White Pine (5 page)

“This trouble-making Irishman,” Lynch said
once he’d released my hand, “Goes by the name of Dob O’Dwyer. He’s
our clerk here. You’ll get your pay from him come spring.”

“Just call me Dob.”

Not sure how to take him, I nodded to him
resisiting the urge to shake my hand to get the blood back in it.
Dob grinned right back at me, showing a big gap between his two
front teeth.

“Bart’ll take you over to the bunkhouse. You
can settle in for a bit and then it’ll be supper time... You boys
get going, Dob and I have some business to take care of.”

Once we were back outside, Bart looked at me.
“So that wasn’t just talk about you being a jack.”

I thought he must be impressed. So, there
really wasn’t any need to say much more. “Yup.”

“That’s a relief,” Bart shook his head. “I
was worried you was gettin’ hired to help the teamsters out as a
stable boy. That’s the job I got my eye on. I really like workin’
with them horses. They’re smart, ya know. Come on, I’ll show you
where to stow your gear.”

He led the way across the clearing to another
long, low log building. “This here’s the bunkhouse.” He pushed the
door wide for me. The first thing that hit me was the smell. Sure,
I’d been around hard working men my whole life, but the stench in
that dark shack about knocked me over after the fresh out of
doors.

“I already stoked up the fire in the stove so
it’s good and warm in here when the fellas get back. They lay their
wet gear there on those rails by the stove to dry them off.”

Once my eyes had adjusted, I saw that bunk
beds lined both walls and a massive stove dominated the center of
the room. Wooden benches were set around the stove and along the
interior of the bunk beds.

“Pick any empty bed and stow your gear away.
Lots of fellas been comin’ in these past few days, so there aren’t
a lot left. Pick one. I gotta get back to the cookhouse. When you
hear the dinner call, come on over.”

“Yup and thanks,” I said. Then, Bart was out
the door and gone.

Alone now, I eyeballed the bunks. There were
a few empty places at the back of the bunkhouse. But Pa had warned
me about those. When it got real cold in January, the men who slept
there would likely feel the wind coming in through chinks in the
wall. You could pack them with mud or snow, once it came down, but
those were cold spots. And when it came time to sit on the
preacher’s benches by the stove, those men could get stuck at the
back. I didn’t want to be up front, but I also didn’t want to be
cold for most of the winter.

That was when I saw it. There was a top bunk
right by the stove and, for some reason, no one had taken it. It
didn’t make sense. It should have been one of the first to go. But
why question good luck? So, I headed over there and threw my gear
right up on top.

The straw tick mattress smelled pretty fresh.
I laid my bedding out on it and and was stowing away my gear when I
heard the Gabriel horn for the first time. It was calling us all to
supper. Quickly, I rolled up the rest of my kit, hopped off the
bunk, and headed out the door.

By now, it was already beginning to get dark.
The air had that fresh cold taste to it that warns that there may
be snow coming. I drew my coat closer around me. I made a quick
stop at the outhouse and then headed over to the cook shack.

I was one of the first fellas in the door. It
was downright hot in there from the stove which was nearly glowing
red. Red faced and working hard, Bart was throwing some more logs
into it. The place smelled wonderful, like a holiday feast. I saw
piles of biscuits, beans, salt pork, potatoes, and some molasses.
It was more food than I had ever seen lain out in one place. I was
eyeballin’ it, figuring out where I was going to sit, when the door
burst open. An army of men marched in. They weren’t talking.
Instead, they just came right on in and took their seats.

I stood there and watched them. Then,
realizing that I was starving and going to get left out if I didn’t
get a move on, I wiggled my way through the crowd and found a place
at the far end of a table. Neither of the men on either side of me
looked at me. They were just reaching for the food. I was just
about to ask for the butter, when I remembered what my father had
said to me: “There’s no talking in the cookhouse.”

“Why?” I’d asked him.

“At a lumbercamp cook shack, there are men
from all over the world: Irishmen, Norwegians like us, Frenchmen,
and usually some Indians, Chippewas or Lakota. How would it be if
all of those men from different places started talking? There’d be
arguments and then fights. No Push wants that kind of trouble. So,
the rule is no talking allowed. Remember this, Sevy.”

Pa had warned me about this more than once,
but in those first few seconds, I’d almost forgotten. Thankfully,
it came to me before I’d opened my trap. So, I joined the men on
either side of me devouring the mountains of food on the table and
there sure was plenty to eat.

My ma was a fair cook, but she didn’t have a
thing on Harold Hildreth. I hadn’t eaten since early that morning.
I filled my plate a couple of times and I didn’t slow down or come
up for air until I’d done justice to everything. Then, I paused,
looking over at the man sitting to my left. Ma always said it was
poor manners to do what he was doing, using his biscuit to mop up
the butter, salt, and bacon fat on his plate. But seeing as no one
paid him any mind, I did the same. Nothing tastes better than a
biscuit doctored up in this way. It was warm, salty, and rich. For
dessert, Bart set out trays of apple pies.

Feeling like I was going to pop, I tilted
back, leaning my shoulders against the rough log wall and sliding
half off the bench. I didn’t think I could manage another bite. I
just sat there tired and pleasantly stuffed.

I looked at the men in the room. They were
just like the men I’d grown up around, the ones who worked at the
mill in Shaw town in Eau Claire. They may have come from all
different places and looked different. But they all had lived hard,
were strong, rough, and none too clean.

Some of the men began to wander out of the
cook shack, letting in drafts of cold air that barely managed to
keep me awake. I was sleepy. The room was warm and comfortable and
my belly was full. My head began to bob.

Someone tapped me on my shoulder, startling
me awake.

“Sevy Andersen, right?” A short, brown and
gray whiskered man looked down at me. He seemed to be about my
father’s age. “I’m Christian Walker. The Push says that you’re to
help me with the icing tonight. The road monkeys have cleared some
trails. Feels like it’s gonna freeze tonight. So if we could lay
down some ice, we’d be that much closer to having those trails
ready for when the snows come. Can you be ready in fifteen minutes,
out at the barn?”

The idea of heading out into the cold
darkness when I was already dead beat wasn’t appealing. I’d thought
I’d get a good night’s sleep in before starting to work, but as my
ma always said, beggars couldn’t be choosers. “Sure, Mr.
Walker.”

He nodded briskly and headed out.

I’d come up to the pineries to work as a jack
and to pull a jack’s wages. But I also knew that the new fellas
were often called upon to help out with other jobs. I wasn’t one to
complain. So, I headed back to the bunkhouse to grab my outdoor
gear.

* * * *

Getting the logging roads ready for the
logging sleighs was important. After the road monkeys had done
their work, teams of horses headed out, pulling a barrel of water
on a wagon or a sleigh. The idea was to drip the water over the
logging roads to make them hard and slick. Horses could pull much
more weight when pulling a sleigh with runners on ice than a cart
with wheels in the dirt. That was why logging was done in the
winter, so the logs could be moved more easily. Then, in the
spring, with the thaw, the logs could be run down the river to the
sawmill towns. Of course, I understood all of this. It just seemed
a little early to me to be laying ice what with no snow on the
ground.

Mr. Walker was out waiting for me, holding
onto the reins of a team of gray Perchies. “Sevy, this here’s Bob
and this is Sammy. Bob’s a sweetheart, but Sammy’s ornery. Look,
see how he pins his ears back at me and curls his nostril.”

I swallowed hard. They were enormous beasts
with massive, muscular bodies. Sammy lifted a hoof and I glimpsed a
massive horse shoe with caulks in it near as long as my finger from
my knuckle to my joint.

“So they don’t slip,” Mr. Walker explained,
seeing my eyes on them. “Icy ground can be slippery. Let’s get
going, Sevy. It’s just getting colder out here.”

I shivered in my coat and then followed
Walker’s lead and climbed up into the wagon.

First, we filled up the barrels on the cart
over at the creek. Then, we drove over those logging trails until
the barrels were empty. My job was to help with the filling up and
then to watch off the back of the wagon for when we were out of
water.

I can’t tell you how many times we went back
to the creek. I thought it wasn’t ever going to end. My face felt
frozen. I could barely feel my hands in the woolen mittens my ma
had knitted for me. It seemed like I got wetter and colder each
time we filled that wagon. I was sure my hands were frost bit. And
I was tired. I’d never felt so dog tired before in my life. When we
finally returned to the camp, I could barely keep my eyes open.

Mr. Walker patted me on the shoulder. “Sevy,”
he said, “You go hit the sack. You did good tonight. I’ll take care
of the boys.”

I nodded, too tired to talk. I didn’t bother
arguing I would help out with the horses. I was too far gone.

I stumbled as I entered the bunkhouse. After
being out in the moonlight, it was near pitch black in that low
slung log house. Some men were snoring real loud, the whole place
was shaking, and it stunk to high heaven. Once I was inside the
door, I shucked off my boots, tucked them under my arm, and walked
in the rest of the way on my stocking feet.

“Dang it!” I muttered when I stubbed my toe
on a bunk post. I saw a body shift in one of the other bunks. I
heard someone pass gas. But none of that bothered me none. I was
dead set on getting to my bunk. The top of the stove was glowing
dully red, and between that and the warm bodies, the place was
almost warm inside. I could just make out my bunk to the left of
stove. Real gingerly, aware of the man in the lower bunk, I sorta
grabbed the top of the upper bunk and hoisted myself up, dropping
down, right on top of a big, sleeping body.

“Sacré bleu!”

Next thing I knew, I was on my back on the
bunk, pinned with a thick, hairy forearm pressed down into my neck
and the tip of a blade pressed to my chin.

“Who are you?” a deep, accented voice
demanded.

“I’m Sevy. Sevy Andersen.” My voice came out
harsh and whispered because of the pressure on my throat. “Please
don’t kill me, sir.”

“Fa, a boy.” Just like that, the pressure was
gone. The bunk creaked and groaned as my attacker straightened and
jumped off of the bunk. He struck a match and lit a lamp. Next, he
shoved it into my face. I was blinded for a moment, but then saw a
lean, bearded face glaring down at me. He had dark beard and wild
hair, dark eyes, and a mean, hungry look to him. Right now, he
looked plenty riled.

“Boy, what are you doing? You wake me up
again and I’ll kill you.”

“Hey, keep it down, Roget,” someone called
out.

“Yeah, we’re trying to sleep,” another jack
grumbled.

Suddenly, I realized I’d seen this man
before. Heck, I’d probably even seen the blade he’d been holding to
my neck. It was the French Canadian I’d run into at Whiteside’s
General Store.

“I’m real sorry, sir. I didn’t know you were
up there. I didn’t think this bunk was taken. It was empty earlier
and I left my stuff there.”

He snorted at me incredulously. “This bunk is
mine. A lesson for you,
mon fils
, the best bunk always goes
to the top woodsman. I am the best. Me, Fabien Roget.”

I wasn’t about to tangle with a grizzly bear,
so I nodded. “Yes sir. I’ll find another place to bed down.” But
then a thought struck me. “Where’s my gear?”

“I threw it outside. It was on my bunk,” he
said as if that explained it.

“We gotta work tomorrow,” one of the men
muttered.

“That’s enough,” another grumbled.

But Roget ignored them. “Go, boy. Don’t
bother me again.” He blew out the lantern and hopped back up into
the bunk.

I was left standing in the dark feeling I’d
been punched in the stomach. I had to get my gear and find another
bunk, but I was frozen by what had just happened. I sure didn’t
want to wake up some other fella. Near in tears, I swallowed the
lump in my throat and started to shuffle away. I might even have an
enemy. I just wanted to go to sleep and wake up in my own bed with
my ma making me breakfast. And that Frenchman had thrown my gear
outside! Now that was just plain mean-spirited.

I headed to the door and back outside. In the
moonlight, I could make out that it had begun to snow. Peering
around, I saw some darker lumps just to one side of door. I had
been so set on getting to bed, I hadn’t noticed them before. I
reached out slowly, afraid it was a coon or a badger. But it didn’t
move none, and even though it was a little damp, the blanket that
everything was wrapped in felt familiar. I picked up my bundle and
hugged it close to my chest. Then, I sorta slumped down there,
outside the bunkhouse, with the rough bark of the logs digging into
my back.

It began to sink in that I was alone, far
from my home and family back in Eau Claire, and I didn’t have any
friends around me. To tell the truth, I may even have cried a
little out there in the snow and the moonlight. I sat there ‘til I
started to freeze and only then did I go back into the bunkhouse.
Moving as quietly as I could, I managed to find a bunk far from the
stove and by a drafty wall. I fell right asleep.