The steady clanking of the triple-expansion engines driving the screw at
a racing speed of one hundred and ten revolutions a minute, the glow
over the drab funnel, the hiss of sea alongside--these all denoted that
they were reaching for the far-off Aleutian and the pass that marked
Dutch Harbor, where whalers and Yukon boats left the Pacific and entered
the waters of the Bering Sea.
Stirling shared the mess with Cushner and Whitehouse and the two
engineers. Marr had given orders that in no circumstances should he be
disturbed in the after cabin. This order, communicated by the cockney
mate, caused the conversation to veer from speculation to concrete
suspicions.
Cushner rose from his meal with a nod toward Stirling. "Let's go on
deck," he said, steadying himself by grasping the racks. "Let's have a
smoke and turn about. Mr. Whitehouse has the watch till eight bells."
Stirling crammed a palmful of tobacco into a cord-wrapped pipe, clutched
the second mate's arm, and led him to the waist of the ship, where they
stood beneath the shadow of the starboard whaleboat.
"We're not wanted on the poop!" exclaimed Cushner.
"The wheel's there and the binnacle's there, and the log line's there,"
suggested Stirling, pressing his thumb down upon the glowing coals of
his pipe. "We've got to go aft."
"'Only for duty,' that's what the old man said. What do you make of
that? He wants the after part of the ship to himself."
"It's his ship, Cushner!"
The Yankee mate counted on his fingers. "There's only two aft," he said.
"Two--the old man and Snowball, the cabin boy."
Stirling pulled on his pipe. "How about the woman you heard?" he asked,
dryly.
"Maybe she's there, Horace. Maybe she is! Maybe that's his reason for
wanting the quarter-deck to himself. He had two Gay Islanders rig up a
screen between the wheel and the taffrail. All that's aft of the screen
is the companion to the cabin and a bucket rack. Thar's just about room
to turn about in. A nice little cubby place I'd call it."
Stirling thought the matter over, backing into the gloom and shading his
eyes. The tip of the wheel, with one spoke, showed over the low canvas
sail. Beside this spoke was the soiled tassel of the wheelman's cap. Aft
rose the mizzenmast with its spotless canvas billowing forward like
Carrara marble. The telltale on the top of the mast denoted a freshening
south wind. The swing of the ship, the thrust of the screw, the song
which sounded from forward where a group of seamen were gathered on the
forecastle head--all these spoke of action and a driving force to
Northern seas where hearts beat strong and staunch winds cut to the
quick.
The Ice Pilot turned to Cushner, pressing the bowl of his pipe with his
broad thumb. "We're making good time," he said, thoughtfully. "Five days
of this and we'll sight our Aleutian landfall. I guess we'd better not
worry about the cubby-hole aft and the woman. I never could understand
them, anyhow."
Cushner laughed and clapped Stirling on the back. He withdrew a foot or
more, spread his legs wide, and surveyed Stirling with mingled pride and
calculation.
Cushner squinted as he drawled: "You're all right, old man! You ain't no
clothing-store dummy or one of them smart ducks with spar-deck shoes and
a gold lanyard to your watch chain; but you'll pass where they won't.
You're a man--every inch of you! I've heard thar ain't no better, when
it comes to ice work."
Stirling was silent. He dragged on his pipe.
"A woman's man," continued Cushner, "ain't for these seas or the seas
we're agoing to. And by saying that I don't mean no disrespect for the
skipper. I was with him coming round the Horn. A fighter, he is, and all
that--but there's a polish to him I don't like. It ain't natural. He's
like a polite boarding-house runner. Them's the sharks to look out for.
They know more than we do!"
"We'll keep our jaw tackle chockablock!" said Stirling, tapping his pipe
against the rail and cramming it into his side pocket. "We'll sail ship
and tend to our duties. I'll get the crow's-nest up in the morning.
You'll find me ready for anything--short of breaking the law of the
three nations. I'll put the _Pole Star_ where the old man says, but I
won't raid no rookeries with him. I won't do that!"
The positive set to Stirling's jaw was a relief to Cushner. He nodded.
"Me, too," he said, moving aft. "I'm willin' to whale or trade or go to
the Pole with you in charge of th' ship."
Stirling went to his cabin, latched the sliding door which led to the
starboard waist, and undressed slowly. He sank into a profound sleep,
broken once by a dream of Frisco and the Coast of Barbary.
He awoke as the little marine clock above the bunk was striking seven
bells, reached to a shelf and drew toward him a compass set in a leather
binding. It was part of his possessions brought out in the dunnage bag
from Antone's cigar store.
Steadying his compass by a crack at the head of the bunk, he made a
shrewd calculation as to the direction the _Pole Star_ was heading.
The course had been changed overnight. It was now northwest by west. The
needle vibrated with the throbbing of the engines, but each time it
settled back to the first point.
Stirling rose and dressed without haste, clapped his cap on his head,
and strode through the doorway to the damp deck. Here he leaned over the
starboard rail and glanced downward at the swift-running foam which
seethed alongside the ship's planks, then raised his eyes and swept the
horizon. It was pale to the eastward with the first rosy flush of dawn.
For a moment he remained in one position, then turned and stared aft
with his eyes wide and intent. The gloom which shrouded the poop of the
ship was lightened by the upward glow of an open companion, and a figure
stood to the extreme port side of the quarter-deck. This figure was
shrouded and muffled but the red reflection from the side light brought
out some details.
Stirling gripped the rail and continued staring. It was Marr, no doubt,
who had taken the position so near the wheelsman. There was that to the
set of the head, however, which caused Stirling concern. Marr generally
held his chin high. This head, as seen over the drab canvas, was dropped
and thoughtful.
The wheelsman turned and touched his cap. Stirling heard part of a
question, which concerned the course, and it was not answered. The
figure started, half leaned away, then swung about and disappeared in
the gloom of the smudge astern where the funnel smoke drifted and
swirled.
The shaftlike light from the open cabin companion grew pale, then was
blotted out by a descending figure. A slide closed with a loud slam, and
the ship plunged on, leaving Stirling no wiser for his impressions. He
turned with a half grumble and hurried forward.
Cushner was emerging from the deck house, having stolen a trip inside to
the cook's galley, where coffee was always steaming.
"Good morning!" he exclaimed, recognizing Stirling's form on the deck.
"Sun's clear and wind's abeam--almost. Light wind and a flowing sea.
Good morning, I said!"
"Who changed the course?" asked Stirling, point-blank. "We're not headed
right. We can't make Dutch Pass or anywhere near it on this tack. What
does Marr mean?"
Cushner scratched his head, raised his hand, and pointed astern.
"Whitehouse gave me the new course when the watches were changed," he
said. "That's all I know. It's a long way from where we expected we were
going, Stirling."
"Jumping bowheads, yes! It's toward the great-circle route. Another half
point and we'll be on it. What does that mean, Cushner?"
"I'll be skull-dragged if I know!"
"The great-circle route leads to Japan and northern China. We'll sight
Rat Island on this route, and miss the only good pass to the Bering by
five hundred leagues. That ain't right!"
"Thar's a lot about this ship what ain't right!" declared the Yankee.
"We're in the hands of Captain Marr."
Stirling reached for his pipe, gathered together a palmful of cut plug,
struck a sulphur match on the rail at his side and held the flame to the
bowl till it glowed. He drew in the smoke, then squared his jaw and
clamped the amber stem.
"We'll keep our eyes open!" he said through white teeth. "I think I saw
the woman on the poop. I think it was a woman. She wouldn't answer the
man at the wheel. She had Marr's clothes on. That's mighty queer doings
for a simple whaler bound after bowheads and trade stuff!"
Cushner thrust out a calloused hand. "Put it there," he said. "We'll see
this voyage through and find out what's wrong if it takes three seasons.
I'm just almighty curious to know!"