The Lost Naval Papers - Bennet Copplestone
"Why, sir," asked the policeman, looking sideways rather fearfully at
his superior officer's stern face--"why, sir, did we come to this
place?"
"Why? Haven't you seen?" snapped Dawson. "To attend a funeral, of
course."
* * * * *
I have never met that policeman. To have conversed with him and to
have sought to chop a way through the tangled recesses of his mind
would have gratified me hugely. For, if police constables think at
all, in what a bewildered whirl of confused speculation must his poor
brain have been occupied during the return journey to London! Dawson
tossed him into a compartment of the first train which came along, one
of extreme slowness, and then dismissed him into cold space without a
scrap of remorse. The humble creature, discharging his station duties
with the precision of daily habit, had swung into the overpowering
orbit of Chief Inspector Dawson, been caught up, dumped without
instructions upon an unknown journey in attendance upon an unknown
workman. Then when the train had stopped, he had been spewed out upon
a strange country platform, led through strange mean streets, and
forced with head bared to the autumn chill of evening, to attend the
obsequies of a total stranger. At the end, without a word of
explanation, still less of apology, he had been returned as an empty
rejected package to the platform at Liverpool Street. Yes, I should
dearly love to have met and cross-questioned that policeman, and have
listened to the bizarre solution which he had to offer to it all. But
most probably, in his stolid, faithful way, he never gave the subject
any thought at all. To be tossed about at the whims of superiors was
an experience which he would take as composedly as he would those
exiguous weekly wages which were the derisory compensation.
Dawson went to the small hotel which he had picked out with Froissart
as a convenient rendezvous. There he sat for hours doing nothing, for
he was far too wise a man to push his head into another man's
business, even though that one were a subordinate and a foreigner. He
had failed once; he could not afford, by deputy, to fail a second
time. Besides, he knew nothing of the movements of Froissart and his
quarry. They had not appeared within the visible horizon of
Burnham-on-Crouch, though they had had ample time in which to arrive.
I am afraid that his temper got the better of him, and as the night
drew on, unsolaced by a word from Froissart, and unrelieved by any
literature more engrossing than old railway time-tables and hotel
advertisements, he consigned to the Bottomless Pit the Chief of the
Devonport Dockyard, the disgustingly virtuous and unenterprising
Maynard, and even the harmless soul of his lately buried mother.
Dawson in a royal rage is no pleasant spectacle.
It had gone half-past eleven before Froissart came, a boisterous,
triumphant Froissart, bragging of his skill and his success in the
manner of a born Gascon.
"It was tremendous, _mon ami_," roared Froissart, unchecked by
Dawson's scowls. "I have done the blooming trick: the boat has gone to
Holland, and the filthy spy is in the strong lock-up. My vigilance, my
astuteness, my resource unfathomable, my flair, my soul of an artist,
my patience inexhaustible, my address so firm and yet so delicate, my
mastery of the minds of those others less gifted, my--"
"Oh, stow it!" roared Dawson.
"Unfailing insight, _mon esprit francais_, my genius for the service
of police, my unshakable courage and elan, have had their just and
inevitable reward. The boat with the message so false has gone to
Holland for the German Kaiser to gloat over, and the filthy spy is in
the safe lock-up. I took him with my own hands--I, le Comte de
Froissart, I bemired my hands by contact with his foul carcase. The
boat it flew down the river; _ma foi_, like a flash of the lightning,
going they said thirty knots, _presque cinquante kilometres par
heure_. The glorious _Marine Anglaise_ will see that it reaches les
Pays Bas, and then when it is of return your sailors so splendid, with
sang-froid so perfect, will gobble it up. Just gobble it up. As I will
gobble up this cold beef upon your table. _Peste_, I am of a hunger
excruciating. I have not eaten for five, six, ten hours."
Froissart sat down at Dawson's table, where still lay the cold remains
of his supper--he had had the decency to reflect that his colleague
Froissart might be hungry upon arrival--and fell to eating copiously
and loudly. The French are least admirable when they are seen
devouring food.
Froissart ate while Dawson writhed. Though his colleague's success
would plant laurels upon his own brow--little would he ever say at the
Yard of that journey to Burnham and the preposterous funeral--he was
jealous, bitterly jealous. I am by special appointment the Boswell of
Dawson, yet I do not spare the feelings of my subject. Rather do I go
over them with a rake--for the ultimate good of Dawson's variegated
soul. He was bitterly jealous, but from natural curiosity yearned to
know the details of those feats of which Froissart prated so
triumphantly. And all the while, unconscious, heedless of his wrathful
exasperated chieftain, Froissart devoured food in immense quantities.
It was a disgusting exhibition.
Satisfied at last, Froissart broke away from the table, lit a
cigarette, and sat himself down beside Dawson before the fire. It was
well past midnight, but to these men regular habits were unknown, and
the hours of work and of sleep always indeterminate.
"Now," exclaimed Froissart, "I will tell to you, my friend Dawson, the
true _histoire_ of my exploits so tremendous and unapproachable. I
reached the station at Plymouth at ten hours, my spy was upon the
platform. I knew him, for those who had kept him under watch had
informed me of him. I had with me two police officers _en bourgeois_,
what you call plain clothes, and I distributed them with the acumen of
a strategist. It was _un train a couloir_. The spy disposed himself in
a compartment. I placed one of my officers in the same compartment
with him, the other in the compartment _contiguee_ towards the engine,
myself in that _a derriere_. He was thus the meat in our sandwich. If
he passed into the corridor and walked this way or that he was seen by
me or by my man in advance; all his movements while within his own
compartment were supervised every moment. So we travelled. He did
himself well that spy so atrocious. He partook of his _dejeuner_ in
the _buffet du train_, and we all three took our _dejeuner_ there
also. That was the last meal of which I ate before this my supper
here. The journey was without incident, but when he arrived at
Waterloo the trouble began. He was not taking risks, that spy. He knew
not that he was under watch, but he took not risks. He began to
perform a voyage designed to throw any man, except one of the
vigilance and resource of Froissart, completely off his track. I was
not learned in your Metropolitain before this day, but now I know your
Tubes as if a map of them were printed in colours upon my hand. At
Waterloo that spy, so astute, burrowed into the earth and entered a
train of the railway called Bakerloo, in which he journeyed to
Golder's Green. Then he crossed a _quai_ and returned to the town
called Camden. Again he descended, passed through tunnels, and
emerging upon another _quai_ proceeded to Highgate. All the while we
three followed, not close, but so that he never escaped from under our
eyes. At Highgate he turned about and returned to Tottenham Court
Road. Thence he departed by another line to the Bank, and, rising in
and _ascenseur_, emerged upon the pavements of your City. He looked
this way and that, not perceiving us who watched, walked warily to the
Lord Maire's station of the Mansion House, boarded the District
Railway, and did not alight till Wimbledon. It was easy to follow, but
my friend, the billets, the tickets, were _une grande difficulte_. I
solved the problem of tickets by my genius so _superbe_. We at first
tried to take them, but _apres_ we abandoned the project so hopeless
and travelled _sans payer_. When asked at the barriers or in the
lifts, we offered pennies, and the men who collected took them
joyfully, asking not whence we came. It was _une procedee tres
simple_. It is possible that these wayward uncounted pennies dropped
into their own pockets. They rejoiced always to receive them. From
Wimbledon we returned to Earl's Court, and then, descending by an
electric staircase, which moved of itself, again found ourselves in
the Tubes. I loved that _escalier electrique_; one day I will return
and ascend and descend upon it for hours. From Earl's Court we went to
Piccadilly Circus; there we made another change for Oxford Circus;
there we again got out, and at last, after penetrating the bowels of
your London, travelled to Liverpool Street. By this time it had become
dark, and the spy's passion for underground travel had spent itself.
He crossed the street, descended to the grand station of the Eastern
Railway, and took a ticket for Burnham-on-Crouch. Exhausted, but ever
vigilant, Froissart and his faithful men took also tickets for
Burnham-on-Crouch.
"I will not weary you more with our wanderings, but after many hours,
at ten o'clock, we at last arrived at this place. The spy was met upon
the _quai_ by another villain, with whom he held converse, and the
pair of them, ignorant that the vengeance of Froissart overshadowed
them, marched heedlessly, openly, to the river side and entered a
large house of which the gardens ran down to the water. I left there
my two faithful but weary ones on watch, and hastened to the _salle de
police_. There an Inspector and a young _officier anglais_--a
sub-lieutenant of the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve--were awaiting my
arrival with impatience. To them I told my story with the brevity that
I now recount it to you. They were intrigued greatly, and the
_sous_-lieutenant struck me violently upon the back and said, _ma
foi_, that I was a 'downy old bird,' It was a compliment _tres
'bizarre mais tres aimable._ I was, it appeared, an old bird of the
downiest plumage. I had noted the name of the house, and the Inspector
seized a Directory. 'We have suspected that house for some time,' said
he. There is a big boat-house at the bottom of the garden containing a
large sea-going motor-boat. The proprietor calls himself English, but
does not look like one. He is doubtless a snake, one whom they call
_naturalise_, a viper whom we English have warmed in our bosoms.' So
spake the Inspector. The Sub-Lieutenant whistled. He said only, 'Send
for little Tommy; it is a job for him.' A call was sent forth, and
there came into the room a scrap of an infant, habited in short
pantaloons and a green shirt. The child carried a long pole and stood
stiffly at attention. '_Ma foi_, do I see before me a Boy Scout?' I
asked. 'You do,' replied the Sub-Lieutenant. 'This is little Tommy,
the patrol leader of the Owls.' '_Mon Dieu_' I cried, 'an Owl! _Un
Hibou_! Is he then stupid as an owl?' I could see that the Tommy so
small frowned savagely, but the Sub-Lieutenant laughed. 'You will see
presently if he is stupid. I have forty miles of coast to watch, and I
do it all with Boy Scouts like this one.' '_Nom d'un chien_,' I cried.
'You English are a great people.' 'We are,' agreed the Sub-Lieutenant,
'devilish great.' Tommy grinned.
"Then the officer so youthful--his age could not have exceeded
nineteen years--gave orders to the little Tommy. He was to go to the
house, to enter the garden, to squeeze his tiny person into the
boat-house, and watch. When the spy and his associates went towards
the boat, Tommy was to warn us with a hoot--like an owl--and we were
to take charge. At least so I understood the orders given in a strange
sea language. Tommy saluted, and vanished. If he had ten years, I
should be astonished; but he was a man, every inch of him. Wait till I
have finished.
"We followed quickly behind Tommy, but saw him not, and joined my men,
who still watched the house. The Sub-Lieutenant and I moved warily,
climbed over the wall of the garden, and crept along the grass, soft
like moss to our feet, till we could see the boat-house stand out
against the dull shine of the river. There was no sign of the presence
of _le petit Hibou_. Suddenly the door of the house, which gave upon
the garden, opened, and four men walked down to the boat-house and
entered stealthily. My heart turned to water--what a calamity if they
should find and slay the pretty little Owl! The minutes passed,
perhaps five, perhaps ten, and then quite close we heard the soft low
hoot of an owl. The Sub-Lieutenant hooted a reply, and from among some
bushes there came out that serene, intrepid infant with the pole! He
joined us, and whispered eagerly to the officer. I could not hear what
he said. Afterwards the Sub-Lieutenant told me that the men had
entered, three had got into the boat, one remaining on land. It was a
forty-foot boat, reported Tommy--who seemed of wisdom and knowledge
encyclopaedic--it had a big cabin forrard, the engine was a
Wotherspoon, ten cylinders set V-fashion, the power a hundred horses.
So Tommy had observed and reported, and so I repeat to you. As we
watched we saw the boat push out into the river, turn towards the sea;
the engine so powerful buzzed like a million bees, a wave curled up in
front, and it sped away for Holland like the shot of an arrow. The
night was fine, the sea calm; it would complete the voyage in safety.
But upon return what a surprise has been prepared for that motor-boat
and its detestable owner! What a surprise, _ma foi_. I yearn to hear
of the denouement.
"'We will nab the fourth man who has stayed behind,' whispered the
officer, and we crept towards the boat-house. We were ten yards away
when he issued forth and turned to lock the door. Then we sprang upon
him. He was very quick--like the big snake that he was. He heard us,
spun round, and struck two blows of his fist. The Sub-Lieutenant got
one upon his beautiful nose; I got the other here under the jaw. We
were shot, sprawling, upon the grass, one to each side, and the
villain, springing between us, started to flee. I was struck down, but
not stunned; I was alert, undefeated, eager to resume the battle. I
rose to my knees. I saw the villain fleeing up the grass. Ah, he would
escape! But I had not reckoned upon the patrol leader, the little Owl,
the _Hibou_ of a Boy Scout so deft and courageous. The spy fled, but
into his path sprang the tiny figure of the Owl, his pole in rest like
a lance. They met, the man and the little Owl, and the shock of that
tourney aroused the echoes of the night. The man, hit in the belly by
the point of the pole, collapsed upon the grass, and the Owl, driven
backwards by the weight of the man, rolled over and over like _un
herisson_. He was no longer an Owl; he was a round Hedgehog! I was
consumed with admiration for the gallant Owl. I got to my feet, I
jumped across the lawn, and fell with both knees hard upon the carcase
so foul of the spy whom I had pursued all day. He lay groaning from
the grievous pain in his belly, and I put upon him the handcuffs
before that he could recover. The little Tommy, the Hedgehog, picked
himself up, staggered to the body of his enemy, and there, leaning
upon the admirable pole which he had not released in his somersaults,
gave forth a hoot of victory. It was the Day of Tommy. But for that
morsel of a wise Owl the spy would have escaped. I embraced Tommy, who
wriggled with discomfort; the Sub-Lieutenant shook his hand, which he
appreciated the more. 'Good work,' said the officer. 'Thank you, sir,'
said Tommy. That was all; no emotion, no compliments, no embraces.
'Good work.' 'Thank you, sir.' _Ma foi_, what a people are the
English!
"We locked up the spy. The Sub-Lieutenant told me that wireless orders
had gone out to the patrols spread far over the seas. The boat, of
which we had the name and description, would arrive at Holland, but
upon its return on the morrow it would be seized and escorted to
Harwich. If by mischance it eluded the patrols, it would be captured
when it arrived in the river Crouch. All was provided for. The false
news has gone to Holland, and Froissart has done good work. I ask for
no reward; I will be like the English--cold, implacable. When the
officer said at parting to me, 'Good work, M. Froissart, we are much
obliged to you,' I replied calmly, 'Thank you, sir,' I had, you will
observe, modelled myself upon the little Owl.
"And you, Mr. Dawson," concluded Froissart, wiping his face, for the
effort of talking so much English had brought out the sweat upon him,
"have you also succeeded?"
"Yes," said Dawson curtly, "I have also done my work, but it was not
exciting. My man was no spy, and the real news about the _Intrepid_
and _Terrific_ will not get through to Germany."
"Saved," roared Froissart, springing to his feet. "We are colleagues
most perfect. We have done work of the most good. _Embracons nous, mon
ami_." Then occurred that deplorable incident which has already been
related. Froissart in his enthusiasm embraced the unresponsive Dawson,
and was laid out by a short-arm jab upon the diaphragm. It was really
too bad of Dawson; but then, as I have said, his temper was atrocious.
* * * * *
The two battle-cruisers remained upon the shoals of Picklecombe Point
all through November and well into the following month. The great
salvage steamer with the arc light went away, but others remained.
Work seemed to proceed, though it was unaccountably slow in producing
a result. The Three Towns lost interest in the derelicts until one
evening there fell upon them a blow which set them gasping for
coherent speech. The newsboys were crying in the streets a Special
Edition, very Special. Set in dirty type in an odd column, headed with
the mysterious words "Stop Press," appeared an announcement by the
Admiralty that far away in the South Seas the battle-cruisers
_Intrepid_ and _Terrific_, under the command of Vice-Admiral Stocky,
had met and sunk the lately victorious German Squadron! It was
glorious news, but the Three Towns thought little at the moment of the
glory. They urgently hungered for an explanation of the inscrutable
means by which two battle-cruisers, mined and cast upon the shoals
below Mount Edgecumbe under their very eyes, could race hot foot to
the South Seas and there lay out a German squadron. As soon as the
winter dawn broke an immense crowd surged upon the Hoe gazing into
blank space. The two battle-cruisers, which for a month had lain
helpless before them, were gone! Gone, too, were the salvage steamers
and the patrol boats. The waters which had been so active and crowded
were void! Then the Three Towns understood; they grasped, men, women
and children, the great spoof of which they had been the interested
victims, and their approving laughter rose to Heaven. For in all that
appertains to the Royal Navy every one born within the circuit of the
Three Towns is very wise indeed.
PART IV
_THE CAPTAIN OF MARINES_
CHAPTER XV
DAWSON REAPPEARS
I had seen nothing of Dawson during my intimate association with
Madame Gilbert. He had written to me copiously--for a very busy man he
was a curiously voluminous letter-writer. He always employed the backs
of official forms and wrote in pencil. His handwriting, large and
round, was that of a man who had received a good and careful Board
School education, but was quite free from personal characteristics.
Dawson's letters in no respect resembled the man. They were very long,
very dull, and very crudely phrased. He had evidently tried to put
them into what he conceived to be a literary shape, and the effect was
deplorable. One may read such letters, the work of unskilled writers,
in the newspapers which devote space to "Correspondence." The writers,
like Dawson, can probably talk vividly and forcibly, using strong
nervous vernacular English, but the moment they take the pen all
thought and individual character become swamped in a flood of turgid,
commonplace jargon. I was disappointed with Dawson's letters, and I am
sure that he will be even more disappointed when he finds none of them
made immortal in this book. His purpose in sending them to me will
have been ruthlessly defeated.
A week after Madame had vanished down my lift for the last time,
Dawson--in the make-up with which I was most familiar--called upon me
at my office. He also came to say good-bye, for a turn of the official
wheel had come, and he was ordered south to resume his duties at the
Yard. He was, he told me, taking a last tour of inspection to make
certain that the Secret Service net, which he had designed and laid,
would be deftly worked by the hands of his subordinates. "I shall not
be sorry," said he, "to get back to my deserted family and to be once
more the plain man Dawson whom God made."
"You have so many different incarnations," I observed, "that I wonder
the original has not escaped your memory."
He smiled. "If I had forgotten," said he, "my wife would soon remind
me. She always insists that she married a certain man Dawson and
declines to recognise any other."
"So if I come south to visit you, I shall see the original?"
"You will."
"Thanks," said I; "I will come at the earliest opportunity."
"I don't say that if you call at the Yard you will see quite the same
person whom you will meet at Acacia Villas, Primrose Road, Tooting."
"That would be too much to expect. But under any guise, Dawson, I am
always sure of knowing you."
"Yes, confound you. I would give six months' pay to know how you do
it."
"You shall know some day, and without any bribery. Now that you are
here, talk, talk, talk. I want to get the taste of those rotten
letters of yours out of my mouth."
He looked surprised and hurt. He looked exactly as a famous sculptor
looked who, when a beautiful work of his hands was unveiled, wished me
to publish a descriptive sonnet from his pen. I bluntly refused. He
was an admirable sculptor, but a dreadful sonneteer. Yet in his secret
heart he valued the sonnet far above the statue. In this strange way
we are made.
I did not conceal from Dawson my interest in Madame Gilbert, and he
rather rudely expressed strong disapproval. He suggested that for a
married man I was much too free in my ways. "That woman is full of
brains," said he, "but she is the artfullest hussy ever made. She will
turn any man around her pretty fingers if he gives way to her. She has
made a nice fool of you and of that ass Froissart. She even tried her
little games with me--with me indeed. But I was too strong for her."
I regarded Dawson with some interest and more pity. The poor fellow
did not realise that Madame had for years moulded him to her hands
like potter's clay. She had mastered him by ingenuously pretending
that he stood upon a serene pinnacle far removed from her influence.
He had preened his feathers and done her bidding.
"We are not all strong--like you, Dawson," said I mildly.
I switched Dawson off the subject of Madame Gilbert, and directed his
mind towards the contemplation of his own exploits. When handled
judiciously he will talk freely and frankly, giving away official
secrets with both hands. But his confidences always relate to the
past, to incidents completed. When he has a delicate job on hand, he
can be as close as the English Admiralty, even to me. He has no sense
of proportion. Again and again he has recounted the interminable
details of cases in which I take not the smallest interest, and has
ignored all my efforts to dam the unprofitable flood of narrative and
to divert the current into more fruitful channels. He looks at
everything from the Dawson standpoint, and cares for nothing which
does not add to the glory of Dawson. Unless he fills the stage, an
incident has for him no value or concern. Happily for me the most
startling of his exploits, that of bending a timid War Committee of
the Cabinet to his will in the winter of 1915-1916, and of bluffing
into utter submission nearly a hundred thousand rampant munition
workers who were eager to "down tools," fulfils all the Dawson
conditions of importance. He and he alone filled a star part, to him
and to him alone belonged the success of an incredibly bold manoeuvre.
I have drawn Dawson as I saw him, in his weakness and in his strength.
I have revealed his vanity and the carefully hidden tenderness of his
heart. In my whimsical way I have perhaps treated him as essentially a
figure of fun. But though I may smile at him, even rudely laugh at
him, he is a great public servant who once at least--though few at the
time knew--saved his country from a most grievous peril.
In the early weeks of 1916, when work for the Navy, and work in the
gun and ammunition shops which were rapidly being organised all over
the country, were within a very little of being suspended by a general
strike of workmen, terrified for their threatened trade-union
privileges, the strength and resource of Dawson put forth boldly in
the North dammed the peril at its source. In spite of the penalties
laid down in Munition Acts, in spite of the powers vested in military
authorities by the Defence of the Realm Regulations, there would have
been a great strike, and both the Navy and the New Army would have
been hung up gasping for the ships, the guns, and the supplies upon
which they had based all their plans for attack and defence. The
danger arose over that still insistent problem--the "dilution of
labour." The new armies had withdrawn so many skilled and unskilled
workmen from the workshops, and the demands for munitions of all kinds
were so overwhelming, that wholly new and strange methods of
recruiting labour were urgent. Women must be employed in large
numbers, in millions; machinery must be put to its full use without
regard for the restrictions of unions, if the country were to be
saved. Many of the younger and more open-minded of the trade-union
officials had enlisted; many of those older ones who remained could
not bend their stiff minds to the necessity for new conditions. They
were not consciously unpatriotic--their sons were fighting and dying;
they were not consciously seditious, though secret enemy agents moved
amongst them, and talked treason with them in the jargon of their
trades. They simply could not understand that the hardly won
privileges of peace must yield to the greater urgencies of war.