"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.
CHAPTER XVIII
In the Nick of Time
"Steady, lads! Aim low. Don't throw a single shot away."
Calmly and resolutely Captain M'Bride's voice travelled along the whole length of the trench. Every man possessing a rifle gripped the weapon resolutely, while the rest of the defenders, armed with whatever means of defence came to hand, braced themselves for the coming desperate struggle.
It was close on sunset. Not a breath of wind tempered the still stifling heat. The gale of wind that had beset the whaler had not yet reached the sun-baked sand-dunes where the Portchester Castle's survivors still held grimly to their scanty defences.
After a series of feints extending over the greater part of the day, the Senussi were at last about to make a determined onslaught. The camel-men had dismounted and sent their docile animals out of harm's way, but the horsemen had massed in a long curved line of foot. There was some semblance of military order in the array, taught no doubt by their former Turkish instructors, for on each flank, and on rising ground, riflemen were posted so as to pour a converging force upon the British, while the horsemen, supported by hundreds of dismounted Arabs armed with sword and spear, charged the extreme left of the defences.
This was a masterly stroke that Captain M'Bride had not anticipated, for here the trench ran in a diagonal direction to the sea, and if carried would expose the rear of the centre to a flanking and enfilading fire. But what the attackers did not know was the existence of a novel form of fougasse—the row of petrol tins.