White Pine (4 page)

Chapter Three

~ Heading North ~

Eventually, I must have fallen asleep. But it
didn’t seem like any time had passed at all before I felt a hand
shaking me awake.

“Sevy. Sevy, wake up. It’s time,” Ma
whispered trying not to wake up Peter and Marta. “Mr. Walsh will be
coming for you soon. Wash up and get dressed. I’m making some
tea.”

Slowly, I sat up, leaving my blankets behind.
I shivered in the cold air. Ma had a fire going, but it wasn’t
doing much in the way of warming the place yet. It was pitch black
outside. Winter with its short days was definitely coming. I made
my way over to the washstand. I braced myself to shove my hands
into the ice-cold water. But, to my surprise, I found the water was
warm. Ma must have heated it up on the stove for me. But then today
was an important day, the day I was to leave Eau Claire, alone, for
the first time in my entire life.

The main room was a little warmer than the
bedroom.

“I’m brewing the tea right now.” Ma worked at
the stove. “Your breakfast is almost ready.”

I nodded, distracted, thinking about what I
might of forgotten to pack.

“Morning, son,” said Pa. He was already
sitting in his big chair by the table. In the hazy light of the gas
lamp, he looked bleary-eyed, like he hadn’t slept real well either.
His mouth was closed in the thin, tight line that told me he was
hurting.

“Pa”

“Sevy, you have everything ready?” Ma
asked.

“Yup. My rucksack’s right by the door.”

“Good,” Pa said with a nod. “Dan Walsh will
be here come daylight. Isn’t that what he said?” Pa looked to
Ma.

“Yes, Gus. I told you what Edith Walsh told
me. Dan is delivering some tools near Mondovi. He’ll bring Sevy
that far and then he’ll help him find a ride north.”

“
Good,” Pa grunted. “Sevy, you’ll be in
a Daniel Shaw lumber camp within few days.

Ma placed a thick slab of bread with butter
and cheese melted on it in front of me. Next, she gave me a mug of
tea so hot that I had to set it down on the table. “Eat your
breakfast, Sevy. You don’t know when you’ll get your next hot
meal.”

As usual, I was starving. So, even with the
two of them sitting there watching me, I devoured all of my
breakfast.

Then Pa shoved his plate over to me. “I’m not
hungry, Sevy.”

I didn’t need much convincing and I was
licking the butter off my fingers when there was a soft knock at
the door. After some hurried hugs and kisses, some hastily
whispered words, I was wrapped up in a blanket on a wagon bound out
of Eau Claire. It was then that I realized I hadn’t said goodbye to
my little brother or sister. In all of the excitement, it had plumb
slipped my mind.

The next few days passed in a cold, hungry,
confused blur. At night, I slept in strange farm houses, eating
meals with folks I didn’t know. Days I spent cold and, more often
than not, wet riding in wagons north, always north. Eventually,
about a week after I left Eau Claire, I arrived at the lumber camp
that was to be my home for the next few months.

To be honest, the first time I saw that small
cluster of buildings, I wasn’t real impressed. I’d expected
something bigger, grander for the heroes of the Northwoods.

The fella driving the wagon spoke up, “Here
we are, boy.”

“Yup.” I nodded. “Thank you, mister.” I
couldn’t for the life of me remember his name. I’d ridden in so
many different wagons with so many different drivers over the past
few days.

The clearing was cut right into a white pine
forest. The rough hewn buildings were made of logs that had likely
been chopped down right here and they were set in a rectangle
around the clearing. I didn’t see anyone moving around, but that
made sense as it was the middle of the afternoon.

We pulled up to the biggest building. Almost
immediately, the door swung open and a thick set, red-faced man in
an apron stepped out.

“Harold,” the driver greeted the other
man.

“You have my flour?” he grumbled. “I had some
unhappy lumberjacks last night when I didn’t have any doorknobs for
them at supper.”

“Got a couple of bags for you.”

“Camp’s getting bigger every day. We need to
be stocked up for when the snows start to come. These mine?” He
reached under the oilskin and patted a burlap bag of flour.

“That whole pile is for you. No, not that
one. It’s for a Knapp, Stout, and Company camp that’s on a forty
north of here. And I brung you somethin’ else, too. See that
youngun over there.” He gestured at me with his thumb. “Him,
too.”

Harold eyeballed me, as if taking my measure.
Then, he spoke, “I’m Harold Hildreth, camp cook. Leave your gear on
the ground over there and help me get this flour into the
cookhouse.”

I jumped down from seat and did as I was
told. I tossed a fifty pounder of flour over my shoulder and
followed Harold into the building. We passed through the lean-to
and I saw a chest with a lock on it and a sign that read “Wanigan.”
Next, we stepped down into the main building. Here, despite the low
ceiling, I could stand up straight since the building was set into
the ground. Several large wooden tables filled the space and a
monster of a stove dominated the room. It was all clean as a
whistle and a rich meaty smell came from the cast iron pot set on
the stove. A skinny boy with sandy blond hair who looked to be
about my age was sitting in one corner peeling potatoes.

“Where do you want ‘em?” I asked.

“Just set them right there on the table,”
Harold said. “What’s your name, boy?”

“Sevy. Sevy Andersen.”

“I’m the cookee here,” the potato peeler
announced, glaring at me. “We don’t need no other boys. So you can
go right back to where you come from.”

“I’m not here to be a cookee,” I responded.
“I’m a lumberjack.”

Harold and the potato peeler burst out
laughing.

“No. Really. I’m here to be a lumberjack.” I
stared at him real hard and set my jaw. There was no way anyone was
gonna talk me out of a lumberjack’s pay. My family needed that
money. “Just ask Mr. Lynch. He’s the Push, right?”

“Rest assured, I’ll be talking to Joe,”
Harold responded. “But how did you end up here?”

“My pa’s Gus Andersen. He worked this outfit
last winter.”

“Gus is a good man. A hard worker and a heck
of a sawyer. I heard that he got hurt bad. How’s he doing?”

“Better.”

“How’s he getting around?”

“Crutches.”

Harold eyed me, clearly expecting me to say
more. “You’re a man of few words, like your Pa. Well, if you’re
gonna be lumberjacking this winter, we’re gonna have to feed you
up. Don’t ya think, Bart?” Harold chuckled at his own joke because
the potato peeler, Bart, was all skin and bones. Harold caught my
glance and chuckled. “I’m the best cook in this county. You shoulda
seen Bart a month back.”

“I’d rather be a cookee than a jack any day,”
Bart snapped. “I eat good and I’m warmer than those men out in the
woods. The cook’s probably the most important man in this camp,
except’in the Push. And I’m learning to cook. By the time that I
leave this camp in the spring, I’ll be ready to be a camp cook in
my own right.”

“Now don’t go getting too big for your
britches, Bart. You’ve got a lot to learn yet.”

“That’s just fine,” I agreed, but there
wasn’t no way I would want to be a cookee. I was here in the
Northwoods to draw a man’s pay, a full dollar a day, as a
lumberjack.

“Well, boy.” Harold turned to me. “I can’t
just stand around here chewing the fat. I gotta get supper ready.
This here’s the cookhouse, as you can see. You’ll eat here twice a
day. Bart brings the grub out to where you’re working at midday.
You passed by the wanigan on your way in. That’s where you can get
some necessaries you might of forgotten or used up. Now, you’ll be
needing to meet the Push and Dob O’Dwyer, he’s the clerk. Bart, why
don’t you do the honors.”

Bart nodded, set down the potato he was
peeling, and wiped his hands on his apron.

“Don’t be dawdling, Bart. Those taters will
be waiting for you.”

Bart tugged off his apron and headed towards
me. “Come on.”

I followed him back out of the cookshack and
into the clearing around which all of the logging camp buildings
were arranged. Out in the cold air, I could smell the promise of
snow in the air.

“Lemme grab my gear.” I scurried over to
where I’d tossed it and Bart slouched after me.

“That there’s the filer’s shack.” Bart
pointed a thumb over to one of the smaller log buildings. “He’s a
grouchy codger, but he does a good job keeping the saw blades
sharp. But you probably already know all about how a logging camp
works, don’t ya? Your Pa being a jack and all. Usually, I take
church ladies who come to the camp around, give them the tour, and
they don’t know nothin’ about logging camps.”

I nodded, though, to be honest, I hadn’t
known exactly what a filer did. My pa was indeed a man of few
words, and when he was with Ma and us kids, more often than not, he
let us do the talking.

“That there’s the blacksmith shop.” Bart
gestured with his thumb at another log building right by the
filer’s shack.

“That big one there is the horse barn.
There’re two teamsters at this camp and a couple of fine teams of
Belgians. I get to drive one of them hay-burners to the woods when
the jacks are dinnering out. Cy’s his name, the horse I mean, and
he’s blind in one eye. But the jacks say he has a second sense for
when a tree is coming down. This here’s the clerk’s office.”

Bart knocked and a gruff voice called out,
“It’s open.” So, we strolled right in.

“Shut the door. You’re letting in the winter
with you, boyo.” The voice was kindly with an Irish lilt to it.

My eyes slowly adjusted from the brightness
of the out-of-doors to the dim lamplight and I saw two men. One
wore spectacles, had a kindly face, hair that was near white,
though he looked to be about Pa’s age, and was seated at a desk on
which was set an opened ledger. The other fella who was standin’
was tall, thick and broad with a dark head of hair and with a no
nonsense air to him.

Dropping my bag, I took my hat off to show
respect, the way that my ma had always taught me.

“Mr. Lynch,” Bart spoke up. “This fella’s
come to be a lumberjack.”

“My name is Sevy Andersen.” I supplied.

Lynch looked at me real hard. He didn’t smile
and his eyes were cold. “You Gus Andersen’s boy?”

I nodded.

“You have the look of him.”

I nodded again.

“The boy doesn’t have much to say.” The
Irisher observed.

“Talked just fine in the cookhouse,” Bart
mumbled.

“Some of these Norwegian fellas can be tight
lipped. Why one of the fellas from last winter, I don’t think I
ever heard five words out of his mouth. Showed up one day with a
`Hello,’ and then left six months later with a `Goodbye.’” The
Irisher commented, as if that explained it.

“I ain’t full Norwegian. I’m half really, and
there ain’t nothin’ wrong with that. My Pa’s was one of the best
sawyers at this camp or at any of the other logging camps around
the Chippewa and he’s a full blooded Norwegian.” My voice cracked
on the last words.

“Well, you do talk,” the Irishman said with a
smile, as he put his pipe back between his yellowed teeth. “I
didn’t mean any disrespect, Sevy.”

Even Lynch was smiling now. But on his face,
a smile looked hard, like rock breaking. He nodded to me. “I’m Joe
Lynch and you can call me Mr. Lynch or Push. Your father said you
can do a man’s work in his letter. Is that true?”

“He looks kind of scrawny to me,” the Irisher
commented with his head tilted as he assessed me. “Tall, but
spindly.”

I began to panic. What if they didn’t give me
a chance? What if they decided that I was too young to draw a man’s
wage? My whole family was relying on me. I had to convince Joe
Lynch to let me stay on.

“I may be skinny, but I’m strong. And I’ll
work hard. Harder than anyone else here. I promise you, Mr. Lynch,
you won’t regret hiring me.”

“That’s quite a promise,” Lynch commented.
“And, I’ll hold you to it.” He held out his hand to me. “Your
father said much the same, and his word’s like gold to me. Welcome
aboard, Sevy.”

I took his hand. His palm was callused and
hard and he gripped my hand the way he might hold onto an axe. But
I gripped him right back, the way I’d been taught. The way a man
would. And even though he squeezed mine real hard, I didn’t flinch
or try to beat him. Pa had taught me to have a firm grip, but he’d
also warned me that a man who tries to win a handshake wants to
show you who’s the boss. I already knew that Joe Lynch was the
boss, and I didn’t plan on giving him any grief.