Alan Holt saw the slim figure of the girl silhouetted against the vivid
light of the open doorway of the upper-deck salon. He was not watching
her, nor did he look closely at the exceedingly attractive picture
which she made as she paused there for an instant after leaving Captain
Rifle. To him she was only one of the five hundred human atoms that
went to make up the tremendously interesting life of one of the first
ships of the season going north. Fate, through the suave agency of the
purser, had brought him into a bit closer proximity to her than the
others; that was all. For two days her seat in the dining-salon had
been at the same table, not quite opposite him. As she had missed both
breakfast hours, and he had skipped two luncheons, the requirements of
neighborliness and of courtesy had not imposed more than a dozen words
of speech upon them. This was very satisfactory to Alan. He was not
talkative or communicative of his own free will. There was a certain
cynicism back of his love of silence. He was a good listener and a
first-rate analyst. Some people, he knew, were born to talk; and
others, to trim the balance, were burdened with the necessity of
holding their tongues. For him silence was not a burden.
In his cool and causal way he admired Mary Standish. She was very
quiet, and he liked her because of that. He could not, of course,
escape the beauty of her eyes or the shimmering luster of the long
lashes that darkened them. But these were details which did not thrill
him, but merely pleased him. And her hair pleased him possibly even
more than her gray eyes, though he was not sufficiently concerned to
discuss the matter with himself. But if he had pointed out any one
thing, it would have been her hair—not so much the color of it as the
care she evidently gave it, and the manner in which she dressed it. He
noted that it was dark, with varying flashes of luster in it under the
dinner lights. But what he approved of most of all were the smooth,
silky coils in which she fastened it to her pretty head. It was an
intense relief after looking on so many frowsy heads, bobbed and
marcelled, during his six months’ visit in the States. So he liked her,
generally speaking, because there was not a thing about her that he
might dislike.
He did not, of course, wonder what the girl might be thinking of
him—with his quiet, stern face, his cold indifference, his rather
Indian-like litheness, and the single patch of gray that streaked his
thick, blond hair. His interest had not reached anywhere near that
point.
Tonight it was probable that no woman in the world could have
interested him, except as the always casual observer of humanity.
Another and greater thing gripped him and had thrilled him since he
first felt the throbbing pulse of the engines of the new steamship
_Nome_ under his feet at Seattle. He was going _home_. And home meant
Alaska. It meant the mountains, the vast tundras, the immeasurable
spaces into which civilization had not yet come with its clang and
clamor. It meant friends, the stars he knew, his herds, everything he
loved. Such was his reaction after six months of exile, six months of
loneliness and desolation in cities which he had learned to hate.
“I’ll not make the trip again—not for a whole winter—unless I’m sent at
the point of a gun,” he said to Captain Rifle, a few moments after Mary
Standish had left the deck. “An Eskimo winter is long enough, but one
in Seattle, Minneapolis, Chicago, and New York is longer—for me.”
“I understand they had you up before the Committee on Ways and Means at
Washington.”
“Yes, along with Carl Lomen, of Nome. But Lomen was the real man. He
has forty thousand head of reindeer in the Seward Peninsula, and they
had to listen to him. We may get action.”
“May!” Captain Rifle grunted his doubt. “Alaska has been waiting ten
years for a new deck and a new deal. I doubt if you’ll get anything.
When politicians from Iowa and south Texas tell us what we can have and
what we need north of Fifty-eight—why, what’s the use? Alaska might as
well shut up shop!”
“But she isn’t going to do that,” said Alan Holt, his face grimly set
in the moonlight. “They’ve tried hard to get us, and they’ve made us
shut up a lot of our doors. In 1910 we were thirty-six thousand whites
in the Territory. Since then the politicians at Washington have driven
out nine thousand, a quarter of the population. But those that are left
are hard-boiled. We’re not going to quit, Captain. A lot of us are
Alaskans, and we are not afraid to fight.”
“You mean—”
“That we’ll have a square deal within another five years, or know the
reason why. And another five years after that, we’ll he shipping a
million reindeer carcasses down into the States each year. Within
twenty years we’ll be shipping five million. Nice thought for the beef
barons, eh? But rather fortunate, I think, for the hundred million
Americans who are turning their grazing lands into farms and irrigation
systems.”
One of Alan Holt’s hands was clenched at the rail. “Until I went down
this winter, I didn’t realize just how bad it was,” he said, a note
hard as iron in his voice. “Lomen is a diplomat, but I’m not. I want to
fight when I see such things—fight with a gun. Because we happened to
find gold up here, they think Alaska is an orange to be sucked as
quickly as possible, and that when the sucking process is over, the
skin will be worthless. That’s modern, dollar-chasing Americanism for
you!”
“And are you not an American, Mr. Holt?”
So soft and near was the voice that both men started. Then both turned
and stared. Close behind them, her quiet, beautiful face flooded with
the moon-glow, stood Mary Standish.
“You ask me a question, madam,” said Alan Holt, bowing courteously.
“No, I am not an American. I am an Alaskan.”
The girl’s lips were parted. Her eyes were very bright and clear.
“Please pardon me for listening,” she said. “I couldn’t help it. I am
an American. I love America. I think I love it more than anything else
in the world—more than my religion, even. _America,_ Mr. Holt. And
America doesn’t necessarily mean a great many of America’s people. I
love to think that I first came ashore in the _Mayflower_. That is why
my name is Standish. And I just wanted to remind you that Alaska _is_
America.”
Alan Holt was a bit amazed. The girl’s face was no longer placidly
quiet. Her eyes were radiant. He sensed the repressed thrill in her
voice, and he knew that in the light of day he would have seen fire in
her cheeks. He smiled, and in that smile he could not quite keep back
the cynicism of his thought.
“And what do you know about Alaska, Miss Standish?”
“Nothing,” she said. “And yet I love it.” She pointed to the mountains.
“I wish I might have been born among them. You are fortunate. You
should love America.”
“Alaska, you mean!”
“No, America.” There was a flashing challenge in her eyes. She was not
speaking apologetically. Her meaning was direct.
The irony on Alan’s lips died away. With a little laugh he bowed again.
“If I am speaking to a daughter of Captain Miles Standish, who came
over in the _Mayflower_, I stand reproved,” he said. “You should be an
authority on Americanism, if I am correct in surmising your
relationship.”
“You are correct,” she replied with a proud, little tilt of her glossy
head, “though I think that only lately have I come to an understanding
of its significance—and its responsibility. I ask your pardon again for
interrupting you. It was not premeditated. It just happened.”
She did not wait for either of them to speak, but flashed the two a
swift smile and passed down the promenade.
The music had ceased and the cabins at last were emptying themselves of
life.
“A remarkable young woman,” Alan remarked. “I imagine that the spirit
of Captain Miles Standish may be a little proud of this particular
olive-branch. A chip off the old block, you might say. One would almost
suppose he had married Priscilla and this young lady was a definite
though rather indirect result.”
He had a curious way of laughing without any more visible manifestation
of humor than spoken words. It was a quality in his voice which one
could not miss, and at times, when ironically amused, it carried a
sting which he did not altogether intend.
In another moment Mary Standish was forgotten, and he was asking the
captain a question which was in his mind.
“The itinerary of this ship is rather confused, is it not?”
“Yes—rather,” acknowledged Captain Rifle. “Hereafter she will ply
directly between Seattle and Nome. But this time we’re doing the Inside
Passage to Juneau and Skagway and will make the Aleutian Passage via
Cordova and Seward. A whim of the owners, which they haven’t seen fit
to explain to me. Possibly the Canadian junket aboard may have
something to do with it. We’re landing them at Skagway, where they make
the Yukon by way of White Horse Pass. A pleasure trip for flabby people
nowadays, Holt. I can remember—”
“So can I,” nodded Alan Holt, looking at the mountains beyond which lay
the dead-strewn trails of the gold stampede of a generation before. “I
remember. And old Donald is dreaming of that hell of death back there.
He was all choked up tonight. I wish he might forget.”
“Men don’t forget such women as Jane Hope,” said the captain softly.
“You knew her?”
“Yes. She came up with her father on my ship. That was twenty-five
years ago last autumn, Alan. A long time, isn’t it? And when I look at
Mary Standish and hear her voice—” He hesitated, as if betraying a
secret, and then he added: “—I can’t help thinking of the girl Donald
Hardwick fought for and won in that death-hole at White Horse. It’s too
bad she had to die.”
“She isn’t dead,” said Alan. The hardness was gone from his voice. “She
isn’t dead,” he repeated. “That’s the pity of it. She is as much a
living thing to him today as she was twenty years ago.”
After a moment the captain said, “She was talking with him early this
evening, Alan.”
“Miss Captain Miles Standish, you mean?”
“Yes. There seems to be something about her that amuses you.”
Alan shrugged his shoulders. “Not at all. I think she is a most
admirable young person. Will you have a cigar, Captain? I’m going to
promenade a bit. It does me good to mix in with the sour-doughs.”
The two lighted their cigars from a single match, and Alan went his
way, while the captain turned in the direction of his cabin.
To Alan, on this particular night, the steamship _Nome_ was more than a
thing of wood and steel. It was a living, pulsating being, throbbing
with the very heart-beat of Alaska. The purr of the mighty engines was
a human intelligence crooning a song of joy. For him the crowded
passenger list held a significance that was almost epic, and its names
represented more than mere men and women. They were the vital fiber of
the land he loved, its heart’s blood, its very element—“giving in.” He
knew that with the throb of those engines romance, adventure, tragedy,
and hope were on their way north—and with these things also arrogance
and greed. On board were a hundred conflicting elements—some that had
fought for Alaska, others that would make her, and others that would
destroy.
He puffed at his cigar and walked alone, brushing sleeves with men and
women whom he scarcely seemed to notice. But he was observant. He knew
the tourists almost without looking at them. The spirit of the north
had not yet seized upon them. They were voluble and rather excitedly
enthusiastic in the face of beauty and awesomeness. The sour-doughs
were tucked away here and there in shadowy nooks, watching in silence,
or they walked the deck slowly and quietly, smoking their cigars or
pipes, and seeing things beyond the mountains. Between these two, the
newcomers and the old-timers, ran the gamut of all human thrill for
Alan, the flesh-and-blood fiber of everything that went to make up life
north of Fifty-four. And he could have gone from man to man and picked
out those who belonged north of Fifty-eight.
Aft of the smoking-room he paused, tipping the ash of his cigar over
the edge of the rail. A little group of three stood near him, and he
recognized them as the young engineers, fresh from college, going up to
work on the government railroad running from Seward to Tanana. One of
them was talking, filled with the enthusiasm of his first adventure.
“I tell you,” he said, “people don’t know what they ought to know about
Alaska. In school they teach us that it’s an eternal icebox full of
gold, and is headquarters for Santa Claus, because that’s where
reindeer come from. And grown-ups think about the same thing. Why”—he
drew in a deep breath—“it’s nine times as large as the state of
Washington, twelve times as big as the state of New York, and we bought
it from Russia for less than two cents an acre. If you put it down on
the face of the United States, the city of Juneau would be in St.
Augustine, Florida, and Unalaska would be in Los Angeles. That’s how
big it is, and the geographical center of our country isn’t Omaha or
Sioux City, but exactly San Francisco, California.”
“Good for you, sonny,” came a quiet voice from beyond the group. “Your
geography is correct. And you might add for the education of your
people that Alaska is only thirty-seven miles from Bolshevik Siberia,
and wireless messages are sent into Alaska by the Bolsheviks urging our
people to rise against the Washington government. We’ve asked
Washington for a few guns and a few men to guard Nome, but they laugh
at us. Do you see a moral?”
From half-amused interest Alan jerked himself to alert tension. He
caught a glimpse of the gaunt, old graybeard who had spoken, but did
not know him. And as this man turned away, a shadowy hulk in the
moonlight, the same deep, quiet voice came back very clearly:
“And if you ever care for Alaska, you might tell your government to
hang a few such men as John Graham, sonny.”
At the sound of that name Alan felt the blood in him run suddenly hot.
Only one man on the face of the earth did he hate with undying hatred,
and that man was John Graham. He would have followed, seeking the
identity of the stranger whose words had temporarily stunned the young
engineers, when he saw a slim figure standing between him and the light
of the smoking-room windows. It was Mary Standish. He knew by her
attitude that she had heard the words of the young engineer and the old
graybeard, but she was looking at _him_. And he could not remember that
he had ever seen quite that same look in a woman’s face before. It was
not fright. It was more an expression of horror which comes from
thought and mental vision rather than physical things. Instantly it
annoyed Alan Holt. This was the second time she had betrayed a too
susceptible reaction in matters which did not concern her. So he said,
speaking to the silent young men a few steps away:
“He was mistaken, gentlemen. John Graham should not be hung. That would
be too merciful.”
He resumed his way then, nodding at them as he passed. But he had
scarcely gone out of their vision when quick footsteps pattered behind
him, and the girl’s hand touched his arm lightly.
“Mr. Holt, please—”
He stopped, sensing the fact that the soft pressure of her fingers was
not altogether unpleasant. She hesitated, and when she spoke again,
only her finger-tips touched his arm. She was looking shoreward, so
that for a moment he could see only the lustrous richness of her smooth
hair. Then she was meeting his eyes squarely, a flash of challenge in
the gray depths of her own.
“I am alone on the ship,” she said. “I have no friends here. I want to
see things and ask questions. Will you ... help me a little?”
“You mean ... escort you?”
“Yes, if you will. I should feel more comfortable.”
Nettled at first, the humor of the situation began to appeal to him,
and he wondered at the intense seriousness of the girl. She did not
smile. Her eyes were very steady and very businesslike, and at the same
time very lovely.
“The way you put it, I don’t see how I can refuse,” he said. “As for
the questions—probably Captain Rifle can answer them better than I.”
“I don’t like to trouble him,” she replied. “He has much to think
about. And you are alone.”
“Yes, quite alone. And with very little to think about.”
“You know what I mean, Mr. Holt. Possibly you can not understand me, or
won’t try. But I’m going into a new country, and I have a passionate
desire to learn as much about that country as I can before I get there.
I want to know about many things. For instance—”
“Yes.”
“Why did you say what you did about John Graham? What did the other man
mean when he said he should be hung?”
There was an intense directness in her question which for a moment
astonished him. She had withdrawn her fingers from his arm, and her
slim figure seemed possessed of a sudden throbbing suspense as she
waited for an answer. They had turned a little, so that in the light of
the moon the almost flowerlike whiteness of her face was clear to him.
With her smooth, shining hair, the pallor of her face under its
lustrous darkness, and the clearness of her eyes she held Alan
speechless for a moment, while his brain struggled to seize upon and
understand the something about her which made him interested in spite
of himself. Then he smiled and there was a sudden glitter in his eyes.
“Did you ever see a dog fight?” he asked.
She hesitated, as if trying to remember, and shuddered slightly.
“Once.”
“What happened?”
“It was my dog—a little dog. His throat was torn—”
He nodded. “Exactly. And that is just what John Graham is doing to
Alaska, Miss Standish. He’s the dog—a monster. Imagine a man with a
colossal financial power behind him, setting out to strip the wealth
from a new land and enslave it to his own desires and political
ambitions. That is what John Graham is doing from his money-throne down
there in the States. It’s the financial support he represents, curse
him! Money—and a man without conscience. A man who would starve
thousands or millions to achieve his ends. A man who, in every sense of
the word, is a murderer—”
The sharpness of her cry stopped him. If possible, her face had gone
whiter, and he saw her hands clutched suddenly at her breast. And the
look in her eyes brought the old, cynical twist back to his lips.
“There, I’ve hurt your puritanism again, Miss Standish,” he said,
bowing a little. “In order to appeal to your finer sensibilities I
suppose I must apologize for swearing and calling another man a
murderer. Well, I do. And now—if you care to stroll about the ship—”
From a respectful distance the three young engineers watched Alan and
Mary Standish as they walked forward.
“A corking pretty girl,” said one of them, drawing a deep breath. “I
never saw such hair and eyes—”
“I’m at the same table with them,” interrupted another. “I’m second on
her left, and she hasn’t spoken three words to me. And that fellow she
is with is like an icicle out of Labrador.”
And Mary Standish was saying: “Do you know, Mr. Holt, I envy those
young engineers. I wish I were a man.”
“I wish you were,” agreed Alan amiably.
Whereupon Mary Standish’s pretty mouth lost its softness for an
instant. But Alan did not observe this. He was enjoying his cigar and
the sweet air.