Читать книгу The Fritz Strafers - Percy F. Westerman - Страница 8

MIDNIGHT, somewhere off the North Cornish coast. To be more accurate, the position was, according to observations made by Ober-leutnant Otto von Loringhoven commanding H.I.M. unterseeboot 254, was Hatstone Point south-south-east 1/4 east, and Polgereen Point south by west 1/4 west. The rugged coast was all but hidden in the low-lying mist, only the loftier headlands being visible against the starlit sky. There was little or no wind, but shorewards a continual rumble betokened the presence of ground-swell—the "fag-end" of enormous waves generated hundreds of miles away in the vast Atlantic.

U 254 was proceeding dead slow towards the shore. The steady beat of her muffled exhausts was only just audible above the lap of the water against her blunt bows and the ripple in the wake of her triple propellers.

The ober-leutnant was standing on a raised platform that surrounded the elongated conning-tower. He was a tall, heavily built man—massive-looking in his long double-breasted coat and sea-boots. On his head he wore a black sou'-wester that, with the turned-up collar of his greatcoat and the dark muffler round his neck, left only a small portion of his face exposed: pale pasty features, shaggy beetling brows, small beady eyes, a large nose, flattened at the tip, and a loose mouth partly hidden by a closely trimmed moustache.

Close behind him stood the unter-leutnant, Hans Kuhlberg, a typical, loose-limbed, weak-chinned Prussian. No further description of this young swashbuckler is necessary. A British schoolboy was once asked by an examiner to describe the manners and customs of a certain savage tribe of Central Africa. His reply, "Manners none; customs beastly," would be equally applicable to Hans Kuhlberg.

A quartermaster at the steering-wheel on deck and a couple of hands using the lead-line were the only members of the piratical Hun crew visible; the others, eighty worthy upholders of the debased cult of German sea-power, were stowed away within the three hundred feet of steel hull.

"Report when you find fifty metres," ordered von Loringhoven for the twentieth time, addressing the leadsmen in harsh yet restrained tones, for acting under instructions they refrained from announcing the "cast" lest the sound of their voices would carry to the ears of an alert British patrol-boat's crew.

"Are you really going ashore, Herr Kapitan?" asked the unter-leutnant, who was vigorously engaged in chewing an apple—part of the spoils from a captured topsail schooner that had been sunk off Lundy a couple of days previously.

"I said so, Hans," replied von Loringhoven, "and I mean to go. Himmel! A little less noise with your throat. One would think you were drinking soup."

"Sorry, Herr Kapitan," exclaimed Hans Kuhlberg humbly. "It is a juicy—and I forgot."

U 254 was having a "day off." It was not her fault but her misfortune. Eighteen hours earlier she had approached a possible victim—a large cargo boat lying at anchor off Cardiff. Von Loringhoven was quite under the impression that the outlines of a destroyer showing up against her side was mere camouflage; but when the shadow became substance in the form of a very aggressive unit of the British Navy, U 254 was only too glad to dive. Even then it was a very narrow shave, for a four-inch shell whistled within a few inches of the periscopes. For the time being von Loringhoven prudently decided to keep away from the recognised trade routes and find a less unhealthy spot in order to charge batteries. Closing with the Cornish coast the ober-leutnant took it into his head to have a jaunt ashore on English soil.

"Fifty metres, Herr Kapitan, and a sandy bottom," reported the leadsman.

"Good!" ejaculated von Loringhoven. "See that the collapsible boat is launched, Kuhlberg. I am leaving you in charge. Keep awash, unless you sight anything of a suspicious nature, until dawn. Then rest on the bottom. At one o'clock—twenty-five hours from now—send a boat for me. Is there anything you want me to bring back?"

"Tobacco and cigarettes, Herr Kapitan," replied the unter-leutnant. "These English are swine, but they manage to get excellent tobacco. I was in hopes that when we sent that Dutch vessel to the bottom we might find good tobacco, but, ach! the stuff we found was intolerable."

His superior officer laughed.

"There is a box of cigars in my cabin," he remarked. "Mind they don't turn your head. I go and change in order to meet Englishmen as one of themselves."

Von Loringhoven disappeared below, to return in a quarter of an hour's time dressed in civilian clothes.

"Is it wise, Herr Kapitan?" asked Kuhlberg. "Your get-up is superb; yet, if you should be detected, you will be shot as a spy."

"I doubt it," rejoined the ober-leutnant. "These English are not thorough like us. They would hesitate before condemning to death a German naval officer; rather they would make much of him. An account of his adventures would appear in the British newspapers.... Nevertheless, don't think, Kuhlberg, that I want to desert you indefinitely. It is only for a few hours. Boat ready?" he inquired, dropping his bantering tone.

With muffled oars the boat approached the shore, von Loringhoven handling the yoke-lines with the air of a man who is well acquainted with his surroundings. Less than four years previously he had spent a month in North Cornwall, ostensibly to indulge in "surf-bathing." There was hardly a cove betwixt Hartland Point and St. Ives that he had not explored, aiding his trained memory by means of photographic and business-like sketches.

"Lay on your oars!" ordered the ober-leutnant, as the boat glided under the overhanging cliffs of a bold headland.

Von Loringhoven produced a powerful pair of Zeiss binoculars from his coat pocket, and focussed them upon a ledge of rocks that formed a breakwater, partly natural, partly artificial, to a tidal harbour.

"H'm," he muttered. "I thought so. They have patrols out. No matter, I must take the Fisherman's Stairs. Give way gently, men."

Protected by an outlying ledge the cove for which the boat was making was uninfluenced by the sullen ground swell. Noiselessly and unseen von Loringhoven stepped ashore, gave a few whispered instructions to the coxswain, and sent the boat back to the lurking submarine.

The ober-leutnant waited until the faint plash of the oars failed to reach his ears, then treading softly he made his way over the rough slippery causeway along the base of the cliffs. At intervals he stopped to listen intently, but only the low rumble of the surf and the occasional call of a belated sea-bird broke the silence.

It required a considerable amount of nerve to ascend or descend Fishermen's Stairs, even in broad daylight. The darkness, doubtless, modified much of the forbidding appearance of the precipitous way, but on the other hand it seemed to hide many of the otherwise visible dangers.

Von Loringhoven counted the steps as he climbed. He knew the exact number, unless, since his last visit, a landslide had altered the natural features of the place. Once he muttered a curse as his feet slipped, yet, hardly deigning to make use of the rusty iron chain that served as a rough handrail, he gained the summit of the cliffs.

Perfectly aware of the regulations that no unauthorised person must use the cliff-path between sunset and sunrise, the ober-leutnant proceeded cautiously until he gained a narrow lane leading towards the little town. Here, throwing off his secretive manner, he started off at a brisk walk until he reached a row of semi-detached villas on fairly lofty ground overlooking the harbour.

Noisily opening the gate of one of the houses von Loringhoven strode up the path with deliberate footsteps. A timorous step would, he argued with himself, give rise to suspicion. At the front door he knocked loudly and waited.

Although the heavy dark curtains over the upstairs windows allowed no strong beam of light to penetrate von Loringhoven knew by the metallic click of a switch that the electric light had just been put on. Then came the shuffling noise of slippered feet descending the stairs and the unbolting of the door.

"Hullo, Tom!" exclaimed von Loringhoven, as the door was thrown open, revealing in the faint starlight the tall, burly figure of a man in a long dressing jacket.

"Hullo, James!" was the equally boisterous reply. "You're late. Missed the last train, eh? Come in."

These histrionic greetings completed, the occupier closed the door and switched on the light, and the ober-leutnant was ushered into a well-furnished room opening out of the hall.

"You risked it, then," remarked the ober-leutnant's companion, speaking in German. "I am not surprised, von Loringhoven. Karl told me.... Business brisk?"

Ernst von Gobendorff, German by birth and upbringing, but, unfortunately, Anglo-Saxon in appearance, was one of the vast Hun espionage organisation now admitted by the most sceptical to flourish on British soil. With Teutonic thoroughness, and hitherto without the crass blundering that has oft-times wrecked the deep-laid plans of kultur, von Gobendorff had gained a high position in the ranks of the Kaiser's emissaries in hostile lands. He, like many others, was paid by results, although he drew a small fixed salary from his Hunnish paymasters. For the last eighteen months Cornwall had been the scene of his labours, most of his work consisting of transmitting information of the movements of shipping to the U-boat commanders operating off the coast. He looked English; he spoke English with a faultless Midland accent; he had an English registration card, which, though easy to obtain, is generally sufficient to satisfy the curiosity of the average county policeman. Under the assumed name of Thomas Middlecrease, and posing as a commercial traveller to a London house, he "worked" the length and breadth of the Delectable Duchy with a zeal that was the envy and admiration of genuine Knights of the Road.

Von Gobendorff was not merely a spy: he was a desperado, whenever opportunity occurred, under the distinguished patronage of the German High Command. His system of communicating with Berlin was so skilfully manipulated that unless all telegraphic and mail dispatches between Great Britain and neutral countries were suspended, he could rely upon his reports reaching the Admiralty-strasse within forty-eight hours.

"Business," replied von Loringhoven, leaning back in a lounge chair and thrusting his feet close to an electric radiator—"business is as usual. And yours?"

"Rather slack of late," admitted von Gobendorff. "However, I am expecting a coup. How is your brother, the Zeppelin commander?"

The ober-leutnant shrugged his shoulders.

"Julius burnt his fingers when he kidnapped von Eitelwurmer by mistake," he replied. "You may hear of him again, as I believe there is to be another intensity on the part of our aerial cruisers. By the by, how is von Eitelwurmer?"

"Ask me another question, Otto," replied the spy. "All I know is that he's dead; an accident, according to a North Country paper. I did not think it prudent to make further inquiries."

"At any rate," remarked von Loringhoven, "he did something to the honour and glory of the Fatherland. But what is this coup to which you referred?"

"I hear on excellent authority that a train load of American troops—curse them!—leaves Trecurnow to-morrow; or rather, I should say, to-day," said von Gobendorff, glancing at the clock.

The ober-leutnant nodded thoughtfully.

"Fairly safe?" he queried. "Well, I'll ask no more questions on that subject. You must be tired, and to do one's work properly rest is essential. I'm going to be your guest, von Gobendorff, for just about twenty-four hours, but in the circumstances I will excuse your absence. By the by, you'll be returning about six, I hope? Dine with me at the Imperial Hotel. I suppose," he added reminiscently, "that the food is not quite so good nor so plentiful as when last I visited Cornwall?"

"There is a difference," replied von Gobendorff, "but nothing like to the extent we Germans hoped. This starving-out campaign seems to hang fire."

"Our U-boats will bring England to her knees yet," declared the ober-leutnant. "They say these English never know when they are beaten, but they'll find out soon."

"One might also say that they never know when they are winning," added the spy. "Much as I hate to have to say it I must admire the matter-of-fact way in which these English take ill-news."

"They get plenty of that," retorted von Loringhoven ironically. "Every week, and down go twenty merchant ships. How long can England stand that?"

"And how many of our unterseebooten vanish while doing the good work?" asked von Gobendorff. "I am afraid, von Loringhoven, that even you cannot answer the question. It is these Englanders' mule-headed contempt for frightfulness that is making Germany's task doubly—nay, trebly hard. But we must argue no longer, Otto," he added, seeing indications of a rising temper in his guest. "We'll go to bed. I will be off before you are up, so, until to-night at the Imperial Hotel, auf Wiedersehen."