“What’s the problem?” he asked.
“Boy’s frostbit bad, and he didn’t buy no tickets for doctoring,” Mr. Walker said.
“I don’t want to lose my toes.” The words burst out of me. I hadn’t cried in front of those men yet, no matter how tired I was, no matter how cold I was, but I didn’t want to lose no body parts. It was just too much.
Dob finally spoke up. “I’ve seen some jacks use pure white lead to treat frost bite. We have some on hand at the wanigan. You smear it all over the affected body part, then cover it first with cotton then a woolen sock. You keep that onto until the skin heals or... ” He didn’t finish the thought.
“You mean, ‘or my toes fall off,’ don’t cha?” There was a lump in my throat as big as an apple. I wiped at my eyes, which were definitely moist. It just wasn’t fair. Heck, I was just a kid. Things like that shouldn’t happen to kids.
Roget came over to my bunk. He’d picked up a kerosene lamp on the way. My jaw musta dropped open ‘cause I slammed it shut when he kneeled down low and picked up my bare foot in his roughened hands. He turned it this way and that, examining it. He looked up at me as he set it carefully down. “On the river in the spring, I have seen river rats get the frostbite. Here.” He gestured at my right foot. “It is just starting. No need for the lead. Warm the feet slowly with water. There is no need for a doctor. I will show you.”
And, he did. This French Canadian frontiersman who’d made it clear from day one that he wanted nothing to do with me started looking after me like I was kin. First thing, he cleared it with the Push for me to stay in bed for a couple of days, so that my feet could heal. He made sure that my pay wasn’t to be docked during that time. And, true to his word, he taught me how to tend my frostbit feet.
I didn’t know what to make of Fabien Roget. He didn’t make sense. I asked Dob about Roget again, and he mysteriously said, “You remind him of someone.”
“Who?” I asked.
“That’s not for me to tell you, Sevy. Fabien will tell you if and when he is ready.”
I never did find out who put the maple syrup in my boot that day, but I didn’t take it personal. I knew it was just a joke that had gone wrong. Besides, it had all turned out just fine in the end. Somehow, getting frostbit had finally made me one of them, a true Northwoodsman.
Chapter Nine
~ Redemption ~
I stayed in bed for several days and around camp for the rest of that week. My feet felt much better and all my toes stayed where they belonged. Sure enough, I felt ready to go back to work, but Roget and Dob had the Push convinced that my feet needed a few more days to heal.
The Push told me, “This isn’t the time in the logging season when you want to lose good men. Get better, Sevy. There’s still plenty of days left in this logging season. ”
On a bright Monday morning after my week of rest, I joined the rest of the men in the cookhouse. I was geared up and ready to go and I had two pairs of socks on to protect my feet. I was just setting into some steaming oatmeal when the Push clapped me on the shoulder.
“Sevy, you’re back sawyerin’ on Roget’s team.”
I near choked on my oatmeal and Bart, who must have come up behind me, pounded me on the back. Red faced, I looked up to see that Roget was right behind the Push. Roget gave me a nod before heading out into the early morning darkness.
“You’re back with Roget,” Bart whispered as he grabbed some dirty dishes off of the table in front of me.
“I know. I know.”
The Push spoke to Hawkins and the Swedish brothers, so there were no hard feelings. Those fellas were fine with it. After all, Roget’s crew had been working short-handed.
Still, my stomach was all twisted up in knots as we headed out to the forty that Roget’s team was working. It was on a hillside and the huge pines were packed in tight. It was a tricky spot. The slope made the going hard. You had to be real careful where you put your feet.
Still, the morning went smoothly. It felt good to me to be back out in the woods. I was pleased as could be when Bob Johnson, one of the fellas working the cross cut saw, called me over.
“Sevy, you want to give this a try?”
I nodded eagerly.
He rotated his shoulder around and then nodded to Roget. “Roget said you can spell me. This here shoulder’s been giving me some trouble.”
So, every hour or so, I would take his place on the saw. Adam Clark, a Chippewa Indian, tirelessly worked on the other side.
It happened when we were working trees on one side of a crevasse. Roget had notched a huge tree. Adam and I had set to it with the crosscut saw while Roget wandered off a few steps behind me, eyeballing the next tree. I was sawing away, but something didn’t feel right. I’d only been at this for a few hours but it, the tree, felt wrong. Sure, that saw was going in easy, like it was cutting through something soft and wet. I froze.
“Shoot,” Adam broke in. “Why’d you stop, kid?”
“This tree’s rotten.” But it was too late. There was a cracking sound like thunder as the trunk splintered and began to split in two. And it wasn’t falling in the direction that Roget had intended. The big part of that tree was leaning towards where I stood.
They call 'em 'widowmakers' - but it just didn’t seem fair that one of them should have my name on it. After all, I was only fourteen years old. I’d never even had a steady girl. But there it was, twice as wide as me, a blur of pine needles and brown prickly branches, blocking out the blue sky. I wasn't supposed to die like this. What were the other jacks gonna tell my ma?
Then, I saw that Roget was right in its path, too.
“Watch out!” I yelled.
There was another groaning creak and Roget turned, his eyes wide.
I didn’t think. I saw that tree trunk hanging there, moving inch by inch as the trunk split wide open. And the next moment, I was in motion. There was another unholy crack and glancing up, I saw the brown trunk, a flash of the green boughs. I flew through the air. My body hit Roget’s. Then, everything went black.
At first, I thought that I was dead. But something prickly poked my face and something sticky dripped onto my lips.
“Sevy... Sevy? Where are you?” I heard someone calling my name all scared and worried-like.
“Hear anything?” someone demanded.
I heard ‘em, but it all sounded strange and far off.
“Sevy!”
I licked my lips and realized that I was tasting pine needles. “I’m here.” It came out a whisper. I tried again, “I’m here.”
Shards of daylight pierced my darkness. I understood that branches were being pulled off of me. Then, I glimpsed the gray sky and then saw frantic blue eyes and a black beard.
“Vivant! Dieu merci! Merci, Alain.”
Roget and the rest of the crew worked to pull me out from under the pine tree. Amazingly, no one had been seriously hurt, though my head didn’t feel quite right. When I was free, Roget gave me a hand to pull me up. Then, he bear hugged me and kissed both of my cheeks.
“This boy,” he announced, speaking to the rest of the crew, “he saved my life. This, Fabien Roget will never forget.”
The other men nodded and commented. I held my head high despite the tell tale red creepin’ up my neck. But after that, we all returned to work as if nothing had happened. That’s how it was when you were a jack: one moment, you were eyeballing death and the next, back to work. ‘Course, the fellas didn’t let me do much of anything for the rest of that day, and I didn’t argue much because I felt a little sick to the stomach and tender at that spot on my head. By the time we got back to camp, I figured the whole thing would be old news, nothing special, just another day in the Northwoods.
It turned out, I was dead wrong. It wasn’t nothing for Roget. That night, some caterwauling outside the bunkhouse woke me. Some fool was singing loud, like one of those fellas coming home from one of the taverns near our house in Shawtown.
“Alouette, gentille Alou
ette. Alouette, je te plumerai.’’ The bunkhouse door swung wide like it had been kicked in.
“Hush now, Fabien. The other fellas are already asleep,” Dob muttered.
I looked up from my pillow and saw the two of them in the doorway, Roget and O’Dwyer, black shadows against the white brightness of the moonlight on the snow outside.
“Shh. Ouais.”
The pair stomped their way in. Then, I heard a thump, like someone bumped into a bunk.
“Keep it down, fellas,” one of the jacks said.
“It’s Roget,” another fella stated.
“Alouette” Roget sang out, crashing into another bunk.
“Sure is, and he’s drunk as a skunk.”
“Some people are trying to sleep here.”
“Yeah, keep it down!”
There was more thumping about and muttering. But none of the fellas dared say anything more. After all, Roget was the best knife thrower of the group and no one wanted to mess with him when he was pie-eyed drunk.
What’s gotten into Roget? It was sorta like seeing your pa drunk for the first time. I don’t know why I did it, and it may have been because I was no more than half awake, but I got up off my bunk, and carefully climbed down, so I didn’t kick the jack in the bunk below mine. Then, wincing against the cold floor under my socks, made my way over by the preacher’s bench, where Dob had managed to prop up Roget.
“Can I help?”
Dob cocked one bushy white eyebrow at me. He was out of breath and rumpled. He used one shaky hand to press back his forelock. “Yes you can, Sevy. Let’s get him on that bunk over there.”
Easier said than done, for Roget was dead weight. I took the top half and Dob took the bottom half as we tried to lift the nearly out-cold Quebecois.
He weighed a ton. He turned his head and groaned when I shifted his weight.
“Phew,” I nearly gagged when I caught a whiff of his breath. His eyes were unfocused.
We managed to shove him up onto the bunk.
“Sevy, you get his boots,” Dob directed.
I had one boot unlaced and was working on the other, when Roget came to.
“This boy. Oui, this boy.” Sitting up, he grabbed me with one huge hand and dragged me up beside him. “This one is saving my life.”
“Yes, Fabien. Sevy’s a fine young man,” Dob remarked calmly.
Then, to my amazement, Fabien’s blue eyes grew moist. “Mon petit frère. My brother Pierre, this one.” He tousled my hair. “He is like him. Brave. So young. Too young. Trop petit.” Roget began to sob, great heaving sobs that shook his body.
“Good Lord, we’re trying to get some shut eye,” someone muttered.
“It’s Roget.” Someone else snorted. “You know how he gets.”
Dob pushed Roget back down onto the bunk. Roget didn’t protest. In fact, he just kept muttering to himself in French; it sounded like a prayer.
A few minutes later, he seemed to settle. Dob turned to me and said, “He’ll be all right now. He’ll sleep this off and probably won’t remember much tomorrow.”
“Do you think the Push’ll fire him?” That was the usual consequence for drinking at the logging camp.
“He doesn’t need to know about this and none of these fellas will tell him... Poor Fabien. You’ll learn this, Sevy, sometimes a man is so filled with pain that he does foolish things to forget about it for a little while.”
“I’ve seen other fellas drunk like him before.”
“Some fellas drink for pleasure and some for pain. Regardless, they all end up facing their problems the next morning anyway. I’m not saying it’s right, but Fabien, he’s got a lot of pain inside him and sometimes it all just spills out. Maybe once a season, he’s like this. Tomorrow, he’ll be back to work as usual and all of this will be forgotten. I ain’t saying it’s right, but we all have weaknesses and sometimes it’s our Christian duty to forgive and forget. You understand me, Sevy?”
“Yes sir.”
“You saved Fabien’s life today when you pushed him out of the way of that widowmaker.”
“Anyone would have done it,” I mumbled, but Dob shook his head.
“That isn’t so. You put yourself in danger for him and that’s tough for a man like Roget to take. He’s pretty much alone in this world. But that wasn’t always the case. You see, Fabien had a younger brother, Pierre. When their mother passed on, Fabien paid some folks to take care of the boy. That was the way things were for a couple of years, but Pierre was always after Fabien to let him go lumberjacking with him over the winter. Finally, when Pierre was about your age, Fabien gave in. Those two boys were close and they didn’t like being apart.”
Dob paused and took a deep breath. “One winter, they were working at a logging camp up near Hayward. There was some kind of accident. I don’t know exactly what happened, but I knew Fabien before they went into the woods that winter and I met up with him again when he came out after losing Pierre. He wasn’t the same man. Sure, he’s still a heck of a lumberjack, but he takes risks that he wouldn’t have before. He isn’t always careful when he should be, not that he ever puts anyone else at risk. I think he doesn’t think he has anything else important to lose.
“I know that Roget’s been hard on you. That’s probably why he wasn’t keen on having you here this winter. Because you remind him of Pierre.”
Dob stood up slowly, his knees creaking as he got to his feet. “I’m getting old.” He grasped a blanket and tossed it over Roget who was snoring softly. “Go to sleep, Sevy. The morning’s coming fast.”
I climbed back up into my own bunk with a whole lot to think about.
Chapter Ten
~ A Decision ~
The next morning, Fabien was up at dawn with the rest of us. He looked rough, but he put in a full day’s work. He was his usual gruff self with me, but something had changed between us. Maybe it was something as simple as I looked at him different. Before, I’d thought he didn’t have a weakness, now I knew better. The difference was that Roget was a normal fella to me now, not a legend like that there Paul Bunyan they tell stories about. Before, I’d thought that Fabien took risks and ran headfirst into danger because he was brave. Now I knew that he took risks because he’d lost everything that really mattered to him.
Days turned into weeks and though it was still so cold that it hurt to breathe and it made my teeth ache, I no longer bothered to ask the Push for the temperature. The truth was I had finally settled in. The news from home was good, too. Ma wrote me a fair amount and from her letters I learned that Pa was getting around a little better each day and that they were getting by. All in all, I was feeling pretty good.
One Sunday night, me and a couple other fellas were sitting on the Preacher’s bench just jawin’.
“Just a few more weeks, fellas,” Mr. Walker commented with a sigh as he leaned his wiry body back up against a bedpost. “Then, I get to take Bob and Gus home and see my wife and kids.”
“There’s a pretty girl I know in Chippewa Falls,” another fella commented. “I may go get her a store bought hat. Something fine with flowers and ribbons on it.”
“If you have a hankering for a girl, don’t waste your money on a bonnet,” Bob Johnson commented with a leer. Then he grunted as Johan Johnsen elbowed him hard.
“That’s enough, Bob,” Dob commented. “Some of us here have respect for ladies. Why my Martha, God rest her soul, would turn over in her grave to hear you talking like that in front of these two youngsters.” He gestured at me and Bart.
“What are you going to do with your money, Dob?” Adam Clark asked.
“Try to hold onto it past that first weekend.” Dob shook a finger at them teasingly. “Each year, I warn you boys to hold onto some of your season’s pay. But I can’t think of anyone who listens.”
“Hold onto it for what?” Ole scoffed. He pointed his thumb at his chest. “I come back next winter and earn more.”
“We’re saving up.” The words burst out of me.
“I mean, my folks and me. We’re saving up to buy a farm of our own.”
Ole burst out laughing. “What fer?
A couple of other fellas chuckled and I felt my cheeks flush red.
“Oh, Sevy. It ain’t you,” Dob responded. “It’s just that most of the fellas aren’t saving up for something particular. Most go into town their first weekend off and blow a season’s pay in just a few days.”
I looked at the faces around me and most were nodding.
Bob Johnson asked, “Why save the money? We’ll earn more next year.”
Johan, who was a man of few words, agreed, “This is what we do. We are lumberjacks.”
“Wouldn’t want no other life,” Mr. Walker agreed, “Come winter, up in the Northwoods is where I want to be.”
This comment was supported by a chorus of “Ayes” and “Yups, and a few “Don’t ya knows.”
“My pa’s always talked about us having our own place one day,” I said. “We’ve been saving up for it.”
“It’s not that we doubt you, lad,” Dob continued. “Farming is just fine for some folks. But once you’ve had a taste of this life, often it’s hard to settle back into the harness and work the land. Up here in the Northwoods, a man is truly alive. Some fellas, they just can’t give that up.”
Johan, Ole, Adam, Mr. Walker, and the others nodded, murmuring in agreement.
I didn’t say anything else. What could I say? I found the lumberjacking life tolerable, but I couldn’t see myself missing it when I left it.
* * * *
Winter don’t gently fade into spring up in the Northwoods of Wisconsin. I thought that particular winter was never gonna end. The cold got right down into my bones and I felt tired and sick. And then, one day when I was comin’ in for supper, I saw that it wasn’t quite so dark outside, that the days were just a bit longer.
But Old Man Winter didn’t let go that easy. Just when I got to feeling better, thinking that I might be warm again sometime soon, we got a heck of a snowstorm that buried us for a few more weeks.
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