CHAPTER XV
Castaways on a Hostile Shore
A rousing cheer 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 the Restormel or 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 the Restormel putting in an appearance when the weather moderated. Unfortunately, when the Portchester Castle was 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 the Restormel had come to the conclusion that the Portchester Castle was 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, the Portchester Castle's people 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 the Sunderbund's life-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 the Portchester 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 an unterseeboot putting 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."