's nearly twomiles long.' _[See Chart B]_
'How far would that way be?'
'Sixteen miles good. And we should have to row in a breaking swellmost of the way, close to land.'
'Out of the question; it's too public, too, if it clears. The steamerwent that way, and will come back that way. We must go inside overthe sands. Am I dreaming, though? Can you possibly find the way?'
'I shouldn't wonder. But I don't believe you see the hitch. It's the_time_ and the falling tide. High water was about 8.15: it's now10.15, and all those sands are drying off. We must cross the See Gatand strike that boomed channel, the Memmert Balje; strike it, freezeon to it--can't cut off an inch--and pass that "watershed" you seethere before it's too late. It's an infernally bad one, I can see.Not even a dinghy will cross it for an hour each side of low water.'
'Well, how far is the "watershed"?'
'Good Lord! What are we talking for? Change, man, change! Talk whilewe're changing.' (He began flinging off his shore clothes, and I didthe same.) 'It's at least five miles to the end of it; six, allowingfor bends; hour and a half hard pulling; two, allowing for checks.Are you fit? You'll have to pull the most. Then there are six orseven more miles--easier ones. And then--What are we to do when weget there?'
'Leave that to me,' I said. 'You get me there.'
'Supposing it clears?'
'After we get there? Bad; but we must risk that. If it clears on theway there it doesn't matter by this route; we shall be miles fromland.'
'What about getting back?'
'We shall have a rising tide, anyway. If the fog lasts--can youmanage in a fog _and_ dark?'
'The dark makes it no more difficult, if we've a light to see thecompass and chart by. You trim the binnacle lamp--no, theriding-light. Now give me the scissors, and don't speak a word forten minutes. Meanwhile, think it out, and load the dinghy--(by Jove!though, don't make a sound)--some grub and whisky, the boat-compass,lead, riding-light, matches, _small_ boathook, grapnel and line.'
'Foghorn?'
'Yes, and the whistle too.'
'A gun?'
'What for?'
'We're after ducks.'
'All right. And muffle the rowlocks with cotton-waste.'
I left Davies absorbed in the charts, and softly went about my ownfunctions. In ten minutes he was on the ladder, beckoning.
'I've done,' he whispered. 'Now _shall_ we go?'
'I've thought it out. Yes,' I answered.
This was only roughly true, for I could not have stated in words allthe pros and cons that I had balanced. It was an impulse that droveme forward; but an impulse founded on reason, with just a tinge,perhaps, of superstition; for the quest had begun in a fog and mightfitly end in one.
It was twenty-five minutes to eleven when we noiselessly pushed off.'Let her drift,' whispered Davies, 'the ebb'll carry her past thepier.'
We slid by the _Dulcibella_, and she disappeared. Then we sat withoutspeech or movement for about five minutes, while the gurgle of tidethrough piles approached and passed. The dinghy appeared to bemotionless, just as a balloon in the clouds may appear to itsoccupants to be motionless, though urged by a current of air. Inreality we were driving out of the Riff Gat into the See Gat. Thedinghy swayed to a light swell.
'Now, pull,' said Davies, under his breath; 'keep it long and steady,above all steady--both arms with equal force.'
I was on the bow-thwart; he _vis-?-vis_ to me on the stern seat, hisleft hand behind him on the tiller, his right forefinger on a smallsquare of paper which lay on his knees; this was a section cut outfrom the big German chart. _[See Chart B]_ On the midship-thwartbetween us lay the compass and a watch. Between these threeobjects--compass, watch, and chart--his eyes darted constantly, neverlooking up or out, save occasionally for a sharp glance over the sideat the flying bubbles, to see if I was sustaining a regular speed. Myduty was to be his automaton, the human equivalent of a marine enginewhose revolutions can be counted and used as data by the navigator.My arms must be regular as twin pistons; the energy that drove themas controllable as steam. It was a hard ideal to reach, for thecomplex mortal tends to rely on all the senses God has given him, sounfitting himself for mechanical exactitude when a sense (eyesight,in my case) fails him. At first it was constantly 'left' or 'right'from Davies, accompanied by a bubbling from the rudder.
'This won't do, too mu
ch helm,' said Davies, without looking up.'Keep your stroke, but listen to me. Can you see the compass card?'
'When I come forward.'
'Take your time, and don't get flurried, but each time you comeforward have a good look at it. The course is sou'-west half-west.You take the opposite, north-east half-east, and keep her _stern_ onthat. It'll be rough, but it'll save some helm, and give me a handfree if I want it.'
I did as he said, not without effort, and our progress graduallybecame smoother, till he had no need to speak at all. The only soundnow was one like the gentle simmer of a saucepan away to port--thelisp of surf I knew it to be--and the muffled grunt of the rowlocks.I broke the silence once to say 'It's very shallow.' I had touchedsand with my right scull.
'Don't talk,' said Davies.
About half an hour passed, and then he added sounding to his otheroccupations. 'Plump' went the lead at regular intervals, and hesteered with his hip while pulling in the line. Very little of itwent out at first, then less still. Again I struck bottom, and,glancing aside, saw weeds. Suddenly he got a deep cast, and thedinghy, freed from the slight drag which shallow water alwaysinflicts on a small boat, leapt buoyantly forward. At the same time,I knew by boils on the smooth surface that we were in a strongtideway.
'The Buse Tief,' _[See Chart B]_ muttered Davies. 'Row hard now, andsteady as a clock.'
For a hundred yards or more I bent to my sculls and made her fly.Davies was getting six fathom casts, till, just as suddenly as it haddeepened, the water shoaled--ten feet, six, three, one--the dinghygrounded.
'Good!' said Davies. 'Back her off! Pull your right only.' The dinghyspun round with her bow to N.N.W. 'Both arms together! Don't youworry about the compass now; just pull, and listen for orders.There's a tricky bit coming.'
He put aside the chart, kicked the lead under the seat, and, kneelingon the dripping coils of line, sounded continuously with the butt-endof the boathook, a stumpy little implement, notched at intervals ofa foot, and often before used for the same purpose. All at once I wasaware that a check had come, for the dinghy swerved and doubled likea hound ranging after scent.
'Stop her,' he said, suddenly, 'and throw out the grapnel.'
I obeyed and we brought up, swinging to a slight current, whosedirection Davies verified by the compass. Then for half a minute hegave himself up to concentrated thought. What struck me most abouthim was that he never for a moment strained his eyes through the fog;a useless exercise (for five yards or so was the radius of ourvision) which, however, I could not help indulging in, while Irested. He made up his mind, and we were off again, straight andswift as an arrow this time, and in water deeper than the boathook.I could see by his face that he was taking some bold expedient whoseissue hung in the balance ... Again we touched mud, and the artist'sjoy of achievement shone in his eyes. Backing away, we headed west,and for the first time he began to gaze into the fog.
'There's one!' he snapped at last. 'Easy all!'
A boom, one of the usual upright saplings, glided out of the mist. Hecaught hold of it, and we brought up.
'Rest for three minutes now,' he said. 'We're in fairly good time.'
It was 11.10. I ate some biscuits and took a nip of whisky whileDavies prepared for the next stage.
We had reached the eastern outlet of Memmert Balje, the channel whichruns east and west behind Juist Island, direct to the south point ofMemmert. How we had reached it was incomprehensible to me at thetime, but the reader will understand by comparing my narrative withthe dotted line on the chart. I add this brief explanation, thatDavies's method had been to cross the channel called the Buse Tief,and strike the other side of it at a point well _south_ of the outletof the Memmert Balje (in view of the northward set of the ebb-tide),and then to drop back north and feel his way to the outlet. The checkwas caused by a deep indentation in the Itzendorf Flat; a_cul-de-sac,_ with a wide mouth, which Davies was very near mistakingfor the Balje itself. We had no time to skirt dents so deep as that;hence the dash across its mouth with the chance of missing the upperlip altogether, and of either being carried out to sea (for theslightest error was cumulative) or straying fruitlessly along theedge.
The next three miles were the most critical of all. They included the'watershed', whose length and depth were doubtful; they included,too, the crux of the whole passage, a spot where the channel forks,our own branch continuing west, and another branch diverging from itnorth-westward. We must row against time, and yet we must negotiatethat crux. Add to this that the current was against us till thewatershed was crossed; that the tide was just at its most bafflingstage, too low to allow us to risk short cuts, and too high to givedefinition to the banks of the channel; and that the compass was noaid whatever for the minor bends. 'Time's up,' said Davies, and on wewent. I was hugging the comfortable thought that we should now havebooms on our starboard for the whole distance; on our starboard, Isay, for experience had taught us that all channels running parallelwith the coast and islands were uniformly boomed on the northernside. Anyone less confident than Davies would have succumbed to thetemptation of slavishly relying on these marks, creeping from one tothe other, and wasting precious time. But Davies knew our friend the'boom' and his eccentricities too well; and preferred to trust to hissense of touch, which no fog in the world could impair. If wehappened to sight one, well and good, we should know which side ofthe channel we were on. But even this contingent advantage hedeliberately sacrificed after a short distance, for he crossed overto the _south_ or unboomed side and steered and sounded along it,using the ltzendorf Flat as his handrail, so to speak. He wascompelled to do this, he told me afterwards, in view of the crux,where the converging lines of booms would have involved us inirremediable confusion. Our branch was the southern one, and itfollowed that we must use the southern bank, and defer obtaining anyhelp from booms until sure we were past that critical spot.
For an hour we were at the extreme strain, I of physical exertion, heof mental. I could not get into a steady swing, for little checkswere constant. My right scull was for ever skidding on mud or weeds,and the backward suck of shoal water clogged our progress. Once wewere both of us out in the slime tugging at the dinghy's sides; thenin again, blundering on. I found the fog bemusing, lost all idea oftime and space, and felt like a senseless marionette kicking andjerking to a mad music without tune or time. The misty form of Daviesas he sat with his right arm swinging rhythmically forward and back,was a clockwork figure as mad as myself, but didactic and gibberingin his madness. Then the boathook he wielded with a circular sweepbegan to take grotesque shapes in my heated fancy; now it was theantenna of a groping insect, now the crank of a cripple'sself-propelled perambulator, now the alpenstock of a lunaticmountaineer, who sits in his chair and climbs and climbs to somephantom 'watershed'. At the back of such mind as was left me lodgedtwo insistent thoughts: 'we must hurry on,' 'we are going wrong.' Asto the latter, take a link-boy through a London fog and you willexperience the same thing: he always goes the way you think is wrong.'We're rowing _back_!' I remember shouting to Davies once, havingbecome aware that it was now my left scull which splashed againstobstructions. 'Rubbish,' said Davies. 'I've crossed over'; and Irelapsed.
By degrees I returned to sanity, thanks to improved conditions. It isan ill wind that blows nobody good, and the state of the tide, thoughit threatened us with total failure, had the compensating advantagethat the lower it fell the more constricted and defined became ourchannel; till the time came when the compass and boathook were alikeunnecessary, because our handrail, the muddy brink of the channel,was visible to the eye, close to us; on our right hand always now,for the crux was far behind, and the northern side was now our guide.All that remained was to press on with might and main ere the bed ofthe creek dried.
What a race it was! Homeric, in effect; a struggle of men with gods,for what were the gods but forces of nature personified? If the Godof the Falling Tide did not figure in the Olympian circle he is nonethe less a mighty divinity. Davies left his post, and rowed
stroke.Under our united efforts the dinghy advanced in strenuous leaps,hurling miniature rollers on the bank beside us. My palms, seasonedas they were, were smarting with watery blisters. The pace was toohot for my strength and breath.
'I must have a rest,' I gasped.
'Well, I think we're over it,' said Davies.
We stopped the dinghy dead, and he stabbed over the side with theboathook. It passed gently astern of us, and even my bewilderedbrain took in the meaning of that.
'Three feet and the current with us. _Well_ over it,' he said. 'I'llpaddle on while you rest and feed.'
It was a few minutes past one and we still, as he calculated, hadeight miles before us, allowing for bends.
'But it's a mere question of muscle,' he said.
I took his word for it, and munched at tongue and biscuits. As formuscle, we were both in hard condition. He was fresh, and whatdistress I felt was mainly due to spasmodic exertion culminating inthat desperate spurt. As for the fog, it had more than once shown afaint tendency to lift, growing thinner and more luminous, in themanner of fogs, always to settle down again, heavy as a quilt.
Note the spot marked 'second rest' (approximately correct, Daviessays) and the course of the channel from that point westward. Youwill see it broadening and deepening to the dimensions of a greatriver, and finally merging in the estuary of the Ems. Note, too, thatits northern boundary, the edge of the now uncovered Nordland Sand,leads, with one interruption _(marked A),_ direct to Memmert, and isboomed throughout. You will then understand why Davies made so lightof the rest of his problem. Compared with the feats he had performed,it was child's play, for he always had that visible margin to keeptouch with if he chose, or to return to in case of doubt. As a matterof fact--observe our dotted line--he made two daring departures fromit, the first purely to save time, the second partly to save time andpartly to avoid the very awkward spot marked A, where a creek withbooms and a little delta of its own interrupts the even bank. Duringthe first of these departures--the shortest but most brilliant--helet me do the rowing, and devoted himself to the niceties of thecourse; during the second, and through both the intermediate stages,he rowed himself, with occasional pauses to inspect the chart. Wefell into a long, measured stroke, and covered the miles rapidly,scarcely exchanging a single word till, at the end of a long pullthrough vacancy, Davies said suddenly:
'Now where are we to land?'
A sandbank was looming over us crowned by a lonely boom.
'Where are we?'
'A quarter of a mile from Memmert.'
'What time is it?'
'Nearly three.'
The Riddle of the Sands Page 22
