"Certainly; all the way! You're one against thirty—more than that, counting the engine-room force and the stokehold bunch. Put down that fist and get into your cabin; stay there and don't come on deck. Otherwise they're going to mop up the ship with you."
"I'll chance that——" started Stirling, advancing upon the crew, both fists now clenched.
He never hesitated in the charge. It was bull strong and intended to clear the way to the poop; men went over as ninepins; blows glanced from his shoulders. He reached the poop steps with arms twined about him, threw these off with a savage twist and squirm, and went up as a Kanaka harpooner seized his legs. Dragging slowly, he grasped the rail and bent his body.
It was then that a belaying pin flew across the waist of the ship, glanced from the quarter-deck rail, and struck Stirling in the temple. He rolled down the steps—the centre of a snarling pack of men—then lay quiet, with blood flowing from the wound in his head.
Eagan pulled off the pack and lifted him like a heavy sack of meal. "I'll put him in his cabin," he said with a grunt. "I'll watch him. Leave that part to me."
Marr turned and faced the crew. "Get the anchor up!" he ordered. "We'll drop down the wind and make for our landfall. Remember, we're looking for bowheads until I give other instructions."
Eagan laid Stirling on his bunk and went to work. He found water and a clean towel, bathed the swollen wound, leaned over, and shook Stirling into consciousness.
"Lay low!" he whispered. "Don't you know who I am?"
Stirling rolled, and pressed his hand to his eyes. "I don't know," he said, weakly. "Who are you?"
Eagan reached into his pocket and drew forth a gold badge. He held it before Stirling's swimming eyes.