The only hard thing about his job was trying to sleep. The noise didn’t bother him so bad, but the smell was awful. There were wet wool socks and sweaty boots perpetually drying out before the stove. Most of the men chewed tobacco, and many kept a tin can beside their bunks, which was not something a man wanted to stub his toe against. Some didn’t bother with a can and simply aimed their streams of tobacco juice directly at the woodstove sitting in the middle on a thick layer of sand.
Most of them believed that tobacco juice sizzling on the stove would clear the air of any disease that might be floating around. Tobacco juice was believed to have other medicinal uses. Some used it as a dressing for small wounds.
The bunk beds, filled with sawdust, were only slightly more comfortable than sleeping on bare wood, and it was a challenge for him to sleep each night beneath the bunk of a French Canadian who snored like a steam engine, smelled like a wet dog, and occasionally cursed in two languages while asleep.
The camp filled up quickly with axe men, swampers, road monkeys, a blacksmith, a carpenter, and teamsters. The men had come from all over, and shanty boys were some of the biggest gossips in the world. Crammed together in a bunkhouse, not seeing outside civilization for eight months at a time, and with little to occupy their time in the evenings, they had little with which to amuse themselves except the sharing of stories and the telling of tall tales.
He questioned each man who joined the camp, but none had run across a man matching Ingrid’s description of her brother. He was beginning to doubt that Hans Larsen had ever stepped foot into the Saginaw Valley until a timber-looker—the loneliest profession in lumbering—came in after weeks of scouting for new stands of timber.
The man was unshaven and lean to the point of emaciation. He wore stained leather pants, which offered some protection against rattlesnakes and thorny brush, high-topped boots, a battered hat, and a wary expression.
“See anything interesting out there?” Joshua didn’t expect the man to answer truthfully. Timber-lookers, if they were worth their salt, didn’t reveal where they had been. Finding an undiscovered stand of white pine in the middle of millions of acres of almost shore-to-shore forest was akin to finding a gold mine, especially if it was anywhere near a river.
“Nothing to speak of.”
In other words, he had no intention of talking about it.
“Looking to buy anything in particular in here?”
“I need a new knife. I broke the blade on mine.”
Joshua brought out a selection of knives. The timber-looker tested a few blades on his thumb and then made his purchase.
He was almost out the door before Joshua thought to ask him if he had happened to run across a Swede matching Ingrid’s brother’s description.
The timber-looker stopped and slowly turned around to face him. “Why are you asking?”
Joshua closed the case of knives and put them away. “He’s my wife’s twin brother. She came all the way across the ocean to meet him, but he never showed up. No one seems to have seen or heard of him. She insists that he was working in a Saginaw Valley camp and was not the kind of man who would abandon her.”
The timber-looker closed the door, and Joshua’s pulse quickened. Did the man know something?
“How long have you been working in lumber camps, mister?”
“The name’s Hunter,” Joshua said. “I worked in the camps one winter a couple of years before the war.”
“You were Union?”
“Michigan First Cavalry.”
The man nodded. “You were one of the lucky ones who made it through Gettysburg.”
“I was,” Joshua said. “And you are?”
“Dyer Wright.” A muscle in his jaw twitched. “I scouted for Sherman. Lost my taste for war and for people after serving with him through Georgia. Being a timber cruiser suits me fine. I leave everyone alone, they leave me alone.”
Joshua wondered what this had to do with his wife’s brother—if anything.
“There’s a camp about ten miles north of here. Nice timber. Hard to get to. The owner of it lives in Detroit. He’s a cripple, but he owns the right to more timber than he can keep track of. The foreman, Bart Mabry, is a hard man, and he runs the worst haywire camp I’ve ever seen. Drinks heavy. Feeds the men slop. Pockets the difference. Hungry men make mistakes. Dangerous ones. It didn’t take long for the word to get out, and loggers stayed away. The foreman got desperate to keep his job. Desperate men do desperate things.”
“What are you saying?”
“I leave people alone. I stop at a camp for a few hours to resupply, and then I head back into the timber. I do this job for a living—because frankly, I can’t stand being around people for too long at a stretch, and I figure it’s none of my business what happens in the camps.”
Joshua gripped the edge of the counter, tense. This man knew something about his brother-in-law, and it wasn’t good.
“A couple days ago, I saw where the foreman had set up camp and had been cutting into a stand of timber I own partial holdings to. I started to go have a little man-to-man chat with Mabry, but then I saw something that made me stay away—at least for now.”
“What was that?”
“He’s got some men working for him at gunpoint. I saw a big Swede like you described out working in the timber, with a guard over him and some other men. The guard was armed. I made my way over to the camp, and when I saw a padlock on the bunkhouse door, I figured I needed to get out of there. Been wondering what to do about it ever since.”
Joshua was appalled. “They lock the men in at night?”
“Can’t think of any other reason for that padlock to be there. Never saw a lumber camp bunkhouse with a padlock before.”
“If the place caught fire, they couldn’t get out.”
“I doubt Mabry would care. Except for having to go to the trouble of kidnapping more timber cutters.”
“Can you describe the Swede to me?”
“I was there long enough to see that he wasn’t happy and was deliberately working as slow as he could get by with. The guard yelled at him several times. Called him Larsen. The man had a big scar over his left eye.”
“That’s him,” Joshua said.
“What are you thinking of doing about it?”
“Go get him, of course,” Joshua said. “I surely don’t intend to let him stay there. Do you have any fight left in you?”
“No,” Dyer Wright said, “but I’ll lead you to them.”
“Let me go talk to my boss and see if we can get some men together. Are you staying the night?”
“Katie Foster is the best cook in the Saginaw Valley. I walked five miles out of my way just to have supper at her table.” For the first time since Wright had walked in, he grinned. “Of course I’m staying the night.”
Joshua found Robert Foster in the cookhouse and told him what he had learned.
“I’ve heard of men being kidnapped to work in haywire camps before,” Foster said. “It’s a bad business. Ten miles, did you say?”
“Yes.” Joshua waited. He would go by himself if he had to, but it would be better if Foster would lend him a couple of men to go with him.
“We’ll need to leave just after midnight, then,” Foster said. “I’m assuming it would be best to surprise them at dawn?”
“We?”
“You might need a good surgeon along, and we’ll see which of my men are willing to go. One thing for sure, we aren’t going to leave those men there.”
Foster had not hesitated about freeing the men, and Joshua was impressed.
“Wright said he would lead us to them.”
“Good. About half of the men in camp are veterans. I’m thinking we could muster at least a dozen ex-soldiers willing to go. I’ll find out how many weapons we have. Many of the men carry a gun to camp with them in case they get a chance to put some fresh game on the table. I’ll talk to everyone after supper.”
Ten miles was no challenge for loggers. Most
of them, like Joshua, had walked much longer distances to get to Foster’s camp. They were all able-bodied and bent on their mission as they strode, single file, through a woods illuminated by a full moon.
“What’s your plan?” Foster asked.
Although many of the men were veterans, Joshua was the only one who had strategic experience and who had led men into battle. He was the obvious choice to take charge of the rescue.
“I don’t have a plan yet. I want to see the lay of the land first. I’m hoping the two sharpshooters will be good enough that the rest of the men won’t have to fight.”
It was no small thing to close down the work of the camp for an entire day to rescue the kidnapped loggers. Foster would lose money because of this. All of them would, but there wasn’t one man who didn’t want to go.
Even those who had not fought in the war had equipped themselves with axes and their long, spiked peaveys. There was nothing a shanty boy liked better than a good fight—it was almost a form of recreation for them—but tonight there was nothing but grim determination on their faces. Haywire camps—so named because they were reportedly held together by the wire left behind after the hay had been shaken out—were the scourge of lumbering.
The thought of fellow woodsmen being forced at gunpoint to do this dangerous job made their blood boil. Joshua wondered if the angry men would allow the kidnappers to live once the imprisoned men were rescued. It wouldn’t be the first time a group of shanty boys dealt out their own form of shanty justice.
Katie’s thirteen-year-old brother, Ned, and Robert’s twelve-year-old son, Thomas, had begged to come along. They both had small jobs at the lumber camp and thought they were men—but their father had refused. Joshua was grateful. If things got ugly, he did not want two young boys along.
With Wright leading the way, they had set off in the middle of the night in order to get into position before the guards awakened. Surprise was always good.
Long before dawn, he had his small army in position, each man behind one of the many tree stumps left behind when the camp was cleared. The camp had been situated in a flat, low spot with a slight elevation all around it. The stumps plus the slight rise gave his men a distinct advantage. All were ready to attack when he gave the order. It was almost a perfect situation from which to fight, but he was hoping it would not be necessary.
Each man lay on his belly behind his own stump, waiting for the camp to awaken. The full moon illuminated the scene.
At five o’clock they saw lanterns being lit inside the cookhouse. A half hour later the man who, from the looks of his filthy apron, was apparently the cook, came out of the front door of the cookhouse and rang a triangle. He scratched his massive belly beneath his apron, passed wind loudly, and went back inside. Joshua’s men did not move. It was not the cook they wanted.
A few moments later he saw a stocky man with a full beard emerge from a small cabin. He went over and pounded on the door of the padlocked bunkhouse.
“Get up, you lazy shanty boys. It’s daylight in the swamp.” There was sarcasm in the man’s voice. Shanty boys all over the Saginaw would be awakening to the very same words. Even haywire camps kept some traditions.
Three other men emerged from the same cabin right behind him. Even though they were carrying weapons, it was easy to see that they were still half asleep. One was juggling his gun with one hand while trying to pull up his suspenders with the other. Another stumbled along, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. The third seemed more awake. He looked up toward the line of hardwoods as though he sensed something.
Joshua decided it was time.
“Bart Mabry,” he yelled into the still morning air. “Tell your men to put down their weapons. We have you surrounded.”
Bart’s head swung toward Joshua’s voice, then lowered like a bull ready to charge. The man struggling with his suspenders tripped and fell. In trying to break his fall, he dropped his rifle and grappled in the dirt to grab it.
A sniper bullet zinged, and the gun jumped a foot away from him. His hands shot up over his head. “Don’t shoot,” he pleaded.
The guard who had been rubbing the sleep out of his eyes dropped his weapon and also put his hands above his head. “This weren’t my idea,” he yelled.
The man who had sensed trouble had already ducked behind the cabin opposite from where the first sniper bullet had come. He probably thought he was momentarily safe, until the sniper Joshua had placed on the other side of the camp zinged a bullet into the cabin—directly above his head.
“I repeat,” Joshua shouted. “You are surrounded. Lay down your weapons.”
The last man came out from behind the cabin with his hands and rifle in the air. “I’m going to lay my gun down now,” he said, and proceeded to slowly do so.
Joshua gave the signal for his men to rise. Bart’s mouth hung open, and he wheeled around in a circle, seeing the shadowy forms of approximately thirty men materializing from behind the stumps—all armed with some sort of weapon.
“Men with firearms, stay in your position,” Joshua called. “Cover us while we secure the guards and release the loggers.”
Carefully, the other men and he moved toward Bart and his men. He motioned for three to go in and make sure the cook was not a potential danger. He saw two go in the back door of the cookhouse as one went in the front.
The loggers were not particularly gentle as they tied Bart’s men’s hands behind their backs with rope they had brought along for that purpose.
“Give me the key.” Joshua held his hand out to Bart.
If Bart could have murdered him with his eyes, he would have done so, but with no other recourse, he fished the key out of his pocket and dropped it in his hand.
Joshua fit the key into the lock and opened the door.
It had begun to get light outside, but inside the bunkhouse it was a dark cave.
In a decently run camp, there would be at least one lantern turned low and left burning through the night. Bunkhouses were built with no windows because the men got up before daylight and went to bed after dark. Windows served no practical purpose and would have let much-needed heat leak out in the harsh winters.
In this bunkhouse, there was no light at all, and it reeked.
Bunkhouses in lumber camps were famous for their rank smell. Too many unwashed bodies, too many unwashed woolen socks steaming on makeshift clotheslines, too much foul breath, too much smoke from stubby pipes.
But this bunkhouse smelled of urine and defecation from men locked in for long hours.
In his opinion, Bart Mabry and his men deserved to hang for what they had done.
“Somebody find me a lantern,” he said. “You men in there, if you’re able to, come on out. Your guards are unarmed and restrained. Men from Robert Foster’s lumber camp have secured the camp. You’re free.”
The incarcerated lumbermen began to emerge. When all had crawled out of their beds of moldering straw, he counted twelve men altogether. Some of the older ones were weeping. It was a pitiful, ragtag crew Bart had assembled to take down those giant white pines.
An older man with a badly infected foot was the last to come out. He was supported as he limped by a tall, blond Swede.
“Are you Hans Larsen?” Joshua asked.
“Ja. How you know my name?”
“I’m your brother-in-law. Your sister is going to be very relieved to see you.”
“You’re not going to believe the pig slop they’ve been feeding these men.” Disgust laced Foster’s voice after he had inspected the kitchen. “It’s a wonder they didn’t come down with scurvy.”
“This is good food for here,” Hans said wryly. “The cook baked bread this morning.”
“If you can call this bread.” One of the snipers deliberately dropped a loaf on the floor. It was so heavy, it thudded like a rock. Bart and his men, including the cook, were led away, leaving Joshua and Foster to care for the four captives who were not strong enough to walk the ten miles back to camp.
> “Horses are in the barn,” Hans told Foster, who was tending to the man with the infected foot. “Bart care more for his horses than his men. Horses can carry the weak ones.”
“Did he not realize he could get more work from men who were cared for properly?” Foster asked.
“Bart said we were . . .” Hans struggled to find the correct word. “Disposable.”
“How did they capture you?” Joshua asked.
“Hans and friends work for Bart last winter. Got pay. On way to steamer to Detroit, four men jump me. Take back to Bart. He get our money. Work us all summer. Clear river. Set up camp.”
“Mosquitoes and blackflies,” Joshua said.
“Snakes too,” Hans said. “How is my sister?”
“Ingrid is doing very well.”
Hans gave a great sigh of relief. “I worry and worry about not meeting her.”
“She did a good job of taking care of herself. She came to the Saginaw area to try to find you. She finally decided that you must be dead. She said that death was the only thing that would keep you from keeping your promise to her.”
“That or a padlock and three guns.” Hans cocked his eyebrow. “You and Ingrid, you have good life?”
“Yes,” Joshua said with a certain amount of wonder. “We do have a good life. I’m a widower with five children. Our family was broken, but Ingrid mended it. Your sister is an amazing woman.”
“I’m ready to move these men out, now,” Foster said as he tied off the bandage he had wrapped around the man’s foot. “Could you two get the horses?”
“We have much time to talk, my brother.” Hans clapped a hand on Joshua’s back and nearly knocked him over. “Let us get these men back to your good camp.”
Right before they left, Hans turned around and stood staring at the bunkhouse.
“I will come back and burn that building to the ground someday.”
A Promise to Love Page 21
