White Pine

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by Caroline Akervik


  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.

  Chapter Four

  ~ Logger ~

  The days that followed were a blur of work and bone tiredness. I’d never been so beat or so all out hungry in my entire life. The mornings were getting colder. But we got up while it was still dark outside. We headed out when the Push could see his axe blade in the morning light. One morning, I made the mistake of asking Mr. Lynch what the temperature was. He answered that it “was fine weather for logging.” Later, I learned that he would never tell anyone the real temperature. I guess he worried that it might make us balky if we knew just how cold it was.

  I started out working days as a road monkey— shoveling manure out of the iced ruts during the day and helping to ice them over at night. This was about the lowest job at the camp. I figured they were testing me, so I didn’t dare say anything. But I hadn’t come to the Northwoods to work as a road monkey, and I needed to earn a lumberjack’s pay. If I stayed a road monkey, I would come away from the season with less than we’d figured.

  I steered clear of Roget, though I did ask Bart about him one night while he was cleaning up after supper.

  He raised an eyebrow at me as he lowered a pile of plates into the wash basin.

  “He’s French Canadian.”

  “And?”

  “What are you two boys gabbing about?” Harold asked, one thick eyebrow cocked. He was a chatty fellow when the cooking was done.

  “Sevy’s asking after Roget.”

  Harold mopped at his sweating and reddened face with a rag. “Roget’s a legend in these Northwoods. Heck of a jack, a first rate top loader, and probably one of the best river rats on the Chippewa. He’s been working for the Daniel Shaw Company for going on five years. If you want to learn about how to be a lumberjack, Sevy, he’s the man to learn from.”

  True as that may be, Roget seemed to have taken a disliking to me ever since that first night in the bunkhouse. He didn’t speak to me and barely acknowledged me. I doubted he would be teaching me much of anything.

  Lumberjacks worked six days out of seven. Then, thank the Lord, after a week of working harder than I could ever have imagined, on Sunday morning, the Gabriel didn’t ring and there was no call of daylight in the swamp. I woke up at the usual time, but when I looked around and didn’t see anyone else stirring, I pulled my blankets right up to my neck, curled up on my side, and closed my eyes. If the Lord could rest one day, so could lumberjacks.

  I didn’t wake up until nearly midday. I slept until the grumbling of my stomach got me up and dressed. Then I headed on over to the cook shack and ate my fill of doorknobs, bacon, and beans. After I’d washed the meal down with some black lead, I felt like a new man. Then, I headed back outside. I ran into Bart who was carrying an armful of his togs.

  “Whatcha doin’, Bart?” I woulda thought he would still be working to clean up the after the meal.

  He scowled at me, his face darn near as red as his hair. “Cook makes me wash my gear every Sunday. Once, he even made me take a bath! I told him it could be the death of me, but he don’t care none. He says if I ain’t clean and smellin’ like a rose, than I ain’t got no place in his cookhouse.”

  My pa had told me that Sunday was the day for doing wash and writing letters at a lumber camp, and I had slept away half the day. So, I hurried back to the bunkhouse, grabbed my gear and headed over to the washhouse. I’d helped my ma wash clothes, so I knew what I was doing. But still the job was cold and wet and took some time. I passed on taking a bath, myself. Afterall, bathing too often, especially in winter, can make you sick. Besides, greybacks like clean bodies better than the ripe ones. At least, that was what the old timers said.

  After hanging up my wet gear by the stove in the bunkhouse, I headed back outside. There, a group of jacks had gathered in the clearing in the middle of the camp and about twenty feet away from them stood a target. I’d noticed it before, but never seen anyone use it. It was just an eighteen inch wide log stuck into the ground standing about five feet tall and with a red bull’s eye painted on it. Other larger rings surrounded the bull’s eye, each a little further out.

  “Hey there,” I said to no one in particular.

  “Shh.” One of the jacks shushed me as a couple of other fellas frowned at me.

  “What?” I whispered back.

  “Watch.”

  All eyes were on Roget, who stood a little off by himself. He eyed the target, holding onto that axe like it was an extension of his arm. He swung it smoothly back in an arc behind his head. Then, in one smooth motion, he swung his arm forward and released the axe straight at the target. There was a swoosh and then a thump as the blade went right into the target. I saw that the blade buried deep in the bull’s eye. Someone whistled and few men applauded. It was a heck of throw and near impossible to top.

  The Push took Roget’s place. He swung his axe more forcefully than Roget had readying for his throw. His action was more about power than grace. His axe flew just as true and landed in the log, a hair to one side of Roget’s. Both in the bull’s eye.

  Now the other men cheered and commented, but I could feel the tension building. Neither of these men was used to losing.

  Dob, who stood off to one side of the crowd leaning up against a hitching post, said, “You know, Fabien, some men wouldn’t call it good sense to try and show up the boss, even in a game.”

  Roget laughed, baring white teeth against his black beard. “You think I should let him win?”

  “I’m just saying.” Dob drew deeply on his pipe.

  “Ah, la vie est courte,” Roget shrugged. “Life is short. What is there to be afraid of? That I take the long walk? To another camp down the road? No, I think I am not so easy to replace.”

  “I ain’t lost yet,” the Push interrupted, not angry, just focused. “Don’t be so cocksure of yourself. Let’s take it out another ten feet, boys.”

  One of the jacks walked off the distance and dropped a branch down on the ground to mark the distance. Two fellas rolled that stump over to the spot and then set it upright. Now I’d seen axe throwing contests in Eau Claire, and these were usually decided by twenty feet. I knew that I was seeing something special when those two fellas stepped up to a mark on the ground a fu
ll thirty feet away from the target. Again, Roget stepped up to throw first. Once more, he swung his arm back, his eyes narrowing on the target. He didn’t hesitate. Releasing his axe, it flew straight and true directly into the bull’s eye.

  A few of the fellas applauded. The Push stepped up next. He eyed that stump, squinted at it, squared up his shoulders more than once. Then, he swung his arm back, but just when he should have released, he caught himself, adjusted his feet, took a deep breath, and got ready to throw again.

  In the excitement, I think I forgot to breathe. Suddenly, I realized that I didn’t want Mr. Lynch to win. He was my boss and he was giving me a chance and all, but I wanted Roget to win, because he was the real deal, a lumberjack through and through.

  Mr. Lynch muttered to himself, adjusted, swung again and released his axe. Somersaulting through the air, it flew at the log. But this time it plunged into the log a little below the bull’s eye.

  Roget had won. Men cheered and clapped and everyone congratulated him. I caught a few of the jacks looking at him enviously. The Push didn’t seem too upset about the outcome. He’d lost fair and square to the best woodsmen in our camp and probably in most of the other camps along the Chippewa.

  Now, up until this moment, life in the logging camp had not been at all the way that I’d hoped it’d be. But looking at Roget, I had a new sense of excitement. He was the sort of man I hoped to become one day, brave, fearless, skilled, and respected. Sure, I looked up to my pa. He was a good man, but he wasn’t showy. A typical Norwegian, he thought a man should never “talk himself up.” But Roget had flare. He made bold statements, and he backed them up with actions. He was exactly the sort of man I wanted to be. I took a deep breath and walked though that crowd of lumberjacks right up to him. “Mr. Roget, I’d be real appreciative if you could teach me to throw an axe like that.”

 

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