Camp 13: Working in the Lumber Woods

by Byron White

CHAPTER 4

  AT THE END OF the day, darkness had fallen before the last horses left the landing and headed back to camp. Uncle Ben, the landing keeper, hitched a ride on an empty sled. Farther up the trail the last of the road repair crew would do the same.

  Stan beat his arms around his body to ward off the cold. He took one last look around the landing and began walking up the trail. As he walked he noted the places where the wood road needed upkeep. He noted this more by feel and intuition than by sight. He needed this information now in order to deploy the road crew in the morning. Fourteen horses hauling large racks of pulpwood over a snow and ice road required a crew of skilled workers to maintain the thoroughfare. Stan had the right men: men like Ron and Levi Ginn, Les Peckford, Uncle Charlie Ginn, Heber Hurley, and young Bert Fudge. These men knew their work and knew the importance of a well-maintained road. Stan would examine the road now as he headed inland to the intersection. He knew his brother Allan was heading toward him from in on the ridge. Allan was the last man to head out. He would check all the side roads to ensure that no teamsters were left behind, that no mishap had occurred. The two brothers would meet at the intersection and walk back to camp together. They would be the last men to arrive.

  As the horses plodded wearily into the campsite, they passed the cookhouse on the left and the forepeak on their right. Next to the forepeak lay the two long bunkhouses and the saw filing shack. Then they crossed over a small wooden bridge that traversed a small stream. On the outside, to the left was a small pond, the watering area for the horses, and inside lay the source of fresh water for the camp. Just past the bridge and to the left were the sled repair shed and the great barn. All the buildings on site, including the sleeping quarters and the cookhouse, were made of vertical, studded logs fitted together and the seams stuffed with moss.

  The great barn itself was an elongated structure covered by a peak roof. Two doors, one on each side of the front end, led into the interior, which had three aisles. The doors leading to the side aisles enabled the horses to reach their individual stalls. The stalls were railed in on two sides, and at the front end where the hay manger and oat bin for each horse was located. This end faced the centre aisle. The open end of the stalls, and the horse’s rear, faced the outside wall. Once the food was processed and the manure deposited, it was simply shovelled out of the barn through latch-covered openings in the exterior wall. The centre aisle, which the horses faced, was utilized by Uncle Walt Cooper, the barn tender, when feeding the horses their hay and oats.

  As the horses entered the barn in the evening they snorted and whinnied and eagerly clomped down the aisle to their stalls. They knew their evening meal awaited. Great streams of vapour shot from their wide nostrils and heavy clouds of sweat rose from their damp, hair-covered bodies. They were tired, yet happy to rest and be fed.

  Lanterns hung from the post near each stall. Each man in the barn had a lantern. These were used to ready the horses in the dark of early morning. Now, they were similarly employed to light the work area at the end of the long day. Once the last of the harnessing was removed and the horses were tethered in their stalls, the teamsters headed off to the bunkhouses. Like their horses, they themselves were ravenous and anxious for a hearty evening meal.

  In the evenings, the bunkhouse was only a quick pit stop for the men. Outer clothing, caps and mitts were removed and a quick dab of water was applied to the head and face. Then it was out the bunkhouse door and off to the cookhouse. The yellow light of the lanterns reached out through the cookhouse windows and welcomed the men and bid them enter. Inside, the mingled aromas emanating from plates piled high with freshly baked bread and buns, from large bowls of watered prunes, from huge jugs of steaming black tea, from large pots of steaming soup and plates of salt beef created both a visual and olfactory symphony. The cook and cookee were the men’s maestros at day’s end.

  Most men bowed their heads and asked a quick blessing before they tore into their food. At first the clang of spoon on bowl, of knife and fork on plate and the pouring of hot tea prevailed. Conversation followed as the men sipped more tea and asked for refills. The cook and cookees flitted along the lengthy tables, replenishing the quickly emptying food and drink containers. Some men poured a second and third mug of tea and lingered over multiple slices of bread and extra prunes.

  A few of the men had already finished eating when Stan and Allan arrived. As Stan walked to his spot at the table, he noted that Cyril Cooper of Comfort Cove had a huge pile of prune kernels piled high in his bowl. As Stan sat, Cyril reached for another helping.

  “Jingoes, Cyril,” Stan said. “You like the prunes.”

  “Yes, Skipper. I loves ’em. I fair loves ’em,” Cyril replied.

  “You’ll be gassy tonight, Cyril, my son,” Allan allowed.

  “Yes! I dare say I’ll be fartin’ a stream of blue flankers on my way to the outhouse!”

  “If you make it to the outside,” Stan added with a chuckle.

  “I’d best make it,” Cyril added. “I only brought two pairs of long johns with me.” There was laughter all around the table.

  Stan thought it was time to head the conversation in another direction. No doubt the topic would be greatly elaborated on once the men had their pipes and cigarettes lit back in the bunkhouses.

  “How was your day, Abe b’y?” Stan was addressing Abe Goldsworthy, Camp 13’s cook. Abe was a fine man in the cookhouse: he was meticulous and particular and catered to the men’s every whim. Stan always hired him for the winter work. He was a good man with the smaller crew of thirty to forty men that was at camp at this time of year. During the cut in late spring and early summer when the camp had eighty or more men, Stan relied on Hedley Janes to run the cookhouse. Hedley was a man of many talents; right now, during the haul-off he was in the woods teaming.

  “Oh, things are goin’ good, Skipper,” Abe replied.

  “How are the food supplies lasting?” Stan asked.

  “They’re okay for now, but the way I’m goin’ through the prunes, we may need more.”

  Prunes again! Stan grinned.

  “Well, Abe, just make a note of what you need.”

  “I’ll do that, Skipper.”

  “When we have a clearer picture, I can call Ambrose down at the warehouse in Glenwood.” Stan was referring to Ambrose Flynn, the manager of the Bowater Supply Depot. Food items and other camp supplies were ordered through there. These would be shipped up the lake either on the company boat, the Pine Lake, or the large transport scow.

  While Stan was talking to Abe Goldsworthy, Lewis Cull brought in two large bowls of soup from the kitchen and placed them in front of Stan and Allan. Within a couple of minutes he had re-entered the kitchen area and returned with two plates piled high with salt beef and potatoes. These he laid by the two bowls of soup. Lewis Cull was from Stan’s hometown of Comfort Cove and he was Abe’s assistant, the camp cookee. Lewis was generally in a good mood and given to easy laughter.

  “Hey, cookee! Are there any more prunes?” It was Jack Soper from Trinity Bay posing the question.

  “I’ll prune you, Jack!” Lew said with a roar of laughter as he headed for the kitchen in search of more prunes for the men.

  Abe, too, headed off to help tend to the needs of the hungry crew and keep the tables freshly stocked.

  Stan and Allan fell to eating. They were ravenous after the long hours working in the cold January air. It was good to take a few minutes to sit and relax and let the food warm and nourish their tired bodies. Allan finished his soup and took a long sip of his steaming mug of tea.

  “Lew, I believe I’ll have another bowl of soup, if it’s not too much bother,” Allan said.

  “I’ll take another drop, too,” Stan added. Lew swept into the kitchen with his white apron flying. He returned in a moment with two steaming bowls.

  Most of the men had finished their suppers and had headed back to the bunkhouse. Lew placed the two bowls of soup on the table and looked around. The evenin
g rush was over.

  “Allan, I s’pose you heard what Uncle Sam Brown said when he first got ‘saved’ years ago in the Salvation Army back home?” Lew asked with a grin.

  “No, b’y, I can’t says that I have,” Allan replied. “But if you’re going to tell me, I know it can’t be no good,” Allan continued with a chuckle.

  “Well, Uncle Sam vowed he’d give up using cuss words,” Lew continued.

  “Good for him,” Allan said.

  “Yes,” said Lew, “so he gave up saying such and such happened a ‘fartnight ago.’”

  “What did he say, then?” Allan asked, immediately regretting that he’d inquired.

  “Well, if something happened two weeks ago, he now says it was a ‘poopy night ago!’ Lew roared with laughter as he headed off to start cleaning the tables and reset them for tomorrow’s breakfast.

  “By jarge! That Lew is a case,” Allan said with a grin.

  Stan nodded as he took a sip of hot tea. He was reaching for a sizable piece of salt beef when he eyed Cecil Cooper entering the dining area. Cecil was the bunkhouse man—water nipper, firewood supplier, stove lighter, lantern filler and general helper about camp. It was Cecil who walked through the bunkhouse in the wee morning hours bellowing a sonorous “Heave out!” to herald the start of each workday. Right now, he was preparing to assist Abe and Lew with cleaning the tables and preparing for the next morning.

  “Cec, come here a minute,” Stan called. Cecil came and stood by the table. “Sit down a minute.” Cec was a big, hardy, rough and ready man.

  “Cec, have you got any news from home since Christmas?” Stan inquired.

  “Naw, nothing at all, Skipper,” Cecil replied.

  “What? Haven’t had any mail from Aggie?” Stan asked, grinning. Aggie was Stan’s cousin, Cecil’s wife.

  “Naw, and the old woman ain’t heard nuttin’ from me neither,” Cec said.

  “Haven’t dropped a note home?”

  “Naw. The ol’ woman knows where I is, and I knows where she is, and dat’s good enough.”

  “Yes, I s’pose so.” Stan laughed. “But jingoes, Cec, it’s a comfort to send and get a bit of mail once in a while.”

  “S’pose so, Skipper,” Cecil conceded.

  “Listen, Cec. If you need help with your letter writin’, drop over to the forepeak on Sunday and me and Allan will give you a hand.”

  “I might take you up on dat dere, Skipper,” Cecil said with a relieved look on his face.

  “Yes, come over, Cecil b’y. We’ll help you. Me and Stan are real good at writing sweet stuff,” Allan added as he shook with laughter.

  Cecil was whistling to himself as he moved off to help Abe and Lew.

  Back in the bunkhouse after supper, some men sat around and puffed on their pipes, while others rolled a smoke from a pack of Target tobacco. Others were in the washroom at the side cleaning themselves up a bit. A few were gathered discussing the day’s events. Bill Ginn was sitting on the side of his bunk “scunnin’” (patching up) his old work pants with wool. Everyone had their work clothes hanging from nails or railing on the end of their bunks. The heat from the two oil drum wood stoves would dry things and make their garments ready for use in the morning. A warm, sweaty, woody aroma filled the air and blended with the tobacco smoke and smell of wool. From various locations around the bunkhouse, the sound of men snoring cut the air.

  Around 8: 00 p.m. the teamsters began drifting off to the forepeak to meet Allan and the Skipper. The forepeak was a small building, perhaps a fifth of the size of the bunkhouse. Lantern light shone out through the two front windows facing the cookhouse. The teamsters entered the forepeak through the side door facing away from the campsite. Stan’s sleeping quarters were on the immediate right, and the room was sparsely furnished with a set of bunk beds up against a long partition and a small wooden stand. Stan slept on the bottom bunk; the top bunk was for scalers and other visitors from the district office in Glenwood. Allan occupied a similar room on the other side.

  Immediately in front of the entranceway was a wood stove. It was in the larger room in front of the two sleeping quarters. This room, too, was sparsely furnished. Apart from the stove the room contained a wash basin and stand, and a few benches and a work table with a couple of chairs. On the wall there was a shelf with a radio, a mirror, a calendar, an oil lamp, and numerous nails from which the men’s clothing hung. In the far corner were a large first aid kit and a rudimentary medicine chest. On the far side of the room was a walled-off, partitioned area with a locked door. This was “the van,” a small store where the men could buy a few items of clothing, boots, bucksaw parts, and, regrettably, Stan thought, tobacco.

  Stan sold tobacco against his better judgment. Tobacco was a vice! Besides, it was a waste of hard-earned money and it stained men’s teeth and caused their clothing to reek. Some of the men coughed continually. Stan had neglected to restock the van on one occasion early in the camp’s existence. Never again! He had had a near-mutiny on his hands. He had never seen a bunch of men so contrary and ornery and downright nasty in his life. He had conceded and placed an emergency order to Ambrose at the depot. Tobacco was rushed to Camp 13. Calm was restored.

  Tonight, as the men filed in, Stan and Allan were sitting at the table. They had been discussing the day’s progress and planning for tomorrow.

  “Come in! Come in!” Stan said as Albert Oake led the teamsters into the room.

  “We each have our tally for the day with us,” Alb replied.

  “Good! Good!” Stan said in a brisk business voice that barely concealed his excited anticipation.

  “Give me the number of cords you hauled,” Stan continued. Each brow of wood had a number written on it. When the scalers had measured and scaled each brow of wood cut in the summer, they had assigned a number to each. Stan had a written record of the numbers and the amount of wood they contained.

  “When you’ve given your tally to Stan, give me your road numbers and the number for each of the brows of wood you hauled,” Allan added.

  There was a stir and a buzz of excitement as the men moved forward. The men were anxious to see what the others had done. They took pride in doing their best, in putting in a good day’s effort. The men were paid for each cord of wood delivered to the river. Bonus money was paid for exceptional performance. But it was more than that, somehow. Camp 13 was gaining a reputation as a place where only the tough and the best survived. It was not a place to go and slinge (idle) in time. It was not a place for the lazy or the weak. If you made it here, you made it anywhere. There was a “no quit” attitude. You were a part of a team of men who got things done—no excuses accepted. Yes, the Skipper and Allan could be tough and demanding. Here you knew who was boss, but at the same time both men were honest and fair. What Stan and Allan expected of the men, they expected double of themselves.

  “How many cords today, Alb?” Stan had his pencil poised ready to enter the number in the ledger next to Albert’s name.

  “Eighteen cords today, Skipper! Eighteen cords today, sir! Eighteen cords o’ wood off the hill!” Alb repeated with pride in his voice.

  “Well done, Alb! Well done,” Stan repeated, then added, “Jingoes, good work, b’y! Good work.”

  There was a buzz of conversation from the other teamsters gathered around the table. Alb moved over to give his brow and road numbers to Allan.

  “Next!”

  “Eighteen cords, Skipper! Me and Alb both got eighteen cords.” It was Art Brenton speaking in his usual low, no-nonsense way.

  “Jingoes, Art! Well done,” Stan said as he laid his pencil aside. “You’ve worked hard today.”

  Art just smiled and moved over to Allan. Gerald Head stepped forward. He was new this year, young and competitive. He wanted to beat Alb and Art.

  “How did you do today, Gerald?” Stan asked.

  “Fifteen cords!” Gerald said with his chest sticking out like a young rooster trying to impress a hen.

  “Not bad, b�
�y! Not bad a’tall,” Stan replied. Coming from Stan White, this was a high compliment. Gerald hadn’t beaten Alb or Art, but he had done himself and the camp proud.

  “Next.”

  “Fourteen cords today.” It was Hedley Janes speaking.

  “Not bad, I suppose, considering you were using Old Bess,” Stan said with a grin. There was something about Hedley that Stan liked. Hedley, he knew, was a hard worker, a man who could and would do anything that was required of him. He was the only man Stan knew who could work in the cookhouse for part of the year and team during the winter.

  Hedley moved over to Allan. The rest of the teamsters moved forward one by one and gave their totals: Phil McCarthy of Grates Cove—twelve cords; Herb Baker and Ben Critch of Trinity Bay— twelve cords each; Jack Soper from North West Brook—ten cords; Ed Layte of Birchy Bay—ten cords; Uncle Aram Freake of Boyd’s Cove—ten cords; Bill Ginn of Comfort Cove—ten cords; Cyril Cooper of Comfort Cove—ten cords; Les and Walt Potter of Little Burnt Bay—ten cords each; Les Weir of Twillingate—ten cords; Howard Parsons of Twillingate—ten cords.

  Stan added up the tally: 191 cords! At 191 cords of pulpwood off the hills, it was a good day’s work.

  “At this rate we should get our wood off this year, Skipper,” said Phil McCarthy standing at the end of the table.

  “I hope so, Phil b’y. Jingoes. I certainly hope so.”

  Filled with a sense of accomplishment, the teamsters moved out. It was 8: 30 p.m. They headed to the barn with their lanterns. It was time to give the horses’ coats a good brushing. At Camp 13, the horses were expected to work hard, but it was also expected that they be looked after as much as possible. When the brushing was completed the men would return to the bunkhouse, each bringing their horse’s reins. These would be hung in the warm to keep them from freezing hard. They would be soft and ready for use in the early morning. By 10: 00 p.m. the tired men were generally in their bunks. The morning cry of “Heave out!” would come all too soon.

  Back in the forepeak, Allan and Stan reviewed their numbers. They discussed the condition of the wood road, the landing area, what side roads and brows of wood had been moved and where to place the men the next day. Finally, they blew out the lights in the forepeak. Both men knelt and prayed by their bunks and then climbed into their sleeping bags. Within seconds, loud snoring mingled with the sounds of the fire cracking in the wood stove. The logs of the forepeak snapped and cracked with the frost and in over the hills a great horned owl called.