The long Northern day died at last as the _Pole Star_ drove south and
west through the ice-flecked waters of the Bering Sea.
Night shaded overhead and the wind sank to a following breeze which
flapped the sails on the polished spars. Steam was got up in the
boilers, the screw thrashed, and the ship plunged on--her sharp stem
cutting through the drift ice like a knife going through thin paper.
Into the upward swing of the Arctic sun the whaler steered. Fog drifted
upon them, and when it lifted there was exposed a wide waste of sullen
waters upon the surface of which seal and walrus sported. Once a killer
whale attracted attention. Some of the green crew called "A blow!"
Marr knew better than this. He urged the ship on as if it were carrying
the mail for Southern waters. He stood the watch with Whitehouse, and
both seamen had received Eagan's report that Stirling was resting easily
and was making no trouble.
They consulted as to the best course to pursue in regard to Stirling.
Marr was for locking him securely in the chain-locker--this was a tiny
space forward the forecastle. Whitehouse, who had taken a liking to
Stirling, admiring his prowess with the ice and the conditions met in
the Bering, suggested that Eagan should be left in charge of the captive
and held responsible. Marr agreed, neither man suspecting that the
sailor had any motive in staying near Stirling. Their first suspicion
had been forgotten. Eagan had played a difficult part and won his point.
It was on the third day that the _Pole Star_ entered, as dusk crept
across the sky, the zone of danger where no ships were allowed at that
season of the year, the strictest patrolled patch of water in the world.
Seals of the fur-skin variety, which are so valuable and scarce, sported
about.
Marr drove on with all lights shaded and a canvas cone capping the _Pole
Star's_ funnel and steam pipe. Orders had been given for each man to
stand at position. Guns had been laid in the whaleboats, and great oak
capstan bars took the place of the whaling gear.
An air of expectancy filled each sailor's breast; the die was cast, and
they were close to the great game. Whaling was for old men and
weaklings. Stories had been told in the forecastle and steerage
concerning the sudden profits of a seal raid. MacLane was cited as an
instance of desperate daring and tremendous enterprise, MacLane who had
raided both the Copper Group and the Pribilofs in one season. He had
brought his schooner into Seattle with her deck planks bulging from the
salted skins beneath.
Eagan moved from Stirling's cabin to the forecastle and back again. He
had secured a pair of rusty handcuffs with which he made great show of
securing the Ice Pilot, where he lay on his back. Now and then one of
the galley crowd peered in through the open porthole and reported to the
sailors on deck.
A double lookout was maintained from forepeak and quarter-deck, and the
horizon was closely scanned by Marr and Whitehouse. The rookeries lay
close to the south and west and the ship had been driven toward the
northeast point of St. Paul's Island.
Stirling sensed his position by the slowing of the screw and the
direction of the slight wind and he reviewed the entire series of events
since coming aboard the ship. His head had now cleared, and the slight
swelling at the temple was going down under Eagan's skillful treatment.
The situation was desperate enough. Marr had taken the long chance and
reached the waters about the rookeries. But two armed ships were known
to be in the Bering Sea or the Arctic. One was the revenue cutter
_Bear_; the other, the unknown cruiser which had driven through Bering
Strait.
Stirling's anger boiled and simmered as he lay in a handcuffed position
and waited for reports from Eagan, who had to be careful. There was
scant chance of their ever capturing the ship. Two against forty offered
little hope to dwell upon; another method than violence would have to be
found.
Eagan came in at one bell before midnight, closed the door, pocketed the
keys, then moved over to the porthole and glanced keenly out.
"How're we heading?" whispered Stirling.
"Southwest."
"Dead on St. Paul?"
"She's just been raised from aft. Marr and Whitehouse sent the word
forward. The whole tribe of Kanakas, Gay Islanders, dock rats, and
cinder-muckers--to say nothing of the two first-class engineers, who
ought to know better--are itching to get at the seals. It will be as
much as our lives are worth to interfere. Marr has them all worked up."
"Where's the _Bear_?"
"Heaven only knows! Seagraves, her captain, told me in Frisco that he
had an entire ocean to guard. There's the Russian coast and the Kotzebue
and Norton Sound."
"That other cruiser?"
"She's helping him out. Likely there's an expedition cast away in the
Arctic. The _Kadik_ was reported crushed. The cruiser may have gone
through to pick up the survivors."
"Then Marr will succeed?" Stirling hinged himself upward and stared at
Eagan.
"Looks that way." Eagan closed his fists and turned from the porthole.
"Looks bad," he continued with hard eyes. "At that, Stirling, we've
three or four hours yet. Much can happen in that time. The _Bear_ may
swing around St. Paul."
"Have you made no plans? The Commission must know that you are on this
ship. They will be waiting for word from you."
Eagan smiled despite his doubts. "We're two," he said. "They don't
suspect me, and I have a plan. I shall land at the rookeries and try to
reach the guard. If I fail, then you can spike the ship in some manner
till the _Bear_ is reached by wireless."
Stirling raised his wrists and eyed the handcuffs.
"They're tight," he suggested. "Suppose you let them out a notch. Then,
whatever happens to you during the raid, I'll be on deck and active. Who
was it threw that belaying pin?"
"Whitehouse."
Stirling made a mental note for future guidance. "Now, Eagan," he
continued, "you had better loosen the cuffs and leave me an automatic
revolver. I hear the screw slowing. We're right off the rookery. Listen.
That's the surf on the beach."
"Worse than that," said the government agent. "There's also the sound of
seals barking. Hear them? I wouldn't wonder if they sense what is
coming."
The seaman reached downward in the half-light and inserted a key in the
handcuff lock. Stirling guided him with cool fingers, and soon the cuffs
fitted loosely.
"Now the gun," said Stirling.
Eagan glided to the porthole, glanced shrewdly out, then returned to
Stirling's side. "Take mine," the deputy said. "I won't need it. Hide it
under your mattress."
The icy coolness in the man's tones steeled Stirling. He lay back as
Eagan went across the cabin, opened the door, and stepped swiftly out
upon the deck. A lock clicked.
An impending silence lay over the _Pole Star_. The shuffling of men on
deck, the creak of blocks, the straining of falls, told of boats being
lowered. Voices were muffled as a light anchor was dropped at the end of
a whale line, serving to swing the ship and hold it toward the shelving
shore.
Stirling caught the deep roar of the bachelor seals. In fancy he saw the
boats glide across the water and grate upon the beach. He saw, in fancy
again, the raised capstan bars and the shattered skulls of the prey.
A boat ground against the ship's side, a block creaked, a laugh rang and
was stilled. Then footfalls sounded, and the porthole was darkened.
Whitehouse thrust his long nose through the opening and squinted toward
Stirling. "You're there," the mate muttered. "Be blym quiet, let me tell
you that. It'll all be over in 'alf a hour. Too bad you weren't with us,
Stirling."
The Ice Pilot did not answer and the mate's face disappeared from the
porthole. Another boat touched the ship's side. Bundles of pelts were
dragged to the forehold and dropped downward. Hushed instructions were
given to return to the rookery.
Stirling rolled over and felt for the gun under his mattress. Its cold
barrel nerved him to rise and sit upon the edge of the bunk. He cocked
the trigger and waited, his eyes toward the porthole, then turned and
stared at the locked door.
"Time to be doing something," he said, simply. "They're ripping the
rookeries wide open, without being discovered. Like as not they've
overpowered the native guard. That'll go hard with them later."
He stood erect and worked one hand free from the cuff. Winding the chain
about his wrist, he moved toward the porthole and peered out. A black
velvet band stretched over the sea, and through it came stars as his
eyes accustomed themselves to the view. He stared out over the ship's
rail, to where he saw faint white spots which marked the drift ice.
Beyond these was a silver running ripple.
The position of the ship with its whale-line anchorage was close to the
hidden beach. Stirling sensed the slow rise of the waves, which marked
shallow bottom. The idea came to him that if the line were cut which led
to the anchor, the _Pole Star_ most certainly would go ashore. Once
ashore, the crew would be unable to work her out in time to escape.
Eagan could be expected to give some sort of alarm, and the guard on the
other islands of the seal group would descend upon them.
"I'll chance it," said Stirling. "Here goes for the door and a rush to
the anchor rope. I didn't hear them drop a chain."
He took one step away from the porthole. A gliding foot sounded outside
upon the ship's planks, and he stood rigid, then leaned toward the bunk.
The footfall was repeated. It came closer to the corner of the galley
house, and a voice sounded from somewhere forward. A rattle of oars
swung up the slight breeze, and seals barked from the red shores of the
rookery.
"Quiet!"
Stirling touched the side of his bunk with both hands, bent, and
prepared to roll over. The handcuff chain clicked metallically.
"Quiet!" The sound was faint and came to him as a warning. He waited,
his shoulders lifted with his deep breathing, his eyes fastened upon the
velvet circle of the open porthole.
A face came slowly into view like the shadow of the moon crossing the
disk of the sun, and Stirling dropped his jaw in wonderment. It was far
too soft a face for any of the crew. The eyes that stared in at his were
deep blue and trustful.
"Quiet!"
"Yes; yes," he answered, feeling a rush of blood to his cheeks.
"Take this quickly."
Stirling rose by straightening his legs and back and stepped over the
floor of his cabin, his unshackled hand reaching out. He touched the
edge of the porthole, and his fingers groped outside. They came in
contact with a tiny pearl-handled revolver. He drew it in and wondered
at its diminutive size.
"Quiet, Mr. Stirling!"
He tossed the revolver to his bunk and turned toward the porthole. A
cupid's bow of red lips, through which shone white teeth that met in an
even row, greeted him.
"What is it?" he asked, huskily. "What--who are you?"
A pink finger touched the lips so invitingly offered; golden-bronze
hair, capped with a tam-o'-shanter, bobbed and moved away, then came
again as the blue eyes searched about the gloom of the cabin.
A sound of more oars in locks struck up the wind; a voice warned from
the quarter-deck; and a shuffle echoed along the deck in the lee of the
galley house.
"Who--why did you come to me?"
The lips closed doubtfully and then opened. "You will know soon enough,"
said the girl. "I'm going now. Be careful, Mr. Stirling. Be very
careful, for my sake. Don't do anything that would endanger your
life--or the captain's."
"Are you the captain's----?"
Stirling never finished the question. A white pallor drove the colour
from the girl's cheeks, and she was gone even as he stared out through
the open porthole. Her footfalls sounded along the deck, died away aft,
and there came then the heavier feet of a sailor. He rounded the corner
of the galley house, peered over the rail to the north and east, and
then strode by Stirling.
A heavy capstan bar was over his shoulder, an open knife gleamed from
his belt, his jaw was set and thrust slightly outward. Stirling
recognized in him one of the Frisco dock rats who had been most
aggressive in the attack when Whitehouse had hurled the belaying pin.
Stirling turned and glanced at the panels of the door; they were not
strong. He lifted his shoulder and faced about. He could break to
freedom in one bull-like lunge; afterward would come the severing of the
anchor line and the casting away of the ship.
He dwelt upon the exact situation and eyed the velvet beyond the
porthole. The stars were paling. They had changed from white light
points to yellow specks; they swam and danced in the morning's haze. An
Arctic sun would soon be leaping the eastern horizon.