“Good Heavens, man! I was joking. Why, it’s ten mortal miles.”
“More,” said Davies, absently. “It’s not so much the distance—what’s the time? Ten fifteen; quarter ebb—— What am I talking about? We made our plans last night.”
But seeing him, to my amazement, serious, I was stung by the splendour of the idea I had awakened. Confidence in his skill was second nature to me. I swept straight on to the logic of the thing, the greatness, the completeness of the opportunity, if by a miracle it could be seized and used. Something was going on at Memmert to-day; our men had gone there; here were we, ten miles away, in a smothering, blinding fog. It was known we were here—Dollmann and Grimm knew it; the crew of the _Medusa_ knew it; the crew of the _Kormoran_ knew it; the man on the pier, whether he cared or not, knew it. But none of them knew Davies as I knew him. Would anyone dream for an instant——?
“Stop a second,” said Davies; “give me two minutes.” He whipped out the German chart. “Where exactly should we go?” (“Exactly!” The word tickled me hugely.)
“To the depôt, 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 depôt’s at the south point of Memmert, and Memmert’s nearly two miles long.” _[See Chart B]_
“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.”
“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?”