Chapter X The End of the Islander

veredlikealivingthing.Onegreatyellowlanterninourbowsthrewalong,flickeringfunneloflightinfrontofus.RightaheadadarkbluruponthewatershowedwheretheAuroralay,andtheswirlofwhitefoambehindherspokeofthepaceatwhichshewasgoing.Weflashedpastbarges,steamers,merchant-vessels,inandout,behindthisoneandroundtheother.Voiceshailedusoutofthedarkness,butstilltheAurorathunderedon,andstillwefollowedcloseuponhertrack. “Pileiton,men,pileiton!”criedHolmes,lookingdownintotheengine-room,whilethefierceglowfrombelowbeatuponhiseager,aquilineface.“Geteverypoundofsteamyoucan.” “Ithinkwegainalittle,”saidJones,withhiseyesontheAurora. “Iamsureofit,”saidI.“Weshallbeupwithherinaveryfewminutes.” Atthatmoment,however,asourevilfatewouldhaveit,atugwiththreebargesintowblunderedinbetweenus.Itwasonlybyputtingourhelmharddownthatweavoidedacollision,andbeforewecouldroundthemandrecoverourwaytheAurorahadgainedagoodtwohundredyards.Shewasstill,however,wellinview,andthemurkyuncertaintwilightwassettingintoaclearstarlitnight.Ourboilerswerestrainedtotheirutmost,andthefrailshellvibratedandcreakedwiththefierceenergywhichwasdrivingusalong.WehadshotthroughthePool,pasttheWestIndiaDocks,downthelongDeptfordReach,andupagainafterroundingtheIsleofDogs.ThedullblurinfrontofusresolveditselfnowclearlyenoughintothedaintyAurora.Jonesturnedoursearch-lightuponher,sothatwecouldplainlyseethefiguresuponherdeck.Onemansatbythestern,withsomethingblackbetweenhiskneesoverwhichhestooped.BesidehimlayadarkmasswhichlookedlikeaNewfoundlanddog.Theboyheldthetiller,whileagainsttheredglareofthefurnaceIcouldseeoldSmith,strippedtothewaist,andshovellingcoalsfordearlife.Theymayhavehadsomedoubtatfirstastowhetherwewerereallypursuingthem,butnowaswefollowedeverywindingandturningwhichtheytooktherecouldnolongerbeanyquestionaboutit.AtGreenwichwewereaboutthreehundredpacesbehindthem.AtBlackwallwecouldnothavebeenmorethantwohundredandfifty.Ihavecoursedmanycreaturesinmanycountriesduringmycheckeredcareer,butneverdidsportgivemesuchawildthrillasthismad,flyingman-huntdowntheThames.Steadilywedrewinuponthem,yardbyyard.Inthesilenceofthenightwecouldhearthepantingandclankingoftheirmachinery.Themaninthesternstillcroucheduponthedeck,andhisarmsweremovingasthoughhewerebusy,whileeverynowandthenhewouldlookupandmeasurewithaglancethedistancewhichstillseparatedus.Nearerwecameandnearer.Jonesyelledtothemtostop.Wewerenotmorethanfourboat’slengthsbehindthem,bothboatsflyingatatremendouspace.Itwasaclearreachoftheriver,withBarkingLevelupononesideandthemelancholyPlumsteadMarshesupontheother.Atourhailthemaninthesternsprangupfromthedeckandshookhistwoclinchedfistsatus,cursingthewhileinahigh,crackedvoice.Hewasagood-sized,powerfulman,andashestoodpoisinghimselfwithlegsastrideIcouldseethatfromthethighdownwardstherewasbutawoodenstumpupontherightside.Atthesoundofhisstrident,angrycriestherewasmovementinthehuddledbundleuponthedeck.Itstraighteneditselfintoalittleblackman—thesmallestIhaveeverseen—withagrea