Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated) (941 page)

I remember well how the news came to me.  I was lying at the time off Selsey Bill when I saw a small war-vessel coming down Channel.  It had never been my policy to attack any vessel coming
down
.  My torpedoes and even my shells were too precious for that.  I could not help being attracted, however, by the movements of this ship, which came slowly zigzagging in my direction.

“Looking for me,” thought I.  “What on earth does the foolish thing hope to do if she could find me?”

I was lying awash at the time and got ready to go below in case she should come for me.  But at that moment — she was about half a mile away — she turned her quarter, and there to my amazement was the red flag with the blue circle, our own beloved flag, flying from her peak.  For
a moment I thought that this was some clever dodge of the enemy to tempt me within range.  I snatched up my glasses and called on Vornal.  Then we both recognised the vessel.  It was the
Juno
, the only one left intact of our own cruisers.  What could she be doing flying the flag in the enemy’s waters?  Then I understood it, and turning to Vornal, we threw ourselves into each other’s arms.  It could only mean an armistice — or peace!

And it was peace.  We learned the glad news when we had risen alongside the
Juno
, and the ringing cheers which greeted us had at last died away.  Our orders were to report ourselves at once at Blankenberg.  Then she passed on down Channel to collect the others.  We returned to port upon the surface, steaming through the whole British fleet as we passed up the North Sea.  The crews clustered thick along the sides of the vessels to watch us.  I can see now their sullen, angry faces.  Many shook their fists and cursed us as we went by.  It was not that we had damaged them — I will do them the justice to say that the English, as the old Boer War has proved, bear no resentment against a brave enemy — but that they thought us cowardly to attack merchant ships and avoid the warships.  It is like the Arabs who think that a flank attack is a mean, unmanly device.  War is not a big game, my English friends.  It is a desperate
business to gain the upper hand, and one must use one’s brain in order to find the weak spot of one’s enemy.  It is not fair to blame me if I have found yours.  It was my duty.  Perhaps those officers and sailors who scowled at the little
Iota
that May morning have by this time done me justice when the first bitterness of undeserved defeat was passed.

Let others describe my entrance into Blankenberg; the mad enthusiasm of the crowds, and the magnificent public reception of each successive boat as it arrived.  Surely the men deserved the grant made them by the State which has enabled each of them to be independent for life.  As a feat of endurance, that long residence in such a state of mental tension in cramped quarters, breathing an unnatural atmosphere, will long remain as a record.  The country may well be proud of such sailors.

The terms of peace were not made onerous, for we were in no condition to make Great Britain our permanent enemy.  We knew well that we had won the war by circumstances which would never be allowed to occur again, and that in a few years the Island Power would be as strong as ever — stronger, perhaps — for the lesson that she had learned.  It would be madness to provoke such an antagonist.  A mutual salute of flags was arranged, the Colonial boundary was adjusted by arbitration, and we claimed no indemnity
beyond an undertaking on the part of Britain that she would pay any damages which an International Court might award to France or to the United States for injury received through the operations of our submarines.  So ended the war!

Of course, England will not be caught napping in such a fashion again!  Her foolish blindness is partly explained by her delusion that her enemy would not torpedo merchant vessels.  Common sense should have told her that her enemy will play the game that suits them best — that they will not inquire what they may do, but they will do it first and talk about it afterwards.  The opinion of the whole world now is that if a blockade were proclaimed one may do what one can with those who try to break it, and that it was as reasonable to prevent food from reaching England in war time as it is for a besieger to prevent the victualling of a beleaguered fortress.

I cannot end this account better than by quoting the first few paragraphs of a leader in the
Times
, which appeared shortly after the declaration of peace.  It may be taken to epitomize the saner public opinion of England upon the meaning and lessons of the episode.

“In all this miserable business,” said the writer, “which has cost us the loss of a considerable portion of our merchant fleet and more than
fifty thousand civilian lives, there is just one consolation to be found.  It lies in the fact that our temporary conqueror is a Power which is not strong enough to reap the fruits of her victory.  Had we endured this humiliation at the hands of any of the first-class Powers it would certainly have entailed the loss of all our Crown Colonies and tropical possessions, besides the payment of a huge indemnity.  We were absolutely at the feet of our conqueror and had no possible alternative but to submit to her terms, however onerous.  Norland has had the good sense to understand that she must not abuse her temporary advantage, and has been generous in her dealings.  In the grip of any other Power we should have ceased to exist as an Empire.

“Even now we are not out of the wood.  Some one may maliciously pick a quarrel with us before we get our house in order, and use the easy weapon which has been demonstrated.  It is to meet such a contingency that the Government has rushed enormous stores of food at the public expense into the country.  In a very few months the new harvest will have appeared.  On the whole we can face the immediate future without undue depression, though there remain some causes for anxiety.  These will no doubt be energetically handled by this new and efficient Government, which has taken the place of those discredited politicians who led us into a war without having foreseen how helpless we were against an obvious form of attack.

“Already the lines of our reconstruction are evident.  The first and most important is that our Party men realise that there is something more vital than their academic disputes about Free Trade or Protection, and that all theory must give way to the fact that a country is in an artificial and dangerous condition if she does not produce within her own borders sufficient food to at least keep life in her population.  Whether this should be brought about by a tax upon foreign foodstuffs, or by a bounty upon home products, or by a combination of the two, is now under discussion.  But all Parties are combined upon the principle, and, though it will undoubtedly entail either a rise in prices or a deterioration in quality in the food of the working-classes, they will at least be insured against so terrible a visitation as that which is fresh in our memories.  At any rate, we have got past the stage of argument.  It
must
be so.  The increased prosperity of the farming interest, and, as we will hope, the cessation of agricultural emigration, will be benefits to be counted against the obvious disadvantages.

“The second lesson is the immediate construction of not one but two double-lined railways under the Channel.  We stand in a white sheet over the matter, since the project has always been discouraged in these columns, but we are prepared to admit that had such railway communication been combined with adequate arrangements for forwarding supplies from Marseilles, we should have avoided our recent
surrender.  We still insist that we cannot trust entirely to a tunnel, since our enemy might have allies in the Mediterranean; but in a single contest with any Power of the North of Europe it would certainly be of inestimable benefit.  There may be dangers attendant upon the existence of a tunnel, but it must now be admitted that they are trivial compared to those which come from its absence.  As to the building of large fleets of merchant submarines for the carriage of food, that is a new departure which will be an additional insurance against the danger which has left so dark a page in the history of our country.”

DANGER STORY II.  ONE CROWDED HOUR

The place was the Eastbourne-Tunbridge road, not very far from the Cross in Hand — a lonely stretch, with a heath running upon either side.  The time was half-past eleven upon a Sunday night in the late summer.  A motor was passing slowly down the road.

It was a long, lean Rolls-Royce, running smoothly with a gentle purring of the engine.  Through the two vivid circles cast by the electric head-lights the waving grass fringes and clumps of heather streamed swiftly like some golden cinematograph, leaving a blacker darkness behind and around them.  One ruby-red spot shone upon the road, but no number-plate was visible within the dim ruddy halo of the tail-lamp which cast it.  The car was open and of a tourist type, but even in that obscure light, for the night was moonless, an observer could hardly fail to have noticed a curious indefiniteness in its lines.  As it slid into and across the broad stream of light from
an open cottage door the reason could be seen.  The body was hung with a singular loose arrangement of brown holland.  Even the long black bonnet was banded with some close-drawn drapery.

The solitary man who drove this curious car was broad and burly.  He sat hunched up over his steering-wheel, with the brim of a Tyrolean hat drawn down over his eyes.  The red end of a cigarette smouldered under the black shadow thrown by the headgear.  A dark ulster of some frieze-like material was turned up in the collar until it covered his ears.  His neck was pushed forward from his rounded shoulders, and he seemed, as the car now slid noiselessly down the long, sloping road, with the clutch disengaged and the engine running free, to be peering ahead of him through the darkness in search of some eagerly-expected object.

The distant toot of a motor-horn came faintly from some point far to the south of him.  On such a night, at such a place, all traffic must be from south to north when the current of London week-enders sweeps back from the watering-place to the capital — from pleasure to duty.  The man sat straight and listened intently.  Yes, there it was again, and certainly to the south of him.  His face was over the wheel and his eyes strained through the darkness. 
Then suddenly he spat out his cigarette and gave a sharp intake of the breath.  Far away down the road two little yellow points had rounded a curve.  They vanished into a dip, shot upwards once more, and then vanished again.  The inert man in the draped car woke suddenly into intense life.  From his pocket he pulled a mask of dark cloth, which he fastened securely across his face, adjusting it carefully that his sight might be unimpeded.  For an instant he uncovered an acetylene hand-lantern, took a hasty glance at his own preparations, and laid it beside a Mauser pistol upon the seat alongside him.  Then, twitching his hat down lower than ever, he released his clutch and slid downward his gear-lever.  With a chuckle and shudder the long, black machine sprang forward, and shot with a soft sigh from her powerful engines down the sloping gradient.  The driver stooped and switched off his electric head-lights.  Only a dim grey swathe cut through the black heath indicated the line of his road.  From in front there came presently a confused puffing and rattling and clanging as the oncoming car breasted the slope.  It coughed and spluttered on a powerful, old-fashioned low gear, while its engine throbbed like a weary heart.  The yellow, glaring lights dipped for the last time into a switchback curve.  When they reappeared over the crest the two cars were within
thirty yards of each other.  The dark one darted across the road and barred the other’s passage, while a warning acetylene lamp was waved in the air.  With a jarring of brakes the noisy new-comer was brought to a halt.

“I say,” cried an aggrieved voice, “‘pon my soul, you know, we might have had an accident.  Why the devil don’t you keep your head-lights on?  I never saw you till I nearly burst my radiators on you!”

The acetylene lamp, held forward, discovered a very angry young man, blue-eyed, yellow-moustached, and florid, sitting alone at the wheel of an antiquated twelve-horse Wolseley.  Suddenly the aggrieved look upon his flushed face changed to one of absolute bewilderment.  The driver in the dark car had sprung out of the seat, a black, long-barrelled, wicked-looking pistol was poked in the traveller’s face, and behind the further sights of it was a circle of black cloth with two deadly eyes looking from as many slits.

“Hands up!” said a quick, stern voice.  “Hands up! or, by the Lord—”

The young man was as brave as his neighbours, but the hands went up all the same.

“Get down!” said his assailant, curtly.

The young man stepped forth into the road, followed closely by the covering lantern and pistol.  Once he made as if he would drop his
hands, but a short, stern word jerked them up again.

“I say, look here, this is rather out o’ date, ain’t it?” said the traveller.  “I expect you’re joking — what?”

“Your watch,” said the man behind the Mauser pistol.

“You can’t really mean it!”

“Your watch, I say!”

“Well, take it, if you must.  It’s only plated, anyhow.  You’re two centuries out in time, or a few thousand miles longitude.  The bush is your mark — or America.  You don’t seem in the picture on a Sussex road.”

“Purse,” said the man.  There was something very compelling in his voice and methods.  The purse was handed over.

“Any rings?”

“Don’t wear ‘em.”

“Stand there!  Don’t move!”

The highwayman passed his victim and threw open the bonnet of the Wolseley.  His hand, with a pair of steel pliers, was thrust deep into the works.  There was the snap of a parting wire.

“Hang it all, don’t crock my car!” cried the traveller.

He turned, but quick as a flash the pistol was at his head once more.  And yet even in that flash, whilst the robber whisked round from the broken circuit, something had caught the young
man’s eye which made him gasp and start.  He opened his mouth as if about to shout some words.  Then with an evident effort he restrained himself.

“Get in,” said the highwayman.

The traveller climbed back to his seat.

“What is your name?”

“Ronald Barker.  What’s yours?”

The masked man ignored the impertinence.

“Where do you live?” he asked.

“My cards are in my purse.  Take one.”

The highwayman sprang into his car, the engine of which had hissed and whispered in gentle accompaniment to the interview.  With a clash he threw back his side-brake, flung in his gears, twirled the wheel hard round, and cleared the motionless Wolseley.  A minute later he was gliding swiftly, with all his lights’ gleaming, some half-mile southward on the road, while Mr. Ronald Barker, a side-lamp in his hand, was rummaging furiously among the odds and ends of his repair-box for a strand of wire which would connect up his electricity and set him on his way once more.

When he had placed a safe distance between himself and his victim, the adventurer eased up, took his booty from his pocket, replaced the watch, opened the purse, and counted out the money.  Seven shillings constituted the miserable spoil.  The poor result of his efforts seemed to amuse rather than annoy him, for
he chuckled as he held the two half-crowns and the florin in the glare of his lantern.  Then suddenly his manner changed.  He thrust the thin purse back into his pocket, released his brake, and shot onwards with the same tense bearing with which he had started upon his adventure.  The lights of another car were coming down the road.

On this occasion the methods of the highwayman were less furtive.  Experience had clearly given him confidence.  With lights still blazing, he ran towards the new-comers, and, halting in the middle of the road, summoned them to stop.  From the point of view of the astonished travellers the result was sufficiently impressive.  They saw in the glare of their own head-lights two glowing discs on either side of the long, black-muzzled snout of a high-power car, and above the masked face and menacing figure of its solitary driver.  In the golden circle thrown by the rover there stood an elegant, open-topped, twenty-horse Humber, with an undersized and very astonished chauffeur blinking from under his peaked cap.  From behind the wind-screen the veil-bound hats and wondering faces of two very pretty young women protruded, one upon either side, and a little crescendo of frightened squeaks announced the acute emotion of one of them.  The other was cooler and more critical.

“Don’t give it away, Hilda,” she whispered.  “Do shut up, and don’t be such a silly.  It’s Bertie or one of the boys playing it on us.”

“No, no!  It’s the real thing, Flossie.  It’s a robber, sure enough.  Oh, my goodness, whatever shall we do?”

“What an ‘ad.’!” cried the other.  “Oh, what a glorious ‘ad.’!  Too late now for the mornings, but they’ll have it in every evening paper, sure.”

“What’s it going to cost?” groaned the other.  “Oh, Flossie, Flossie, I’m sure I’m going to faint!  Don’t you think if we both screamed together we could do some good?  Isn’t he too awful with that black thing over his face?  Oh, dear, oh, dear!  He’s killing poor little Alf!”

The proceedings of the robber were indeed somewhat alarming.  Springing down from his car, he had pulled the chauffeur out of his seat by the scruff of his neck.  The sight of the Mauser had cut short all remonstrance, and under its compulsion the little man had pulled open the bonnet and extracted the sparking plugs.  Having thus secured the immobility of his capture, the masked man walked forward, lantern in hand, to the side of the car.  He had laid aside the gruff sternness with which he had treated Mr. Ronald Barker, and his voice and manner were gentle, though determined. 
He even raised his hat as a prelude to his address.

“I am sorry to inconvenience you, ladies,” said he, and his voice had gone up several notes since the previous interview.  “May I ask who you are?”

Miss Hilda was beyond coherent speech, but Miss Flossie was of a sterner mould.

“This is a pretty business,” said she.  “What right have you to stop us on the public road, I should like to know?”

“My time is short,” said the robber, in a sterner voice.  “I must ask you to answer my question.”

“Tell him, Flossie!  For goodness’ sake be nice to him!” cried Hilda.

“Well, we’re from the Gaiety Theatre, London, if you want to know,” said the young lady.  “Perhaps you’ve heard of Miss Flossie Thornton and Miss Hilda Mannering?  We’ve been playing a week at the Royal at Eastbourne, and took a Sunday off to ourselves.  So now you know!”

“I must ask you for your purses and for your jewellery.”

Both ladies set up shrill expostulations, but they found, as Mr. Ronald Barker had done, that there was something quietly compelling in this man’s methods.  In a very few minutes they had handed over their purses, and a pile of glittering rings, bangles, brooches, and chains
was lying upon the front seat of the car.  The diamonds glowed and shimmered like little electric points in the light of the lantern.  He picked up the glittering tangle and weighed it in his hand.

“Anything you particularly value?” he asked the ladies; but Miss Flossie was in no humour for concessions.

“Don’t come the Claude Duval over us,” said she.  “Take the lot or leave the lot.  We don’t want bits of our own given back to us.”

“Except just Billy’s necklace!” cried Hilda, and snatched at a little rope of pearls.  The robber bowed, and released his hold of it.

“Anything else?”

The valiant Flossie began suddenly to cry.  Hilda did the same.  The effect upon the robber was surprising.  He threw the whole heap of jewellery into the nearest lap.

“There! there!  Take it!” he said.  “It’s trumpery stuff, anyhow.  It’s worth something to you, and nothing to me.”

Tears changed in a moment to smiles.

“You’re welcome to the purses.  The ‘ad.’ is worth ten times the money.  But what a funny way of getting a living nowadays!  Aren’t you afraid of being caught?  It’s all so wonderful, like a scene from a comedy.”

“It may be a tragedy,” said the robber.

“Oh, I hope not — I’m sure I hope not!” cried the two ladies of the drama.

But the robber was in no mood for further conversation.  Far away down the road tiny points of light had appeared.  Fresh business was coming to him, and he must not mix his cases.  Disengaging his machine, he raised his hat, and slipped off to meet this new arrival, while Miss Flossie and Miss Hilda leaned out of their derelict car, still palpitating from their adventure, and watched the red gleam of the tail-light until it merged into the darkness.

This time there was every sign of a rich prize.  Behind its four grand lamps set in a broad frame of glittering brasswork the magnificent sixty-horse Daimler breasted the slope with the low, deep, even snore which proclaimed its enormous latent strength.  Like some rich-laden, high-pooped Spanish galleon, she kept her course until the prowling craft ahead of her swept across her bows and brought her to a sudden halt.  An angry face, red, blotched, and evil, shot out of the open window of the closed limousine.  The robber was aware of a high, bald forehead, gross pendulous cheeks, and two little crafty eyes which gleamed between creases of fat.