White Pine (6 page)

Chapter Four

~ Logger ~

The days that followed were a blur of work
and bone tiredness. I’d never been so beat or so all out hungry in
my entire life. The mornings were getting colder. But we got up
while it was still dark outside. We headed out when the Push could
see his axe blade in the morning light. One morning, I made the
mistake of asking Mr. Lynch what the temperature was. He answered
that it “was fine weather for logging.” Later, I learned that he
would never tell anyone the real temperature. I guess he worried
that it might make us balky if we knew just how cold it was.

I started out working days as a road monkey—
shoveling manure out of the iced ruts during the day and helping to
ice them over at night. This was about the lowest job at the camp.
I figured they were testing me, so I didn’t dare say anything. But
I hadn’t come to the Northwoods to work as a road monkey, and I
needed to earn a lumberjack’s pay. If I stayed a road monkey, I
would come away from the season with less than we’d figured.

I steered clear of Roget, though I did ask
Bart about him one night while he was cleaning up after supper.

He raised an eyebrow at me as he lowered a
pile of plates into the wash basin.

“He’s French Canadian.”

“And?”

“What are you two boys gabbing about?” Harold
asked, one thick eyebrow cocked. He was a chatty fellow when the
cooking was done.

“Sevy’s asking after Roget.”

Harold mopped at his sweating and reddened
face with a rag. “Roget’s a legend in these Northwoods. Heck of a
jack, a first rate top loader, and probably one of the best river
rats on the Chippewa. He’s been working for the Daniel Shaw Company
for going on five years. If you want to learn about how to be a
lumberjack, Sevy, he’s the man to learn from.”

True as that may be, Roget seemed to have
taken a disliking to me ever since that first night in the
bunkhouse. He didn’t speak to me and barely acknowledged me. I
doubted he would be teaching me much of anything.

Lumberjacks worked six days out of seven.
Then, thank the Lord, after a week of working harder than I could
ever have imagined, on Sunday morning, the Gabriel didn’t ring and
there was no call of daylight in the swamp. I woke up at the usual
time, but when I looked around and didn’t see anyone else stirring,
I pulled my blankets right up to my neck, curled up on my side, and
closed my eyes. If the Lord could rest one day, so could
lumberjacks.

I didn’t wake up until nearly midday. I slept
until the grumbling of my stomach got me up and dressed. Then I
headed on over to the cook shack and ate my fill of doorknobs,
bacon, and beans. After I’d washed the meal down with some black
lead, I felt like a new man. Then, I headed back outside. I ran
into Bart who was carrying an armful of his togs.

“Whatcha doin’, Bart?” I woulda thought he
would still be working to clean up the after the meal.

He scowled at me, his face darn near as red
as his hair. “Cook makes me wash my gear every Sunday. Once, he
even made me take a bath! I told him it could be the death of me,
but he don’t care none. He says if I ain’t clean and smellin’ like
a rose, than I ain’t got no place in his cookhouse.”

My pa had told me that Sunday was the day for
doing wash and writing letters at a lumber camp, and I had slept
away half the day. So, I hurried back to the bunkhouse, grabbed my
gear and headed over to the washhouse. I’d helped my ma wash
clothes, so I knew what I was doing. But still the job was cold and
wet and took some time. I passed on taking a bath, myself.
Afterall, bathing too often, especially in winter, can make you
sick. Besides, greybacks like clean bodies better than the ripe
ones. At least, that was what the old timers said.

After hanging up my wet gear by the stove in
the bunkhouse, I headed back outside. There, a group of jacks had
gathered in the clearing in the middle of the camp and about twenty
feet away from them stood a target. I’d noticed it before, but
never seen anyone use it. It was just an eighteen inch wide log
stuck into the ground standing about five feet tall and with a red
bull’s eye painted on it. Other larger rings surrounded the bull’s
eye, each a little further out.

“Hey there,” I said to no one in
particular.

“Shh.” One of the jacks shushed me as a
couple of other fellas frowned at me.

“What?” I whispered back.

“Watch.”

All eyes were on Roget, who stood a little
off by himself. He eyed the target, holding onto that axe like it
was an extension of his arm. He swung it smoothly back in an arc
behind his head. Then, in one smooth motion, he swung his arm
forward and released the axe straight at the target. There was a
swoosh and then a thump as the blade went right into the target. I
saw that the blade buried deep in the bull’s eye. Someone whistled
and few men applauded. It was a heck of throw and near impossible
to top.

The Push took Roget’s place. He swung his axe
more forcefully than Roget had readying for his throw. His action
was more about power than grace. His axe flew just as true and
landed in the log, a hair to one side of Roget’s. Both in the
bull’s eye.

Now the other men cheered and commented, but
I could feel the tension building. Neither of these men was used to
losing.

Dob, who stood off to one side of the crowd
leaning up against a hitching post, said, “You know, Fabien, some
men wouldn’t call it good sense to try and show up the boss, even
in a game.”

Roget laughed, baring white teeth against his
black beard. “You think I should let him win?”

“I’m just saying.” Dob drew deeply on his
pipe.

“Ah,
la vie est courte
,” Roget
shrugged. “Life is short. What is there to be afraid of? That I
take the long walk? To another camp down the road? No, I think I am
not so easy to replace.”

“I ain’t lost yet,” the Push interrupted, not
angry, just focused. “Don’t be so cocksure of yourself. Let’s take
it out another ten feet, boys.”

One of the jacks walked off the distance and
dropped a branch down on the ground to mark the distance. Two
fellas rolled that stump over to the spot and then set it upright.
Now I’d seen axe throwing contests in Eau Claire, and these were
usually decided by twenty feet. I knew that I was seeing something
special when those two fellas stepped up to a mark on the ground a
full thirty feet away from the target. Again, Roget stepped up to
throw first. Once more, he swung his arm back, his eyes narrowing
on the target. He didn’t hesitate. Releasing his axe, it flew
straight and true directly into the bull’s eye.

A few of the fellas applauded. The Push
stepped up next. He eyed that stump, squinted at it, squared up his
shoulders more than once. Then, he swung his arm back, but just
when he should have released, he caught himself, adjusted his feet,
took a deep breath, and got ready to throw again.

In the excitement, I think I forgot to
breathe. Suddenly, I realized that I didn’t want Mr. Lynch to win.
He was my boss and he was giving me a chance and all, but I wanted
Roget to win, because he was the real deal, a lumberjack through
and through.

Mr. Lynch muttered to himself, adjusted,
swung again and released his axe. Somersaulting through the air, it
flew at the log. But this time it plunged into the log a little
below the bull’s eye.

Roget had won. Men cheered and clapped and
everyone congratulated him. I caught a few of the jacks looking at
him enviously. The Push didn’t seem too upset about the outcome.
He’d lost fair and square to the best woodsmen in our camp and
probably in most of the other camps along the Chippewa.

Now, up until this moment, life in the
logging camp had not been at all the way that I’d hoped it’d be.
But looking at Roget, I had a new sense of excitement. He was the
sort of man I hoped to become one day, brave, fearless, skilled,
and respected. Sure, I looked up to my pa. He was a good man, but
he wasn’t showy. A typical Norwegian, he thought a man should never
“talk himself up.” But Roget had flare. He made bold statements,
and he backed them up with actions. He was exactly the sort of man
I wanted to be. I took a deep breath and walked though that crowd
of lumberjacks right up to him. “Mr. Roget, I’d be real
appreciative if you could teach me to throw an axe like that.”

He stared at me for a long moment, saying
nothing.

Dob spoke up. “This here is Gus Andersen’s
boy, Sevy.”

Roget looked right at me and an odd look
crossed his face, like he was seeing something downright
unpleasant. “This is not a game for children.” He adjusted his
toque, turned, and walked away from me without another word. I
stood there staring after him, confused.

“Did you see that?” Bart grabbed my arm.
“That Roget’s some jack.”

I didn’t say a thing.

After that, a few of the other fellas stepped
up to throw axes. But with the real action was over, the rest of
the fellas wandered off. There was still plenty of time before
dinner. Some took naps. Others played cards. I wrote a letter home.
It was tough to do ‘cause I didn’t want to sound whiny, but all I
could think about was wanting to be home. I mean I knew I had to
stick the winter out, but having time to think about being home,
well, it made my stomach hurt.

That night, being that it was a Sunday, we
had a fine supper. Then, some of the men pushed the tables to the
sides of the room. A fella named Billy Whitacre took out his fiddle
and played some tunes. Another jack on a squeezebox joined him.
Then, fellas were up and dancing.

I wasn’t gonna dance. My belly was full and
the room was warm from the fire and the bodies, leaving me half
asleep. So, I closed my eyes and daydreamed that I was at a real
dance, a Christmas one. Instead of fellas stompin’ around, there
were ladies all done in up in pretty dresses and I was standing
around with Hugh, the way fellas do. The fiddlers were playing a
lively tune and then Adelaide came in. She looked right at me and
she smiled. I smiled back. Then, feeling bold, I walked right
across that dance floor. I nodded to her friends, but kept my eyes
on her. I couldn’t get over how pretty she was in her blue dress
with her blond hair braided up in a crown, the way those German
girls do. Then I was standing in front of her, I reached out for
her hand and...

A cloth landed on my face startling me from
my daydream.

“Sevy, here, you wear the apron. I’m done
dancing.” Bart’s voice pulled me back to the present. He collapsed
on the bench beside me as I sat up. He was breathin’ hard.

“What?” I asked, confused and all out of
sorts. I pulled the cloth off my face, held it up, looking at the
apron.

“You be a girl now. I’m done dancing.

“No. I ain’t pretending to be a girl.” I
didn’t want any part of it, even though the fellas looked like they
were having a good time. I wanted to be back in my dream, in Eau
Claire with Adelaide.

I headed out of the cookshack and back to the
bunkhouse. I opened the door and found Dob O’Dwyer sitting in the
amen corner with a group of men gathered around him. Dob was doing
the talking, as usual. Wanting to be alone, I nearly groaned aloud.
For a moment, I hesitated until Dob eyeballed me, one
caterpillar-thick, white eyebrow arching over a blue eye.

“I’m just headed for my cootie cage,” I
explained unnecessarily. I gestured at my bunk. He nodded, tapping
his pipe on his hand.

I headed over to my own bunk, pulled off my
boots and hung up my coat and socks to dry out. Laying down, I
tried to get comfortable, smacking at a greyback that bit into my
thigh.

“You all know most of my stories,” Dob
protested. “I don’t have any new ones to tell.”

Jerry Smith, a young swamper who was in his
second year in the Northwoods protested, “I ain’t heard ‘em all
yet. Please Mr. O’Dwyer, tell us one.”

“Well, perhaps I can think of something. What
kind of story do you want? Maybe a legend of these Northwoods? A
Paul Bunyan tale or something about his grand ox, Babe?

Dob didn’t take much convincing, I thought as
lay down staring up at the roof. He was a born storyteller, the
sort who would like to never shut up.

“A true story,” another jack ventured.

There was a moment of silence, then Dob
continued, “There is one story that I haven’t told before and, to
the best of my knowledge, it’s true. I heard it from a man at a
camp north of Hayward a few years back. He swore that what I’m
about to tell you is the God’s own truth.

“There are mysteries in these northwoods.
They’re old, ancient. The Indians tell that animals and spirits
made these woods home long before us white folks came in.