Blackwater Ben
Page 14
“Really?” Ben had been hinting all winter that he'd like to be hired as a log driver, but Wally hadn't said a word. “You suppose Nevers could go, too?”
“We can always use a couple of river rats to help us ride those logs downstream.”
“Don't you go hiring away my cookee as a log driver.” Ben turned. Pa standing was in the doorway. “Now that Ben Ward has finally learned his way around the kitchen, I don't want nobody drowning him.”
Pa was complimenting him?
“Blackwater Ben!” someone shouted.
Ben looked out the door, but all he could see was the tote teamster driving toward the cookshack. Then a face peered over the back of the wagon seat. “Benny Boy! How's our swingdingle driver doing?”
It was Windy.
Ben and Nevers helped the bull cook climb out of the wagon and limp up the steps of the bunkhouse. Windy was toothless and bootless and looked like he'd been dragged a mile through the mud.
“What about your big plans?” Ben asked as Windy sat down on the first deacon's bench.
“Not so many questions, Benny Boy.” Windy raised one hand like he was trying to push back the memory of the last three days. “When I got to Blackwater, I went straight to the depot like I'd promised myself. But I met an old buddy named Scott Hull. He offered me a whiskey, and I couldn't refuse. I told him I'd just have one.” Windy hung his head. “The next thing I knew I'd blowed my whole stake, tooth money and all.”
“But what happened to your boots?” Nevers asked.
“Boots?” Windy looked down at his mud-encrusted socks. “Danged if I know.”
Ben was still shaking his head when he and Nevers got back to the cookshack.
“How could Windy waste a whole year's salary in one weekend?” Ben asked Pa.
“I warned you it would turn out this way.”
“But he had such great hopes.”
“It's not like he planned for it to happen. These jacks live for the moment. They never stop to think of next week or next year. I'm sure Windy meant to take only one drink.”
“But why can't he change?”
“Don't forget there's a good side to these fellows, too,” Pa said. “Most men go through life pinching pennies and paying on mortgages that they have no hope of finishing off. But these jacks don't owe nobody nothing. They go where they want when they want to. Their lives are their own, free and clear.”
Ben still couldn't help shaking his head.
“So, you figure on helping me with the wanigan when the spring drive starts?” Pa asked.
Ben looked at Pa and then at Nevers. “Me and Nevers are thinking of signing on as log drivers.”
“That's right, Mr. Ward,” Nevers said, beaming. “As light as I am, I figure I should be able to ride a log down a white-water rapids and not even get my bootlaces wet.”
“You boys won't want to be out on that freezing river when you could be staying dry inside the wanigan with me.” Pa turned back to his work.
“We're set on trying it, Pa,” Ben said.
“What's that?” Pa looked up.
Ben took a deep breath. “After cooking all winter, Nevers and I have decided that we're ready for a change. Running the river is what we aim to do.”
For a moment Pa looked like he was ready to chew Ben out. Nevers took a nervous step backward, but Ben looked Pa straight in the eye.
“You're serious, ain't you?” Pa said.
Ben nodded.
“Well, then.” Pa shifted his gaze from Ben to Nevers. “I reckon we'll have to be fitting you boys for some calk boots.”
On April first, Ben and Nevers were helping Pa pack up the last of the kitchen utensils. “We better get out of here before the rains start,” Pa said. “Once mud time comes, our wagon will be stuck here till next month.”
“So where you staying between now and the river drive?” Ben asked Nevers.
“I figure I'll rent me a place in town.”
“You suppose Mrs. Wilson would have room?” Ben looked at Pa.
“She's usually full up in the spring,” Pa said, “but you'd be welcome to bunk with us.”
“Really?” Nevers said.
Ben grinned. “Us cookees got to stick together, don't we?”
Later that morning Ben was carrying some supplies out of the root cellar when he heard music. There'd been lots of birds twittering in the brush lately, but this didn't sound like birdsong. Ben walked toward the cookshack and stopped. Someone was singing in a deep baritone voice.
Just then Windy ran from the bunkhouse. “He's boiling up!” Windy shouted. “I swear he's boiling up.”
“What's goin’ on?” Pa stepped outside.
“It's the dentist.” Windy paused to catch his breath.“He's gone to the boiling-up shack, and he's cleaning himself up.”
Nevers came to the door, too.
“I'll be jiggered.” Pa looked over Nevers's head. Charlie was strolling toward the cookshack. He was freshly shaven, and he was wearing black pants and a white shirt. He carried a towel over his arm.
“Top of the morning,” Charlie said when he reached the cookshack steps.
It took Pa a moment to find his voice, but he finally said, “Morning.”
Nevers's eyes bugged out. “You got a chin!”
Everyone laughed as Charlie touched his cheek and said,“Did you think my whiskers were hanging on air?”
“So whatever brought you outta your shack?” Pa asked.
“Young Benjamin convinced me that I'd been mis-interpreting the ending of a famous piece of literature.”
Pa gave Ben a long look. “If Ben has a knack for figuring out stories, he got it from his mother.”
“That may very well be true.” Charlie rested his foot on the step and looked up at Pa. “I've been meaning to have a talk with you and the squire. Your cooking got me through the winter. I know it's a bit early for teatime, but would you chaps have a cup of swamp water handy?
“Teatime?” Pa frowned.
“That's Newcastle upon Tyne talk, Pa,” Ben said.
“Squire Benjamin is correct,” Charlie said. “And is there any chance that you gentlemen might have scones on the menu this afternoon?”
“We're fresh out of scones,” Ben said, “but we may be able to scrounge up a piece of lemon pie.”
“That happens to be one of my favorites,” Charlie said, putting his arm around Ben and walking through the door.
“Mine too,” Ben said.
“I'll fetch some cups,” Nevers said. “You fellers have yourselves a seat.”
“Thanks, son,” Charlie said, choosing a bench near the open door.
“That sun sure does feel good,” Pa said.
“The longer the winter, the more we appreciate spring,” Charlie said. He paused for a moment, then looked at Ben. “Has young Benjamin told you that we have a mutual acquaintance?”
Pa shook his head as Nevers set cups of tea in front of everyone.
“Charlie knew Mother, Pa,” Ben said.
“What's that?” Pa frowned as he took a sip of tea.
“Charlie courted her before you did.”
Pa stared at Ben, still frowning. “I tried to tell you, Pa. But you wouldn't never listen.”
Pa turned to Charlie, and his eyebrows rose. “Of course!” he said. “You must be that musical Englishman everyone was talking about when I first moved to town. The boys told me about a fancy-dressed fellow who'd been hanging around Lucy.”
“That would be me,” Charlie said.
“It sure is a small world.” Pa shook his head. “I heard you got so mad one day that you stripped off all your clothes and threw them into the river.”
“People do exaggerate.” Charlie chuckled. “The only garment I discarded was my coat.”
After a moment of silence, Ben said, “Well, you can't say Charlie didn't have good taste in women, eh, Pa?”
Pa blinked, and then he smiled. “No. No, I can't.” He turned to Charlie. “This calls for a toast.
” Pa raised his teacup, and so did Charlie.
“Most certainly,” Charlie said. He looked at the boys.“Will you join us, chaps?”
Ben and Nevers nodded, and everyone leaned forward so they could clink their tin cups together. “To Lucy Ward,” said Pa, and the boys echoed him.
“To Lucinda,” Charlie said.
They were quiet for a moment again. Then Charlie smiled and asked Pa, “Did you ever hear about the time I hired a fiddler to play outside Lucy's school window?”
Pa shook his head.
“It was September, and the students were still restless from their summer holiday. So I—”
Just then the tote teamster poked his head in the door and called to Charlie, “You comin'?”
“Blimey! Is it that time already?”
“Yep.”
Charlie shook Nevers's and Pa's hands. Then he turned to Ben. “You behave yourself, squire. And if you ever decide to swap your swingdingle driving for inside work, I'd be happy to show you the tricks of the filer's trade.”
“My heart's in teamstering right now.” Ben squeezed Charlie's hand. “But I can see where it would be nice to stay close to the stove when it's fifty below.”
Then Pa said, “We'll have to continue our visit sometime, Charlie. I imagine that Ben would like hearing more about his ma.” Ben and Nevers stared at Pa in disbelief.
“I've got some stories of my own to tell, along with a few silver mining tales.”
“I'm sure that we can put our heads together and dredge up a few memories,” Charlie said. “In the meantime, I plan to call on a certain widow lady who has a reputation for appreciating the art of conversation.” Charlie winked at Ben.
Later that afternoon Ben noticed something lying on his bunk. He picked it up and sank down on his blanket. It was Charlie's photograph of Ben's mother. Charlie had carved a birch frame for the photograph and left a note beside it:
Greetings, Squire.
You deserve to have this picture on your wall more than I do. Besides, it's time for me to be moving on.
I'll wager a fiver that when you show this to your pa, he'll be able to think of lots more stories to tell you.
Cheerio,
Charles Harrigan
P.S. If things work out with Mrs. You-Know-Who, I may see you soon. If not—you and Nevers stay dry on your river drive.
AFTERWORD
Imagine a four-horse team harnessed in tandem and hitched to a thirty-foot-high sled load of logs weighing 140 tons. Sounds impossible? On February 26, 1893, in northern Minnesota, four horses pulled such a load three miles to a landing, where it was later transported on nine railroad flatcars to the World's Fair in Chicago. That single load scaled out to a total of 36,055 board feet—enough wood to build ten modern homes. Over the years true reports of such gargantuan feats mingled with tall tales, eventually leading to the creation of mythic figures such as Paul Bunyan and his companion, Babe, the blue ox.
But where did America's storied lumberjack traditions begin? Logging has always played a central role in the history of America. Long before the American Revolution, scouts of the British Royal Navy claimed New England's tallest and straightest trees in the name of the crown by blazing them with a broad arrow mark. A Surveyor General of the King's Woods was appointed to protect these trees—some of which were more than two hundred feet tall, and perfect for ships’ masts—but it was impossible to stop the local citizens from cutting them down.
Lumber was not only important for building farms, schools, and churches in Colonial America, but it was also exported in large quantities. Besides providing materials for shipbuilding and cabinetmaking, American lumber was used to manufacture heading and barrel staves. Hogsheads were shipped to the West Indies as molasses containers, while barrels were used to ship apples and potatoes. Wooden lime casks were also in great demand. Milled lumber was traded for gold, rum, and molasses throughout the Caribbean. Cuba used 40 million board feet of American lumber in a single year for sugar boxes.
As settlers moved farther west, the forest was regarded as an impediment to progress. Trees were chopped, girdled, and burned to make way for houses and farms. Everyone assumed that the vast timber reserves were inexhaustible. However, by 1839 loggers had cut their way through the pine stands of Maine, Michigan, and Wisconsin and arrived in Minnesota (then a part of the Wisconsin Territory).
Experienced lumbermen traveled from New England to start the first sawmill in the St. Croix River Valley, and within a decade the community of Stillwater, Minnesota, became the lumber milling center for the whole territory. As the demand for lumber increased, logging camps spread north toward the Canadian border. By the 1860s mills in Stillwater and Minneapolis had switched from circular saws to steam-powered band saws, and their increased efficiency allowed them to supply America's growing need for railroad ties and dimensional lumber. Minnesota wood was soon being marketed from New York to Denver.
In 1900, the peak year of white pine production in Minnesota, 20,000 men and 10,000 horses were employed at lumber camps in the north woods. Using only axes and crosscut saws to fell trees that were often too large for two men to reach around the middle, the lumberjacks harvested 2.3 billion board feet of timber. Enough pine was cut in 1900 alone to build 600,000 two-story homes. That lumber sawed into one-foot-wide boards and placed end to end could have stretched all the way from the earth to the moon!
Soon the white pine reserves, which had been regarded as endless, came to a sudden end. Trees were cut so rapidly that timber production began to decrease as early as 1901. Yet the logging continued. The largest white pine sawmill in the world operated in Virginia, Minnesota, from 1910 to 1929. Every twenty-four hours the Virginia Rainy Lake Company sawed 500,000 board feet of lumber, producing more than 2 billion board feet of lumber and lath in its twenty-year life.
By 1930 the largest logging companies had left Minnesota and headed west, seeking richer stands of timber. Yet the cutting of white pine still went on. Today only 2 percent of the original 3.5 million acres of white pine remain. Except in remote areas such as the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness and the Chippewa National Forest's “Lost Forty” north of Grand Rapids, Minnesota, old-growth pine is extremely rare. Minnesota once had twice as much white pine as New Hampshire, but it presently has less than one twentieth as much.
KITCHEN OF A MINNESOTA LUMBER CAMP CA. 1900
Attempts at reforestation have been complicated by white pine blister rust disease, deer feeding, and modern timbering, which relies on faster-growing species such as aspen. Groups such as the White Pine Society hope that the white pine can be restored, but their funding is limited. Despite these problems, people remain hopeful that with dedication and hard work, Minnesotans can one day help these four-hundred-year-old crown jewels reclaim their rightful place in the forest.
What was it like for the men who worked in the woods back in the lumberjack days?
Though the normal load for the logging sleds wasn't as large as the 140-ton show load that was put together for the World's Fair, four-horse teams typically hauled 20 to 25 tons of wood at a time. The reason such enormous weight could be moved by horses was the system of ice roads that logging camps employed. When the roads were first swamped—or cleared—the grade was carefully calculated to allow for mainly downhill pulls to the landings. Since logging was done only in the winter, a sled-mounted water tank iced the roads to give the runners maximum slippage, and a bull rutter cut grooves into the ice.
As hard as the horses worked in the logging camps, the lumberjacks worked even harder. In fact, most logging camp foremen were more concerned about the health of the horses than that of the jacks, who they believed could take anything.
The jacks, who were infamously crabby fellows, tolerated bitterly cold temperatures and long hours in the woods, but they demanded good food. No matter what the wages, jacks always asked who the cook was before they signed on at a camp. Lumberjacks ate an astonishing 5,000 to 6,000 calories per day.
Lack of winter snow cover or spring rains could make it difficult or impossible to drive the logs to the mill. High water could also cause problems by allowing the logs to float over the riverbanks and become stranded. The men who rode the logs downriver were called river pigs. It took great skill and courage to balance on a log that could easily tip a man into the freezing cold water. A flat-bottomed wanigan boat, a combination floating cookshack and bunkhouse that could accommodate twenty men, accompanied the men on their downriver journey.
Logjams presented the most dangerous obstacle to the river drives. It took great skill for a river pig to identify and remove a key log that could be holding back several million feet of timber. Dynamite was sometimes used to break the logs free, but the job usually fell to a single man who walked out onto the jam and pried or pulled the key log loose. When the logjam broke, many a man was lost as he attempted to run across the crashing logs to the riverbank.
Once the winter logging season was done and the drives were completed, loggers often squandered their wages on a single weekend in town. While a few of the more responsible men saved their money and invested in farms and other businesses, jacks tended to live for the day and not give much thought to anything except getting back under the tar paper again when the next logging season started.
LOGGING HISTORY RESOURCES
The best way to learn about the early days of logging is to talk with real lumberjacks. If there aren't any lumberjacks in your neighborhood, listening to oral history tapes of loggers is a handy substitute. Tapes and transcripts are available at many university libraries, historical societies, and forest history centers. There are also many good books and articles on logging. The following resources will help you get started: