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 manœuvre, 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.