Number 70, Berlin Part 10

"It's all arranged--eh? And orders have been sent out to the Fleet?"

asked the financier.

Again Trustram laughingly replied, "I didn't say so," but from his friend's manner Lewin Rodwell knew that he had learnt the great and most valuable secret of the true intentions of the British Navy.

It was not the first piece of valuable information which he had wormed out of his official friends. So clever was he that he now pretended to be highly eager and enthusiastic over the probable result of the strategy.

"Let's hope Von Tirpitz will fall into the trap," he said. "Of course it will have to be very cunningly baited, if you are to successfully deceive him. He's already shown himself to be an artful old bird."

"Well--without giving anything away--I happen to know, from certain information pa.s.sing through my hands, that the bait will be sufficiently tempting."

"So we may expect to hear of a big naval battle about the sixteenth. I should say that it will, in all probability, be fought south of Iceland, somewhere off the Shetlands."

"Well, that certainly is within the range of probability," was the other's response. "All I can tell you--and in the very strictest confidence, remember--is that the scheme is such a cleverly conceived one that I do not believe it can possibly fail."

"And if it failed?"

"Well--if it failed," Trustram said, hesitating and speaking in a lower tone--"if it failed, then no real harm would occur--only one thing perhaps: that the East Coast of England might be left practically unguarded for perhaps twelve hours or so. That's all."

"Well, that would not matter very much, so long as the enemy obtains no knowledge of the British Admiral's intentions," remarked Lewin Rodwell, contemplating the end of his cigar and reflecting for a few seconds.

Then he blurted out:

"Gad! that's jolly interesting. I shall wait for next Wednesday with all eagerness."

"You won't breathe a word, will you? Remember, it was you who obtained the information by suggestion," Trustram said, with a good-humoured laugh.

"Can't you really rely on me, my dear fellow, when I give you my word of honour as an Englishman to say nothing?" he asked. "I expect I am often in the know in secrets of the Cabinet, and I am trusted."

"Very well," replied his friend. "I accept your promise. Not a word must leak out. If it did, then all our plans would be upset, and possibly it would mean the loss of one, or more, of our s.h.i.+ps. But you, of course, realise the full seriousness of it all."

"I do, my dear Trustram--I do," was the rea.s.suring answer. "No single whisper of it shall pa.s.s my lips. That, I most faithfully promise you."

CHAPTER EIGHT.

TOILERS OF THE NORTH SEA.

Just as it was growing dark on the following evening, a powerful pale grey car, with cabriolet body, drew out of the yard of the quaint old Saracen's Head Hotel at Lincoln, and, pa.s.sing slowly through the town, set out on the straight, open road which led past Langworth station to Wragby, and on to Horncastle.

The occupant of the car, m.u.f.fled up as though he were an invalid, had come in from London half an hour before, taken his tea in the coffee-room, and had resumed his journey, together with his smart, clean-shaven chauffeur.

Though he posed as an invalid at the Saracen's Head, yet as soon as the car had left the town he threw off his thick m.u.f.fler, opened his coat and drew a long sigh of relief.

Truth to tell, Mr Lewin Rodwell, whose photograph appeared so constantly in the picture-papers, was not over anxious to be seen in Lincoln, or, indeed, in that neighbourhood at all. With Penney, his trusted chauffeur--a man who, like himself, was a "friend of Germany"-- he had set out from Bruton Street that morning, and all day they had sat side by side on their journey towards the Fens.

Many times, after chatting with Penney, he had lapsed into long spells of silence, during which time he had puffed vigorously at his cigar, and thought deeply.

Until, after about five miles, they pa.s.sed Langworth station, they had been content with their side-lights, but soon they switched on the huge electric head-lamps, and then they "put a move on," as Rodwell was anxious to get to his journey's end as quickly as possible.

"You'll drop me, as usual, at the three roads beyond Mumby. Then go into Skegness and put up for the night. Meet me at the same spot to-morrow morning at seven-thirty."

"Very well, sir," was the young man's obedient reply.

"Let's see," remarked Rodwell. "When we were up in this lonely, forsaken part of the country a week ago, where did you put up?"

"The last time in Louth, sir. The time before in Lincoln, and the time before that in Grimsby. I haven't been in Skegness for a full month."

"Then go there, and mind and keep your mouth shut tight!"

"I always do, sir."

"Yes, it pays you to do so--eh?" laughed Rodwell. "But I confess, Penney, that I'm getting heartily sick of this long journey," he sighed, "compelled, as we are, to constantly go many miles out of our way in order to vary the route."

"The road is all right in summer, sir, but it isn't pleasant on a cold stormy night like this--especially when you've got a two-mile walk at the end of it."

"That's just it. I hate that walk. It's so dark and lonely, along by that open d.y.k.e. Yet it has to be done; and, after all, the darker the night--perhaps the safer it is." Then he lapsed again into silence, while the car--well-driven by Penney, who was an expert driver--flew across the broad open fenlands, in the direction of the sea.

The December night was dark, with rain driving against and blurring the windscreen, in which was a small oblong hole in the gla.s.s, allowing Penney to see the long, lonely road before him. Pa.s.sing the station at Horncastle, they continued through the town and then up over the hill on the Spilsby road and over the wide gloomy stretch until, about half-past seven o'clock, after taking a number of intricate turns up unfrequented fen-roads, they found themselves pa.s.sing through a small, lonely, ill-lit village. Beyond this place, called Orby, they entered another wide stretch of those low-lying marshes which border the North Sea on the Lincolns.h.i.+re coast, marshes intersected by a veritable maze of roads, most of which were without sign-posts, and where, in the darkness, it was a very easy matter to lose one's way.

But Penney--who had left the high road on purpose--had been over those cross-roads on many previous occasions. Indeed, he knew them as well as any Fenman, and without slackening speed or faltering, he at last brought the car to a standstill a few miles beyond the village of Mumby, at a point where three roads met about two miles from the sea.

It was still raining--not quite so heavily as before, but sufficiently to cause Rodwell to discard his fur-lined overcoat for a mackintosh.

Then, having placed an electric flash-lamp in his pocket, together with a large bulky cartridge envelope, a silver flask and a packet of sandwiches, he took a stout stick from the car and alighting bade the young man good-night, and set forth into the darkness.

"I wonder whether I'll be in time?" he muttered to himself in German, going forward as he bent against the cold driving rain which swept in from the sea. He usually spoke German to himself when alone. His way, for the first mile, was beside a long straight "drain," into which, in the darkness, it would have been very easy to slip had he not now and then flashed on his lamp to reveal the path.

Beneath his breath, in German, he cursed the weather, for already the bottoms of his trousers were saturated as he splashed on through the mud, while the rain beat full in his face. Presently he came in sight of a row of cottage-windows at a place called Langham, and then, turning due north into the marshes, he at last, after a further mile, came to the beach whereon the stormy waters of the North Sea were las.h.i.+ng themselves into a white foam discernible in the darkness.

That six miles of low-lying coast, stretching from the little village of Chapel St Leonards north to Sutton-on-Sea, was very spa.r.s.ely inhabited--a wide expanse of lonely fenland almost without a house.

Upon that deserted, low-lying coast were two coastguard stations, one near Huttoft Bank and the other at Anderby Creek, and of course--it being war-time--constant vigil was kept at sea both night and day. But as the district was not a vulnerable one in Great Britain's defences, nothing very serious was ever reported from there to the Admiralty.

By day a sleepy plain of brown and green marshes, by night a dark, cavernous wilderness, where the wild sea beat monotonously upon the s.h.i.+ngle, it was a truly gloomy, out-of-the-world spot, far removed from the bustle of war's alarm.

Lewin Rodwell, on gaining the beach at the end of a long straight path, turned without hesitation to the right, and walked to the south of the little creek of Anderby for some distance, until he suddenly ascended a low mound close by the sea, half-way between Anderby Creek and Chapel Point, and there before him stood a low-built fisherman's cottage, partly constructed of wood, which by day was seen to be well-tarred and water-tight.

Within a few yards of the beach it stood, with two boats drawn up near and a number of nets spread out to dry; the home of honest Tom Small and his son, typical Lincolns.h.i.+re fishermen, who, father and son, had fished the North Sea for generations.

At the Anchor, in Chapel St Leonards, old Tom Small was a weekly visitor on Sat.u.r.day nights, when, in that small, close-smelling bar-parlour, he would hurl the most bitter anathemas at the "All Highest of Germany," and laugh his fleet to scorn; while at Anderby Church each Sunday morning he would appear in his best dark blue trousers, thick blue jacket and peaked cap, a worthy hardworking British fisherman with wrinkled, weatherbeaten face and reddish beard. He was of that hardy type of seafarer so much admired by the town-dweller when on his summer holiday, a man who, in his youth, had been "c.o.x" of the Sutton lifeboat, and who had stirring stories to tell of wild nights around the Rosse Spit and the Sand Haile, the foundering of tramps with all hands, and the marvellous rescues effected by his splendid crew.

It was this man, heavily-booted and deep-voiced, by whom Lewin Rodwell was confronted when he tapped at the cottage door.

"Come, hurry up! Let me in!" cried Rodwell impatiently, after the door was slowly unlocked. "I'm soaked! This infernal neighbourhood of yours is absolutely the limit, Small. Phew!" and he threw down his soaked cap and entered the stone-flagged living-room, where Small's son rose respectfully to greet him.

"Where are my other clothes?" he asked sharply, whereupon the weatherbeaten fisherman produced from an old chest in the corner a rough suit of grey tweeds, which Rodwell, carried to the inner room on the left, and quickly a.s.sumed.

"Pretty nice weather this!" he shouted cheerily to father and son, while in the act of changing his clothes. "Is all serene? Have you tested lately?"

"Yes, sir," replied the elder man. "I spoke at five o'clock an' told 'em you were coming. So Mr Stendel is waiting."