Complete works of a e w.., p.787
Complete Works of a E W Mason, page 787
Strange went from the dinner-party to his club. There was the inevitable crowd, fighting the campaign differently, cutting up the conquered countries, or crying all was lost. Some of them had written to the papers, all were somehow swollen with importance as though the war was their private property. Strange began to take heart.
“They are not ashamed,” he thought. “They speak to me as if they expected I should be here. Perhaps I am a fool.”
A friend sat down by his side.
“Cross went yesterday,” he said. “George Crawley was killed at Mons. Of course you have heard.”
Strange had not heard, and there rose before his eyes suddenly a picture of George Crawley, the youngest colonel in the army, standing on the kerb in St. James’s Street and with uplifted face blaspheming to the skies at one o’clock in the morning because of a whiskered degenerate dandy with a frilled shirt to whom he had just before been introduced. But his friend was continuing his catalogue.
“Chalmers is training at Grantham. He’s with the new army. Linton has joined the Flying Corps. Every day someone slips quietly away. God knows how many of them will come back.”
Strange got up and walked out of the club.
“I shall see you to-morrow,” his friend cried after him.
“No, I am going back to my boat.”
“For how long?”
“Till the war’s over.”
The resolution had been taken that instant. He loved the Boulotte better than anything else in the world. For on board of her he was altogether a man. She was fifty-five feet long over all, fourteen feet in beam, twenty-five tons by Thames measurement, and his debt to her was enormous. He had found her in a shed in the Isle of Wight, re-coppered her, given her a new boiler, fixed her up with forced draught, and taken out for himself after a year’s hard work a master’s certificate. He took her over to Holland, and since her bows worked like a concertina in the heavy seaway between Dover and Dieppe he strengthened them with cross-pieces. He never ceased to tinker with her, he groused at her, and complained of her, and sneered at her, and doted on her in the true sailor’s fashion. For some years past life had begun for him in the spring, when he passed Portland Bill bound westward for Fowey and Falmouth and the Scillies, and had ended in the late autumn, when he pulled the Boulotte up on the mud of Wootton Creek. Now he turned to her in his distress, and made a most miserable Odyssey. He spent a month in the estuary above Salcombe, steamed across to Havre, went down through the canals to Marseilles in the autumn of 1914, and sought one of the neutral coasts of the Mediterranean. Here, where men wore buttons in their coats inscribed, “Don’t speak to me of the war,” he fancied that he might escape from the shame of his insufficiency. He came to a pleasant harbour, with a broad avenue of trees behind the quay, and a little ancient town behind the trees.
“I will drop my anchor here,” he said, “until the war ends”; and he remained, speaking to no one but his crew, sleeping in his little cabin, and only going on shore to buy his newspapers and take his coffee. And after five weeks the miracle began to happen. He was sitting on his deck one morning reading a local newspaper. At right angles to him half a dozen steamers, moored in a line, with their sterns to the quay and their anchors out forward, were loading with fruit. He looked up from his paper, and his eyes fell upon the nearest ship, which was showing him her starboard broadside. He looked first of all carelessly, then with interest, finally he laid his paper down and walked forward. The boat had received on the lower part of her hull, up to the Plimsoll line, a brilliant fresh coat of red paint. So far, of course, there was nothing unusual, but forward, halfway between her bows and her midships, and again aft on her quarter, she had a broad perpendicular line of the same red paint standing out vividly from the black of her upper plates. Strange called to his engineer, John Shawe, and pointed to the streaks.
“What do you make of them?” he asked.
Shawe shrugged his shoulders.
“Very wasteful it do seem, sir,” he said; and to a casual glance it did indeed appear as if the paint had been allowed, through some carelessness on deck, to drip down the side at those two points. Strange, however, was not satisfied. The bands of scarlet were too regular, too broad. He had himself rowed out in his dinghy past the steamer’s bows.
“That will do, Harry,” he said. “We can go back.”
On the port bows and quarter of the steamer he had seen the same vivid streaks. Strange spoke again to John Shawe.
“Waste isn’t the explanation, that’s sure. You go about the town a bit, don’t you? You know some of the men about the port. You might find out for me — quietly, you know — what you can about that boat”; and the phrase “quietly, you know,” made all at once a different man of John Shawe. Strange at this time was really more moved by curiosity than suspicion, but he did use the phrase, and John Shawe, a big, simple, south countryman, who knew his engine and very little else, swelled at once into a being of mystery, full of brow-twisting wisdom and portentously sly.
“I understand, sir,” he said in a knowing whisper. “I know my dooty. It shall be done.” He put on his best brass-buttoned coat that evening, and went down the three steps of the gangway ladder with a secret air, a sleuth; but he brought back his news nevertheless.
“All those boats, sir, are chartered by a German here named Rehnke.”
“But some of them are English. They are flying the red flag,” cried Strange in revolt.
“It’s God’s truth, sir, and here’s more of it. Every one of them’s bound for England, consigned to English firms. One’s for Manchester, two for Cardiff, one for Liverpool.”
“But it’s impossible. It’s trading with the enemy,” Strange exclaimed.
“That don’t apply to the enemy in neutral countries, they say. Oh, there’s a deal of dirty work going on in England. Will you come on deck?”
Strange nodded. The saloon door opened into the cockpit, and the cabin roof was the deck of the after-part of the Boulotte. They climbed by a little ladder out of the cockpit. It was twelve o’clock on a night of full moon.
“Look, sir,” said Shawe.
The English boat had sailed that afternoon. The starboard side of its neighbour was now revealed. Strange looked through his glasses and he saw. Over the bows of that tramp steamer at midnight a man was suspended on a plank, and he was painting a broad, perpendicular, red streak.
Strange thought over his discovery lying on his back in the saloon. Distinguishing marks on a row of ships chartered by a German — there was just one explanation for them! Strange did not even whisper it to John Shawe, but he went ashore the next morning and called upon the British Consul.
His card was taken into a room where two men were speaking. At once the conversation stopped, and it was not resumed. There was not a whisper, nor the sound of any movement. Strange had a picture in his mind of two men with their heads together staring at his card and exchanging an unspoken question. Then the clerk appeared again.
“Mr. Taylor will see you with pleasure,” he said.
As Strange entered the room a slim, elderly, indifferent gentleman, seated at a knee-hole table, gazed vaguely at him through his spectacles and offered him a chair.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Strange?” he asked, and since Strange hesitated, he turned towards his companion.
“This is Major Slingsby,” said the Consul. “He will not be in your way.”
Major Slingsby, a square, short, rubicund man of forty, with the face of a faun, bowed, and, without moving from his chair, seemed, nevertheless, to remove himself completely from the room.
“Not at all,” said Strange. He had not an idea that he was in the presence of the two shrewdest men in those parts. To him they were just a couple of languid people whom it was his duty to arouse, and he told his story as vividly as he could.
“And what do you deduce from these mysterious signs?” asked the Consul.
Strange’s answer was prompt.
“German submarines in the Mediterranean.”
“Oh! And why not the Channel?” asked Mr. Taylor. “These steamers are on their way there.”
To that question there was no reply. Strange rose. “I thought that I ought to tell you what I had noticed,” he said stiffly.
“Thank you, yes. And I am very grateful,” replied Taylor.
Major Slingsby, however, followed Strange out of the room.
“Will you lunch with me?” he asked, and the question sent the blood rushing into Strange’s face. He swung between his instinct to hide his head from any man who was doing service and his craving to converse with a fellow-countryman. The craving won.
“I shall be very pleased,” he stammered.
“Right. It is half-past twelve now. Shall we say one at the Café de Rome?”
As they sat against the wall by the window of the café Slingsby talked of ordinary matters, which any one of those in the chairs outside upon the pavement might overhear and be none the wiser. But he talked sagely, neither parading mysteries nor pretending disclosures. He let the mere facts of companionship and nationality work, and before luncheon was over Strange was won by them. He longed to confide, to justify himself before a fellow-citizen of his miserable inertness. Over the coffee, indeed, he would have begun, but Slingsby saw the torrent of confession coming.
“Do you often lunch here?” he said quickly. “I do whenever I happen to be in the town. Sit in this window for an hour and you will see all the town paraded before you like a show, its big men and little men, its plots and its intrigues. There, for instance,” and he nodded towards a large, stout person with a blonde moustache, “is Rehnke — yes, that’s your man. Take a good look at him.”
Strange looked at the German hard. He looked also towards a youth who had been sitting for the last hour over a cup of coffee and a newspaper outside the window. Slingsby interpreted the look.
“He’s all right. He’s trying to listen, of course. Most foreigners do, whether they understand your language or not. And he doesn’t — not a word of it. I have been watching him. However, we may as well go, for I would very much like you to show me your little boat.”
Strange, eager and enthusiastic, jumped up from the table.
“Rather,” he cried. “She’s not big, of course, but she can keep the sea, especially since I strengthened her bows.”
“Oh, you have done that, have you?” said Slingsby, as he paid the bill. “That’s interesting.”
They crossed the boulevard to the quay and went on board the Boulotte. Every inch of brass on her, from the stanchions round the deck to the engine-room telegraph, flashed, and she was varnished and white and trim like a lady fresh from her maid.
“What can you do with your forced draught?” asked Slingsby.
“Thirteen,” replied Strange proudly. “With a good wind astern fourteen. Once I went out past the Needles buoy — —” and off he went in a glowing account of a passage to Cherbourg at the end of a stormy September. Slingsby never once interrupted him. He followed meekly from the rudder to the bow, where he examined with some attention the famous struts and cross-pieces.
“You have got a wireless, I see,” he said, looking up to the aerial, which, slackened and disconnected, dangled from the masthead.
“Yes. But it’s a small affair. However, I can hear four hundred miles if the night’s still. I can only send seventy.”
Slingsby nodded, and the two men returned to the saloon. There, at last, over a whisky and soda. Strange was encouraged to unload his soul. The torture of the August nights on the Berkshire Downs above the Thames Valley, the intolerable sense of uselessness; the feeling that he wore a brand of shame upon his forehead for all men to see, and the poignancy of the remorse which had shrivelled him when a wounded soldier from Ypres or Le Cateau limped past him in the street; all tumbled from his lips in abrupt, half-finished sentences.
“Therefore I ran away,” he said.
Slingsby sat back in his chair.
“So that’s it,” he said, and he laughed in a friendly fashion. “Do you know that we have all been greatly worried about you? Oh, you have caused a deuce of a fluttering I can tell you.”
Strange flushed scarlet.
“I was suspected!” he cried. “Good God!” It just wanted that to complete his utter shame. He had been worse than useless; he had given trouble. He sat with his eyes fixed, in the depths of abasement. Then other words were spoken to him:
“How long will it take you to bring your boat to Marseilles?”
“You want it, then?” said Strange.
“I can use you,” said Slingsby. “What’s more, you are necessary.”
Strange, with a buzzing head, got out his chart from a locker and spread it on the table. He took paper and a lead pencil and his compasses. He marked his course and measured it.
“Forty-seven hours’ steaming and six hours to get up steam. It’s four o’clock now, and the day’s Tuesday. I can be at Marseilles on Thursday afternoon at four.”
“I have done a good day’s work,” said Major Slingsby, as he rose to his feet, and he meant it. Slingsby was an intelligence officer as well as an officer of intelligence, and since he had neither boats to dispose of nor money to buy them with, Anthony Strange was a Godsend to him. “But I don’t want you until to-day week. I shall want a little time to make arrangements with the French.”
The Bulotte steamed round the point at three o’clock on the appointed afternoon. The pilot took her through the Naval Harbour into the small basin where the destroyers lie, and by half-past she was berthed against the quay. Strange had been for the best part of two days on his bridge, but at eleven he was knocking at a certain door without any inscription upon it in the Port office, and he was admitted to a new Major Slingsby in a khaki uniform, with red tabs on the collar, and clerks typewriting for dear life in a tiny room.
“Hallo,” said Slingsby. He looked into a letter-tray on the edge of his desk and took a long envelope from it and handed it to Strange. “You might have a look at this. I’ll come on board to-morrow morning. Meanwhile, if I were you I should go to bed, though I doubt if you’ll get much sleep.”
The reason for that doubt became more and more apparent as the evening wore on. In the first place, when Strange returned, he found workmen with drills and hammers and rivets spoiling the white foredeck of his adored Boulotte. For a moment he was inclined, like Captain Hatteras when his crew cut down his bulwarks for firewood, to stand aside and weep, but he went forward, and when he saw the work which was going on his heart exulted. Then he went back to the saloon, but as he stretched himself out upon the cushions he remembered the envelope in his pocket. It was stamped “On His Majesty’s Service,” and it contained the announcement that one Anthony Strange had been granted a commission as sub-lieutenant in the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve. After that sleep was altogether out of the question. There was the paper to be re-read at regular intervals lest its meaning should have been misunderstood. And when its meaning was at last firmly and joyfully fixed in Strange’s mind there was the paper itself to be guarded and continually felt, lest it should lose itself, be stolen, or evaporate into air. Towards midnight, indeed, he did begin to doze off, but then a lighter came alongside and dumped ten tons of Welsh steam coal on board, all that he could hold, it’s true, but that gave him ten days’ steaming at ordinary draught. And at eight o’clock to the minute Slingsby hailed him from the quay.
“You will go back now to your old harbour,” he said. “You have been a little cruise down the coast, that’s all. Just look out for a sailing schooner called the Santa Maria del Pilar. She ought to turn up in seven days from now to take on board a good many barrels of carbonate of soda. I’ll come by train at the same time. If she arrives before and takes her cargo on board, you can wire to me through the Consul and then — act on your own discretion.”
Strange drew a long breath, and his eyes shone.
“But she won’t, I think,” said Slingsby. “By the way, you were at Rugby with Russell of my regiment, weren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And you know Cowper, who was admiral out here?”
“Yes, he’s my uncle.”
“Exactly.”
Strange smiled. It was clear that a good many inquiries must have been made about him over the telegraph wires during the last week.
“Well, that’s all, I think,” said Slingsby. “You’ll push off as soon as you can, and good luck.”
But there was one further ceremony before the Boulotte was ready for sea. The small crew was signed on under the Naval Discipline Act. Then she put out, rounded the point, and headed for her destination over a smooth sunlit sea, with, by the way, an extra hand on board and a fine new capstan on her foredeck. Two days later she was moored in her old position, and Strange went to bed. The excitement was over, a black depression bore him down; he was deadly tired, and his back hurt him exceedingly. What was he doing at all with work of this kind? If he had to “act on his own discretion,” could he do it with any sort of profit? Such questions plagued him for two days more, whilst he lay and suffered. But then relief came. He slept soundly and without pain, and rose the next morning in a terror lest the Santa Maria del Pilar should have come and gone. He went up on to the deck and searched the harbour with his glasses. There was but one sailing boat taking in cargo, and she a brigantine named the Richard, with the Norwegian flag painted on her sides. Strange hurried to the Consul, and returned with a mind at ease. The Santa Maria del Pilar had not yet sailed in between the moles. Nor did she come until the next afternoon, by which time Slingsby was on board the Boulotte.
“There she is,” said Strange in a whisper of excitement, looking seawards. She sailed in with the sunset and a fair wind, a white schooner like a great golden bird of the sea, and she was nursed by a tug into a berth on the opposite side of the harbour. Slingsby and Strange dined at the Café de Rome and came on board again at nine. The great globes of electric light on their high pillars about the quays shone down upon the still, black water of the harbour. It was very quiet. From the cockpit of the Boulotte the two men looked across to the schooner.
