The Measure of Katie Calloway,: A Novel (22 page)

As Sarah rode away, Katie strained the milk and put it to chill in the river. Last night had made her want to know so much more about Robert—more than she was willing to ask. He had given her permission to read his journal, and so she returned to her cabin and pulled the journal from its place beneath the eaves. She began reading where the pages fell open, about halfway through. She wanted to get to the part where she could begin to understand why he had given up medicine.

There was a thumbprint of blood on the page. With a sinking heart, she began to read.

July 6, 1863

I have been operating for days and have gotten most of the “butchering” done. I have been left here in charge of 500 wounded men, with few medical supplies and little help. I do not yet know the full extent of the carnage, I did not ask. I could not think beyond trying to repair the next ravaged body and the next and the next. I tried not to look into the pain-filled eyes or see the fear in the men’s faces as I approached them with my cutting saw to remove yet another mangled limb. Had I allowed myself to see the men as individuals, with mothers and wives at home praying for their deliverance, I would have sunk into utter despair and been of no use to anyone.

And still, no matter how hard I worked, the sound of the battle continued—the gunshots and shouts and screams ringing in my ears—a vicious, evil machine churning out body after body for me to try to piece together again. I operated until the surgical instruments began to slip from my grasp and my orderly forced me stop.

I am told that our division lost. A third were killed or wounded. Many of these men were my friends.

God help us.

Katie closed her eyes, absorbing the pain from those words. This is what Robert had endured. This was what so many had endured.

Harlan had made it sound like a lark.

She wasn’t sure Harlan was entirely human.

July 10, 1863

The orderly has just scrubbed all the blood out of my hair with castile soap and bay rum and my scalp feels as if a steam plow had been passed through it. When this nightmare is finished, if it is ever finished, I will never operate again. I have not the stomach for it. Not anymore. I have seen more entrails in one battle than most surgeons see in a lifetime. Lord willing, I will find another way to support my family when I am relieved of this duty and allowed to go home. At least I know that little Thomas and the babe are safe in Sarah’s care. May their blessed mother rest in peace.

Katie gently closed the journal. She stuffed it back up under the eaves alongside the box of surgeon’s tools. Robert was right—it was
not
easy reading. She had no desire to continue. There was enough pain in those two entries alone to last her a lifetime.

She had a few more minutes before she needed to start dinner. There was one more thing she needed to do, a person she needed to see, a promise she had made to herself last night while crouching on the raft in the wet and the rain.

Mose emerged from the woods, as weary as she had ever seen the man—but he had finally found his horses. She knew she had information that might take some of the weariness away.

“You found them,” she said.

“They know ol’ Mose’s voice.”

What she intended to tell this good man could get them both killed, but last night had taken away the option of keeping silent. She kept pace with him as he led the horses to the barn.

“Do you remember the time that Harlan sent you to old Mrs. Hammond’s place to buy her husband’s seed cotton after he passed?”

“It was a far piece,” Mose said. “Mrs. Hammond’s a good woman. The lady gave me a drink o’ water from her well.”

“Violet is with her.”

He halted. Then he turned and looked at her as though he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Violet, does she have a man?”

“Not the last I knew.”

“I been savin’ up,” Mose said. “When I find her, I gonna buy us a piece of land somewhere nice. She can have herself a garden and I can plant crops and raise some animals. Maybe a family too.”

It was a long way from Michigan to Georgia, but Katie had no doubt Mose would manage to get there.

“Violet will be a lucky woman to have you.” Katie scratched behind the closest mare’s ears. “You’re a good man, Mose.”

“I try.”

“You always did. Even when it wasn’t easy.”

“Yes’m. So did you.”

A silence weighted with memories filled the air. Katie felt the heaviness of those memories.

“I’m sorry I lied to you, Mose.”

“Why’d you do that?” he asked.

“I’m afraid if you go to Georgia, Harlan will hear. I was afraid he’d find out where I am and come after me.”

She saw a muscle in Mose’s jaw twitch. “You don’t have to worry ’bout that none.”

“You aren’t going to spend the winter here?”

“No’m.”

“You know that if word gets back to Harlan . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“All I want is to find my woman.”

“This is going to leave Robert shorthanded.”

“There’s plenty good teamsters—only one Violet.”

“Be careful, Mose.” She rubbed a palm over the mare’s velvety nose. “The South is a dangerous place for a black man right now.”

“It always was, missus,” Mose said. “It always was.”

Harlan rode back to his overgrown plantation, hating the sight of what it had become.

The days he had spent trying to hunt down the elusive Katherine had been a waste.

He had gone to her people in Pennsylvania, certain she had run to them, but even though he used his most charming manner, those Yankee clods had stood looking at him with suspicious eyes, informing him that they had not seen nor heard from Katherine in months.

He started to take a swig from his flask, and thought better of it. He realized now that it would take all of his cunning to track her down—he could no longer indulge.

19

We are lying in the shanty; it’s bleak and it’s cold,

while cold, wintry winds do blow.

The wolves and the owls with their terrible growls

disturb us from our midnight dreams.

“A Shantyman’s Life”
—1800s shanty song

December 11, 1867

It snowed.

And it continued to snow. Although there had been smatterings earlier, this snowfall settled in, piling inch after inch against the log buildings. She had seen snow before, but she had never seen quite so
much
of it.

The snow was beautiful, smoothing over the pockmarks of stumps, brush, and trash piles, but the winter cold also seeped through every crack and cranny of the cook shanty and her cabin. Not for the first time, she gave thanks for the plentiful firewood and men who cut and split it.

The cold weather meant that the “road monkeys” who iced the road could now turn it into a glassy sheet so thick that one teamster with a giant sled could pull tons of logs at a time, the runners sliding within deep ruts deliberately cut into the solid sheet of ice.

These days, she usually found the road crew warming themselves and eating molasses cookies around the banked coals of her stove each morning when she entered the kitchen. They would have already helped themselves to so much of the hot tea that there would only be dregs left, and she would have to make more. After thawing inside and out, they would brave the cold once again, refilling the strange, box-like contraption out of which water drained from multiple holes as they rode upon the tote roads, icing them down with gallons upon gallons of river water every night while the other loggers slept.

She had to keep the cookies in a large tin container. Mice had become an issue as the rodents sought warmth and food. It was an ongoing battle.

With her in charge, Jigger had taken to snoozing a little longer in the mornings. Gone were the days when he tried to undermine her. His attitude had shifted the night she and Ned had kept him warm on the raft. She tried not to make too much noise in order not to awaken him. He had been more frail than ever since that night, and he needed his sleep.

Katie had begun to love these early hours when she had her kitchen all to herself. It gave her time to have a cup of wake-up tea, to jot down a few thoughts about the day’s menu, and to ready the kitchen.

And she prayed.

Ever since the fire, her prayers had changed. Instead of nothing more than an almost constant plea for God to protect her from Harlan, she had begun to pray for the loggers. Sometimes when she had a few extra minutes, she would walk around the table, touching each downturned tin plate, breathing a quick prayer for the man who ate there. It was her quiet gift to them. Out in the barn, three of her hens were laying and she had been saving up the eggs. This morning she planned on making a special treat for breakfast, scrambled eggs and sausage. Bowls of canned tomatoes mixed with cubes of leftover bread sweetened with sugar would round out the breakfast quite nicely.

As she cubed the bread, she found herself humming a hymn from her childhood.

“Rock of ages, cleft for me.” She sang softly so as not to awaken Jigger. “Let me hide myself in Thee.”

She became so engrossed in her cooking and her song that she didn’t realize that Robert had entered the cook shanty.

“You have a pretty voice, Katie.”

She glanced up, and her heart skipped a beat. He looked so handsome and strong in his heavy coat, stamping the snow off his boots. A welcome sight in the early morning.

“Hello,” she said. “You’re up early.”

“I couldn’t sleep.” He leaned against the corner of the worktable, watching her work. “I thought I’d check on the road monkeys.”

Since her hands were occupied with her task, she nodded toward the pot on the stove. “Help yourself.”

He poured himself a cup and pulled up a chair.

“How are the children?” she asked.

“Sleeping the sleep of the innocent. Funny thing—it seemed like they always had coughs and colds back in town, but they’re healthy as horses here. Thomas is growing like a weed, and he’s not as quiet and reserved as he was when he first came. He hardly seems like the same child.”

“Boys love being around their father.” She wiped her hands off on a towel. “I saw him walking behind you the other day, and he was taking great big steps. From what I can tell, he tries to imitate everything you do.”

“Guess I’d better be careful, then.”

“Yes, I wouldn’t do anything you didn’t want him to copy.”

She greased two large iron skillets, set them on the stove, patted out sausage patties, and washed the grease off her hands. The smell of sizzling spicy meat soon filled the air.

“If it stops snowing, I’ll be sending Sam back to Bay City again this week for more supplies,” he said. “Is there anything you need?”

“I was hoping you’d ask.” She reached into her apron pocket and handed him a list. “It’s all written down.” She was proud of herself for being ahead of him this time. She was getting more organized. She’d been adding things to a list for a while now, each time she thought of something the men would like.

He glanced at the list, then at her. “There’s nothing on this except food. Isn’t there anything else you want?”

“Like what?” She flipped the sausage over. “I already have my cow and chickens. The one piglet we found is fattening up nicely.”

“I don’t know.” He looked abashed. “I was wondering if there was some woman thing you or Moon Song might like.”

“Woman thing?”

“You know, something froufrou. Maybe a lady’s magazine or something. Claire used to love getting her copy of
Godey’s Lady’s Book
.”

“Moon Song doesn’t read and I rarely have time.”

“Well, what about a hair comb or a mirror or something.”

Her hands flew to her head. “Is something wrong with my hair?”

“No!” He looked at her miserably. “I’m just trying to be nice here, Katie. You’re living in a camp full of men. There must be something you miss—something you need—just for yourself.”

Her heart melted. How thoughtful could one man be?

“You want to get me something nice?” She started flipping the other skillet of sausage. “Something I
really
want?”

“I do.”

“I want a cat.”

“A cat?”

She nodded emphatically. “A good mouser.”

Understanding dawned. “Of course you need a cat.”

“The mice are driving me crazy. I would absolutely love a nice, hungry cat.”

“I’ll put it on Sam’s list.”

The door to Jigger’s room creaked open and the old man peered out at them, squinting at the light. His baby fine gray hair stood straight up. His baggy long johns hung off his bony body.

“If you two would quit flappin’ your lips about a dad-blamed cat, maybe a feller could get some sleep around here!” He slammed the door.

The old fellow was so irate and yet had looked so silly that Katie threw her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing out loud. Robert was struggling too. He grabbed her hand and pulled her outside into the snow, shutting the door behind them.

He pulled his sock hat off his head, ran his hands through his hair until it stood straight up, and squinted at her, imitating Jigger. Katie was in such a good mood, she started giggling, and that set Robert off, and they laughed until they were leaning against each other and wiping tears from their eyes—even though it really wasn’t all that funny.

And then the laughter stopped.

Both of them realized, at the same time, that they were standing alone, under a starry winter sky, with a virtual fairyland of snow falling around them. Katie had become so warm standing over the stove that the momentary cold felt refreshing to her. She watched, fascinated, as giant snowflakes fell on Robert’s hair and lashes.

She saw his face grow sober, gazing at her in the starlight. He reached to brush a snowflake off her cheek and—just for an instant—she leaned her cheek against the warmth of his hand.

They stood there, stock-still, gazing with wonder into one another’s eyes.

“Katie-girl.” Robert’s affection for her was in that word as he bent his head toward hers. She craved the kiss she knew was coming. With everything in her, she wanted to respond to this amazing man who had been so good to her.

Her mind whirled with rationalizations. Harlan was hundreds of miles away. He was a cruel and vicious man. Robert was loving, kind, and good. No one would know. Ever.

Except Ned.

And God.

And herself.

And yet—oh how she wrestled with herself! One kiss wouldn’t hurt. Just one. One kiss to warm her memories in her old age.

At that moment, the smell of scorched sausage struck her nostrils.

“The meat!” She whirled, flung open the door, and ran to the stove. The way the men ate, she could not afford to burn even one piece.

She threw water into the skillet and watched it sizzle up around the sausage. Then she pulled both skillets onto the worktable and inspected the sausage patties. They were brown, but not ruined. It had been a very close call, indeed.

In more ways than one.

“I suppose I’d better get out of your way.” Robert stood near the stove. He acted as though trying to decide if he should leave or attempt to take up where they left off. He waited for her to make the first move.

And she couldn’t—not now, not ever. It had, indeed, been a very close call.

Robert couldn’t get the scene with Katie out of his mind. If only the sausage hadn’t started to burn! It was very confusing. He saw the yearning in her eyes, but she always kept him at arm’s length.

Maybe it would just take a little more time and patience.

He watched a load of logs slide away to be deposited at the roll way near the riverbank. The piles, carefully stacked to roll into the Saginaw tributary when the spring rains came, had grown. The weather had been perfect for timbering and the men had responded with enthusiasm. He was certain that a large part of their good cheer came from Katie’s cooking.

Last night, her big surprise had been custard pies. It was rare to see custard pies in a lumber camp, and they had been hailed as a great delicacy. A fight had broken out over who would get the last piece. Jigger had stopped the near riot by taking the last piece for himself.

Katie had apologized for not having made more pies.

As though the girl had anything to apologize for. With her two hands, she had raised the morale of the camp to heights he had never seen before—not even in his own father’s well-run camps. Well-fed, happy men worked well together. And they worked with enthusiasm. It was not unusual to hear a logger whistling as he sawed limbs off a fallen pine, nor was it unusual—even in this cold weather—to hear strains of “The Jolly Shanty Boy” being sung at the top of some axe man’s lungs.

And Katie had done all this while also keeping an eye on his children while he was in the woods each day. Little Betsy was learning rudimentary cooking skills at Katie’s side. Thomas had been put on the payroll along with Ned and was more confident now that he had chores to do.

Robert had taken on the responsibility of teaching his children what he could in the bit of time they had between the end of supper and bedtime. It wasn’t as good as a formal schooling, but the children seemed to be enjoying his makeshift lessons well enough.