The Measure of Katie Calloway,: A Novel (11 page)

But the tension between his two cooks was getting on his nerves. He had meant what he said. Katie was going to have to find a way to deal with Jigger or both of them were going to be out on their ear. He’d figure out a way to cook himself before he’d put up with any more of this nonsense.

He really did mean it. At least he had meant it when he said it, with the sting of salty doughnuts still on his tongue. Now, well . . . Katie was crying.

From outside her cabin, he could hear her sobs. He was certain she thought everyone was still in the cook shanty, eating her feather-light flapjacks, but he was here, outside her door, and her sobs had taken his appetite away.

The girl had been so plucky, had tried so hard, had worked nonstop since they had arrived—without one complaint. She had even endured his lecture this morning without a whimper or word of defense. She had stood there, absorbing his words. He wondered now how hard Jigger had made things for the girl when his back was turned.

He also wondered what she had experienced before coming to the camp to make her so stoic, so accepting of hardship. He knew next to nothing about her except what he had seen with his own eyes—her love for her brother, her skill in the kitchen, that lift of her chin the first time she had told him she was a good cook. Being a good cook was obviously something she was proud of—maybe the only thing—and Jigger had ruined it for her.

Robert had seen her look of pleasure as she had surveyed the table right before the men had dug in. Her eyes had lingered a little longer on the carefully stacked pyramid of perfect, golden doughnuts. She was proud of them. Proud of having made them.

After getting up in the middle of the night to create a wonderful breakfast for the men, after having done her level best to make a work of art out of nothing more than breakfast in a rough lumber camp—thanks to him and Jigger, she had been humiliated and chastised.

Her sobs were breaking his heart.

He raised a fist to knock on the cabin door. Then he pulled his hand away and jammed it into his pocket. If she opened the door, with those big tear-stained blue eyes, he would melt. Pure and simple. In fact, he had already begun to melt. Katie was starting to occupy too many of his thoughts, and he was only two days into logging. In fact, he hadn’t even
begun
to log yet. His crew wasn’t complete. Not one tree had been felled. And already things felt as though they were spinning out of control.

The problem was, he couldn’t afford to let Katie’s sobs affect him, or the wall he had erected between himself and the rest of the world would crumble. As it was, it was all he could do just to keep putting one foot in front of the other long enough to support his family. Had he not possessed the ability to harden his heart, he would have already lost his mind.

The nightmares alone would have driven him mad.

He had looked into the eyes of men who were dying and whom he had no way on earth of helping. He had seen the pleas in their faces—begging him to save them for their wives, their children, their aged mothers and fathers.

He had watched good, decent men falling, men whose families were depending on them to return to their small family farms. Needing their strength at home to keep the children fed, the families intact. There were too many men whose wives had ended up like Katie, alone in the world and trying to keep body and soul together by any means possible. He had seen some of those war widows, out of sheer desperation, working in the brothels of Bay City.

He couldn’t save everyone. He could barely save himself.

He shoved away the memories of the bloodbaths he had endured. He took a deep breath of the clean air of the pine woods and stared at the treetops in the distance—the giant pines in whose presence he felt cleansed and renewed.

Cutting logs, ordering supplies, hiring men. Taking his turn with an axe or a crosscut saw or a peavey. This was what he did now. This was who he was. If he were to make a success of this camp, he would have to be tough. Logging companies weren’t built by men who fell apart over the sound of a woman crying.

Resolutely, he walked back to the cook shanty and took his place at the table. Katie would have to learn how to deal with the realities of life in a lumber camp, or she would have to go. It was that simple. And Jigger would have to straighten up, or he would have to go. Robert couldn’t waste another minute worrying about either of them. He had children depending on him for support, and the only way he knew to do that was to float at least three-hundred-thousand board feet of timber down the Saginaw River come spring.

Katie swept into the kitchen after she saw the men leave, with her jaw set and her head held high. She was done with tears and finished with cowering and placating. The only person left in the room when she entered was Jigger, who was wiping off the table with a rag and a bucket of water.

“Where’s Ned?” she asked.

“The boy’s watching Tinker fixin’ the steps out front.” Jigger rinsed the rag out with one hand.

“I’m glad he’s not here. I want to talk to you. Alone.” She picked up a butcher knife from the worktable and tested the blade. “That was a good one, Jigger—your practical joke.”

He grinned, proud of himself.

“You don’t know me very well.” She picked up the whetting stone and hefted it in her hand. “Do you?”

“Don’t need to,” Jigger muttered, going back to his work. “Women are all about the same.”

“Not really.” She began to hone the butcher knife with the stone, taking slow, steady swipes. “Once you get to know them, women are very different, one from another. Take me, for example.” She tested the knife by cutting a small shred off an old newspaper lying nearby. “I used to be an innocent, trusting girl. Very sensitive. I could weep just at the thought of something or someone being in pain.”

Jigger sniffed, dismissing her statement.

“Then my husband went to war, and I had to fend for myself. I nearly starved until I learned how to trap rabbits and gut them. I learned how to fish and how to clean those too.” She held the newspaper in front of her face and slowly sliced off another sliver with the razor-sharp knife. “In order to survive, I had to become so hard-hearted that I could chop off a chicken’s head and watch it bleed out without so much as blinking—already planning the dumplings I would stew in its broth.”

Jigger’s hand that had been wiping off the table stilled—and she saw that she had his complete attention.

“What’re you saying?” he said.

“What I’m saying is—and you need to listen carefully here—that sweet little boy out there is the only close relative I have left on this earth. If anyone is foolish enough to force me into a corner, I’ll do whatever I have to do to take care of him.” She brought her hand down suddenly, plunging the butcher knife into the work counter with so much force that it quivered. “If you ever try to sabotage my cooking again, by even so much as one teaspoonful of baking soda, you will regret it.”

He tilted his head back, his eyes squinted. “What do you think yer gonna do?”

She stared him down while enunciating very slowly. “You don’t want to find out, old man.”

He turned away and continued to wipe the table.

And then she saw Robert standing stock still at the back of the room. Had he heard her threats? Did he believe them? Did it matter?

She straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and looked him square in the eye. It might do
him
some good to be a little wary of her too.

Robert was wearing an old slouch hat. Without taking his eyes off of her, he lifted a hand and tipped his hat in a sign of deference and respect. Then he left, quietly closing the door behind him.

10

With patched-up clothes and rubber boots

and mud up to the knees

with lice as big as chili beans

fighting with the fleas.

“The Jolly Shanty Boy Song”
—1800s shanty song

Robert couldn’t help but smile over the look of alarm he had seen on Jigger’s face as Katie had subtly threatened him with a butcher knife. Anyone who had heard her sobbing in her bunk an hour ago wouldn’t be worried. That sweet girl wasn’t capable of hurting a fly. But if her threats kept Jigger in line, Robert would never tell.

He had gone to the cook shanty intending to let Katie and Jigger know that two teams of axe men, four men total, had arrived and would be needing dinner. But Katie seemed to have things well under control. His guess was that after this morning’s disaster, she would outdo herself for dinner and supper. If Jigger’s expression was any indication, he would be quite the helper too.

Hopefully, the tempest that had been brewing in the cook shanty was at an end and he could attend to more important things—like scrounging up a second teamster and praying that more good men, some who had already promised to come, would materialize.

As he made his way through the camp, the sun broke out over the distant trees. In front of the sunrise, coming from the east, rode a man driving a team of horses. The sun blinded Robert, and he shaded his eyes to see who it was.

He was a little surprised when the man drew closer and he saw that he was black—not one of the various shades of brown worn by many freed men Robert had known but the inky blackness born of Africa. He was well-muscled and his team of horses shone with health. It was not unheard of for black men to work in the lumber camps, but it wasn’t common.

“Nice-looking team you’ve got there,” Robert called as the wagon drew near.

The man gave a low whistle, and the horses came to a complete stop. Robert was impressed. No harsh tugging on the reins, no customary string of curse words.

“I hear you’s hiring.”

“I am.” Robert checked out the wagon, which was in excellent repair. “What’s your name?”

“Mose.” The teamster’s face was expressionless, but his muscles were taut as though steeled for rejection.

“Where are you from, Mose?”

“Josiah Henson’s.” He jerked his head toward the north. “Up in Canada. We lumbered a deal of black walnut ’round his place. I’m a right good hand with an axe, as well as a team.”

Robert had heard of Josiah Henson, who had escaped North before the war. Henson had managed to buy land upon which he had founded a cooperative colony of former slaves. The quality of work done there was legendary. From what Robert had heard, if Mose had been trained by Josiah Henson, he would be worth hiring indeed.

“There’s no more work at Henson’s?” Robert asked.

“Gettin’ a little crowded. ’Bout five hundred of us there now. ’Sides, I’s figuring on travelin’ south come spring.”

“I am in need of another teamster,” Robert said. “And I can always use a man who’s good with an axe. Take your horses on over to the barn and give them a good feed.” He paused for a split second. “You can put your bedroll in the bunkhouse.”

This last statement hung in the air between them. They both knew that there might be men in that bunkhouse who would object to Mose sleeping beneath the same roof.

If anyone did mind, Robert decided that he would no longer need their services.

“Thank you kindly,” Mose said, “but I’d rather stay with my horses.”

Mose wouldn’t be the first teamster to prefer the fresh hay of the barn and the wholesome smell of the animals to the smoky, noxious bunkhouse—but Robert needed to make sure that was what Mose wanted.

“You’re welcome to bunk with us.”

“I ’preciate that, but my horses get nervous if I’m not around. They like me being with ’em. Keeps ’em calm.” He gave Robert a shadow of a smile. “Keeps everybody calm.”

“The pay is a dollar a day and all the food you can eat.”

“I’m obliged.” Mose gave another low whistle, and the animals responded immediately.

Mose’s style of driving horses was different than what Robert had ever seen before. He liked it.

His camp was turning into an interesting place—but then lumber camps always drew a variety of men, all with their own personal reasons for seeking out work in the tall timber.

A few were hiding from the law. Some might be avoiding a shotgun wedding. Many were war veterans, like him, trying to get back on their feet. Others were farmers trying to piece together a stake to help them make it on the land another year.

He didn’t know what Mose’s story was, but he probably would before the winter was out. Everyone would know more than they ever wanted to know about one another—after working together for seven long months.

Every time Katie glanced out of the cook shanty, she saw more men arriving. They were rough-looking men, carrying sacks over their shoulders and axes in their hands. There would be a full table tonight. The work was beginning in earnest now, and it was going to take everything she and Jigger could do to get enough food together. There was no time to quarrel, and they both knew it.

She absolutely could no longer afford to sleep past two o’clock, and she had a plan she thought might work. When Jigger wasn’t looking, she had taken a washtub and an old teakettle out to her cabin, along with some thick string she had found in a drawer.

The rich aroma of slow-cooked roasts, carved from a side of beef Sam had hung in the storage shed, drifted from the Dutch ovens she had just pulled from the stove. Three giant wooden bowls piled high with baked potatoes sat steaming nearby. Dried-apple pies cooled on the table where she had placed them at intervals. She had cooked, pared, mixed, and baked all afternoon.

“We’re ready,” she told Jigger.

He pulled the Gabriel horn off the wall and headed out the door. A few loud blasts later, and nearly thirty hungry men crowded in. Jigger took over the task of assigning each new man his permanent place at the table.

She was so busy carrying platters of biscuits to the table that she barely took notice of all the new loggers. The places were filling up fast, and she was preoccupied with wondering whether or not she had prepared enough.

As she brought the trays of potatoes to the table, she scanned the crowd, seeing many unfamiliar faces. At the end of the table, sitting beside Robert, she was surprised to see a large black man. At that very moment, the man glanced up, their eyes met, and she put out a hand to steady herself.

She knew him.

Not only did she know him, she could have recited the exact number of whip marks on his back. There were thirty. Her husband had put them there. She had counted them one dreadful evening, when the sound of each slash echoed against her own soul as her maid, Violet, sobbed in her arms.

She had listened to those thirty lashes, wincing with each one, wishing she could block out the sound. Her temples pounded with the worst headache of her life, and she had vomited afterward.

But her husband had been in high good humor when he came to her bedroom that night, and she had hated him for it.

She and Mose stared at each other, bitter, mind-scorching memories hanging in the air between them.

“Mrs. Smith,” Robert said, bringing her out of her trance. “Could we have some of those biscuits down here, please?”

Mrs. Smith? Robert seldom called her that. She supposed he did so now because he was trying to establish a line of respect for her with all the new men. She saw a look of puzzlement pass over Mose’s face. No doubt, he was wondering why she was calling herself “Smith.”

This man knew who she was and where she had come from. He had ample reason to despise her. Would he inform Robert that she had been the mistress of a plantation where he had been brutalized?

She hurried to the end of the table and set the platter of biscuits down in front of Mose and Robert.

“We could use some more butter too,” Robert said.

“I’ll be right back.” She saw Mose reach for a biscuit as she scuttled toward the kitchen. She would butter that biscuit for him herself, if only he wouldn’t tell Robert who she was. She ran back and placed the butter at Robert’s elbow while shaking her head slightly at her former field hand’s silent, questioning gaze.

The last time she had seen Mose, it had been a summer evening, near twilight. Harlan had forced him to go back into the fields the very next day after the whipping. That evening, her husband had gone into town. Unable to abide sitting alone at their formal dining table, she had taken a container of lemonade and a packet of food down to the river, planning to have a solitary picnic where it was a few degrees cooler.

It was a lovely spot with willows overhanging the shallow water. The ripples made a sort of music that always calmed her. There was a small bench beside the river, where she sat and prepared to eat her cold supper.

As she gazed into the brush on the other side of the stream, she realized that a man was crouching very still. He reminded her of a deer, pausing motionless, hoping to be invisible, waiting for a threat to pass.

The wounded Mose had almost—but not quite—succeeded in blending into the shadows.

She had known instantly that she had caught him in the act of running away.

For as long as she lived, she would remember the look in his eyes when he realized that she had spotted him. Those eyes had pled with her to keep silent, to let him go. It was as though he had shouted at her—so strongly did he beg her with his eyes to ignore his presence.

And she, the young bride of the largest plantation owner in the county, had held the man’s life in the balance. God forgive her, she had actually debated what to do. She had heard all the pro-slavery arguments from Harlan and the other plantation owners while desperately trying to fit into the incomprehensible social circle into which marriage had thrust her. She had tried hard to believe in those arguments.

But to her credit, she said nothing when she saw Mose frozen on the other side of the creek with terror written on his face. With the sound of the whip still ringing in her ears, she had gotten up from her seat, deliberately leaving her food and drink untouched upon the stone seat.

She had walked toward the big house without turning around, and as she walked, she had sung a hymn she had learned at her father’s knee, “Savior, Like a Shepherd Lead Us,” until she heard a slight splashing in the river and knew Mose was gone.

She did not turn around until reaching the big house. Then she allowed herself a glance over her shoulder. Although she was far away by then, she could see that the picnic she had prepared for herself had disappeared, and so—she hoped—had Mose.

That night, Harlan had returned very late. As she lay beside him, she prayed for Mose’s safe escape and for his deliverance to a kinder place than the plantation in which she lived.

She never said a word about what had happened. Not to her angry husband the next morning, nor to the house slaves when she heard them chattering amongst themselves about the field hand’s disappearance. Her own maid, Violet, whom she suspected of being in love with Mose, went into a quiet mourning, and Katie could not risk assuaging even her grief.