CHAPTER XIII
The "Sunderbund's" Life-boat
The latitude 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 the Portchester Castle was 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 the Restormel announced 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. The Sunderbund's boats 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 the Portchester Castle had 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 the Sunderbund's boats," 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 the Restormel, being farther to lee'ard, will stand a better chance than we shall of picking up the boats."
By this time the Portchester Castle had 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 the Portchester Castle passed 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 the Portchester Castle and the Restormel, 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 the Portchester Castle's officers 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 the Portchester Castle's approach. The latter slowed down, steaming at half-speed into the wind at a distance of a couple of miles from one of the Sunderbund's life-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.
The Portchester Castle's helm 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 the Portchester Castle increased; 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 the Sunderbund's life-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 the Sunderbund's life-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 the Sunderbund's boat. 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 the Portchester Castle was 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 the Portchester 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 old Petrel, 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.
The Portchester Castle began 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.