Under the White Ensign: A Naval Story of the Great War

  CHAPTER XV

  Castaways on a Hostile Shore

  A ROUSING cheer from the other boats greeted Captain M'Bride when itwas seen that he was for the time being safe. It was a spontaneoustribute to the skipper's popularity. Even when faced with thepossibility of being hurled lifeless upon the surf-swept shore, theship's company "let themselves go".

  There was a smile of confidence on Captain M'Bride's weather-beatenface as he acknowledged the compliment. He, too, had good cause to bepleased with the people under his command. He realized that, with menof that dogged pluck and cheerfulness in the face of danger, thetraditions of the White Ensign would be maintained come what might.

  And now began the nerve-racking ordeal of attempting a landingthrough the surf. Rowing steadily the boats approached the fringe ofbroken water, then each turned her bows from shore and backed.Whenever a breaker more dangerous than the rest bore down, the rowerspulled ahead until the foaming mass of water had swept past.

  "We're getting on," thought Webb. "Only a couple of cables' lengthsmore, and all right up to now."

  He dare not give more than a rapid glance shorewards, but it wasenough to give him an inkling of what the reception would be; for onthe crest of the low sandy cliffs were a dozen Arabs mounted oncamels. The riders were crouching on the animals' backs, and holdingtheir white burnouses close to their faces to shield them from thespray-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 riddenoff to bring others of their tribe to plunder, murder, or carry intocaptivity any survivors who had the misfortune to fall into theirhands.

  Others in the boat saw the new danger. Had the presence of theSenussi been noticed earlier, the flotilla could have returned to thewreck and brought up under her lee, in the hope of rescue by the_Restormel_ or other patrolling craft. It was now too late, for itwas impossible to row against the wind and waves. The only hope wasto 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 shockhad thrown the wireless completely out of gear, and communicationwith her consort was out of the question. A wireless had been sentout an hour previous to the disaster; whether the _Restormel_ hadcome to the conclusion that the _Portchester Castle_ was on her wayto Port Said, or whether she would guess by the absence of signalsthat the latter had met with a grave mishap, was merely a matter forconjecture.

  But Tom Webb had other things at present to occupy his attention, forwith an irresistible rush a mass of green sea poured completely overthe boat, capsizing her and throwing her crew into the water.

  The Sub was one of the few who were thrown clear. Some, trappedunderneath the upturned craft, were unable to dive under thegunwales, owing to the buoyancy of their life-saving gear, until theyhad wrenched off their belts. Two were stunned by their heads cominginto violent contact with the woodwork.

  Caught by a crested breaker, Webb found himself being urgedshorewards at a terrific speed. Presently his feet touched the sand.In vain he started to make his way to land. Gripped by the undertowhe was dragged back until the succeeding breaker overtook him,hurling him forwards like a stone from a catapult. Again the wavereceded. Prone upon the soft, yielding sand, the Sub endeavoured toobtain a hold by digging his hands into the treacherous shore tillthe receding mass of water drew him backwards to be again pounded bythe next mountain of water. Boats' gear, hurled shorewards by thewaves, was thrown all around him. Several times he was struck byheavy objects. Not only was he in danger of being drowned; there wasalso a likelihood that he might be battered into a state ofinsensibility by the flotsam.

  For how long this state of affairs continued Webb had not thefaintest idea. Nor did he know how his companions were faring, exceptthat farther along the shore some saturated figures were staggeringup the beach. He was fast losing count of time and place. Torpor wasbeginning 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 himto take the remote chance that remained. Waiting until the next wavewas beginning to run back, the Sub planted the slightly camberedpiece of wood deeply in the sand. The broad surface held, despite theterrific backward drag of the undertow.

  Directly the suction ceased, Webb staggered to his feet and began tomake his way to safety; but before he had gone five yards he wasflung headlong by the succeeding breaker, and the blade of the oarwas 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 waiststanding thigh-deep in the water, and hearing his cheering words ofencouragement. Then everything became a blank.

  When Sub-lieutenant Webb came to himself he found that he was lyingunder the lee of the sand-hills. A broad-leaved prickly bush affordedshelter from the sun, the rays of which were beating fiercely downupon 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 froma state of insensibility, were lying on the ground. At some distance,others were busily engaged in emptying boxes of stores that had beenwashed ashore and--ominous sight--were filling them with sand.Others were hacking at the prickly scrub and erecting a form offortification known as a zariba. Apparently an attack by the Senussiwas expected.

  There was Osborne in coat and shirt, and with a strip of calicowrapped round his head to protect it from the sun, toiling asarduously as the seamen; Dacres and Fane, the latter with his armstill in a sling, were dragging heavy gear up from the shore. A shortdistance away was Captain M'Bride, inspecting the few rifles whichhad come ashore in the boats; with him was Dicky Haynes. Most of theremaining officers were safe, but there were some whom Webb wouldnever again meet on this earth.

  Taking into consideration the violence of the storm, the _PortchesterCastle's_ people had come off lightly. Of her complement of 215, fourofficers and thirty-two men were missing. With three exceptions, thepassengers and crew rescued from the _Sunderbund's_ life-boat weresafe, while the Turkish airman, Afir-al-Bahr, had come ashore withoutinjury.

  Of the boats, only one was in a serviceable condition. The others hadbeen smashed up on the beach by the surf before sufficient hands wereavailable to haul them above the reach of the waves. Most of the gearhad been saved, including twenty-four rifles, a couple of cases ofammunition, seven barrels of biscuits, some salt beef, and half adozen barricoes of water.

  Although the waves were still running high, the storm had nearlyblown itself out. The shore was littered with debris. Several seamenwere busily engaged in collecting everything that might prove to beof value from the wreckage.

  At some distance from the shore was the wreck of the _PortchesterCastle_, with waves breaking against those portions that showed abovewater. One of her funnels had vanished; the other was still manfullyresisting the onslaught of the heavy breakers. Both her mastsremained, while from the ensign staff that showed four or five feetabove the waves the white ensign still fluttered in the strongbreeze.

  Osborne waved a cheery greeting to his chum as Webb regained hisfeet. 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 ofdefence before the threatened attack.

  A short, round-faced man, whose headgear consisted of a whitecap-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 bedoing out in the sun? Get back to bed this minute." And he indicatedthe 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 yourselfup, that is your affair; only I'd let you know that I've my h
andspretty full without asking for more patients."

  He hurried off to attend to other cases, leaving the Sub to speculateon the surgeon's warning. "All right" hardly described Webb's presentstate. He felt considerably battered about, and had a dull headache;but, he reflected, it wasn't playing the game to lie down when hefelt 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 partyand 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 beenough, if you pile the displaced sand on the outside edge of thetrench."

  The young officer soon found half a dozen men who had figured on hiswatch bill. These, provided with the broken blades of oars, whichformed excellent spades for throwing out soft sand, set strenuouslyto work despite the heat of the day.

  "Strikes me there's somethink precious hard, sir," remarked anable-seaman after the party had been at work for twenty minutes."Rock or somethink."

  "Sandstone, possibly," replied the Sub. "No matter, you're nearlydown to the required depth." The man plied his wooden spadevigorously in order to lay bare the supposed rock. Suddenly he gavean exclamation of astonishment.

  "Blow me!" he exclaimed, "a bloomin' petrol tin."

  With a strenuous heave he wrenched the can from its hiding-place. Ashe 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 partlyexcavated trench. "By Jove, Mr. Webb, it looks like it! Start one ofthose metal caps and see if the can really contains petrol."

  The cap was removed. Webb poured a small quantity of the liquid intothe palm of his hand. The spirit evaporated with remarkablequickness.

  "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 twoseamen, smiled grimly.

  "Carry on, Mr. Webb," he said, "and dig up the lot. We've stumbledupon a German petrol depot--that's my belief--and before long we'llhave 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 forflares. Empty the others on the sand."

  "One moment, Captain M'Bride," interposed Major Pane, who, noticingthe excitement, had strolled up to satisfy his curiosity. "It's apity to waste good stuff."

  "Better to do that than allow it to fall into the hands of theenemy," remarked Captain M'Bride. "But what suggestion have you tomake, 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 ourdefences we can set fire to the stuff."

  "I fail to see how, Major," objected Captain M'Bride, "unless someoneapplies a light to it; and the effect is, to a certain extent, lostif we have to do that before the Arabs are actually over the line oftins. 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, andignite 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 theVery's pistol and signal-cartridges. I saw them lying over yonder. Atthe 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-bulletfrom the pistol."

  "Ah, that's more like it, Mr. Webb!" said the skipper warmly. "Nowset to work and get your men to place the tins in position. Heap sandon the outward face so that they are rendered as inconspicuous aspossible. Meanwhile, Major, I think I will get you to pass an opinionupon our defences on the right flank."

  The Sub had barely completed his task of constructing what wasexpected to form an efficient "fire barrage" when one of the seamenpatrolling the shore gave the warning cry of "Submarine coming in,sir."

  Almost simultaneously a rifle cracked from somewhere about fivehundred yards inland. A Senussi sniper had approached between thesand-dunes, while, at a distance of a mile or so, was a large armedparty 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 betweentwo fires."