The Ice Pilot Part 15

CHAPTER XV-OUT OF THE PORTHOLE

Pressing the glove within the pocket of his pea-jacket, Stirling strode to the waist of the _Pole Star_. From this position he glanced upward at the quarter-deck, which was deserted.

The soft aroma of the perfume struck to his nostrils and he searched his brain for the events which led up to the dainty offering tossed down to him.

Marr and Whitehouse knew the secret of the after cabin of the whaler.

They never had given any sign that another shared the meals and splendid staterooms with them. This other had been brought upon the voyage against her will-Stirling remembered the sob, and the lone figure upon the p.o.o.p when they had tied to the North pack. He pieced together the few observations he had made, and they all led to one conclusion: a dainty woman, who closely resembled the skipper in height and weight, was aboard the _Pole Star_. She had made the first advance to him.

Others might follow.

He rounded the shadow of the galley house and stared at the frowning headland of Indian Point, then turned and glanced out over the waters of the Bering Strait. The ice had gone south from around the base of the headlands. The road to the Arctic was open.

He heard then, above the snoring of the natives who were sleeping upon the foreward deck, the low boom of a distant cannon. It was repeated. A s.h.i.+p of some kind was signalling to leeward.

Searching the sea, Stirling strained his eyes without discovering sign of smoke or sail. The night was starlit and strangely warm. The glimmering waters of the Bering to the southward hung like a burnished mirror. An early sun was starting to swing its upward arc, and a pink flush made visible the far-off land of Alaska.

Again the sound of cannon came to Stirling. It stirred the natives and brought the lone anchor watch around in his position. He stared at Stirling.

"A s.h.i.+p to leeward," said the Ice Pilot. "Keep your eyes peeled. She's a long ways off."

The seaman went to the rail and leaned over it. He was in that position when Stirling opened the door of his cabin and stepped inside. He switched on the light, removed the glove from his pocket, and touched it to his wide nostrils. He sensed the perfume with throbbing heart.

Feeling the rush of blood to his face, he turned with a guilty start and placed the glove within an inlaid s.e.xtant box. The closing of the lid sealed his purpose to stand by the woman who was aft.

Morning dawned at an Arctic hour, and the white light crept through the open porthole of Stirling's cabin. He rose and dressed, emerging to the deck with a wide yawn. The striking bell told him that he had not slept more than two hours.

A seaman brushed by him and hurried forward to where the natives were standing on the higher coign of vantage which marked the forepeak. All eyes were turned out over the swiftly running Strait, where a two-funnel light cruiser cutter plowed with a bone at her stem. She carried no flag, and the signals set to her bridge halyards were in an unknown code.

Whitehouse glided to Stirling's side. The mate was tensely agitated; he sputtered and stuttered. "Bly me," he said, "what's she doing 'ere?"

"Light cruiser," said Stirling, thoughtfully. "An American-or British.

She's just this side the Diomedes. She did not see us."

Whitehouse twisted his loose lips into a purse, and stroked his long, red nose.

Stirling widened his eyes. A dark plume of smoke was all that remained to mark the s.h.i.+p. This plume stretched along the eastern horizon, then faded and paled in the sun's first rays.

Marr called from aft. Whitehouse turned with a guilty start, hurried along the weather side of the s.h.i.+p, and mounted to the p.o.o.p.

He returned within a few minutes and touched Stirling on the arm.

"Skipper wants to see you," he said. "It's blym important."

Stirling glanced about as he went aft. The s.h.i.+p lay deep within the shadow of the Point. Her deck forward was covered with natives and trade stuff. The crew had brought out all of their red underwear and slop-chest stuff in a search for bargains, and their voices were mingled with the clatter of native maids and hunters.

"What did you make of that cutter?" asked Marr as Stirling reached the p.o.o.p.

"American or British. Going into the Arctic on some mission. I don't believe she saw us."

"How was that?" Marr was plainly nervous.

"We were well under the headland with no lights or canvas showing. We were in such a position that she could be seen without her seeing us. At least, that is my opinion, Mr. Marr."

The little captain toyed with the b.u.t.tons of his pea-jacket. "That sounds reasonable," he said. "Why is she up here?"

"I don't know."

"Did you ever see cruisers up here before?"

"Only once. That was the old _Bainbridge_."

"What brought her to these waters?"

"Seal poachers!"

Stirling weighed his words and shot them directly at Marr, then watched their effect like a gunner watches a shot go home. Marr dropped his hand from his b.u.t.tons and paled slightly.

"Did she get them?" he asked.

"She certainly did! She also removed Captains Jones and Priestly from the _Spouter_ and the brig _Belvidere_. Both captains were trading whisky for bone; there is a law up here that men should not do that!"

Again Stirling watched the effect of his words. Marr had many barrels of cheap trade whisky aboard the _Pole Star_, and already had sent some ash.o.r.e.

"That will be all," said the skipper with a quick frown. "You are too confounded personal! Haven't I a right to ask you a few questions? Who's captain of this s.h.i.+p?"

"Captains are not immune from certain laws. One law applies to all men.

You cannot trade rotten whisky with natives. You cannot rob them of their bone for a barrel of water and alcohol. You cannot raid rookeries and get away with it. That cruiser is the answer. You have escaped so far. You may not be so lucky next time."

Marr wheeled with a vicious oath. "Get forward!" he said. "Get where you belong. You ought to join some of these canting missionary schools.

There's one or two I'd like to drop you at."

Stirling paused on the first p.o.o.p step and closed his fists, but opened them again and went on down to the deck, moving slowly forward to where the crew and natives were trading. He singled out the Diomede Islander who had disposed of most of his sealskin boots.

"When do you go back?" he asked, guardedly.

The native tapped the rail with his pipe and filled its bowl with a pinch of cut plug. He then broke off a match from a block and sc.r.a.ped it carefully upon the deck, straightened, and drew in five deep breaths before the tobacco was consumed, and he answered.

"Pretty soon, now," he said, replacing the pipe in his deerskin coat, and glancing through puffed eyes at the sea in the direction of the Lesser Diomede. "Me take umiak and trade stuff and wife and little ones and me go."

"Do you remember old Hank Peterson?"

"Me savvy him. All the same whaling captain."

"Big captain!" said Stirling, with a smile. "You see him this season?"

"Yes! Me see him. He always stops for boots."

"You give him something for me?"

"Yes; I give."