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."