The Russians moved in a flock to the rail and studied the ice about the ship—already firm enough to support a man's weight. The low swinging sun had not warmed the air enough to prevent the sea from freezing, and floes and drift ice were being cemented in the laboratory of nature. The ship alone was free, but encompassed by a ring of spongy ice and snow.
The sky overhead was pale; light flurries of ice particles dropped down to the deck, while the Northern aurora played and shot streamers up to the zenith. The sun plunged into a heavy haze which seemed to rim the entire horizon, and the temperature fell. The barometer was steady at twenty-nine, point six. Stirling played for a shift of wind which alone would free the ship from the coming deadlock.
He waited, and watched the revolutionists. The dock rat emerged from the galley door and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, stared at the Russians and then toward the quarter-deck. He made no attempt to come aft, and the evil that was stamped in his face held Stirling rigid.
The leader shouted something in Russian, and a hoarse cheer broke from many throats. A decision had been reached in regard to abandoning the Pole Star. Russians to the number of a score sprang forward, ripped the battings from the fore hatch, and disappeared into the hold. Others ransacked the galley for food and clothes.
A rude sled was devised from part of a whaleboat and rope-yarn splicings. Upon this the leader climbed and pointed dramatically toward the low-lying land, slapped the chart with the back of his hand, and traced out an imaginary course. Stirling leaned far forward and watched him, amusement, mingled with pity sweeping over his strong face. He called, and then repeated the call. The leader lowered his chart and turned.
"You're going to your doom!" declared Stirling. "Abandon this ship and you are lost. There is no way to civilization by the land route!" He pointed a mittened finger toward the island and the magnetic north.
The leader flushed and struck the chart with a sharp blow, sprang from the sled, and hurried aft. Stirling met him with a cold smile. "I told you," he said, "that there is no way. No way! Do you understand that?"
"There is a——"
Stirling thrust the leader from the quarter-deck, then turned and strode to the companion. Pausing at the hatch, he glanced aloft. Ice had appeared upon the cap of the mizzenmast, the rigging was coated with frost, and the wind, from the north and east, held steadily. Its velocity was not more than eight miles an hour, and it showed signs of changing some time during the short Arctic night.
Stirling went below after sliding open the cabin hatch. Helen Marr stood by a landward porthole, and she turned and smiled at Stirling, but the smile died as she saw the sombre light in his eyes. "What happened?" she asked.