Misunderstandings
WE left Sub-lieutenant Tom Webb and the whaler's crew in the act of
being rescued by a destroyer flying the Italian ensign. The vessel
was the _Bersagliere_, a 28-knot boat armed with four
twelve-pounders.
It was not sheer luck that brought it to the rescue of the Sub and
his companions. The liner that had passed them in the night was not
so callous as they had supposed. Although she dared not stop to
investigate the cause of the shouting, fearing the presence of a
hostile submarine, she had sent out a wireless message in the
International Code, reporting on the circumstance, giving the
approximate position, and suggesting the possibility of a U-boat.
The call was picked up by several patrolling war-ships, amongst them
the _Bersagliere_. The latter being nearest to the position
indicated, set off at full speed, and cleared for action in the event
of meeting with a U-boat which had resorted to the device of using a
decoy.
The Italian destroyer's people were unremitting in their attentions
to what they supposed to be the sole survivors of a British naval
craft. Not one of either officers or crew could understand English,
nor could Webb and his men speak a word of Italian, and the Sub's
endeavour to indicate by means of signs that the rest of the
survivors were cast ashore on the Tripolitan coast, and were in dire
peril from the Senussi, was fruitless.
The commanding officer of the _Bersagliere_ did his best, but,
unfortunately, with somewhat disconcerting results. He wirelessed in
International Code the news that he had on board the sole survivors
of the British war-ship _Portchester Castle_. The message was picked
up and decoded by several vessels, and also the naval receiving
station at Malta, and within a very short time of the rescue of the
whaler's crew the inaccurate news was transmitted to the Admiralty.
Webb and his comrades were, of course, ignorant of this stage of the
proceedings. They knew, however, that they were being taken in a
nor'westerly direction by the destroyer--farther and farther away
from the scene of the unequal conflict ashore. Instead of bringing
aid to the hard-pressed Captain M'Bride and his handful of undaunted
men, they were being spirited away to an unknown
destination--possibly Castellamare or some other distant Italian
naval port.
"'Spose these Eytalians thinks as 'ow they are doin' their level
best," remarked one man to his "raggie". "Strikes me we're being
bloomin' well kidnapped. Look 'ere, Ginger; you can 'andle a pencil.
Just you draw a sort o' sketch of our chaps ashore, an' put a few
niggers in. That might do the trick."
Ginger pondered. The trouble was to get pencil and paper. The rest
was simple, for he had a strong reputation amongst his lower-deck
mates as an artist.
The difficulty was overcome by boldly commandeering a pad and pencil
from the _Bersagliere's_ signalman, somewhat to the surprise of the
good-natured Italian; then, surrounded by interested spectators of
both the Allied navies, Ginger proceeded with his task.
"'Ere we are," he explained. "Them's the sand-dunes; 'ere's the
skipper, Number One, an' Lootenant Osborne. This is the zayreber;
them's the enemy. That orter do the trick, didn't it, mates?"
"'Spose so," admitted one of the whaler's men rather dubiously. "A
little smoke chucked in would improve the picture, I'll allow."
The artist reluctantly admitted the force of the criticism, and
proceeded to depict far more vapour than modern engagements with
smokeless powder justified. Then, stepping up to one of the
_Bersagliere's_ officers, he tendered his handiwork.
The Italian took the drawing and examined it intently and
sympathetically. He was obviously puzzled for some minutes. Then a
smile lit up his olivine features, and he spoke a few words to one of
his men.
"Guess he's off to explain to the skipper of this packet," declared
Ginger's pal. "I knowed that 'ud do the trick."
But instead of making his way to the bridge the Italian seaman went
below. The British tars regarded each other with feelings akin to
consternation, nor was their surprise any the less when the man
reappeared with a dish containing a "plum duff" liberally provided
with currants.
The artistic idol of the _Portchester Castle's_ ship's company was
shattered.
"Arter all," decided the coxswain, "'tain't to be wondered at,
Ginger. Those sand-dunes of yourn do look like the outlines of a
'spotted Dick', smoke an' all; but I guess the owner wouldn't be
pleased to find he'd been mistaken for a bloomin' currant."
Almost immediately afterwards attention was directed in another
direction, for a vessel was sighted on the starboard bow. In a few
moments, for both craft were moving rapidly, the stranger was found
to be the British destroyer _Paradox_.
An exchange of signals followed. The _Paradox_ had been one of the
vessels that had received the _Bersagliere's_ wireless message, and
it was with the intention of taking over the survivors of the
_Portchester Castle_ that she had made towards the Italian destroyer.
Once more Sub-lieutenant Webb trod the decks of a craft flying the
white ensign; while the two destroyers, dipping their flags by way of
a courteous international salute, proceeded on different courses the
_Bersagliere_ "holding on", while to her commander's astonishment he
saw the British craft circle to port, and steam off at full speed in
a south-easterly direction, instead of returning to her base at Suda
Bay.
Webb had lost no time in explaining to the Lieutenant of the
_Paradox_ that Captain M'Bride and a considerable number of men were
at bay on the Tripolitan coast; while to his surprise the Sub learnt
of the inaccurate wireless message from the _Bersagliere_ reporting
the whaler's crew as sole survivors of the ill-fated _Portchester
Castle_.
"We'll be in time yet, I think," remarked the commanding officer of
the _Paradox_. "You reckoned to fetch Crete in an open boat and yet
be able to summon assistance. We've saved you at least twenty-four
hours. Yes, I'll see that a wireless correcting the previous
inaccurate report is sent off; but I think I'll wait till we've seen
this business through."
Upon approaching the coast Webb could distinctly hear the rattle of
musketry. That was a good sign. It told him that Captain M'Bride and
his men were still holding out.
At twenty-five knots the _Paradox_ was soon within range of her
twelve-pounders. In the slanting rays of the setting sun the dense
masses of the Senussi could be distinctly made out. It was a target
that could not well be missed.
Six rounds were sufficient. The Lieutenant-commander, standing on the
destroyer's bridge, thrust his binoculars into their case with an
emphatic snap.
"Good enough!" he exclaimed. "Cease fire--out boats!"
Bringing the _Paradox_ to a standstill close to the almost submerged
wreck of the _Portchester Castle_, and keeping between the latter and
the shore--a precaution necessary should hostile submarines be in the
vicinity--her skipper lost no time in taking off the survivors of the
torpedoed armed merchant-cruiser. Yet before the evacuation of the
zariba was accomplished night had fallen.
"I thought you would not fail us, Mr. Webb," was Captain M'Bride's
greeting as he came over the side. "You've been very quick over the
business. How did you fare when the wind piped up?"
"Sheer good luck, sir," replied the Sub modestly. "We were picked up
by an Italian destroyer and afterwards transferred to the _Paradox_."
The skipper of the _Portchester Castle_ kept his young officer
engaged in conversation for some time, during which Webb's eyes were
periodically turned in the direction of the returning boats. Yes,
thank God! there was Osborne, apparently safe and sound; Dacres too,
and Major Fane; most of the ship's officers whom Webb had left behind
when he made his dash in the whaler.
At length his Captain dismissed him, and went below to enjoy the
hospitality of the diminutive ward-room. Webb made his way across to
where Osborne was standing.
"Hallo, old bird--back again, you see!" was the Lieutenant's
greeting, informal, but none the less hearty.
"Where's Haynes?" enquired Webb, after returning his chum's
salutation. "I've been looking out for him, but all the boats have
returned."
"You're a bright lad not to spot your chums," rejoined Osborne. "He
was one of the first to be brought off. He got it badly almost at the
last lap--a gunshot wound in the side. Donovon's got him in hand now.
'Fraid Haynes' career in the Service is a closed book."
"Sorry to hear that," said the Sub. "I only hope you're wrong,
Osborne."
"Wouldn't be the first time," admitted the Lieutenant. "I made a fine
mess of things ashore just now." And he told his chum the episode of
the Very pistol.
"Do you know where we are bound for?" he continued.
"Port Said--so I heard the Navigating Lieutenant of the _Paradox_
say," replied Webb. "I was hoping that it was Malta; still, one
mustn't complain after what we've been through. Not that we'll find
Egypt particularly exciting just for the present. From all accounts
there's precious little doing."
But Sub-lieutenant Webb was mistaken in his surmise. Before very long
he was to find that the Land of the Pharaohs was anything but a place
for an uneventful existence.