CHAPTER XVII
The Whaler's Voyage
Having selected his crew—a matter of personal difficulty—since no man cared to volunteer to exchange a post of peril for a duty only slightly less hazardous—Sub-lieutenant Webb proceeded to prepare the boat for her voyage.
The whaler was one of the Service type, twenty-seven feet in length. She had two masts, slightly raking aft, and carried "dipping lug" fore and mainsails—a powerful rig, but one that requires smart and careful handling when going about in a strong breeze.
The bos'n—the carpenter warrant officer having been lost in the struggle for the shore—had instructed the carpenter's crew to nail several pieces of planking across the bows, covering the rough deck with canvas from some spare sails. Empty barricoes, of which a number had been cast upon the beach, were lashed to the thwarts, thus affording considerable buoyancy in the event of the boat being capsized. These were the only alterations made in preparing the whaler for her run across to the distant island of Crete.
The number of hands selected for the voyage was the very minimum required to work the boat. More would unduly weaken the little garrison ashore; the victualling problem had also to be taken into account.
"I can only let you have a gallon of water, sir," decided the bos'n, "and dry biscuit and salt beef enough for two days. Sure 'tis short rations, but you know, sir, how things go. There are half a dozen lemons, too, sir; some were washed up before they had been in the water very long, so I don't suppose they're brackish. A fine thing to quench the thirst, Mr. Webb."
Having bade his comrades a hearty adieu, the Sub ordered the whaler to be pushed off. Three cheers were given for the voyagers, the compliment being returned in right good earnest by the boat's crew.
"Give way, lads," ordered Webb. "Long easy strokes. We'll soon pick up a breeze."
Steadily the shore receded. Ahead the placid water was ruffled by a dark-blue line that betokened a smart breeze. Sitting bolt upright and holding the yoke-lines, the Sub could not help at frequent intervals turning his head and looking back at the inhospitable sandy shore. So fierce was the sun that the radiating heat made the barren dunes appear to quiver, distorting objects ashore. Everything there seemed quiet. No rifle-shots pulsated on the still air. Beyond a few seamen, patrolling the beach to look out for further jetsam, there were no signs of life. The torrid heat had thrown its languorous spell upon Britons and Senussi alike.
"It's hot enough here, in all conscience," thought Tom. "It must be like a slow oven ashore." For an hour the men toiled at the oars, the sweat pouring from their brick-red faces; yet uncomplainingly they maintained their long swinging strokes, as if they were pulling across a harbour rather than setting out for a 180-mile voyage.
"Here's the breeze, lads," exclaimed Webb as a faint zephyr fanned his face. "Well on the starboard quarter, too. Stand by to make sail."
Thankfully the jaded men boated oars. Willing hands stepped the two masts, and quickly the powerful dipping lugs were bellying to the quartering breeze. The water gurgled pleasantly under the whaler's forefoot, while a long white wake was a silent testimony to the boat's speed through the blue water.
"Five to six knots now, sir, I'll allow," replied the coxswain in reply to his officer's query. "She's footing it fine."
"That's what I estimate," agreed the Sub. "If it holds, another thirty hours ought to bring us within sight of land."
"Not much doubt about it holding, sir," declared the man, glancing to windward. "Unless I'm much mistaken there'll be a power o' wind afore nightfall—more'n we'll want," he added under his breath.
"Cover up that hard tack there," ordered the Sub, as the first spray flew over the gunwale and threatened to soak the scanty supply of biscuits. "A pull on your fore-sheet there. That's better; now she feels it."
The whaler was moving now, cutting through the rising waves like a race-horse. Every stitch of canvas was drawing, while feathers of spray dashed over the weather bow. But, in spite of these encouraging conditions, the wind was backing slowly yet steadily. By sunset it was broad on the starboard beam.
As darkness set in Webb relieved the coxswain at the tiller. Few words were spoken between them, for the Sub's attention was mainly directed to windward, ready to cope with any sudden increase of wind. Either seated or lying on the bottom-boards, the men were engaged in the time-honoured custom of "chewing the rag" before "turning in" on their hard couch. Scraps of conversation caught the Sub's ears. He smiled grimly, for the boat's crew were not discussing the chances of the hazardous voyage, or the plight of their comrades they had left behind: an animated discussion was in progress as to which team won the English Cup in a certain year of that remote period previous to the outbreak of the greatest war the world has yet seen.
At eight bells the "watch below" turned in, their outlines just discernible in the starlight as, in unpicturesque attitudes, each sleeper adapted himself as comfortably to his individual tastes as hard and unyielding bottom-boards permitted. Their comrades, told off for the night watches, crouched under the lee of the gunwale, sheltering from the keen wind, for with the setting of the sun the temperature had fallen considerably. Clad only in sub-tropical uniforms and being unprovided with greatcoats, the men felt acutely the contrast between the heat of the day and the chilliness of the night. When at length the order came to reef sails, they obeyed smartly and cheerfully. The very act of doing something was as balm to their cold and cramped limbs.
Webb had been wise to reef in time. The wind was now for'ard of the beam and increasing in violence. Directly water showed a tendency to come over the lee gunwale he had given the order to shorten sail.
He was very anxious—not on account of the rising wind and sea, but because it was now only just possible to keep the whaler on her course.
"If the wind backs another point it will head us," he remarked to the coxswain.
"'Fraid it will, sir," was the imperturbable reply. "I'd as lief up helm and run for Malta as make board after board and not gain more'n a few yards to wind'ard."
The Sub had to admit the force of the petty officer's remarks. The whaler, being unprovided with a drop keel, would make a very indifferent performance to windward. There were no tidal currents to help her—the Mediterranean being tideless—and what "drift" there was would be against her, since the currents in this part of the vast inland sea are set up solely by the force of the prevailing wind. In these circumstances it might take a week or more to reach Crete, and by that time the comrades they had left behind would be conquered by famine, even if they succeeded in holding in check the savage foes who menaced them.
Yet there was another chance. The whaler would soon be in the regular steamer track between Port Said and the Western Mediterranean seaports. In normal times the probability of aid from passing vessels would be great; but now, owing to the U-boat menace, things were very different.
A moaning sound pierced the darkness of the night. In an instant Webb grasped the situation. A squall was sweeping down.
"Check sheets!" he shouted, at the same time putting the helm down ever so slightly, so as not to get the boat "in irons".
The squall hit the boat hard. Green seas poured over her bows, effectually awaking the sleepers. So fierce was the strength of the wind that the Sub was compelled to order the canvas to be close-reefed.
By dint of strenuous baling the whaler was kept afloat; yet she was sagging to leeward like an empty cask. Worse, the wind was now absolutely dead ahead, and more than enough for the meagre amount of sail that was still set.
"Think she'll stick it?" shouted Webb to the coxswain.
"No, I don't, sir," replied that worthy bluntly. "Better ride to our gear while there's time."
The petty officer's advice was sound. To attempt to carry on was a suicidal policy. As quickly as possible the oars and yard were lashed together, the foresail being still bent to its spar. To these a scope of grass rope was attached, and the whole of the gear thrown overboard, the kedge having been previously bent to the lower part of the canvas to ensure it floating "up and down".
To this rough-and-ready sea-anchor the whaler rode in comparative safety, for, although the seas were breaking all around, there was a complete absence of crested, dangerous waves in the wake of the floating gear, fifty yards ahead of the boat.
"So well, so good," thought Webb. "But, unfortunately, though we may have saved our own skins, the fact remains that we are not helping Captain M'Bride and our comrades ashore."
"She's riding handsomely, sir," remarked the coxswain. "And we've plenty of sea-room. Short and sharp this has been in coming up, and maybe 'twill be short and sharp when it does pipe down."
Slowly the minutes sped. The inactivity, combined with a prolonged lack of sleep, was beginning to tell upon the young officer. Once or twice he found his head involuntarily dropping on his chest.
"All right, sir," said the coxswain, who had "spotted" his superior officer's movements. "Just you have forty winks. Nothin' doin'; and I'll pass the word if there is."
It seemed less than a few minutes when Webb was roused by the petty officer touching him on the shoulder.
"Vessel o' sorts bearin' down, sir."
There was no time to be lost if help was to be forthcoming in that direction. Already the black outlines of a large ship were looming through the night mirk.
The whaler was without means of signalling. Webb found himself wishing that he had brought the Very's pistol with him, until he reflected that it might perform an even greater service in the defence of the zariba. There were no rockets in the boat; neither flashing lamp nor flare. Not even matches, for the very scanty stock had been used up in a fruitless attempt to light the binnacle lamp, which had been found lying in the bottom of the boat when she had come ashore half-filled with water. Nor was there a rifle on board. Every available weapon was required by the men facing the Senussi.
"Stand by to give a hail, men," cautioned the Sub. "When I give the word, then all together. Luckily she'll pass to leeward of us."
At Webb's order the night echoed to the stentorian tones of the whaler's crew. It must have been impossible for the officer of the watch not to have heard the combined efforts of the strong-lunged men.
"She's not slowing down, sir," said one of the men, after a pause.
"Give her time," replied the Sub, hoping against hope that the vessel would respond to the appeal for aid.
But no; instead of reversing engines she ported helm, and at full speed was soon lost to sight in the darkness.
"Rale haythens, sure they be!" muttered an Irishman indignantly.
Webb took the acute disappointment philosophically. These were times when unprecedented horrors encompassed the mariner—cold-blooded murder in the darkness of the night by cowardly lurking U-boats. Cases had been known of German vessels of war luring their victims to destruction by false signals of distress, and it was more than likely that the officer of the watch of the unknown ship, hearing the hail, had come to the conclusion that it was a decoy cry from a hostile submarine, and had altered her course in order to avoid a torpedo.
With the first streaks of dawn the wind moderated, although dead ahead. The seas, still high, no longer maintained their vicious, crested aspect. It was now safe to rehoist sail, and, accordingly, the sea-anchor was brought on board and the masts restepped.
The Sub had already made up his mind to steer westward. With luck he might reach Malta, or at least fall in with some of the numerous war-ships that make Valetta their base.
As luck would have it, the "traveller", or iron ring that runs up and down the mast and to which is attached the yard, was jerked upwards during the operation of making sail. Slackening the halyard made no difference. The elusive ring remained at a tantalizing distance of two or three inches above the tallest man's outstretched hand, and there was no boat-hook to bring it down.
Webb was about to order the mast to be unstepped, when one of the men swarmed up the swaying pole and recovered the "traveller". As he did so he happened to glance to windward.
"A sail!" he shouted. "Coming bows on."
For a few minutes all on board the whaler were in a state of suspense. The vessel was approaching rapidly, but to a great extent was obscured by the cloud of black smoke that was carried ahead by the following wind.
"Hurrah, lads!" exclaimed the coxswain. "She's a destroyer."
Soon there was no doubt on the matter. She was a large four-funnelled torpedo-boat destroyer with a red, white, and green ensign at each masthead, indicating her to be a unit of the Italian Navy. The one fly in the ointment was the disconcerting sight of the bow twelve-pounder gun manned and trained upon the whaler.