White Pine

by Caroline Akervik

  I didn’t want to hear more. I had things to do. Besides I knew all of these old stories and none mattered to the new life starting tomorrow.

  “The night before I left, your grandfather, Anders,” Pa continued, “called me to him. He said, ‘I won’t be there to tell you what to do or how to act. But remember to treat everyone else as you would want to be treated, be honest, work hard, and the rest will take care of itself.’”

  Fighting to stifle a yawn, I jumped when a big, warm, callused hand clamped down on my arm. “Be a man that other people can count on.”

  “All right, Pa.”

  Ma said, “Come here, Sevy. You take good care of yourself. Be careful.”

  I could tell Ma was near crying. She set her mending down and held out her arms. Now I ain’t a little guy any more, but I went right into Ma’s arms and I held her tight.

  “Sevy, come here.” Now it was Pa calling to me

  I turned and hesitated for a second, I couldn’t remember when Pa and I had last hugged. When I pulled back from him, I could see that his eyes were suspiciously bright as well.

  “G’night Pa and Ma,” I said, and my voice cracked. But I didn’t care. Up to this point, it hadn’t seemed real. Leaving school and telling everyone I was going away had been fun. But now I was going to have to pay the fiddler. I was leaving the next morning for a lumber camp far from home and from my family. I’d never even spent single night away from my ma and my brother and sister. Now I was staring down the nose at a winter working in the woods with a bunch of fellas I’d never met.

  It was tough falling asleep that night. I was too worked up. And so, I listened to my parents talk until late. I didn’t really even pay attention to what they were saying. I just wanted to hear the sounds of their voices.

  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 worke
d 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.

  “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 t
heir 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.