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.