Stirling squared his shoulders, removed his pipe from his mouth, and stared at the glowing bowl. He pressed the coals down with his broad thumb, wheeled sharply, and glared aft. His face hardened as he made out a shadow on the poop, and tried to discern if it were Marr. A swing of the ship, the lowering of the mainsail at the sheet, blotted out his view.
He turned and gripped Cushner's arm. "We're not going to Frisco," said the Ice Pilot. "We're headed for Dutch Pass and the Bering Sea. We're a point south of the true course for that, but Marr is taking advantage of the drift."
"Why didn't he go through one of the outer straits? There's plenty by the Rat Group."
"Perhaps he wants to coal at Unalaska. He could take aboard fifty tons there."
"How about the ice?"
"It hasn't cleared yet. It lies about ten knots to the south'ard of the Pribilofs. It'll break up and clear within a week, though. It always does."
Cushner nodded. He held a wholesome respect for Stirling's ice knowledge. The pilot had no peer when it came to working through the loose floes or finding a lane to the northward. These lanes were both dangerous and deceptive, and many led to thicker floes and barren ice.
"We'll soon be in the ice?" asked the second mate.
"Five days, allowing for a day's stop at Unalaska. First comes the light floes and the whale slick. Afterward is the barrier line which stretches to the Pole. It starts to open and break. Through these lanes the whales go into the Arctic. There's usually a big jam at Bering Strait. The current sets east by north in summer and south by west in the fall. There are no bergs north of the Aleutians or west of Point Barrow. Leastwise, I never saw any!"
"People always talk about the bergs of the Arctic."