The Ice Pilot had no way to answer the piercing call of the girl, yet
the revolutionists might detect her presence at any moment. The leader
was alert and kept sweeping the sea to port for a chance opening which
would lead farther away from the land. He turned once toward the
wheelsman, berated him in Russian for not putting the wheel over soon
enough, as the ship narrowly escaped a heavy floe.
Again the girl beckoned as Stirling watched the two forms beyond the
canvas barricade. This time she had lifted her pale face so that he
could see her shoulders and arms. They were slight and childish, and
tears glistened upon her cheeks. Her call was not to be denied, and
Stirling lowered his legs, swung far out over the deck, hesitated in
that position, and turned his head.
Slim, the sole survivor of the forecastle crew, was reaching downward,
his back straining. He straightened up and staggered aft to the
taffrail. The burden he carried froze Stirling in the act of descending
the ladder, and an icy chill swept through the Pilot's body, which
almost unnerved him. He wound his fingers about the ratlines and
breathed deeply. The Arctic air seemed strangely quiet.
Slim reached the rail and lifted one leg to the top. He removed his
tasselled cap, shifted his burden, turned and glanced at the girl, who
had covered her eyes with her hands; then he raised the body he carried
and hurled it astern of the fast-driving _Pole Star_.
Stirling watched the rude burial with straining eyes. Marr had been
wounded by the rock which had struck his breast in the fight with the
revolutionists, and the little skipper must have died some time after
the blow. He, perhaps, had been nursed tenderly by the girl during the
hours of the chase from the Gulf of Anadir. Her call showed that she
feared Slim, who was now alone with her in the stern of the _Pole Star_.
Again Stirling stared at the girl. She removed her hands from her eyes,
turned slowly, and grasped the edge of the canvas barricade. Her hair
had fallen and she stood revealed as a frail creature in the grip of a
strong man. She motioned with a flutter of her hand as she released her
fingers from the canvas, then slowly sank to her knees, buried her face
in her palms, and sobbed.
Slim turned from the taffrail, squared his shoulders with an upward
jerk, and eyed the girl. He smiled cunningly, then came forward, glanced
at the Russian leader in the shrouds, and tapped the girl on the arm.
Stirling started descending the shrouds with fevered energy. He reached
the standing rigging and found a foothold in the ratlines, turned his
chin, and glared aft like a shaggy bear. The girl and Slim had vanished
down the companion and the noise they made in closing the companion
slide had attracted the attention of the leader. His head was quarter
faced away from view.
It was then that Stirling sprang to the deck, and dashed for the open
main hatch. His way to the poop was barred by a group of revolutionists
gathered at the port rail in the waist. They were watching the unfolding
shore where it flattened out into Point Barrow. A cruiser cutter showed
there, flags flying from her signal halyards, steam jetting from aft her
funnel. She was balked, however, for a rampart of century-old ice formed
a barrier between the lane in which she rode and the one through which
the _Pole Star_ was striking out to the north and west.
Stirling hesitated a moment at the hatch. He saw that the cutter had
waited off the Point in expectancy of capturing the poacher. The chase
might lead out from shore and into the pack ice which extended to the
Pole.
A shout rolled along the deck from aft, and the leader turned in time to
see the crouching figure by the main hatch. He called, and the Russians
at the rail wheeled and started over the deck. Stirling reached in his
pocket, brought forth the little silver-plated revolver, and jabbed it
forward. The knot of men recoiled. Others swarmed out from the galley
house and rounded it with careful steps, but they, too, held back.
Stirling laughed defiantly. He feared the croaking sound of his own
voice, so parched and dry was his throat. He pocketed the revolver,
grasped the edge of the hatch, swinging out and into the sheer. His feet
crushed a box as he landed in the hold. He straightened himself, raised
his arms, and, blinking in the sudden darkness, stumbled aft toward the
lazaret, and the way to the cabin where the girl was quartered.