Beneath the Slashings (Divided Decade Collection)

by Michelle Isenhoff

  Squeaky hooted. “Eef Saint Nicholas brings you anysing, eet will fall out onto zee floor!”

  Gideon shrugged, “So I’m not quite as handy with a needle as Needles.”

  The sock’s odor trickled into the room, causing Grace to wrinkle her nose. “Are all your stockings disintegrating, Gid?”

  He grinned sheepishly. “The others look pretty similar.”

  “Don’t your feet get cold?”

  Squeaky was still guffawing. “Not eef you wear enough of zem,” he answered for Gideon. “Of course, eef all zee holes line up in zee same place...”

  Gid punched the Frenchman on the shoulder. “I suppose your stockings look better?”

  “As a matter of fact, I can, what you say, give Needles a fair shake eef I need to.”

  “Prove it,” Gideon demanded.

  “What is zees?” Squeaky asked.

  “Take off your boot and prove it.”

  By now the entire company had noticed the banter between the two friends. “Sure, Squeaky,” Judge called out. “Put your money where your mouth is.”

  “You want me to put money in my mouth?”

  “Take off your boot already, Frenchie!” Doc shouted.

  At the rising insistence, Squeaky pulled off his boot. And there, sticking out well beyond the hole in his red sock, wriggled his big toe.

  Shouts of laughter met the sight. Squeaky grinned good-naturedly. “Eet is too bad I do not have a good wife to send me new socks for Christmas. I will hang zees one on zee tree for Santa.”

  He rose to do so, but Grace stopped him. “This would be easy to darn, Squeaky. Pa,” she called to her father, who had watched the exchange with amusement, “don’t we have yarn in the van?”

  “Red, gray, and green,” came his answer.

  She turned again to the lumberjack. “I could fix this for you, if you’d like.”

  He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You would do zees?”

  She smiled. “Consider it thanks for all the times you’ve lightened my day with your singing.”

  He grinned. “Zen Santa weel have to go wizout.”

  “Hey, what about mine?” Gideon asked, dangling his own holey sock in front of Grace’s nose.

  She grinned and batted it away. “Give me a dime and I’ll darn yours, too.”

  “A dime!” he exclaimed. “For that much money, I’ll do it myself!”

  Fiddlesticks came out of the kitchen then with a kettle of hot tea. “I’d pay a dime to close up the draft on my feet. Just this afternoon they were sneezing so hard I could barely keep my balance.” And he sat down to remove his boots.

  Around the room, Grace heard half a dozen murmurs of agreement, and footwear started peeling off right and left. “A dime a sock,” she called out, “and I’ll provide the yarn.”

  Fiddlesticks plopped a pair into the palm of her hand. They were damp and ripe. She gagged and breathed through her mouth. “And another five cents a pair if I have to wash them.”

  Fiddlesticks cackled. “Honey, I’d pay twenty-five cents just so I didn’t have to smell them myself!”

  Within moments, the room was awash in barefooted lumberjacks. Nasty, moldering, woolen stockings were piled in the corners and draped on branches. A few flew across the room to strike an unsuspecting neighbor. The smell soon overpowered the fresh pine scent of the tree.

  Grace turned to the cook. “Ivan, can I borrow your biggest pot?”

  He made a face that stretched his mustache in odd directions. “I do not vish to know anything,” he replied, and with his nose plugged, he retreated to the kitchen and closed the door.

  The men helped themselves to tea, and the laughter breaking out across the room made it truly feel like Christmas Eve. Jefferson began singing then in a merry, booming voice:

  “Go tell it on the mountain.

  Over the hills and everywhere.

  Go tell it on the mountain

  That Jesus Christ is born.”

  Fiddlesticks picked up the tune, and a few of the lumberjacks began to dance. With the sound of seventy bare, stomping feet and the occasional blur of a sock streaming through the air, the residents of the Bear Creek lumber camp ushered in the holiest day of the year.

  Chapter 15

  “AAAHHHHGGGHHH!”

  Grace lunged upright, her eyes wide in the darkness. Her heart pounded and fire burned through her chest. The sound had ripped her from sleep.

  “DANIEL, GET DOWN!”

  The shouting came from the van’s main room. It was Pa.

  “DANIEL! NO! DANIEL!”

  “Nickerson, wake up!” Grace had never before been glad to hear Mr. Bigg’s voice.

  “DANIEL! Daniel...Jim?” Her father sounded frightened and unstable. “Jim? Is that you?” he panted.

  “You’re fine. It was just a nightmare.”

  “Thank God!” She heard Pa fall back on his mattress. “It was awful. Bentonville all over again.” A heavy sigh, then a trembling, “How many times do I need to refight the blasted war, Bigg?”

  “I don’t know, John. I—I didn’t fight, myself.”

  “My friend Daniel McConnelly and I served together three years. I lost him in North Carolina last spring in a skirmish with Johnston’s army. The war ended a month later. He almost made it.” Pa’s voice sounded ragged, full of splinters.

  “It’s a shame, John. An everlasting shame.”

  “How’d you miss the call up, Bigg?”

  Grace rolled up in her blankets, her heartbeat almost back to normal. She still clutched her hands together to ease their trembling.

  After a short hesitation, Mr. Bigg answered, “I had no quarrel with the South. I took a timber job in Canada. Just came back last year.”

  There was a quiet knock on the door. “Nightmare, John?” Grace recognized Johansen’s gentle voice.

  “Yes, I’m fine. Come in.”

  The blacksmith stomped his boots on the threshold. “Figured you might need an ear. I’ve revisited the fight a time or two myself. Don’t guess it will ever truly leave us.”

  “I didn’t wake you, did I Johansen?”

  “No, I was up mending that sled runner. Need it by morning.”

  “Get it done?”

  “Just finished.”

  Mr. Bigg broke in with the sound of rustling straw. “If you two are going to have a pow-wow in my bedroom,” he said with customary irritation, “I think I’ll take some work to the mess hall.” The door slammed none too gently a moment later.

  Pa chuckled. “He’s a rare one, ain’t he?”

  “Not so rare, boss.”

  “You’re right, unfortunately. But he does like fine coffee. We always have a pot on the stove because Ivan won’t make it for him. Want a cup?”

  “Aye, I could use one.”

  For a long moment, there was only the sound of clattering tinware. Then Pa spoke quietly. “Did you ever feel like the enemy wasn’t really the enemy, Johansen? I mean, the bodies lying broken in the field, they looked the same. Boys in gray, boys in blue. We were countrymen, for God’s sake. Sometimes I wish I could go back in time and demand Congress stand down. That they work things out in a civilized manner.”

  “Wouldn’t have worked, John. The country had been divided for decades. Men on both sides were clamoring for blood.”

  “Well they got it. By God, they got it.”

  “The slavery issue should have been settled after the Revolution,” Johansen put in. “Washington, Jefferson, Henry, even Adams, all great men, but blinded by the demands of a new nation. They never should have left it for their children to sort out.”

  “Is that why you fought, Johansen? To free the slaves?”

  “I fought for Pennsylvania, though I never did cotton to the notion of one man owning another. But I’m baffled by what to do with all the new freemen. I mean, they’re not quite like us, you know?”

  “Because they’re not educated?”

  “That’s not it, exactly.”

  “Then
what? Their speech? Their skin? Their hair?”

  Grace knew she would be squirming beneath the new sharpness in her father’s words, but she couldn’t imagine anyone intimidating the blacksmith. “Yes and no. Understand, I’ve got no quarrel with any man. I like Wrong Hand as much as anyone. He does fine, honest work, but you’ve seen the trouble it’s caused putting him among the men.”

  “I’ve seen the trouble it’s caused among a few men we’d be better off without.”

  “I can’t argue. But the fact remains, blending the races will lead to trouble. I think Lincoln hit on something with his attempts to colonize them in Africa and Central America.”

  “That didn’t work, and it never will,” Pa scoffed. “And it’s not right to uproot an entire population over skin-deep differences. It’s a shame, though, that Lincoln was assassinated. His leadership will be missed during the restitching of North with South.”

  “You think that will ever be accomplished? The South is a shambles, full of bitter, defeated people.”

  “I think it will take a long, long time.”

  “I suppose. The war has changed everything.”

  “Everything,” Pa repeated heavily. “I feel like it dictates my life now. My decisions, my reactions, my relationship with my kids. I’ve been dipped in it, mind, body, and soul, like a cloth boiled in dye. It’s turned every part of my life a new color.”

  “I know exactly what you’re saying, Nickerson. The nation took a whole new direction. So where do we go from here? What will next year look like? Or ten years from now?

  Pa sighed. “I don’t know, Johansen. I’m still trying to figure out tomorrow.”

  The splintering of crates drove Grace out of the kitchen and around the corner to the woodpile. She was followed by the rumbling of foreign curses. Her patience with Ivan’s latest tantrum was wearing thin.

  “Seven day I vork to make food,” he complained as soon as she arrived that morning. “Good food fit for hungry men. And how is it they repay me? By stealing from me so my job I cannot do!”

  The cook had discovered several bottles of lemon extract missing, an ingredient with high alcohol content. He had ordered it special for holiday recipes and took the theft as a personal affront.

  “Sneaky I vas. I hid it in a box marked ‘beans’ but someone found it. Can I guard it day and night? But they vill cry, ‘Ivan, vhy haff you no lemon cake for New Year?’”

  Grace knew Ivan’s job depended on the contentment of the crew, but Christmas had been a huge success. She thought he was taking the theft extremely personally.

  “You know,” she said, struck by a sudden suspicion, “Mr. Bigg did leave the van last night. But I don’t know how you could ever prove anything.”

  Ivan swept a pile of pans from a table with a crash. “Ha! Ve vill see vhat I can prove against Mr. Bigg Fraud. Mr. Bigg Busybody. He vould like to see Ivan gone. Ve vill just see vhat I can prove.”

  Grace had chuckled at the time, but the cook’s mood hadn’t improved with the passage of the morning. When the breakfast dishes were finished and Ivan was still muttering into a batch of sinkers, Grace dodged outside to take her time filling the wood box.

  Another crash issued from the kitchen and Grace sighed. The sun was bright, the sky blue, and the snow crunchy underfoot. It was a perfect day for a walk. Smiling to herself, she set out down the sled road in the direction of the old Indian woman’s wigwam.

  Her memory served her well. So did the hatchet marks Loon had made on the trees as she guided Grace home nearly a month before. Two hours after leaving the kitchen, Grace knew she was close. She could smell a wood fire. “Loon!” she called.

  The old woman emerged from the trees moments later, a smile splitting her nearly toothless gums. “White girl scares away every rabbit,” she said, “but I am glad to see her.”

  Grace glanced around for the vanished animals. “Sorry, were you hunting?”

  “Loon has many rabbits. Come.”

  Grace had found her way to within one hundred yards of the wigwam. In the yard burned a low, smoky fire with two wooden frames suspended above it. On the frames, far beyond the reach of any maverick flames, were tied a pair of rabbit skins, fur side up. A wooden lattice also held strips of drying meat.

  “No men to hunt large game,” Loon explained, “but I make small snares.” So saying, the woman removed a skin with a quick slash of her knife. “It is dry,” she said, “but hard. I must soften before I sew. Like this.” She kneaded the skin between her hands, stretching, pulling, and crumpling it. “You try,” she said, handing it to Grace and reaching for the second one.

  The rabbit fur was unbelievably soft, but the underside was stiff, like a shirt with too much starch. Grace mimicked the Indian woman’s movements, working the hide between her fingers.

  Loon nodded approvingly. “Why does Cries Under Tree visit Loon?”

  Grace shrugged. “Do I need a reason? I grow tired of beastly men.”

  The old woman’s chuckle sounded as dry as toasted bread. “I am glad. Come.”

  Still working the skins, the woman pushed aside the door and ushered Grace into her home. Half a dozen more rabbit skins were stretched on frames within the shelter, and a heavenly aroma poured from a kettle hung over the fire. “Rabbit stew?” Grace guessed.

  “Very good.” Loon rubbed her belly.

  Grace settled on a bear skin rug and stretched her hands to the fire. Loon sat across from her. “What man drives Cries Under Tree to my door?”

  “Ivan! He’s the cook. He was so grouchy this morning you’d think he swallowed a porcupine.”

  Loon’s few teeth made another appearance. “He is the only one?”

  “Well, my brother has his moments, too. Actually, most of the lumberjacks are very nice, but sometimes I feel like we live on different sides of a gulf. They’re grown up and I’m not. They’re men and, well, I’m a girl.”

  “Ah,” Loon answered. “You draw well a picture of loneliness.”

  That wasn’t the word Grace would have chosen in such a crowded camp, but perhaps it was more accurate than she thought. “Lonely for another girl to talk to, I suppose.”

  “And your father?”

  Grace narrowed her eyes. “What about my father?”

  “Do you still hold your anger?”

  Grace looked down at the rabbit fur in her hands. She didn’t answer directly. “I don’t recognize him anymore, Loon. He shouts. He’s angry. He’s distant. He wakes up screaming in the night. He’s not the same man who sang me lullabies when I was little.”

  “And you are the same child he sang to?”

  Grace’s eyebrows hitched up a notch.

  The woman’s face wrinkled into sadness. “Men aren’t meant to kill. Such a path cannot be walked unchanged. But you cannot expect to remain the same, either. Life brings much suffering; but suffering brings much wisdom.”

  Again Grace had the feeling that the old woman had seen a great deal in her lifetime. “It’s not fair, Loon,” she burst out. “None of it’s fair. Slavery, killing, running each other off the land, war. I’m not very proud of my countrymen right now.”

  To Grace’s surprise, Loon laughed. “You give your people too much credit, young one. You think only white men kill and steal and enslave? Those happened here long before white feet touched America. Nowhere is free of evil.”

  The thought was both comforting and frightening. “But why did the war have to come here? Why did it overrun my family?”

  “Why do forests burn? Why do plagues take this man and not that? Why does rain dry up and flood the earth by turns?” Loon shrugged. “Such fortunes are not ours to decide. We control only our actions, and not all men choose wisely. Your Pa,” she asked, “does he act with honor?”

  The question was one Grace had never considered. She’d been too busy blaming Pa. It was true he had commanded his regiment well. And the men in the lumber camp respected him. He was strict, but he was honest and fair. And Pa had chosen to raise her
and Sam when other men might have left. He had lavished them with kindness, avoided drunkenness, and had never abused them. He worked hard to provide for them. He had always demonstrated unquestionable love and honor.

  Perhaps it was Grace who had not acted honorably.

  “Your father’s is not the only side of the gulf from which a bridge could be built,” Loon reminded her quietly.

  The old woman set aside the rabbit skin and produced two bowls. “Let us eat the food the rabbit has provided, then you will help me tan the remaining skins.”

  The stew Loon served was a creamy mixture of meat and wild herbs and vegetables that Grace could not identify. Whatever had gone into its making, the meal was far better than Ivan’s creations. She eagerly accepted a second helping.

  Grace pointed to a small kettle tucked among the coals at the edge of the fire. “What’s in that pot?”

  “Rabbit brains.”

  Grace set her bowl down quickly, prompting laughter from her hostess. “Very nutritious, but today we will not eat. It is for tanning.”

  Grace picked up the rabbit skin on her lap. “You use brains?”

  “Makes skins last long. From them I will make a warm blanket and new moccasins. Eat, then I will show you.”

  Grace began to understand that visiting the Indian woman was nothing like dropping in for tea with a neighbor. Loon produced two fresh skins, presumably from the rabbits they had just finished eating. They were bloody and smeared with gore, and Grace felt her stomach contract. Working quickly, Loon used her knife and strips of rawhide to stretch them across two new frames.

  “First we must scrape the meat and fat from the skin or it will not tan. Do it like this,” she said with long drags of her knife. “You try.”

  Grace accepted the knife gingerly, wishing she had stayed in the kitchen with Ivan. But to show her gratitude for the meal, she forced herself to copy the movements.

  “Very good. I do this one.”

  They worked together in silence. When the hides were scraped to Loon’s satisfaction, she began mixing the contents of the small kettle into a paste, which she applied liberally to the newly cleaned skins. Grace wrinkled her nose at the smell, but curiosity had overcome her queasiness and she watched with interest.