Читать книгу Northern Neighbours: Stories of the Labrador People - Wilfred T. Grenfell - Страница 9

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There could be no two minds about Tom Sparks. It was no trouble for him to work. His keen, active mind fired with energy his strong, well-built body. He was the true type of a Newfoundland fisherman—medium height, broad-shouldered, with a frank open face betokening no little will power.

It was his greatest delight to be first on the fishing grounds, and he was ever the last to leave when a “spurt o’ fish” was running. In the dark before dawn in our harbor, when the air is as sweet as sugar and the silence almost unearthly, it used to be Tom’s footfall on the rocks and the sound of Tom stepping into his boat that heralded the activity of the coming day. Yet many a time you could see the tiny light twinkling away in Tom’s fishing stage, as he finished splitting the last half quintal, when there was not another light in the harbor.

Tom was a “snapper fisherman,” and if any boat in the harbor got a load it was as certain as daylight that Tom’s punt did not go home empty.

“I wants to get ahead, Doctor,” he used to say. “And then, please God, I’ll build a bigger boat, a schooner, maybe, one o’ these days. No man can’t be sure o’ getting a winter’s diet with only a cross-hand skiff to work in.”

It was all the more surprising, therefore, that one day when I was sitting in his little cottage he should come in suddenly, throw his cap impatiently on to the settle, and, sitting down, bury his face in his hands.

“I ain’t got a bit o’ heart to work, Sal,” he said to his wife. “It don’t seem to matter what yer catch is, yer get nothing for it. Them as gets none is just as well-off as them that catches plenty. Why should ’em make us pay for what dey loses on others?” And I could see, in spite of his efforts to keep them back, the resentful tears standing on his cheeks.

“It’s just slaving, dat’s what it is, and seems to me the agents down here does just what ’em likes wi’ us. There ain’t nowheres else to get any supplies from, and they charges us credit prices to make up for them as don’t pay. Even when you does settle you’s account dey won’t give you no cash, and they ’tices you all they can to get more credit.”

There was nothing to say, for I knew it to be too true. The truck system of trade always tells against the poor man, and when he is ignorant as well, it spells to him nothing better than slavery.

Now, Tom was always careful to “make” his fish well. He knew that it meant a deal of difference to the price that it was worth if it was white and hard, carefully cleaned and dried. So like everything else he went at, he spared no pains in the curing, and generally managed to pass it all as merchantable, which is the highest grade possible. On the present occasion he had just taken his fish to his merchant’s store, and was very well satisfied with his success with it. In his mind he almost saw the bigger boat he had so long striven for. He saw himself seated in it, going out farther than ever, “right to the ’offer banks,” and then coming home loaded, and the surprise and joy of his dear wife as he tied up to the stage, while he began to “pew” it up with the sharp hoe to where it could be split and salted. He was a man with an imaginative mind, and though he scarcely would have said so, he saw also in his vision of those days a time when there would always be plenty to eat and drink, and unlimited warm clothing for Sal and the children.

So Tom had ferried his fish to the trader’s wharf, and thrown it down as the custom is. He was full of high hopes, as he watched it being culled and speedily enough stored away. With not a little pride he had received from the storekeeper a ticket of the weight and quality of the fish. Then he went up the wooden gangway to the store above to get his account, and order his winter supplies. The storekeeper was very cordial and almost made Tom take more goods than he intended. For he had determined to be very “close” this winter, and to have enough left over for nails and iron work and canvas and rope to build the new boat.

But, like many of the fishermen, Tom had had no schooling, and was therefore quite unable to read. So when he met a friend outside, “who had a tidy bit of larning,” he stopped him and asked him to read what was on the paper.

Poor Tom. He could scarcely believe that Levi Boyd was reading aright, as he laboriously spelled out: “You owes t’ store fifty-five dollars.”

“Me owes t’ store? You’m sure?”

“Why, certain, boy; ’tis writ plain enough.” And then at the sight of the disconsolate face: “You wasn’t expecting no balance coming to yer, was yer?”

Tom’s heart was bursting with anger as Levi picked out for him some of the prices—and exorbitant enough they were. Salt was three dollars a hogshead; flour was eight dollars a barrel; molasses was eighty cents a gallon, kerosene thirty cents a gallon—while his fish! Well, if the bottom had dropped out of the fish market Tom wouldn’t have been more surprised.

Burning with indignation, he walked hurriedly back to the store, where he met the storekeeper, smiling as before.

“What’s the matter, Tom, boy? Something gone wrong?”

For reply Tom took out the bill and pointed to the figures. “ ’Tis the prices, sir! Sure they be beyant all.”

“They’re only the usual prices. You can see for yourself if you want to look at our books.”

“But the fish were every bit merchantable,” he insisted, “and you only gives me credit for ten quintals o’ merchantables.”

“Come, come, I’m sorry if you’re not satisfied; but the price of fish has fallen anyhow this last week, and I can’t find out now if what you say is true, for your fish is all bulked along with the rest in the store. You’re too late now.”

What could the poor fellow do more? Might was enthroned. He couldn’t get his fish back to prove his point, and so had to go home broken-hearted and leave things as they were.

“No, Sal, it’s no good. Us may as well take it easy like others do. Us only has to pay them’s debts, if us works e’er a bit harder than others.”

She had seen discontent written in Tom’s face before he began to speak, and like a true woman had already decided how best to counter it, “Come, Tom, ne’er mind, lad, dey won’t allers have it all their own way. Dere’s One above wat knows all about ’em, and he’ll put t’ings right by’m bye. ’Tis no good for you’s to fight agin ’em. Dey’s got everyt’ing in dey’s own hands. Let’s t’ank God we’m got enough for de winter.”

“Yes, maid; but you knows I wanted to build our new boat dis winter, and den next spring I’d ha’ caught two fish for one. But that’s all over now,” he added.

“N’ar mind, Tom, so as us lives. What odds about gettin’ on? I suppose that’s not for the likes o’ we. Leastways, dat’s what most dem t’inks, and I t’inks so, too, now. We’m better go on bein’ content as we is.”

After some time she got Tom quieted down, and his restless spirit that had been chafing under the undefined wrong done him (but of which he was quite conscious), was able to thank God for what was still left him.

The next year it seemed as if everything was against them. One of our erratic summer frosts had nipped their potatoes, and in spite of all his efforts, Tom’s catch was small, and when he blurted out, “ ’Twas a poor summer, Doctor, and I don’t know what we is agoin’ to do for de winter,” I could see there was some undercurrent of thought in his mind.

At last I guessed what the great question was. What should he do with the fish he had? Should he turn it in to the merchant who had fitted him out for the summer, or should he sell it privately and buy some food for the winter elsewhere? There were only seven quintals in all.

Husband and wife sat looking into the fire. The house was silent except for the breathing of the children. Each knew what the other was thinking, for their eyes, roving now and again to where the children lay, had met, been lowered, and had met again.

Tom at length broke the silence. “What shall us do, Sal? De children must have somet’ing to eat. I knows the merchant can go without better nor we, and de fish won’t pay more’n half wo’t we had; and he’s not goin’ to gi’e us any more, you bet.”

“De Bible says, ‘Pay what you owes and den trust God for de rest’; but it’s hard to see de children starving.”

“Well, maid, us wants to do de right—but it seems to me they allers gets their share out o’ we anyways.”

A silent pause followed; then suddenly Tom made his decision: “I reckon I’ll carry t’ fish down to Mellon. I’ll tell him how we is off and ask him to gi’e us some t’ings for de winter. I can’t do fairer nor dat, and den if he don’t, why, we must just trust de Lord to feed us, dat’s all.”

So on the morrow he put it all in his boat and carried it to the agent, who promptly accepted it on account and even praised poor Tom for his honesty in bringing all he had. But when Tom stammered out: “It’s all we has for de winter,” the agent simply said, “I’m sorry to hear that, for there is still a balance against you upon our books. I’m afraid you’ll have to do the best you can.” And then he turned away to speak to another man.

Poor Tom! He could no more ask for mercy from this man than he could from the big seas—that he so often faced with a lighter heart than that with which he now turned homeward to greet his wife. But she had anticipated the result, and was fully prepared to meet him with the most cheerful smiles. “I see you has got nothin’, boy. But dere, n’ar mind. We has a few potatoes, anyhow, and maybe God’ll send somet’ing along.”

If God had not sent something along, in the form of devoted brotherly neighbors, Tom and his family would not be living to tell the tale, for it was a winter of sore trial. The long fall prevented any chance of remunerative labor, and the deep snow made work in the woods impossible. By Christmas the little stock of butter and molasses was exhausted, and for some time they had been on very short allowances of flour. At length even that was gone, and nothing but a few potatoes and some salt herring remained. Even Tom’s strong nature could not stand it long. He grew thinner and thinner, and eventually so weak that he could scarcely walk.

The simple, kindly neighbors soon found out the cause of his illness; though till then he had concealed it from them, for they were nearly as badly off in the matter of provisions as he was himself.

The neighbors clubbed together, and by a panful from this house and a panful from that, two barrels of flour were collected and brought to the family. The children could scarcely understand the need of so much generosity, for all the time the parents had been starving themselves the children had never been allowed to want, even though there was only flour. By the time Tom was nursed back to his strength, it was possible to get to work in the woods, and in a fortnight, by steady, hard work, he had brought out enough logs to pay for his two barrels of flour, for he was determined not to be unnecessarily indebted to the others. At length the spring days brought a little work incident to the return of the fishery, and so also a little more food and comfort into the home. The long, dreary winter, full of trial, hardship, and the truest heroism, was at an end. Yet all it seemed to leave in the minds of this devoted couple was the thankful memory that “de children never wanted all winter, t’ank God.”

Soon after this a meeting of the fishermen was held in our harbor and, of course, as it was strictly private, it soon leaked out that the subject was the formation of a coöperative store.

Therefore I was not surprised to be asked, a day or two later, “Is dat true, Doctor, dat you’se be goin’ t’ start a copper store? I doesn’t know what dat be.”

It was a long business explaining to these men, born and reared on the truck system, that any other way to live was possible. They could not stretch their minds to imagine a cash basis of trading.

Old Uncle Ephraim, who was alleged to have “a stocking full o’ t’ings somewheres,” rose in the meeting to ask: “Where’ll us get salt from int’ spring?”

“Why, buy it at the store, of course.”

“You doesn’t mean pay cash for salt, does you?”

“At this store things must be paid for in cash.”

“Cash for salt—well, dat’s de limit!” and the old man simply collapsed with a woebegone expression on his face.

Then Uncle Alfred, another of our village savants, arose and wanted to know, “What’ll us do if it be a bad fishery, Doctor? Where’ll us get a winter’s diet?”

“The traders don’t give you food or salt for nothing; they don’t run a charity,” was the answer. “You really pay for all you have. Only you pay a great deal more, because you pay credit prices, and now the man who does well pays for the man who does badly. But you can see from the number of traders there are that everything is paid for and we really do earn enough to live on.”

WINTER TRAVELING

It had never occurred to Uncle Alfred that he could own real cash and “tide himself over a bad time.”

These folk are not talkers, and it was difficult to get them on their feet at all; but the burden of the next speech was understood to be: “Us reckons t’ Gov’ment’ll have to stand t’ it.”

Another wiseacre chimed in that he didn’t see what the Government was for, if it wasn’t to keep poor people from starving. The Government has been looked upon as a kind of inexhaustible supply intended to send along unlimited barrels of flour whenever the traders would not give a man a winter’s diet, and often enough, also, to pay the traders when they had given it. It was a milch cow that gave milk perennially, and they never realized it had to be fed—and by them.

The only answer possible to these remarks was, “If men cannot earn enough to live on, then they must get out and try and live somewhere else—or they cease to be men.”

One doubtful soul suggested, “You says the copper store won’t give us no credit in the fall; but perhaps the traders may give us.” The answer to this, that appealed to all hands, was, “What did Tom get last fall?”—for they all loved Tom.

The crucial point came when old Skipper Matt, who had been an over-sea sailor in his day and “knowed a thing or two,” asked, “If salt is one dollar a hogshead in St. John’s, will the store charge two dollars and forty cents for it?” When they were assured that they would share whatever gain was made, and there seemed to be a prospect of reducing the prices at present in vogue, all hands voted for the “copper store.”

So the White Bay Coöperative Store was formed with thirteen members who were unitedly able to allow eighty-five dollars in cash for the capital. A queer eighty-five dollars it was, too; old enough, some of the silver dollars were, and had lain in boxes many a long year till the heirs had almost forgotten they were still negotiable. Naturally enough we had to invite some outside shareholders, and this we arranged. In the fall the first consignment of goods was sent down. I have a copy of that first order now before me as I write. To me it is a precious, though a humble document. We could not afford a large stock, so we asked Uncle Alfred, Skipper Tom and the others how much they would expect to pay for with fish that they could honestly call their own and was not owing to the trader. Alas! some already owed all they had and more besides, and could not begin with the coöperative store till the next year, though they all said they would live on grass in the spring to avoid having to incur debts on credit—and I verily believe some of them did. When the list was completed we found we could order enough to carry all hands through the winter and a small stock to keep on hand from which those who earned money from furs in the winter could purchase.

“How’re us goin’ to get the coöperative fish to t’ market?” was a question over which there was much shaking of heads and no small anxiety of heart, for the traders who had carried it for us before could scarcely be expected to freight for us now. Then came the difficulty of how to pay our debts, because the mails were both infrequent and unreliable, and to send cash was out of the question. We finally arranged to pay by checks, the three members who wrote best signing their names on them like a proper finance committee. Few though the checks were, this system had to be abandoned, as it was a great labor, and when the three names were accomplished they had strayed all over the check till the amount was almost illegible. So we appointed an agent in St. John’s, who also kept all the accounts and only sent us copies “way down North.”

The next spring would come the crisis with the traders, for no one who had joined the store would expect to get supplies from them, and some could not yet afford to buy from the store for cash. None wished it known, therefore, who the shareholders were, and every man who put in a share had his name in blank and a number issued instead on his paper.

The goods were stored in an old house lent for the occasion, and there was no external sign of the store until we began to see our way a bit clear and painted all across the house, “White Bay Coöperative Store.”

In order to get a photograph of the first Labrador coöperators we had to get a group of all the able-bodied men together, so that the real members were not distinguishable. One man had to be known visibly as the manager, and for that post we chose a promising young fisherman who could write. He kept the store open only when it was necessary, spending the rest of his time fishing like the others.

Many are the adventures the store met with in its career. Its misfortunes were largely due to that common failing—lack of wisdom; but this has been slowly remedied in the school of experience. Before ten years rolled away the good results of the store were clearly evident. A fine schooner called the Coöperator had been added to bring down our goods and take our fish to the market. Slowly but steadily the store grew in strength, and the men in independence. The church, the school, and the houses grew in efficiency and comfort. There was not a man in the harbor but had a dollar to his name and a dollar in the store as well. Half-clad and half-naked children had almost entirely disappeared. Three or four other little stores had grown up along the shore and were small but valuable examples with regard to the price of goods.

At that time Uncle Alfred confided to me: “If ever the store goes down, Doctor, we’ll all have to leave White Bay. How did us ever do without he?” And Uncle Ephraim, whose years were long ago lost in the tale of decades, when I asked him if he were sorry his time was nearly run out, answered cheerily, “No, no, Doctor, not sorry, thank God. The Lord have ’lowed me to see good times—and some hard times, too, praise His name. But at the end He have let me see this here copper store, which have given many of we folk a chance we never ’lowed we should live to see come to White Bay again.”

Two decades have nearly passed since the store first started, and the store still flourishes. The Great War has come and gone, and the huge advance in prices makes us almost wonder that we ever thought the prices of those days high. What would we not give to-day for flour to be eight dollars and molasses eighty cents! War! War! War! It has left its baneful traces all the world over. The victors have, as always, suffered with the vanquished; and the impoverished markets and inflated prices have brought ruin to many and hunger and cold to the innocent and helpless, way down here.

The Copper Store still stands, though many of its charter members have passed to where all men must pass. More than ever it is the one safeguard of the White Bay people. Tom, now white-haired and no longer able to lead the Bay in matters of physical energy, is still, with his good wife beside him, a blessing and a boon to the village. “If I want to get a blessing for my soul,” said a visiting trader to me not long ago, “I don’t wait for Sunday, I just run up to Tom’s cottage and spend a while with the dear old couple up there. It’s like a fresh breeze from heaven.” Tom is still poor, but he has never known what it was to have to beg his bread, even through the hard war years that claimed his only son, who “fell in action,” as Tom will fall himself. He told me that “ne’er a cent has been spent in twenty-six years for loading or unloading de Copper Store Schooner. Not but what some doesn’t do their share on times, but you sees, Doctor, dis is a real copper store, and de others does the job for us and says nothing—so that’s all there is to it.”