Chapter 29
Sunday at the Loken Camp
In the Namakagon Timber Company camp, morning came early if you wanted breakfast. Sunday, December 9, 1883 was no exception. More than half of the camp’s one hundred men were in town the night before, in the taverns, gambling halls, and sporting houses until the early morning hours. Dawn was breaking as the large timber sleighs returned to camp. Just as the men fell into their bunks, the camp cook gave the breakfast call, banging on an empty pot, perhaps a little louder than usual.
“Get up you lazy drunks! Get up if you want your beans and biscuits or go hungry till dinnertime,” he shouted. “Coffee’s hot and the day’s a-wastin’. Rise and shine, men. Come—and—get it!”
Grumbling and cussing could be heard up and down the row. Many of the men were quick to leave their bunks, knowing if they missed breakfast, their first meal of the day would be the noon dinner.
“Sourdough,” called out one of the lumberjacks, “you, sir, are a cruel and heartless man.”
“Call me names if you want, Charlie Martin, but I am the fellow who keeps your belly full. And don’t you by God forget it!”
As some of the rising lumberjacks pulled on their boots, others were already stumbling down the trail leading to the latrine. Soon most of the men lined the tables for their morning meal. About a dozen stayed in their bunks, sleeping off their Saturday night on the town.
Sourdough sent his cookees over to the lodge with breakfast for the Lokens. When breakfast was done, Ingman and Tor helped Olaf across the yard to the cook shanty as the lumberjacks set about doing their Sunday chores.
Eight buckets of water had been placed on the hot kitchen range. While they heated, Sourdough’s sewing kit was passed up and down the deacon’s bench for use by those who needed to sew up tears in their clothing, either from their week in the woods or their night on the town. Yarn was used to darn holes in their wool socks. Buttons were stitched back onto coats, shirts, and britches. By seven o’clock, the water in the buckets was boiling.
The two cookees carried the steaming buckets outside and dumped them into four washtubs. Men, now wearing only their union suits, lined up to wash their britches, socks and shirts. After thrashing their clothes on the scrub board and rinsing them in near-scalding water, they wrung the woolens out and hung them on a rope above the pot-bellied heater at the far end of the sleep shanty. The skylight above the stove was opened wide in a vain attempt to freshen the air.
Ingman poured two cups of coffee, handing one to Olaf. “Did everybody make it back safe and sound, Blackie?” asked Ingman.
“All present and accounted for, Boss. Ernie Milton has a pretty good cut on his chin, and Red Olsen got his arm waffled, but they will both be on the job tomorrow. All in all, Boss, the boys had a rip-snortin’ time with little harm done.”
Blackie put his arm over Tor’s shoulder. “This young fella here and ol’ Chief Namakagon sure were the talk of the town. Seems like every man and woman there was askin’ about the robbery and them outlaws and such. Tor,” he said with a grin, “you, young fella, are a pinery hero.”
“Hero?” said Tor. “I don’t believe I’m any such thing. I didn’t do anything that anyone else wouldn’t have done.”
“Be that as it may, Tor,” said Blackie, “you and old Chief were the fellas that saved the day. If I was you, I’d be holdin’ my chin up real high. Ain’t every day you get such a pat on the back. Enjoy it with pride, young fella, while folks still remember.”
Sourdough stood up on a nearby bench and shouted across the room, “All right, shanty boys, finish up your chores and clean off the tables so as I can fix up our Sunday dinner. I don’t need to remind you that we expect company in camp today, but I will anyhow. The boss is hopin’ you’ll do your best to make a good impression on our guests. Hold down your cussin’ and show off your good manners, those of you who got some. Once Olaf Loken’s guests leave camp, you can resume your gol dang distasteful, disagreeable, and downright disgusting ways.”
As the Lokens left their table, Junior came through the kitchen door, eyes bloodshot, straw clinging to his new suit, and hat wrinkled. He went straight for the water pail, grabbed the dipper, tipped it up, and drank, water spilling down his shirt.
“You got some pretty fancy clothes there, Junior. You runnin’ for mayor?” quipped the cook.
“Sourdough, I spent every last penny I took to town last night and all I have to show for it is this here suit and a throbbin’ head. But, oh by golly, it was worth it!” Junior then recalled the evening’s events, omitting his lapse of memory brought on by too much beer. He artfully embellished other parts of the story, as a young man might. His tale ended with his race to catch the sleigh back to camp while being chased by a pack of hungry wolves. Junior's story had the beginnings of a fine lumber camp yarn.
By eleven o’clock, Sourdough and his cookees were ready for the big meal. They knew the pork sides on the spit would be done to perfection just in time for dinner, as would the venison and bear roasting in the oven. Bowls of molasses, butter, brown sugar, and bacon grease sat on the oilcloth-covered tables. Knives, forks, and spoons stood in the center of each table in large tin cans. A hundred tin plates and cups were in place. The camp cookees put trays stacked high with fresh biscuits and bread up and down the tables, leaving room for the large platters of meat, potatoes, gravy, and squash soon to be served.
Back in his room, Tor changed into his best britches. He buttoned the shirt, fastened his suspenders, and pulled on his leather boots. Next he reached under his bed and pulled out his green wooden box. Flipping open the lid, he pulled out another box, white, about the size of a deck of cards. He placed it in the pocket of his shirt and buttoned the flap, then slid the green box back under the bed.
Tor crossed the small room to his dresser. Pouring some water into the washbowl, he washed his hands and splashed some water onto his face and hair before fumbling for a flour sack towel. He looked into the small mirror hanging on the wall, opened a small tin of lard, scented with wintergreen leaves, scooped some onto his finger tips and, with both hands now, vigorously rubbed it into his hair.
Tor stared into the wavy reflection in the mirror as he combed his hair, parting it straight down the middle. As he finished, he noticed something far across the lake. “Rosie!” he said. He dropped the comb onto his dresser next to the open tin of hair grease and ran down the stairs.
“Somebody’s coming!” he shouted to his father who sat at the office desk. Snatching his father’s field glasses from the mantle, he rushed to the large window overlooking the lake and peered through the binoculars. “Oh,” he grumbled, “it’s just Chief Namakagon.”
“You don’t sound very eager to see him, Tor. I should think you would want to hear his account of his capture of that escaped train robber.”
“What? Oh, no, Pa,” said Tor, hiding his disappointment, “I do want to hear his story.”
Tor watched through the field glasses, following as Namakagon came closer. The chief, pulled by Waabishki and Makade, stood tall and regal on the back of the sled’s runners. They skimmed across the snow and soon ascended the trail leading up to the lumber camp.
Namakagon jumped off the runners but hung onto the sled, running behind and giving it an extra push up the bank. At the top of the hill he jumped back on and they sailed into the yard with flair. He unfastened his small pack from the sled and released the dogs, letting them explore the grounds as he walked to the lodge. Tor was there to open the door as Ogimaa Mikwam-migwan entered the room. He tossed off his bearskin robe, leaned his walking stick in the corner, and gave the boy a hearty hug. “Good to see you, young woodsman.”
“Mighty pleased you could join us,” Tor replied. “We’ve been on pins and needles, waiting to hear the tale of you and that runaway villain, Percy Wilkins.”
Tor’s father wheeled away from his desk, joining the others. “Namakagon! Welcome back to our camp. We have been wondering when you would return.”
“Olaf, between the hunt for the thief and the pestering from the newspaper men, these old bones got weary. I needed to rest.”
“Will you stay awhile?” said Olaf.
“I can. Perhaps I may even provide some fish for your table. Maybe your son would like to join me?”
“Oh, I doubt that I can find time,” said Tor, staring out the window again. “I’m sawing for Mike Fremont’s crew.”
“Only half days,” said his father. “You haven’t tried fishin’ through the ice. You’d enjoy it, Son. I surely used to.”
“I don’t know, Pa,” replied Tor, peering through the binoculars, “I’m awful busy these days. I just don’t know if I can find the time.”
Olaf Loken looked at his son with a raised eyebrow. Namakagon smiled.
“I have heard this many times before,” said the chief. “People say they do not have time for this, time for that, time for the things that may be most important in their lives. Young friend, let me explain something I have learned in my many years. Time, Tor, is the only thing we mortals are given by Gitchee Manitou. We do not own the earth, the trees, the waters, the animals, the stars. Even those material things we bring into our lives are not really ours to keep, but only to use during our stay here. No, Tor, when you look closely at life, you come to understand time is the only thing we have. Some of us use it wisely. Others waste it by wandering the wrong trails—chasing fortune rather than contentment. Time is all we have, young woodsman. It is life’s most precious gift and we must make the best use of it until it is gone and our dust again mingles with that of our Earth Mother. Until then, as I said, time is all we have.”
“Good advice, Tor,” said his father. “For the last two years I have thought about my past. I realize now how much I regret many choices I made back when I still had my legs—many things I did not do that I could have done. Many places I never saw—places I may never see. Listen to Chief Namakagon. He is right, Son. Time truly is life’s most precious gift.”
“Tor, you are very fortunate,” said Namakagon. “You have something we have lost.”
“I have?”
“Yes. You have youth. You have many years ahead. You have opportunities to choose your trails. Learn all you can about this land. Make this a better place to live, young woodsman. Care for the land and it will care for you, young woodsman.”
Namakagon walked to the door. He put two fingers to his lips and gave a shrill whistle. His two dogs bounded in and sat at his feet. “Are you two beggars behaving yourselves?” he said, scratching their ears. The chief spread his bearskin robe on the floor in a corner of the room. With a snap of his fingers, his dogs were sitting on the robe. “Makade, Waabishki, stay.” he ordered.
Tor stepped to the window with his father’s binoculars again just as the door swung open. Sourdough stepped in. “Olaf, you want your dinner here or with the men?”
“In here, Sourdough. No need to expose our guests to the unique fragrances of the bunkhouse.”
“How many you expectin’?”
“Let me see. Tor, Ingman, and me,” Olaf counted, “then Namakagon, that is four, then Oscar, that comes to five. If she makes it, we may have Adeline Ringstadt and maybe two of her three daughters here, too. Better have your cookee set the table for eight, Sourdough.”
“Make it nine,” said Tor, peering across the lake through the field glasses. “They’re comin’ around the point right now, and I see the three Ringstadts and Oscar Felsman, and one more fella.”
“Wonder who it is,” said Olaf.
“Looks to me like a preacher,” Tor replied.
“A preacher?” said Sourdough, looking out the window. “Not often we see a sky-pilot out this far.” Olaf wheeled closer to the window. The chief looked over his shoulder.
“Looks to be Reverend Spooner,” said Olaf. “Must be escorting the Ringstadts.”
“Say, Boss,” said Sourdough, “maybe Adeline has some plans for you. Maybe she brung along her own preacher to do the last rights and matrimonials.”
“Bite your tongue, Sourdough. I am not in the market.”
The five guests entered the lodge, Zeke and Zach right behind. The cookies wore clean, white aprons and carried a large platters of roast pork, venison, and bear. Soon they had the table set with a basket of biscuits, bowls of butter, molasses, honey, Sourdough’s cranberry chutney, a bowl of squash, another of baked beans, and more. Apple, pumpkin and mincemeat pies were delivered next, along with a pitcher of milk, a big pot of coffee, another of tea and a third of hot cocoa. By the time the food was on, Oscar had set up a wooden keg filled with his home brew. He drove the spigot into the bung and a loud fisssss alerted the group this Namakagon Timber Company dinner party had officially commenced.