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.