From his lofty perch Stirling tried to count the number of
revolutionists, and had reached two hundred and ten before he stopped
counting. Others were ashore. A whaleboat had been lowered and paddled
under the shelter of the ship to the beach. It returned with crude
weapons and a ragged crew who could not swim, and they added their
shouting to the turmoil as they fell upon the ship's stores and gin.
"Nice party," said Stirling. "I wonder how I'll get out of this."
His thoughts swung to the afterguard, a seaman of the lowest coast type.
Stirling remembered him as a Frisco dock rat called "Slim." He had been
too lazy to work--too handy with a knife, yet he alone of the crew had
survived.
This seaman appeared suddenly and thrust his shoulders above the
companion. Stirling leaned forward and watched him. There was that in
his leer which spoke of deep drinking and a desire for revenge. He
poised himself a moment, ducked as he sighted the revolutionists, then
appeared with a brass bomb gun. It was of the type whalers use in
finishing a whale, and was capable of great execution.
The gun went up to the seaman's shoulder; he squinted along the barrel
and pressed the trigger. The bomb hurtled past the mainmast and exploded
forward of the galley house on the starboard side of the ship, where
three refugees were crouched. They seemed to spring up into the racking
air and vanish. The ship rocked with shouts as the seaman loaded the gun
and prepared for a second attempt.
Stirling realized that the last defenders had a weapon in a million. It
was similar to the rifle grenades used in trench warfare, and against it
the Russians were at a great disadvantage. They could not face eight
ounces of tonite exploded in their midst.
Marr appeared alongside of the sailor, and he, too, carried a bomb gun.
The shot he fired exploded against the break of the forepeak and missed
the open forecastle companion. Its explosion racked the morning air and
sent showers of splinters as high aloft as the crow's-nest.
Stirling watched the fight which followed. The revolutionists had one
advantage: their number was sufficient to overcome any resistance,
provided they were well led. They seemed, however, to lack a leader.
The Russian who had stood by the after hatch and directed operations had
been struck by a splinter of ash from a whaleboat. He was carried below
to the forecastle. The man who took his place crouched behind the
mainmast and shouted his orders in a weak, squeaking voice.
The rush came at last and in straggling infiltration. The invaders
seeped along the two rails and out from the barricade, then swarmed up
the poop. Marr fired point-blank and dropped down the cabin companion as
a stone crashed against his breast. The seaman stood his ground and
swung the bomb gun by the muzzle. He bowled over a trio of Russians,
drew back, and then glanced downward.
The little skipper, pale and bleeding, had appeared for a moment, and
motioned that he was going to close the companion slide. The seaman
swirled the gun, braced himself, and drove it into the gathering knot of
men at the quarter-deck canvas, then he turned and swiftly dived below.
The companion hatch shut with a loud click.
Stirling counted his cartridges as the baffled Russians swarmed over the
poop. He could hit a few of them with careful aiming, but he held his
fire. There was always the chance that he, too, would be rushed. A squad
of determined men could reach the crow's-nest if they ignored the cost
to themselves.
The sun's rays brought out all the details of the night's fight. Unreal
and ghastly seemed the deck of the ship. Stirling rubbed his eyes and
glanced downward, to where the revolutionists had gathered in a knot
forward of the galley house. The man who had stood near the hatch was
speaking to them; his gestures were strained and dramatic. He pointed
aloft.
Faces were turned upward and weapons were raised, but no man started for
the rigging. The determined leader called for volunteers. He seemed to
realize that the crow's-nest was a dangerous point of vantage and the
tiny revolver in Stirling's hand was a potent argument. The Ice Pilot
held it out and took aim. The leader ducked beneath the shelter of a
splintered whaleboat. The other revolutionists were more stolid; they
stared and brandished their weapons.
An hour passed with the invaders combing the ship for more gin and
stores. Stirling lay back and pressed against the side of the
crow's-nest. His eyes closed, but he opened them with a sudden start. It
would not do to sleep while the Russians were alert; any minute might
find them climbing the rigging.
Sounds floated upward which told that the ship's captors were cleaning
up the deck and otherwise making preparations for her departure. They
had nailed down the companion hatch which led to the after cabins, and
two stood guard there with capstan bars. Others were below in the engine
room, where the clang of doors sounded. Scoops grated across the aprons
in the stokehold, and shrill calls came up the ventilators.
A smudge of smoke issued from the funnel, curled the masts, and rose
straight upward in the Arctic air. Stirling coughed and stiffened
himself; he leaned over the edge of the crow's-nest and watched for
developments. It was evident that there was an engineer or two among the
Russians.
The leader appeared through the engine-room gratings and stood by the
handrail. He staggered slightly from the effects of the gin he had
drunk, and he turned a weak chin aloft and sneered. His eyes swung
downward and swept the harbour's entrance where it closed to a shelving
rock about which the _Pole Star_ would have to be steered in order to
make for open sea.
The orders he gave were obeyed in listless manner; some of the Russians
openly holding back and consulting. Three of them went to the falls of
the starboard whaleboat and threw the lines from the cleats. The boat
was lowered bow foremost, and almost filled as it struck the sea. A
second boat, which had been used to bring the horde from the shore,
rounded the _Pole Star's_ bow and was rowed alongside. The two boats,
with the leader in the stern of the one which had been lowered, glided
across the harbour and disappeared around the wall of rock.
Stirling wondered at this manoeuvre, but had not long to wait. The
leader's boat returned soon and the Russians crowded to the rail. Their
leader came up a dangling falls and pointed toward the entrance, then
gave a series of orders. The anchor chain was cleared of wreckage and
steam plumed from a leak in the capstan engine. The clank of chain
coming through the hawse was followed by the slow turning of the screw.
A roar greeted this sign of departure, and was thrown back by the rocky
walls.
Putting down the wheel, a Russian marine acted as pilot in a slovenly
manner. The ship grazed the shore, scraped over a ledge of rocks, and
swung too far for the entrance. It was backed by a quick reversal of the
engines. A second try was more successful. The taper jib boom pointed
down the narrow strait and sheered in time to meet the first rollers of
the Gulf of Anadir.
Stirling was openly astonished at the ability shown by the Russians, in
building steam in the boilers. One of their number understood engines
and bells; he had even turned the globe valve which led to the capstan
cylinder. This revealed that there were men in Siberia who had missed
their calling.
The ship met the long-running rollers, swung a point toward the east, as
near as Stirling could determine from the position of the sun, and drove
on swiftly.
A cape jutted out into the Gulf of Anadir, and toward this headland the
leader pointed as the speed increased and the propeller thrashed astern.
Stirling shaded his eyes from the sun's glint and studied the cape. He
saw the reason for the change of course. A wreck lay athwart two
fanglike rocks over which surf beat. The skeleton of a giant ship marked
how the revolutionists had been cast away.
The _Pole Star_ neared this wreck and reversed her screw. The leader
sprang to the forepeak and called a loud order. A whaleboat was lowered,
and ten minutes later the Russians returned from the wreck with a
chronometer and a sextant. These had been denied them when Marr had
barricaded the cabin of the poacher.
Stirling felt the lack of sleep creep over his tired, aching muscles. He
shook himself like a shaggy dog and forced his brain to remain awake.
The creaking of the fall blocks, the clang of an engine-room bell, the
throbbing of the propeller--all were so shiplike and real that he had
difficulty in believing the ship was captured, pillaged, and now off for
a new venture in Northern waters.
He widened his tired eyes and allowed them to stray over the deck which
lay like a pointed seed below him. The Russians went about their duties
with newborn vim and determination, as the leader stood at the canvas
rail which overlooked the waist and called his orders. The lower sails
were set to a western breeze. Under the influence of these and the
steam, the _Pole Star_ rapidly threw the dark coast of Siberia over her
stern and drove for the Strait of Bering and the American shore.