The girl pointed toward an after doorway. "That's uncle's cabin," she said. "Go shave and fix yourself. Then we'll talk about things. I don't think being wrecked is so terrible."
Stirling shook his head and moved toward the cabin. He opened the door, turned, and glanced backward, then went inside with the girl's face stamped upon his memory. She was full of fire and youth, the voyage of the Pole Star had been an adventure for her. The death of Marr had not saddened her. He found soap and a razor resting behind the washstand, and with these started to make himself presentable.
Strength and youth came through his features as he scraped and hacked; simple in all his motions, he found himself for the first time in a great hurry. The girl had appealed with elfin charm, though he knew no more of women than landsmen know of the mysteries of the sea.
After he had finished shaving, a good wash in cold water, a swift parting of his hair, and a borrowed necktie from Marr's collection, caused him to smile at his reflection in the glass. He stood the proper figure of a man—four square to wind, weather, adversity, or the revolutionists.
The situation was desperate enough to call for all the strength of Stirling's mind and muscle. The ship was heading due east by the meridian, or north by magnetic compass, and the true Pole was being thrown over the ship's port waist like a sinister shadow. Ahead lay the Magnetic Pole and the land where Franklin and his brave men had perished in the search for the northwest passage.
Stirling looked from the mirror to the open porthole of the cabin, and saw the low-lying land which marked the American continent. The water was muddy and filled with driftwood, which indicated that Herschel Island and the mouth of the Mackenzie River were being passed.
"Our last wintering place," he said, with his face pressed to the porthole. "Yonder she is. There's scant chance from now on."
He turned and glanced about the cabin. A telltale compass over a brass-bound bunk showed that the course read north. It changed a point as the Pole Star swung and dashed by a field of ancient ice. Then the ship steadied, the engines clanked, and steps sounded overhead. The revolutionists had gathered for a consultation.
Stirling opened the door of the cabin, stepped out, and faced Helen Marr who stood by the baby-grand piano which was lashed to the after part of the bulkhead.
"We're off Herschel Island," he said, running his fingers over his face in anxiety. "I'm sorry for your sake. There are no winter quarters beyond the Island that I know of; it's all lowland and dangerous anchorage. We're in for it!"