CHAPTER XIX
Misunderstandings
We left Sub-lieutenant Tom Webb and the whaler's crew in the act of being rescued by a destroyer flying the Italian ensign. The vessel was the Bersagliere, a 28-knot boat armed with four twelve-pounders.
It was not sheer luck that brought it to the rescue of the Sub and his companions. The liner that had passed them in the night was not so callous as they had supposed. Although she dared not stop to investigate the cause of the shouting, fearing the presence of a hostile submarine, she had sent out a wireless message in the International Code, reporting on the circumstance, giving the approximate position, and suggesting the possibility of a U-boat.
The call was picked up by several patrolling war-ships, amongst them the Bersagliere. The latter being nearest to the position indicated, set off at full speed, and cleared for action in the event of meeting with a U-boat which had resorted to the device of using a decoy.
The Italian destroyer's people were unremitting in their attentions to what they supposed to be the sole survivors of a British naval craft. Not one of either officers or crew could understand English, nor could Webb and his men speak a word of Italian, and the Sub's endeavour to indicate by means of signs that the rest of the survivors were cast ashore on the Tripolitan coast, and were in dire peril from the Senussi, was fruitless.
The commanding officer of the Bersagliere did his best, but, unfortunately, with somewhat disconcerting results. He wirelessed in International Code the news that he had on board the sole survivors of the British war-ship Portchester Castle. The message was picked up and decoded by several vessels, and also the naval receiving station at Malta, and within a very short time of the rescue of the whaler's crew the inaccurate news was transmitted to the Admiralty.
Webb and his comrades were, of course, ignorant of this stage of the proceedings. They knew, however, that they were being taken in a nor'westerly direction by the destroyer—farther and farther away from the scene of the unequal conflict ashore. Instead of bringing aid to the hard-pressed Captain M'Bride and his handful of undaunted men, they were being spirited away to an unknown destination—possibly Castellamare or some other distant Italian naval port.
"'Spose these Eytalians thinks as 'ow they are doin' their level best," remarked one man to his "raggie". "Strikes me we're being bloomin' well kidnapped. Look 'ere, Ginger; you can 'andle a pencil. Just you draw a sort o' sketch of our chaps ashore, an' put a few niggers in. That might do the trick."
Ginger pondered. The trouble was to get pencil and paper. The rest was simple, for he had a strong reputation amongst his lower-deck mates as an artist.
The difficulty was overcome by boldly commandeering a pad and pencil from the Bersagliere's signalman, somewhat to the surprise of the good-natured Italian; then, surrounded by interested spectators of both the Allied navies, Ginger proceeded with his task.
"'Ere we are," he explained. "Them's the sand-dunes; 'ere's the skipper, Number One, an' Lootenant Osborne. This is the zayreber; them's the enemy. That orter do the trick, didn't it, mates?"
"'Spose so," admitted one of the whaler's men rather dubiously. "A little smoke chucked in would improve the picture, I'll allow."
The artist reluctantly admitted the force of the criticism, and proceeded to depict far more vapour than modern engagements with smokeless powder justified. Then, stepping up to one of the Bersagliere's officers, he tendered his handiwork.
The Italian took the drawing and examined it intently and sympathetically. He was obviously puzzled for some minutes. Then a smile lit up his olivine features, and he spoke a few words to one of his men.
"Guess he's off to explain to the skipper of this packet," declared Ginger's pal. "I knowed that 'ud do the trick."
But instead of making his way to the bridge the Italian seaman went below. The British tars regarded each other with feelings akin to consternation, nor was their surprise any the less when the man reappeared with a dish containing a "plum duff" liberally provided with currants.
The artistic idol of the Portchester Castle's ship's company was shattered.
"Arter all," decided the coxswain, "'tain't to be wondered at, Ginger. Those sand-dunes of yourn do look like the outlines of a 'spotted Dick', smoke an' all; but I guess the owner wouldn't be pleased to find he'd been mistaken for a bloomin' currant."
Almost immediately afterwards attention was directed in another direction, for a vessel was sighted on the starboard bow. In a few moments, for both craft were moving rapidly, the stranger was found to be the British destroyer Paradox.
An exchange of signals followed. The Paradox had been one of the vessels that had received the Bersagliere's wireless message, and it was with the intention of taking over the survivors of the Portchester Castle that she had made towards the Italian destroyer.
Once more Sub-lieutenant Webb trod the decks of a craft flying the white ensign; while the two destroyers, dipping their flags by way of a courteous international salute, proceeded on different courses the Bersagliere "holding on", while to her commander's astonishment he saw the British craft circle to port, and steam off at full speed in a south-easterly direction, instead of returning to her base at Suda Bay.
Webb had lost no time in explaining to the Lieutenant of the Paradox that Captain M'Bride and a considerable number of men were at bay on the Tripolitan coast; while to his surprise the Sub learnt of the inaccurate wireless message from the Bersagliere reporting the whaler's crew as sole survivors of the ill-fated Portchester Castle.
"We'll be in time yet, I think," remarked the commanding officer of the Paradox. "You reckoned to fetch Crete in an open boat and yet be able to summon assistance. We've saved you at least twenty-four hours. Yes, I'll see that a wireless correcting the previous inaccurate report is sent off; but I think I'll wait till we've seen this business through."
Upon approaching the coast Webb could distinctly hear the rattle of musketry. That was a good sign. It told him that Captain M'Bride and his men were still holding out.
At twenty-five knots the Paradox was soon within range of her twelve-pounders. In the slanting rays of the setting sun the dense masses of the Senussi could be distinctly made out. It was a target that could not well be missed.
Six rounds were sufficient. The Lieutenant-commander, standing on the destroyer's bridge, thrust his binoculars into their case with an emphatic snap.
"Good enough!" he exclaimed. "Cease fire—out boats!"
Bringing the Paradox to a standstill close to the almost submerged wreck of the Portchester Castle, and keeping between the latter and the shore—a precaution necessary should hostile submarines be in the vicinity—her skipper lost no time in taking off the survivors of the torpedoed armed merchant-cruiser. Yet before the evacuation of the zariba was accomplished night had fallen.
"I thought you would not fail us, Mr. Webb," was Captain M'Bride's greeting as he came over the side. "You've been very quick over the business. How did you fare when the wind piped up?"
"Sheer good luck, sir," replied the Sub modestly. "We were picked up by an Italian destroyer and afterwards transferred to the Paradox."
The skipper of the Portchester Castle kept his young officer engaged in conversation for some time, during which Webb's eyes were periodically turned in the direction of the returning boats. Yes, thank God! there was Osborne, apparently safe and sound; Dacres too, and Major Fane; most of the ship's officers whom Webb had left behind when he made his dash in the whaler.
At length his Captain dismissed him, and went below to enjoy the hospitality of the diminutive ward-room. Webb made his way across to where Osborne was standing.
"Hallo, old bird—back again, you see!" was the Lieutenant's greeting, informal, but none the less hearty.
"Where's Haynes?" enquired Webb, after returning his chum's salutation. "I've been looking out for him, but all the boats have returned."
"You're a bright lad not to spot your chums," rejoined Osborne. "He was one of the first to be brought off. He got it badly almost at the last lap—a gunshot wound in the side. Donovon's got him in hand now. 'Fraid Haynes' career in the Service is a closed book."
"Sorry to hear that," said the Sub. "I only hope you're wrong, Osborne."
"Wouldn't be the first time," admitted the Lieutenant. "I made a fine mess of things ashore just now." And he told his chum the episode of the Very pistol.
"Do you know where we are bound for?" he continued.
"Port Said—so I heard the Navigating Lieutenant of the Paradox say," replied Webb. "I was hoping that it was Malta; still, one mustn't complain after what we've been through. Not that we'll find Egypt particularly exciting just for the present. From all accounts there's precious little doing."
But Sub-lieutenant Webb was mistaken in his surmise. Before very long he was to find that the Land of the Pharaohs was anything but a place for an uneventful existence.