Breathing the invigorating night air, Horace Stirling climbed over the
ship's rail, squared his shoulders, and started toward the poop steps.
The consciousness that he had been shanghaied came to him; the sensation
was a novel one.
He reached the weather steps. There he paused and swung, facing the
after part of the ship. A group of seamen were gathered in the waist.
They were receiving the shanghaied sailors who had been brought out in
the Whitehall boat.
Stirling gathered in the details of the whaler and his jaw dropped in
wonder, while his eyes softened with an appreciative glow. He had never
sailed or steamed upon such a ship. She was complete and yachtlike, and
her deck house extended fore and aft between the main and mizzenmast. It
was such a cabin as one would expect to find on a government revenue
cutter. A squat, drab funnel reared from a boat deck, and glowed through
the mist like the end of a fat cigar.
Stirling turned and mounted the poop, to face two of the men with whom
he had drunk in that tavern near the wharves. One thrust out a hamlike
hand. "Remember me?" he said, with a twinkle in his eyes. "I'm Cushner
who took the Anderson expedition to the mouth of the Lena River. You
were ice pilot of the _Northern Lights_ that season. You gammed us in
Bering Strait. Remember?"
Stirling stared up into the big seaman's face, squinting his eyes in an
attempt to recall a vague memory. Slowly the details of the Anderson
expedition came back to him.
"You're Cushner!" he blurted out. "By the jumpin' bowheads, you are!
Who's the little fellow?" Stirling motioned toward the second seaman who
had descended the lee poop steps and started forward to where a knot of
men were gathered about the corner of the deck house.
The big mate of the ship leaned over the quarter-deck rail and said:
"He's Marr--Captain Marr of the Baffin Bay crowd. See, he's mixin' with
th' men. No man leaves this ship, but you, out of the bunch. Sailors are
scarce as bowheads in the western ocean these days."
"Do you need a pilot?"
"We certainly do! You can come if you want to."
"How about this ship?"
"She's the _Pole Star_. She once was called the _Alexander_. She was a
Russian yacht. She's fitted out for whaling and trading. Good food and
all that. The old man will be glad to sign you on a big lay. We're going
right up in the ice."
"Who'll be the afterguard?"
"Well, you'll make one if you join us. There's Marr and Whitehouse, who
just came by rail. That puts me back to second mate. Then there's
Sanderson and Manley--third and fourth. Besides, there's Maddox and
Baldwin of the engine-room force. It's a good outfit. Fair play and
money to be had."
Stirling rubbed his nose, lifted his eyes to the rigging, squared his
shoulders, and turned toward Cushner. "How about all this?" he asked
with a wide sweep of his arm. "Kind of queer, eh?"
"Well, no," drawled the big mate, tugging at his long beard. "No; not
that I know of, Stirling. Everything's on deck as far as I can see. The
old man is a part owner--it's a private venture. He and Whitehouse know
their business. Just keep your tongue spliced and say nothing. The old
man will be in the cabin at six bells. We'll talk to him then; if you
want to go ashore, you can. If you stay, I'll promise you some fair game
on a man's sea."
Stirling took a turn about the quarter-deck of the _Pole Star_, then
came back to the rail and leaned over. Marr had disappeared.
A bell struck over the misted waters of the city, and was followed by
others. A roar sounded to the westward, where the surf beat upon Seal
Rocks and the entrance to the harbour. A salty gust stirred the standing
rigging of the ship, and it filled the Ice Pilot's lungs with remembered
calling. He braced his shoulders, lifted his head, and felt like a man
who has shaken off a bad dream. He was going North again, on a good ship
with a staunch crew.
Stirling turned toward the big mate, who stood under the shadow of a
long, white whaleboat. "I'll join," the Ice Pilot said, simply. "Let's
go below and see Marr. It's six bells and more. Like as not he and I can
get along. I ain't a hard man to please. Only, this has got to be an
honest voyage. I ain't in for anything downright crooked. It ain't my
nature!"
"Mine, neither," said Cushner. "Come on!"
Stirling followed the second mate across the deck to an ornate companion
close by the taffrail, and they descended by turning, in the manner of
seamen the world over. Stirling removed his cap and stood rooted in the
doorframe as his eyes gathered in the details of the cabin.
A soft electric cluster shone overhead, and walls and bulkheads were
hung with draperies. The deck was covered with Persian carpets, while
here and there--scattered in haphazard fashion--gleamed the tawny yellow
pelts of wild animals.
Athwart the ship, from inner skin to inner skin, the cabin extended,
with staterooms fore and aft of the companion stairway. The round
portholes, covered with silken curtains, alone remained to tell that the
room was upon a ship.
Stirling blinked his eyes, then opened them wide and drank in the
details of wealth and luxury. He stared at shelves of morocco-bound
books, their titles stamped in gold; he noted a baby-grand piano--the
first he had ever seen--lashed with silken cords to the after bulkhead.
Upon it music lay in well-bound sheaths.
Cushner advanced and gripped the Ice Pilot's elbow. "Come on," he
whispered, pointing toward an alcove between two bookcases. "The captain
is sitting there."
Half hidden by a portiere, stretched three quarter length upon a divan,
Marr reclined, deep in a book of modern verse. He lifted his legs and
dropped them to the deck, laid the book down, and rose with a quick
thrust of his hand toward Stirling. "Be seated," he said, clasping the
Ice Pilot's hand with a nervous grip then indicating a long, cushioned
seat.
Stirling followed the second mate's example and sat down on the nearest
cushion, stretching out his long legs, hitching up his trousers, and
fingering his cap. He raised his chin and met Marr's eyes, studying the
clean-cut nostrils of the little captain. He gauged the mentality of the
man, and thrashed the events of the night over in his mind as he held a
steady poise.
"This is Horace Stirling!" blurted out Cushner, with a voice like a
bull. "He's the best all-around whaler and ice pilot in the game. I
didn't recognize him in that room in Frisco. We landed a bigger fish
than we thought. I reckon he can go ashore if he wants to. We can't keep
him unless he wants to stay."
"How about it?" asked Marr.
Stirling fingered his cap, but he had already made up his mind. The ship
suited him, Cushner was a good mate, and the North called with all the
strength of the wide places.
"I'll sign on," he said, simply. "Like as not I couldn't do better. I
don't like the way you shipped part of your crew; outside of that, this
suits me, if it's honest."
"The crew," said Marr, softly, "was a serious problem. I wanted a few
more men, and just at the time I saw no other way to get them than by
straight, old-time shanghaing. It worked!"