The Men Who Wrought Part 41

THE WRECK AT DORBY

A small group of people stood surveying the wreck of one of the great construction docks in the Dorby yards. Prominent among them were Sir Andrew Farlow and his son. They were standing beside a naval officer of considerable rank. A number of naval uniforms stood out from the rest of the civilians; but these were of lesser degree.

The sky was heavily overcast. A light, penetrating drizzle of rain was falling. Somehow these things seemed to add to the sense of destruction prevailing.

The corrugated iron roof--thousands of square feet of it--was lying tumbled and torn upon a tangle of fallen steel girders. Great slabs of ferro-concrete walls loomed grey amidst the chaos. Steel stanchions of great height and strength, used to support the roofing, lay about, bent or broken, like so much lead piping. The ma.s.s of wreckage was stupendous, and through it all, and beyond it, towards the water's edge, the rigid steel ribs of twin vessels stood up defiantly, as though indifferent to the fierce upheaval which had wrecked their cradles.

Ruxton pointed at the latter.

"They've wrecked everything but what they set out to wreck."

He had voiced a general thought. There was no answer to his comment.

The naval commander displayed his feelings in the almost childlike regret in his eyes. The wrecking of anything in the shape of sea craft smote him to the heart. It was no question of values to him. The sea and all that belonged to it were the precious things of life to him.

Sir Andrew frowned down upon the scene. His strong Yorkshire features were sternly set.

"It means two weeks' delay. That is all." Sir Andrew's words were the outcome of his resolve.

"All of that," said the commander. "It's curious," he reflected. "It suggests inexperience or--great hurry. What of the offices?"

"You mean the drawing office?" Sir Andrew's lips set grimly as he glanced in Ruxton's direction.

"Burnt to a cinder and scattered to the four winds." Ruxton emitted a sound like a laugh deprived of all mirth.

"The drawings?" The commander's eyes were gravely enquiring.

"Not a drawing or tracing saved. Not a single working plan. Complete.

Oh, yes, complete. But----"

"But?" The concern had deepened in the officer's eyes.

Ruxton shrugged.

"We have duplicates and triplicates of everything, besides the originals. They must take us for babes or--imbeciles."

The officer was relieved. He even smiled.

"A good many do that. Well, they have told us their intentions pretty plainly. They'll get no second opportunity unless they've a staff of miracle workers. Shall you be present at the enquiry this afternoon, Sir Andrew?"

Sir Andrew signified a.s.sent. Then he asked:

"What about the inquest?"

"To-morrow morning," one of his own staff informed him.

"Four deaths. Seven injured." It was the officer again who spoke. "Two of them my men. The others operatives. One of the injured is believed to be a foreigner. If he is fit to give evidence it may be interesting."

The talk ceased. There was nothing more to be said. The wrecking was complete. No further talk could serve them.

Presently Sir Andrew moved away. His resentment outweighed his regrets.

Ruxton followed him. He displayed no emotion at the ruin which had been caused. The loss of life he endeavored to thrust out of his mind. Nor was it difficult, for, in spite of the seriousness of the calamity, it was incomparable with the calamity which had come near to breaking his heart.

The officer remained where he was. His duty lay there in the work under his guardianship. He knew well enough he was not likely to escape the official verdict of "slackness."

Ruxton followed his father into the waiting car. In a moment they were threading their way through a labyrinth of unkempt buildings, all of which concealed a teeming activity and laboring life. The lanes were narrow, winding and unpaved. The car was forever crossing and recrossing the metal track of a light railway amongst strings of trucks and snorting locomotives. On every hand came the din of moving machinery. Then frequently they were held up by slow-moving horse vehicles.

The yards at Dorby were in full work. In spite of the wrecking, work went on just the same. There was no general dislocation. The phenomenon was typical of the hard-headed northern worker, and the sureness of the steady control of the great enterprise. Every unit of that great army of workers went through the daily routine with one eye upon the time-sheet, and the other upon the privileges which his union bestowed upon him. For the rest, his personal concerns only began when the steam siren sounded the completion of his day's work.

In the privacy of the offices, just within the gates of the yards, Ruxton and his father were at liberty to talk more freely. Yet for some minutes after their arrival their inclination kept them silent. Each was thinking on the lines which appealed most. Ruxton was not thinking of Dorby at all.

Sir Andrew was standing squarely upon the skin rug, with his back to the fire. More than ever he a.s.sumed the likeness to a pictorial John Bull. Even the somewhat old-fashioned morning-coat he wore added to the resemblance. Ruxton had flung himself into a large easy-chair. The room was lofty and luxurious. Nor was its fashion extremely modern. It savored of mid-Victorian days, when luxury in the office of a commercial magnate was first brought to its perfection.

The rain had increased, and, beyond the lofty windows, it was now steadily teeming. Sir Andrew was the first to speak.

"I'm trying to fathom the significance of it," he said, a little helplessly.

Ruxton's dark eyes withdrew from the window.

"Don't," he said. Then he added: "It's not worth it."

His father's shrewd eyes regarded him speculatively.

"Not worth it? How?"

"Why, because you will discover it, and it will have been trouble for nothing."

"I don't understand."

"It is simple. There is only one meaning to it. Terror."

In spite of the old man's disturbance his eyes twinkled.

"They'll achieve precious little of that. If that's all----"

"Exactly, Dad. Purposeless destruction is a fetish of this people.

Their psychology has an abnormal belief in terror. They judge everybody the same. You have seen it in a hundred ways. Except for this they are anything but fools. But in this they are almost childlike. They know they cannot stop the work in these yards. They know if they destroy a dozen sets of plans there will still be more forthcoming. They know all this, and are childishly, impotently furious. Their first thought is revenge, and then terrorizing. They think they can frighten us into abandoning the work, perhaps. I don't know. There is one thing certain: speculation on the matter is waste of your valuable efforts. Sparling is right; they have shown their hand. They will get no second chance on the same lines. They have achieved two weeks' delay. That is all they have achieved--here."

"Here?"

"Yes. I haven't had an opportunity of telling you before." Ruxton paused. A storm had gathered in his deep eyes. His fair, even brows were drawn. His father noted a sudden fullness in the veins at his temples. Then, in the midst of the affairs of the moment, he remembered his son's hurried rush to town, and its purpose.

Quite suddenly Ruxton leapt to his feet. He towered over the staunch figure of his father. His eyes had become hot and straining.

"Yes, what they have achieved here is futile. But what they have done elsewhere is--d.a.m.nable," he cried, with hardly repressed fury. "I feel as if I should go mad. I've thought and thought till I can no longer think connectedly upon the matter. I am lost; utterly lost; groping like a blind man. She has gone. She's been spirited away, stolen; and G.o.d alone knows what suffering and torture she may not even now be enduring. I told you revenge and terror are the motives of these people. Their plans have fallen into our hands, and we are availing ourselves of them. Remember, the secrets we possess are the most precious of all the German Government's plans. They cannot undo that mischief, so they turn to revenge, for which they have an infinite capacity. Who are they going to be revenged upon? Us? Yes, as far as possible. Even our own lives may be threatened. But more than all they intend to hurt Von Hertzwohl and--all belonging to him. They mean to kill him, and possibly the others. But first they will use his daughter to get at him. Do you see? She will be tortured until she delivers him into their hands, and then--G.o.d knows."

He flung out his arms in a gesture of despair.

His father's eyes deepened in their anxiety. But the set of his strong mouth became firmer.