Blackwater Ben

by William Durbin

  That evening while Ben and Nevers were setting out the dinner plates, Day stopped by for a cup a coffee. The wind was still blowing so hard that the teamster had to hang on to the door latch as he shook the snow off his cap.

  “Jiggers is taking a turn with the plow,” Day said. His face looked like it had been rubbed with sandpaper.

  “Are you keeping up?” Pa asked.

  “So far, but we're up to a dozen-horse hitch.”

  When the rest of the teamsters came in for dinner, their faces were chafed as badly as Day's. Packy blew on his hands. “We sure got rid of that warm spell. Looks like a man's got to be careful what he wishes for.”

  A SUNDAY FLING

  When Ben woke up the next morning, he felt something was wrong. He lay there for a moment until he realized the strange feeling came from the quiet. For the first time in two days the wind wasn't whistling through the stovepipe. Other than the deep breathing of Nevers, the world was perfectly still.

  Just then Ben heard a scraping sound. Pa was already up and shoveling. Ben stoked the woodstove and hurried out to help. In the yellow glow of Pa's lantern, a few soft flakes were still sifting down, but the stars overhead hinted that a clear day was coming.

  “You're up early,” Pa said.

  “The quiet woke me,” Ben said.

  “Me too.” Pa pointed to the wall. “I got out a second shovel in case one of you laggards woke up. But you'd better check the temperature first.”

  It seemed silly to bother with taking the temperature on such a mild morning, but the push had made it clear that this was Ben's job until next month.

  Ben had just put his thermometer away when Packy pulled into the yard and climbed off the plow. His horses hung their heads and blew puffs of steam. “I didn't hear no breakfast horn,” Pa said.

  “I know it ain't time yet,” Packy said. “I was just wondering if Ben could take a turn plowing. I got to nap before I go out to the cut, or I ain't gonna be worth a darn.”

  At first Ben thought Packy was joking, but he didn't laugh like the push had last fall when he'd teased Ben about driving the team. “Can I, Pa?” Ben asked.

  “I suppose me and Nevers can start the cooking.”

  Packy showed Ben where to stand on the front of the plow. “Brace yourself when they start,” he said. “One swing down to the river and back and we'll have her all cleared. Needlenose'll help you sort out the team when you're done. These hay burners deserve a rest.” Packy walked off to the bunkhouse.

  Knowing that Day's leaders were in front, Ben picked up the reins and said, “Walk, boys.” Despite Packy's warning, the rig nearly pitched him off when it jerked forward. But once the horses plodded past the cookshack and turned up the road, the big V plow skimmed smoothly over the ice ruts and pushed the snowbanks back on both sides.

  Ben looked up at the last few stars sparkling above the pines. Steam rose from the backs of the horses, and frost flakes settled on their shaggy manes. He enjoyed listening to the jingling of the harness chains, which matched the rhythm of the team.

  By the time he had finished the river loop and pulled back into camp, the jacks were arriving for breakfast.“What's this?” Jiggers said. “Has our cookee turned into a teamster overnight?”

  Packy, who'd finished his nap, nodded. “Ben's doing so many jobs around camp, we're gonna have to call him Blackwater Ben.”

  The other men smiled, but just when Ben was ready to feel proud, Swede said, “Since you like chasing after Old Dan so much, I'm surprised you ain't running behind that plow instead of driving it.” Then the other fellows all laughed.

  On the day after the storm Ben got a letter from Mrs. Wilson. Nevers was even more anxious than Ben to see what she had written, especially when he saw that the letter was two full pages.

  Dear Benjamin,

  I think of you often and how hard it must be to keep those hungry lumberjacks fed. The chickadees are still enjoying your bird feeder, though a nasty shrike has taken to lunching on the unsuspecting twitterers lately. I'd have Harley shoot that rapacious bird, but I don't know if he'd have the brains to put the bullets in the right end of the gun.

  Winter has been rather dull around here. The only item of interest occurred on the final day of that warm spell—we had a thaw here in Blackwater just like you described in your letter. The unseasonable weather woke a bear out of hibernation, and he wandered into town in the middle of the afternoon. The local folks, knowing that bears are mean and hungry when they come out of their dens too early, all gave him a wide berth.

  The bear was minding his own business when a saloon girl stepped into the street. Not being accustomed to bears and having just woken up herself, she panicked and pulled a little derringer out of her garter belt. A few of the fellows yelled,“Don't,” from the other side of the street, but it was too late. She fired that toy pistol right into the bear's behind.

  The bear could have turned and chewed her to pieces—it would have served her right—but he sprinted for the river instead. As luck would have it, he ran right toward Maggie Montgomery's backyard. Maggie was hanging her sheets on the line at the time. When she heard the derringer go off, she called over the clothesline to our house,

  “Was that a gunshot, Evy?”

  I said, “It sounded more like a fire—” but before I could get “cracker” out, I saw the bear running along the top of the hill. Knowing that poor Maggie was in a fragile state of mind, I was glad to see that the bear was going to miss her by a wide margin. But that very minute my unhandy handyman, Harley, banged the cellar door.

  The startled bear swerved and got caught up in Maggie's sheets. The next thing I knew, Maggie was shrieking like her heart was being cut out, and she and the clothesline and the sheets and the bear were all tangled together and rolling down the hill.

  I suspect it will take Maggie a long while to recover from this incident. So don't forget her in your prayers.

  Sincerely yours,

  Mrs. E. Wilson

  P.S. Let me know when you are coming home, Ben, and I will give that dunderhead Harley his walking papers.

  P.P.S. And please remind Mr. Harrigan that his unsolicited comments regarding my private correspondence are not appreciated.

  As usual, Nevers enjoyed the letter, and Charlie laughed out loud when Ben showed him the paragraph about Maggie and the bear. “I would certainly like to meet Mrs. Wilson someday,” Charlie said. “In your next letter tell her that I consider her privacy of the utmost importance and I will refrain from further commentary.”

  “Will you help me with the spelling?”

  “Of course.”

  For the next two weeks the weather settled into a perfect pattern for hauling. The cold nights and cool days allowed the teamsters to make up for the days they'd missed by running their sleds twenty-four hours a day. “Does it look like we'll be making the contract now?” Ben asked Pa.

  “As long as the weather holds, I'd say so.”

  “And it's about time we got a break,” the push said.“For once it ain't either too cold or too hot. I suppose we'll be getting hit by a tornado or a hurricane any day now.”

  “You shouldn't never wish a hurricane to come, sir,” Nevers said. “Pardon me for speaking up. But I lost my favorite uncle when the storm surge of a big ole 'cane washed his house away.”

  “I was only joking,” the push said.

  “I know, sir,” Nevers said.

  A few days later Ben and Nevers were getting the lunch together when Ben heard something. “Listen,” he said, and ran to the door. Nevers was only a step behind. Water was dripping off the eaves again.

  “This time we got us a real thaw,” Ben said.

  “Spring is finally here,” Nevers agreed.

  “What are you two yelling about?” Pa walked up behind them. “By golly, those snowbanks have shrunk since breakfast.”

  “You think the bottom'll fall out of the roads?” Ben asked.

  “It takes a while to melt the ice,” Pa said.
“But I expect the boys will only be hauling at night from now on.”

  When Ben and Nevers headed down to the bunkhouse the next Sunday, Ben was surprised to see the men milling around outside. Packy had a double-bitted ax in his hand, and he was walking away from the bunkhouse. “Eight, nine, ten,” he said. “That makes ten paces.” He laid a stick down in the slush. “Who wants to go first?” Jiggers was drawing a charcoal circle on the butt end of a bunkhouse log for a target.

  “I'll give her a try,” Arno said.

  After being cooped up all winter, Ben could see that the jacks intended to have a little fun. As Arno hefted the ax in one hand, the men teased him. “Be careful, Arno,” Packy said. “That blade is a whole lot sharper than a horseshoe hammer.”

  Arno closed one eye and aimed at the target. “We'll see about that,” he said. He lifted the ax above his shoulder once, and again. Then he sent it whirling toward the log.

  When the ax hit the log sideways, splintering the hickory handle, the jacks all roared.

  “You'd better stick with your hammer and tongs,” Day called.

  “You're supposed to hit the log with the sharp end, Mr. Iron Burner,” Jiggers cackled.

  “Shut yer faces,” Arno growled. “Give me another ax.”

  Packy handed Arno a second ax, and this time he threw more quickly. He missed the corner of the bunkhouse, and the ax bounced handle first off the side of the outhouse.

  The men laughed even louder.

  Just then the door of the outhouse opened and Windy stepped out with his pants at half-mast. “What are you hooligans doing out here?”

  Windy flipped the ax back and cussed everyone out. The louder he cussed, the more the fellows howled. Windy couldn't figure out what was so funny until he looked down and saw that his pants were at his ankles. Ben laughed until his sides ached.

  Though a few fellows buried the ax in the log, no one hit the black circle. Pa even tried a couple of throws. When Packy said, “Does Blackwater Ben want to try a toss?” Ben stepped forward. He missed the bull's-eye, but he was happy that the ax stuck in the wood instead of cutting a hunk of tar paper off the eave like Nevers's throw did.

  The contest finally came down to Packy and Slim. Though Packy hit the edge of the charcoal circle with his blade, Slim did him one better by burying his throw just inside the mark. The fellows cheered.

  When the ax throwing was done, Arno said, “Let's try a man's game.”

  “Like square dancing?” Jiggers hooted.

  “Come over here,” Arno replied, scowling. He led the men to his blacksmith's shop. The double doors were propped open, and sunlight streamed into the smoke-blackened interior. The stained oak floor was littered with burnt pieces of iron and with wood shavings that had been tracked over from the wood butcher's work area. Thin wisps of smoke rose from the cold forge.

  Arno walked over to his anvil. “Let's see you try this,” he said. Bending at the waist, Arno put both of his forearms under the anvil and heaved upward. To Ben's astonishment, he lifted it straight up and shuffled forward with the steel pressed against his belly. Arno carried the anvil all the way to the carpenter's bench and set it down. “Now, there's a man's labor,” he said, dusting off his hands.“Who's next?”

  Most of the men just shook their heads. Day managed to lift the anvil, but before he got halfway to the forge, he dropped it. Ben was proud that of the three other fellows who tried, Pa got the farthest of anyone.

  Then Swede said, “What sort of child's game is this?” He stepped forward and picked up the anvil. Marching past the forge to the door, he pitched the anvil over the threshold. The base buried itself six inches deep in the mud. “There,” he said.

  Later that afternoon Arno and a few fellows were taking turns arm wrestling at a table inside the bunkhouse. Ben expected the blacksmith to beat everyone, but after a long battle, Day finally put Arno's wrist down.

  Swede laughed.

  “Want to give it a shot?” Day rubbed his biceps.

  “Get up,” he said.

  Looking confused, Day and Arno stood. Ben wondered if Swede was going to pick up the table and throw it out the door. Instead, he placed his hands on his knees and bent down. Then he clamped his teeth on the edge of the table. Ben heard the wood crunch as Swede's jaws closed.

  Every fellow in the shack gasped as Swede lifted the table up. The card players crowded forward for a better view.

  “Well, I ain't never …,” Windy whispered, rubbing his jaw as if it hurt to watch.

  Swede shifted his hands to his hips as he carried the table all the way to the doorway. When he finally relaxed his bite, the table crashed to the floor, rattling the planking.

  The men sat in stunned silence as Swede said, “That's better exercise than holding hands.”

  The late-season success of the hauling crews lightened Pa's mood. One bright morning when Ben took down the Gabriel horn and gave it to Pa, Pa handed it back to him.“Why don't you give her a try?” he said.

  “Me?” Ben said.

  Pa pushed open the door. “Just press your lips together and let her go.”

  Ben lifted the long horn and puffed. A tiny squeak came out.

  “Blow from down here.” Pa pointed below his chest. This time a sharp squeal echoed over the clearing. Packy stuck his head out the bunkhouse door. “Are you calling us for breakfast, Blackwater? Or are you trying to lure a lovesick moose?” Ben heard the fellows laughing inside.

  “Don't pay them no heed,” Pa said. “You'll catch on.”

  The next morning Ben figured Pa would call the men himself, but he handed the horn to Ben again. Though the sound was still squeaky, he got better volume. And by the third day he was making a passable bugle blast.

  “You're gonna be a fine bugler,” Pa said. “By next season you'll be playing reveille.”

  Next season, Ben thought. That was the first time Pa had mentioned that he might want him working as a cookee again. But Ben had already decided that if he worked in a logging camp another winter, he was going to do his best to get himself a teamstering job.

  THE PROMISE OF TOWN

  Over the next few weeks camp life wound down quickly. Once the Blackwater Company had completed its contract, Ben was amazed at how fast the logging operation shut down. The jacks left in the same order they had been hired. The first men to go were the sawyers and skid men, followed by the loaders and teamsters and road monkeys. One by one the fellows tied their turkeys together and stopped by the clerk's shack to collect their pay slips. The last to go were the blacksmith and wood butcher, who were busy with end-of-the-season repairs.

  On the day Packy left he took Nevers aside. “You know all that French cussing I abused you with?”

  Nevers tensed up like he was getting ready for Packy to broadside him with another French oath.

  “Well, I wasn't swearing at all.”

  “I don't believe you.”

  “Do you call Don't count your chickens before they hatch cussing?”

  “What?”

  “That's how En Avril ne te découvre pas d'un fil translates.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  Jiggers punched Nevers in the arm. “Ole Pack sure had you goin', didn't he?”

  “But what about those other things you were saying?”

  “Like Tout ce qui brille n'est pas or? ”

  Nevers nodded.

  “That means All that glitters is not gold. Just like Mieux vaut tard que jamais is the same as saying Better late than never, and Vivre et laisser vivre only means Live and let live. But my favorite is Il faut savoir tirer parti du pire—If you are dealt a lemon, make lemonade.”

  “But you made them all sound like cuss words.”

  “You heard what you wanted to.” Packy extended his hand to Nevers. “No hard feelings?”

  “No hard feelings,” Nevers said, shaking his hand.

  Packy and Jiggers climbed into the tote teamster's wagon and slipped their turkeys off their shoulders. Then, just as t
he horses started forward, Packy grinned slyly and called to Nevers: “Tout va bien qui finit bien!”

  Nevers threw down his cap and swore.

  The day after Packy and Jiggers had left, the camp got strangely quiet. Ben was surprised when Pa said, “I sorta miss that little Frenchman.”

  “You do?” Ben said.

  “He and his partner might have been noisy, but they were good company and steady woodsmen. As lousy as the weather was this year, they did a fine job of getting the timber out.”

  The day after the teamsters and loaders left camp, Windy stopped by the cookshack in the middle of the morning. “Well, Benny Boy,” he said, “it's time for me to get that new set of choppers.”

  “Who's gonna take care of the bunkhouse?”

  “The handful of fellows who are left can sweep up on their own. The push told me that the dentist in Duluth is so good that you can't tell the difference between the teeth he makes up and the good Lord's.”

  “Good luck,” Ben said.

  “I'll be back with my new choppers in a few days. You just be ready to fry me up a big juicy steak.”

  “I'll be waiting.”

  Soon the only men left in camp other than the cook-shack crew were the push, the clerk, the wood butcher, and the dentist. With the lighter workload everyone was a lot more relaxed. When Ben stopped by the clerk's office to buy a pocketknife, the pencil pusher actually smiled.

  “So you're gonna treat yourself to a present after your long winter of hard work?”

  “I lost my old one,” Ben said.

  “Those knives have a way of walking off,” Wally said as he marked down Ben's purchase in his ledger. “Looks like you haven't wasted much cash, according to my book. You'll have a good stake coming.”

  Ben was surprised when the pencil pusher leaned on the counter and asked, “You figure on signing up for our river drive next month?”