Stirling heard the pacing of the sentry on deck, and above the sound of his sliding foot he sensed the voices of men aft of the canvas barrier. Marr and the mate were in whispered consultation.
Whitehouse allowed his voice to rise above its ordinary pitch. He was insisting upon some matter which was of vital importance to him, and it concerned making away with the only spy in their midst. Marr's answer was unheard by Stirling, but it quieted the mate as if a hand had smoothed out a difficulty with clever, cunning fingers. Marr was doubly dangerous. He held close control of his brain and tongue.
Stirling paced back and forth within the narrow confines of his cabin. He had measured the porthole with the span of his hand, and knew it was far too small for escape. It could not well be enlarged by any tool in his possession. He turned toward the door as a last resort. Its stout panels and heavy oaken planks called for super efforts, but they could be cut, providing the sentry dropped off into sleep. Stirling waited and listened for this to happen.
Midnight and eight bells found him crouched with his ear close to the lower starboard panel. The strength to right a wrong and fight to the bitter end had crept over him. He was a match for Marr and half of the others of the crew. He feared no five men aboard the ship if the fight were to be with fists.
A clean life and steady purpose had often accomplished wonders. He reviewed the entire situation, and summed it up in a slow, firm way. Marr and the mate and the others of the crew had taken a lesson from Eagan. They were in the poaching matter far too deeply to back out, since the spoil was 'tween decks, and was also waiting on the Copper Islands.
"Better snatch a delusion from a woman," said Stirling, grimly, "than deny a Bering Sea crew the right to poach."
He thought of Marr's parting words, the lack of venom in which showed that the end would come swiftly and after deliberate preparations. His one hope was the woman who had pleaded for his life. She had to be reckoned with—perhaps she was resourceful. Her eyes were wide ones and undying in their intensity.
Stirling moved toward the wall and reached for the electric light, then dropped his hand without turning it on. He found the bunk, searched under the seaweed mattress, and the cold thrill of the tiny revolver nerved him as he held it in the palm of his right hand. After all, he thought, there was a man's life or two in the silver-plated barrel. A bold rush when the door was opened, a stream of lead, and the open deck might offer possibilities.
The night was dark. There was one fissure leading up from the shelving beach to the higher tableland. If he reached this he would be free. Siberia and a wide sky was the vaulting place for a possible revenge.
He stepped toward the porthole and pressed his forehead against the cold metal rim, his eyes slowly making out the details of the harbour and the shore. They grew keen and penetrating.