"Why should a princess not care for her"--she had started to say "man" but caught herself in time--"men as well as any other woman?" She walked around the fire to him. "Jean, can we do it? How does it look now?"
"If the fog breaks we're in trouble. Otherwise ... well, we're making progress.
I think we can do it or I'd not have tried."
"Was there another choice?"
"No."
The schooner moved at a steadier pace. The Indians had brought grease from their camp, barrels of it that came in their bidarkas, and they were slapping it liberally on the skids. The Susquehanna, unnaturally tall now that she was out of her natural element, towered above them. Once a small gust of wind came through the pines and the fire guttered, and all waited, holding their breath, but the wind disappeared and the fog held.
Jean returned to the capstan and took his place, plodding steadily for an hour. When Kohl relieved him, he returned to superintending the shifting of the tackle and the guy wires. Also, with apprehension for what might happen, he had two tall poles cut to make a shears in the event they needed to grasshopper the schooner. He had never seen it attempted with a craft of this size but as a boy he had seen the heavy river schooners grasshoppered over sand bars on more than one occasion, and knew that at last resort this would be the method to use. Yet once the schooner reached the far side of the portage they must skid it into the water. Mentally he calculated the times of the tides. They worked within narrow limits of time and their only hope lay in the fog. If the fog held they could do it, but if it did not...
Small men trooped to the fires for tea and warmth. Twice Jean had rum broken out and laced their coffee when the switch was made to that beverage. During the late afternoon Katlecht sat by the fire sipping his coffee and rum when he suddenly looked up at LaBarge who had stumbled wearily to the fire. "Fog go," Katlecht said. "Fog go soon."
Jean glanced at Kohl, and their faces were grim. Indians were excellent judges of weather; if Katlecht was right their time was short. He sent a messenger to the men at the gun to stand by for trouble, then had guns brought from the ship's armory and passed around to the men to be kept close to hand in the event of attack.
Despite their weariness the men returned to their labors with a rush. The water ahead of them meant escape and freedom; to be caught here meant death or worse, a Siberian prison camp. The Tlingits, filled with their age-old hatred of Russians, fell to with a will and to the tune of chanteys they shoved and pushed on the capstan bars. It was slow, painstaking, backbreaking labor, but the schooner moved and the water lay ahead of them, only a short distance away now. But the fog was thinning...
Jean glanced up and saw a star ... then other stars. "Pope," he said, "take the gunner, Gant and Turk, and go out and relieve the men at the gun. Don't take any unnecessary risks, but do what damage you can." He hesitated. "Wait until she's close, Pope, and for God's sake, hurt her."
Within the hour the fog was gone and darkness had come. Once more torches were lighted and the heavy blocks were shifted again, new anchor trees had been chosen and marked out. The shifting of the gear took less time now that the movements had become familiar. Once again the capstan was manned. The schooner was moving.
Taking his rifle, LaBarge started back toward the Tenakee side, Helena walking beside him. Bundled in furs against the penetrating chill of the night, she walked easily beside him, showing little of the exhaustion she must feel. "Can we get into the water before daylight?"
"If the men hold out. They're weary now; how they keep going I can't guess, and Indians never work like this, anyway."
The skids had been torn up and taken to the opposite side to use again, and there was little evidence of what had been done except the cut brush and the trampled earth. Standing together they looked out upon the dark and silent water. There was no sound but the soft rustle of the water on the shore, and above them the vast sky, studded with stars. The sounds of working men, the creak of tackle, the groaning of the schooner's timbers and occasional cries of the men seemed farther away than they actually were. A coolness came off the water. Somewhere out on the inlet a fish splashed. "Even if we make it here," Jean said, "we've far to go."
"I'll be in my own country, and I'll be safe."
"Siberia is not Russia," Jean replied bluntly. "You know that as well as I do. It's full of thieves and renegades with a corrupt administration to whom it won't matter at all that you're a niece of the Czar ... if they believe you they'll be afraid of what you might report."
"There's still no reason for you to come."
"I'm coming, so don't bother your head about it." They stood hand in hand watching the stars above the dark rim of the pines. There had been too few moments like this, and life without them was nothing. Their love was like no other love, for they could not speak of it, and each was on guard against desire. A word, a touch, it would take so little. Nearing the lighted area, LaBarge suddenly quickened his step. "Something's wrong," he said.
The men stood about, muscles heavy with weariness, their faces showing their despair.
Kohl came toward them. "Captain," he said, "we're in trouble. Fifteen feet short of the downhill side and she won't budge an inch. We just don't have the power to take her over the hump. We're stuck!"
He led the way up through the cut-down brush and trampled ground to where the hulk loomed black against the night, the towering masts like leafless trees, stark and strong against the sky.
It was what Jean had feared. The power of the capstan and the arrangement of the blocks had enabled the men by their slow, steady push to move the schooner, inch by inch, out of the water and along the skids, heavily greased to aid them. The huge blocks and careful rigging had more than quadrupled the power they could exert; but now, near the highest point above the water, their combined strength was not enough to move the schooner farther.
"We can't budge her," Kohl said. "We broke a couple of capstan bars trying." Glancing at the stars he could see they still had several hours of darkness remaining, but the men were exhausted. He believed he knew what to do, but he would need rested men to do the work that lay ahead. Despite the fact that the fog was gone, that the coming of the patrol ship was imminent, there was but one thing to do. "Barney," he said, after a moment, "have everybody turn in and get some rest. I'll stand by the gun myself. I'll want two men to stand watch here at the ship; the rest to sleep until four a.m." "Lord knows they need the rest," Kohl said, "but what about the Susquehanna? The Lena will be along at daybreak."
"If she heaves her hook at daybreak it will take her all of three hours to get this far. I'll be standing by the gun. If you hear a shot, turn the men to and rig those shears as I told you. And send four men to me." Kohl put his cap back on his head and started to turn away, then stopped. "Cap'n," he said slowly, "I figured I was a better man than you, that I should be master of this ship, but believe me, I've learned better. You've pulled off things this trip that I'd never have tackled."
"Thanks, Barney."
LaBarge turned to Helena. "You'd better get some sleep. You'll need the rest."
"I'm coming with you."
"But, look--"
"I'm coming with you."
Together, they walked to the promontory where the gun had been placed, pointing its dark muzzle down the channel. The men arose as they approached. "Nothing yet, Cap'n."
"Turn in ... you'll be turning to again at four a.m." When they had gone he made a place for Helena between the trails of the gun, folding some blankets and placing them over a pile of evergreen boughs. When she was settled he lit his pipe and settled himself for the long hours of waiting. He was tired, but he forced himself to remain awake. Somewhere out in the forest a pine cone fell, and upon the water a fish jumped, while far over the trees a night bird called. The rest was silence and the darkness.