The fire-junks hung for a few moments upon his bows, but being slack water, did not drop upon her; and the Stinger having steam up, "went astern" slowly, leaving the Chinese engines of destruction moored by the lines by which they had been towed down upon the man-of-war. As the ship receded from their fiery contact the flames ran along her bowsprit and caught the bulwarks, but a well-directed stream of water from her pumps soon extinguished that, and the further burning of the bowsprit and projecting spars was prevented.
The Chinese who were managing the attack seeing the Stinger move from her anchorage slacked their tow-lines, and Woodward saw the junks were coming down upon him again.
"Who'll volunteer to cut away that spare anchor when the junks are again under the bows?"
"I will, sir," cried Tom Clare, who, dressed in a blanket frock and trousers, looked more like an Esquimaux than a sailor. "The fire won't hurt this rig."
"Up you get, then; the fire won't touch you if you're smart, as the wind has fallen, and is drawing aft. The tricing line has fouled just abaft the foretopmast stay. Don't cut until I give the order."
Luckily the stays were made of corrugated iron wire, and Clare knew if he could feel those he was safe, even though the smoke blinded him. He was determined to save the ship; and, axe in hand, mounted the head grating, and running out upon the bowsprit, calmly waited for the fire-junks to drop down near enough for the anchor to plump aboard them. As he stood there, with the red gleam of the burning junks showing every line in his face, he looked the handsome Tom Clare of former days; and knowing how perilous his position was, many of the crew wished almost any other man of their number there instead of him.
"They're coming, Clare. Stand by, and let them get close enough. I'll give you orders when to cut."
"Aye, aye, sir," quietly replied Tom.
Down dropped the burning craft towards the ship, every now and then sending a volume of smoke into the sky, as some store of combustible exploded on board them, flaming like furnace tops, with their entire length an unbroken mass of roaring, singing fire. Tom felt the glare upon his face, and found a difficulty in breathing. Nearer and nearer they approached, until the flying jib-boom was again on fire, and he began to experience the sensation of burning whiskers and singed eyebrows and face. But as no order came, he waited.