THE ICE PILOT

BY HENRY LEVERAGE

FRONTISPIECE BY

RUDOLPH TANDLER

GARDEN CITY, N. Y., AND TORONTO

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY

1921

COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION

INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN

COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY STREET AND SMITH CORPORATION

DEDICATED TO

THE CAPTAIN OF THE KARLUK

SEASON 1897-8

The floes through which Stirling guided the ship became larger and higher

CONTENTS

[CHAPTER I—THE COAST OF BARBARY]

It was raining in San Francisco.

Over that Bagdad of the West a thin drizzling mist swept like some fine seiner's net; over the Bay a fog hung.

A man stood alone on the crest of Telegraph Hill. Below him the city stretched with its square-checked habitations; its long, blurred lanes of lights; its trolley cars creeping like glow-worms up and down the slippery inclines.

That evening the man had watched the sun go down in yellow splendour. He had seen the shadow of night chase the sunlight in a mad frolic beyond the edge of the world. He had noted—for his eyes were sharp—the fore-topsail of a windjammer cut a square nick out of the horizon, and come like a scared white thing through the Golden Gate.

Directly below the man a house, which was perched on the declivity, seemed to burst with drunken mirth and laughter. A woman's voice swung in tune with a tinkling piano. She sang an old chantey that whalers know:

"'Rah for the grog—

The jolly, jolly grog.

'Rah for the grog and tobacco.

We've spent all our tin with the ladies, drinking gin,

And across the briny ocean we must wan—der——"

The man shrugged his shoulders, clinked two silver coins together, and descended the hill to the Blubber Room, from whence the song had come.

The piano drummed out a noisy welcome when he opened and closed the door.

He took a seat at a table, removed his cap from his gray-sprinkled head, leaned back, and looked around the smoky interior of the Blubber Room. The figures of old salts, crimps, half-pay officers, and one square-jawed sailor loomed through the fetid air. A woman with carmined lips and a thin blue neck stood by a youth who played the piano.

It was all familiar to Stirling—known from the Clyde to the Golden Horn as Horace Stirling, the Ice Pilot. He had been in such dives before. He knew Number Nine, Yokohama, and the Silver Dollar at Manila.

Stirling had struck hard luck, chicken farming over Oakland way. His chickens died as sailors die of scurvy at Herschel Island, and he wanted to quit the shore.

The sea and the Arctic called, and he had little money left. There was a chance for adventure in the Blubber Room that night; rumour had it that a ship was outfitting for a passage to East Cape, Siberia, and the unknown land around the Pole.

Stirling possessed a countenance stamped with the seal of misfortune—a face with which destiny loves to toy, the face of a rover and a castaway, yet withal, a strong face which would remain strong to the very end.

His eyes were dark brown and wide-set. His nose was long and divided full; round cheeks blood-veined to a purplish tinge that spoke not only of wind and weather, of the sea and brine, but also of the lees and dregs of a wanderer's life.

The figure of him, sitting at the table, seemed blocked from sturdy oak.

He eyed the patrons of the Blubber Room and concluded that the adventure he sought for was far away from that noisy, smoke-filled dive. There was but one occupant who looked capable of a desperate enterprise—the sailor—and this man sat hunched in a chair as if he had been drinking heavily of temperance-time alcohol.

Stirling studied the sailor's face and found lines in it which were slightly familiar. It brought to his mind the Revenue Service and a second lieutenant whom he had met off the Little Diomede Island in Bering Strait.

Turning from his scrutiny of the sailor, Stirling looked at the door of the Blubber Room through which two men stepped who would have attracted attention anywhere.

These men, glistening from the rain, took seats at a table and called for a bottle of light wine. One man was a Yankee, by his nasal undertones and tobacco-stained goatee. The other man was half the weight of the first, thin, alert, with a well-trimmed Vandyke beard over which glittered a pair of eyes that resembled gimlets in their pointed intensity.

Upon both of these men lay the badge of the sea—in their gestures, their pea-jackets, and their peculiar habit of always leaning against something, which is acquired on decks of ships.

Stirling studied these men, watched them drink the wine, and saw that they had fallen under the hidden observation of the sailor who resembled a second lieutenant of the Revenue Service.

The Ice Pilot sensed adventure. He also ordered a bottle of light wine, and paid for it with his last dollar. He sipped the liquid slowly, pretended to be interested in the woman at the piano, and waited for something to happen.

He had not long to wait.

The two seamen rose from their table, tossed down coins, glanced meaningly toward the woman at the piano and the waiter who had served them wine, and went out from the Blubber Room.

Stirling looked at the sailor, who half-lifted himself from his chair, thought better of the action, dropped back, thrust his elbows on the table, and buried his face in his palms.

The woman's song rose and fell in the heated air, while the lamps flickered and almost went out. The piano's tinkling notes settled to a shrill tune that was a signal.

There followed swifter than Stirling could make note of the events, an oath from the waiter, a curse upon somebody, a loud banging of the piano, and a woman's penetrating scream.

A chair, a cuspidor, and part of a table hurtled across the Blubber Room; bottles struck the walls; the light went out when the lamps fell in a thousand pieces to the floor.

Stirling overturned his table, stumbled through the gloom, tripped over a body, went down on all fours, and crawled to the door. He raised himself and attempted to turn the knob, but it would not budge. He heard behind him the shrieks of the woman and the thud of many blows, then, after a minute's uproar, a match was lighted, shielded in a red palm, and its rays directed downward to the sawdust floor.

The Ice Pilot felt his heart throb in his staunch body. The woman, who had stood by the piano, lay face upward with the hilt of a seaman's knife protruding from her breast; carmine stained her neck and waist.

"Watch th' door an' windows!" a seaman cried. "Somebody's gone an' croaked Thedessa."

Accusing eyes glowed in the match's yellow light, and the Ice Pilot felt that he was the centre of suspicion. A hand was raised and a long finger pointed toward him.

He waited until someone lighted the wick of a smashed lamp, then stepping from the locked door he went to the woman and knelt by her side. Rising, he said, "I didn't kill her. I think the piano-player did."

"Maybe she ain't dead," said a voice that Stirling recognized as coming from the sailor.

The waiter took off his apron, closed one eye craftily, and, after a brutal laugh and a sharp glance around the circle of seaman, exclaimed:

"Aw, nobody killed her-she just fell on th' knife!"

Stirling sought for the piano-player who had vanished. He square-set his shoulders, clenched his fists, and cleared his throat.

"I'll go for the police," he said.

The waiter and a seaman grasped his sturdy arms. "Hol' on," they urged.

"Why should I hold on?"

The waiter eyed the woman on the floor.

"She's dead. Nobody knows who killed her. Let's all help carry th' body out to Meigg's Wharf an' set her afloat."

Stirling shook his head. He heard behind him the soft step of the piano-player who came from a door set near the piano.

"I'll swing for it," he said to the Ice Pilot, a whine in his voice. "Help me out of th' mess, matey. Let's set Thedessa adrift—she always wanted to float out to sea that way."

Stirling felt an urging glance from the sailor who resembled the second-lieutenant. He moved to this man's side and was going to question him when the wick of the lamp sputtered and went out.

Another wick was lighted and this was thrust in the mouth of a wine bottle, where it flared like a torch at sea.

"What d'ye say?" questioned the piano-player. "What does everybody say? Th' police will pinch us all for th' murder an' keep us in jail for weeks."

"You knifed that woman!" declared Stirling.

The piano-player blinked his pale lashes, then went to the door, drew a key from his pocket, and threw back the bolt of the lock. He looked out into the vale of mist and fog that stretched from Telegraph Hill to the waters of the Bay.

"Who'll help me carry Thedessa?" he queried.

A crimp, the waiter, and one or two seamen offered their services. Stirling hesitated, but again he felt the urge from the second-lieutenant, and agreed by nodding his head.

The piano-player, who knew the path, led the way with the woman's feet under his arm, the waiter and a seaman supporting Thedessa's head. Stirling and the sailor brought up the rear.

"My name is Eagan," said the sailor. "We'll go along and see what happens. It's th' best way out of a nasty jam."

"Were you in the Bering Strait three seasons ago?"

Eagan shook his head, clutched Stirling's arm, and guided him after the trio who had carried the woman out upon Meigg's Wharf and were lowering her into a Whitehall boat.

"No," he said to Stirling. "But I got something to say to you—after awhile. Something important."

The Ice Pilot hesitated on the stringer-piece of the wharf and looked toward the fog-covered Bay, but again Eagan guided him on. They seized hold of a painter that was hitched to a cleat, descended to the Whitehall boat, and cast loose from the wharf.

Thedessa lay in the stern of the boat where the piano-player and waiter sat with their heads close together. A seaman rowed skilfully, and the sharp-prowed boat cut through the short waves, swung, steadied, and made toward a dark mass on the surface of San Francisco Bay.

Stirling suddenly felt water around his boots. He glanced down and lifted his feet. He heard a cry from the piano-player.

"We're sinking! There's no plug in this boat!"

Eagan attempted to find the plug-hole. He rose with his hands dripping bilge muck. The man at the oars dug the blades deep into the bay, bent his back, and dug again as if his life were at stake.

Stirling climbed into the bow of the boat, stared through the fog, and heard a ship's bell striking. He motioned for the oarsman to row in that direction, and the light craft steadied upon the dark mass.

Reaching upward, the Ice Pilot warded off the boat and grasped a dangling line that ran over a ship's rail at the waist. He nudged Eagan and went hand-over-hand upward until one palm hooked the rail, then he turned his head and looked at the boat.

The piano-player, the waiter, and the woman—all three very much alive—were standing on the thwarts. Eagan and the other seamen had found lines up which they were climbing.

Stirling saw the woman draw a bent knife from her breast, toss it overboard, and wring the water from her skirts.

He heard her mocking song as the Whitehall boat merged in the fog, and finally was gone back toward Meigg's Wharf and the Blubber Room:

"It's 'rah for th' grog—

Th' jolly, jolly grog!

It's 'rah for th' grog an' tobacco!

For you've spent all your tin with th' ladies, drinkin' gin,

An' across th' brimy ocean you must wan—der——"

[CHAPTER II—ON A MAN'S SEA]

Breathing the invigorating night air, Horace Stirling climbed over the ship's rail, squared his shoulders, and started toward the poop steps. The consciousness that he had been shanghaied came to him; the sensation was a novel one.

He reached the weather steps. There he paused and swung, facing the after part of the ship. A group of seamen were gathered in the waist. They were receiving the shanghaied sailors who had been brought out in the Whitehall boat.

Stirling gathered in the details of the whaler and his jaw dropped in wonder, while his eyes softened with an appreciative glow. He had never sailed or steamed upon such a ship. She was complete and yachtlike, and her deck house extended fore and aft between the main and mizzenmast. It was such a cabin as one would expect to find on a government revenue cutter. A squat, drab funnel reared from a boat deck, and glowed through the mist like the end of a fat cigar.

Stirling turned and mounted the poop, to face two of the men with whom he had drunk in that tavern near the wharves. One thrust out a hamlike hand. "Remember me?" he said, with a twinkle in his eyes. "I'm Cushner who took the Anderson expedition to the mouth of the Lena River. You were ice pilot of the Northern Lights that season. You gammed us in Bering Strait. Remember?"

Stirling stared up into the big seaman's face, squinting his eyes in an attempt to recall a vague memory. Slowly the details of the Anderson expedition came back to him.

"You're Cushner!" he blurted out. "By the jumpin' bowheads, you are! Who's the little fellow?" Stirling motioned toward the second seaman who had descended the lee poop steps and started forward to where a knot of men were gathered about the corner of the deck house.

The big mate of the ship leaned over the quarter-deck rail and said: "He's Marr—Captain Marr of the Baffin Bay crowd. See, he's mixin' with th' men. No man leaves this ship, but you, out of the bunch. Sailors are scarce as bowheads in the western ocean these days."

"Do you need a pilot?"

"We certainly do! You can come if you want to."

"How about this ship?"

"She's the Pole Star. She once was called the Alexander. She was a Russian yacht. She's fitted out for whaling and trading. Good food and all that. The old man will be glad to sign you on a big lay. We're going right up in the ice."

"Who'll be the afterguard?"

"Well, you'll make one if you join us. There's Marr and Whitehouse, who just came by rail. That puts me back to second mate. Then there's Sanderson and Manley—third and fourth. Besides, there's Maddox and Baldwin of the engine-room force. It's a good outfit. Fair play and money to be had."

Stirling rubbed his nose, lifted his eyes to the rigging, squared his shoulders, and turned toward Cushner. "How about all this?" he asked with a wide sweep of his arm. "Kind of queer, eh?"

"Well, no," drawled the big mate, tugging at his long beard. "No; not that I know of, Stirling. Everything's on deck as far as I can see. The old man is a part owner—it's a private venture. He and Whitehouse know their business. Just keep your tongue spliced and say nothing. The old man will be in the cabin at six bells. We'll talk to him then; if you want to go ashore, you can. If you stay, I'll promise you some fair game on a man's sea."

Stirling took a turn about the quarter-deck of the Pole Star, then came back to the rail and leaned over. Marr had disappeared.

A bell struck over the misted waters of the city, and was followed by others. A roar sounded to the westward, where the surf beat upon Seal Rocks and the entrance to the harbour. A salty gust stirred the standing rigging of the ship, and it filled the Ice Pilot's lungs with remembered calling. He braced his shoulders, lifted his head, and felt like a man who has shaken off a bad dream. He was going North again, on a good ship with a staunch crew.

Stirling turned toward the big mate, who stood under the shadow of a long, white whaleboat. "I'll join," the Ice Pilot said, simply. "Let's go below and see Marr. It's six bells and more. Like as not he and I can get along. I ain't a hard man to please. Only, this has got to be an honest voyage. I ain't in for anything downright crooked. It ain't my nature!"

"Mine, neither," said Cushner. "Come on!"

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 cluster shone overhead, and walls and bulkheads were hung with draperies. The deck was covered with Persian carpets, while here and there—scattered in haphazard fashion—gleamed the tawny yellow pelts of wild animals.

Athwart the ship, 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 ship.

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 titles 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 portière, 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, cushioned seat.

Stirling followed the second mate's example and sat down on the nearest cushion, 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 ashore 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 ship 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 shipped 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 shore 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 ashore. 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-class 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 ship going whaling, or something else? I want to know."

Marr smiled pleasantly. "Why did you ask?" he said, stroking his Vandyke beard with slender fingers.

"Only to know. You see, I can go ashore and sign on with one of Larribee's ships. 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 cockney, 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 ship 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 Snowball, my cabin boy, with the dinghy."

Stirling scribbled an order on the back of a shipping master's card. He passed it over to Marr, who touched a button 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 shore for somebody. This order was repeated.

The negro vanished, and Marr paced athwart the ship. Wheeling suddenly, he listened with his ear cocked 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 cockney, 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. "Ship'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 shore? 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. It was a favourite sealing ground; few whales were to be found there. The season was generally too late to capture any bowheads on account of the ice barrier which held back the ships.

"I don't recommend it," he said, simply. "I've been there twice. First time was in the Beluga. We didn't fasten to anything that year. The second time was in the old Norwhale—Captain Gully commanding. We fastened to one head close by the Siberian shore. That was all. It's barren waters unless you can put the ship in early."

"Can't you do that?"

"Not always; sometimes. I've seen the pack ice so thick at the Pribilofs, or just north of St. Paul Island, that it was late in July when we broke through and reached Bering Strait. We got nothing but some trade stuff from the natives that season. It was too late to find bowheads; they'd taken the Northeast Passage and gone through to Baffin Bay."

"Just the same," said Marr, "I'd like to try for the Gulf of Anadir. Ever hear of Disko Island?"

Stirling narrowed his eyes. Disko Island was the very heart of the richest sealing ground in all the world—outside of the Pribilofs. It belonged to Russia, and around it were gunboats of England, Japan, and the United States.

"I know it well," he said, dryly. "There's plenty of seals there, but darn few bowheads!"

Marr glanced at Whitehouse, then his eyes travelled the circle and rested upon the chart. He followed Stirling's pointing finger.

"It's a blym shame!" blurted out the English mate. "It's an outrage that them Russians got all them nice little pelts. What's the 'arm in lookin' the island over? Who's going to bother now? Who's running Russia, anyway?"

"The Bolsheviki," said Marr. "What do you say we take a look at the island? Stirling can put us through the early ice. We'll skirt the Siberian shore afterward. I want to drop in at East Cape, they say trading is good there."

Stirling gripped a glass and raised it to his lips. He stared at the chart, then fastened a penetrating glance which bored into the little skipper's brain, and smiled faintly as Marr remained silent.

"I'm willing," he said. "I'll take you anywhere. We're all together. I see no harm in looking over Disko Island."

"All we want," said Cushner, rising, "is to follow the skipper, here, and keep our jaw tackle closed. He'll bring results!"

Stirling was watching Marr's face, which lightened perceptibly.

The captain of the Pole Star thrust his hand out, palm upward. "Well spoken," he said. "I'll guarantee good results!"

Marr rolled up the chart with a swift whirl of his hands, then rose and stared at Baldwin, who had remained silent.

"Have you everything aboard?" the little skipper asked.

"Yes; we're coaled. I can safely say the engine-room force is complete. Naturally we'll have to recoal at whatever point we can on the Siberian coast or at Unalaska. The bunkers are chockablock, but you know that ice work takes the steam. And coal is high; it'll be about twenty dollars a ton at Dutch Harbor or Point Barrow, if there's any there at all."

"Confounded little!" blurted Stirling. "There's an on-shore whaling station there and a missionary settlement. But"—the Ice Pilot paused and smiled at a memory—"there's a spot on the coast east of Point Barrow where we can dig out all the coal we need. I know it. I was there in the old Northern Lights, and I saw more coal than you could find in Pittsburgh. There's mountains of it hidden under the snow."

"That's fine!" Marr exclaimed. "We'll fill the bunkers there. Now everybody stand up and we'll drink a final toast to the success of our venture. What'll the toast be?"

"To a full hold of bone!" Stirling suggested.

Marr glanced at Whitehouse. The mate winked and stared at his glass. "I'd say," he muttered, "that there's a better toast. Let's all drink to success at Disko Island, where the seals are."

Stirling grew thoughtful. Again the subject of seals had come up, and he glanced from face to face about him. The circle of men who comprised the afterguard of the Pole Star would have supported most any desperate enterprise. None was a young man; all were experienced.

Stirling set down his glass. Marr had stepped toward the after bulkhead of the cabin, and rested his hand on the piano.

A slight bump, as if a small boat had touched the outer run of the ship, sounded, and this was followed by steps on the deck overhead. Voices echoed, and a low call drifted through the open portholes.

The captain turned with a quick jerk and glanced upward, his hand lifted for silence. There came a knocking on an after door. This knocking was repeated.

"Good-night, gentlemen!" Marr exclaimed. "Get to your bunks and turn in. I'll expect you at sunup. We'll sail then!"

Stirling followed the big second mate, who knew the run of the ship. As they stood at last in the waist where the shadow of the dark deck house lay across the planks, two riding lights shone through the mist, and a flare marked the cap of the rakish funnel. High steam was in the Pole Star's boilers.

"Who came aboard?" asked Stirling with directness.

Cushner gripped his palms, gulped, and stroked his long, pointed beard, then turned and stared at the low rail which was over the break of the quarter-deck.

"A passenger!" he said.

"A passenger?"

"Sure! Didn't you hear the voice? It was a woman's. At least, it sounded that way to me. They're always bad luck at sea."

"I've heard tell they are," said Stirling.

[CHAPTER IV—ON THE SPARKLING SEA]

The pall which lay around the Pole Star was like an ultramarine depth. The narrow circle of visible waters rose and fell sullenly, while aloft the taper spars merged into the mist. Now and then a grinding jerk of the anchor chain sent a vibrating shudder from stem to jack staff. Below the holystoned decks the watch snored, unaware that the tide hung at its flood and that a wan yellow sun was rising over the Coast Range like a paper lantern in a summer's garden.

Stirling moved restlessly, his eyes opened like a quiet child's, and he surveyed his cabin. The events of the night and the early morning rushed back to him, and he blinked as he caught a reflection of his face in a white-bordered mirror at the head of the bunk.

He sprang to the deck, ducked his head in a basin, tested the taps, then dried himself with a thick towel. Staring about, he found his clothes hanging from hooks on the ship's sheathing. Donning the clothes, he opened the door and strode out into an alleyway which led to the waist of the ship. He lifted his eyes to the mist as he emerged upon the damp planks and sniffed the morning air.

"Howdy!" exclaimed Cushner from a position at the rail. "About time you're risin'. We're going to yank the mudhook up as soon as Marr gives the order."

Stirling dropped his eyes and stepped to the mate's side. Staring over the rail, he raised his finger, sniffed for a second time, then declared: "She'll be clear by noon. This fog is light."

Cushner led the way forward to the ornate forecastle and Stirling glanced down through the open booby hatch, to where a row of bunks lined each side of the ship. In these bunks seamen slept with their arms over their faces and their legs extended. A molasses barrel was lashed to the heel of the foremast, and on top of this barrel stood a large pan of white bread. The entire forecastle struck Stirling as far too clean and too large for a whaler's. It was more like an expensive yacht's.

"Them's picked men!" said Cushner. "Some has been picked from the gutter and some from the boarding houses. I guess I'll wake them. It's time for both watches on deck."

The second mate lifted a belaying pin from the pinrail and pounded upon the deck like a policeman pounds on the pavement. "Rise and shine, lads!" he shouted, leaning over the companion's coaming. "We've got to pay Paddy Doyle for his boots. All out!"

Cushner listened and then repeated his tapping. "All hands on deck!" he called. "Step lively now, men! It's five bells an' th' tide is turning!"

Stirling heard protests from the sleepy crew; shoes flew across the forecastle, pans banged, growls and feeble protests rose as the two watches gathered together their clothes and attempted to dress in the dark.

"Coffee they get," said Cushner. "Coffee and eggs and plum duff and white bread and bully beef. They're lucky. In my day we chewed hardtack and drank bilge water. Whaling has changed!"

Stirling nodded, and raised his eyes to the rigging of the Pole Star, where spar varnish glistened from yards and masts, and snow-white canvas looped downward like lingerie on clotheslines. The running rigging was of new hemp. It all struck him as a dream as he turned and strode to the rail by the port-anchor davit.

"See here," he said to Cushner. "I doubt if there's a finer sea boat afloat, but how about the ice? She's sheathed, but with wood. She ought to have a steel plate forward."

The big second mate grinned. "She's a good ice ship, Stirling," he said, leaning over the rail and pointing downward. "That's teakwood and yew. There's nothing better, and it don't impede her speed to any extent. You ought to have been aboard coming up from Sandy Point—eleven point five for days at a stretch. She'll do thirteen under forced draft. She'll do two more knots with the wind abeam. That's six-day boat speed!"

Stirling shook his head. He had been accustomed to blunt-bowed whalers with solid planking forward and steel sheathing aft to the waist. It was the only construction he knew of which would stand the grind of the Northern ice floes.

"Take a look at the whaleboats!" said Cushner. "Simpkins, of Dundee, built them. They're mahogany trimmed. You don't often see that."

Stirling climbed the lee fore shrouds and grasped a white boat's rail where it swung from polished davits just aft the break of the forepeak, and peered inside. The whaling gear was all in place; he counted two tubs of whale line which was carefully protected by new tarpaulins. The oars were fully sixteen feet in length, and paddles were racked beneath the seats. A mast and boom—harpoons, lances, bomb guns, blubber spades, bailing dippers—lay in position between the centerboard well and the skin of the boat.

"Good equipment!" he declared, dropping to the deck with a light rebound. "They'll do. Wouldn't wonder if we have some sport this voyage. Last season was a bad one. It ain't natural for two bad years to run together. They take turns about—watch and watch."

"She's well outfitted, Stirling. Thar ain't no better ship going North this season. You ought to drop down into the engine room and see that triple-expansion dream. Baldwin and Maddox say it's one of the finest engines ever turned out of Clyde-bank. Russia bought good stuff in the early days. She had the money then!"

Stirling stared aft to the deck house, out of which sleepy-eyed Kanakas and boat steerers were appearing, then stepped to one rail and studied the swinging sheer of the Pole Star. He saw beyond the smoke of the cook's stovepipe the swinging lift of the quarter-deck. Upon this a figure strode from rail to rail. It was Marr.

"How about that woman?" The question dropped from Stirling's lips as he turned toward the Yankee second mate.

"Your guess is as good as mine. I didn't know Marr had any woman in view when he dropped anchor in this port. There's a kind of a law against women going North in whalers, ain't there?"

"The owners don't allow it! But then Marr is an owner. He could do anything."

Cushner stroked his beard. He twirled its point. "I heard voices on deck last night," he said with reserve. "I'm willin' to venture five plugs of tobacco that one was a woman's voice. Maybe she came out to say good-bye to the skipper. Maybe she didn't. Maybe it's his wife."

Stirling reached in the pocket of his pea-jacket and fished out a plug of select tobacco. "I don't often chew," he said, "but I'll bet this plug against another that it wasn't a woman's voice you heard."

"You're on!" exclaimed the mate. "It was a woman's voice. She went below, and she's aboard now. Time will fetch her out. Marr is as close-mouthed as an oyster. She's some relation; that's sure!"

Stirling pocketed the plug, folded his arms, and stood smiling before the big mate. He shook his head. "I'll win that plug," he said, sincerely. "I'm a simple man, Cushner. It don't stand to reason that Marr would bring a woman on a whaling trip. If he's figuring on going to Disko Island and the Siberian coast it would be dangerous. Those are desperate seas!"

"Here's the watches!" exclaimed the second mate. "Let's stir our stumps and get the ship out, smart-like. We'll forget the lady till you see for your own eyes. Likely she's pretty."

Stirling snorted, his mind running back to his only love affair. It was merged in the failure of a chicken farm over Oakland way. A widow had cast eyes at the farm until the chickens began to pass away. This widow had often dwelt upon the happiness of married life. Stirling, still in his late forties, had thought long and seriously over the matter. He was a man's man, and felt that women, and particularly dashing widows, belonged to another sphere. They were as much out of his life as the stars that floated in the heavens—as remote as the centre of the antarctic continent. He had sailed the Northern seas too long and far to allow his mind to dwell upon the land as a final anchorage to his ambitions.

He made his way aft to the wheel while the mate lunged forward and joined the group upon the forecastle head. Marr stood close by the binnacle, and just then turned to the wheelsman.

"Stand ready," he said, raising his eyes to Stirling's. "You take charge," he added, smiling faintly as the Ice Pilot shot a keen glance upward where the morning sun was breaking through the last of the mist. "The deck is yours, Mr. Stirling. Mr. Whitehouse will go forward and join Mr. Cushner."

Stirling squared his shoulders and braced his legs.

The little skipper, spick and span in blue pea-jacket and well-cut trousers, strode briskly to the quarter-deck rail and leaned over.

"Steam on the winch!" he shouted. "Lively now, men!"

A racking grind sounded, and the iron teeth of the winch swallowed the rusty chain like a giant biting a meal. The ship steadied in the tide which was flowing through the Golden Gate as the anchor lifted from the mud and silt of the bay.

"All's clear!" Cushner called over the whaleboats.

"Hard aport!" said Stirling, sensing the position. "Put her hard aport. Now up a spoke! More! Steady there!"

Marr reached for the engine-room telegraph, a bell clanged below, the single screw thrashed the water astern and the Pole Star rounded on a long arc, gliding down the bay to a position off Meigg's Wharf.

A pilot and the last papers were brought out in a revenue cutter as Stirling kept the ship under bare headway. The siren aft the funnel plumed into one short blast, and they were off on the first leg of the passage to the Arctic and the Bering Sea.

Foghorn and whistle sounded in cadence, and was answered from starboard and port. Once a bell rang directly ahead through the fog. The engines raced in reverse, and the Pole Star swung with her dainty jib boom groping through the fog like an antenna. She straightened under the pilot's directions.

The veil thinned, as the sun struck through, bringing out the clean-cut details of the yards and spars. A stagelike setting appeared. To port lay the city—hill after hill of close-packed habitations; to starboard reared the green slopes of the Coast Range and the higher land of Mount Tamalpais. Beyond and directly ahead the sun kissed the sparkling ocean.

The Pole Star glided under the frowning guns of the Presidio, and danced across the bar. The Cliff House and the seal rocks were thrown astern. The land of California sank to a low, black line after the pilot had been dropped upon the deck of a tossing kicker yacht.

[CHAPTER V—INTO A PURPLE TWILIGHT]

A breeze, fresh and gripping with the taste of brine, swept over the stern of the ship and filled the canvas which Cushner and Whitehouse ordered set. The anchor was brought inboard and lashed to the cleats close by the port cat. The crew, feeling their sea legs, brought out hose and swabs and started cleaning up the shore litter and dunnage, working to the old-time chantey: "'Rah for the grog—the jolly, jolly grog."

Stirling turned the wheel over to the quartermaster after Marr had indicated a compass point, then rolled across the quarter-deck and stood by the green starboard light of the ship, which was turned out. He felt the warm breath of the following wind, gulped the sea air, and squared his shoulders, casting a shrewd eye at the poop-deck log, which was outrigged from the starboard rail.

The land of California was a haze over the starboard quarter. It lifted in places like a cloud bank, and the cleft which marked the Golden Gate was crossed by the white water of the bar. The Ice Pilot smiled, as the simplicity of clean living came to him as a flood.

He turned away from the land vision and studied the ship. On what mission was she headed, he wondered? Upon what seas would they force the taper jib boom? What trade stuff and spoil would be crammed between the hatches? He revolved these questions over and over in his mind, and was in the grip of the unknown. The little dapper skipper, the woman's voice, the mention of Disko Island, and the seal rookeries, all wove their spell:

"Though I plow the land with horses,

Yet my heart is ill at ease,

For the wise men come to me now and then

With their sagas of the seas."

He quoted this verse as he pulled out a great silver watch, gathered in the log line, and timed fifty revolutions.

The Pole Star was striking out into the Pacific on her first leg at fourteen point three knots an hour.

"Somebody's pullin' the strings," Stirling said as he let the slack out of the line and replaced the silver watch. "Maybe the Mazeka girls of Indian Point," he added, striding to the poop rail.

He stared with idle interest at the crew which were still under the able tutelage of Whitehouse and Cushner. The British whaler had a voice like a costermonger, and "Blym me, yes" and "Heaven strike me pink" rolled up the wind and burst like shrapnel upon the poop.

Stirling narrowed his eyes, and indeed the sight of the two mates in sea boots and the ragged crew swarming along the waist was one to charm the heart of a sailor. It brought to his mind other voyages, and he recalled an expedition he had piloted to Point Barrow and the reaches of the Mackenzie. A younger son, with money to spend, had chartered a whaler and taken the Northern seas in search of new game. Game he had found in plenty: walrus, seals—both hair and fur—killer whales, bowheads, polar bears, and musk ox had fallen to the younger son's rifle or harpoon. The crew, however, had proved too strong a stench for polite nostrils. They were picked from the slums of the Barbary Coast.

The Pole Star's foremast hands and the most of the harpooners and boat steerers would have delighted the eyes of an ethnologist. Stirling studied them and called their breeds. One was a cockney, like the mate. Another was a blue-eyed Dane. Three Gay Island natives were mixed with two Kanakas. Two bore the high cheekbones of Swedes. Four, at least, were Frisco dock rats who had been gathered in by the boarding-house runners and promised an advance, little of which they secured.

Stirling searched the faces for the sailor whom he had seen in the Frisco room, but he was not in evidence. That sailor had impressed Stirling as far out of the ordinary. It was not only the polished fingernails and the resolute set to the jaw, but also the certain air which the seaman had carried that led to the deduction that he had at one time commanded other men.

Cushner mopped his face with the back of his sleeve and worked aft to the break of the poop on the starboard side where he glanced up at Stirling.

"Hello, old man!" he said, out of hearing of the busy crew. "What do you think of the Pole Star by now?"

"Good ship. Some crew, though."

The second mate mopped his brow for a second time, then squinted at a gang working down the deck with squeegees. "Eighteen hands before the mast," he said. "That ain't much for six boats. We'll need them all if we lower for bowheads."

"Where's the sailor who came out with me?"

"He's below!" This was said expressively, with a heavy wink. "I think he'll stay below for a watch or two. Somebody—maybe it was Marr—bounced a belaying pin over his figurehead. It'll heal in time."

"What did you make of the sailor?"

"Maybe a spy. Maybe a good man gone wrong."

"He recognized Marr in the Blubber Room!"

Cushner shook his head. "We'll watch that fellow like a killer whale. He'll walk straight under me and Whitehouse."

The second mate closed his jaws with a snap and glared forward, then was off with a rolling lurch to where a slight spot showed on the deck. Grasping a Gay Islander by the neck, he led him to the omission and pointed downward. Stirling heard the racking volley of exclamations as the native fell to work with vigour.

The Pole Star plunged on. She took the long, oily rollers of the North Pacific and parted them like a sharp knife going through frosting. She was logging fourteen knots with reserve steam. The fore, main, and mizzen sails filled and billowed and the foretopmast staysail and jib held the following wind. Whitehouse, casting an eye aloft, ordered the top-sails braced then sprang to the weather braces as the crew hauled manfully under the directions of Cushner.

Marr leaned over the canvas of the poop and rested his elbows on the light rail, searching the sea ahead with his glasses. He turned to the wheelsman. "How you heading?" he asked as the last yard was braced.

"Nor'west by north."

"Hold her northwest by north. Hold her steady!"

The ship drove through the day and into a purple twilight, and the land of California disappeared astern. It left to mark its position a low line of gray clouds upon which the sun gleamed and paled and died to darker hues.

[CHAPTER VI—BY THE GREAT-CIRCLE ROUTE]

The steady clanking of the triple-expansion engines driving the screw at a racing speed of one hundred and ten revolutions a minute, the glow over the drab funnel, the hiss of sea alongside—these all denoted that they were reaching for the far-off Aleutian and the pass that marked Dutch Harbor, where whalers and Yukon boats left the Pacific and entered the waters of the Bering Sea.

Stirling shared the mess with Cushner and Whitehouse and the two engineers. Marr had given orders that in no circumstances should he be disturbed in the after cabin. This order, communicated by the cockney mate, caused the conversation to veer from speculation to concrete suspicions.

Cushner rose from his meal with a nod toward Stirling. "Let's go on deck," he said, steadying himself by grasping the racks. "Let's have a smoke and turn about. Mr. Whitehouse has the watch till eight bells."

Stirling crammed a palmful of tobacco into a cord-wrapped pipe, clutched the second mate's arm, and led him to the waist of the ship, where they stood beneath the shadow of the starboard whaleboat.

"We're not wanted on the poop!" exclaimed Cushner.

"The wheel's there and the binnacle's there, and the log line's there," suggested Stirling, pressing his thumb down upon the glowing coals of his pipe. "We've got to go aft."

"'Only for duty,' that's what the old man said. What do you make of that? He wants the after part of the ship to himself."

"It's his ship, Cushner!"

The Yankee mate counted on his fingers. "There's only two aft," he said. "Two—the old man and Snowball, the cabin boy."

Stirling pulled on his pipe. "How about the woman you heard?" he asked, dryly.

"Maybe she's there, Horace. Maybe she is! Maybe that's his reason for wanting the quarter-deck to himself. He had two Gay Islanders rig up a screen between the wheel and the taffrail. All that's aft of the screen is the companion to the cabin and a bucket rack. Thar's just about room to turn about in. A nice little cubby place I'd call it."

Stirling thought the matter over, backing into the gloom and shading his eyes. The tip of the wheel, with one spoke, showed over the low canvas sail. Beside this spoke was the soiled tassel of the wheelman's cap. Aft rose the mizzenmast with its spotless canvas billowing forward like Carrara marble. The telltale on the top of the mast denoted a freshening south wind. The swing of the ship, the thrust of the screw, the song which sounded from forward where a group of seamen were gathered on the forecastle head—all these spoke of action and a driving force to Northern seas where hearts beat strong and staunch winds cut to the quick.

The Ice Pilot turned to Cushner, pressing the bowl of his pipe with his broad thumb. "We're making good time," he said, thoughtfully. "Five days of this and we'll sight our Aleutian landfall. I guess we'd better not worry about the cubby-hole aft and the woman. I never could understand them, anyhow."

Cushner laughed and clapped Stirling on the back. He withdrew a foot or more, spread his legs wide, and surveyed Stirling with mingled pride and calculation.

Cushner squinted as he drawled: "You're all right, old man! You ain't no clothing-store dummy or one of them smart ducks with spar-deck shoes and a gold lanyard to your watch chain; but you'll pass where they won't. You're a man—every inch of you! I've heard thar ain't no better, when it comes to ice work."

Stirling was silent. He dragged on his pipe.

"A woman's man," continued Cushner, "ain't for these seas or the seas we're agoing to. And by saying that I don't mean no disrespect for the skipper. I was with him coming round the Horn. A fighter, he is, and all that—but there's a polish to him I don't like. It ain't natural. He's like a polite boarding-house runner. Them's the sharks to look out for. They know more than we do!"

"We'll keep our jaw tackle chockablock!" said Stirling, tapping his pipe against the rail and cramming it into his side pocket. "We'll sail ship and tend to our duties. I'll get the crow's-nest up in the morning. You'll find me ready for anything—short of breaking the law of the three nations. I'll put the Pole Star where the old man says, but I won't raid no rookeries with him. I won't do that!"

The positive set to Stirling's jaw was a relief to Cushner. He nodded. "Me, too," he said, moving aft. "I'm willin' to whale or trade or go to the Pole with you in charge of th' ship."

Stirling went to his cabin, latched the sliding door which led to the starboard waist, and undressed slowly. He sank into a profound sleep, broken once by a dream of Frisco and the Coast of Barbary.

He awoke as the little marine clock above the bunk was striking seven bells, reached to a shelf and drew toward him a compass set in a leather binding. It was part of his possessions brought out in the dunnage bag from Antone's cigar store.

Steadying his compass by a crack at the head of the bunk, he made a shrewd calculation as to the direction the Pole Star was heading.

The course had been changed overnight. It was now northwest by west. The needle vibrated with the throbbing of the engines, but each time it settled back to the first point.

Stirling rose and dressed without haste, clapped his cap on his head, and strode through the doorway to the damp deck. Here he leaned over the starboard rail and glanced downward at the swift-running foam which seethed alongside the ship's planks, then raised his eyes and swept the horizon. It was pale to the eastward with the first rosy flush of dawn.

For a moment he remained in one position, then turned and stared aft with his eyes wide and intent. The gloom which shrouded the poop of the ship was lightened by the upward glow of an open companion, and a figure stood to the extreme port side of the quarter-deck. This figure was shrouded and muffled but the red reflection from the side light brought out some details.

Stirling gripped the rail and continued staring. It was Marr, no doubt, who had taken the position so near the wheelsman. There was that to the set of the head, however, which caused Stirling concern. Marr generally held his chin high. This head, as seen over the drab canvas, was dropped and thoughtful.

The wheelsman turned and touched his cap. Stirling heard part of a question, which concerned the course, and it was not answered. The figure started, half leaned away, then swung about and disappeared in the gloom of the smudge astern where the funnel smoke drifted and swirled.

The shaftlike light from the open cabin companion grew pale, then was blotted out by a descending figure. A slide closed with a loud slam, and the ship plunged on, leaving Stirling no wiser for his impressions. He turned with a half grumble and hurried forward.

Cushner was emerging from the deck house, having stolen a trip inside to the cook's galley, where coffee was always steaming.

"Good morning!" he exclaimed, recognizing Stirling's form on the deck. "Sun's clear and wind's abeam—almost. Light wind and a flowing sea. Good morning, I said!"

"Who changed the course?" asked Stirling, point-blank. "We're not headed right. We can't make Dutch Pass or anywhere near it on this tack. What does Marr mean?"

Cushner scratched his head, raised his hand, and pointed astern. "Whitehouse gave me the new course when the watches were changed," he said. "That's all I know. It's a long way from where we expected we were going, Stirling."

"Jumping bowheads, yes! It's toward the great-circle route. Another half point and we'll be on it. What does that mean, Cushner?"

"I'll be skull-dragged if I know!"

"The great-circle route leads to Japan and northern China. We'll sight Rat Island on this route, and miss the only good pass to the Bering by five hundred leagues. That ain't right!"

"Thar's a lot about this ship what ain't right!" declared the Yankee. "We're in the hands of Captain Marr."

Stirling reached for his pipe, gathered together a palmful of cut plug, struck a sulphur match on the rail at his side and held the flame to the bowl till it glowed. He drew in the smoke, then squared his jaw and clamped the amber stem.

"We'll keep our eyes open!" he said through white teeth. "I think I saw the woman on the poop. I think it was a woman. She wouldn't answer the man at the wheel. She had Marr's clothes on. That's mighty queer doings for a simple whaler bound after bowheads and trade stuff!"

Cushner thrust out a calloused hand. "Put it there," he said. "We'll see this voyage through and find out what's wrong if it takes three seasons. I'm just almighty curious to know!"

[CHAPTER VII—DRIFTERS AND DERELICTS]

Stirling kept a careful record of the changes given in the course of the Pole Star, and found that the little skipper was reaching for the true great-circle route to Yokohama. This was checked by Cushner, who was a good rule-of-thumb navigator.

They kept their observations from Whitehouse. The mate was a frugal soul who spent much of his time driving the crew over the decks or keeping them polishing the brass work with a sand-and-paste preparation which was homemade and cheap.