Marvelling at the turn of events, Stirling groped about the crow's-nest
and found his twelve-diameter glasses, which had been used in whale
hunting. He turned their screw, adjusted the focus for his eyes, and
swept the open Gulf of Anadir and the Bering beyond the jib boom. No
sign of ship or sail showed. Ice was here and there in dotted specks,
drifting with the great North current which would reverse its direction
and flow back to the Arctic before the month was old.
Noon passed with the _Pole Star_ changing its course degree by degree.
Stirling dozed in an erect position. Each time he awoke it was with a
guilty start. There was grave danger that some of the Russians would
mount the shrouds, since they had already been along the yards. The
canvas they had set billowed before the breeze and blotted out a full
view of the deck.
Stirling thought of the girl who must be with the skipper and the Frisco
dock rat. It was evident that Marr had received a crushing blow from the
rock hurled by the Russian; the little skipper's face had been white and
drawn as he barricaded the hatchway.
Stirling dwelt on thoughts of the girl in a dazed manner. He realized
that the situation called for every ounce of his energies, yet he would
have given a year of life for a nap in security.
Afternoon and six bells, which a Russian struck forward, brought sight
of the open sea rimmed by a dark line to southward which marked the
island of St. Lawrence. Stirling raised his glasses and swept the
horizon to the north and east. He was on the point of lowering them from
his eyes when a speck stood out with tiny distinctness. He focused for
this speck, and pieced together detail by detail, with splendid sight.
He smiled slightly as he dropped his hands to his sides and glanced down
at the deck. The revenue cutter _Bear_ had already sighted the _Pole
Star_. She was bearing to the north so as to head off the ship. There
seemed no escape, for the land on either coast ran into a funnel whose
snout was the Bering Strait.
"Saved!" exclaimed Stirling. "I'm saved and she's saved. I think we are
saved--the girl and I. But Heaven help the others on this unfortunate
ship."
Sincerely hoping for capture, Stirling prayed silently, raising the
glasses for a second sweep of the sea to the north and east. The speck
had grown into a trailing pencil of smoke which lay athwart the slaty
sky.
Glancing over the crow's-nest, Stirling watched the Russian leader on
the poop. He saw a chart being unrolled like a huge rug, and two
Russians followed a pointing finger. The leader rose from a crouched
position and started to give an order to the wheelsman, then this order
died in his throat. A cry rolled along the ship, and was repeated in
guttural accents. The revolutionists gathered on the forepeak had
discovered the smoke over the starboard rail, and pointed and muttered
as they realized its import.
A bell clanged as the leader reached for the engine-room telegraph and
set it for full speed. Seamen of doubtful ability swarmed aloft and
started unfurling the upper canvas; three reached the fore-topgallant
yard and went out on the footrope with clumsy feet.
They were so near to Stirling he could have shot them from the spars.
The _Pole Star_ canted and drove north along the meridian line, its
course parallel to that of the fast-coming _Bear_.
The hour that followed was filled with mingled hopes and fears. The
revenue cutter had been rated a speedy ship by whalers who knew it, but
it was two knots slower than the _Pole Star_. This fact came home to
Stirling with the force of a blow. The canvas which the Russians set had
aided in the long running. The _Bear_ was not closing the gap to any
extent, but held doggedly on.
Stirling studied the distance, saw that it was a losing game, then
reached in his pocket for the revolver. He could hit the wheelsman, who
was standing on the poop, and this would cause the ship to sheer. He
took slow aim. The shot he fired missed the wheelsman's head by inches;
the second shot splintered a spoke; the third caught the wheelsman in
the left shoulder. He released his hold and cried a warning.
The crew swarmed up the poop steps, glared toward the crow's-nest, and
set about building a barricade before the wheel. This was done as
Stirling ceased his firing; their number was too great to accomplish
anything of lasting moment. The cartridges in the tiny gun were running
low, and the bullets were of too small a calibre to slay save when they
struck a vital spot.
A second idea came to him as he pocketed the gun. Reaching downward he
searched for a knife, which should have been in the binocular case of
the crow's-nest. With it he could cut the lines leading to all the sails
on the foremast, which ran by the crow's-nest and up the topmast. The
knife was missing!
"I'm beat!" he said. "The _Bear_ will never catch us!"