The Whaler's Voyage
HAVING selected his crew--a matter of personal difficulty--since no
man cared to volunteer to exchange a post of peril for a duty only
slightly less hazardous--Sub-lieutenant Webb proceeded to prepare the
boat for her voyage.
The whaler was one of the Service type, twenty-seven feet in length.
She had two masts, slightly raking aft, and carried "dipping lug"
fore and mainsails--a powerful rig, but one that requires smart and
careful handling when going about in a strong breeze.
The bos'n--the carpenter warrant officer having been lost in the
struggle for the shore--had instructed the carpenter's crew to nail
several pieces of planking across the bows, covering the rough deck
with canvas from some spare sails. Empty barricoes, of which a number
had been cast upon the beach, were lashed to the thwarts, thus
affording considerable buoyancy in the event of the boat being
capsized. These were the only alterations made in preparing the
whaler for her run across to the distant island of Crete.
The number of hands selected for the voyage was the very minimum
required to work the boat. More would unduly weaken the little
garrison ashore; the victualling problem had also to be taken into
account.
"I can only let you have a gallon of water, sir," decided the bos'n,
"and dry biscuit and salt beef enough for two days. Sure 'tis short
rations, but you know, sir, how things go. There are half a dozen
lemons, too, sir; some were washed up before they had been in the
water very long, so I don't suppose they're brackish. A fine thing to
quench the thirst, Mr. Webb."
Having bade his comrades a hearty adieu, the Sub ordered the whaler
to be pushed off. Three cheers were given for the voyagers, the
compliment being returned in right good earnest by the boat's crew.
"Give way, lads," ordered Webb. "Long easy strokes. We'll soon pick
up a breeze."
Steadily the shore receded. Ahead the placid water was ruffled by a
dark-blue line that betokened a smart breeze. Sitting bolt upright
and holding the yoke-lines, the Sub could not help at frequent
intervals turning his head and looking back at the inhospitable sandy
shore. So fierce was the sun that the radiating heat made the barren
dunes appear to quiver, distorting objects ashore. Everything there
seemed quiet. No rifle-shots pulsated on the still air. Beyond a few
seamen, patrolling the beach to look out for further jetsam, there
were no signs of life. The torrid heat had thrown its languorous
spell upon Britons and Senussi alike.
"It's hot enough here, in all conscience," thought Tom. "It must be
like a slow oven ashore." For an hour the men toiled at the oars, the
sweat pouring from their brick-red faces; yet uncomplainingly they
maintained their long swinging strokes, as if they were pulling
across a harbour rather than setting out for a 180-mile voyage.
"Here's the breeze, lads," exclaimed Webb as a faint zephyr fanned
his face. "Well on the starboard quarter, too. Stand by to make
sail."
Thankfully the jaded men boated oars. Willing hands stepped the two
masts, and quickly the powerful dipping lugs were bellying to the
quartering breeze. The water gurgled pleasantly under the whaler's
forefoot, while a long white wake was a silent testimony to the
boat's speed through the blue water.
"Five to six knots now, sir, I'll allow," replied the coxswain in
reply to his officer's query. "She's footing it fine."
"That's what I estimate," agreed the Sub. "If it holds, another
thirty hours ought to bring us within sight of land."
"Not much doubt about it holding, sir," declared the man, glancing to
windward. "Unless I'm much mistaken there'll be a power o' wind afore
nightfall--more'n we'll want," he added under his breath.
"Cover up that hard tack there," ordered the Sub, as the first spray
flew over the gunwale and threatened to soak the scanty supply of
biscuits. "A pull on your fore-sheet there. That's better; now she
feels it."
The whaler was moving now, cutting through the rising waves like a
race-horse. Every stitch of canvas was drawing, while feathers of
spray dashed over the weather bow. But, in spite of these encouraging
conditions, the wind was backing slowly yet steadily. By sunset it
was broad on the starboard beam.
As darkness set in Webb relieved the coxswain at the tiller. Few
words were spoken between them, for the Sub's attention was mainly
directed to windward, ready to cope with any sudden increase of wind.
Either seated or lying on the bottom-boards, the men were engaged in
the time-honoured custom of "chewing the rag" before "turning in" on
their hard couch. Scraps of conversation caught the Sub's ears. He
smiled grimly, for the boat's crew were not discussing the chances of
the hazardous voyage, or the plight of their comrades they had left
behind: an animated discussion was in progress as to which team won
the English Cup in a certain year of that remote period previous to
the outbreak of the greatest war the world has yet seen.
At eight bells the "watch below" turned in, their outlines just
discernible in the starlight as, in unpicturesque attitudes, each
sleeper adapted himself as comfortably to his individual tastes as
hard and unyielding bottom-boards permitted. Their comrades, told off
for the night watches, crouched under the lee of the gunwale,
sheltering from the keen wind, for with the setting of the sun the
temperature had fallen considerably. Clad only in sub-tropical
uniforms and being unprovided with greatcoats, the men felt acutely
the contrast between the heat of the day and the chilliness of the
night. When at length the order came to reef sails, they obeyed
smartly and cheerfully. The very act of doing something was as balm
to their cold and cramped limbs.
Webb had been wise to reef in time. The wind was now for'ard of the
beam and increasing in violence. Directly water showed a tendency to
come over the lee gunwale he had given the order to shorten sail.
He was very anxious--not on account of the rising wind and sea, but
because it was now only just possible to keep the whaler on her
course.
"If the wind backs another point it will head us," he remarked to the
coxswain.
"'Fraid it will, sir," was the imperturbable reply. "I'd as lief up
helm and run for Malta as make board after board and not gain more'n
a few yards to wind'ard."
The Sub had to admit the force of the petty officer's remarks. The
whaler, being unprovided with a drop keel, would make a very
indifferent performance to windward. There were no tidal currents to
help her--the Mediterranean being tideless--and what "drift" there
was would be against her, since the currents in this part of the vast
inland sea are set up solely by the force of the prevailing wind. In
these circumstances it might take a week or more to reach Crete, and
by that time the comrades they had left behind would be conquered by
famine, even if they succeeded in holding in check the savage foes
who menaced them.
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."
"She's riding handsomely, sir," remarked the coxswain. "And we've
plenty of sea-room. Short and sharp this has been in coming up, and
maybe 'twill be short and sharp when it does pipe down."
Slowly the minutes sped. The inactivity, combined with a prolonged
lack of sleep, was beginning to tell upon the young officer. Once or
twice he found his head involuntarily dropping on his chest.
"All right, sir," said the coxswain, who had "spotted" his superior
officer's movements. "Just you have forty winks. Nothin' doin'; and
I'll pass the word if there is."
It seemed less than a few minutes when Webb was roused by the petty
officer touching him on the shoulder.
"Vessel o' sorts bearin' down, sir."
There was no time to be lost if help was to be forthcoming in that
direction. Already the black outlines of a large ship were looming
through the night mirk.
The whaler was without means of signalling. Webb found himself
wishing that he had brought the Very's pistol with him, until he
reflected that it might perform an even greater service in the
defence of the zariba. There were no rockets in the boat; neither
flashing lamp nor flare. Not even matches, for the very scanty stock
had been used up in a fruitless attempt to light the binnacle lamp,
which had been found lying in the bottom of the boat when she had
come ashore half-filled with water. Nor was there a rifle on board.
Every available weapon was required by the men facing the Senussi.
"Stand by to give a hail, men," cautioned the Sub. "When I give the
word, then all together. Luckily she'll pass to leeward of us."
At Webb's order the night echoed to the stentorian tones of the
whaler's crew. It must have been impossible for the officer of the
watch not to have heard the combined efforts of the strong-lunged
men.
"She's not slowing down, sir," said one of the men, after a pause.
"Give her time," replied the Sub, hoping against hope that the vessel
would respond to the appeal for aid.
But no; instead of reversing engines she ported helm, and at full
speed was soon lost to sight in the darkness.
"Rale haythens, sure they be!" muttered an Irishman indignantly.
Webb took the acute disappointment philosophically. These were times
when unprecedented horrors encompassed the mariner--cold-blooded
murder in the darkness of the night by cowardly lurking U-boats.
Cases had been known of German vessels of war luring their victims to
destruction by false signals of distress, and it was more than likely
that the officer of the watch of the unknown ship, hearing the hail,
had come to the conclusion that it was a decoy cry from a hostile
submarine, and had altered her course in order to avoid a torpedo.
With the first streaks of dawn the wind moderated, although dead
ahead. The seas, still high, no longer maintained their vicious,
crested aspect. It was now safe to rehoist sail, and, accordingly,
the sea-anchor was brought on board and the masts restepped.
The Sub had already made up his mind to steer westward. With luck he
might reach Malta, or at least fall in with some of the numerous
war-ships that make Valetta their base.
As luck would have it, the "traveller", or iron ring that runs up and
down the mast and to which is attached the yard, was jerked upwards
during the operation of making sail. Slackening the halyard made no
difference. The elusive ring remained at a tantalizing distance of
two or three inches above the tallest man's outstretched hand, and
there was no boat-hook to bring it down.
Webb was about to order the mast to be unstepped, when one of the men
swarmed up the swaying pole and recovered the "traveller". As he did
so he happened to glance to windward.
"A sail!" he shouted. "Coming bows on."
For a few minutes all on board the whaler were in a state of
suspense. The vessel was approaching rapidly, but to a great extent
was obscured by the cloud of black smoke that was carried ahead by
the following wind.
"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.