The Ice Pilot Part 18

"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 m.u.f.fled as a light anchor was dropped at the end of a whale line, serving to swing the ship and hold it toward the shelving sh.o.r.e.

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 c.o.c.ked 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 ash.o.r.e. Once ash.o.r.e, 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 sh.o.r.es 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.

CHAPTER XVIII-WITH THE SPEED OF WIND

The girl had given him courage, since her tiny offering still lay upon the bunk. Unconsciously he reached for it and twirled the silver-plated barrel. It was fully loaded with six cartridges.

"Two guns," he said. "I'll go!"