The Ice Pilot Part 2

Stirling followed the second mate across the deck to an ornate companion close by the taffrail, and they descended by turning, in the manner of seamen the world over. Stirling removed his cap and stood rooted in the doorframe as his eyes gathered in the details of the cabin.

A soft electric cl.u.s.ter shone overhead, and walls and bulkheads were hung with draperies. The deck was covered with Persian carpets, while here and there-scattered in haphazard fas.h.i.+on-gleamed the tawny yellow pelts of wild animals.

Athwart the s.h.i.+p, from inner skin to inner skin, the cabin extended, with staterooms fore and aft of the companion stairway. The round portholes, covered with silken curtains, alone remained to tell that the room was upon a s.h.i.+p.

Stirling blinked his eyes, then opened them wide and drank in the details of wealth and luxury. He stared at shelves of morocco-bound books, their t.i.tles stamped in gold; he noted a baby-grand piano-the first he had ever seen-lashed with silken cords to the after bulkhead.

Upon it music lay in well-bound sheaths.

Cushner advanced and gripped the Ice Pilot's elbow. "Come on," he whispered, pointing toward an alcove between two bookcases. "The captain is sitting there."

Half hidden by a portiere, stretched three quarter length upon a divan, Marr reclined, deep in a book of modern verse. He lifted his legs and dropped them to the deck, laid the book down, and rose with a quick thrust of his hand toward Stirling. "Be seated," he said, clasping the Ice Pilot's hand with a nervous grip then indicating a long, cus.h.i.+oned seat.

Stirling followed the second mate's example and sat down on the nearest cus.h.i.+on, stretching out his long legs, hitching up his trousers, and fingering his cap. He raised his chin and met Marr's eyes, studying the clean-cut nostrils of the little captain. He gauged the mentality of the man, and thrashed the events of the night over in his mind as he held a steady poise.

"This is Horace Stirling!" blurted out Cushner, with a voice like a bull. "He's the best all-around whaler and ice pilot in the game. I didn't recognize him in that room in Frisco. We landed a bigger fish than we thought. I reckon he can go ash.o.r.e if he wants to. We can't keep him unless he wants to stay."

"How about it?" asked Marr.

Stirling fingered his cap, but he had already made up his mind. The s.h.i.+p suited him, Cushner was a good mate, and the North called with all the strength of the wide places.

"I'll sign on," he said, simply. "Like as not I couldn't do better. I don't like the way you s.h.i.+pped part of your crew; outside of that, this suits me, if it's honest."

"The crew," said Marr, softly, "was a serious problem. I wanted a few more men, and just at the time I saw no other way to get them than by straight, old-time shanghaing. It worked!"

CHAPTER III-OVER THE QUARTER-DECK

The Ice Pilot placed the captain as he listened to the apology-Marr was of a nature to brook no excuse. He had determined upon sailing the _Pole Star_ for a voyage of discovery and profit, and he had acted outside the law in order to obtain a crew. This was not unusual upon the Coast of Barbary. Stirling, as honest as a dollar, had seen the same method employed before, and he puzzled his brain for a deeper motive, which might be behind the little skipper's steel-gray eyes.

There seemed no fathoming the beard-hidden face of the captain, and Stirling leaned back, dropping his eyes to the rug at his feet, where he studied the polished points of his sh.o.r.e boots.

"We go with the tide at sunup," said Marr. "This is the reason, and the only one, that we took matters in our own hands and obtained a complete crew. Whalers must have a bad odour in these waters, from all indications."

Stirling glanced up. He nodded.

"We go North," continued Marr, rubbing his hands together. "North, for a season of seven months, to whale! Mr. Cushner knows who I am. The mate, Mr. Whitehouse, is ash.o.r.e. He'll be out very soon, and he'll attest to my financial responsibility. Roth & Co. have outfitted the _Pole Star_.

They know me! I'll take Mr. Cushner's word that you are a first-cla.s.s ice pilot. You sign on with me and I'll see that you get a thousand dollars in minted gold when we drop anchor at Frisco. In addition to that bonus, I'll give you the lay of the mate-a one-twenty-fifth of the proceeds of the voyage. Is that satisfactory?"

Stirling considered the figures mentioned. The amount was at least a captain's share in the old days of whaling.

"That's handsome enough, captain," he said. "That suits me. But one thing-I'm plain spoken-is this s.h.i.+p going whaling, or something else? I want to know."

Marr smiled pleasantly. "Why did you ask?" he said, stroking his Vand.y.k.e beard with slender fingers.

"Only to know. You see, I can go ash.o.r.e and sign on with one of Larribee's s.h.i.+ps. Larribee knows me. I brought in many a head of bone for him."

"And you'll do the same for me!" exclaimed Marr, resting his hand on Stirling's shoulder. "Sign on and I'll promise you that there will be no regrets. All's honest and aboveboard. Whitehouse-Mr. Whitehouse is an English gentleman. He talks like a c.o.c.kney, but that is an affliction.

You'll get along with him. He's new to the Bering."

"I'll sign!" said Stirling, rising. "I'll have to get my dunnage bag.

It's at Antone's, down by the ferry."

"We'll tend to that!"

Stirling turned toward Cushner. "Have you entirely outfitted?" he asked, professionally. "Got all of your whaling gear aboard?"

"We have! Six boats! A forehold chockablock and whale line and irons.

Papers, everything, all right to clear. Some of the crew have been North before. The rest can learn. You and I can tend to that, eh?"

Stirling swept the cabin comprehensively. "Too fine a s.h.i.+p to buck the old floes with," he said, glancing down at the skipper.

"Nothing too fine for the North!" exclaimed Marr. "Write me out an order for your bag. I'll send s...o...b..ll, my cabin boy, with the dinghy."

Stirling scribbled an order on the back of a s.h.i.+pping master's card. He pa.s.sed it over to Marr, who touched a b.u.t.ton at the end of the piano. A negro, sleepy-eyed and curious, thrust a kinky head through an after doorway.

Marr stepped over the rugs and whispered his instructions. Stirling, whose ears were sharp, caught a command to wait on sh.o.r.e for somebody.

This order was repeated.

The negro vanished, and Marr paced athwart the s.h.i.+p. Wheeling suddenly, he listened with his ear c.o.c.ked toward the deck beams. A shuffling of feet sounded overhead as men sprang down from the rail. The bell in the wheelhouse struck seven times. It was echoed from forward.

"That's Whitehouse!" said the captain. "We'll all have a drink!"

The slide to the deck companion opened, and two men descended. One was a square block of a man, with long arms and a pair of bushy brows which thatched perpetually smiling eyes. He was Baldwin, the American engineer.

The second man held Stirling. "Mr. Whitehouse," Marr introduced, with a comprehensive chuckle as he nodded toward the English mate.

Whitehouse had the long, beaklike nose of the typical c.o.c.kney, while his lips were thick and somewhat red. His tanned features and knotted hands, his quick manner and alert stride, spoke the Dundee and Grimsby whaler, who had sailed many seas and fastened to more than an ordinary number of bowhead whales.

"We're all here!" declared Marr. "s.h.i.+p's completely outfitted with seamen and material. We'll drink to success!"

The little captain disappeared through an after doorway, returning with a tray and a bottle. Setting these down on a table, he drew forth a chart of the Arctic and Bering Sea.

"While we're drinking," he said, hardening his eyes, "let's look over the chart. You, Stirling, might help us out. Glad you're coming along."

Stirling upended a decanter and poured out a generous portion of brandy.

He tasted this, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then leaned forward over the chart. His finger traced a line from the Aleutians northward.

"There," he said, "is the first whaling ground-just the other side the islands. The ice will lie about here, and the bowhead can't go north till it opens. They're wise fish, but they can't get through any more than we can."

"How about the other whaling spots?" asked Marr.

"Well, captain," said Stirling, "after the Bering Strait, you'll find aplenty, there's Herald Island and Wrangel Land. There's Point Barrow-I've caught late whales at the Point. Then there's the lane between the grounded ice floes and the coast, all the way to the mouth of the Mackenzie River. I've wintered three times at Herschel Island, and we always got bone in the early spring when the ice broke."

Marr leaned over the chart and asked softly: "How is the whaling close to the Siberian sh.o.r.e? I've heard of catches in the Gulf of Anadir. I think it would be wise that we go there as soon as the ice permits."

Stirling glanced keenly at the little skipper, for he sensed a deeper motive in the question. The Gulf of Anadir was close indeed to Russia.