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.
But Tom Webb had other things at present to occupy his attention, for
with an irresistible rush a mass of green sea poured completely over
the boat, capsizing her and throwing her crew into the water.
The Sub was one of the few who were thrown clear. Some, trapped
underneath the upturned craft, were unable to dive under the
gunwales, owing to the buoyancy of their life-saving gear, until they
had wrenched off their belts. Two were stunned by their heads coming
into violent contact with the woodwork.
Caught by a crested breaker, Webb found himself being urged
shorewards at a terrific speed. Presently his feet touched the sand.
In vain he started to make his way to land. Gripped by the undertow
he was dragged back until the succeeding breaker overtook him,
hurling him forwards like a stone from a catapult. Again the wave
receded. Prone upon the soft, yielding sand, the Sub endeavoured to
obtain a hold by digging his hands into the treacherous shore till
the receding mass of water drew him backwards to be again pounded by
the next mountain of water. Boats' gear, hurled shorewards by the
waves, was thrown all around him. Several times he was struck by
heavy objects. Not only was he in danger of being drowned; there was
also a likelihood that he might be battered into a state of
insensibility by the flotsam.
For how long this state of affairs continued Webb had not the
faintest idea. Nor did he know how his companions were faring, except
that farther along the shore some saturated figures were staggering
up the beach. He was fast losing count of time and place. Torpor was
beginning to seize him in its remorseless, oblivion-giving grasp.
Suddenly his hands came in contact with the broken blade of an oar.
The instinct of self-preservation was yet strong enough to enable him
to take the remote chance that remained. Waiting until the next wave
was beginning to run back, the Sub planted the slightly cambered
piece of wood deeply in the sand. The broad surface held, despite the
terrific backward drag of the undertow.
Directly the suction ceased, Webb staggered to his feet and began to
make his way to safety; but before he had gone five yards he was
flung headlong by the succeeding breaker, and the blade of the oar
was wrenched from his grasp.
Before the backwash gripped him the Sub felt a hand grasp his wrist.
He was just conscious of seeing Dacres with a line round his waist
standing thigh-deep in the water, and hearing his cheering words of
encouragement. Then everything became a blank.
When Sub-lieutenant Webb came to himself he found that he was lying
under the lee of the sand-hills. A broad-leaved prickly bush afforded
shelter from the sun, the rays of which were beating fiercely down
upon the almost barren ground. His head had been roughly bandaged,
and was supported by a rolled coat.
He was not alone. A dozen men, all in varying stages of recovery from
a state of insensibility, were lying on the ground. At some distance,
others were busily engaged in emptying boxes of stores that had been
washed ashore and--ominous sight--were filling them with sand.
Others were hacking at the prickly scrub and erecting a form of
fortification known as a zariba. Apparently an attack by the Senussi
was expected.
There was Osborne in coat and shirt, and with a strip of calico
wrapped round his head to protect it from the sun, toiling as
arduously as the seamen; Dacres and Fane, the latter with his arm
still in a sling, were dragging heavy gear up from the shore. A short
distance away was Captain M'Bride, inspecting the few rifles which
had come ashore in the boats; with him was Dicky Haynes. Most of the
remaining officers were safe, but there were some whom Webb would
never again meet on this earth.
Taking into consideration the violence of the storm, the _Portchester
Castle's_ people had come off lightly. Of her complement of 215, four
officers and thirty-two men were missing. With three exceptions, the
passengers and crew rescued from the _Sunderbund's_ life-boat were
safe, while the Turkish airman, Afir-al-Bahr, had come ashore without
injury.
Of the boats, only one was in a serviceable condition. The others had
been smashed up on the beach by the surf before sufficient hands were
available to haul them above the reach of the waves. Most of the gear
had been saved, including twenty-four rifles, a couple of cases of
ammunition, seven barrels of biscuits, some salt beef, and half a
dozen barricoes of water.
Although the waves were still running high, the storm had nearly
blown itself out. The shore was littered with debris. Several seamen
were busily engaged in collecting everything that might prove to be
of value from the wreckage.
At some distance from the shore was the wreck of the _Portchester
Castle_, with waves breaking against those portions that showed above
water. One of her funnels had vanished; the other was still manfully
resisting the onslaught of the heavy breakers. Both her masts
remained, while from the ensign staff that showed four or five feet
above the waves the white ensign still fluttered in the strong
breeze.
Osborne waved a cheery greeting to his chum as Webb regained his
feet. The Lieutenant was too busy to "knock off" and yarn with him.
Every moment was precious if the place were to be put into a state of
defence before the threatened attack.
A short, round-faced man, whose headgear consisted of a white
cap-cover, came bustling along the top of the dunes. It was Donovon,
the ship's surgeon.
"Faith," he exclaimed, catching sight of Webb, "and what might you be
doing out in the sun? Get back to bed this minute." And he indicated
the scanty shade of the thorn bush.
"I'm all right, Doctor," protested the Sub; "I am really."
"So you think," rejoined Dr. Donovon. "If you're knocking yourself
up, that is your affair; only I'd let you know that I've my hands
pretty full without asking for more patients."
He hurried off to attend to other cases, leaving the Sub to speculate
on the surgeon's warning. "All right" hardly described Webb's present
state. He felt considerably battered about, and had a dull headache;
but, he reflected, it wasn't playing the game to lie down when he
felt capable of doing something to assist the general work.
"Mr. Webb!" called out Captain M'Bride, seeing the Sub approach.
Webb hurried up to the captain and saluted.
"Better? That's good," said the skipper. "Look here, muster a party
and start digging a trench on the left of that wall of thorn bushes.
Bring it at a sharp angle to the shore. Three feet deep will be
enough, if you pile the displaced sand on the outside edge of the
trench."
The young officer soon found half a dozen men who had figured on his
watch bill. These, provided with the broken blades of oars, which
formed excellent spades for throwing out soft sand, set strenuously
to work despite the heat of the day.
"Strikes me there's somethink precious hard, sir," remarked an
able-seaman after the party had been at work for twenty minutes.
"Rock or somethink."
"Sandstone, possibly," replied the Sub. "No matter, you're nearly
down to the required depth." The man plied his wooden spade
vigorously in order to lay bare the supposed rock. Suddenly he gave
an exclamation of astonishment.
"Blow me!" he exclaimed, "a bloomin' petrol tin."
With a strenuous heave he wrenched the can from its hiding-place. As
he did so the sides of two adjacent tins were revealed.
"We've found what I believe to be a secret petrol store, sir,"
reported Webb to his skipper.
"Eh, what?" exclaimed Captain M'Bride, hurrying towards the partly
excavated trench. "By Jove, Mr. Webb, it looks like it! Start one of
those metal caps and see if the can really contains petrol."
The cap was removed. Webb poured a small quantity of the liquid into
the palm of his hand. The spirit evaporated with remarkable
quickness.
"Petrol right enough, sir," he announced.
"And there are dozens of cans here, sir," declared one of the men.
"Sort of garidge for the Sahara General Omnibus Company, I'll allow."
"Wot's a garidge, Bill?" enquired his pal. "You means a gayrage,
don't ye?"
The skipper, who had overheard the conversation between the two
seamen, smiled grimly.
"Carry on, Mr. Webb," he said, "and dig up the lot. We've stumbled
upon a German petrol depot--that's my belief--and before long we'll
have an _unterseeboot_ putting in an appearance."
"What shall I do with them, sir?" enquired Tom.
"Oh! reserve a couple," was the reply. "They'll come in handy for
flares. Empty the others on the sand."
"One moment, Captain M'Bride," interposed Major Pane, who, noticing
the excitement, had strolled up to satisfy his curiosity. "It's a
pity to waste good stuff."
"Better to do that than allow it to fall into the hands of the
enemy," remarked Captain M'Bride. "But what suggestion have you to
make, Major?"
"Put a row of them about a hundred yards in front of the zariba,"
continued Fane. "In the event of the Senussi attempting to rush our
defences we can set fire to the stuff."
"I fail to see how, Major," objected Captain M'Bride, "unless someone
applies a light to it; and the effect is, to a certain extent, lost
if we have to do that before the Arabs are actually over the line of
tins. Remember we have no time-fuses."
"You have some good marksmen, I presume?" asked Major Fane.
"Some first-class shots."
"Then we could lash up this metal matchbox to one of the tins, and
ignite the contents by means of a rifle-bullet."
"It might be feasible," remarked the skipper.
"I think I know of a better plan, sir," said Webb. "We have the
Very's pistol and signal-cartridges. I saw them lying over yonder. At
the critical time a few bullets could be shot at one of the tins,
and, when the petrol runs out, it could be fired by a signal-bullet
from the pistol."
"Ah, that's more like it, Mr. Webb!" said the skipper warmly. "Now
set to work and get your men to place the tins in position. Heap sand
on the outward face so that they are rendered as inconspicuous as
possible. Meanwhile, Major, I think I will get you to pass an opinion
upon our defences on the right flank."
The Sub had barely completed his task of constructing what was
expected to form an efficient "fire barrage" when one of the seamen
patrolling the shore gave the warning cry of "Submarine coming in,
sir."
Almost simultaneously a rifle cracked from somewhere about five
hundred yards inland. A Senussi sniper had approached between the
sand-dunes, while, at a distance of a mile or so, was a large armed
party of mounted nomads from the desert.
Sub-lieutenant Webb gave vent to a low whistle.
"A hot corner this time," he said to himself. "We're properly between
two fires."