Stirling knew better than this. No ships in the Bering whaled for oil; that pursuit was confined to Southern seas.
Marr was plainly nervous as he led Stirling toward the after part of the Pole Star, and kept glancing to the south and west. He halted on the poop steps and stared downward.
Whitehouse followed Stirling. The mate had motioned the crew to one side, and they had gathered in the waist, jeering as the trio passed them. They, too, were nervous. The smudge of smoke had widened to a splotch which streaked the horizon; a ship of some kind was dashing parallel to the course taken by the Pole Star.
The chase was on.
Stirling hitched his dunnage bag under his left arm and turned as he reached the quarter-deck. His eyes were the best upon the whaler, and he knew every ship that came into Bering Sea. He threw all his power into determining the nature of the fast-flying stranger, then he smiled slowly. She was the Bear. A vague sense of the position of the masts and the rake of the funnel told him that the redoubtable revenue cutter had received Eagan's message from St. Paul Island. She was coming with the speed of the wind, and was not more than seven knots astern.
Marr realized that Stirling had detected the name of the pursuer, and his face clouded. He shouted an order to the wheelsman, then sprang to the speaking tube which led down to the engine room. A volcano of smoke belched from the Pole Star's funnel. She swerved like a skater on ice, and the deck planks vibrated and trembled. A bellow of rage and defiance came from the crew at the change of course; they lined the rail and stared over the sparkling sea, shaking their grimy fists and calling down anathemas.
"Come on," cried Whitehouse into Stirling's ear. "Get down to your cabin. It'll be a blym long time before that revenue ship gets in range of us. I think we are the faster."
Stirling followed the mate through the cabin companion and down to an alleyway. At the starboard end of this Whitehouse inserted a key in a lock and slid open a door, motioning inside with a jerk of his thumb.
The Ice Pilot found himself in a small stateroom which was trimmed with maple and white tiling. He dropped his dunnage bag as the mate closed the door and turned the bolt, and his eyes roamed about the cabin.
The single porthole, set deep in the double skin of the ship, was brass-rimmed and no larger than a small dinner plate. It could be opened by turning two bronze wing screws, and the view through it was upon a patch of water, with swift-flowing ice darting by.