Blackwater Ben

by William Durbin

  The dentist's board shack was the only building in camp other than the four-hole outhouse that wasn't built out of logs. Only twelve feet by twelve, it had double skylights in the roof and was crowded with files, hammers, saw gauges, and a rack of Tuttle and Champion crosscuts.

  Ben expected Charlie to complain about his breakfast being late, but he only waved toward the table and said,

  “Leave the grub there.”

  Charlie had a funny accent, and he used strange words like barmy when he meant crazy, and codswallop when he meant nonsense.

  Charlie kept filing on his saw as Ben pushed aside a set hammer to make room for the food tray on the workbench. Ben glanced at the wall. A few of the jacks owned a copy of the Police Gazette or Argosy magazine, but the shelves above Charlie's bunk held three rows of books.

  “Your library reminds me of Mrs. Wilson's.”

  Charlie kept filing.

  “She's the widow lady that Pa and I live with. Mrs. Wilson's got at least a dozen books in her collection—ones like Pilgrim's Progress and Robinson Crusoe. And she owns three different bibles, including one that's wrote in German.”

  When Charlie wouldn't talk, Ben picked up the previous evening's dishes and asked, “You need anything more?”

  “A little grub and a lot of misery whips.” Charlie looked up at Ben. “Misery whips is what I call these cross-cut saws. They're all I need to keep me busy.”

  Just then Ben noticed a row of small photographs hanging beside the bookcase. “Who are the ladies?” he asked.

  “Years ago I went through what I call my romantic period. I fell in and out of love four times in two years.” Charlie gave a short laugh.

  “That face looks familiar.” Ben studied the last picture.

  “You really blither on, don't you,” Charlie said, setting down his file and turning his attention to his food.

  “Blither?”

  “Means you talk too much.”

  Ben figured that was a hint for him to go. As he left, he wondered what could have caused Charlie to revolt against baths. Lots of the jacks didn't bother to wash during the winter logging season, but Ben had never heard of a fellow skipping his spring cleaning.

  Outside, a light snow was falling, and the air smelled of pine needles. The snowflakes caught flecks of sunlight and sparkled as they floated onto the tar-paper roofs of the camp. The fresh snow would be welcomed by the skid men—the teamsters who dragged the logs to the roadsides.

  As soon as Ben opened the door, Pa said, “About time. We gotta get our crusts rolled out, or we'll never have these pies baked by lunchtime.”

  Ben grabbed a rolling pin. For lunch they prepared seven pies, six loaves of bread, a pot of beans, and a kettle of stew. They also brewed fresh swamp water and warmed more logging berries.

  While Pa worked the pie crust flat, Ben asked, “Why don't you ever talk about Mother?”

  Pa stopped his rolling pin but kept his eyes down.

  “Don't you miss her?” Ben said.

  Pa's hands tightened on the rolling pin, but he didn't look up. “Of course I do,” he said. “A day don't go by without me thinking about her.”

  “How'd she die?”

  “I've told you all that before. She took sick.”

  “Was it sudden?”

  “What's the difference?” Pa's voice hardened. “No amount of jawing can bring her back. You just tend to your work.”

  “I'm sorry, Pa,” Ben said, “but I can't help wondering.”

  Pa checked his pocket watch. “After all this gabbing, we're gonna have to give her tar paper to get the lunch done on time.”

  Ben smiled. Give her tar paper was Pa's favorite expression.

  A few minutes later Ben was sliding the first of the pie crusts into the oven. He stopped and made a face.

  “Did you burn yourself ?” Pa asked.

  “I was just figuring,” Ben replied, struggling with the ciphering in his head, “how many pies we'll have to make when all eighty men get here.”

  “Thirty should be close,” Pa said.

  “And think of all the stew and logging berries and beans that many fellows will eat,” Ben said.

  “Don't forget the hundreds of cookies and rolls and doughnuts,” Pa said.

  Ben barely had time to sleep as it was. What would happen when his workload increased fourfold?

  “It's almost noon,” Pa said. “Hitch up the swingdingle.”

  “You want me to drive the lunch sleigh?”

  “With Skip gone, somebody's got to haul this food to the cut.”

  “But I've never done it before.”

  “Do you know which end of the horse to point down the trail?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then go see the barn boss and harness up Old Dan.”

  NEEDLENOSE AND THE SWINGDINGLE

  It was still snowing lightly when Ben stepped outside, and the air smelled clean. The roofs of the camp and the branches of the balsams behind the barn were white with new snow.

  Ben was nervous about having to talk to the barn boss, Needlenose Jackson. Ben had seen hundreds of lumber-jacks pass through Blackwater, but Mrs. Wilson made sure he didn't meet too many up close. Mrs. Wilson was extra cautious in watching over Ben because her own son, Clayton, had been killed in the Civil War when he was only sixteen. Mrs. Wilson had told Ben how Clayton had joined the Union Army without her permission and had been shot during a training exercise. After the war Mrs. Wilson and her husband had moved from Pennsylvania to Minnesota, trying to leave their sadness behind. But as she told Ben, “We found there wasn't a corner of the earth far enough away from Lancaster County for us to get shed of our grief.”

  When the jacks hit the saloons hard in the spring, Mrs. Wilson worried about Ben getting hurt. “You play in the yard today,” she'd say. “Those streets are not safe for respectable folks.”

  Blackwater's 193 citizens supported twenty-six beer joints and one church. On his way home from Sunday school, Ben sometimes peeked into the saloons. Unlike Nell's establishment, the cheapest joints were shacks and ragged tents with planks laid across two barrels for a bar. They served the local moonshine, jack juice, which was rumored to make men blind. On still nights the voices of men on Main Street and the music from the player piano in Nell's carried all the way down the river to Mrs. Wilson's boardinghouse.

  The warm scent of the barn brought Ben's mind back to camp. He was glad to see that Needlenose had already led Old Dan out of his stall and had started harnessing him. The barn boss was a short, heavyset fellow who'd been a teamster in his younger days. He had the longest nose Ben had even seen. It looked like it had been stuck on his face by mistake.

  “Good morning,” Ben said, trying not to look at that nose. Ben had seen Needlenose chew out a new jack the week before for staring. He'd pushed his face up to man and said, “What you gawking at?” The poor fellow had nearly swallowed his chaw of tobacco.

  “You driving Danny Boy today?” Needlenose asked. Ben nodded. “It's good we're getting some snow, eh?”

  “That depends.” Needlenose glared at Ben. Since Needlenose spent his days in the dark barn, his eyes had a squinty look.

  “I thought we needed snow to help with the skidding.” Ben did his best not to stare.

  “I can see you got a lot to learn about lumbering.” Needlenose spit out a chewed-up piece of straw. “A little snow helps the skidding horses, but too much bogs them down.” Ben helped him with the last harness buckles.“And remember that we've got to run the water wagon every night to build up the roads. Snow can make it hard to ice the ruts.”

  Ben studied Old Dan. The big black Percheron was a gentle, swaybacked animal whose log-hauling days were well past. The only work he was up to was pulling the lunch sleigh and skidding firewood. Though Old Dan's coat was peppered with gray and his gait had slowed, his eyes were alert.

  “Even if Danny Boy's twenty years old, he's a fine puller.” Needlenose patted the horse's shoulder. “Ain't you?” The ba
rn boss always spoke kindly to his horses.

  Old Dan perked up his ears at Needlenose's attention, but when Ben walked closer to the horse, the big animal blinked as if to ask, Who are you and what have you done with Skip?

  “Hey, boy,” Ben said, speaking low and soft like he'd seen teamsters do. “You ready to haul the lunch to the cut?”

  “Be careful with that lunch talk,” Needlenose said.“This old hay burner might think it's time for me to chop his dinner.”

  “You cut up hay for him?”

  “Twice a day. His teeth are so far gone, that's the only way he can handle his feed.”

  As Ben helped Needlenose slide Old Dan's bit into place, Ben asked, “How come his front teeth stick way out, while his back ones are only little points?”

  “They're plumb wore out. At least he's got more ivories left than Windy.” Needlenose laughed.

  Ben bent down to pick up the reins, but before he could say giddyap, Old Dan started out the door. Ben's arms jerked forward, and he almost fell down. As Ben ran to catch up, Needlenose said, “Old Dan knows his job so well that he don't need you.”

  Old Dan stopped at the door of the cookshack on his own. Pa came out and helped Ben hitch on the sleigh-mounted lunch delivery wagon, called the swingdingle. Pa pulled out his pocket watch. “Looks like it's time to load her up.”

  Pa and Ben worked fast to keep the food warm. After carrying out the wooden box of dishes, they set the steaming stew kettle, bean pot, and logging berries behind Ben's seat. Then they loaded the warm bread and pies into the blanket-lined compartments and latched the doors tight.

  “I see the boys have already got a fire goin’ at the cut,” Pa said, glancing at the smoke to the south.

  “Old Dan looks like he knows the way,” Ben said. The horse was lifting up his front foot and pawing the snow.

  “You'd better get moving,” Pa said. “Them jacks don't cotton to cold beans.”

  Remembering how Old Dan had bolted out of the barn, Ben climbed onto the seat and made sure his boots were planted on the footrest before he reached for the reins. The minute Ben picked up the reins, Old Dan jerked the swingdingle forward. The iron-tipped runners of the sleigh were soon hissing down the ice road. For the past three weeks the water wagon crew had been hauling water from the river at night and building up the road. They also cut grooves for the sled runners with a bull rutter.

  Piloting the swingdingle wasn't as glamorous as felling trees or driving a four-horse team, but Ben was excited to get away from the cookshack. Ben never seemed to be able to do his jobs well enough for Pa. The afternoon before, Ben had been peeling spuds for an hour, but when he stood up to stretch his back, Pa had said, “Are you lolly-gagging again?”

  Being cooped up in the kitchen with Pa from dawn until dark was like going to school seven days a week without recess. At school, Ben could at least look forward to a break at lunchtime. Here, lunch just meant more work.

  Old Dan pulled the sleigh at a steady trot as he rounded the first two corners and climbed a low hill. Enormous red and white pines stood on both sides of the trail. The snow-covered crowns of the trees were so tight together that the ground was still patched with tufts of dry ferns in places. The men had started logging the stand farthest from the river, and they were working their way back toward camp.

  Ben checked his watch. It was quarter to twelve—he'd get to the cut right on time. But when Old Dan reached the base of a second, steeper hill, he stopped suddenly. Ben clicked and whistled, but the horse only shook his head. Ben made a smacking sound with his lips like he'd seen teamsters do. He called, “Giddyap,” and “Go, boy,” and he flicked the reins. But Old Dan stood stiff-legged, blowing clouds of steam into the clear air.

  Ben turned and checked the sleigh. Lumberjacks endured cold and snow and long hours in the woods without complaint, but if the kettles cooled, they would be angry. Men sometimes walked off the job when lunch showed up late. If Old Dan didn't get moving, Ben was going to be in big trouble.

  “Pull, Danny Boy,” Ben begged. “Please pull.” But the horse kept blowing. Ben climbed down and walked to the front of the rig. When he got far enough ahead for Old Dan to see him past his blinders, the horse turned his head the other away.

  “Dan!” Ben said, but the horse refused to look at him. Ben trudged back toward the sleigh. What could he do? He heard the steady thunk of axes somewhere beyond the hill. Maybe he should run ahead and get help? Just then Old Dan lifted his head and jerked the swingdingle forward. “Whoa, Dan!” Ben yelled, running after the sleigh. “Stop, boy!”

  Ben tried to jump onto the back of the sleigh, but his boots slipped on a rut and he fell. By the time he got to his feet, Old Dan was halfway up the hill.

  “Daaann…,” Ben yelled, chasing after the horse. But the fresh snow made it hard to run. When Ben reached the top of the hill, the swingdingle was already disappearing around the next curve. “Daaann!” he called.

  Two curves later, he saw that the smoke plume of the lumberjacks’ bonfire was only a short distance away. He ran even harder. The men would tease him for the rest of his life if the lunch wagon arrived without him.

  Just then he heard “Timberrrr!” He looked up. The snow shook loose from the top of a giant white pine. The tree began to sway.

  Ben dashed forward. The tree crackled, and the branches whooshed as they picked up speed. He was going to die! Smaller trees snapped like twigs under the weight of the falling pine. Just before the trunk hit the ground, something smacked Ben's shoulder and knocked him down. The last thing he felt was the ground trembling. Then everything went black.

  “Hey, cookee.” The voice sounded far away. When Ben opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was Packy's red stocking hat. “You'd better stop laying down on the job,” Packy said, grinning. “If these jacks ain't served lunch soon, they'll be limbing you instead of the pine.”

  Packy helped Ben to his feet, but Ben tipped backward. “Steady there,” Packy said, holding Ben's arm tightly. “You okay?”

  Ben nodded, trying to shake off the dizziness. His head was pounding worse than it had during Miss Stanish's Blab School.

  The lunch sleigh was parked just ahead. When Ben looked back at the huge tree, he knew he was lucky that only a single branch had hit him. “She's a big one, no?” Packy said. “Got to be a hundred feet tall.” Packy brushed the snow off Ben's cap and handed it to him. “The sawyers like to drop them near the road so they're easy to skid, but this lady was sky bound—standing so straight there was no lean—and she got away. We'll get six sticks out of that grand dame for sure.” By sticks Packy meant sixteen-foot logs.

  “I thought that tree was gonna kill me.”

  “We've never lost a cookee to a pine yet.”

  “Quit your yammering, Frenchy, and cart that boy over here,” yelled a big sawyer called Swede. “He's got stew to ladle up.”

  Ben still felt unsteady as he walked toward the sleigh. Packy's partner, Jiggers, had blanketed Old Dan and gotten out his pail of oats. The jacks were already lined up with their plates in their hands. When the men started working a new section of timber, they cleared a lunch area next to the road and laid logs beside the fire for seats. A row of balsam treetops stuck in the snow formed a wind-break to the north.

  The smoke from the fire blew into Ben's eyes as he filled the plates, and it made his head ache. Once the jacks sat down, they worked their spoons nonstop. Ben was amazed to see that the men ate even faster in the woods than they did back in the cookshack.

  “If we don't get after our beans quick out here,” Packy said as he chewed, “they freeze to our plates.”

  Jiggers nodded. “We got to shovel in enough grub to hold us till supper.”

  Steam rose off the shoulders of the jacks’ wool coats as they leaned toward the smoky fire that made Ben squint and turn his head. The men set their horsehide mitts beside them on the log, and they used their devil's cups—tin cups without handles—filled with hot swamp water to keep thei
r hands warm between the stew and the shoepack pie.

  Swede was the only one who complained when he saw the tea. “Swamp water again!” he groaned. “Somebody's got to talk to that belly robber. There's no way a fellow can enjoy pie without blackjack.”

  “Swede's a coffee-drinking fool,” Packy said. “How many cups did you drink to win that bet last winter?”

  “Thirty-seven,” Swede said. “That's why some of the guys calls me Guzzling Gus.”

  “You drank thirty-seven cups in one day?” Ben asked, wondering if his aching head was affecting his hearing.

  “In one hour, cookee.” Swede spit into the fire.“Would you stop yapping and dish up that pie!”

  As Ben was serving the pie, Jiggers winked. “So Old Dan got away from you, eh?”

  Ben nodded. He braced himself for the teasing.

  “Somebody should have warned you. That hoss always stops at that hill back there. We all call it Old Dan's Hill. He'll rest a bit and blow, but you'd best keep your seat 'cause he don't dawdle long.”

  “I found that out.”

  “You can run after him like you done,” Jiggers went on, grinning, “but if you want that much exercise, you might as well pull the sleigh yourself.”

  “Like Jack the Horse,” Packy said.

  “Who was that?” Ben asked.

  “Jack was a teamster who cared more for his animals than any man I've ever seen,” Packy said. “One day a horse came up lame, and Jack took his place in the harness.”

  Jiggers stood up and smacked his mitts together.“Speaking of the harness, it's time for us to get back to work.” They tossed their tin plates to Ben.

  Only after Ben had piled the dishes back on the swingdingle did he touch his forehead and find a spot of blood. No wonder he felt dizzy. The notchers were already at work with their axes, and the thunk of the blades gave Ben a throbbing headache.

  As he climbed back onto the swingdingle, Packy dragged a broken skidding chain out of the woods.“Would you drop this off at the iron burner's shop?” Packy called.

  “I'll stop by Arno's on my way in,” Ben said, wishing Packy wouldn't yell.