by Byron White
“Jingoes, no, of course I don’t charge them.”
“Well, lease the horses to them and deduct the cost from their pay,” Max said. “That way you’ll earn a lot more money.”
“Be the jingoes, Max, if them fellows make a few extra dollars, they’re entitled to it. I’m satisfied with what I’m getting and it’s no concern to anyone else.”
“But Stan, the other contractors lease their horses and charge the men a fee,” Max replied, pushing his point.
“Max,” Stan said, looking him squarely in the eye, “like I said, I’m satisfied. I know what I’m doing and ’tis my concern.”
Discussion on the topic had ended then, and the conversation moved to other issues. These two men had known each other for years. They could have frank exchanges and hold no ill will.
Stan grinned to himself now as he remembered Max’s visit. Stan had made a conscious decision not to charge the men a fee for using his horses. He knew he was losing money up front, but in the end things had a way of working out. His men worked long hours and they worked hard. He liked to be treated fairly himself, and he believed the men did as well. When all was said and done, Camp 13 moved more wood and moved it more quickly than the other camps. There was a reason for that. It was all about hard work, discipline, and respect. It was teamwork, everyone striving to accomplish a common goal.
The afternoon was drawing to a close. He was satisfied with the progress they had made on their first day hauling after the storm. Stan looked at the forest around him, at the trees laden with snow, at the long shadows falling on the trail, at the sun sinking low over the western ridge. It was time to go out to the river to help Uncle Ben and the last of the teamsters finish their daily chores. As he headed down the trail, he heard the sound of a horse approaching from behind. Stan stepped aside and waited for it to pass. Ed Layte nodded down from atop the rack of wood as Dick strained to pull this last load to the river. Ed had the sled fully loaded. It had been a long, hard day for both Ed and the horse. They would both be happy to get the wood off and return to camp.
A short ways from the landing, Stan stopped. The heavily laden pulpwood sleds were beginning to sink deeply into a soft spot in the trail. He studied the area and made a mental note to have Ron and Uncle Charlie fix it early the next morning. It was almost dark now and the rest of the teamsters were heading for camp. This soft spot could wait till morning.
“Stan! Stan!” It was Uncle Ben’s voice.
“Ben?” There was something in the tone of Uncle Ben’s voice that filled Stan with dread.
“Stan! Quick! There’s been an accident!” Uncle Ben turned now and was running out toward the river.
Stan was running too, flying out the trail behind Uncle Ben, his heart pounding against his chest, his ears roaring. A host of unthinkable thoughts rose in his brain, and he could see the accident in slow motion, again and again, in his head. He saw no features, just a dark form plummeting from the top of the cliff into the void of the late evening abyss. In less than two minutes Stan was at the landing, but it felt much longer.
Stan tore onto the landing and sped past Uncle Ben, who had arrived a split second earlier. Halfway along Stan came to an abrupt stop. His head swivelled, first facing up the landing, then back. He strained to see clearly through the gathering darkness. There was nothing on the landing! Stan gulped in a large lungful of air and tried to control his breathing. He tried to will his turbulent mind to be calm. He needed to be rational, to be in control. But the reality of the moment crashed in on him with the force of a tsunami. Ed and Scott, and the sleds and the pulpwood, had to be here on the landing! But the landing was empty—eerie and silent. Just a few minutes before, they had passed him on the trail, and now they were gone! Stan’s shoulders slumped and he stood alone, staring across the river to the opposite cliff and the dark hills beyond.
How long Stan stood there, he didn’t know. It seemed like hours. Gradually, he became aware of Uncle Ben standing by his side.
“Stan,” Ben was saying, “it all happened so fast.”
Stan turned slowly. “What happened here, Ben?” he asked quietly.
“Stan b’y, I don’t hardly know.” Usually Ben addressed Stan as Skipper, a term of respect used to address contractors in the lumber woods. It was directed at the man in charge, but now all formality was gone. The two men were talking man to man, friend to friend.
“Ben, everything went over the cliff, didn’t it?” Stan asked, putting his most dreaded fear into words.
“Yes. Just a few feet ahead. Right over the cliff.” Ben’s reply formed a fist that pounded into Stan’s guts. A great audible gush of air expelled from his throat.
“How?” was all he said.
“Well, I was standing up there,” Ben began, pointing through the dusk to the far end of the landing. “I was puttin’ a bit of hay on a slippery patch.”
“Were you looking when the load went over?”
“I was back on to them when I heard Ed cry out.” Ben shook his head slowly as he recalled what happened. “I spun around just in time to see the horse, the sled, the wood, and the ’ole shootin’ match tip over the big pine logs on the edge there.”
“Jingoes,” Stan said, shaking his head.
“Yes, b’y, ’twas a rude sight,” Ben said in agreement.
“What was it that Ed said when you heard him shouting?” Stan wanted to know.
“He just bellowed out, ‘Dick! Dick!’” Ben replied. “That’s all.”
“That’s all?” Stan asked sombrely.
“That’s all he had time to say.”
“It all happened pretty quickly, I guess.” Stan just shook his head in disbelief.
For a moment the two men stood together in silence. Both were consumed with their own deep thoughts.
“Ben?” Stan broke the stillness. “Why didn’t Ed jump away from the horse?”
“What?”
“I was just wondering, Ben, why Ed didn’t let the horse go and jump back to safety,” Stan replied in a low voice.
“Stan!” Both men had been talking in muted tones, but now Ben was shouting loudly. Stan turned sharply to face his friend.
“Ed didn’t go over the cliff!” Ben continued.
“What?” Stan shouted, not daring to believe what he was hearing.
“No! Blessed fartunes, no!” Ben was speaking loudly now.
“Is Ed okay?” Stan asked in disbelief. A confusion of thoughts bounced through his mind.
“Yes! Blessed Lard! Yes! Ed is safe and sound!” Ben half-shouted out the joyous reply.
“Jingoes! Thank the Lord!” Stan exclaimed as a wave of relief spread, like a shot of morphine, over his body.
“Stan! You thought Ed went over with the horse and wood?”
“Yes, Ben. I did. When I came on the landing it was bare. Not a thing in sight.”
“Yes, b’y, I can see now how it looked,” Ben said.
“I thought Ed and the horse and all the wood had gone over the edge, Ben.”
“Sorry, Stan b’y. I didn’t realize what you were thinking.”
“Not your fault, Ben. I’m just glad Ed is safe.”
Ben was silent. He fumbled around in his pocket for his old pipe. He needed a smoke to calm his mind.
“So where is Ed, then?” Stan asked.
“B’y, Ed ran up the return trail to try to catch the road maintenance men before they returned to camp, and I ran up the other trail to get you,” Ben said as he took a long draw on his pipe.
Stan paused to digest this news. After a few moments he stepped forward to the pine logs at the edge of the cliff and peered into the gorge. Below was only a gaping hole of blackness—all the light had been sucked out by the gathering night. Stan could see nothing. He turned and looked around the landing once more.
“Well, there’s nothing anybody can do here tonight,” Stan stated after a long silence.
The initial shock was wearing off and he was beginning to feel somewhat better.
“No, not tonight,” Ben agreed.
“At least the poor old horse didn’t suffer much after he fell that distance,” Stan replied.
“No, he didn’t last long, for sure.”
“Come on, Ben, let’s go up. We’ll probably meet Ed and the crew along the way, ” Stan said.
With that, the two men turned and headed up the trail. It was dark now and they walked in silence, each man kept company with his own thoughts. Behind Stan, Uncle Ben puffed away in sweet relief.
Halfway up the trail, Stan and Ben met Ed Layte heading back down. The road crew, Ron Ginn, Uncle Charlie Ginn, and Heber Hurley, were with him. Stan turned them around and they headed back to camp together.
Ed Layte was still shaken by the accident and was talking excessively. Words poured from his mouth like water over a falls. Stan slowed his walk to Ed’s pace.
“Skipper,” Ed said, “I’m awful sorry! I’m awful sorry!”
“Ed, it’s too late for that now. What happened?”
“Dick, Dick, Dick went right over. Right over the cliff!” Ed stammered as he hastened to reply.
“Ed,” Stan said firmly, “slow down and tell me how it happened.”
Ed breathed in a great lungful of air and began again.
“Skipper, I don’t rightly know. All I knows is that I had him by the bridle and I was leading him along the landing inside the big pine sticks.”
“You were doing the right thing there,” Stan interjected.
“Yes. I was leading him along and Dick was straining hard. All of a sudden he just fell sideways right out over the logs!”
“Just fell out?” Stan said, hardly believing what he was hearing.
“Just fell sideways, like his legs gave out or he had a heart attack or something.”
“Jingoes.”
“Yes. And where Dick was moving the sleds along at the time, the forward sled runner rode up over the pine log,” Ed pressed on.
Stan shook his head as he pictured the accident in his mind.
“Dick was still in the shafts and harnessed up,” Ed continued. “When he went over, his weight pulled the sleds with him and the wood toppled; the wood, the sleds, and the ’ole thing was dragged over the cliff with him.” Ed was reliving the accident again now, and he was talking a mile a minute.
“There was nothing I could do Skipper! There was nothing I could do!”
“Ed, you’re safe. That’s the main thing right now,” Stan replied.
“Yes, that’s right! That’s right! I almost went over too!” Ed rushed on, finding relief in the words flowing from his mouth. “I had Dick held by the bridle, and when he lurched sideways, I almost went with him!”
Stan shook his head again as he remembered his first thoughts of the accident.
“Skipper, I lost your horse. I’m sorry.”
“Ed, you say Dick just fell out on his side?” Stan said ignoring Ed’s pleas.
“Yes. All of a sudden, he just fell out like he had a heart attack!”
The two men walked on in silence for a few moments. Each was trying to make sense of the incident. It was Ed who broke the spell.
“I guess I worked him too hard today, Skipper.”
“Maybe so, Ed, maybe so,” Stan said, remembering his instructions to Ed in the morning when he was breaking trail. He had told Ed not to work the horse too hard today.
“Skipper, I wanted to get out that last good load to get my tally up. I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
“Jingoes, I know that, Ed,” Stan replied.
“Skipper, I knows you’re dead set on getting your wood all off this year. We all want to get it off.”
“You’re right there, Ed. Make no mistake about it.”
“And now I’ve gone and killed Dick. I’ve killed one of your horses!”
“Well, there’s nothing we can do about Dick now.”
“I’m sorry, Skipper. I’m sorry this happened.”
“Ed, it’s too late to be sorry now!”
“If only I hadn’t pushed him for that last load,” Ed continued.
“Jingoes, Ed! If only! If only! Now listen here. What’s done is done,” Stan said sternly. “We can’t change that. We’ve got to put this behind us and move on.”
Ed fell silent. The incident was over. Stan was already moving on. He had lost one of his horses, but thankfully all the men were safe. Tomorrow was another day: the wood had to be hauled, and there was a camp to run. It was time to focus. There was no room in Stan’s world for excessive sentimentality.
The next spring, Dick’s body was found washed up on a sandbar at a place called the Red Angle on the Southwest Gander River. The sled shafts were broken, but the horse was still in harness, and the sleds and chains lay in a tangled mess nearby.
CHAPTER 16
AFTER THEIR TALK, ED rejoined the road crew and went on ahead to camp. Allan was waiting at the intersection and Stan filled him in on the day’s events.
“Poor ol’ Dick,” was all Allan said. “Poor ol’ Dick.” Allan liked animals, and he showed his softer side more readily than his brother.
That night at supper, and later in the bunkhouse, the accident was all the news. The story was told and retold. Some said the landing was too dangerous, that they shouldn’t have to pull wood there. But after supper, as usual, the men filed in to the forepeak and reported their daily tallies. As expected, the numbers were down, but still, 102 cords of wood had been moved. Not bad. Not too bad after all, considering the slow start to the morning.
After the tally was totalled, Stan spoke to the men. He talked briefly about the accident and expressed his relief that Ed was okay. The haul-off would continue as usual, he said. He spoke of the need for caution and emphasized the need for the men to get off their sleds and lead their horses across the high landing. This, he pointed out, had saved Ed’s life today. As for danger, well, Jingoes, life itself was dangerous! Just working in the lumber woods was dangerous. You accepted a risk by just being here. There was danger being isolated on this far side of Gander Lake, removed from any hope of speedy medical aid. There was danger with the horses, there was danger when cutting, and there was certainly danger when the spring pulpwood drive began. Using the high landing was no different. Life was full of danger, Stan told the men.
The next day all the teamsters were back hauling wood. Stan had asked the men, if possible, to pick up the slack caused by the loss of one horse. Ed Layte was placed in on the branch roads. His job was to help some of the teamsters load the pulpwood onto the sleds. This helped to speed up the loading process and less time was lost. By week’s end, there was no significant loss in production.
That night, after the accident, Stan knelt by his bunk, as usual. He offered up a prayer of thanks for Ed’s safety, and then blew out the lantern and climbed into his sleeping bag. He lay awake for an hour thinking of the day’s events and planning for tomorrow. He finally closed his eyes and fell asleep to the sound of Allan snoring in the adjacent room. In the morning, he awoke refreshed and ready to face the challenges ahead.
After the big snowfall in January, the weather cleared. The temperature dropped drastically and little snow fell for the rest of the month. Water left a few feet from the stove froze in the containers. At night, a battle raged in the log walls of the cookhouse, the bunkhouse, and the forepeak. As the fires burned low, the cruel temperatures outside advanced, forcing the interior warmth to retreat. The logs snapped and cracked and gave loud, audible reports of the battle raging within the wall’s interior. The stoves were banked high with wood and left to smoulder. In the bunkhouse the men moved their damp work clothes and horse’s reins closer to the stoves before turning in for the night. The men crawled deeper into their sleeping bags with only the tops of their heads protruding. Those with bald heads wore stocking caps to ward off the encroaching chill. In over the hills, great horned owls hooted into the vast empty night.
By mid-January, the moon had vacated the sky. The stars now had the
whole night canopy on which to twinkle and dance. The constellations Orion and Torres dominated the heavens. The Big Dipper, the Little Dipper, and the Kite hung suspended. On cold, crisp nights, ethereal northern lights whisked across the sky. Great curtains of gossamer light darted down to touch the hills and sprinkle fairy dust above the treeline, then, whispering softly to the stilled earth, they swooshed back to the hand that cast them forth.
By late January, a full moon hung in the sky. The snow caught the reflected light of the moon and sparkled gloriously. Underfoot, the pathways echoed with a crunch as the men moved from the bunkhouse to the cookhouse, to the forepeak and the barn to fulfill their nightly rituals. Each morning the sun rose sleepily over the eastern hills, and each evening it retreated slowly over the western ridge, pulling the last tentacles of light, octopus-like, behind it.
By the end of January, the men had been in camp for five weeks. The wood roads were packed hard and firm, and the hauling was good. When the men and horses entered the barn on Saturday, February 2, only a few hundred cords of pulpwood remained on the big ridge. Stan and Allan and the teamsters were tired but upbeat, assured that by Wednesday of the following week all the pulpwood for the high landing would be off! A feeling of pride and quiet satisfaction prevailed as the men reflected on their accomplishment. They looked forward to Sunday’s arrival, bringing with it the chance to relax, recharge, and rejuvenate.
When the men entered the cookhouse that Saturday night, they found that Brigadier Hickman of the Salvation Army had arrived. Albert Oake was elated.
“Well! Well! Well! ’Tis some good! ’Tis some good! ’Tis wonderful to see you! ’Tis fair wonderful!” Albert exclaimed. “We’ll have barracks the weekend!” The term “barracks” referred to the Salvationist worship service.
Back home Albert was a regular at the Salvation Army citadel. He wore the uniform and played the drum on the church platform. On occasion, he brought along his accordion and added this instrument to the great musical symphony that echoed off the rafters of the old barracks on Sunday evenings. Among the beat of the tambourines, drums, and cornets, Albert hove back his head and burst forth in melodious joy. He sang with gusto and he felt every word. At times his feet fair floated from his boots and his face peered into the very portals of heaven. Yes, Albert was glad to see Brigadier Hickman! He was some glad!
