West Wind Drift

by George Barr McCutcheon

Each night she returned to the ship tired and sore but uncomplaining. Her strong young body stood the test with the hardiest; her spirit was unflinching; her heart in the common cause. For she looked ahead with a clear, far-seeing eye, and saw not one but many winters in this vast, unguarded prison. And she wondered,—wondered day and night,—what was ahead of her.

She was young. The young do not dream of death. They dream of life, and of its fullness. What did fate have in store for her? Sometimes she crimsoned, sometimes she paled as she looked ahead.

Bare-armed, her heavy sport skirt caught up with pins, her bonny brown hair loosely coiled, thick golf stockings and sturdy shoes covering her legs and feet, she presented a figure that caused more than one heart to thump, more than one head to turn, more than one pair of eyes to follow her as she went about her work. Her cheeks and throat and breast and arms were browning under the fire of the noonday sun, her eyes glowed with the fervour of enthusiasm; her voice was ever cheerful and her smile, though touched with the blight that lay upon the soul of all these castaways, was unfailingly bright. And when she returned “home” at night from her wageless day of toil, she slept as she never had slept before.

Her aunt worked in what was known as the salvage corps. She was one of the clerks employed in checking out the cargo and other materials seized by the committee of ten, as the leaders in this singular enterprise were called. Captain Trigger having protested against the dismantling of the vessel and the confiscation of its cargo,—which was as far as he could go,—announced that he would abide by any satisfactory plan to salvage the property. He required an official, documentary report, however, in which every item removed was accounted for, with its condition and value set down and sworn to by responsible persons. The purser, Mr. Codge, and First Officer Mott represented the Captain in this operation, while the consignees were properly taken care of by Michael O'Malley Malone, the lawyer, James K. Jones, the promoter, and Moses Block, the rubber importer. It is unnecessary to deal further with this feature of the situation. Suffice it to say, the transaction,—if it may be so denoted,—was managed with the utmost regularity and formality. Elderly men and women were chosen for the clerical work which this rather laborious undertaking entailed.

On the crest of the loftiest hill there was established a permanent observation and signal station. Near the top a sort of combination dug-out and shanty was constructed by order of Captain Trigger, and day and night, week in and week out, watches were kept similar to those maintained on board ship.

While the entire company, high and low, worked with a zeal that eventually resulted in a state of good-natured though intense rivalry in skill and accomplishment,—while they were generally cheerful and courageous,—there was a profound lack of gaiety. In the eyes of each and every one of them lay the never-vanishing shadow of anxiety,—an eternal unspoken question. The hardest, fiercest faces wore a wistful expression; the broadest smile revealed a touch of sadness. Over all, however, the surpassing spirit of kindness and generosity presided.

Calamity had softened the hearts in the same crucible that hardened the hands. The arrogance of the strong mellowed into consideration for the weak; wisdom and culture went hand in hand with ignorance and brawn; malice and rancour left the hearts of the lowly and met half-way the departing insolence of the lofty; fellowship took root and throve in a field rich with good deeds. The heart of man was master here, the brain its humble servant.

Landover worked hard, doggedly. To all outward appearances, he had resigned himself to the inevitable. He affected a spirit of camaraderie and good humour that deceived many. Down in his heart, however, he was bitterly rebellious. He despised these people as a class. In his estimation, all creatures who worked for a living were branded with the obnoxious iron of socialism; he even went so far as to believe that they were, after a fashion, anarchists! His conception of anarchy was rather far-reaching; it took in everything that was contrary to his notion of a satisfactory distribution of wealth. He believed that every man who worked for a wage was at heart an enemy to law and order. He regarded the wage-earner as one whose hand is eternally against the employer, absolutely without honour, justice or reason. The workingman was for self, always for self,—and to Landover that was anarchy.

The thought that people,—men and women,—of the lower classes possessed physical and mental qualities similar to those possessed by himself, even in a modified form, was not only repugnant to him but incredible. They had none of the finer emotions,—such as love, for instance. He could not conceive of a labouring man loving his wife and children; it wasn't natural! He pictured the home-life of the lower classes as nothing short of indecent; there couldn't be anything fine or noble or enduring in the processes of birth, existence and death as related to them. Nature took its course with them, and society,—as represented by the class to which he belonged,—provided for the litters they cast upon the world. In a word, Abel Landover's father and grandfather and great-grandfather had been rich men before him.

He despised Captain Trigger for the simple reason that that faithful, gallant sailor was an employee of the company in which he was a director. It meant nothing to him that Captain Trigger came of fine, hardy, valiant stock; it meant less to him that he was a law unto himself aboard the Doraine. For, when all was said and done, Captain Trigger worked for just so much money per month and doubtless hated the men who paid him his wage. On board the Doraine,—as was the case with all other vessels on which he chose to sail,—the banker sat at the Captain's table. But he did not consider that to be a distinction or an honour; it was his due. As a matter of fact, he looked upon himself as the real head of the Captain's table!