Raw men

By Frank Richardson Pierce
Self-preservation is not the first law of Nature, according to Mr. Pierce, who knows the Arctic at first hand and who offers this fine story in support of his contention.
The blue-eyed Swede spoke briefly in dialect to the greasy Eskimo. The latter peered ahead where the inexorable drift of the ice-pack was slowly wiping out the blue lead. The trading schooner was drab, ice-battered and unromantic, but her holds carried a fortune in furs. The shore was dangerously close, piled high with shattered bergs where the pack had grounded. Little short of a granite mountain could withstand the grinding pressure of the pack, and even granite had been scoured away so that in summer the cliffs were overhanging the sea in spots. The man-made thing of planks, cordage and paint was less than an eggshell when pitted against the floes; and so the Eskimo considered many things before he spoke—then he grunted in dialect. He showed no fear, nor did the Swede who peered from his frosted parka hood and gripped the spokes of the wheel with mitted hands.
All others were below except one. He seemed detached from the scheme of things. He neither gave orders nor obeyed them, but stood forward, with feet apart—a big, handsome man with more than a trace of character and refinement in his face. He cursed, not the floes nor the sluggish progress of the schooner, but his father. His eyes blazed with the fires of resentment in the same fury of three months ago. The last words of his father were still ringing in his ears: “You’re a selfish young pup. You’ve failed as a son; you’re failing as a man. That means I’ve failed as a father. I’d rather have succeeded as a father than as a business man. I can’t learn you nothing; maybe if you rub shoulders with life you’ll learn something. I wanted to make your row easier to hoe than mine was. I made it easy, and that’s my mistake. I tried to get under your skin, but never could make it, so we’ve hated each other at times. That’s bad business for both father and son—to hate. It’s the father’s fault. He’s failed some way. My lack of education—and what you once called ‘a lack of appreciation of the finer things in life’—rubbed you the wrong way. I’m sorry, but I can’t help it.... I gave you the wrong course; the craft was wrecked. I’m trying to salvage enough from the wreckage to build a new vessel.... Bear a hand—wont you, son?”