A weekpassed. Although thePortchester Castlewas far from being inactive, the result of almost continuous patrol work amongst the islands of the AEgean Sea produced nothing in the nature of the capture or destruction of a hostile craft. There had been numerous false alarms; suspicious vessels had been chased, overhauled and boarded, only to find that their papers were in thorough order and their cargoes of a non-contraband nature; wild-goose expeditions had been carried out in search of imaginary petrol depots—all of which were most disappointing. The only redeeming feature of the business was that the presence of a strong fleet of patrolling craft tended to curtail the enemy's activities. The mere knowledge that the approaches to the Dardanelles were closely watched, acted as a deterrent both to the Turkish torpedo craft and the German submarines that had been sent hither, in a vain attempt to drive the Allied fleets from the open water of the Mediterranean and to stifle the merchant shipping of that inland sea.
Before the expiration of those seven days Sub-lieutenant Tom Webb was reported fit for duty. Thanks to clean living and a robust constitution, he made rapid progress under the skilful care of the ship's doctor. His regret for Osborne's loss was almost equal to that of Laddie's master.
The latter was badly hit by the catastrophe. Although he gave little outward sign of his grief, he felt the loss of his pet acutely.
"He may turn up again, old man," said Webb consolingly. "Just as likely as not he was left on board the torpedo-boat. If so, the destroyer's people will look after him until we get in touch with her."
"I wish I could share your opinion, Tom," replied Osborne. "But I can't see how that could possibly happen. Laddie wouldn't remain on board when I left. No, I'm afraid he's gone for good; and it's the horrible uncertainty of his fate that makes matters worse."
Captain M'Bride, too, was profuse in his sympathy.
"Of course, Osborne," he remarked, "I can't very well send out a general wireless asking if one of our destroyers has picked up a dog. I'd possibly get rapped over the knuckles by the Admiral for my pains. But I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll write a private letter to a chum of mine at Lemnos—he's the skipper of theTarbox—and ask him to institute enquiries. I'm rather inclined to favour Mr. Webb's theory, you know."
"Thanks, sir," replied Osborne. "It would be——"
"Aeroplane on our port quarter, sir," shouted one of the look-out men.
The three officers hastened to the bridge, where the officer of the watch had already brought his telescope to bear upon the approaching air-craft.
"A Johnny Turk, sir," reported the watchkeeper. "There are crescents on her planes."
A bugle blared "Action Stations". The two anti-aircraft guns were manned, while the quick-firers were trained to their extreme elevation in the hope that the oncoming aerial foe would still be a sufficient distance from the ship to enable the weapons to be brought to bear upon the swiftly-moving target.
Already it was too late for the ordinary quick-firers to be of service. The "anti's" alone had to be employed to fire at the Turkish aeroplane. Should the latter elect to rise to a great altitude the comparatively feeble weapons would be of little use. On the other hand, the higher the aeroplane rose the greater difficulty there would be of hitting a moving target like thePortchester Castle.
The two guns spoke almost simultaneously. By the aid of the "tracers", thin wisps of smoke from the soaring projectiles, it was quite easy to follow the flight of the shrapnel shells. Both burst seemingly close to the enemy air-craft. The observers in the armed merchant-cruiser could see the delicate smoke-wreaths from the detonating projectile being riven by the rush of air from the swiftly-moving machine. For a few seconds the aeroplane appeared to falter; then steadying herself, continued her flight undamaged.
Ten seconds later a bomb crashed into the sea, exploding with a terrific detonation within fifty yards of thePortchester Castle'sstarboard quarter. It was near enough to send a shower of spray completely over the ship's poop, while fragments of metal rattled against her steel sides.
Again a shrapnel shell burst overhead, but so far from the target that Osborne involuntarily exclaimed, "Rotten shot"; but, the instant after, "anti No. 2" succeeded in making the aeroplane side-slip for nearly a hundred feet before it recovered and circled in order to regain a favourable position for dropping more explosives.
Instinctively Tom Webb edged nearer the chart-house, but only for a moment. Captain M'Bride and Lieutenant Osborne were standing rigid and apparently unconscious of the danger. Their example, coupled with the fact that if the bomb did hit the bridge there would not be sufficient fragments of the chart-house to fill a pint measure, steadied the Sub's nerves. Many a time he had been in danger of being blown sky-high by mine or torpedo. He had grown used to such perils; but the unprecedented possibility of being pulverized by an enemy that could be seen had been responsible for his unpremeditated effort to gain a useless shelter.
Meanwhile thePortchester Castle, having been given the fullest use of the helm, was swinging to port. As she did so, the second bomb fell where her bows would have been had she held on her course.
"That was a near one, Osborne," remarked Captain M'Bride calmly, as he wiped the spray from his eyes, for the cascade of foam had fallen inboard, some of it flying over the elevated bridge. "This chap is a sticker for business. See, he's making another circle."
At that moment a man rushed up from below, and, leaping over the stanchion-rails, disappeared beneath the waves. Osborne and Webb hastened to the end of the bridge, but the suicide never appeared again.
It was the Greek, who had been detained on board pending his trial for treachery in connection with the thwarted attempt upon the non-existent petrol depot of Akhissareli. According to custom, all prisoners are released from cells when the vessel goes into action; and, profiting by this circumstance, the Greek, terrified by the crash of the guns and the explosion of the bombs, had escaped execution by order of a court-martial by choosing a voluntary death.
"He's cheated the hangman," remarked Osborne. "But what's the next move?"
The officers' attention was again directed towards the hostile air-craft. The biplane had swung round, in order to make yet another attempt to bomb the war-ship.
The Turkish airman was not lacking in daring. Reckless of thePortchester Castle'santi-aircraft guns, he volplaned from a height of three thousand feet until he had descended to less than two hundred and fifty feet from his target.
In so doing he unconsciously swung to leeward, and got within the maximum elevation of the 4.7-inchers. One of the gun-layers saw his chance and took it. With a shrill screech the projectile sped from the inclined muzzle of the powerful weapon. It was a splendid shot, but hardly good enough, for, without exploding, the shell passed completely through the right-hand planes.
Again the biplane lurched heavily, and side-slipped to within a hundred feet of the sea. Then, with superb skill, the airman righted the damaged machine. He had had enough. It was now his endeavour to save himself by flight if possible.
"Cease fire!" ordered Captain M'Bride in stentorian tones. "She's done for."
Lower and lower sank the crippled aeroplane, despite the efforts of the pilot to keep her clear of the surface of the water. With a strange spiral-like motion the biplane carried on for nearly a mile, then with a tremendous splash struck the water, reared her tail twenty feet in the air, and promptly disappeared from sight.
"There he is, sir; there's the pilot!" shouted a score of voices, as the head and shoulders of the airman were to be discerned bobbing up and down on the waves.
"And he's still alive," added Webb, still keeping his telescope bearing upon the scene of the biplane's dive.
"Away sea-boat!" ordered the skipper, at the same time telegraphing for "Half-speed astern".
There was a rush to man the boat. The jack-tars, who a few moments previously were in danger of being blown to atoms, were now eager to show their appreciation of a brave foe by doing their level best to save his life. Although Johnny Turk had, on several occasions, made things pretty hot for the Allies, the British seamen and soldiers, unanimously regarding him as a clean fighter and far superior in chivalry to the Hun, were quick to recognize his good qualities.
Before way was off the ship the sea-boat, commanded by Dicky Haynes, had been disengaged from the falls, and was pulling strongly in the direction of the airman, who, although unable to swim, was being supported by an inflated air life-belt.
Speedily the Turk was lifted into the boat. For a few moments he felt a trifle uncertain of the manner of his reception, but he was quickly put at his ease by the young Sub, who, finding that the airman spoke French, was able to maintain a simple conversation.
"You are a prisoner of war, sir," said Captain M'Bride, through Haynes's interpretation, when the airman was brought on board thePortchester Castle. "We are quite agreeable to letting you have plenty of liberty, providing you give us your parole. You will be well treated, and, subject to certain restrictions, allowed freedom of movement. If, on the other hand, you are discovered engaging upon any action likely to prejudice the safety of the ship, then the penalty will be death."
The airman, who announced himself as Afir-al-Bahr, Flight-lieutenant of the Ottoman Navy, showed unmistakable signs of sincere gratitude for his rescue and generous treatment. He swore by Mohammed and his father's beard—the most binding oath that a Mussulman can take—to abide faithfully by the terms under which his parole was granted.
Later on in the day he became quite communicative. He admitted that his heart was not in his work. He was one of the educated class of Turks who realized, perhaps too late, that Germany had selfish ulterior motives in her profuse expressions of friendship for her near Eastern ally. He was sensible of the friendliness of Great Britain towards the Ottoman Empire in times past, and regretted the turn of events that had compelled the Porte to throw in its lot with the Hun.
"But since we are enemies," he added, "we must fight bravely until Allah wills that Ottoman and Englishman shall again sheathe the sword."
"Quite a decent sort," declared Webb to his chum Osborne later in the afternoon. "Did you notice how tactfully he evaded a chance question on the part of the skipper? He couldn't have given a direct answer without betraying some of the Turkish war plans. By Jove! what a contrast to those Hun officers we had on board the oldZealous. Comparisons may be odious, but a German is a jolly sight more odious."
"Seen this, you fellows?" asked the junior watch-keeper, holding out a slip of paper. "Something doing this trip, I fancy."
It was a decoded wireless message, brief and to the point.
"Mail-boatSunderbundreported torpedoed, latitude 34° 15' 20" N., long. 22° 4' 16" E. Passengers and crew taken to boats, supposed making for Alexandria.Portchester Castleto proceed and investigate to eastward of position;Restormelto westward. Immediate."
Thelatitude and longitude given showed that the attack upon the mail-boat had occurred close to the Tripolitan coast off the province of Barca, a desolate country on the western frontier of Egypt. At the time of receiving the message thePortchester Castlewas twenty miles S.E. of Cape Sidero, in the island of Crete, and roughly 250 miles from the scene of the disaster.
Immediately upon receipt of the wireless the armed merchant-cruiser set off at full speed to carry out instructions. A message from theRestormelannounced the fact that that vessel was eighty miles to the westward.
"Glass tumbling down as if someone had knocked a hole in the bulb," remarked Osborne. "We're in for a spell of very dirty weather before very long. TheSunderbund'sboats won't stand much chance in the heavy seas one meets with in the Eastern Mediterranean, and heaven help them if they are cast ashore. They've an even chance of death by starvation—that is, if they survive the landing through the breakers—or captivity in the hands of the Senussi."
"I thought that those fellows had been knocked out long ago," remarked Haynes.
"Yes, as far as the Sollum district is concerned," replied the Lieutenant. "But, unfortunately, numbers of these undesirables have made their way westward into the fringe of the Tripolitan desert. They have, apparently, lost their Turkish officers, and are acting as banditti. From all accounts they are well armed with modern rifles, although their field-guns and machine-guns were captured several months ago."
The barometer had given a certain warning of bad weather, and before many hours had elapsed it was blowing hard from the east'ard. The sun set in a ragged bank of indigo-coloured clouds. The wind whistled shrilly through the armed merchant-cruiser's rigging, and the spindrift began to fly in heavy masses over the weather bow.
Morning brought no improvement in the weather. In fact it looked worse, for the waves were so heavy that thePortchester Castlehad lost a quantity of deck gear, while two of the boats had been "stove in" at the davits, owing to the gripes being carried away under the hammer-like blows of the green seas.
"Not much chance for theSunderbund'sboats," said Haynes. "They couldn't possibly make headway against this tumble. They'd be swamped to a dead cert."
"Unless they rigged up sea-anchors and rode to them," added Webb. "These waves are not so steep as those we get in the North Sea, and luckily the wind is not blowing dead on shore. It's my belief that theRestormel, being farther to lee'ard, will stand a better chance than we shall of picking up the boats."
By this time thePortchester Castlehad altered helm and was steering eastward, right into the eye of the wind. Broad on the starboard beam could be faintly discerned the low, sandy cliffs of the African shore, fringed by a wide belt of milk-white foam. North, west, and east the horizon was unbroken. Sea and sky met in an ill-defined blurr. Not another sail was in sight, nor had thePortchester Castlepassed any wreckage, although her course had taken her over the spot where the ill-fated liner had been reported to have sunk.
Wireless messages constantly passed between thePortchester Castleand theRestormel, each vessel keeping her consort posted as to her position; but neither was able to announce the gratifying news that the object of their quest had been achieved. About eight bells (8 a.m.) the officer of the watch reported what appeared to be a boat, well on the starboard bow. A course was immediately shaped to approach the supposed craft, while thePortchester Castle'sofficers kept it well under observation with their glasses.
"I don't think it is a boat," suggested Haynes. "Looks to me like surf breaking over a rock."
He wiped the moisture from the lens of his telescope and looked again.
"It's only broken water," he said with conviction.
"I believe it is a boat—a white-painted one," said Webb.
"Sure?" enquired Haynes, unwilling to own that his surmise was at fault.
"Yes; she's lifting to the waves. I can see people in her."
"By Jove, yes," agreed Osborne. "And they are unpleasantly close to the broken water. They don't seem to be making headway."
"We're in as close as we dare go, I fancy, Mr. Osborne," remarked Captain M'Bride. "We cannot hazard the ship by going inside the ten-fathom line. Fire a couple of rockets, and see if they will be able to pull out to us."
Quickly the order was carried out. The two detonating rockets exploded with loud reports, and, in spite of the fury of the wind, the people in the boat heard the signal. Hitherto their attention seemed to have been directed towards the inhospitable shore, and they had not noticed thePortchester Castle'sapproach. The latter slowed down, steaming at half-speed into the wind at a distance of a couple of miles from one of theSunderbund'slife-boats, for such she was.
"They'll never do it," declared Captain M'Bride. "They're only pulling four oars and look quite done up. We'll have to call for volunteers, Mr. Osborne, to take the steamboat in and give them a tow back to the ship."
"Very good, sir," replied the Lieutenant. "I'll go."
"No, not you, Mr. Osborne," said the skipper. "You'll be more useful on board. It will be a ticklish job lowering the steamboat."
"May I, sir?" asked Webb eagerly.
Captain M'Bride assented. He had great confidence in the Sub-lieutenant's capability, coolness, and sound judgment, and already Webb had acquired a considerable amount of practice in handling the steam cutter.
There was no lack of volunteers to man the boat, and the Sub had no difficulty in picking out those men who were accustomed to the cutter. Steam was quickly raised, and in a very short time the heavy craft was ready to be hoisted out.
ThePortchester Castle'shelm was then starboarded, bringing the vessel broadside on to wind and sea, and thus affording a floating breakwater for the rescuing boat. Even then the vessel rolled so heavily, and the waves even to leeward were so vicious, that the operation of casting off from the ship's side would be fraught with danger.
"We'll try the effect of a little oil," declared the skipper. "Pass the word for a cask of heavy stuff to be started. Look lively there."
The effect of the oil was little short of marvellous. Far to leeward the tumultuous seas subsided as if by magic, leaving a calm, fan-shaped belt of iridescent water bounded by a terrific turmoil of broken water.
Clad in oilskins, sou'wester, and rubber boots, Webb took his place by the side of the coxswain. For'ard everything had been battened down, while in the stern-sheets were a couple of coils of rope and a strongly-stropped empty water breaker.
"Easy ahead," ordered the Sub. Although every moment was precious, he was too good a seaman to attempt to drive his boat at full speed through the turmoil of foaming seas immediately beyond the belt of oil-quelled water. To have done so would have resulted in a severe strain upon the engines owing to the racing of the propeller as the boat's stern lifted clear of the waves, and quite possibly the cutter would have found herself in a far more dangerous predicament than the life-boat to whose assistance she was proceeding.
Soon the steamboat was in the thick of it. Solid waves swept her as far aft as the cabin top; clouds of vapour, caused by the cold water coming in sudden contact with the hot funnel-casing, enveloped the Sub and the coxswain in a blinding, scurrying pall of moisture. Only by holding on like grim death were the two able to save themselves from being thrown overboard by the erratic, almost vertical jerk of the boat's stern. At rapid intervals the helm had to be smartly ported in order to enable the steamboat to meet the hissing crested waves, which, had they hit the craft on her broadside, might easily have capsized her, or at least flooded her cockpit flush with the coamings.
Nobly the cutter struggled onwards. Every foot gained was the result of sheer hard work—a contest of the product of a mechanical age with the forces of nature. Gradually the distance between her and thePortchester Castleincreased; she was making slow but sure headway against wind and waves.
"See anything of the boat?" asked Webb, bellowing into the coxswain's ear in order to make himself understood in the racket of pounding machinery and the roar of the elements.
"Not a sign, sir," replied the man. "Maybe she's in the trough of the sea when we're on top of a wave, and t'other way about. Anyways, we'll pick her up if she's still afloat."
For full half an hour the strenuous struggle continued, then the steamboat entered a comparatively calm belt of water. The respite was but temporary, for two hundred yards ahead began the broken water as the waves began to thunder on the flat shore.
"There she is, sir," shouted the coxswain, as the glistening white bows of theSunderbund'slife-boat were for a brief instant visible on the summit of a wave. "And lumme," he added under his breath, "they're about done in, I fancy. At all events it'll take some getting out of that jumble of surf."
The man was quite right in his surmise. The liner's boat was gradually and steadily losing ground. Despite the desperate and heroic efforts of her rowers—they had double- and treble-banked the oars that still remained serviceable—the physical strain was beginning to tell.
"Where she can keep afloat we can go," decided the Sub. "So here goes."
The steamboat approached cautiously, easing down as each successive comber swept towards her. Already there was a foot of water in the engine-room, while, in spite of the most skilful handling, the propeller was racing madly as the boat dipped her nose and threw her stern clear of the waves.
It was, indeed, almost miraculous that theSunderbund'slife-boat had so far weathered the storm. As it was, green seas were breaking over her, necessitating prompt, vigorous, and constant baling on the part of her passengers and crew. Many of the former, too, were down with sea-sickness of the worst form, and only lay inertly on the bottom-boards, too ill to take further interest in the proceedings.
At length the steamboat approached sufficiently near to enable the breaker and grass rope to be veered to the sorely pressed life-boat. Directly the towing-hawser was made fast the former forged ahead; but hardly had she taken the strain when the means of communication parted like packthread, one portion narrowly missing being caught by the propeller. Had it done so the steamboat would have been helpless in the trough of the sea.
It was now an even more difficult matter to take the boat in tow again, for the breaker and grass rope had been taken on theSunderbund'sboat. Meanwhile both craft had drifted farther to leeward, and closer to the worst of the broken water. Clearly Webb had to act now or the opportunity would be gone for ever.
Frequently buried in green seas, from which she shook herself clear like an enormous dog, the steam cutter staggered to windward of the boat and, turning, approached within casting distance.
Dexterously communication was re-established, and once more the steamboat began to take the strain of the towing-hawser. At one instant stretched as taut as a steel bar, at another dipping limply in the sea, the stout rope stood the strain, and gradually the life-boat began to gather way. If progress was slow on the outward run, the journey back to the ship was even more so. Yet thePortchester Castlewas unable to approach another cable's length without an almost certain risk of grounding.
"The old ship's chucking overboard some more oil, sir," reported the coxswain. "Maybe we'll get some benefit, although I'll allow it'll drift too far to wind'ard."
"It's spreading," shouted Webb in reply. "That will do the trick."
Twenty minutes later the steamboat ran alongside her parent. The hawser was transferred to the latter's steam-capstan, and the cutter was deftly hoisted inboard.
Now came the more difficult task of transhipping the rescued men from the life-boat to thePortchester Castle. Without means of hoisting the heavy boat bodily out of the water, the armed merchant-cruiser's crew had to haul each survivor separately by means of bowlines and bos'n's chairs, for most of the passengers had collapsed from exposure.
There were two exceptions, however: one a tall, fair-haired man in the khaki uniform of a Major of artillery. In spite of the fact that his left arm was in a sling, he experienced no difficulty in making the ascent, and came over the side with a decided smile on his face.
Sub-lieutenant Webb looked at him intently; then, to confirm his surmise, he glanced at the officer's companion—a slightly shorter and broad-shouldered man of about forty. His face was bronzed, his hair, crisp in spite of the drenching spray, was tinged with grey at the temples. His attire consisted of a pair of navy-blue trousers and a shirt. It afterwards transpired that he had given his monkey-jacket to one of the lady passengers, or Webb would have recognized him as a Lieutenant-commander of the Royal Naval Reserve.
"By Jove, Billy!" drawled the naval man. "Thought you and I, old bird, would have had to swim for it—eh what? How's that groggy wrist of yours now?"
Tom Webb hesitated no longer. He stepped up to the pair of rescued officers and held out his hand.
"Thanks, many thanks," exclaimed the coatless one. "You're the Sub in charge of the steamboat? Smart bit of work, 'pon my word."
"Glad to have the opportunity of repaying a good turn, Mr. Dacres," said Webb.
"Good turn?" repeated Dacres, knitting his brows. "Good turn. I don't follow you. I haven't met you before, have I?"
"Yes, and so has Mr. Fane."
Mr. Fane was equally at a loss.
"Give it up," he declared. "All the same——"
"Dash it all, I've tumbled to it," interrupted Dacres. "You were that curly-headed Sea Scout I met at Haslar Creek three or four years ago. I believe you were the means of enabling me to get a yacht off my hands."
"And incidentally the means of getting me my commission," added the ex-Tenderfoot. "And Osborne is on board too. There he is: officer of the watch. If it hadn't been for the experience we gained on board the oldPetrel, I don't suppose we would have been here."
"Then the little yacht did some practical good work after all. I told you so, Billy," said Dacres, addressing his companion. "Yes, thanks very much," he added, in response to the Sub's invitation. "The loan of a dry kit and a good meal would be very acceptable. It's nearly——"
"Submarine on the starboard bow, sir!" roared the mast-head man, his words unmistakably clear in spite of the howling of the wind.
ThePortchester Castlebegan to turn in obedience to a quick movement of the helm. Hoarse orders were shouted from the bridge and taken up by the bos'n's mates in other parts of the ship. But the warning came too late. The armed merchant-cruiser reeled as with a terrific explosion a torpedo "got home" just abaft her engine-room.
Ofwhat happened during the next few minutes Sub-lieutenant Tom Webb had but a hazy confused idea. The reverberations of the tremendous detonation were straining his ear-drums almost to bursting-point. Wreaths of pungent smoke, caught by the vicious blasts that eddied over the deck, obliterated everything from his vision and made him gasp for breath like a drowning man. His brain seemed benumbed by the concussion, his legs were on the point of giving way until he almost unconsciously grasped a guard-rail within arm's length.
Gradually he began to realize that disaster had overtaken the ship. He was aware of men rushing hither and thither, some shouting, others almost as dazed as himself. ThePortchester Castlewas listing heavily to starboard. Mingled with the tumult on deck, the howling of the wind, the hiss of escaping steam, and the slap of the vicious seas, came the unmistakable sound of volumes of water rushing in through the enormous rent in the ship's bottom, caused by the explosion of the torpedo.
"By Jove, Billy!" exclaimed Dacres in his customary drawl; "we've pulled off a double event. Torpedoed twice within twenty-four hours, eh, what?"
Before Fane could reply a bugle-call rang out sharply. It was the "Still". Instantly the turmoil of humanity ceased. As steady as if at a ceremonial inspection the men stood at attention until "Collision Quarters" brought the ship's company into a state of disciplined activity.
ThePortchester Castlewas doomed. All on board realized the fact. In spite of the terrific seas a German submarine had "stood by" theSunderbund'slife-boat, keeping submerged at a distance sufficient to prevent any of the liner's survivors "spotting" the pole-like periscopes as they appeared at intervals above the waves.
The Hun skipper of the U-boat had caught the wireless appeal from the strickenSunderbund. He knew that aid would be speedily forthcoming, and setting aside all dictates of humanity, he had lainperdufor the opportunity of yet a further display of "frightfulness".
He was not mistaken in his conjecture. He had witnessed from afar the rescue of theSunderbund'slife-boat, and awaiting his chance had approached within torpedo range while the attention of thePortchester Castle'screw was directed towards the hoisting in of the steamboat and the reception of the survivors of his previous victim. And now the armed merchant-cruiser, with a rent twenty feet in length, was settling down. Her strained water-tight bulkheads were unable to withstand the enormous pressure. It was merely a matter of minutes before thePortchester Castlewould make her final plunge.
Captain M'Bride, though cool and collected, realized the gravity of the situation. Apart from the danger of lowering boats in that angry sea, the great list of the ship rendered practically impossible the use of the boats on the port side.
There was one chance: that of making for the inhospitable African shore in the hope that the ship would ground. In that case her crew could remain on board until rescue was forthcoming; or, in the event of the vessel breaking up, there would be a chance of taking to the boats and effecting a landing under the lee of the stranded hull.
By this time Webb had recovered his normal state of mind, and was directing the provisioning and arming of some of the boats. Osborne was on the fo'c'sle, superintending the clearing away of the anchors, so that on approaching the shore the stricken vessel could be thrown broadside on to the waves. Haynes and other officers were engaged in assisting the men to make rafts and getting provisions and water from the store-rooms.
Every member of the ship's company had donned a life-belt; the survivors of theSunderbund, who had only just discarded their life-saving gear, had to put their belts on once more. Theirs was a hard case, since they were almost exhausted with the privations they had previously undergone; yet they made a brave show of spirit that is typical of the Briton in a tight corner.
Presently the starboard engine gave out. The stokehold was flooded and the fires damped. Within a few minutes the port engines followed suit, and although still carrying way thePortchester Castlegradually slowed down. Her head fell off, and she wallowed in the trough of the breakers.
By this time her rail on the starboard side was only a few feet above water. She was deep down by the stern, her bows being correspondingly high. The very lifelessness of the ship, in spite of the enormous waves, showed that the end was not far off.
"Lower away!" shouted the skipper through a megaphone.
Smartly, but without undue haste or confusion, the boats in the davits on the starboard side were lowered. The first to disengage from the falls was the second cutter. Barely had she cast off when a terrific sea caught and completely capsized her. Half a dozen of her crew succeeded in catching hold of life-lines thrown by their comrades on board the ship, and were hauled on board again. Some were trapped underneath the upturned boat, others, supported by the life-belts, were swept shorewards through the chaos of surf and foam.
The remaining boats on the starboard side got away without accident; then, owing possibly to the amount of water that had poured into the ship's engine-rooms and holds, thePortchester Castleswung back on an even keel.
Captain M'Bride saw his chance—and took it.
"Let go both anchors!" he shouted.
With a rattle and a roar the steel cables rushed through the hawse-pipes, and presently, the vessel's drive to leeward being checked, she swung round, with her bows pointing diagonally for the shore.
Now was the opportunity to man and lower the boats on the port side. Osborne, his work on deck accomplished, took charge of one, Webb of another; and with only the loss of a couple of oars which were smashed against the ship's side the frail craft took the water.
"Look out, she's going!" exclaimed a score of voices.
Which was a fact. The end had come suddenly. With a decided movement the ship's bows slid under water; her stern reared perhaps twenty feet clear of the waves. Webb could see those of the crew who had not time to take to the boats struggling waist-deep in the surging water ere they were swept clear of the foundering vessel. On the bridge stood the gallant skipper, true to the long-established and glorious custom of the sea. Until the last man had left the ship his place was on the bridge.
He made no effort to save himself. Gripping the guard-rail he stood erect, his attention directed towards those of his ship's company who had hesitated to trust themselves to swim ashore.
"Pull to leeward, men," ordered Webb. "We may even yet pick up our skipper."
Even as he spoke thePortchester Castleceased to sink. She had grounded in about eight or nine fathoms of water, leaving her bridge and a portion of the spar-deck still showing above the waves.
Those still on board were quick to recognize the change of fortune. Some made their way to the bridge, others clambered into the lee-rigging, until the shrouds were black with humanity.
All the boats were turning back. Those from the starboard side were sufficiently loaded to endanger their safety should more men crowd into them; but those lowered from the port side had not been able to take their full complement before the vessel sank. On the latter, then, fell the task of rescuing the skipper and the remaining men, while the other boats contented themselves with picking up a few survivors who had been carried clear when thePortchester Castle'sdecks had been swept by the breakers.
By dint of hard pulling, in spite of the shelter afforded by the lee of the stranded ship, Osborne contrived to get his boat within a few yards of the bridge. At one moment the projecting platform was towering twenty feet or more above the boat, at the next the latter's gunwales were almost level with it. All the while there was the pressing danger of the boat's bows being jammed against the underside of the bridge, or of her bottom subsiding, with disastrous results, upon the iron-work projecting from the submerged sides of the ship.
In Webb's case the task was simpler, though by no means free from danger. Watching his opportunity he ran close alongside the resilient main-shrouds, and succeeded in taking on board every man who had found a temporary refuge in that part of the rigging. He was now able to ride to leeward of the wreck by means of a long scope of cable, thus conserving the energies of the rowers until the hazardous dash through the surf to the shore.
The Sub could not help admiring the skill with which his chum Osborne went about his work, keeping the boat within a few feet of the bridge as the former rose on the waves. One by one the men leapt into the rescuing craft until only the skipper remained.
Then raising his hand in a last salute to the ship's white ensign, which was still visible between the crests of the waves, Captain M'Bride jumped agilely into the stern-sheets of the boat.
A rousingcheer from the other boats greeted Captain M'Bride when it was seen that he was for the time being safe. It was a spontaneous tribute to the skipper's popularity. Even when faced with the possibility of being hurled lifeless upon the surf-swept shore, the ship's company "let themselves go".
There was a smile of confidence on Captain M'Bride's weather-beaten face as he acknowledged the compliment. He, too, had good cause to be pleased with the people under his command. He realized that, with men of that dogged pluck and cheerfulness in the face of danger, the traditions of the White Ensign would be maintained come what might.
And now began the nerve-racking ordeal of attempting a landing through the surf. Rowing steadily the boats approached the fringe of broken water, then each turned her bows from shore and backed. Whenever a breaker more dangerous than the rest bore down, the rowers pulled ahead until the foaming mass of water had swept past.
"We're getting on," thought Webb. "Only a couple of cables' lengths more, and all right up to now."
He dare not give more than a rapid glance shorewards, but it was enough to give him an inkling of what the reception would be; for on the crest of the low sandy cliffs were a dozen Arabs mounted on camels. The riders were crouching on the animals' backs, and holding their white burnouses close to their faces to shield them from the spray-laden wind. All were armed with rifles.
When the Sub turned his head and looked again the Arabs had vanished. Instead of remaining to aid the castaways, they had apparently ridden off to bring others of their tribe to plunder, murder, or carry into captivity any survivors who had the misfortune to fall into their hands.
Others in the boat saw the new danger. Had the presence of the Senussi been noticed earlier, the flotilla could have returned to the wreck and brought up under her lee, in the hope of rescue by theRestormelor other patrolling craft. It was now too late, for it was impossible to row against the wind and waves. The only hope was to effect a landing, hold the fierce Arabs at bay, and trust to theRestormelputting in an appearance when the weather moderated. Unfortunately, when thePortchester Castlewas torpedoed the shock had thrown the wireless completely out of gear, and communication with her consort was out of the question. A wireless had been sent out an hour previous to the disaster; whether theRestormelhad come to the conclusion that thePortchester Castlewas on her way to Port Said, or whether she would guess by the absence of signals that the latter had met with a grave mishap, was merely a matter for conjecture.
But Tom Webb had other things at present to occupy his attention, for with an irresistible rush a mass of green sea poured completely over the boat, capsizing her and throwing her crew into the water.
The Sub was one of the few who were thrown clear. Some, trapped underneath the upturned craft, were unable to dive under the gunwales, owing to the buoyancy of their life-saving gear, until they had wrenched off their belts. Two were stunned by their heads coming into violent contact with the woodwork.
Caught by a crested breaker, Webb found himself being urged shorewards at a terrific speed. Presently his feet touched the sand. In vain he started to make his way to land. Gripped by the undertow he was dragged back until the succeeding breaker overtook him, hurling him forwards like a stone from a catapult. Again the wave receded. Prone upon the soft, yielding sand, the Sub endeavoured to obtain a hold by digging his hands into the treacherous shore till the receding mass of water drew him backwards to be again pounded by the next mountain of water. Boats' gear, hurled shorewards by the waves, was thrown all around him. Several times he was struck by heavy objects. Not only was he in danger of being drowned; there was also a likelihood that he might be battered into a state of insensibility by the flotsam.
For how long this state of affairs continued Webb had not the faintest idea. Nor did he know how his companions were faring, except that farther along the shore some saturated figures were staggering up the beach. He was fast losing count of time and place. Torpor was beginning to seize him in its remorseless, oblivion-giving grasp.
Suddenly his hands came in contact with the broken blade of an oar. The instinct of self-preservation was yet strong enough to enable him to take the remote chance that remained. Waiting until the next wave was beginning to run back, the Sub planted the slightly cambered piece of wood deeply in the sand. The broad surface held, despite the terrific backward drag of the undertow.
Directly the suction ceased, Webb staggered to his feet and began to make his way to safety; but before he had gone five yards he was flung headlong by the succeeding breaker, and the blade of the oar was wrenched from his grasp.
Before the backwash gripped him the Sub felt a hand grasp his wrist. He was just conscious of seeing Dacres with a line round his waist standing thigh-deep in the water, and hearing his cheering words of encouragement. Then everything became a blank.
When Sub-lieutenant Webb came to himself he found that he was lying under the lee of the sand-hills. A broad-leaved prickly bush afforded shelter from the sun, the rays of which were beating fiercely down upon the almost barren ground. His head had been roughly bandaged, and was supported by a rolled coat.
He was not alone. A dozen men, all in varying stages of recovery from a state of insensibility, were lying on the ground. At some distance, others were busily engaged in emptying boxes of stores that had been washed ashore and—ominous sight—were filling them with sand. Others were hacking at the prickly scrub and erecting a form of fortification known as a zariba. Apparently an attack by the Senussi was expected.
There was Osborne in coat and shirt, and with a strip of calico wrapped round his head to protect it from the sun, toiling as arduously as the seamen; Dacres and Fane, the latter with his arm still in a sling, were dragging heavy gear up from the shore. A short distance away was Captain M'Bride, inspecting the few rifles which had come ashore in the boats; with him was Dicky Haynes. Most of the remaining officers were safe, but there were some whom Webb would never again meet on this earth.
Taking into consideration the violence of the storm, thePortchester Castle'speople had come off lightly. Of her complement of 215, four officers and thirty-two men were missing. With three exceptions, the passengers and crew rescued from theSunderbund'slife-boat were safe, while the Turkish airman, Afir-al-Bahr, had come ashore without injury.
Of the boats, only one was in a serviceable condition. The others had been smashed up on the beach by the surf before sufficient hands were available to haul them above the reach of the waves. Most of the gear had been saved, including twenty-four rifles, a couple of cases of ammunition, seven barrels of biscuits, some salt beef, and half a dozen barricoes of water.
Although the waves were still running high, the storm had nearly blown itself out. The shore was littered with debris. Several seamen were busily engaged in collecting everything that might prove to be of value from the wreckage.
At some distance from the shore was the wreck of thePortchester Castle, with waves breaking against those portions that showed above water. One of her funnels had vanished; the other was still manfully resisting the onslaught of the heavy breakers. Both her masts remained, while from the ensign staff that showed four or five feet above the waves the white ensign still fluttered in the strong breeze.
Osborne waved a cheery greeting to his chum as Webb regained his feet. The Lieutenant was too busy to "knock off" and yarn with him. Every moment was precious if the place were to be put into a state of defence before the threatened attack.
A short, round-faced man, whose headgear consisted of a white cap-cover, came bustling along the top of the dunes. It was Donovon, the ship's surgeon.
"Faith," he exclaimed, catching sight of Webb, "and what might you be doing out in the sun? Get back to bed this minute." And he indicated the scanty shade of the thorn bush.
"I'm all right, Doctor," protested the Sub; "I am really."
"So you think," rejoined Dr. Donovon. "If you're knocking yourself up, that is your affair; only I'd let you know that I've my hands pretty full without asking for more patients."
He hurried off to attend to other cases, leaving the Sub to speculate on the surgeon's warning. "All right" hardly described Webb's present state. He felt considerably battered about, and had a dull headache; but, he reflected, it wasn't playing the game to lie down when he felt capable of doing something to assist the general work.
"Mr. Webb!" called out Captain M'Bride, seeing the Sub approach.
Webb hurried up to the captain and saluted.
"Better? That's good," said the skipper. "Look here, muster a party and start digging a trench on the left of that wall of thorn bushes. Bring it at a sharp angle to the shore. Three feet deep will be enough, if you pile the displaced sand on the outside edge of the trench."
The young officer soon found half a dozen men who had figured on his watch bill. These, provided with the broken blades of oars, which formed excellent spades for throwing out soft sand, set strenuously to work despite the heat of the day.
"Strikes me there's somethink precious hard, sir," remarked an able-seaman after the party had been at work for twenty minutes. "Rock or somethink."
"Sandstone, possibly," replied the Sub. "No matter, you're nearly down to the required depth." The man plied his wooden spade vigorously in order to lay bare the supposed rock. Suddenly he gave an exclamation of astonishment.
"Blow me!" he exclaimed, "a bloomin' petrol tin."
With a strenuous heave he wrenched the can from its hiding-place. As he did so the sides of two adjacent tins were revealed.
"We've found what I believe to be a secret petrol store, sir," reported Webb to his skipper.
"Eh, what?" exclaimed Captain M'Bride, hurrying towards the partly excavated trench. "By Jove, Mr. Webb, it looks like it! Start one of those metal caps and see if the can really contains petrol."
The cap was removed. Webb poured a small quantity of the liquid into the palm of his hand. The spirit evaporated with remarkable quickness.
"Petrol right enough, sir," he announced.
"And there are dozens of cans here, sir," declared one of the men. "Sort of garidge for the Sahara General Omnibus Company, I'll allow."
"Wot's a garidge, Bill?" enquired his pal. "You means a gayrage, don't ye?"
The skipper, who had overheard the conversation between the two seamen, smiled grimly.
"Carry on, Mr. Webb," he said, "and dig up the lot. We've stumbled upon a German petrol depot—that's my belief—and before long we'll have anunterseebootputting in an appearance."
"What shall I do with them, sir?" enquired Tom.
"Oh! reserve a couple," was the reply. "They'll come in handy for flares. Empty the others on the sand."
"One moment, Captain M'Bride," interposed Major Pane, who, noticing the excitement, had strolled up to satisfy his curiosity. "It's a pity to waste good stuff."
"Better to do that than allow it to fall into the hands of the enemy," remarked Captain M'Bride. "But what suggestion have you to make, Major?"
"Put a row of them about a hundred yards in front of the zariba," continued Fane. "In the event of the Senussi attempting to rush our defences we can set fire to the stuff."
"I fail to see how, Major," objected Captain M'Bride, "unless someone applies a light to it; and the effect is, to a certain extent, lost if we have to do that before the Arabs are actually over the line of tins. Remember we have no time-fuses."
"You have some good marksmen, I presume?" asked Major Fane.
"Some first-class shots."
"Then we could lash up this metal matchbox to one of the tins, and ignite the contents by means of a rifle-bullet."
"It might be feasible," remarked the skipper.
"I think I know of a better plan, sir," said Webb. "We have the Very's pistol and signal-cartridges. I saw them lying over yonder. At the critical time a few bullets could be shot at one of the tins, and, when the petrol runs out, it could be fired by a signal-bullet from the pistol."
"Ah, that's more like it, Mr. Webb!" said the skipper warmly. "Now set to work and get your men to place the tins in position. Heap sand on the outward face so that they are rendered as inconspicuous as possible. Meanwhile, Major, I think I will get you to pass an opinion upon our defences on the right flank."
The Sub had barely completed his task of constructing what was expected to form an efficient "fire barrage" when one of the seamen patrolling the shore gave the warning cry of "Submarine coming in, sir."
Almost simultaneously a rifle cracked from somewhere about five hundred yards inland. A Senussi sniper had approached between the sand-dunes, while, at a distance of a mile or so, was a large armed party of mounted nomads from the desert.
Sub-lieutenant Webb gave vent to a low whistle.
"A hot corner this time," he said to himself. "We're properly between two fires."