"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.