West Wind Drift

by George Barr McCutcheon

The exodus of women was hastened somewhat by the further listing of the Doraine. This was due primarily to the removal of thousands of tons from the holds, the galley and the engine room. A more sinister cause for alarm, however, was the action of the greatly lightened vessel when a tidal wave swept into the basin from the north. This came at the tag end of the storm,—on the third day, in fact. The Doraine seemed actually to be afloat for a few seconds, heaving, shuddering, groaning. Her bottom, after scraping and grinding and giving up the most unearthly sounds, suddenly appeared to have freed itself completely from the rocks on which it was jammed. She seemed on the point of righting herself. Then she started to roll over on her side! Almost as abruptly she stopped, shivered, and then lay still again. But she was not in her old position. She was lying over at least two degrees farther than before the upheaval.

This same, tremendous tidal wave, driven up by the strong wind that had blown steadily and viciously out of the north for three days,—or perhaps created by some vast internal convulsion of the earth,—completely inundated the low-lying point of land known as Cape Sunrise, At least two miles of the island was temporarily under water. The high ridge lining the shore alone prevented the sea from hurtling over into the valley to destroy the fields and gardens and even to imperil the row of huts along the opposite slope.

Out on Cape Sunrise the waters swept over the lonely grave of Betty Cruise, but fell back baffled when they attacked the foothills that protected the homes of the living. There were superstitious persons who read meaning into this startling visitation of the sea. They made ugly romance of it. For, said they, the lonely spirit of Jimmy Cruise was trying to reach its mate,—aye, striving to drag her body down to the bottom of the sea to lie beside his own.

As the days went by,—long days that were not governed by any daylight saving law,—the settlement took on the air and life of a sequestered village. There was the general warehouse from which stores were dispensed sparingly by agents selected for such duties. Women and men went to market and carried home the provender. A fish market was established; wood-yards, fruit and vegetable booths, a dispensary, and a general store where leather, cloths of various description, and furs were to be had by requisition.

In speaking of the dispensary, Dr. Cullen complacently announced that the supply of medicine was limited, but that it was nothing to worry about. He declared bluntly,—and with a twinkle in his eye,—that people took too much medicine anyhow.

“Medicine is a luxury,” he said. “The more we stuff into people the more they want, and the less they take the sooner they forget they're sick. As your doctor, from this time on, I shall be delighted to set your broken bones, sew up your gashes, and all that sort of thing, but it is precious little medicine I'll give to you. So don't get sick. The only epidemic we can have here, according to my judgment, is an epidemic of good health. Am I right, gentlemen?”

The two young American doctors put aside their dignity and grinned.

The wines and liquors from the Doraine were brought ashore and locked away in the cellar beneath the warehouse. It could be had only on the doctor's orders.

“It won't hurt any of us to drink nothing but water for awhile,” said Percival in discussing the matter; “and the chances are we'll be less likely to hurt each other if we let the grog alone. There'll be no drinking on this island if I can help it. I understand some of you men are planning to put the pulp of the algarobo through a process of fermentation and make chica by the barrel. Well, if I have anything to say about it, you'll do nothing of the sort. I know that stuff. It's got more murder in it than anything I've ever tackled. We can make flour out of that pulp, as some of you know, and that's all we are going to make out of it. Besides, we can be decent longer on flour than we can on chica.

“We'll find it harder to do without tobacco than without booze, and unless we discover something to take its place we'll be smokeless in a few weeks. Professor Knapendyke is experimenting with a shrub he has discovered here. He says it may be a fairly good substitute if properly cured. But it won't be tobacco, so I guess we may as well make up our minds to swear off smoking as well as drinking. I hope there's nothing in the saying that the good die young. Because if there is, we're in for an epidemic that will wipe out four-fifths of our population in no time at all. We're going to be so good we'll die like flies.”