“I think it matters a good deal,” I objected. “Who will be interested in our resurrection, and how are we to go to work, openly or secretly? I suppose we shall keep out of the way as much as we can?”
“As for keeping out of the way,” said Davies, jerkily, as he peered to windward under the foresail, “we must pass the ship canal; that’s a public highway, where anyone can see you. After that there won’t be much difficulty. Wait till you see the place!” He gave a low, contented laugh, which would have frozen my marrow yesterday. “By the way, that reminds me,” he added; “we must stop at Kiel for the inside of a day and lay in a lot of stores. We want to be independent of the shore.” I said nothing. Independence of the shore in a seven-tonner in October! What an end to aim at!
About nine o’clock we weathered the point, entered Kiel Fiord, and began a dead beat to windward of seven miles to the head of it where Kiel lies. Hitherto, save for the latent qualms concerning my total helplessness if anything happened to Davies, interest and excitement had upheld me well. My alarms only began when I thought them nearly over. Davies had frequently urged me to turn in and sleep, and I went so far as to go below and coil myself up on the lee sofa with my pencil and diary. Suddenly there was a flapping and rattling on deck, and I began to slide on to the floor. “What’s happened?” I cried, in a panic, for there was Davies stooping in at the cabin door.
“Nothing,” he said, chafing his hands for warmth; “I’m only going about. Hand me the glasses, will you? There’s a steamer ahead. I say, if you really don’t want to turn in, you might make some soup. Just let’s look at the chart.” He studied it with maddening deliberation, while I wondered how near the steamer was, and what the yacht was doing meanwhile.
“I suppose it’s not really necessary for anyone to be at the helm?” I remarked.
“Oh, she’s all right for a minute,” he said, without looking up. “Two—one and a half—one—lights in line sou’-west by west—got a match?” He expended two, and tumbled upstairs again.
“You don’t want me, do you?” I shouted after him.
“No, but come up when you’ve put the kettle on. It’s a pretty beat up the fiord. Lovely breeze.”
His legs disappeared. A sort of buoyant fatalism possessed me as I finished my notes and pored over the stove. It upheld me, too, when I went on deck and watched the “pretty beat”, whose prettiness was mainly due to the crowd of fog-bound shipping—steamers, smacks, and sailing-vessels—now once more on the move in the confined fairway of the fiord, their baleful eyes of red, green, or yellow, opening and shutting, brightening and fading; while shore-lights and anchor-lights added to my bewilderment, and a throbbing of screws filled the air like the distant roar of London streets. In fact, every time we spun round for our dart across the fiord I felt like a rustic matron gathering her skirts for the transit of the Strand on a busy night. Davies, however, was the street arab who zigzags under the horses’ feet unscathed; and all the time he discoursed placidly on the simplicity and safety of night-sailing if only you are careful, obeying rules, and burnt good lights. As we were nearing the hot glow in the sky that denoted Kiel we passed a huge scintillating bulk moored in mid-stream. “Warships,” he murmured, ecstatically.
At one o’clock we anchored off the town.