“Good! Keep this going. She’s a couple of feet below her water-line for’ard. Send a dozen hands over the side and stir things up.”
The order was passed for’ard and presently a dozen seamen, who were wearing tropical uniforms including shorts, dropped overboard into about six inches of muddy water. They were equipped with shovels and crowbars, and at once set to work to loosen the hard gravel against the ship’s bows.
Then Raxworthy tumbled to it why the engines were still going ahead. The pulling astern of the propellers increased the flow of current past the ship’s sides into a miniature mill-race, and as fast as the men loosened the gravel the debris was swept away. Slowly but surely Sandgrub was sinking into a trench she was making by the aid of some of her crew and the propellers.
Then, ping!
A greyish splash against the ship’s side just abaft the bridge showed the spot where a rifle bullet had mushroomed itself.
Somewhere on the mangrove-clad bank about two hundred yards to starboard a sniper was taking pot-shots at the “foreign devils”.
“Get round to the port side and carry on, men!” ordered Wilverley. “Gunner’s mate! Fetch up a Lewis-gun and stand by! . . . I wonder where the chap is?”
The officer on the bridge levelled the binoculars, scanning the shore in an attempt to locate the rifleman.
For some minutes there was no more firing. Apparently the native was reluctant to waste more ammunition and was satisfied at having cleared out the bluejackets working in the water.
Presently there was another report and the whine of a bullet overhead.