by Byron White
It was not uncommon for the men to have Sunday worship while at camp. On occasion, travelling preachers like the brigadier, or the shanty man, Carl Leschied, visited the wood camps around Gander Lake. The men appreciated their visits. Stan, for his part, welcomed their arrival: these visits were a break from the everyday routine. They provided a time to relax, worship, and top up the spiritual batteries.
But the men did not wait around for a travelling preacher to conduct Sunday service. No indeed! Often on a Sunday evening, someone from a corner of the bunkhouse would strike up a favourite hymn or chorus. Someone else would join in, and then another and another and another until the whole bunkhouse reverberated with a choir of male voices. As one hymn faded, someone would shout out a special request and the new tune would be caught up and again a great wave of voices would roll and break against the bunkhouse walls. Hymns such as “How Great Thou Art,” “Amazing Grace,” and “Will Your Anchor Hold” were among the favourites. But it was when “When the Roll is Called Up Yonder” was requested, as it was without fail, by someone standing on the edge of the gathering, that the roof threatened to separate and lift from its walls. At first the men sang steadily through the first verse.
When the trumpet of the Lord shall sound, and time shall be no more
And the morning breaks, eternal, bright and fair;
When the saved on earth shall gather over on the other shore,
And the roll is called up yonder, I’ll be there.
Then rounding the turn and with a great intake of air, the voices tore into the refrain.
When the r-o-l-l is called up yon-der,
When the r-o-l-l is called up yon-der,
When the r-o-l-l is called up yon-der,
When the roll is called up yonder, I’ll be there.
Even the horse Protestants—the ones who seldom went to church—were swept up in the moment and sang along. The few Catholics present, though not familiar with this type of holy revelry, hummed along and voiced an occasional familiar word. By night’s end, the men’s spirits would be uplifted and renewed and they would drift off to their bunks awash in a feeling of contentment.
Tonight the brigadier was quartered in the forepeak with Stan and Allan, and tomorrow he would hold Sunday worship in the cookhouse. Stan and Allan were members of the United Church and the brigadier was a member of the Salvation Army, but there were no strangers here. These three were friends and the brigadier had stood in the bridal party when Ralph, Stan’s older brother, had married. At the forepeak, the three men caught up on the news, yarned and exchanged views on religious matters.
Back in the bunkhouse, the men relaxed after a long week of hard labour. Some rested on their bunks, some read, others smoked, and still others played cards. On this particular Saturday night, though, the washroom area was exceptionally busy. Men shaved and washed, while others sat and received a long overdue haircut. Men paid extra attention to their personal hygiene since Brigadier Hickman was in camp for Sunday services! That was reason enough for most to wash body parts that hadn’t been exposed to water since Christmas. Brigadier Hickman’s visit ranked right up there with having women around. A fellow needed to look and smell his best.
Tucked off in one corner, Bert Fudge was sprucing up. Like most of the other men, he had washed and put on his cleanest underwear. He had retreated to the corner of the bunkhouse nearest his bunk. In a world of communal living, in a large open bunkhouse, this was the closest thing to privacy that could be arrived at. And Bert wanted privacy!
He had developed a medical condition that needed tending. During the last week, the skin area at the top of Bert’s legs and the area around his scrotum had chafed. When his clothing rubbed the area or when he sweated the area itched maddeningly. Bert had taken his problem to Stan, who had gone to the medicine cabinet in the forepeak and produced a small tin of ointment. Bert kept this tin under his pillow.
In the morning and at night, from the relative obscurity of his sleeping bag he applied the ointment to the affected area. However, word of Bert’s condition had gotten out. Many a joke and risqué word were hurled his way as he doctored himself within the confines of his sleeping quarters. Tonight, Bert was trying a different approach and had retreated to this far corner to perform the required task.
Carefully, Bert lifted the round lid off the container, and paused to look around the bunkhouse. Les Weir, close by, was lying on his bunk, resting, his eyes closed. Men were entering and leaving the washroom area. Billy Ginn was sitting on his bunk, scunnin’ up his clothes, as usual, and off to one side, Uncle Ben Mills was puffing on his pipe and yarning with Art Brenton.
Bert dabbed his finger into the container and took one last quick look around. Gerald Head and Cyril Cooper, who were playing cards with a group of men across the way, had looked up but not made eye contact and thankfully continued their game. Quickly, Bert whisked his finger into his underwear and smeared the ointment on the affected area. Bert closed his eyes and his face hinted at a smile in anticipation of the relief the ointment would bring. The next instant Bert’s face bore the contortions of a madman. He gasped and for a moment, like a dying goldfish, his mouth opened and shut, his lungs sucked for air. Then a deafening scream tore the air asunder. Men, who had been nodding on their bunks, bolted upright, hearts pounding at this sudden turn of events.
Bert tore frantically at his underwear and sped toward the washroom. As he drew near, his long johns fell around his ankles and he sprawled face down along the bunkhouse floor. Instantly, Bert was on his feet again, and entering the washroom he ripped a wet face cloth from the nearest man. He applied it to his groin area and scrubbed vigorously.
“Water!” Bert cried. “More water!”
Someone placed a wash pan in front of him and he washed and washed and washed. Gradually, Bert’s bellowing died down and his heavy panting subsided. Most of the men stood staring at him, wondering what demon had taken possession of this otherwise jovial man. As his rational faculties returned, Bert realized he was standing without raiment. He reached down and, Adam-like, pulled his underwear up over his nakedness.
Murmuring started to sweep around the bunkhouse. No one seemed to know what had happened, but over where the card game was taking place, Gerald Head and Cyril Cooper were bent over in fits of laughter. Later, after some successful sleuthing, the cause of Bert’s wild ravings was uncovered. Someone had fallen upon Bert’s medicine and absconded with his healing ointment. It had been removed from its can and carefully replaced with Hellfire Salve, a vile concoction of hot liniments. Its specific purpose was for use on horse joints and was clearly labelled “NOT FOR USE ON BROKEN SKIN.” The result, as its name suggested, had been one hellish experience. Later that night Bert’s healing ointment had mysteriously reappeared and the soothing balm was reapplied. By eleven o’clock, all the lanterns had been doused and another jovial evening of bunkhouse mirth had come to an end.
At ten-thirty the next morning, Stan was sitting in the cookhouse having a mug of tea. Sundays were the only days when Stan relaxed. To say that he relaxed, though, was not quite correct. Yes, it was a time when his body rejuvenated, but as for his mind, well, that was another matter. There were family, community, and church issues to engage his mind; news stories and world events to ponder (for Stan was well-read); but, mostly and foremost, there were the dominant issues associated with running Camp 13 and all the worry associated with it: the horses, the men, the logistics of food and hay and supplies, the time slips for pay period and associated paperwork, and, above all, safety. And now, at this very moment, he was visualizing the remainder of the haul-off. Within a couple of days, the men would be finished hauling wood to the high landing. The last of the 5,000 cords of pulpwood from the ridge would soon be hurled into the gorge. It would be a tremendous relief to be finished there.
The next move would be to place the teamsters out near the small brook. There were about 1,500 cords in that location and approximately another 500 out on the banks of the
Southwest Gander. Stan was relatively pleased with the progress the teamsters were making this year. If the weather held, Camp 13 would have the pulpwood off in record time. If the weather held . . .
Stan should have been happy, but unbridled happiness was not in his character. He was experiencing some satisfaction and was thankful for the progress being made. But happiness? Well now, that was a different thing. Too much mirth or joviality bordered on being sinful. Stan had been raised in a strict Methodist family. This earthly world was a place for work and honest toil, a place to help your neighbour, a place to be virtuous and to strive to live a good life while attempting to walk the straight and narrow path. This world wasn’t a place for mirth or happiness. No. This earthly realm, this veil of tears, was simply a testing ground, an arduous journey that led to a better life to come.
This stern upbringing by honest, hard-working, and Godfearing parents had moulded Stan’s character and greatly shaped the man he had become. As he sat in the cookhouse this Sunday morning, a dark cloud hung over his mind and dampened the earlier satisfaction he had felt. What would happen, he wondered, to the 5,000 cords of wood now plugging the narrow gorge? Was Lester Shea right? Would that pulpwood move out with the spring melt, or would it stay there all summer or even for summers to come? And what about Lester’s threat? Would the company refuse to pay him if the wood stayed in the Southwest Gander gorge instead of reaching the booms on Gander Lake? Jingoes! What would happen then?
The cutters were paid for cutting the wood. The teamsters and all the men were being paid out of Stan’s contract price. All the equipment and supplies came out of that same account. Would Stan be responsible for paying this total bill if the wood wasn’t delivered to Bowater’s satisfaction? If so, Stan would be facing bankruptcy. By Jingoes, this was a fight that he didn’t intend to lose! If Lester wanted a battle, then Stan would give him one. When he got his back up, Stan was a formidable foe. He’d won the battle over payment for restacking the fallen pulpwood and by jingoes he’d win this one, too! Still, though, Stan knew that it would be tough. He hoped against hope that the pulpwood would not stay jammed in the river. Time would tell . . .
“What are you thinking about, Stan?”
Stan looked up as Brigadier Hickman took a seat beside him at the table. The brigadier had blessed the meal at breakfast this morning and said a short prayer. Most of the men had stayed behind after breakfast and the brigadier had presided over a short service and a time of sharing. During the stay he would talk to some of the men individually, and after supper there would be scripture readings and singing. Tomorrow he would leave and board the Pine Lake for the return trip to Glenwood.
“Oh, not much. I wasn’t thinking about a big lot,” Stan replied.
“You had a good frown on your face when I came by,” the brigadier replied. “From what you told me last night, things are going well here at camp, aren’t they?”
“Yes, so far things are okay,” Stan said.
“You’ve got a lot to be thankful for, then,” Brigadier Hickman continued.
“Jingoes, I’m thankful, b’y. I’m thankful.”
“Yes, you certainly should be,” Brigadier Hickman said, looking Stan in the eye. “Seeing you sitting there frowning reminded me of what someone said about you Whites one time.”
“And what was that?” Stan asked, half-curious.
“Well, a fellow told me one time that he never saw anyone get so much enjoyment out of feeling miserable as you Whites,” the brigadier informed him with a chuckle.
Stan gave him a long, hard look. “Could be right,” he said with a wry smile, raising his mug for another sip of tea as he looked around the cookhouse.
Close to a dozen men were sitting around relaxing. The brigadier rose and moved off to talk to some of the teamsters. Stan could hear the clang of pots and pans coming from the kitchen, always a beehive of activity. Even on Sundays, the men had to be fed. No bread or pastries were baked today, but the meals had to be prepared. The aroma wafting from the kitchen was giving Stan’s nose so much pleasure that it, too, bordered on sinful. Stan sniffed again. Wonderful!
Sometimes, on the weekends, as a special treat for the men, he would contact Ambrose Flynn at Bowater’s main store in Glenwood to have a quarter of fresh beef sent up to the camp. The quarter of beef was given to Sandy Parsons on the Pine Lake, and delivered to the Bowater depot at Southwest Gander. Gander Lake is a deep body of water with much upwelling. Now, even in the dead of winter, it remained free of ice. Greg Broderick picked up the meat at the depot and brought it to Camp 13 on the company truck. The smell coming from the kitchen was that of a delicious fresh beef dinner being prepared. The Sunday meal would be a welcome treat.
In addition to the grand aroma, something else was emanating from the kitchen area. Great pools of laughter and mirth were escaping as well. Curious, Stan walked to the kitchen entrance and peeped inside. Lew Cull was standing with his back to Stan, bent over with laughter and smacking his hands repeatedly on his knees. The focus of Lew’s attention was directly in front of him, where a man had his head protruding into an oven. The man’s hands, with oven mitts, were resting on the oven door. One of his legs was standing on the floor, the other was sticking straight out behind.
Stan frowned.
“Hedley! What are you doing?”
The man in the oven jerked upright, hitting his head against the top of the entrance. He staggered off to one side and steadied himself against the kitchen sink. Lew, overcome with laughter, fell against the wall wiping tears from his eyes. Stan, himself, could not suppress a smile.
“Jingoes, Hedley. What are you up to now?” Stan asked, trying to keep from laughing.
“Nothin’, Skipper, nothin’. Just checkin’ out the oven, that’s all,” Hedley replied.
“Checkin’ out the oven, my eye!” Stan stated. He turned to Lew. “Lew, what was Hedley up to?”
Lew wiped a final tear from his eye and then wiped his hands in his cookee’s apron. He looked at Hedley hesitantly.
“Well?” Stan asked.
“Well, Skipper,” Lew began, “Hedley was . . .”
“I was showing Lew how Clarence George used to cook,” Hedley said quietly.
Clarence George from Britannia had been the first cook at Camp 13. Hedley had been demonstrating to Lew how Clarence, who had a wooden leg, took bread from the kitchen oven.
“Jingoes, Hedley,” Stan said, shaking his head. Hedley himself had a visual impediment. He had a turn in his eyes and at times it was difficult to know who he was looking at. A scaler had once remarked that Hedley was the best cook on the Southwest Gander because he could look in two pots at once. At times he, himself, was the subject of good-natured jesting and had long since gotten past this treatment. Now, he was having a jest at Clarence’s expense with no hurtful intent.
Later in life, Hedley still recalled the incident vividly.
“Lew Cull,” he said, “always told me I would pay for making fun of Clarence’s leg. Now, I’m hove up and me own legs are give out!” He was still laughing and enjoying life.
On this Sunday morning, February 3, 1952, Lew turned to the sink to finish peeling the vegetables. Hedley rubbed his head and moved to check on Sunday dinner. He had been back in the cookhouse for two weeks now. Abe Goldsworthy had been called away on urgent business and Stan had asked Hedley to replace Abe as cook. Without kerfuffle or fuss, Hedley had handed the reins of Old Bess over to Les Peckford, giving up his job as teamster and once more taking over in the cookhouse. Hedley Janes is a remarkable man, Stan thought. Hedley had earned Stan’s gratitude and respect.
CHAPTER 17
THERE WAS LITTLE ACTIVITY inthebunkhouse. The men had eaten their fill of Sunday dinner, which had been delicious. By mid-afternoon, most men were lying back on their bunks relaxing. Sunday, after all, was a day of rest. Some men were dozing lightly; others had crossed into deeper sleep, resulting in loud snoring and snorting. An occasional boot or dirty sock was hurled in th
e sleeper’s direction. Generally, though, an air of quietness and peace prevailed. Around 3: 00 p.m. it all came to an end.
“What’s that sound?” It was Phil McCarthy speaking. He had been resting on his bunk located near the front of the bunkhouse. The sound he had heard was that of a vehicle approaching camp on the snow-covered gravel road.
“I don’t know. Sorta sounds like a small tractor,” Ed Layte replied.
The sound continued on in the road and came to a stop outside the bunkhouse door. Phil sat up on the edge of his bunk and looked around. Most of the men were still napping and the sound of snoring continued to reverberate in the confined quarters. Suddenly, the door at the end of the bunkhouse flew open.
“Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas!” a loud voice rang across the bunkhouse. “Wake up! Wake up! Sandy Claus is here!” The dark silhouette of a man was framed in the bunkhouse door.
Inside there was much stirring and rubbing of eyes.
“Who’s causing all the ruckus?” Les Weir asked as he swung his feet out over the edge of his bunk.
“Wake up, Les! Wake up! Sandy Claus is here!” said the man standing in the open door. “You’ve got a letter from young Betty Adey.”
“Charl? Charl, is that you?” Les asked as he focused on the voice.
“Yes, it’s me! Who did you think it was?” Charlie White, Stan’s younger brother, had worked with these men at Camp 13 during the first two years of operation. Now Charlie was contracting for Bowater’s at Camp 12.
“Well, you young hangashore!” Les said. “Come in, me son. Come in and shut the door.”
By this time, the whole bunkhouse was astir.