Measure of Katie Calloway, The: A Novel

by Serena B. Miller

  “Where are the lucifers?” she asked.

  Jigger nodded toward a jar on a shelf, within which were stored the wooden matches she needed to strike a flame. Soon, she had a crackling fire started in the belly of the stove, and the oven was warming up.

  Sam brought in boxes of sugar and tea. Ned struggled in from outdoors, sloshing a bucket of cold, clear creek water against his pants leg. Still, Jigger did not move from his seat.

  “Thank you, Ned.” She set a dishpan on top of the stove and poured the water into it. “Could you bring me another?”

  “Sure.” Her little brother ran off.

  On a hook, there was a large, white apron that appeared relatively clean. She shook the dust out of it, tied it on, and rolled up the sleeves of her dress. Dipping a rag into the pan of water, she began wiping off the worktable. She had expected at least a few minutes to pull herself together before her work began, a few moments to get her bearings in this new environment—but that was not how things were working out.

  She could deal with it. She had dealt with worse.

  Even with Jigger glaring at her from across the room, the familiarity of being back inside a kitchen was comforting. The growing mountain of foodstuffs seemed miraculous to her after the privations of the past few years.

  “Is this enough?” Ned carried in another bucket.

  “For now.” Grasping the ice-cold pail of water, she grabbed a broom and marched toward Jigger. There was something she needed to tend to before she could stomach fixing dinner.

  “Excuse me.” She sloshed water across the floor directly in front of him, soaking his pants legs and saturating the tobacco-stained floor.

  “Hey! Watch it!” Jigger leapt to his feet and sidestepped out of her way.

  “More water, please.” She handed the bucket back to Ned, grabbed the broom, and began to sweep the water and tobacco debris out the door.

  She was so intent on her job she almost swept it right into the face of Sam, who, startled, danced out of the way while holding two fifty-pound bags of dried beans, one on each shoulder.

  “What the . . .” He opened his mouth to say more, thought better of it, shut it tightly, and grimly stepped over the threshold. “Where would you like these, ma’am?” he asked meekly.

  “Put them on the table. In fact, would you mind putting everything you’ve brought in on the table for now? I want to give this floor a good scrubbing.”

  “Can’t I put things in the kitchen storage shed or down in the cellar?” It was the longest sentence he had uttered in the past two days.

  Storage shed? Cellar? What kind of game was Jigger playing with her, anyway?

  “Yes, please,” she said. “That would be lovely.”

  He tracked over her wet floor, straight toward the back of the cook shanty and out the back door. She leaned the broom against the wall and started to follow him.

  “Where you going?” Jigger asked.

  “Apparently, the storage shed.” She turned to look at him, her hands on her hips. “When were you going to tell me?”

  “I was fixin’ to.” Jigger held up his drenched pants leg with his good hand, his pinky stuck up like a finicky lady. “Afore you started dumpin’ water on me.”

  Her pique of anger evaporated. Sloshing the old man with water was extreme, and she regretted doing it. But really! Spitting tobacco juice on the floor! Even Harlan hadn’t had that filthy habit.

  “I apologize for getting you wet, but from what I can see, there’s too much work for us to be fussing with each other. Could we just call a truce and get on with it?”

  “Sure thing, missy.” The old man grinned evilly and held out his gnarled hand. “We’ll just have ourselves a little truce.”

  She had watched that same hand dig a plug of tobacco out of his cheek not fifteen minutes earlier. Steeling herself, she shook it, determined to wash her hands the minute his back was turned.

  Sam, his previous load stashed in the storage shed, returned with two wooden barrels of sorghum. “Storage shed or cellar?”

  “Storage shed,” Jigger said at the same moment Katie said, “Cellar.”

  Yet again, the teamster stood with his burden, undecided whose instructions to obey.

  “Put it in the cellar,” Robert said, coming in the door. His eyes swept around the cook shanty, taking stock of the wet floor, the teamster’s pained expression, and Jigger’s bedraggled pants.

  “This isn’t going well,” Robert observed.

  “No, it ain’t,” Jigger said.

  Katie held her peace.

  “Obviously, we need a line of command here. Jigger, until you get your strength back and your arm heals, Katie is head cook. She makes all the decisions. You can keep your room here in the cook shanty, but you’ll take your directions from her.”

  “But you said—”

  “I know what I said, Jigger, but this isn’t working. Katie, this man, in spite of what you might think from his recent behavior, is a seasoned lumber camp cook. You can learn some things from him.”

  “Yeah.” Jigger scowled at her. “You can learn some things from me.”

  “That’s enough.” Robert slammed his fist down on the table, and both Katie and Jigger jumped. “I don’t want to hear another word out of you, Jigger!”

  The anger in his voice, the impatience on his face, were all too familiar. She felt an old, familiar panic. She backed away, until she bumped against the rough-sawn wood wall.

  “You know what’s at stake here, man.” Robert’s voice was raised as he shook a finger under Jigger’s nose. “It was your idea for me to come out here in the first place. Everything I have is invested in this venture. You said you would help me.”

  “I have helped you.”

  “Yes—right up until you picked that crazy fight in the saloon. The rest of my crew will be arriving soon. Two are already over at the bunkhouse. They’ll need to be fed. How exactly do you plan to cook for them with a broken arm?”

  Jigger stared down at the damp floor.

  “Don’t make our lives any harder, old friend. I hired Katie because she was our best chance at making this camp turn a profit.” As though Robert suddenly realized she was watching, he turned and saw her pressed against the wall. He frowned as though trying to puzzle out what she was doing, but he didn’t apologize.

  “The new men’s names are Ernie and Cletus.” His voice softened, but she didn’t trust it. “They’ll help you get this place ready. In the meantime, I would appreciate it if you could start getting something together for supper.”

  She nodded, afraid to say anything that might set him off again. The best way she had found to placate Harlan was to do everything he asked without question.

  Once again, she had misjudged a man. Robert had a temper that she was going to have to be careful not to ignite, but at least she was getting paid for her work this time—and he hadn’t tried to hit her.

  At least not yet.

  “Are you going to cook or are you going to just stand there and gawk, woman?” Jigger said.

  “I’ll cook.”

  Katie found a large wooden bowl, opened the sack of flour, dipped out several ladles full of creamy white lard, worked it into the flour, and began to roll out piecrusts. There wasn’t enough time to set yeast bread to rising, so her plan was to make dozens of meat-filled pastries. It was the quickest meal she could think of on the spur of the moment. Canned corned beef, potatoes, onions, and carrots were minced and mounded in a large bowl, ready for the filling. By the time the meat pastries were finished, the oven should be heated enough for baking.

  She cut circles into the piecrust with a large, empty tin can, spooned the vegetable and meat mixture into the middle, and pressed the edges together to create crescents. Soon, she had several trays laden with the savory pies. Each would be a meal, all by itself.

  That chore finished, she cast about for some sort of dessert. It would have to be simple. No time for anything more. Her eyes lit on a case of canned peaches
. She still had some piecrust left over. She dumped four large cans of peaches into an enormous baking tin and added cornstarch, sugar, and vanilla extract.

  There wasn’t quite enough crust to cover the top of the baking dish, so she made another latticework. Then she sprinkled sugar over the whole thing and shoved the cobbler into the oven the minute the pies came out. A pot of green tea that Jigger had told her to make simmered on the back of the stove.

  She checked the firebox. As she had suspected, it had died down. She placed three pieces of hickory inside to keep the temperature even.

  Jigger ignored her. Instead, he took on the job of bossing the two men Robert sent over. As she worked, Cletus and Ernie swept out everything from cobwebs to dead birds. They helped Ned with his job, carrying in bucket after bucket of fresh water, scrubbing the floor until the heat of the stove made the steam rise from its damp surface. The long table was cleared of supplies and freshly scrubbed. After it dried, a red-checked oilcloth was rolled out and tacked on. Under Jigger’s supervision, the table was set with freshly washed tin plates and cups. Bowls of sugar and salt shakers were placed in the middle. Last, the two men washed and shined the filthy windows. She could see the whisper of a pink sunset reflected in them.

  It had been three hours since they had pulled into camp, and she hadn’t had a chance to sit down, unpack, or even see where she would be sleeping. She was already exhausted, and tonight she was cooking for only a fraction of the men who would be coming. If today was any indication of how things would be over the next seven months, she would be earning her wages, indeed.

  7

  Potatoes, apples, turnips, beans,

  and syrup, pure and sweet.

  Although we have no appetite

  we cannot help but eat.

  “Johnny Carrol’s Camp”

  —1800s shanty song

  “Supper’s ready.” Katie blew a tendril of hair out of her eyes and placed the cobbler on the table.

  “It’s about time,” Jigger complained.

  Although Katie thought it was overkill with so few people in the camp, Jigger pulled a giant tin horn off the wall and marched outside. The horn was about two feet taller than he was. He rested it on a stump and proceeded to blow it like a bugle, trilling a few notes, flubbing a few more.

  She wiped her hands on her apron and checked the table one more time. For so little notice, the food didn’t look too skimpy. She had unearthed some pickles from the cellar to add to the makeshift supper.

  Ernie and Cletus were already inside where they had been working and commenting on the delicious aromas for the past hour. Sam and Ned stomped through the door as Jigger put away the horn. Ned was red-cheeked and breathless, having earlier been given permission to explore the rest of the camp.

  Robert was the last in. He stopped and stared at the tray of cobbler and the mound of golden meat pies heaped upon the table. Then he took stock of the dining room, which was now as clean and shining as it was possible for bare wood to be. A look of relief settled on his face.

  While Jigger assigned the others their permanent seats, Robert walked over to her.

  “How in the world did you manage to do so much so fast?” he asked in a quiet voice. “I wasn’t expecting anything more than some canned beans and hardtack soaked in tea—maybe some cheese to go with it if we were lucky. That’s all Jigger fixes the first night. Instead, you’ve made us a real meal!”

  His kind words took her breath away. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been complimented for her cooking—or for anything else.

  “Jigger helped,” she said modestly. “He got the place into shape.”

  “He’s a competent man when he wants to be. I apologize for the way he’s been acting.”

  “I’ve dealt with worse.”

  “Hello the camp!” A burly woodsman wearing a bright blue shirt and brown pants cut several inches above the ankles walked through the door with an axe in his hand and a sack slung over one shoulder. “Was that Gabriel’s trumpet I heard blowing? Or was it just the dinner horn?”

  “Skypilot!” Ernie jumped up and pumped the man’s hand. “It’s good to see you. Are you working here this winter?”

  “If your boss has a job for me.” Skypilot rested his axe on the floor. His eyes, a mild blue above a dark, bushy beard, were filled with good humor. “I’ve heard there’s a new cook in this neck of the woods.”

  “Skypilot is one of the best axe men in Michigan,” Ernie told Robert. “We worked with him last winter.”

  “I’ve always room on my crew for someone good with an axe, and welcome,” Robert said. “My name is Robert Foster. This is my camp. Come take supper with us.”

  “I appreciate it.” The big woodsman leaned his axe against a wall and dropped his pack beside it.

  As soon as Skypilot had seated himself, to Katie’s surprise, all hands grabbed a meat pie.

  “Pass the pickles,” Ernie said.

  Robert scooted the bowl down the table to him. The only sound was that of the stove making clicking noises as it cooled and men wolfing down food. Teeth crunched into crisp, hot pastry, and gravy dripped onto tin plates.

  This didn’t seem right. At her mother’s table, there had always been polite conversation. Evidently, none of the men had been taught better manners than to eat in total silence. She decided it might break the ice if she initiated some polite dinner conversation.

  “How did you get the name of Skypilot?” she asked.

  The big logger stopped in mid-bite, acting surprised at the interruption. His eyes slid over to Robert, and he swallowed before he spoke.

  “That’s camp lingo for preacher—which I used to be before the war.”

  Jigger, standing near the head of the table, frowned. “No talking at the table!”

  “Excuse me?” She had never heard of anything so ridiculous. “Why?”

  “We got rules, girlie. Loggers don’t need to be wasting time jawing at each other while they eat. What do you think this is? Some sort of ladies’ tea party?”

  “There are only a handful of us,” Robert intervened, glancing at her as she felt herself turning red. “Surely we can relax that rule a bit for tonight.”

  “Humph!” Jigger set his mouth in a hard line of disapproval. “You’re the boss. If you want to start changing things just because a woman’s got fancy ideas, I guess that’s your right.”

  “Why don’t you sit down, Jigger,” Robert urged. “You’ve had a long day and you must be tired and hungry. I’m sure your arm hurts. Let Katie handle things while you eat.”

  Reluctantly, Jigger sat down, and Robert plopped a meat pie onto his plate. Jigger stared at it for a full minute before picking it up. Katie watched closely—afraid he would find fault with it. He nibbled an edge, looked at it, took a full bite, and gobbled the rest, reaching for a second.

  “Not the best I ever et,” the old man mumbled. “Not the worst, either.”

  She figured that was as close to a compliment as she could hope for from the old cook. She retrieved the kettle from the stove and walked around the table, pouring the scalding hot tea into mugs.

  “Have you ever cooked for a lumber camp before, ma’am?” Skypilot asked, holding his cup out for her to fill.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Then I guess you don’t know the way us shanty boys like our tea brewed.”

  “How’s that?” She had merely dropped a large fistful of green tea leaves into a kettle filled with boiling water. How else could it be made?

  “Well, first, you need to find an old axe head,” he explained. “You got one of them things lying around that she could borrow, Foster?”

  Robert solemnly agreed to loan her an axe head.

  She couldn’t imagine how it could improve the flavor of tea, but she was eager to try. “Then what?”

  “After you boil up the tea, you put the axe head in the water.” Skypilot paused.

  “Please go on.” She had always been fascinated with ne
w ways of preparing food. Could there be some sort of reaction between the iron in the axe and an ingredient in the tea that made it taste better?

  “If the axe head falls to the bottom of the pot,” Skypilot said, “the tea is too weak.”

  Katie noticed that several of the men were grinning.

  Skypilot’s eyes were dancing, but his expression was sober. “And if it floats on the top, it’s pretty good.”

  “Uh-huh.” She crossed her arms over her chest, realizing that Skypilot was joshing her.

  “And if the axe head dissolves—it’s just right.”

  Cletus snickered, and Katie smiled. She glanced around the table and saw that even Jigger was enjoying the joke—at her expense, of course.

  Skypilot took a long slurp from his cup. “I believe an axe head would dissolve pretty fast in this brew, ma’am. It’s near perfect.”

  “Thank you.” Strong tea it was, then. One large fistful per two-quart kettle. “I apologize that there’s no coffee. I couldn’t find any in the supplies.”

  “Shanty boys drink green tea.” Jigger made a disgusted sound. “Everybody knows that. Keeps ’em from gettin’ sick—that and plenty of chaw tobacco.”

  “I wouldn’t mind some coffee now and then,” Sam offered. “Got kind of used to it when I was a mule skinner in the army.”

  “We drink tea in my camp!” Jigger glared at Sam. “Always have. Always will.” He reached for another meat pie as he warmed to his subject. “Next thing you know, you’ll be sucking on those fancy sticks called cigarettes. Real men drink green tea and chaw their tobacco.” He pointed the meat pie at everyone in turn. “I ever catch any of you smoking those little sissy sticks, I’ll kick you outta my camp!”

  Katie noticed an amused smile playing around Robert’s lips at the old man’s belief in his ability to control the lumber camp, but he didn’t correct him.

  Jigger, having voiced his opinion to his own satisfaction, resumed his meal.