It was after a long and arduous journey which had left its mark on all of them that Wyllard and his companions, one lowering evening, lay among the boulders beside a sheltered inlet waiting for the dusk to fall. They were cramped and aching, for they had scarcely moved during the last hour. Their garments were badly tattered, and their half-covered feet were bleeding. With three knives and one rifle among them they were a pitiful company to seize a vessel, but there was resolution in their haggard faces.

Close in front of them the green water lapped softly among the stones. The breeze was light off shore, and the tide, which was just running ebb, rippled against the bows of a little schooner lying some thirty yards from the bank. The vessel had been seized for illegal sealing some years earlier, and it was evident that she had been little used since then. The paint was peeling from her cracked and weathered side, her gear was frayed and bleached with frost and rain, and only very hardpressed men would have faced the thought of going to sea in her. Wyllard and his companions were, however, very hardpressed indeed, and they preferred the hazards of a voyage in the crazy vessel to falling into the Russians’ hands. It was also clear that they had no choice. It must be either one thing or the other.

Some little distance up stream a low hill cut against the dingy sky. It shut off all of the upper part of the inlet which wound in behind it, but Wyllard and his companions had cautiously climbed the slope earlier in the afternoon, and, lying flat upon the summit, had looked down upon the little wooden houses that clustered above the beach. He had then decided that this part of the inlet would dry out at about half-ebb, and as the schooner’s boat, which he meant to seize lay upon the shingle, it was evident that he must carry out his plans within the next three hours.

These plans were very simple. There was nobody on board the schooner, which lay in deeper water, and he believed that it would be possible to swim off to her and slip the cable; but they must have provisions, and there was, so far as he could see, only one way of obtaining them. A building which stood by itself close beside the beach was evidently a store, for he had seen two men carrying bags and cases out of it under the superintendence of a third in some kind of uniform, and it appeared to be unguarded. Wyllard had reasons for surmising that the store contained Government supplies, and had arranged that Charly and Lewson should break into it as soon as darkness fell. They were to pull off to the schooner with anything they could find inside. Whether they would succeed in doing this he did not know, and he admitted to himself that it scarcely seemed probable, but he could think of no other plan, and the attempt must be made.

A thin haze drove across the crest of the hill, the breeze freshened slightly, and the little ripples lapped more noisily along the shingle. There was evidently a great deal of fresh water coming down the inlet, and it was in a fever of impatience he watched the schooner strain at her cable. That evening had already seemed the longest he had ever spent in his life. By and by it began to rain, and little streams of chilly water trickled about the weary men, but they lay still, with lips tight set in tense suspense. What Lewson had had to face in the awful icy wastes to the north of them Wyllard could scarcely imagine, and Lewson could not tell, but he and his two other comrades had borne things almost beyond endurance since he began his search, and now there was far too much at stake for him to increase the odds against them by any undue precipitancy. He was then in a dangerous mood, but he had laid his plans with grim, cold-blooded caution, and he meant to adhere to them.

Very slowly the light faded, until the beach grew shadowy, and the schooner’s spars and rigging showed dim and blurred against a dusky background. The rise that shut off the settlement was lost in drifting haze, and the dull rumble of the surf on the outer beach came up more sharply through the gathering darkness. The measured beat of the tide’s deep pulsations almost maddened Wyllard as he lay and listened, for if all went right, in an hour or two he would be sliding out over the long heave with every sail piled on to the crazy schooner.

When there was only a faint gleam of water sliding by below, he rose stiffly to his feet, and Lewson stretched out a hand for the rifle that lay among the stones. There was a sharp click as he jerked the lever, and then he laughed, a little jarring laugh, as the magazine snapped back.

“They’ll treat us as pirates if they get hands on us—and I’ve been lashed in the face—with a sled-dog-whip,” he said.

Charly made no remark as he loosed the long seaman’s knife in his belt. Wyllard could not utter a remonstrance, for there is, as he recognized, a point beyond which prudence does not count. After what Overweg had once or twice told him, it was unthinkable that they should fall into Smirnoff’s hands.

Lewson and Charly melted away into the darkness. Wyllard and the Siwash walked quietly down to the water’s edge, a little up-stream of the schooner, as the stream was running strong. As they waited a few moments before plunging into the sea they stripped off nothing, for it was evident that none of the rags they left behind could be replaced, and they knew from experience that when the first shock is over a man swimming in icy water is kept a little warmer by his clothing. For all that, the cold struck through Wyllard when he flung himself forward and swung his left hand out. It was perhaps a minute before he was clearly conscious of anything beyond the physical agony and the mental effort to retain control of his faculties. Then he made out the schooner, a vague, blurred shape a little down-stream, and he swam furiously, his face dipping under each time his left hand came out.

He drew level with the vessel, clutched at her cable, a foot short, and was driven against her bows. The stream swept him onward, gasping, and clawing savagely at the slippery side of the schooner, until his fingers found a hold. It was merely the rounded top of a bolt that he touched, but with a desperate effort he clutched the bent iron that led up from it to one of the dead-eyes of the mainmast-shrouds. He could not, however, draw himself up any further, and he hung on, wondering when his strength would fail him. The Siwash, who had crawled up the cable, leaned down from above and seized his shoulder. In another moment he reached the rail, and went staggering across the deck, dripping and half-dazed.

Action was imperatively necessary, and he braced himself for the effort. The schooner was lying with her anchor up-stream, but he did not think it would be possible to heave her over it and break it out unless he waited until the others arrived, and it would then be a lengthy and, what was more to the purpose, a noisy operation. The anchor must be sacrificed, but there was the difficulty that in the dark he could hardly expect to find a shackle on the cable. Running forward with the Siwash, he pulled out a chain stopper, and then shipping the windlass levers found with vast relief that it would work. It would make a horribly distinct clanking, he knew, but that could not be helped, and the next thing was to discover whether the end of the chain was made fast below, for it is very seldom that a skipper finds it necessary to pay out all his cable.

Dropping into the darkness of the locker beneath the forecastle, he was more fortunate than he could reasonably have expected to be, for as he crawled over the rusty links he felt a shackle. It appeared to be of the usual harp-pattern with a cottered pin, and he called out sharply to the Siwash, who presently flung him an iron bar and a big spike. He struck one of the two or three sulphur matches he had carefully treasured, and when the sputtering blue flame went out set to work to back the pin out in the dark. He smashed his knuckles and badly bruised his hands, but he succeeded, and knew that he had shortened the chain by two-thirds now.

He scrambled up on deck again and hurried aft for the vessel’s kedge had been laid out astern to prevent her swinging. There was a heavy hemp warp attached to it, and it cost them some time to heave most of it over, after which they proceeded to get the mainsail on to her. It was covered with a coat, and Wyllard cut himself as he slashed through the tiers in savage impatience. Then he and the Siwash toiled at the halliards desperately, for the task of raising the heavy gaff was almost beyond their powers.

There was no grease on the mast-hoops; the blocks evidently had not been used for months. Several times they desisted a moment or two, gasping, breathless, and utterly exhausted. Still, foot by foot they got the black canvas up, and then, leaving the peak hanging, ran forward to the boom-foresail, which was smaller and lighter. They set that, cast two jibs and the staysail loose, and let them lie. Wyllard sat down feeling that the thing they had done would, if attempted in cold blood, have appeared almost impossible. It was done, however, and now he must wait until the boat appeared. There was no sign of her, and as he gazed up the inlet, seeing only the glimmer of the water and the sliding mist, the suspense became almost intolerable. Minute after minute slipped by, and still nothing loomed out of the haze. The canvas rustled and banged above him, there was a growing splashing beneath the bows, and the schooner strained more heavily at her cable. Everything was ready, only his comrades did not appear. He clenched his hands and set his lips as he waited. He wondered at the Siwash, who sat upon the rail, a dim, shapeless figure, impassively still.

At last his heart leaped, for a faint splash of oars came out of the darkness. Both men ran forward to the windlass. The sharp clanking it made drowned the splash of oars, but in another minute or two there was a crash as the boat drove alongside, and Charly scrambled up with a rope while Lewson hurled sundry bags and cases after him. Then he climbed on deck in turn, and Charly began a breathless explanation.

“It’s all we could get. There’s nobody on our trail,” he said.

The last fact was most important, and Wyllard cut him short. “Get the jibs and staysail on to her,” he commanded.

The new arrivals worked rapidly while the cable clanked and rattled as the schooner drove astern, but at the first heave the rotten staysail tore off the hanks, and one jib burst as they ran it up its stay. For an anxious moment or two the cable jammed, and the anchor brought the schooner up. All four flung themselves upon the windlass levers, and after a furious effort the chain came up again and ran out faster, fathom by fathom, rattling horribly, until the end of it shot suddenly over the windlass. Then there was another check as the schooner brought up by the kedge swung suddenly across the stream.

Her banging canvas filled, she listed over, and it was evident to all of them that if the kedge started she would forthwith drive ashore. Tense with strain, its warp ripped out of the water, and she was swinging on it heading for the beach when Wyllard flung himself upon the wheel.

“Hang on to every inch or break it!” he roared. “Out main-boom; box your jib and staysail up to weather!”

In desperate haste they obeyed orders, amid a great clatter of blocks and thrashing of canvas, while Wyllard wrenched up his helm, and the schooner, straining on the warp, fell away with her bows down-stream. The sweat of effort dripped from Wyllard when he swung up an arm to Lewson, who was standing at the bollard to which the warp was made fast.

“Now!” he cried hoarsely, “let her go!”

The rope fell with a splash, the schooner lurched forward and drove away down the inlet with the stream running seaward under her, while Wyllard felt a trifle dazed from sheer revulsion of feeling. The rumble of the surf was growing louder; the deck slanted slightly beneath him. If they could keep her off the beach for the next few minutes there was freedom before them! He hazarded a glance astern, but could see no sign of a boat up the inlet. They had done a thing which even then appeared almost incredible.

The breeze came down fresher, the gurgle at the bows grew louder, and the deck began to heave with a slow and regular rise and fall. A long, shadowy point girt about with spectral surf slipped by, and they were out in open water. They ran the schooner out for an hour or two and then, though the peak of the mainsail burst to tatters as they hauled her on a wind, let her stretch away northward following the trend of coast.

“We’ll stand on as she’s lying until we find a creek or river mouth. We must have water,” Wyllard said.

An hour later he called Charly to the wheel, and sitting down in the shelter of the rail, went to sleep, though this was about the last thing he had contemplated doing. It was gray dawn when he opened his eyes again, and aching all over and very cold, stood up to see that the schooner was tumbling over a spiteful sea with the hazy loom of land not far away from her. He glanced at the gear and canvas, and was almost appalled, while Charly, who was busy close by, saw his face and grinned.

“You don’t want to look at her too much,” he observed. “We took a swig on the peak-halliards a little while ago, and had to let up before we pulled the gaff off her. Boom-foresail’s worse, and the jibs are dropping off her, while the water just pours in through her top-sides when she puts another lee plank down.”

Wyllard made an expressive gesture, and leaned upon the rail. He realized then something of the nature of the task he had undertaken. They had no anchor, no fresh water, no fuel for cooking, and, so far as he was aware, very few provisions, while it seemed to him that the weathered, worn-out gear would not hold the masts in the vessel in any weight of breeze. Still, the thing must be attempted, and there was one want, at least, that could be supplied.

“Anyway,” he said, “we’ll beat her in. When we come abreast of the first creek you and Tom and the Siwash will go ashore.”

It was afternoon when they sighted a little stream, and they took most of the canvas off the vessel before three of them pulled away in the boat, leaving Wyllard at the helm. It was blowing moderately fresh off shore, and it was with feverish impatience that he watched them toiling at the oars, two of them pulling while the third man sculled. They disappeared behind a point, and an anxious hour went by before the boat, which now showed a very scanty strip of side above the tumbling foam, crept out from the beach again. Having no breakers, they had brought the water off in bulk, sitting in it as they pulled, and it was fortunate that the boat lurched off shore easily before the little splashing seas. They lost some of the water before they hove it into the big rusty tank, and then they held a consultation when they had swung the boat in and the schooner was running off to the east again.

“We’ve about stores enough to last two weeks—that is, if you don’t expect too much,” Lewson pointed out. “There’s an American stove in the deck-house, and while we can’t find anything meant to burn in it there’s an ax down forward, and we could cut out cabin floorings, or a beam or two, without taking too much stiffening out of her.”

Wyllard, who had inspected the stores, knew that a fortnight was the very longest that could be counted on, though they ate no more than would keep a modicum of strength in them. From their kind and quality he surmised that the provisions had been intended for the officials in charge of the settlement.

“How did you get them, Tom?” he asked.

“The thing;” said Lewson quietly, “was simple. It was dark and hazy, and raining quite hard. The first thing we did was to run the boat down and leave her nearly afloat. Then we crawled back, and lay by listening outside that store. We were figuring how we were to break it in when two men came along. They went in and came out with a bag or two, and as they left the door open we figured they were coming back for more. We humped out a moderate load, and had just got it down to the boat when we saw those men, or two others, in the haze. I was for lying by, but Charly would get out then.”

Charly laughed dryly. “He wanted to take the rifle and go back to look for Smirnoff. I’d no use for any trouble of that kind, and I shoved the boat off while he was seeing how many ca’tridges there were in the magazine. He waded in and grabbed the boat when he saw I was sure going, but I shoved her away from him. Then it kind of struck him he had to get in or swim.”

Lewson’s expression grew grim. “That’s the thing that hurts the most—to go away before I got even with that man,” he declared. “Still, I may get over it if I try to think of him with his nose smashed hard to starboard.”

Wyllard made a sign of impatience. He felt that, after all, there was perhaps something to be said for Smirnoff’s point of view.

“There is just one plan open to us, and that’s to drive the schooner across to the eastward as fast as we can,” he said. “We might, perhaps, pick up an Alaska C. C. factory before the provisions quite run out if this breeze and the gear hold up. Failing that, we must try for one of the Western Aleutians.”

The others concurred in this, and very fortunately the breeze kept to the west and south, for Wyllard had very grave doubts as to whether he could have thrashed the schooner to windward through a steep head sea. Indeed, on looking back on that voyage and remembering the state of the vessel, it seemed to him that he and his companions had escaped as by a miracle. In any case, they hove the vessel to, one misty evening, in a deep inlet behind a promontory, and Wyllard, who sculled up the inlet alone in the growing darkness, badly startled the agent of an A.C.C. factory when he appeared, ragged, haggard, and wet with rain, in the doorway of a big, stove-warmed room.

The agent, however, was out for business, but when Wyllard produced a wad of paper money stained by wet and perspiration he appeared quite willing to part with certain provisions. He was told that no questions would be answered, and when he had given his visitor supper, Wyllard sculled away in the darkness leaving him none the wiser. Half an hour later the schooner slipped out to sea again.

The rest was by comparison easy. They had the coast of Alaska and British Columbia close aboard, and they crept southwards in fine weather, once running off their course when the smoke of a steamer crept up above the horizon. In a strong breeze, they ran for the northern tongue of Vancouver Island, and Wyllard, who had already decided that the vessel would fetch scarcely five hundred dollars, and that it would be better if all trace of her disappeared, pulled his wheel over suddenly as she was scraping by a surf-swept reef.

In another minute she was on hard and fast, and they had scarcely got the boat over when the masts went with a crash. A quarter of an hour later the wreckage was thrown up on the beach, and, before they set out on a long march through the bush, there was very little to be seen of the vessel.

Three or four days afterward they reached a little wooden town, and Wyllard, who slipped into it alone in the dusk, bought clothing for himself and his companions, who put it on in the bush. Then they went into the town together, and slept that night in a hotel.

Their troubles were over, and, what was more, Wyllard, who pledged the rest to secrecy, fancied that what had become of the schooner would remain a mystery.