The Classic Mystery Collection - Arthur Conan Doyle [1051]
'To the depot, 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 depot's at the south point of Memmert, and Memmert's nearly two miles long.' _[See Chart B]_
'How far would that way be?'
'Sixteen miles good. And we should have to row in a breaking swell most of the way, close to land.'
'Out of the question; it's too public, too, if it clears. The steamer went that way, and will come back that way. We must go inside over the 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 now 10.15, and all those sands are drying off. We must cross the See-Gat and strike that boomed channel, the Memmert Balje; strike it, freeze on to it--can't cut off an inch--and pass that "watershed" you see there 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 while we're changing.' (He began flinging off his shore clothes, and I did the same.) 'It's at least five miles to the end of it; six, allowing for 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 or seven more miles--easier ones. And then--What are we to do when we get 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 the way there it doesn't matter by this route; we shall be miles from land.'
'What about getting back?'
'We shall have a rising tide, anyway. If the fog lasts--can you manage in a fog _and_ dark?'
'The dark makes it no more difficult, if we've a light to see the compass and chart by. You trim the binnacle lamp--no, the riding-light. Now give me the scissors, and don't speak a word for ten 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_ boat-hook, 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 own functions. 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 all the pros and cons that I had balanced. It was an impulse that drove me forward; but an impulse founded on reason, with just a tinge, perhaps, of superstition; for the quest had begun in a fog and might fitly 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 the pier.'
We slid by the Dulcibella, and she disappeared. Then we sat without speech or movement for about five minutes, while the gurgle of tide through piles approached and passed. The dinghy appeared to be motionless, just as a balloon in the clouds may appear to its occupants to be motionless, though urged by a current of air. In reality we were driving out of the Riff-Gat into the See-Gat. The dinghy 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-à-vis_ to me on the stern seat, his left hand behind him on the tiller, his right forefinger on a small square of paper which lay on his knees; this was a section cut out from the big German chart. _[See Chart B]_ On the midship-thwart between us lay the compass and a watch. Between these three objects--compass,