Measure of Katie Calloway, The: A Novel

by Serena B. Miller

  The Lord of rain and sky and earth and fire had heard the prayers of the women and children and rough loggers and had chosen to save them.

  It took a great deal of effort for the men to maneuver the raft back to shore in the rain, but soon, they were waist deep again. The loggers continued to hold tight while Robert jumped off and he and Skypilot helped lift everyone except the loggers off the raft. Katie was the last, and when Robert reached his arms up to her, she went into them gratefully.

  “Are you all right?” Robert whispered into her ear as he lifted her down.

  For just a moment, she allowed herself to cling to him, absorbing his strength and courage—and then she let go.

  “Yes,” she answered. “I’m fine now.”

  Even though it had lasted only an instant, Katie knew that she would hold dear the memory of Robert’s arms around her for the rest of her life.

  18

  Our bodies are as hard as iron;

  our hearts are cased with steel;

  and hardships of one winter

  can never make us yield.

  “Michigan I.O.”

  —1800s shanty song

  By the sheer grace of God, the camp was spared—but Robert knew no one would rest tonight. There was something about narrowly escaping death that kept the body and mind awake and vigilant for hours afterward. He had seen it play out over and over on the battlefield. No matter how exhausted the surviving men were after a battle, most had trouble sleeping.

  And they had definitely fought a battle.

  The rule about silence at the table was ignored, with Jigger’s blessing, as the men talked about what they had done. The old cook had changed into dry clothes, but his teeth were still chattering. While Jigger huddled in a corner, wrapped in a blanket, trying to get warm, Robert took over the chore of boiling tea and keeping everyone’s mugs filled. The men hunched over the steaming cups as though trying to absorb the warmth into their bodies.

  Sarah had taken the children to the cabin to change. She was still madder than a wet setting hen.

  Katie, realizing the deep need the men had to congregate together in the cook shanty, tied an apron over her drenched nightgown and went to work—stoking up the fire and turning out one towering stack of flapjacks after another. She instinctively knew the need to fill the men’s chilled stomachs with something sweet and hot. The unending flapjacks and deep puddles of warm sorghum nicely filled the bill.

  As the men talked over the night’s events, marveling over the miraculous appearance of the driving rain, Robert watched Katie concentrate on her work at the stove. Her hair hung down her back in one long, unkempt braid. Strands straggled around her face, and occasionally she would push them out of her eyes with the back of her hand. She was so slender that the large apron, made for a man, enveloped her. She had kicked off her sodden shoes and was working barefoot.

  There was an angry-looking scrape on her right forearm from the rough bark of the logs upon which he had tossed her. She had been wet, cold, and terrified, but now her only thought was the care and feeding of the hungry men.

  Moon Song helped by carrying platters back and forth. Skypilot held the baby, asleep and wrapped in dry swaddling, cradled in one arm while he talked with the men. Henri kindly translated some of the conversation into French so that Moon Song could understand and participate in the conversation.

  While everyone was absorbed in the telling and retelling of what they had experienced, Robert refilled the teakettle and walked over to where Katie was working while he waited for it to come to a boil.

  “Thank you for doing this,” he said.

  “You and the men put your lives at risk to save ours.” Katie poured more batter onto the griddle. “Fixing an early breakfast is the least I can do.”

  “You didn’t even take time to change,” he said. “You must be miserable.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Katie brushed another strand of hair out of her eyes. “What matters is that everyone is alive and unharmed.”

  “You’ll catch pneumonia.”

  “You have obviously never stood close to this stove.” She expertly flipped another flapjack. “I’m plenty warm. I’m surprised steam isn’t rising off me.”

  Robert did feel the heat of the stove, but he felt another heat as well, brought on by standing so close to her and remembering the feel of her in his arms when he lifted her off of the raft.

  Those life-changing minutes as he had struggled to hold the raft together, praying that they would survive the fire, had forced him to see with absolute clarity that each moment with his children was precious and holy. He had lost enough time with them. He had grieved their mother long enough. He had lived with regrets long enough. For all their sakes, it was time to reenter the land of the living instead of spending his life reliving regrets from the past.

  The God-given reprieve from death had also opened his eyes in other ways. As he had watched Katie holding Jigger, shielding the old man as much as possible from the cold, as he had watched her covering his children with the soaked blankets, taking no thought for herself as she made her way over the rough logs trying to care for everyone—he knew he wanted this valiant woman. The fire had burned away any doubts he had about the rightness of bringing Katie into his life.

  The problem was convincing Katie of that fact. If he knew anything at all about women, it wouldn’t be wise to announce his intentions to marry her, since, until a short time ago, they had been strangers. Fortunately, he had time on his side. Neither of them were going anywhere for quite a while.

  “I hope what happened tonight didn’t make you regret coming to work here,” Robert said.

  “I’m being paid a king’s ransom to do a job I enjoy.” Katie poured more batter that sizzled on the griddle. “I work for a man I trust and respect. I regret nothing.”

  He stood behind her and lifted his hand, longing to touch her hair, caress her face—but it was not the time or place. He let his hand drop.

  “When daylight comes, I’ll be able to see how much of my land has burned,” he said. “If too many acres were destroyed, I won’t be able to keep this camp going.”

  “Then you’ll find more trees and build another camp.” Katie grabbed a platter and flipped flapjacks onto it. “You have the tools, you have the knowledge, you have the crew, and”—she gave him a mischievous grin—“you have a great camp cook.”

  Robert felt his spirits rise. No matter what the morning brought to light, with enough hard work and this woman by his side, it would be all right.

  The morning light was not kind. The fire had come so close to the camp that everything was covered in sodden ashes. The camp, never picturesque, was now an ugly, uniform gray.

  Katie slogged out to milk her cow, the hem of her dress stained from the ashy mud. The cow, so frightened last night, amazingly still gave milk this morning. Tinker and Ned had gathered up all the chickens, most of which had roosted in the trees until morning light. One of the piglets had been found. The other one was still lost. Some of the horses and mules were missing. Some had wandered back. It would take a while to sort it all out.

  The familiar routine of milking was comforting. As she squirted streams of foaming milk into the pail, she dreamed of all the things she would be able to make if the cow’s milk held. Butter, of course, which she would keep chilled in the cold river out back, and buttermilk, which she knew the men would enjoy after a hard day’s work.

  She would also make cottage cheese and there would be fresh cream for their tea. A cow was a wonderful thing—a virtual grocery of culinary possibilities. And this Milking Shorthorn seemed to be giving well. Its placid nature, which had been such an irritation last night when she desperately wanted it to hurry, was now welcome. Unlike her two Jerseys, it hadn’t even once tried to kick her.

  She eyed the amount of milk in her bucket when she finished: two and a half gallons. This bode well for the future. A cow that gave five to six gallons of milk a day was a treasure.


  Robert was out with the men, surveying the damage, deciding how much the fire had cost him. She prayed he would be able to keep this camp open—moving to another location would put him behind for the winter, and she had no idea if he had the resources to purchase another section of timber.

  As she stripped out the final drops of milk, she heard the men returning to camp. There would be no timber cutting today, and it felt odd to have people coming and going all morning. As she started to carry the bucket of milk into the kitchen, she saw Sarah march out of the cabin with both children. The woman was dragging luggage with her, and both of the children were carrying smaller bags.

  As Katie watched, Robert came out of the woods, begrimed and weary, and noticed that his sister was preparing to leave.

  “What are you doing with my children?” he asked.

  “I’ve changed my mind.” Sarah hefted a leather satchel into the wagon with a grunt. “I’m taking them back home with me.”

  “No.” He laid a hand on her arm. “You aren’t. They’re staying here. I don’t want them to leave.”

  She dumped a valise into the wagon. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “I want them with me.”

  “Since when?” Sarah stopped and stared at him.

  “I’ve always wanted them here.” Robert’s voice was exasperated. “I thought I was giving them a better life by letting them live in town with you, but I don’t believe that anymore. I know this is a rough place, but they need to be with me. And I—well, I need to be with them too.”

  From behind the cow, Katie saw the children watching, with wide eyes, this debate between their aunt and their father.

  “Go marry your butcher and make a good life for yourself, Sarah. The children should be my responsibility, not yours. I’m sorry I didn’t see that sooner.”

  Sarah’s face softened. “Are you sure?”

  He glanced down at Thomas and Betsy. “Do you want to stay with me or go back home with your Aunt Sarah?”

  “I want to stay with you, Father,” Thomas said solemnly.

  “Me too!” Betsy said.

  “Where will all of you stay?” Sarah asked. “Betsy can’t sleep in the bunkhouse, and Katie already has a full cabin.”

  “I’ll have Tinker build some bunks in the office. It’ll be tight, but I think we can manage.”

  “Well,” Sarah said. “I guess it’s settled then.”

  Katie thought she heard some regret in Sarah’s voice. Personally, she doubted the butcher was worth the forfeiture of the children, but that was Sarah’s decision, not hers.

  “How bad was it out there today, Robert?” Sarah asked. “Will you still have work?”

  “Most of my land is to the east. I lost about eighty acres of pine. Maybe twenty acres of hardwood. There’s still enough standing timber to give the men work over the winter and into the spring. I won’t be a rich man when the spring drive is over, but if we have a good, cold winter, I’ll get enough timber out to pay the bills and purchase another tract of pine.” He closed his eyes in weariness.

  “You need to rest, little brother,” Sarah said.

  “Thank you for everything you’ve done, Sarah.” Robert put his arms around his sister and rested his forehead against hers. “I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

  “It’s all right, honey . . .” There were tears in Sarah’s eyes and she patted her brother’s back. “It’s all right.”

  As Sarah rode away, Katie strained the milk and put it to chill in the river. Last night had made her want to know so much more about Robert—more than she was willing to ask. He had given her permission to read his journal, and so she returned to her cabin and pulled the journal from its place beneath the eaves. She began reading where the pages fell open, about halfway through. She wanted to get to the part where she could begin to understand why he had given up medicine.

  There was a thumbprint of blood on the page. With a sinking heart, she began to read.

  July 6, 1863

  I have been operating for days and have gotten most of the “butchering” done. I have been left here in charge of 500 wounded men, with few medical supplies and little help. I do not yet know the full extent of the carnage, I did not ask. I could not think beyond trying to repair the next ravaged body and the next and the next. I tried not to look into the pain-filled eyes or see the fear in the men’s faces as I approached them with my cutting saw to remove yet another mangled limb. Had I allowed myself to see the men as individuals, with mothers and wives at home praying for their deliverance, I would have sunk into utter despair and been of no use to anyone.

  And still, no matter how hard I worked, the sound of the battle continued—the gunshots and shouts and screams ringing in my ears—a vicious, evil machine churning out body after body for me to try to piece together again. I operated until the surgical instruments began to slip from my grasp and my orderly forced me stop.

  I am told that our division lost. A third were killed or wounded. Many of these men were my friends.

  God help us.

  Katie closed her eyes, absorbing the pain from those words. This is what Robert had endured. This was what so many had endured.

  Harlan had made it sound like a lark.

  She wasn’t sure Harlan was entirely human.

  July 10, 1863

  The orderly has just scrubbed all the blood out of my hair with castile soap and bay rum and my scalp feels as if a steam plow had been passed through it. When this nightmare is finished, if it is ever finished, I will never operate again. I have not the stomach for it. Not anymore. I have seen more entrails in one battle than most surgeons see in a lifetime. Lord willing, I will find another way to support my family when I am relieved of this duty and allowed to go home. At least I know that little Thomas and the babe are safe in Sarah’s care. May their blessed mother rest in peace.

  Katie gently closed the journal. She stuffed it back up under the eaves alongside the box of surgeon’s tools. Robert was right—it was not easy reading. She had no desire to continue. There was enough pain in those two entries alone to last her a lifetime.

  She had a few more minutes before she needed to start dinner. There was one more thing she needed to do, a person she needed to see, a promise she had made to herself last night while crouching on the raft in the wet and the rain.

  Mose emerged from the woods, as weary as she had ever seen the man—but he had finally found his horses. She knew she had information that might take some of the weariness away.

  “You found them,” she said.

  “They know ol’ Mose’s voice.”

  What she intended to tell this good man could get them both killed, but last night had taken away the option of keeping silent. She kept pace with him as he led the horses to the barn.

  “Do you remember the time that Harlan sent you to old Mrs. Hammond’s place to buy her husband’s seed cotton after he passed?”

  “It was a far piece,” Mose said. “Mrs. Hammond’s a good woman. The lady gave me a drink o’ water from her well.”

  “Violet is with her.”

  He halted. Then he turned and looked at her as though he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Violet, does she have a man?”

  “Not the last I knew.”

  “I been savin’ up,” Mose said. “When I find her, I gonna buy us a piece of land somewhere nice. She can have herself a garden and I can plant crops and raise some animals. Maybe a family too.”

  It was a long way from Michigan to Georgia, but Katie had no doubt Mose would manage to get there.

  “Violet will be a lucky woman to have you.” Katie scratched behind the closest mare’s ears. “You’re a good man, Mose.”

  “I try.”

  “You always did. Even when it wasn’t easy.”

  “Yes’m. So did you.”

  A silence weighted with memories filled the air. Katie felt the heaviness of those memories.

  “I’m sorry I lied to you, Mose.”

&
nbsp; “Why’d you do that?” he asked.

  “I’m afraid if you go to Georgia, Harlan will hear. I was afraid he’d find out where I am and come after me.”

  She saw a muscle in Mose’s jaw twitch. “You don’t have to worry ’bout that none.”

  “You aren’t going to spend the winter here?”

  “No’m.”

  “You know that if word gets back to Harlan . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “All I want is to find my woman.”

  “This is going to leave Robert shorthanded.”

  “There’s plenty good teamsters—only one Violet.”

  “Be careful, Mose.” She rubbed a palm over the mare’s velvety nose. “The South is a dangerous place for a black man right now.”

  “It always was, missus,” Mose said. “It always was.”

  Harlan rode back to his overgrown plantation, hating the sight of what it had become.

  The days he had spent trying to hunt down the elusive Katherine had been a waste.

  He had gone to her people in Pennsylvania, certain she had run to them, but even though he used his most charming manner, those Yankee clods had stood looking at him with suspicious eyes, informing him that they had not seen nor heard from Katherine in months.

  He started to take a swig from his flask, and thought better of it. He realized now that it would take all of his cunning to track her down—he could no longer indulge.

  19

  We are lying in the shanty; it’s bleak and it’s cold,

  while cold, wintry winds do blow.

  The wolves and the owls with their terrible growls

  disturb us from our midnight dreams.