“Why not go to Memmert?” I said, in fun.
“To Memmert?” said Davies, slowly; “by Jove! that’s an idea!”
“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]]
“How far would that way be?”
“Sixteen miles good. And we should have to row in a breaking swell most of the way, close to land.”