Measure of Katie Calloway, The: A Novel

by Serena B. Miller

  The mound of meat pies was disappearing, and most of the cobbler. She had hoped there would be something left over for her, but at the rate the men were inhaling their supper, it didn’t appear likely. At least Ned was getting his belly filled. He sat beside Robert, concentrating on shoveling in as much food as possible. It did her heart good to see him getting plenty to eat.

  All but the last pie was gone. Ernie reached for it, but Robert grabbed his wrist in midair. “The lady hasn’t eaten yet.”

  “Oh.” Ernie blushed through the peach fuzz on his face. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I wasn’t thinking.”

  To her surprise, Robert arose from the table, grabbed a clean plate, placed the meat pie on it, dished up what was left of the cobbler, and added a spoonful of sweet pickles. “Here. You’re dead on your feet, Katie. You eat and then I want you and Ned to go to your cabin. You need to get some rest before tomorrow. Ernie and Cletus will clean up. Jigger can supervise.”

  It had been a long, long time since Katie had been treated with such civility. She sank down onto the far end of the bench, away from the knot of men, and gratefully tucked into her meal.

  “Sam already unloaded your things into the cabin,” Robert said when she was finished. “Are you ready to go?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll take you over there before I turn in.”

  As they made their way to Robert’s cabin, she wondered if she should apologize. She and Ned were taking the man’s private quarters and there was not a thing she could do about it.

  He opened the heavy door and she stepped into a room filled with the soft glow of a kerosene lamp covered with a golden shade. A fire snapped and crackled inside of a small airtight stove. Short, neat lengths of firewood were piled in one corner.

  A double bed covered with what appeared to be a fresh sheet sat in another corner. A table with two chairs was pushed beneath the single window. A dresser stood against the opposite wall. In the middle of the room, near the stove, was quite a treasure—a large rocking chair. In one corner sat the trunk she had purchased in Bay City, ready to be unpacked. A strong woodsy scent pervaded the cabin.

  “I like this place!” Ned said.

  “It’s very nice,” she said. “But why does it smell like Christmas in here?”

  Robert stuck his hands into his pockets. “It’s the spruce.”

  “Spruce?”

  “It’s a shanty boy trick. Sometimes they cut the tips off of spruce trees and layer them beneath a blanket. It makes it a little easier to sleep. I thought it would make things more comfortable for you if there were fresh boughs beneath that straw-tick mattress.”

  “When did Ernie and Cletus have time to gather spruce boughs?” she asked. “I watched them cleaning the cook shanty the entire time.”

  “They didn’t,” Robert said. “I did.”

  She found it hard to imagine the lumber camp boss going to that much effort just for her comfort. Then the thought struck that Robert might have less chivalrous reasons for making her bed comfortable. They were, after all, going to be isolated together in this camp for an entire winter. A cold chill ran down her spine. What had she let herself in for? She glanced at the door. There was no lock or bolt. Feeling a jolt of panic, she grabbed for Ned’s hand.

  Robert saw her looking for the reassurance of a lock, and realized why. He berated himself for his thoughtlessness. It had been stupid of him to fuss over her sleeping arrangements. Of course she would take it the wrong way.

  While wondering what to do about the situation, he reached up to scratch his head.

  Her reaction to his raised hand was startling. She flinched and ducked. Ned backed away and worriedly glanced back and forth between them.

  Her terrified reaction stunned Robert. This woman and child acted as though he intended on hitting her! He had never struck a woman in his life. Never had. Never would. He despised men who did.

  He had no idea what to say, so he simply stalked out of the cabin, went to the blacksmith’s shop, and came back with a hammer, a large nail, and a short length of oak board.

  Without a word of explanation, he pounded the board into the heavy wooden door and then loosened it just enough that it could be moved in a circular fashion. It would make a sturdy makeshift lock for the night.

  “I’ll have the blacksmith make you a proper sliding bolt when he gets here tomorrow.”

  “Thank you.” Tears trembled on the lashes of her pretty blue eyes.

  He could hardly believe what he was seeing. It was only a piece of wood, for pity’s sake.

  “I hate to bring it up.” She wiped tears away with the back of her hand. “But you said I could have my own private privy?”

  He had already forgotten about that. There was just too much to keep track of. Having a woman around was going to be one thing after another. On the other hand, eating meat pies that melted in his mouth made it worth it. Having a woodsman like Skypilot show up out of the blue was proof that his gamble in hiring Katie was going to pay off.

  “Bill Spicer should here tomorrow. We call him Tinker, which is camp slang for carpenter. I’ll put him on it first thing,” he promised.

  “Thank you. I can make . . . other arrangements until then.”

  He wasn’t certain what she meant by “other arrangements,” but he had no intention of asking. Taking the trouble to put those spruce tips beneath her mattress had spooked her enough. She’d have to take care of . . . well . . . other things the best she could.

  The bed looked inviting, but there was still work to do. She opened her trunk and pulled out two woolen blankets along with a heavy cotton one for lining. It wasn’t cool enough for her to face donning cotton long johns.

  “Are we going to bed?” Ned asked.

  “Soon.” She rummaged in the trunk. “Here’s your new nightshirt.”

  “Mr. Foster said I would make a good logger,” the boy boasted.

  “I’m sure he’s right.” She appreciated Robert telling Ned that. After his sojourn with Harlan, the child could use all the encouragement he could get.

  While Ned dressed for bed, the lamp cast shadows on the rough logs and she made small, domestic plans for the cabin. She noticed a corner table holding a plain, white pitcher and washbasin near the door. There was just enough space on it to hold her combs and hairbrush. She decided she would hang a small mirror she had purchased at the mercantile on the wall above it.

  Inside the trunk was a bolt of blue calico that had caught her eye. She had entertained visions of sewing an extra dress out of it in her spare time. After today, she doubted she would have enough spare time to sew a dress, but she could fashion a makeshift curtain for this corner. That would give her some privacy to wash and change clothes.

  As her brother got into bed, she stuffed more logs into the stove. In Georgia, she had rarely needed a fire except to cook. This far north, it appeared that keeping fires going was going to absorb a great deal of her time.

  “I like it here,” Ned said as he wriggled into the straw-tick mattress.

  “I do too.”

  Based on Robert’s behavior tonight, she realized that she meant it. He had many responsibilities weighing on him, and he might be frustrated and worried enough to bark at Jigger from time to time, but she was beginning to entertain hopes that at heart he was a good and chivalrous man.

  With Ned tucked in, she blew out the light and slipped one of her soft, new flannel nightgowns over her head. She removed her hairpins, shook out her hair, and threw it into a long, loose braid. The rope webbing creaked beneath her weight as she climbed in and snuggled down.

  In the darkness, she heard the bone-chilling sound of a chorus of wild howls that went on and on. It was one of the most eerie and yet one of the most beautiful sounds she had ever heard in her life. Unless she missed her guess, it was a choir of timber wolves. She decided that she and Ned would not be walking around the camp after dark any more than absolutely necessary.

  “Are you afraid, sister?”
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br />   “A little.”

  “Me too.”

  “The wolves can’t get in here,” she assured him. “The walls of this cabin are thick.”

  “Are you afraid of Mr. Foster?”

  “I think I’m a little afraid of all men right now, Ned.”

  “I know.” Ned patted her shoulder to comfort her. “Do you remember Papa’s favorite Scripture?”

  “He had so many.”

  “I liked the one about not being afraid, but I can’t remember all the words.”

  “God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.” She kissed his hand. “Is that the one you were looking for, little brother?”

  “Yes.” Ned curled into a ball and yawned. “I like that one best.” He was asleep beside her in an instant. She drew her baby brother’s skinny little body close to her, curled herself around him, and silently gave thanks.

  In the middle of the Michigan wilderness, serenaded by howling wolves, inside a borrowed cabin, she closed her eyes with a combination of exhaustion and relief. She would not be afraid. She would not give in to the spirit of fear. God had been faithful. He had miraculously brought her to this strange, good place. For the first time since they had fled on the back of Rebel’s Pride, she allowed herself to relax and fall into a deep sleep.

  8

  You ought to see them jump and run

  when the cook his horn does blow,

  for it ain’t like any of the boys

  to miss their hash, you know.

  “Shanty Boys in the Pine”

  —1800s shanty song

  October 8, 1867

  Katie awoke with a start and glanced around in confusion at the dark, unfamiliar walls. The only light was that which spilled from a crack in the stove.

  Where was she? What had awakened her? Her heart pounded with fear.

  She had been dreaming of their flight from Georgia. She and Ned were in that abandoned, derelict barn in which they had sheltered in southern Tennessee. It had rained for two solid days while they had hidden Rebel’s Pride and themselves, counting themselves lucky that the rain would wash away Rebel’s hoofprints. The barn had been so old, she had feared it would collapse from the weight of the rain, but it had held, and they had stayed fairly dry, albeit so hungry they gnawed on a few ears of sodden field corn overlooked by harvesters.

  What was that sound? She instinctively reached for Ned and found him still asleep beside her. This reassured her.

  As she fought her way to full consciousness, she realized that the sound she was hearing was nothing more than rain on the roof, which must be why she was dreaming about those rainy nights in that barn.

  Her heartbeat returned to normal as she remembered where she was and what she was doing here. She was in Michigan, inside Robert Foster’s cabin. She had a job as a cook. Her brother was beside her.

  Smiling at her irrational fear, she climbed out of bed, lit the lamp, and walked barefoot over to the stove to add more firewood. Just as she bent over to pick up a length of firewood, the doorknob jiggled.

  She leaped away from the door. Who could be trying to open her door at this time of night!

  Grasping the length of firewood in both hands, she stood ready to protect Ned and herself from whoever was trying to get in. She blessed Robert for having put that barrier on the door. If it weren’t for that nail and piece of wood, anyone could have walked right in.

  Now, something pecked at the window behind her. She whirled and stared straight into the face of Jigger, pressed close to the glass, peering in. Rain was pouring off of his hat.

  “Open up!” he shouted through the glass.

  Ned bolted awake, his eyes wide with fear. “Who is it?”

  “Shhh. Go back to sleep. It’s just Jigger.”

  Ned snuggled back under the covers.

  Thinking there must be some sort of emergency but still grasping the sturdy piece of firewood just in case, she shifted the makeshift lock and opened the door. A sodden and extremely unhappy Jigger stepped in.

  “Why ain’t you in the kitchen yet, woman?” he spluttered. “You’re supposed to be cooking!”

  “What time is it?” It felt as though she had barely closed her eyes. It couldn’t be time to start breakfast yet.

  “Half past three! You’re late. The men’ll be up and ready to eat in an hour. I kept waitin’ for you to get your lazy self up and into the kitchen, but you never came.”

  “Why didn’t you knock instead of trying to open the door? I could have brained you.”

  “I did knock. And I yelled. Never saw someone sleep so sound.”

  The old man looked so sodden and miserable, she felt bad, but grateful to him. How long would she have slept had he not awakened her? She could have lost her job!

  “I’ll be right there,” she said. “Just let me get dressed.”

  Jigger suddenly seemed to be aware that she was standing there in her bare feet and nightgown. The gown was high-necked and modest and covered everything that needed to be covered, but he quickly backed out of the cabin.

  “You better hurry,” he said over his shoulder as the rain enveloped him. “More of the crew came in during the night. They need a decent breakfast if they’re gonna do a full day’s work. The boss won’t be happy if they don’t get it.”

  Robert awoke to the sound of that infernal horn and Jigger yelling, “Get up, you lazy shanty boys! Daylight in the swamp!”

  That traditional wake-up call would be echoing right now in lumber camps all over Michigan. It came from the fact that the state had once been described as an “impenetrable swamp” by a disenchanted government surveyor.

  Of course, the word “daylight” was a joke. It was 4:30 a.m. and as black as India ink outside. If Katie did her job well this morning, his men would be fed and out in the timber long before morning light.

  Torrential rain pounded against the roof, driving water into the ceiling vent hole and sending water down onto the stove, where it sizzled. The men were used to working in wet weather but not when the rain was falling with the force of a waterfall. The rest of the crew he had expected today probably wouldn’t materialize until it was over.

  Much like farming, the timber business depended upon the weather. He needed a dry autumn to get the roads and the camp readied and a below-freezing winter to keep the tote roads solid. The roads would be iced down by a giant watering wagon, providing a slick surface for sliding logs to the river, where they would be stacked in huge piles.

  When spring came, the snows needed to melt at a consistent rate, causing the rivers to rise just enough to carry the logs off to the mills at the mouth of the Saginaw—but not enough to flood their banks and float the logs out to heaven-knows-where like last spring. Finding and dragging those logs back to the river while the mosquitoes and black flies swarmed was nearly impossible.

  A few bunks down, Ernie groaned as he got out of bed, still dressed in his logging clothes. Cletus, in the bunk above him, was sound asleep.

  “Wake up,” Ernie said in a friendly tone.

  Cletus didn’t move.

  “I said”—Ernie slapped his brother on the shoulder—“get up!”

  With his eyes closed tight, Cletus punched Ernie in the chest.

  Ernie laughed, stepped back, and lit a lamp hanging from the ceiling. “That redheaded widow woman is cooking breakfast, Cletus.”

  Cletus sat straight up in bed, wide awake. “Wonder what she’s fixing!”

  Both of them began jerking on socks and boots. Ernie yanked on a hat and headed out the door. Cletus hopped on one foot, got his other boot on, then followed his brother out into the pouring rain.

  Tinker and the blacksmith they all simply referred to as Blackie, both of whom had arrived long after supper, headed out the door as well.

  Robert stared at the wet, pitch black morning, trying to work up enthusiasm for the day. Thinking of pretty Katie presiding over a pot of scalding hot tea was a pretty good motivator.
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  “Interesting weather,” Skypilot observed from a top bunk.

  “It’s raining cats and dogs.”

  “I wish I had me a good cat right now to catch whatever the critter was that was gnawing on the bottom of my bed all night.”

  “We got traps over in the storage shed,” Robert said. “I’ll set a couple tonight.”

  “I’d be much obliged.” Skypilot arose from his bunk, pulled on his boots, stretched upward until his fingers touched the rafters, then donned a worn, black, rubberized raincoat. He stood with one hand on the doorjamb, looking out at the darkness.

  “This is the day that the Lord has made,” Skypilot spoke aloud into the downpour. “Let us rejoice and be glad in it!” Then he plunged into the pouring rain and jogged to the cook shanty. Sam, unhappy about having to go out in the downpour, added a few choice non-biblical words of his own before following.

  Robert added more logs to the stove and straightened his bedroll. It had been a rough night. Both Ernie and Cletus snored like thunder. Sam made a sound like a steam locomotive huffing into a station. The sawdust-filled bed he lay in was hard. The mouse, or rat, that Skypilot had mentioned had kept him awake most of the night as well.

  He hoped Katie Smith and her brother had enjoyed their slumber. Maybe it would translate into a good breakfast. Those meat pies and cobbler last night had been amazing, but his stomach was already starting to growl again. Being in camp gave him an appetite he never enjoyed in town.

  He laced up his boots, threw on the same well-worn mackintosh that had seen him through the war, and went outside. He gasped as the rain, with no trees to break its force, hit him full in the face.

  A few steps later he entered the cook shanty. It was like entering a different world. Katie and Jigger had lit every lamp in the place, and the dining room was alive with light. Good smells wafted from the kitchen area. Stacks of flapjacks filled the middle of the table. Sorghum, known to the men as “long sweetening,” sat in pitchers ready to be poured. Pork gravy had been made for the men who preferred it to sorghum.