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?”
Business men’s associations, chambers of commerce, people who had done things, were glad to “learn something” from old Walton, but his son was not. Because he did not know there had been a wreck, he had not offered to lend a hand in his salvaging. Rather he regarded himself as a fine, trim craft steaming through the murky waters of his father’s association. In a word he was something of a fool. There had been no scene, though the elder Walton could raise his voice loud enough when he was aroused. Dick Walton did not believe in lifting his voice in anger, and so his attitude had been dignified, well-bred silence.
The rest had been simple. He had been sent aboard Hanson’s schooner with certain papers; Hanson had glanced through them, made a face, cursed inwardly and shoved off on the Arctic trading expedition. Dick had the choice of going along or jumping overboard. Hanson told him he did not care which course he followed.
Walton ignored the danger on every side as he watched the schooner’s progress. It was Hanson’s business to get her through the floes and into open water. Walton reflected bitterly instead of lending a hand. “Crazy ideas, the old man has. What can a Swede with washed-out blue eyes, or a filthy, greasy Eskimo, teach a college-bred gentleman? They are of the old man’s school; mine is different. We show the stamp of our respective schools.” He was silent a moment, regarding the Swede and Eskimo. “Wonder how Mother ever came to marry the old man? She has refinement, background, everything, while Father—all right enough in a rough-and-tumble brawl, but—”