Erskine Childers’ novel, The Riddle of the Sands, has a reasonable claim to have been the first true spy novel. Published in 1903, it enjoyed huge popularity in Britain in the years leading up to the First World War. Taking its cue from the adventure tales of Rider Haggard and R M Ballantyne, Childers’ novel contains less of the derring-do of those writers but lots more realistic detail and intrigue and thus more authenticity. This formula would be used later to great effect by such espionage writers as John Buchan and Ian Fleming.
When Charles Carruthers (it had to be “Carruthers”, right?) accepts an invitation from old Oxford chum Arthur Davies, to take a yachting and duck-shooting trip to the Frisian Islands (the archipelago at the eastern edge of the North Sea), he has no idea their holiday will become a daredevil investigation into a German plot to invade Britain.
The action is centred around the large area of coastal waterway that is the Schleswig fiords, characterised by hundreds of channels and inlets and ever-shifting sandbanks that lend themselves to skilled navigators only. They lend themselves to secretive plots too, as it turns out, and when Carruthers and Davies stumble upon mysterious goings-on, we are drawn into a classic spy adventure in which the German plot to invade Britain is revealed…and of course eventually foiled. The ability to use boats in this environment is a secret weapon, and Davies, despite his eccentricity, is a gifted sailor. The minutiae of sailing and navigation throughout the book is engrossing.
The novel predicted the threat of war with Germany and was so prescient in its identification of the British coast’s defensive weaknesses that it came to influence the siting of new naval bases. As an aside, the story of its author is quite remarkable. Rather than following up the novel with a host of sequels as might have been expected (a sort of nautical equivalent of Biggles perhaps?), Childers instead entered politics. Quite bizarrely, since the novel is all about patriotic struggles for king and country, its writer eventually became a fervent Irish nationalist and was considered a traitor by the British government at the time of his death. He was executed by a firing squad in 1922, by order of the Irish Free State.
However, it is the novel that Childers will be chiefly remembered for, and I have selected as an excerpt the initial letter from Davies to Carruthers inviting him out to the Frisian Islands. It gives us an intriguing flavour of the adventure to come, plus an amusing insight into Davies’ scattergun psychology. It makes me want to grab an oilskin and a pipe and a pouch of “Raven mixture” and join the machinations!
Withers demurely handed me a letter bearing a German postmark and marked ‘Urgent’. I had just finished dressing, and was collecting my money and gloves. A momentary thrill of curiosity broke in upon my depression as I sat down to open it. A corner on the reverse of the envelope bore the blotted legend: ‘Very sorry, but there’s one other thing—a pair of rigging screws from Carey and Neilson’s, size 1–3/8, galvanized.’ Here it is:
Yacht Dulcibella,
Flensburg, Schleswig-Holstein, Sept. 21.
Dear Carruthers,—
I daresay you’ll be surprised at hearing from me, as it’s ages since we met. It is more than likely, too, that what I’m going to suggest won’t suit you, for I know nothing of your plans, and if you’re in town at all you’re probably just getting into harness again and can’t get away. So I merely write on the off chance to ask if you would care to come out here and join me in a little yachting, and, I hope, duck-shooting. I know you’re keen on shooting, and I sort of remember that you have done some yachting too, though I rather forget about that. This part of the Baltic —the Schleswig fiords — is a splendid cruising-ground — A1 scenery — and there ought to be plenty of duck about soon, if it gets cold enough. I came out here via Holland and the Frisian Islands, starting early in August. My pals have had to leave me, and I’m badly in want of another, as I don’t want to lay up yet for a bit. I needn’t say how glad I should be if you could come. If you can, send me a wire to the P.O. here. Flushing and on by Hamburg will be your best route, I think. I’m having a few repairs done here, and will have them ready sharp by the time your train arrives. Bring your gun and a good lot of No. 4’s; and would you mind calling at Lancaster’s and asking for mine, and bringing it too? Bring some oilskins. Better get the eleven-shilling sort, jacket and trousers — not the ‘yachting’ brand; and if you paint bring your gear. I know you speak German like a native, and that will be a great help. Forgive this hail of directions, but I’ve a sort of feeling that I’m in luck and that you’ll come. Anyway, I hope you and the F.O. both flourish. Good-bye.
Yours ever,
Arthur H. Davies.
Would you mind bringing me out a prismatic compass, and a pound of Raven mixture?
I pulled out the letter again, and ran down its impulsive staccato sentences, affecting to ignore what a gust of fresh air, high spirits, and good fellowship this flimsy bit of paper wafted into the jaded club-room. On re-perusal, it was full of evil presage — ‘A1 scenery’ — but what of equinoctial storms and October fogs? Every sane yachtsman was paying off his crew now. ‘There ought to be duck’ — vague, very vague. ‘If it gets cold enough’ — cold and yachting seemed to be a gratuitously monstrous union. His pals had left him; why? ‘Not the “yachting” brand’; and why not? As to the size, comfort, and crew of the yacht — all cheerfully ignored; so many maddening blanks. And, by the way, why in Heaven’s name ‘a prismatic compass’?
