Every Man for Himself. Duncan Norman
the nor’east wind. ’Twas in the days afore the sealin’ was done in steamships from St. John’s, an’ they was a cloud o’ sail at the selsame thing. An’ we all put into White Bay, in the mornin’ in chase o’ the floe, an’ done a day’s work on the swiles [seals] afore night. But nex’ day we was jammed by the ice – the fleet o’ seventeen schooners, cotched in the bottom o’ the bay, an’ like t’ crack our hulls if the wind held. Whatever, the wind fell, an’ there come a time o’ calm an’ cold, an’ we was all froze in, beyond help, an’ could do nothin’ but wait for the ice t’ drive out an’ go abroad, an’ leave us t’ sink or sail, as might chance. Tommy Jump ’lowed the Second t’ None would sink; said her timbers was sprung, an’ she’d leak like a basket, an’ crush like a eggshell, once the ice begun t’ drive an’ grind an’ rafter – leastwise, he thunk so, admittin’ ’twas open t’ argument; an’ he wouldn’t go so far as t’ pledge the word of a gentleman that she would sink.
“‘Whatever,’ says he, ‘we’ll stick to her an’ find out.’
“The change o’ wind come at dusk – a big blow from the sou’west. ’Twas beyond doubt the ice would go t’ sea; so I tipped the wink t’ young Toby Jowl an’ told un the time was come.
“‘I’ll save my life, Tumm,’ says he, ‘if I’m able.’
“’Twas a pity! Ecod! t’ this day I ’low ’twas a pity; ’Twas a fine, sweet lad, that Toby; but he looked like a wolf, that night, in the light o’ the forecastle lamp, when his eyes flashed an his upper lip stretched thin over his teeth!
“‘You better get some grub in your pocket,’ says I.
“‘I got it,’ says he.
“‘Well,’ says I, ‘I ’low you’ve learned! Where’d you get it?”
“‘Stole it from the cook,’ says he.
“‘Any chance for me?’
“‘If you’re lively,’ says he. ‘The cook’s a fool… Will it come soon, Tumm?’ says he, with a grip on my wrist. ‘How long will it be, eh, Tumm, afore ’tis every man for hisself?’
“Soon enough, God knowed! By midnight the edge o’ the floe was rubbin’ Pa’tridge P’int, an’ the ice was troubled an’ angry. In an hour the pack had the bottom scrunched out o’ the Second t’ None; an’ she was kep’ above water – listed an’ dead – only by the jam o’ little pans ’longside. Tommy Jump ’lowed we’d strike the big billows o’ the open afore dawn an’ the pack would go abroad an’ leave us t’ fill an’ sink; said he couldn’t do no more, an’ the crew could take care o’ their own lives, which was what he would do, whatever come of it. ’Twas blowin’ big guns then – rippin’ in straight lines right off from Sop’s Arm an’ all them harbors for starved bodies an’ souls t’ the foot o’ the bay. An’ snow come with the wind; the heavens emptied theirselves; the air was thick an’ heavy. Seemed t’ me the wrath o’ sea an’ sky broke loose upon us – wind an’ ice an’ snow an’ big waves an’ cold – all the earth contains o’ hate for men! Skipper Tommy Jump ’lowed we’d better stick t’ the ship so long as we was able; which was merely his opinion, an’ if the hands had a mind t’ choose their pans while they was plenty, they was welcome t’ do it, an’ he wouldn’t see no man called a fool if his fists was big enough t’ stop it. But no man took t’ the ice at that time. An’ the Second t’ None ran on with the floe, out t’ sea, with the wind an’ snow playin’ the devil for their own amusement, an’ the ice groanin’ its own complaint…
“Then we struck the open.”
“‘Now, lads,’ yells Tommy Jump, when he got all hands amidships, ‘you better quit the ship. The best time,’ says he, ‘will be when you sees me go overside. But don’t get in my way. You get your own pans. God help the man that gets in my way!’
“Tommy Jump went overside when the ice opened an’ the Second t’ None begun t’ go down an’ the sea was spread with small pans, floatin’ free. ’Twas near dawn then. Things was gray; an’ the shapes o’ things was strange an’ big – out o’ size, fearsome. Dawn shot over the sea, a wide, flat beam from the east, an’ the shadows was big, an’ the light dim, an’ the air full o’ whirlin’ snow; an’ men’s eyes was too wide an’ red an’ frightened t’ look with sure sight upon the world. An’ all the ice was in a tumble o’ black water… An’ the Second t’ None went down… An’ I ’lowed they wasn’t no room on my pan for nobody but me. But I seed the shape of a man leap for my place. An’ I cursed un, an’ bade un go farther, or I’d drown un. An’ he leaped for the pan that lied next, where Jowl was afloat, with no room t’ spare. An’ Jowl hit quick an’ hard. He was waitin’, with his fists closed, when the black shape landed; an’ he hit quick an’ hard without lookin’… An’ I seed the face in the water… An’, oh, I knowed who ’twas!
“‘Dear God!’ says I.
“Jowl was now but a shape in the snow. ‘That you, Tumm?’ says he. ‘What you sayin’?’
“’ Why didn’t you take time t’ look?’ says I. ‘Oh, Jowl! why didn’t you take time?’
“‘T’ look?’ says he.
“‘Dear God!’
“‘What you sayin’ that for, Tumm?’ says he. ‘What you mean, Tumm? … My God!’ says he, ‘what is I gone an’ done? Who was that, Tumm? My God! Tell me! What is I done?’
“I couldn’t find no words t’ tell un.
“‘Oh, make haste,’ says he, ‘afore I drifts away!’
“‘Dear God!’ says I, ‘’twas Toby!’
“An’ he fell flat on the ice…An’ I didn’t see Jowl no more for four year. He was settled at Mad Tom’s Harbor then, where you seed un t’-day; an’ his wife was dead, an’ he didn’t go no more t’ the Labrador, nor t’ the ice, but fished the Mad Tom grounds with hook-an’-line on quiet days, an’ was turned timid, they said, with fear o’ the sea…”
The Good Samaritan ran softly through the slow, sleepy sea, bound across the bay to trade the ports of the shore.
“I tells you, sir,” Tumm burst out, “’tis hell. Life is! Maybe not where you hails from, sir; but ’tis on this coast. I ’low where you comes from they don’t take lives t’ save their own?”
“Not to save their own,” said I.
He did not understand.
III – THE MINSTREL
Salim Awad, poet, was the son of Tanous – that orator. Having now lost at love, he lay disconsolate on his pallet in the tenement overlooking the soap factory. He would not answer any voice; nor would he heed the gentle tap and call of old Khalil Khayyat, the tutor of his muse; nor would he yield his sorrow to the music of Nageeb Fiani, called the greatest player in all the world. For three hours Fiani, in the wail and sigh of his violin, had expressed the woe of love through the key-hole; but Salim Awad was not moved. No; the poet continued in desolation through the darkness of that night, and through the slow, grimy, unfeeling hours of day. He dwelt upon Haleema, Khouri’s daughter – she (as he thought) of the tresses of night, the beautiful one. Salim was in despair because this Haleema had chosen to wed Jimmie Brady, the truckman. She loved strength more than the uplifted spirit; and this maidens may do, as Salim knew, without reproach or injury.
When the dusk of the second day was gathered in his room, Salim looked up, eased by the tender obscurity. In the cobble-stoned street below the clatter of traffic had subsided; there were the shuffle and patter of feet of the low-born of his people, the murmur of voices, soft laughter, the plaintive cries of children – the dolorous medley of a summer night. Beyond the fire-escape, far past the roof of the soap factory, lifted high above the restless Western