The box also piqued her curiosity. It was varnished and smooth around the edges but worn in the middle as though from much handling. There were nicks and scratches in the surface and it was unlocked. This mysterious wooden box drew her with an almost magnetic force. She had never seen anything like it before. The curious girl within her surfaced, and the box begged to be opened. It wouldn’t hurt, she supposed, just to take a quick peek. It might even be something Robert needed and had forgotten where he had put it. Some sort of logging tool. Maybe something for measuring timber. He might have great need of it, she rationalized as she wrestled with the decision of whether or not to open it. He might even be pleased that she had found it. It must not be too personal if he hadn’t taken it with him to the bunkhouse.
With one finger, she nudged the latch open and then lifted the lid. She gasped as the front of the box fell away, revealing a row of gleaming, wicked-looking metal instruments—all nestled in individual compartments. She had seen just such an array in a doctor’s office many years ago.
It was a box filled with surgical tools, and for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out why. Shuddering, she closed the box and shoved it back up among the rafters. Those saws were made for cutting through human bones. The probes and scalpels were for digging out bullets, but what were they doing here?
Her interest in the leather journal took on a deeper fascination. Hoping it would hold the answer to the presence of the box, she undid the leather strap and opened it to the first page. The writing was small and precise.
Claire has taken to her bed, upset over my eminent departure with the troops that will soon be leaving en masse from our town. She does not understand that I am these men’s doctor and friend, and I cannot abandon them now. If they have ever needed me, they will need me more in the coming days on the battlefield. Perhaps I can save some of their lives. I would never forgive myself if I did not try. Claire’s anger and hurt is made worse by the fact that she is heavy with our second child.
Katie knew she should not continue to read Robert’s private journal, but she couldn’t seem to make herself stop. She wanted to know who this man really was. She turned the page and devoured the second entry.
The men and I pulled out of the train station early this morning amid cheers and a crowd of well-wishers. The local brass band added more noise to the chaos. It was enough to make a man feel like a hero—without having yet done anything except sign papers and put together some sort of uniform.
I do not feel like a hero. I felt like the worst kind of traitor, abandoning my wife only a month before the baby is due. I never realized it would be this hard. She did manage to come to the station long enough to see me off, waving good-bye, swollen with our second baby, her eyes red from weeping.
I have made arrangements for my sister to stay with her until the child is born. It does little to ease my conscience. I know that Sarah and Claire do not get along, but Sarah will at least do her duty to her sister-in-law. I am grateful that our house is in town, near Dr. Herman Walker, a man I trust to bring her safely through childbirth without infection. I have told him about my previous professor, Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes, and his belief that childbed fever is brought on by unsanitary conditions. Also, I have made certain he will have access to what he needs.
I fear that the amount of carbolic acid I am able to carry with me will not be enough if I have to sterilize my surgical instruments very many times. Still, hopes are high that it will not take long for the North to quench the fire for secession.
Although I am taking my surgical supplies, I am hoping the men will not see battle. If the carbolic acid I have packed is not enough, I don’t know what I will use for sterilization. I fear that the government will not provide anything like it—too few doctors accept the theory that unwashed hands and unsterilized instruments cause the spread of infection. My friend Dr. Walker and I are the odd men out.
I have also packed a goodly supply of opium to use in the case of dysentery—which I have read is the scourge of men in battle.
By the grace of God, I will do what I can. By the grace of God, and Dr. Walker’s care, Claire will survive her confinement and I will return, having fulfilled my duty to my country and my townsmen, to a healthy wife and two robust children. I will be praying, daily, to this end. It is the one thing I can do for my family, even though I am far away.
That was enough, Katie firmly told herself. The journal was none of her business. Robert’s marriage was certainly none of her business. Of course, it did answer her question about whether or not he had children. Evidently there were at least two.
She closed the journal and placed it, reverently, where she had found it—beside the box of surgical instruments. With her mind whirling over her discovery about the personal life of her boss, she lay back down on the bed and closed her eyes. Robert had not misspoken when he had said the words “doctor’s orders.” That’s what he had meant. But why hadn’t he been open about that fact? Being a doctor wasn’t something to be ashamed of.
It appeared that she was not the only one with secrets in this camp.
14
The boys were glad when Sunday came,
that they might have a rest;
some would go a-visiting
all dressed up in their best.
“Turner’s Camp on the Chippewa”
—1800s shanty song
October 13, 1867
“Get up, you lazy shanty boys,” Jigger yelled into the pitch darkness. “It’s daylight in the swamp!”
A blast from the Gabriel horn awakened everyone in the bunkhouse and set up the rustling, throat clearing, and passing of wind from men awakening from a deep slumber. Robert heard feet hitting the floor as the men on the top bunks hopped down. He heard the pouring of water into the washbasins and the spluttering of men splashing cold water on their faces—the full extent of bathing most of them would indulge in until they reached Bay City in the spring.
Robert waited until the men had gone out the door before he sat up. He was grateful that they had left him alone—probably assuming he wanted to stay in bed after the beating he received last night. He had no intention of staying in bed all day, even if it was a Sunday, but he did want some privacy in which to inspect the damage.
As he arose from his bed, he discovered that he had been hurt worse than he had realized. He gritted his teeth against the damage. Every bone and muscle and tendon in his body cried out.
As his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the lantern, he realized that his eyelids were swollen so badly he was barely seeing out of slits. He gingerly ran his tongue over his lips and found that they were split and swollen.
He made his way to the sliver of mirror nailed over the washstands. The first glance made him start in surprise.
“The women are fine.” Skypilot came through the door and peered over his shoulder. “Which is more than I can say for you.”
Robert grimaced. “Been a while since I was in a fight.”
“You held your own.”
“Barely.”
“Still,” Skypilot said, “you won’t have any trouble with the men from this time on. They respect a boss who’s handy with his fists.”
While Skypilot unlaced his boots, Robert dumped a basin of leftover soapy water out the door, unearthed a clean cloth, poured fresh water into the pan, and began to carefully dab at his face.
“Katie already fed me,” Skypilot said. “I was hoping to catch a few more winks if you don’t mind.”
“It’s Sunday, do whatever you want.” Robert rinsed the washcloth out and watched the water turn rust red. He hated that color. There had been too many basins filled with bloody water in his life.
He applied the washcloth’s wet coolness against his aching and swollen eyes. “Did Mainer come near Katie’s cabin?”
“No. He started to, then he saw me waiting for him and had second thoughts. He headed west. Probably thinking of going over to Buck Wallace’s camp. He’s worked there before.”
“Buck is welcome to him.”
“You lost a lot of skill when Mainer walked out of camp. I watched him split a lucifer stick with his axe yesterday. All the men were betting on whether or not he could do it. He halved it slick as butter.”
“A good cook is worth more than that pig-eyed logger.”
“True. I just hope you don’t scare your cook to death when you walk into her shanty this morning.”
“Are you planning on holding services of any kind today?”
“No.” Skypilot shook out his blanket and crawled beneath it. “Why?”
Robert felt like the reason should be apparent. “Because it’s Sunday.”
“I’m not a preacher anymore.”
“I know, but most of the men could use—”
His sentence was interrupted by Skypilot’s snore.
The shanty boys were filing out of the cookhouse about the time Robert went in to breakfast. All of them nodded with respect as they passed, except for Mose.
“You all right, boss?” He laid a hand on Robert’s shoulder. “I got me some liniment out in the barn—it works real good on horses.”
“It’s that bad, huh?”
“Uh-huh.” Mose peered at his face. “It’s pretty bad.”
“I’ll be fine.” Robert tried to smile to prove how well he was feeling, but the smile hurt.
Mose made a clucking sound with his tongue. “You tell me if you want some of that liniment.”
“Thanks, Mose.”
He went inside, hoping there would be leftovers. Come to think of it, he also hoped he could still chew.
Moon Song was clearing dishes, one-handed, while holding the baby in the crook of her arm. Jigger had already retired to his room. Katie glanced up as Robert came through the door. He saw her quick intake of breath when she saw him and realized that Skypilot’s comment that he might scare her was a valid one.
So far, she had been slightly aloof with him—doing her job, an employer/employee relationship, which was as it should be—but this morning she came straight toward him, a look of concern on her face.
“I heard what happened.” She wiped her hands off on her apron. “Are you all right?”
“I’ve been better.”
“You didn’t have to fight Mainer on my account.”
“Yes, actually. I did.”
“His words weren’t going to hurt me—not like he hurt you.”
“You deserve the men’s respect, Katie.”
Her eyes softened at that comment. “Ernie told me you got hit pretty hard in the mouth. I made something that will be easy for you to eat.”
Robert eased himself down on the bench while Katie busied herself at the stove. Moon Song made another trip gathering up eating utensils from the table. He noticed she was still so weak that she could barely hold the baby and a handful of forks at the same time.
“Can I see?” Robert held out his hands.
Moon Song shyly offered the baby to him and he cradled it in his arms. Memories of holding his first child, little Thomas, flooded over him. He deeply regretted the fact that he had not laid eyes on his second child, a daughter, until she was walking. The war had stolen her babyhood from him.
He removed the red flannel wrapping and inspected the tiny infant. The baby’s color was better now, although he still had that wizened look of babies who were malnourished.
“Do you have milk?” he asked.
Moon Song tilted her head, puzzled.
He cupped one hand over his own chest to help her understand. “Can you nurse your baby now?”
Light dawned and she nodded eagerly.
“Good.” He stroked one little cheek. Like a baby bird, the infant blindly opened its mouth and turned toward the touch. The instinct, so strong in all baby mammals, never ceased to amaze him. It was one of the many things he had marveled at as he had studied medicine. One of the many things that had convinced him that there was, in truth, a God. Someone who had designed his creation with much love and care.
If only that God had cared as deeply when Robert had been trying to block out the screams of the soldiers upon whom he was operating.
It was the root of his greatest spiritual battle—trying to reconcile a loving God, the Creator of such an intricately crafted world—with all the suffering he had seen.
“Here.” Katie set a bowl and spoon in front of him. “I made you peach dumplings. They’ll be soft and easy to eat.” Moon Song came and reclaimed her baby.
He took an experimental bite, and his cut lip cried out in protest. He discovered that two of his teeth were loose as well, but the feather-light dumplings with their sauce of stewed peaches were soothing and delicious.
“You didn’t have to go to all this trouble for me,” he said.
“I didn’t. I made it for Tinker too. The poor man has hardly any teeth.”
“You’ve begun making special meals for individual men?”
“Only Tinker. The others eat like billy goats. Tinker struggles to get enough food inside of himself to live—I’m hoping to fatten him up a little before winter’s end.”
While he dug in, Katie brought two mugs of tea and sat down across from him. He inhaled the delicate fragrance of the steaming cup and savored the experience of having a pretty girl sitting across from him instead of Sam and his tobacco-stained teeth.
As he took another bite of peach dumplings, he realized that she had flavored the dish with a spice he had not provided.
“Where did you get the nutmeg?” he asked. “I didn’t order any.”
“I bought some when I was getting my other supplies,” she said. “I was afraid it wouldn’t be on your list and it’s a favorite of mine to cook with—when I can get it.”
“My wife used to use nutmeg.”
“Used to?” Katie’s brow furrowed. “Doesn’t she still?”
For the first time, Robert realized how little he and Katie knew about each other. “My wife passed away five years ago.”
“I’m so sorry.” Her eyes widened. “I didn’t know.”
At that moment, the door opened and a man strode in. He was wearing boots laced up to his knees, heavy pants, a beat-up coat, and he carried a tote bag that had been ripped, patched, and resewn many times. The bit of his face that wasn’t covered with a heavy, brown beard was chapped and wind-burned. He had a cadaverous look.
“Charlie!” Robert called. “Where did you blow in from? Come have some breakfast.”
The man stared at Katie, who stared back, as though she didn’t know what to make of this apparition.
“This is Charlie Rhodes, Katie,” Robert explained. “He’s the best timber-looker in Michigan. And this is our new cook, Katie Smith,” he said. “That’s Moon Song over there. She and her baby are staying with us for a while.”
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” Charlie tipped a moth-eaten beaver hat. “I am powerful hungry and something in here smells awfully good.”
“I’ll just see what I can find,” Katie said cheerfully. “I don’t want anyone going away hungry from my table.”
As Katie headed toward the stove, Charlie took a good look at Robert’s face.
“What happened to you?”
“Some trouble in the bunkhouse.” Robert shrugged. “It’s over.”
“Did the other fellow look as bad?”
“The other fellow is gone.”
Charlie dropped his pack on the seat beside him and sat down. “That’s the reason I scout the woods alone.”
“You are a wise man.” Robert spooned up another mouthful of peach dumplings. He was feeling better by the minute. “What brings you here?”
“I’ve been looking over some land west of here. Thought I’d stop by and get something to eat besides hardtack.”
“You’re down to nothing but hardtack? You must’ve been out there quite a while this time. Did you find anything good?”
Charlie smiled and remained silent.
“Ah,” Robert said. “You found
a good stand of pine, but you’re not telling.”
“I found an excellent stand, but I need to hurry and get to the land office to register it before someone else beats me to it.”
“Anybody else in the competition?”
“If I thought so, I wouldn’t be taking the time to eat breakfast.”
“If I bring in a good tree harvest this spring, I might be interested.”
“I’ll do business with you.”
Katie brought a plate of bacon, fried potatoes, and sliced bread to the table along with a mug from which steam arose. “What’s a timber-looker?”
Charlie, famished, dug into the heaping plate of food without answering.
Robert explained, “A timber-looker explores the woods looking for good stands of white pine.”
Charlie nodded in agreement and kept wolfing down food.
Robert continued. “Men like Charlie here travel alone, sometimes for months. It’s kind of like striking a vein of gold when they find one.”
“How do you go about finding them?” Katie asked.
Charlie took a careful sip of the scalding tea and swallowed before he answered. “I listen.”
“You listen?” Katie frowned.
Charlie saluted her with his cup. “That was an exceptional plate of food, ma’am.”
“Thank you,” Katie said. “What do you listen for? Trees don’t talk.”
“Haven’t you taken her out to hear the trees yet, Foster?”
“There hasn’t been time. We’ve been here less than a week.”
Katie looked from one man to another. “I don’t understand.”
“And I can’t explain it. Just go out to the deep pine woods someday and . . . listen.”
She glanced at Robert to see if Charlie was joking.
“He’s telling the truth. It’s a sound you can’t describe. I’ll take you and Ned soon—before it snows.”
Measure of Katie Calloway, The: A Novel Page 14
