Blackwater Ben

by William Durbin

  “Thanks, cookee,” Packy boomed. He slapped Ben's shoulder and tossed the chain onto the sled with a clatter.“But if Old Dan stops to rest on any of the hills, remember to keep your seat. Ha, ha…”

  THE IRON BURNER

  Ben watched Old Dan closely on the way back to camp, but the horse trotted the whole way without a rest. That made sense, since the ice road ran mainly downhill. The slope meant the teamsters would be able to haul logs from the cut to the river with the least possible effort.

  Ben parked the swingdingle in front of the workshop that the iron burner and wood butcher shared. Arno Edwards did his blacksmith work in the front, while the wood butcher hewed oak bunks and sled runners in the back. The wood butcher also fixed harnesses, and he repaired sleighs, water barrels, and anything else made of wood. Windy liked to say,“There ain't nothing in a logging camp—other than tar paper, of course—that can't be made outta wood, leather, or steel.”

  Holding Packy's chain in both hands, Ben stepped inside. The air smelled of green popple and coal smoke. Arno stood at the forge in a leather apron riddled with burn holes. He was cranking his bellows and watching a horseshoe turn white-hot.

  Arno raised a soot-blackened hand. “How's the belly robber's son?” His voice rumbled like a locomotive engine.

  Ben held out the chain. “Packy asked if you could fix this broken link.” Smithing tools hung beside the forge. Two broken hammers lay in the corner along with kegs of horseshoes that had spilled onto the floor. Rodding and flat iron leaned against the near wall, which was hung with a half-dozen singletrees and chains.

  Arno ignored Ben's question. Instead, he pulled the horseshoe out of the fire with his tongs and stepped forward. Ben coughed as the iron burner held the glowing metal in front of his face. He dropped Packy's chain and stepped backward, bumping into a chest-high mandrel.

  “Give me a dime and I'll lick it,” Arno said. His teeth gleamed in the firelight. In the corner the wood butcher glanced up from his work and smiled.

  The red-hot horseshoe was about to singe Ben's eyebrows. His head pounded as he fished a dime out of his pocket and dropped it into Arno's hand.

  Arno looked at the coin; then he lifted the horseshoe toward his open mouth. Just when the hot iron was about to touch his tongue, he stopped. Setting the tongs on his anvil, he licked Ben's dime and stuffed it into his pocket. Then he threw back his head and laughed.

  “You got him there, Arno.” The wood butcher joined in the laughter.

  “Hey,” Ben said. “What about my dime?”

  Arno set the horseshoe back in the coals and cranked his bellows. All he said was, “Tell Packy I'll have his link welded by suppertime.”

  When Ben parked the swingdingle in front of the cookshack, he remembered that he needed to bring the dentist his lunch. He trotted inside. “Can we warm up some lunch for Charlie?” he called to Pa.

  Ben tried to hide the lump on his forehead, but Pa didn't even look up from his pot. “Bring in the stew kettle, and I'll heat a bowlful while you unload the sleigh,” Pa said. “That dentist's tar paper is already flapping, and we'd best not rile him.”

  As Ben stepped back outside, he was thinking that Charlie didn't seem any crazier than the rest of the lumberjacks. He stopped and stared. The swingdingle was gone! He thought his eyes were playing tricks on him until he looked down the clearing. Old Dan had already pulled the lunch wagon halfway to the barn.

  “What in the devil is taking you so long?” Pa called through the doorway. Then he stuck his head out and saw Old Dan. “Would you look at that?” Pa said. Ben was afraid Pa was going to chew him out, but he chuckled instead. “Skip used to unhook the swingdingle before he came inside. Old Dan figures it's time for his afternoon nap.”

  Ben hurried across the snowy clearing with his tray. As he knocked on Charlie's door, he braced himself for a complaint. But the dentist only waved for him to set the meal down.

  The musty smell of Charlie's shack reminded Ben of Mrs. Wilson's attic, a place he'd often played on rainy days. A small chest at one end of the attic held a collection of Mrs. Wilson's son's handmade toys: a wooden top, a set of painted blocks, and a carved train with wobbly wooden wheels and tiny cars linked together with worn loops of string. On gray afternoons Ben pulled his train through an imaginary city built out of blocks.

  Charlie noticed Ben's cut. “How did you crack your pate?” When Ben frowned, Charlie said, “ Pate's another word for head.”

  “I took a fall,” Ben said.

  “You'd better pack some snow on it. That'll bring the swelling down.” Charlie looked up at the skylight. “You're late again.”

  “It's been crazy without Skip around.”

  “I can understand that. I worked bleeding hard when I was a youngster, too.”

  “Whereabouts did you grow up?” Ben asked.

  “It's a place you've never heard of on England's northeast coast called Newcastle upon Tyne.” Charlie clamped a tooth-set gauge on a misery whip. “They call it upon Tyne because the River Tyne flows through town. It's a tired old smoke-blackened place.” Charlie took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I left home when I was a little nipper—only eight years old.”

  “Did you move to America?”

  “No, I went to Christ Church College in Oxford.”

  “How could you go to college when you were eight?”

  “I was picked to join the Christ Church Boys’ Choir.” Ben looked at Charlie's matted hair and beard. The dentist—a choirboy?

  “My mum said that when I was a baby, I'd hum along with her and my sister. She claimed I could sing before I could talk.”

  “Mrs. Wilson likes to sing in the kitchen.”

  “Mrs. Wilson?” Charlie asked.

  “ 'Member the lady I told you about who helped raise me?”

  “You're so chock-full of information, it's hard to remember half of what you say.”

  “She sings real fine when she cooks. Mainly hymns.”

  Ben wondered if his mother had sung to him. Since Pa never talked about her, all Ben knew was that his mother had been a pretty young schoolteacher who was courted by half the fellows in the county. Ben wasn't even sure what his mother looked like because the big, oval-framed wedding photograph of her and Pa had gotten stained by a leaky roof years ago. In the picture Pa was his usual self, but his mother's face was so smudged, it was like trying to make out a face floating underwater. The only clear things were her pearl necklace and the lace collar of her dress. At times he could see a glint in her eyes, but it faded if he tilted his head the wrong way.

  “What sort of songs are your favorites?”

  “I don't mind a hymn myself, but—” Charlie stopped.“Now you got me blithering on, too. If I don't get after my victuals, it'll be teatime.”

  “Teatime?” Ben asked.

  “You ask more questions than a barrister.” Charlie half smiled. “Back home we had regular teatime in the afternoon and high tea later on.”

  When Ben got back, Pa said, “Did you get lost? I've already heated your dishwater.”

  Windy, who was sipping a cup of swamp water, said,“What happened to your head, Benny Boy?”

  Pa turned to Ben. “Did you hurt yourself?”

  “It's nothing,” Ben said.

  Pa pushed Ben's hair back. Ben tried not to wince.“Looks like you got kicked by a horse,” Pa said.

  “I just bumped my head.”

  “Go see the pencil pusher and get some medicine.”

  “I'm fine, Pa.” Not the crabby clerk again.

  “Get over there.”

  When Ben opened the door of the clerk's shack, the pencil pusher frowned. “Ain't I seen you once today?”

  “I need some liniment,” Ben said.

  “For a horse or a man?” Wally asked. “Didn't nobody ever teach you nothing? You can't be tossing a big word like liniment at a fellow without explaining yourself. You might mean horse liniment. You might mean bone liniment.” The push, who was sitting
at a table, grinned.

  “I got a cut.” Ben pointed to his forehead.

  “Cut!” the pencil pusher said. “Then you don't need no liniment at all. You need salve.” He pushed his glasses up on his nose and turned around. “Let me see here,” he said, pointing his finger at shelves that were stocked with a variety of medicines and compounds. Colored glass bottles, tins, and jars were arranged in rows: HINKLEY'S BONE LINIMENT (the label promised it was good for everyday aches and pains); CASCARA CANDY CATHARTIC (guaranteed to cure headache, lazy liver, bad blood, constipation, worms, and bad breath); DAVIS VEGETABLE PAIN KILLER;SYRUP OF FIGS; PRUNIA; JAMAICA GINGER; and CASTOR OIL.

  When his finger pointed to MCCONNON'S CARBOSEPTIC SALVE, he said, “There!” and snatched the jar off the shelf. He turned the page in his ledger book. “Should I charge it to your account or your pa's?” He touched the tip of his pencil to his tongue.

  “Pa didn't say.”

  “We'll put it down for you, then.” He wrote in Ben's name and 25 cents. Now Ben had lost a healthy chunk of his wages.

  As Ben was turning to leave, Wally said, “By the way, you got yourself a letter today.”

  “Thanks,” Ben said.

  The letter was from Mrs. Wilson. Ben opened it on the way back to the cookshack.

  Dear Benjamin,

  I hope this letter finds you well.

  We are having a quiet fall here in Blackwater. The only excitement of late happened last Tuesday evening when a bull moose wandered into town. The moose was minding his own business, but our civic-minded mayor, Sam Perkins, got it into his head to scare him away. When Sam shot his ten gauge into the air, the moose turned and charged. Sam leaped out of the way, and the moose crashed through the front door of Nell's saloon. Though all of the injuries were minor, they say the player piano is a total loss. (The moose escaped out the back door.)

  My new helper, Harley, cut his foot while chopping firewood. He's a nice enough boy, but he's oh so clumsy. I urge him to be more cautious, but he seems to be accident-prone. He's spilled the stove ashes twice, and the way he's tripping all the time, I'm afraid he's liable to fall into the rain barrel and drown himself.

  I miss your steady hand, Ben. I hope you are learning some new recipes that you can share with me when you get back to town.

  Give my best to Jack—tell him not to be such a sourpuss—and don't forget to say your prayers.

  God bless,

  Mrs. E. Wilson

  When Pa saw Ben reading the letter, he asked, “Is everything okay with Evy?”

  “She says you should try not to be a sourpuss.”

  “You write back and tell Mrs. Know-it-all Wilson that if I got any sweeter, I'd melt in the rain.”

  “Sure, Pa.” Ben laughed.

  Ben also showed the letter to Charlie, who said, “Your Mrs. Wilson is a superb stylist.”

  “Really?”

  “Not only does she know how to put words together,” Charlie said, “but she also has an ironic sense of humor.”

  “She does?” Ben folded the letter, wondering why Charlie was so interested in Mrs. Wilson's stories.

  The rest of the day went so fast that Ben felt like he was still chasing Old Dan and couldn't catch up. By the time he had dried the lunch dishes, it was time to start peeling spuds for supper. He didn't finish cleaning up from dinner until eight-thirty. “I never thought Skip did much around here,” he said.

  “That boy mighta wasted too much breath on flattery,” Pa said, “but he did what I asked.”

  After the dinner dishes were done, Ben couldn't go to bed until he'd set the tables for breakfast. Each of the twenty place settings had to be lined up in perfect order on the long wooden tables. The tin plates and bowls were placed upside down along with a devil's cup, which he centered on top of the bowl. Ben had to take his time, for if anything was out of place, Pa made him fix it.

  As late as it was when Ben finished, he sat down and wrote back to Mrs. Wilson. Though writing a letter wasn't as comforting as having a talk in her kitchen, it helped him feel less lonesome. He also wanted to share Charlie's compliment about her writing.

  DISHES AND DEVIL'S CUPS

  Ben felt like he'd barely laid his head on his flour sack pillow when he heard Windy step into the bunk room and say, “Daylight in the swamp,” to Pa.

  Pa looked into the upper bunk as he slipped on his pants. “It's time to sling some hash. We've got to step lively now that that scalawag Skip has been sent down the road.”

  Ben wanted to tell Pa that his head ached way too bad for him to even think about getting out of bed. He couldn't believe Pa didn't notice his bruise. He felt the knob on his forehead and dabbed on some salve. It had swelled up twice as big this morning.

  “Let's get moving,” Pa said as he tied on his apron. “If we can't take care of twenty jacks, how are we gonna keep up when we have a full crew? Eighty men means four hundred flapjacks every morning.”

  The whole time Ben worked on breakfast, he thought about how boring it was being stuck in the kitchen. Pa believed in working 365 days a year. He was fond of saying, “Holidays and vacations are just an excuse for laziness.” Though Mrs. Wilson chided him for it, Pa even worked Sundays. “The good Lord was entitled to rest on Sunday, seeing as he created the earth,” Pa said, “but there ain't no man that ever done something so special that he deserved every seventh day off.”

  The lump on Ben's forehead throbbed all day long. When he was driving the swingdingle, he was glad that Old Dan behaved himself and that the jacks only teased him a little about the previous day's “tree dodging” and

  “horse jockeying.”

  For dinner he carried in a bushel of spuds and a peck of rutabagas. Though he and Pa had shoveled the syrupy dirt out of the root cellar, the vegetables still had a sweet scent to them. Of all the meals, dinner took the most time. In addition to the main course, which was cold sliced meat, Ben had to peel two different kinds of vegetables. No matter how many times he washed his hands, the sharp, rooty smell of the rutabagas wouldn't go away.

  Preparing the meat was simple. Pa pulled a hunk out of the keg, soaked off the brine and saltpeter, and sliced it. Each evening Pa also baked cakes or rolls or cookies. Baking had been Pa's specialty when he was an army cook.“When some outfits were on the march, they ate nothing but moldy hardtack and cold beans,” he told Ben, “but my crew always set up a full field kitchen, and we baked our boys fresh bread.”

  Since molasses cookies were on the menu that day, Ben had to make another trip to the root cellar and fill a pitcher with molasses. On his way back to the cookshack he looked to the west. The sky had opened up except for a few thin clouds. They would be in for a clear, cold night—perfect weather for the water tank crew to work on the ice roads.

  “You close the spigot?” Pa asked when Ben got back.

  “Yes, sir.”

  When Pa called the men to supper, Swede was the first one in the door. “How's Lumpy?” he asked Ben. “You been attacked by any tree branches lately?”

  Packy said, “I heard the boy is hiring out as a horse trainer.”

  “Take a seat and shut yer yaps, you post and pole,” Pa said. Pa called Packy Fence Post and Swede Telegraph Pole because Swede was a foot taller than Packy. Pa was the only man in camp other than the push who had the courage to put Swede in his place.

  Ben hustled to keep the platters filled during the meal. The colder the weather, the more the fellows ate. Six more sawyers and skid men had signed on that afternoon. Ben heard the push say the camp roster would be at fifty men by week's end. How many pounds of spuds would Ben have to peel then?

  When Ben brought out the cookies, Packy grabbed one in each hand and downed them in a single bite. He didn't stop until he'd gobbled up a baker's dozen.

  Jiggers said, “Don't you think it's bad luck eating thirteen cookies?”

  “It might be,” Packy said, pushing himself back from the table, “but twelve never do seem to fill me up. Besides, it's worse luck
leaving the table hungry.”

  EARLY SNOW

  The following morning Ben was hoping he'd get a chance to ask Charlie about his early days in England, but Pa started hollering for Ben to get back to the cookshack before he'd even knocked on the dentist's door.

  They were so busy that Ben was looking forward to his ride out to the cut with lunch. The sun was shining and the sky was a brilliant blue when he went to hitch up Old Dan.

  “ 'Member what I said?” Needlenose asked as Ben opened the barn door. “You 'member?” He planted his face in front of Ben.

  Ben tried not to stare at that nose. “I can't exactly recall.”

  “Snow, you greenhorned gazebo! I was talking about how snow is not always a good thing.”

  “But it's not snowing.”

  “Get back out there and open your eyes.” Needlenose brought his nose to within half an inch of Ben's.

  Ben nearly tripped as he stepped outside and looked up. “All I can see is blue sky and a few clouds.”

  “Not that way!” Needlenose spun him around. “Over yonder.”

  Low on the horizon in the northwest a black wall of clouds was building. “A storm's coming?”

  “You'll be lucky if you get your sleigh back before it hits.”

  Needlenose's prediction didn't miss by much. Ben had just started soaking the lunch dishes when the flakes started falling. “Make sure you get that water good and hot,” Pa said.

  “I know,” Ben said. It took lots of soap and scalding water to wash off the hunks of frozen food. After he rinsed the silverware, he dumped it in a clean white grain sack like Pa had taught him and shook the pieces partly dry. Then he finished off the utensils by setting them in an empty pan on the warm stove. Ben figured Pa was being too cautious about being clean. The lumberjacks were so tough that there wasn't a germ in all creation powerful enough to make them sick.

  When the push stopped by the cookshack for his afternoon cup of blackjack, his lips were tight. “A storm's blowing in, Jack,” he said. “Maybe we'll have to ask your boy to help us with the snowplow tonight.”