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."