by Debra Samms
Clara cut and served the pie, wondering if George would remember the last time she'd brought him a rhubarb pie. It had been at the picnic that Molly Strong had organized in a clover field out at the dairy farm, hoping to get the loggers and the eastern women to begin socializing – but on that day, George, like the other men, had been very crude and simply taken the whole pie she'd offered and scooped out chunks of it from the pie plate to eat before walking away.
Today, however, the two of them were eating together while sitting on the riverbank and using plates and forks. "Good," she heard him say, as he finished his slice of pie.
"I'm glad you like it," she said, and served him another large slice. "It's one of my favorite recipes. Rhubarb keeps well and grows for a long time, so it's usually available."
The two of them sat in comfortable silence for a little while, listening to the rushing of the river and the distant singing of the birds. Finally Clara set aside her plate, and smiled at George.
"I haven't seen you for a while," she said. "I thought that perhaps you had grown tired of coming into the town."
He glanced at her. "Work," he murmured, around another very large forkful of rhubarb pie. "Two miles."
"Oh. I think I see. You were working temporarily at a cut site two miles away. Right?"
A quick nod.
"Well, then. I'm glad you're back."
Another nod. Then he finished the second big slice of pie, set down the plate and fork, and reached beneath the edge of the burlap sack. Then he turned to look at her with his surprisingly soft brown eyes, and handed her something.
It was a book, Clara saw, taking it and looking at the faded gold lettering on the leather cover. "Robinson Crusoe," she said, and grinned up at him. "One of your favorites?"
He smiled.
"In that case," said Clara, "I will read it, and then return it to you. And I thank you very much."
Then he spoke, though she had to listen closely to catch the word. "Signs."
"Signs," she repeated. "Oh, yes! Signs! You'd like me to teach you a few signs to use, so you can talk to people without words."
He sat patiently, watching her.
"Let me see what I can remember," Clara said, thinking back. "I simply learned a few of the signs that a teacher showed to my little nephew. He could hear, but he could not speak at all. Yet there were hand signs, like this one – "
Clara held both hands up with her fingers spread, and moved them downward and side to side. "That's for weather," she said. "It would be a good one to have for men working outdoors." She smiled at him. "Will you try?"
He'd been watching her hands closely. He raised both hands, fingers up, and then quickly moved them from one side to the other. "That's good! That's good, George. You see? It's really very easy."
Clara thought for a moment. "Here's another that he liked." She held one hand out with her fingers closed and palm down, and then made a fist with the other and tapped it twice on top of the closed hand. "That means work. Any sort of work."
George tried that one, too.
"Yes – that's it – tap it twice – just like that!"
She was very encouraged, especially since he seemed to be enjoying this. "I'll show you one more. It's the sign for danger."
Clara held one hand flat across the front of her, and with the other made a fist with her thumb up. Then she circled the fist in front of the flat hand. "Danger," she said "Dangerous. It's a little harder. Here, try it again – "
But he suddenly got to his feet and started to walk off towards the town.
"George!" cried Clara, hastily trying to gather up the pie plates and the watercress and the basket. "George, please. Wait for me. I'll walk back with you, if you don't want to stay here any longer."
To her relief, he did pause near the road while she got everything put back in the basket – even the piece of burlap they'd used for a picnic blanket. Then Clara got up and hurried after him.
He paused just long enough to allow her to catch up with him. Then they walked back into town in silence, which would not have bothered Clara except for the great tension she could feel from George.
When they reached the foot of the ridge and stood at the switchback leading up to the high road with the houses – the road where the loggers were not permitted to go – she tried to talk to him.
"George, I'm sorry if you did not like the signs. We don't have to do them again. I only thought – "
"Gone," he said, in that harsh whisper. "August fifth."
"You mean – you'll be gone working until then? Until August the fifth?" She began to feel very alone. "Oh, George . . . that's over a month from now . . . "
But he only turned and went striding away right down the middle of the main street, walking as fast as he could, and did not look back. Clara had never felt so confused in her life . . . and had no idea whether she would ever see him again.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The weeks passed slowly. With a bit of creative asking, Clara was able to learn that George really had gone with a work group to spend some time down river clearing another section of the forest and was expected back during the first week of August, as he had said.
Clara kept herself occupied by working in the Ladies' House – there was certainly plenty to do there each day and the washing, cooking, and sewing were never-ending – and in addition, she was pleasantly distracted by the very first wedding to be held in Sawyerville, which was the wedding of Maeve Harrison and the logger called Red Lyon.
Maeve's wedding was held on the second of August, but Clara could think of little besides whether she might ever see George again. From what he had said, he would be back at the Sawyerville camp soon, but that did not mean he would come and call on her again . . . or even send her another of his carefully crafted notes that she had learned to appreciate so much.
***
Just a week later, on the ninth of August, Clara still had heard nothing from George – but another wedding was being held that day, that of Delilah Michaels and the faller known as "Beast" Bradley Fisher.
It was a very pretty wedding, down on the riverbank with the sun shining bright on the fast-moving water. Afterwards, though, there was only a short and simple reception at the Frost Mercantile, and soon the guests were dispersing to go back to their own homes or tents.
Clara waited at the front of the Mercantile for as long as she could. But it was not long before all of the guests were gone and she really had no choice but to begin the walk back to the high road and the Ladies' House. It was supposed to be her turn to help prepare supper tonight, and with over forty women in the house it was like preparing a banquet every night.
As she reached the end of the main road, she heard a hoarse voice behind her. "Clara."
She turned around to see George standing in the road, and could not help smiling. "Oh," she breathed. "Hello, George. It's so good to see you. I hope the work went well."
He stood very still, and was silent, as always; but then she saw that he held something close against his chest, and in a moment he took a step forward and offered it to her.
Clara walked over to him. "Another book," she said, with a little laugh. "I'm afraid I haven't quite finished the first one yet. But if you'll loan me this one, I'll be glad to read it, too. The first one has been very good so far."
She took the book and examined it. "The Swiss Family Robinson," she said, reading from the cover. "It sounds very interesting. Maybe we can – "
But when she looked up, he was already walking away. Clara could only stand and watch him go.
It seemed clear that though he still seemed to like her, he was also angry or upset about something . . . though he would not, or could not, tell her what it was. Clara did not know how she could find out, but found herself suddenly determined to find a way.
***
On a warm and cloudy Thursday morning in mid August, some twenty young women from the Sawyerville Ladies' House gathered in the street in front of the Sliding Belle
Saloon.
Clara was there with them, along with Susannah and Jessamine and several of her other close friends, waiting to meet Mr. Carl Mitchell. He was the boss of the Sawyerville Logging Camp, and the day before Clara and Molly had gone to him with a proposal.
She was glad to see that she and her group did not have long to wait. They all turned to see Carl Mitchell walking up to them with a shotgun in his hand, and a couple of armed men on either side of him.
"Mornin', ladies," said Mr. Mitchell. "If you're sure you want to do this, then we're going to split you up into three different groups. I was told that you wanted to see some of the different jobs that the men do, so that's what we'll show you. Today we'll start with the fallers, the river rats, and the chokers, to name just three.
"Now, John here will take those who want to see what the fallers do. You'll have to walk out into the forest for some way, as will those who want to watch the chokers. For that, you go with Bill."
Clara leaned over to Susannah. "I want to watch the chokers. That's what George does," she whispered to her friend, and the two of them quickly walked over to stand with the small group beside Bill.
"To watch the river rats, come with me," said Mr. Mitchell. "All you have to do is stand along the shore. That's why I'm taking that group!"
All of them laughed, and in a moment all three groups were going their separate ways – one to the river with Mr. Mitchell, and two more down the road to the east with Bill and John – out of the town, past the camp, and into the forest.
***
Before long, Bill and John led the two groups of women into the forest. Even before reaching the large cut site, they could all hear the shouting and swearing of men, the chopping of axes, and the crashing of enormous falling trees and heavy branches.
The group that wanted to watch the fallers went with John, heading towards the men who were using the huge axes to make the trees fall. Bill's group walked to the other side of the site to watch the men who moved the great trees after they'd been brought down to the ground by the fallers.
Clara saw George among the choker setters and tried to give him a small wave, but all of the men in the camp had stopped work and stood around glaring at the women who had invaded their cut site.
And none of them looked angrier than George.
Bill and John went over to talk to the men, who gathered around both of them. "They insist that if they're going to stay and be loggers' wives, they've got to know something about what a logger does," said Bill. "That's why they came to Sawyerville in the first place."
"They won't watch for long," added John.
Finally one of the foremen threw up his hands. "All right! If they want to watch, let 'em watch. Easier to just go along than to argue with a bunch of women."
"But not for long!" barked another foreman.
The women looked at each other, but stayed back and watched as the men went back to work. None of them paid closer attention than Clara did, and she listened carefully to what Bill told them.
Once the huge trees had been chopped down by the fallers, the resulting logs had to be taken to the river. This was done by attaching steel cables called "chokers" to the logs so the waiting teams of horses could drag them away.
To tighten the choker around the log, there was a sliding connector that could be pushed up the cable until it fit tightly. This was called a "bell," for its shape. Clara giggled a bit, and nudged Susannah. "The Sliding Belle, just as I thought!"
George worked as one of the choker setters, attaching the thick cables around the heavy fallen logs and then adjusting the bell. Sometimes he would follow the log on its way to the river so he could release the bell and choker, and then the log would be rolled into the river to join the hundreds of others that would eventually find their way to the Pacific Ocean and the sawmills down the coast.
Clara and several of the other women stood at the edge of the road by the forest and watched the fallers swing their axes. Tree after enormous tree fell in quick succession, and then the branches were trimmed off and the logs dragged down to the river by a powerful team of horses.
She leaned over to her friend Susannah, who stood close beside her. "I can only hope that George won't be too annoyed that we've come out here to the cut site to watch them work," Clara whispered.
"The men don't like seeing women at their work sites, that's for certain," said Susannah. "But I think that all us who've come to Sawyerville as prospective brides have a right to understand what loggers do each day. And I'll say that it looks harder than I could have imagined."
Clara nodded. She watched as George looped the steel cable around yet another log and slid the bell into place to hold the cable tight. Then he signaled to the team driver, and the two very large horses dug in with their hooves on the muddy path and pulled hard.
But this time, the huge log hardly moved. It looked as though it was hung up on something – perhaps a boulder under the slick mud – and so the driver's whip cracked and the horses pulled harder.
"Ohhh, that looks dangerous!" said Susannah, in a rising voice loud enough to carry. She caught hold of Clara's arm. "If that cable slips, someone could get killed!"
Right then, there was a tremendous snap as the steel cable broke and whipped backwards towards the log – right where George and two other men were standing.
All of the women screamed. One man was knocked off his feet, but to Clara's great relief he rolled over and got up again and seemed none the worse for it.
But George was standing and staring right at her, and at Susannah. His face was so white under the black beard that he looked like a ghost. Clara took a cautious step towards him, but then he only turned and disappeared into the darkness of the woods.
He was gone.
***
"George!"
Clara ran right across the work site, stepping up onto the fallen log with the broken cable and then running into the forest after him. Fortunately, he had not gone far, and she spotted him down near the river leaning back against a tree.
There was the sound of footsteps behind her. "Miss Kingston! Come away from there! Just leave him be. We're going back now."
Impatiently she waved them back. "I'll be along, Bill. I'm going to talk to him first."
"But – "
But Clara walked straight over to George and ignored Bill and all the rest of the men behind her. "George," she called quietly, as she approached him. "Please. Please let me talk to you."
He remained standing with his back to an enormous Douglas tree, looking out at the river. He did not move when she spoke, but she saw his eyes flick towards her for just an instant. Clara stopped beside him, almost within arm's reach, but then stood very still and tried to just wait for a moment.
The first thing she noticed was how beautiful and quiet this place was. The road and the work site and the river were not far away, but none of them could be seen through the heavy forest and the grove felt very isolated and peaceful.
It felt like being in church, in a sacred place. The cloudy daylight was soft, filtered as it was through the tall trees, and the only sounds were a few birds singing and the distant river rushing past.
"George," she said softly. "I'm sorry we disturbed your work."
He moved slightly against the tree, but remained silent.
"I saw what happened," she went on. "It wasn't the accident that set you off. You could handle that. It was what Susannah said – wasn't it? When she cried out that somebody could get killed."
He jerked visibly. Clara thought he would run away again. But he stayed where he was, though his eyes narrowed.
"I know that you can speak. Something must have happened to make you stop."
She took a deep breath. "What did you say, George? What did you say that made you stop talking forever?"
After a long pause, he slowly turned around to look at her. He still kept one hand on the tree as though for support. "Never," he whispered, "say . . . killed."
Clara nod
ded, watching him closely. "Never say the word 'killed' on a work site. That's what you mean, isn't it?"
He nodded sharply.
"You must have said that once, before you knew. Is that what happened?"
"First . . . job."
"On your first logging job. It must have been some years ago. And probably not here – not in Sawyerville."
"Hmm."
Clara took that as an affirmative, and went on. "You must have said that word while you were out on a work site – a cut site – and then someone died in an accident. Is that what happened?"
George turned his back to her. She could see that his breathing came deep and ragged.
"I see," she said quietly. "And – is this why you go away sometimes? To be alone? No – not just to be alone. To do penance. Because you feel you are to blame for the death of another man."
He drew another deep breath. "Fred," he said, in that raspy whisper. "Fred Beaumont."
"Fred Beaumont," she repeated, hoping to encourage him. "He was the man who died."
"A . . . brother."
She gasped. "Was he your actual brother, George?"
"No."
"A close friend, then. Like a brother."
"Yes."
"And he died in an accident when you said the wrong words."
A nod.
"And you've been suffering over it ever since."
He leaned against the tree, still facing away from her, and she could see his shoulders trembling. Clara closed her eyes at the realization that this mountain of a man was weeping right in front of her.
She started to reach out for him, to take him by the shoulder, but stopped. He would not want that. "George," she said gently. "Do you feel that Fred has forgiven you?"
He glanced back for a moment, and then nodded.
"I'm sure he has, too. Then why – "
"Mother."