Measure of Katie Calloway, The: A Novel

by Serena B. Miller

  every year the “old” Cass claimed

  a driver for her toll.

  “The Old Cass”

  —1800s shanty song

  April 6, 1868

  As Katie feverishly prepared enough food for the ravenous appetites of the river drivers, she noticed Robert riding along the riverbank. It was a unique experience cooking on this crude flat boat. She was half afraid she would accidentally set the boat on fire and have to jump overboard, but all in all, cooking on a wannigan wasn’t a bad experience. After being cooped up in the cook shanty for most of the past seven months, it was a feast for her eyes to watch the ever-changing scenery.

  But the best part was getting to watch Robert as he worked. Sometimes he rode ahead to check on the men, sometimes he had to ride further inland to cross some small tributary or to avoid a steep embankment, sometimes he waded into the water to dislodge a log that had gotten hung up.

  These few months of working with this good, fair man had been the pinnacle of her life. And so, as she kneaded bread, her fingers so familiar with the task that she barely had to think, she memorized every angle of his face, every line of his body, and allowed herself to grieve the life with him she could not have.

  The river, for as far as the eye could see, looked as though it were made entirely out of wood. The thousands of logs sounded like pleasant thunder as they bumped against one another. Men in steel-caulked boots walked from one side of the river to the other across this tapestry of moving logs, almost as easily as she had once traversed the rough floorboards of the cookhouse. Other camps were driving their logs to market also.

  The river was so full of pine logs that when she drew up water for cooking, it carried with it the scent and taste of pine.

  A mosquito landed on her arm, and she smacked it before it could draw blood. Jigger said they were lucky this year to only be dealing with a few of the things buzzing around, instead of the clouds of them he had seen following river hogs during especially wet springs. Before they left, Jigger had prepared jars of yellow birch bark and sassafras root tea with which to dose anyone who might come down with the ague during the drive.

  Some of the younger river drivers, with their cut-off “stagged” pants, would show off sometimes—birling the log beneath their feet until it was a blur every time they saw her looking at them. Jigger called the most skilled of the river hogs “catty men” because they were cat-like in their ability to leap around on the logs without falling in. He told her that good catty men boasted they could throw a bar of yellow soap into the river and ride the bubbles to shore.

  She was thoroughly enjoying the show until at one bend in the river she noticed something odd as they passed close to the riverbank.

  “There’s a pair of boots tied up in the branches of that tree,” she pointed out to Jigger, who was slicing potatoes. “Why in the world would someone go off and leave a perfectly good pair of caulked boots hanging up in a tree?”

  He craned his neck as they floated past. “Guess the river got another one.”

  “Another what?”

  He kept his eyes down as he finished the potatoes. “Another driver.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I was hoping you wouldn’t ask.”

  “Well, I’m asking now. Why are someone’s boots hanging from that tree?”

  “That’s the only headstone most of these shanty boys will ever get.”

  “What!”

  He sighed. “When a river driver falls in with all them logs grinding above him, he don’t stand much of a chance of surviving. If his buddies find his body—and they don’t always—they take his boots and hang ’em up so’s others will know and pay their respects. If they got a few minutes, they’ll carve his name in the tree after they bury him on the riverbank.”

  “Were those boots from any of our crew?”

  “Nope. Not yet. At least not that I’ve heard.”

  “Does this happen often?”

  He tossed a dollop of lard into the skillet. “Often enough.”

  An hour later, she saw another pair of caulked boots in a tree. From that moment on, she made it a point to never be caught watching any of the boys dancing about on the logs—their lives were dangerous enough without showing off for her.

  The river was not as high and deep as Robert would have liked. The logs crowded together, bumping and complaining, at various narrow places. The only thing keeping the mass of timber from turning into a jam was the expertise and daring of the river hogs. As they worked atop of the floating logs with their long jam-pikes, or as they stood in icy water at the edge to help shove the pine along, the men were masters at keeping the river clear. So far, so good. Only a few more miles and they would reach the mouth of the bay.

  And then he heard shouts up ahead and saw that the wooden river was slowing down. The few inches of water visible between the logs began to close up. Logs pushed against one another as though they were living things. Sick at heart, he urged his horse forward, toward what he knew was a logjam.

  Half a mile later, he arrived at a place where river hogs were working frantically to free a jam. The logs had become intertwined as they made their way through a narrow place in the river.

  “Someone put in a sinker,” Ernie shouted over the sound of grinding timber. “I saw it, but I couldn’t get to it in time.”

  “You’d think the other camps would know better than to put hardwood in with the pine.”

  “Some people are idiots.”

  More river drivers were arriving by the minute. A logjam was the most dangerous occurrence that could happen to a camp, next to wildfire. Several were working along the edges, trying to keep as much as possible from backing up. Ernie and one other river driver were directly in the center.

  Robert knew the black-haired river driver working alongside Ernie. He had a red handkerchief knotted around his forehead and was as graceful as a deer. His name was Leaping Fox and he worked for another company. Robert was relieved to see him there. Indian drivers, in general, were reputed to be the most skilled and sure-footed of all. They liked to work a few weeks, make three times the money of a regular logger, and live on that income for the rest of the year. He’d watched Leaping Fox the year before, and the man was the best river driver he’d ever seen.

  “Be careful, Ernie!” Cletus became more and more agitated as he watched his brother. Although competent with an axe, Cletus was not a particularly good river hog, which was why Robert had him working only the edges of the river.

  Of everything Robert had to do in regards to lumbering, this was the part he despised—watching good men risking their lives to break a dam. But there was no choice.

  As Leaping Fox and Ernie probed the logs, trying to find the one that would unlock this mess, he prayed that they would not get crushed by a wall of dripping logs.

  He glanced at Cletus, who was nervously rubbing a small wooden beaver against his cheek as he watched Ernie and Leaping Fox prying out a large log that had managed to get crosswise of the others.

  And then the sinker that had started this mess was extricated, and Robert held his breath, knowing that the next few seconds could mean the difference between life and death, especially for Ernie and Leaping Fox, as the men ran for the bank on tipping, spinning logs.

  Ernie almost lost his balance at one point, teetered for a heart-stopping second, regained it and began to run again, his caulked boots digging into the bark. Leaping Fox ran toward the shore too, leaping from log to log, as sure-footed as a cat, his legs as strong as steel springs. And yet, even the fastest, strongest river man was no match against the freak nature of a breaking logjam.

  Slick, wet logs were their only bridge to safety as the two men and the others ran for the safety of shore.

  They had almost made it when Ernie tripped. Robert watched, helpless, as Ernie lost his battle against gravity. As his head disappeared beneath the bobbing logs, Cletus began to jump up and down and cry.

  Leaping Fox, safe,
fell facedown onto the shore. Ernie had been close enough to shore that there was a chance he might survive if he could get out quickly enough. But as the almost solid mass of logs shoved their way down the river, directly above Ernie’s submerged body, Robert knew the chance of him surviving was slim.

  Then he saw a hand grasp a log, and Ernie’s head reappeared, but the man was obviously in deep trouble. Blood streamed from a gash in his head, and he seemed too weak to do anything except hang on. The possibility of being crushed to death was great.

  The force of water, once the dam had been broken, propelled the wooden river of logs forward at a breakneck speed. Robert ran alongside, watching that one lone hand clinging to the log, praying Ernie wouldn’t disappear.

  Even though he was not as skilled a river driver as others, Robert was preparing to leap out onto the logs to try to save Ernie’s life when he saw Ernie manage to grab onto a sturdy, overhanging branch. He used it to pull himself back up onto the log to which he had been clinging. Half holding onto the branch with one hand, and half using the logs as a moving bridge, he unsteadily worked his way from log to log until he had reached shore. Robert saw that he was holding his other arm close to his body, as though something was wrong with it.

  Together, Robert and Cletus helped Ernie climb up a slick embankment and collapse on level, dry ground. He was so limp by this time that he could not stand alone.

  His head was bloodied, and the arm Robert had seen him favoring was broken in two places.

  The other river drivers, including Leaping Fox, had disappeared, continuing to herd the timber that only minutes before had made up the logjam.

  “You shouldn’t a’ done it.” Cletus fell to his knees beside his brother. “You shouldn’t a’ gone out there in the middle.”

  “I’m fine, Cletus.” Ernie, dripping wet, cold, and barely conscious, reached out with his good hand and weakly patted his brother on the leg. “You can stop crying now.”

  Robert glanced up just in time to see the wannigan, far behind the bulk of the logs, float by. Katie rushed to the side of the boat.

  “Is Ernie all right?” she shouted as the boat moved past.

  Robert cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled back. “Yes!”

  He looked down at the injured man. The arm could be set. Ernie would live. Cletus wouldn’t have to face life without his brother.

  Was cutting the timber worth it? Worth the danger and the sacrifice? Worth the deaths that everyone knew would take place during the river drive? Was it worth the accidents that happened out in the woods when the giant pines took their own revenge on the puny men trying to destroy them?

  At this moment, he doubted it. And yet he knew that if he didn’t take the timber out, someone else would, someone less careful of the men, someone less honest who would try to cheat them out of their wages. Regardless of whether he stayed in the logging business or not—the loggers and axe men and swampers and road monkeys and teamsters would continue to pour into the Saginaw Valley to mine the green gold that was putting Michigan on the map.

  28

  When navigation opens

  and the waters run so free

  we’ll drive our logs to Saginaw

  then haste our girls to see.

  “Once More A-Lumbering Go”

  —1800s shanty song

  April 14, 1868

  There had been no more logjams, thank the Lord, but Robert’s men had found and apprehended two nests of river pirates. He had helped capture one of them.

  None of the river drivers who had drowned were men he knew or for whom he was responsible. For that, he was grateful.

  Jigger and Katie had successfully put enough meals together while floating down the river to keep his men healthy. The harvest he had brought to Bay City was some of the best timber he had ever seen.

  All things considered, Robert felt good as he surveyed the islands of “booms” floating in the bay with the “sorters” separating the logs according to their branding marks. From a distance, it resembled a rough carpet made of logs woven together.

  He could have had a better year—the fire had taken a toll, as had Skypilot’s accident—but it could have been much worse. He had made it through another year and it had not been easy.

  Soon, he would head home to his family. His crew and Katie had been paid and Moon Song was also given something. If nothing else, the girl deserved a salary for taking care of Skypilot so faithfully. He hoped she would stick with Katie. The two women would be safer together.

  He intended to invite Skypilot to spend the rest of the summer in his house. The man was able to walk again, but he was still weak, and as far as Robert knew, had nowhere else to go. His house was large enough to accommodate one more, and if his sister’s husband didn’t like it—that would be his problem.

  He didn’t know what he was going to do with Jigger. There was a shanty song, called “The Boardman River,” that had always haunted him. The words often ran through his mind when he thought about his old friend.

  Where is the money I have earned?

  Not a dollar can I show.

  It is scattered to the four winds

  while in my rags I go.

  If there’s anyone I pity,

  it’s the man that’s old and gray,

  that must face the storms of winter

  to earn his bread each day.

  Jigger was the only one Inkslinger had been instructed not to pay. Robert knew that with a wad of cash in his pocket, the old man would only end up in an alley behind some saloon, stone broke and, if he was lucky—still alive.

  At the moment, Robert was avoiding Jigger’s wrath over not being handed his pay until he could figure out what to do with him. Unfortunately, he hadn’t hidden himself away soon enough.

  “Hey,” Jigger yelled. “How come Inkslinger won’t give me my pay?”

  Robert knew he would have to do battle with the old fellow, but the last thing he wanted was to spend yet another summer trying to keep him from destroying himself.

  “About that . . .”

  Jigger didn’t seem to be all that interested in what he had to say—the old cook seemed more interested in a folded newspaper he had tucked beneath his arm. He shook it open and pointed to an advertisement.

  “Katie showed me this. It’s for a place called the Western Health Reform Institute. Just got started last year. Looks like some people way over in Battle Creek is making other people eat something called ‘graham’ crackers. I think I’m gonna head on out there and help them out. Imagine making people eat nothin’ but a bunch of little bitty crackers and being charged big money for it. I bet if they were to have a real cook show up—someone what knows how to cook up plenty of beans and fatback—those people would think they was in heaven.”

  Robert wished he could be a fly on the wall when Jigger showed up at the health institute. “No doubt.”

  “Says here they’re looking for someone they want to train to cook veg-e-tar-ian.” He looked up at Robert. “I don’t know what that is, but I bet I could figure it out. I learned a bunch from Katie and I’m a big enough man to admit it.” He poked his chest with a thumb. “I learned her a few things too.”

  “So, you’re wanting to go out to Battle Creek, then?”

  “Yeah.” Jigger lowered his voice. “But you’d better not give me no money yet. These saloon keepers will suck the blood right out of a man—and take his payroll while they’re at it. What I want is some new clothes, a train ticket, and for you to send me my pay after I get myself out there.”

  “I’ll be happy to, Jigger.”

  “You mean you don’t mind?”

  “Not at all.”

  “If they make me head cook, I might not be back this winter.”

  “We’ll struggle along the best we can.”

  Jigger stared at the advertisement. “Wonder what veg-e-tar-ian is, anyway?”

  Robert tried to keep the smile out of his voice. “Go get fitted for a new suit of clothes. I�
��ll be along in a bit to pay for them. My treat.”

  “Thanks, boss.”

  Robert watched as his old friend walked jauntily down the street and into a store that stocked men’s suits. He wondered if Jigger had missed the wording about the Institute being a temperance organization as well. If so—he wasn’t going to be the one pointing it out to him.

  Either this would be the salvation of Jigger, or Katie was getting a quiet revenge for everything Jigger had put her through at the beginning of the season. For now, he was just happy that Jigger had a destination in mind other than the saloons of Bay City.

  Tinker had disappeared as soon as he had gotten paid, without a word to anyone. Sam would probably be broke within the month, but his mules were being cared for down at the livery, and when he sobered up, he would likely get some work hauling for the sawmills to tide him over until fall. Cletus and Ernie were headed back home to southern Michigan, their money safely stashed away, ready to hand it over to parents who were hoping to purchase more acreage for a family farm.

  Inkslinger was taking Katie’s cow back to his farm as a gift for his daughters and wife. The pig and chickens had been slaughtered right before the river drive to provide much-needed energy during the intense days.

  Orange cat had bolted for the woods the minute Katie tried to coax it onto the wannigan. Robert could have told her there was no way that cat was going to tamely float down the river. He was certain it was capable of taking care of itself in the woods, but still, he left the door ajar on the abandoned cook shanty before he left, in case it ever needed shelter.

  They would not be coming back to that camp. He had logged all that he intended from that section of timber. The log buildings would eventually go back to the earth from which they had sprung.