For two hours Denbigh directed operations under the blazing sun. His men worked like niggers, knowing that they, too, were doing their bit although not in the actual firing-line.
At intervals came the faint detonations of a series of heavy explosions. The sea-planes were at work, attempting by means of bombs to arrest the flight of von Riesser's men across the narrow neck of land.
Late in the forenoon one of the sea-planes flew overhead. Without essaying to make a landing on the river, it flew down-stream, presumably to take in a fresh supply of petrol and bombs. In an hour's time it returned, and presently its opposite number flew overhead in the direction of its parent ship.
Slowly the day wore on. At frequent intervals Denbigh climbed the hillock and brought his glasses to bear upon the distant high ground.
Once or twice he fancied he heard the sounds of musketry and Maxim firing in the sultry air. Armstrong and several of the men were of the same opinion, agreeing that the firing was desultory and not constantly maintained.
At length darkness fell. No one had seen the sea-planes returning before sunset, and in addition to the great risk of making a night landing these craft are of little practical use except in daylight.
With the approach of night Denbigh ordered double sentries to be posted, and cautioned the boat-keepers to be alert and watchful for signals. Those of the men left behind slept or rested beside the quick-firers, protected from the heavy dew by boat awnings stretched on oars and boat-hooks.
For Denbigh sleep was out of the question. Muffled in a boat-cloak, for the off-shore wind blew chilly, he paced up and down with the mate of the Myra.
"What's that over yonder?" asked Armstrong.
"Flashes—musketry," replied Denbigh. "It's strange that we cannot hear the reports, for the wind is in our favour."