The Ice Pilot Part 8

It was a hushed company that gathered about the table that night in the steerage of the _Pole Star_. The change of course, the gamming by the j.a.panese sealer, the mystery of the skipper's actions-all these drove silence into the mates' hearts.

Stirling and Cushner soon departed and left the first and second engineer to their thoughts.

The two seamen, who had found a tie in common, strode to the forepeak of the whaler, lighted their pipes from the same match, and stared out over the dark velvet of the North Pacific.

Cushner dragged on his stem for a long five minutes. He was awakened to speech by the striking of the ship's bell forward when the lookout lifted a marlinespike from the belfry and chimed two short strokes, repeated by two more.

"Four bells!" declared the Yankee. "She's four bells, Stirling. Four bells, an' we're going back. Wouldn't wonder if we make California for our first landfall."

Stirling squared his shoulders, removed his pipe from his mouth, and stared at the glowing bowl. He pressed the coals down with his broad thumb, wheeled sharply, and glared aft. His face hardened as he made out a shadow on the p.o.o.p, and tried to discern if it were Marr. A swing of the ship, the lowering of the mainsail at the sheet, blotted out his view.

He turned and gripped Cushner's arm. "We're not going to Frisco," said the Ice Pilot. "We're headed for Dutch Pa.s.s and the Bering Sea. We're a point south of the true course for that, but Marr is taking advantage of the drift."

"Why didn't he go through one of the outer straits? There's plenty by the Rat Group."

"Perhaps he wants to coal at Unalaska. He could take aboard fifty tons there."

"How about the ice?"

"It hasn't cleared yet. It lies about ten knots to the south'ard of the Pribilofs. It'll break up and clear within a week, though. It always does."

Cushner nodded. He held a wholesome respect for Stirling's ice knowledge. The pilot had no peer when it came to working through the loose floes or finding a lane to the northward. These lanes were both dangerous and deceptive, and many led to thicker floes and barren ice.

"We'll soon be in the ice?" asked the second mate.

"Five days, allowing for a day's stop at Unalaska. First comes the light floes and the whale slick. Afterward is the barrier line which stretches to the Pole. It starts to open and break. Through these lanes the whales go into the Arctic. There's usually a big jam at Bering Strait. The current sets east by north in summer and south by west in the fall.

There are no bergs north of the Aleutians or west of Point Barrow.

Leastwise, I never saw any!"

"People always talk about the bergs of the Arctic."

Stirling nodded. "I know that," he said with positive tones. "The reason is not hard to find. There's bergs where there's glaciers. There's any number of big fellows on the lower Alaskan coast. These bergs melt in the warm j.a.pan Current. The harbour of Unalaska and the strait at Dutch Pa.s.s never freezes. That's on account of the same current."

"But the Arctic bergs, Stirling?"

"There's very few in the western Arctic. There's no glaciers along the Northern coast of Alaska and Canada. There's a few on the Siberian coast. The land is all low. The big floes-some of them a century old-resemble small bergs. That's the reason for the mistake made by Northern travellers."

Stirling turned and tapped his pipe against the rail then pocketed it and glanced aft. There was no sign on the p.o.o.p of any watcher save the wheelsman, whose eyes were glued ahead.

Cushner yawned. "It's Whitehouse's watch," he said. "I'm going to turn in. Good-night!"

Stirling followed the second mate into the galley cabin, and climbed into his bunk with a tired glance at the compa.s.s point. The _Pole Star_ was headed on the same course as given when they left the j.a.panese sealer. The wind had veered and now swung from over the Aleutian Islands-fifty miles to the northward. It was slightly tempered with ice.

Stirling closed his porthole and rolled over to sleep.

He was awakened at midnight, and the change in the watch, by Cushner.

The second mate held a cautious finger over his mouth as he finished shaking Stirling's shoulder.

"Come on deck," the Yankee whispered. "Put on some clothes and hurry. I got to relieve Whitehouse."

Stirling rolled from his bunk, stood swaying on the deck, and drew on part of his clothes. He finished by b.u.t.toning a great sea coat about his st.u.r.dy form and clapping a cap down over his ears. Already the temperature had fallen to a marked degree. He emerged to the waist of the whaler and stood breathing great gulps of Arctic-tinged air which sent the wine of living through his veins. He felt more of a man than he had since his last venture in the Bering.

Cushner touched his elbow. "Come forward," the mate said, softly. "Get under the lee of the deck house and then the foresail. Don't make any noise."

The watch on deck had surged forward to the capstan, and some of the watch below were climbing up through the b.o.o.by hatch. Others were gathered about the form of the sailor who had been in the Frisco room.

He lay across the soiled planks of the forecastle, his arms stretched out, his legs extended and resting on the edge of a lower bunk.

Stirling brushed aside the seamen who had gathered about the b.o.o.by hatch. The Ice Pilot descended backward and stood in the gloom of the forecastle. A single electric globe was hung over a mola.s.ses barrel at the heel of the foremast. Its light was far too pale to bring out the details.

"What happened?" asked Stirling, grimly.

A dock rat, who had been shamming sickness during the voyage, thrust out a frowsy head from the forepeak and said: "The crew beat him up. They say he's a government spy. They say he's goin' to queer the skipper's game with th' seals. He looks it-he does!"

Stirling stooped and felt of the sailor's wrist. He examined a bruise on the right temple then straightened and glanced up through the b.o.o.by hatch toward Cushner.

"Go aft," he said, "and tell Mr. Marr to give you the medicine chest.

Tell him that--What does this fellow call himself?"

"Eagan," said the dock rat; "Mike Eagan, so he says, Mr. Stirling."

"Tell Mr. Marr that a seaman named Eagan was struck by a block. Don't tell him what happened-yet. I'm going to look out for Eagan! If he represents the United States he has got to be protected north of 53 as well as south of that lat.i.tude!"

Cushner hurried aft and mounted the lee p.o.o.p steps.

CHAPTER IX-THE POLAR BARRIER

Stirling had finished his examination of the seaman's wound by the time Cushner returned from aft with the medicine chest. This contained bandages and crude cures which had the merit of being overly strong.

The Ice Pilot washed the wound with heavy fingers and pressed on a pad of salve which was rank with iodoform and arnica. He glanced keenly at Cushner, as Eagan sat up and stared about the forecastle with bewildered eyes.

"What did the old man say?" asked Stirling.

"Not much! Said the crew of this ship looked able to dodge blocks."

Stirling stooped to Eagan. "Who struck you?" he inquired, feelingly.

The seaman pressed his left hand to the bandage, then eyed his fingers.

He gathered his senses, frowned deeply, staring about the empty bunks, and up through the opening to the deck. Faces were pressed there, faces curious and hard.

"I wasn't struck!"

The seaman's voice carried the lie in its tones. "I fell down over a bucket," he continued. "Slipped, I guess. Must have hit the corner of the mola.s.ses barrel. It's deuced sharp, it is."

Stirling removed a small portion of salve from a can, spread it upon a piece of paper, and handed it to the seaman with steady fingers.

"You lie!" he said with clenched teeth. "You lie about falling down.