Whitehouse flushed. "A cheater?"
"That's what you and Marr are! Cheaters! You raided the rookeries. Your judge will be the retribution which governs all wrongdoing. Your own heart and soul rebel against what you have done."
Whitehouse disappeared from the opening, and Stirling could hear him giving instructions to the sentry. Footfalls sounded going up the companion and along the quarter-deck, and then the mate came back to the door and leaned against the chamfer. He rubbed his long red nose with a reflective finger.
"I'm in hit too bloomin' far to get out now, Stirling. I'll do my best by you. Do you want to get away at the mouth of the Anadir? I can fix that."
Stirling made a slow calculation on his fingers. He glanced upward toward the deck and furrowed his brows. "The Gulf," he said, dropping his glance and staring at Whitehouse, "is about three thousand miles from any sort of civilization. I think I'll stay on board—a prisoner."
The mate nodded good-naturedly and turned toward a Kanaka, who brought a tray upon which were two tins of stew and a steaming pot of coffee.
Stirling took these and set them at the end of the bunk. Whitehouse shrugged his shoulders, examined the lock with a smirk, and closed the door. The bolt clicked.
The Kanaka resumed his sentry duties, but Stirling had secured a good glance at him. He was an old Arctic Ocean harpooner, and had once sailed on a whaler which had been gammed by the Ice Pilot. He was the weak link in the chain, concluded Stirling. A native would be more likely to listen to reason than any member of the Pole Star's crew. There was a latent loyalty for the right in every Kanaka's breast. Many had been brought up by missionaries.
"With a dainty friend somewhere aft, and a sentry like that harpooner, I've a fighting chance," said Stirling, leaning over the savoury stew.
The pockets of his pea-jacket contained a few crumbs of tobacco and a pipe. He set down the tray with the empty tins upon the deck, leaned back, and lighted a match.