A misted sun rose in the north and east, directly before the taper jib boom of the _Pole Star_. It drove the last of the aurora from the sky, rose in a rolling eye of fire, and brought out all the details of the stretching Arctic wild.
To the north and west showed great floes, which had grounded upon the shallow land which marked the seven-fathom bank. Between these floes lanes appeared, filled with whale slick and sporting seals. They led to the true north and the solid pack below the cold horizon.
Swinging the helm with sudden intuition, the leader drove the ship down a wide lane and away from the shore. Stirling sensed this manœuvre was to avoid being sighted at the Point. The leader had spread a chart out upon the quarter-deck, and his thumb traced a course which would take him away from any possible pursuit; it would also be a venture into an unknown sea. Blond Eskimos and castaways from Franklin’s expedition were supposed to people the polar shores of Banks and Keenan Land.
Stirling studied the ship’s deck with eyes brightened by hunger and resolve. He sought for a place to descend—an opening which would allow him to reach the forehold where stores and water could be found.
The revolutionists were scattered from the forepeak to the break of the poop. Smoke showed from the galley stovepipe. The engine-room crew and stokehold crowd had redoubled their efforts in order to sheer the ship from the land. Word had been passed down that the _Bear_ might signal the government people at Point Barrow, which was almost in sight.
Stirling glanced aft to where the Russian at the wheel was taking his orders from the leader who had sprung upon the weather rail and was holding to the mizzen shrouds.
The chance for escape from the crow’s-nest had come. The mainsail hung from the main yard, and its flapping canvas would afford some slight shelter. Stirling weighed the opportunity and prepared to make the effort. The open main hatch invited with its glimpse of boxes and scattered trade stuff.
He lowered himself from the crow’s-nest and stood on the jack above the Jacob’s ladder. Here he was sheltered from a chance glance aloft. He poised himself, gathered together his remaining strength, then reached downward and grasped the ladder’s top, his eyes slowly swinging aft. They rested on the barricade of canvas which had been erected forward of the cabin companion. A form moved behind this canvas, and the eastern light brought out the details. It was Slim, the Frisco dock rat, a ragged tam-o’-shanter capping his uncut hair.