As the roofs of Tsingtao slowly seemed to melt together, then faded entirely behind them, while the sharp rim of the hills against the starry sky grew lower and lower and finally became one with the sea's horizon, a feeling of lassitude seemed to creep through the Emden. It was as though they had all been men running, running for all they were worth, straining their lungs almost to bursting, and then all at once were permitted to stop, to walk and dawdle, or even just sit and rest. Karl von Mueller was acutely conscious of the near-paralyzing effect. He felt it himself, and understood it only too well. They had all been under a severe strain, and most of them had been working steadily around the clock, with little rest before. For a moment or two he toyed with the thought of calling all hands to action stations simply to make sure that they were on the alert. But reflection showed him that such a move at this time would be unnecessarily harsh, and might even be. interpreted, with some justice, by the men as sadistic. There were times when such a drill was perfectly proper, even though it tumbled them out in the small hours and interrupted their sleep. But this was not one of them. Messages passing between the British and French, intercepted by von Guerard and his wireless watchers, indicated that both squadrons were well to the south, heading for rendezvous at Hong Kong, in conformity with orders from the First Lord of the Admiralty, Winston Churchill.
The Russians were still well to the north of Shimonoseki. Consequently there was little danger of attack in these waters. The men had earned their moment of rest. Now let them have it—just so long as they did not relax their guard too long or too completely.
All through that night and the day following and the night after that the Emden and her consorts steamed steadily and almost lazily—at least so far as Emden was concerned—following a southeast course through the Yellow Sea and into the East China Sea.
During that time the water and the sky were empty save for themselves and an occasional island hanging like a cloud upon the horizon.
But if it was a time for leisure in the Emden, it was scarcely so among her companions. On the day after their sailing the crews could be seen swarming like ants over the flanks and superstructures of the Eitel Friedrich and the Markomannia. By nightfall, with the help of a little paint and a little carpentry, the former had been disguised as a British P & O liner, while the latter wore the markings of the Blue Funnel Line.
Early on the morning of the second day—indeed, well before daybreak—the buzzer at the head of Karl von Mueller's bunk sounded insistently, waking him from a fitful sleep.
"Wireless room, Kapitan," came a voice in response to his automatic reply. "Von Guerard here. Sir, we have just intercepted a message to British naval headquarters in Hong Kong that the Canadian Pacific liner Empress of Japan sailed shortly after midnight from Yokohama for Shanghai."
Von Mueller sat up abruptly. "So!" he exclaimed. "Thank you, Anton. I will be on the bridge in fifteen minutes. If you have any further news after that, you may reach me there."
He rose and rang for the steward, ordering coffee and toast, and taking the time to dress and shave while it was being brought. There was no great hurry, though the news was important. The Empress would be a valuable prize—a most valuable prize. And they must, even then, be just coming athwart the regular shipping lanes between Yokohama and Shanghai. But if she had sailed only after midnight she could not be in the vicinity yet. His task just now was to get to the chartroom and estimate her position and speed and course, and lay his own plans for the stalk. When the steward brought his breakfast, he ate it slowly, all the while trying to guess the liner's present position.
On the bridge he found Leutnant Eric Schall on duty and for a moment was startled, though there was really no reason why he should be. Eric Schall was half English, on his mother's side. Indeed, he had been born in London, where his parents had met while his father was serving as naval attache at die German Embassy', and had been largely educated in English schools, and even graduated at Oxford before entering the Imperial service at Kiel. Unquestionably he spoke English more fluently than anyone else on board, von Muecke not excepted. But his father was now an Admiral with the home fleet, and there was no doubt as to the boy's loyalty. It was only that the sight of him there, in the half dawn, suddenly reminded von Mueller of problems that had not until then occurred to him. Schall was only one whose ancestry straddled the current line of hostilities. Von Guerard was another outstanding example. An Alsatian, his father before him had been an Alsatian, born by law a Frenchman at a time when Elsass-Lothringen was a part of France. He had married a French girl from Paris, so that ethnically at least, Anton must be regarded as two-thirds French. By the same token, perhaps, to carry the point to absurdity, Franz von Hohenzollern, aristocratic as his background might be, had kin on both sides of this quarrel. The Czar of Russia was a cousin; so was the King of England—and the War Lord himself. But there was no question about Franz.
Not that Karl von Mueller questioned any of them. They had all entered the Imperial service voluntarily at a time when there was peace throughout the world. None had been forced to make a choice between Scylla and Charibdis. Their devotion was not to be doubted. It was only that von Mueller had not thought of it before. Now it came to him: What must a man in such a position feel? Loyal as he might be, wasn't it inevitable that there must be some moments when those other ties pulled strongly at him?
He kicked the thought aside and returned Schall's salute. "Good morning, Eric," he said. "It's still dark enough to use the signal lamps? Good! That will save us time! Send word at once to the Printz Eitel Friedrich and the Markomannia to proceed directly and as quickly as possible to the rendezvous named at the commanders' meeting. Emphasize that except in case of emergency strict wireless silence is to be maintained. Emden will rejoin at the appointed place."
Schall's boyish eyes brightened, and he could not help asking, "Something's up?"
Von Mueller's eyes stabbed him with a monitory glance. "I hope so, Leutnant!"
He went into the chartroom, back of the conning tower, and bent over his charts.
So far as could be foreseen, everything was going according to plan. The colliers and consorts continued on course, while the Emden bore due east to scissor the Yokohama lane —up and down and back and across. By early morning the other ships had fallen below the horizon and the Emden was alone in the burnished sea. Somewhere ahead there was a fat prize if they could intercept her. But there were acres of ocean. She could slip past. Von Mueller called his forward gun crews to "ready," a condition of alert still far removed from battle stations. Toward noon a smudge was seen to the east, and they headed toward it at full speed. But the stranger, brought over the horizon, proved to be only a small Japanese freighter without wireless who dipped her flag obsequiously and continued on her way.