A raw north wind swept over the island of Walcheren and the mouth of the West Schelde, ruffling into tiny waves the water of the broad stream, which in the twilight looked like a shoreless sea.  Only those acquainted with the ground knew that the flashing lights of the beacons at Flushing on the right and at Fort Frederik Hendrik on the left marked the limits of the wide mouth of the harbour.  Here, in 1809, when Holland was under the rule of Napoleon Bonaparte, a powerful English fleet had entered the Schelde to attack Flushing, and take the fortress.  In the centre, between the two lights, which were about three miles apart, the German cruiser Gefion lay tossing at anchor.  On the deck stood Heideck, who on his return had been promoted to major and appointed to the intelligence department for the coast district of Holland.

In the afternoon he had seen a vessel entering the Schelde, which the pilot had identified as one of the fishing-smacks plying between the Shetland Islands and the Dutch ports.  Heideck had informed the captain of the Gefion of his suspicion that the smack might be intended for another purpose than trading in herrings.  The little vessel had put in on the left bank, between the villages of Breskens and Kadzand, and Heideck decided to row across to it.

Six marines and four sailors, under the command of a mate, manned one of the Gefion’s boats, and set out for the left bank in the direction of the suspected vessel.  It cost the oarsmen, struggling with the tide and wind which came howling from the sea, nearly half an hour’s hard work before they saw the dark hull of the smack emerging clearly outlined before them.  A hoarse voice from on board asked what they wanted.

“His Majesty’s service!” answered Heideck, and, as the boat lay to, he threw off his cloak, so as to spring on deck more easily.  Three men, in the dark, woollen smock and tarpaulined hat of coast fishermen, approached him and, in answer to his inquiry for the master, told him, in an unintelligible mixture of Dutch and German, that he had gone ashore.

“His name?”

“Maaning Brandelaar.”

“What is the name of this vessel?”

“Bressay.”

The answers were given with hesitation and sullenly, and the three men showed such evident signs of irritation that Heideck felt they would have gladly thrown him overboard had it not been for the respect inspired by his uniform.

“Where from?” he asked.

“From Lerwick.”

“Where to?”

“We are going to sell our herrings.  We are respectable people, Herr major.”

“Where are you going to sell your herrings?”

“Where we can.  The skipper has gone to Breskens.  He intended to be back soon.”

Heideck looked round.  The smack had put to in a little bay, where the water was quiet.  The village of Breskens and the little watering-place, Kadzand, were both so near that the lighted windows could be seen.  It was nine o’clock—­rather late for the business which Maaning Brandelaar intended to transact at Breskens.