Whitehouse thrust his long nose through the opening and squinted toward Stirling. "You're there," the mate muttered. "Be blym quiet, let me tell you that. It'll all be over in 'alf a hour. Too bad you weren't with us, Stirling."
The Ice Pilot did not answer and the mate's face disappeared from the porthole. Another boat touched the ship's side. Bundles of pelts were dragged to the forehold and dropped downward. Hushed instructions were given to return to the rookery.
Stirling rolled over and felt for the gun under his mattress. Its cold barrel nerved him to rise and sit upon the edge of the bunk. He cocked the trigger and waited, his eyes toward the porthole, then turned and stared at the locked door.
"Time to be doing something," he said, simply. "They're ripping the rookeries wide open, without being discovered. Like as not they've overpowered the native guard. That'll go hard with them later."
He stood erect and worked one hand free from the cuff. Winding the chain about his wrist, he moved toward the porthole and peered out. A black velvet band stretched over the sea, and through it came stars as his eyes accustomed themselves to the view. He stared out over the ship's rail, to where he saw faint white spots which marked the drift ice. Beyond these was a silver running ripple.
The position of the ship with its whale-line anchorage was close to the hidden beach. Stirling sensed the slow rise of the waves, which marked shallow bottom. The idea came to him that if the line were cut which led to the anchor, the Pole Star most certainly would go ashore. Once ashore, the crew would be unable to work her out in time to escape. Eagan could be expected to give some sort of alarm, and the guard on the other islands of the seal group would descend upon them.
"I'll chance it," said Stirling. "Here goes for the door and a rush to the anchor rope. I didn't hear them drop a chain."
He took one step away from the porthole. A gliding foot sounded outside upon the ship's planks, and he stood rigid, then leaned toward the bunk.
The footfall was repeated. It came closer to the corner of the galley house, and a voice sounded from somewhere forward. A rattle of oars swung up the slight breeze, and seals barked from the red shores of the rookery.
"Quiet!"