They beached their boat in a little curving bay that lay between two
rocky points. Here, not more than a couple of hundred yards inland,
stood the clump of trees that Groome had noted. They found, to their
great satisfaction, that these trees grew around the brink of a
cup-shaped hollow, at the bottom of which bubbled a spring of clear
fresh water.
The overjoyed castaways drank their fill; then, with tin cups, they
baled up the water and refilled their ten-gallon keg. While this job
was in progress Captain Groome, accompanied by the bo'sun, clambered
up the sides of the waterhole to take a look around before returning
to the boat. On reaching level ground, to their astonishing and
dismay, they found themselves confronted by a band of about fifty
Arab horsemen. These men were Bedouins of the Senussi tribe--swarthy
ruffians of the desert, fierce and ruthless, who lived chiefly by
murder and pillage.
They were all armed, some with old-fashioned long-barrelled guns, and a
few with modern rifles, while each man had long knives stuck around his
girdle. These fierce nomads saw plainly that the white men were unarmed
and helpless. Nevertheless, their chief--a tall Arab who was mounted
on a white horse--pointed at the two castaways and shouted aloud to
his followers. Evidently he gave the order to kill, for several of
the swarthy miscreants levelled their rifles and fired point-blank.
The bo'sun dropped, stone dead, with a bullet in his brain, while
Captain Groome, shot through the shoulder, fell to earth and lay
there unconscious and apparently lifeless. For more than an hour the
unfortunate ship-captain remained senseless and inert. The wonder is
that he did not bleed to death; however, he lay so still that, luckily
for him, the blood congealed and caked over his wounds. When at length
his consciousness returned he found that in the meantime events had
been happening with startling rapidity.
It might be supposed that, after shooting Groome and the bo'sun, the
Arabs would have murdered the remainder of the castaways out of hand,
yet it transpired that they did not do so. Most probably it occurred
to these desert nomads that it would be more profitable to carry the
white men inland and hold them for ransom, therefore they took them as
prisoners. Next, the Bedouins looted the boat that lay drawn up on the
beach, taking all her portable equipment, such as provisions, rope, and
canvas. Then, apparently quite satisfied with their day's work, they
watered their horses and camped, to rest awhile beside the spring.
Half-a-dozen armed Bedouins kept guard on the prisoners, who sat in a
dejected group. Things were looking very black indeed for these poor
seamen when suddenly--almost by magic it seemed--deliverance came in
the form of a patrol steamer flying the British flag.
Steaming quite close inshore, she glided into view from behind an
adjacent point. So close was the vessel when she rounded the headland
that those on board could hear the shout of delight raised by the
surviving castaways.
The lieutenant in charge of the patrol boat--a keen and alert young
officer--was not long in grasping the situation. He saw the boat drawn
up on the beach, and heard the prisoners shouting for aid. Therefore,
when the startled Bedouins hastily mounted and made off, this capable
young naval officer knew just what to do--and he did it.
A band of badly-scared Arab horsemen started off inland, using whip
and spur in desperate efforts to escape, but at that moment the patrol
steamer's machine-gun took a glad hand in the game. The gun rattled
briskly, streams of lead whistled shoreward, and the tall Arab chief
who rode the white horse pitched headlong from his mount to the earth;
then he lay quite still. He was as dead as salted herring; to use
colloquial English, he had got "all that was coming to him."
The remaining miscreants rode hard for safety, but the machine-gun did
good work, and during the following few minutes at least a dozen desert
marauders finished altogether with the joys and sorrows of this world.
Those who managed to escape disappeared, together with a number of
riderless horses, behind a distant sand-hill.
Captain Groome and his men were promptly taken on board the patrol
vessel. The bo'sun, poor fellow, was buried where he lay. The skipper's
wounds were dressed by the ship's surgeon, and under kind and skillful
treatment he soon began to mend.
The writer saw Groome about six weeks later. He moved stiffly, like
a man whose wounds have but recently healed; nevertheless, he looked
well, and was certainly very cheerful.
"How do I feel?" said he, in answer to my query. "Oh, my shoulder is
still a bit sore, but otherwise I'm feeling first class. Another week
or so, and I'll be fit and ready to join another ship."