West Wind Drift

by George Barr McCutcheon

The first law, therefore, is thrift. Not thrift in its common, accepted sense, based on the self-denial of the individual, but a systematic shoulder-to-shoulder stand for the general welfare of the community. There is no such thing as waste on Trigger Island. The grim spectre of want and privation treads softly behind every mortal there, and there is none who treats its invisible presence with disdain. Even the wood-ashes from stoves and fireplaces are carefully hoarded in hoppers, for the alkaline solution obtained by treating them with water is lye. This lye is being used chiefly in the production of a soap not unlike that made by thrifty farmers' wives in the Argentine, experimentation with the pulpy fruit of a tree belonging to the variety known as Sapindus marginatus bringing about rather astonishing results.

For many months of the year the people wear sandals on their bare feet. Only those who toil in the forests don the uncouth boots turned out by the firm of cobblers known as Block & Nicklestick. Shoes, boots and slippers of another day are zealously guarded by their owners, in anticipation of still another day,—the day of deliverance. “Waste not, want not,” is the motto of Trigger Island.

The second winter brought a double catastrophe, and for days thereafter deepest gloom prevailed. Even the stout-hearted Percival drooped under the weight of it.

Fire wiped out the work of months in the space of a few bleak, bitter hours. The sturdy little ship that was so well along toward completion was destroyed.

Months of faithful, patient, dogged toil had resulted in the construction of a stout hull which stood proudly on the ways to be admired and glorified by the eager, confident supporters of the determined little band of builders. Six weeks more would have seen the vessel off the ways and floating gaily on the surface of the snug little basin, ready for the final touches, the provisioning and the ultimate departure of the hardy company that was to take her out into the open stretches in quest of the helping hand. For weeks a devoted, one-minded community had been preparing food, raiment and comforts for the men who were to go forth in the new Doraine. The masts and spars were in place, the forecastle and cabin were almost ready for occupancy, the galley was nearing completion,—and then came swift, relentless disaster.

The night was cold and windy. Down at the water's edge, almost under the bulging side of the ship, two men had their quarters at one end of the low, rambling carpenter shop. At the other end was located the forge. The very thing they were there to guard against happened on this miserable night. Fire broke out in the forge.

The man on watch had fallen asleep. His name was Smiley. It is mentioned here for the only time in this narrative.

Shortly before midnight, his companion was awakened by the smell of smoke. He scrambled out of his blankets on the floor,—and cursed the man who still slept in his chair beside the smoke-befogged lantern on the end of a carpenter's bench. Flames were creeping along the wooden partition separating the forge from the shop. Half a mile away three hundred men were sleeping,—but half a mile is half a mile. Before the watchmen could sound the alarm, after their first courageous efforts to subdue the blaze, the building was a roaring mass of flames and a gleeful wind had carried tongues of fire to the side of the vessel where they licked shapeless black patterns at first and then swiftly turned them to red.

Stark-eyed, shivering people stood far back among the trees throughout the rest of the night and watched the work of months go up in flame and smoke. Nothing could be done to save the ship. Hewn from the hardiest trees in the forest, caulked and fortified to defy the most violent assaults of water, she was like paper in the clutch of flames. In the grey of early morn the stricken people slunk back to their cabins and gave up hope. For not only was their ship destroyed but the priceless tools and implements with which she had been built were gone as well. It was the double catastrophe that took the life, the spirit, out of them.

And while the day was still breaking, the man who had slept at his post, stole off into the forest and cut his throat from ear to ear.