Stirling studied the ship's deck with eyes brightened by hunger and resolve. He sought for a place to descend—an opening which would allow him to reach the forehold where stores and water could be found.
The revolutionists were scattered from the forepeak to the break of the poop. Smoke showed from the galley stovepipe. The engine-room crew and stokehold crowd had redoubled their efforts in order to sheer the ship from the land. Word had been passed down that the Bear might signal the government people at Point Barrow, which was almost in sight.
Stirling glanced aft to where the Russian at the wheel was taking his orders from the leader who had sprung upon the weather rail and was holding to the mizzen shrouds.
The chance for escape from the crow's-nest had come. The mainsail hung from the main yard, and its flapping canvas would afford some slight shelter. Stirling weighed the opportunity and prepared to make the effort. The open main hatch invited with its glimpse of boxes and scattered trade stuff.
He lowered himself from the crow's-nest and stood on the jack above the Jacob's ladder. Here he was sheltered from a chance glance aloft. He poised himself, gathered together his remaining strength, then reached downward and grasped the ladder's top, his eyes slowly swinging aft. They rested on the barricade of canvas which had been erected forward of the cabin companion. A form moved behind this canvas, and the eastern light brought out the details. It was Slim, the Frisco dock rat, a ragged tam-o'-shanter capping his uncut hair.
With his face pressed over the edge of the canvas, Slim took in the details of the ship and the revolutionists and frowned. A second form moved close to his side and the girl glanced over the canvas, her eyes raised in tearful search of the crow's-nest. When they lighted upon Stirling, she beckoned with a white finger, then gave a heart-rendering, poignant call of distress.
[CHAPTER XXVI—IN THE SUDDEN DARKNESS]
The Ice Pilot had no way to answer the piercing call of the girl, yet the revolutionists might detect her presence at any moment. The leader was alert and kept sweeping the sea to port for a chance opening which would lead farther away from the land. He turned once toward the wheelsman, berated him in Russian for not putting the wheel over soon enough, as the ship narrowly escaped a heavy floe.
Again the girl beckoned as Stirling watched the two forms beyond the canvas barricade. This time she had lifted her pale face so that he could see her shoulders and arms. They were slight and childish, and tears glistened upon her cheeks. Her call was not to be denied, and Stirling lowered his legs, swung far out over the deck, hesitated in that position, and turned his head.
Slim, the sole survivor of the forecastle crew, was reaching downward, his back straining. He straightened up and staggered aft to the taffrail. The burden he carried froze Stirling in the act of descending the ladder, and an icy chill swept through the Pilot's body, which almost unnerved him. He wound his fingers about the ratlines and breathed deeply. The Arctic air seemed strangely quiet.