Chapter 30
The Dinner Party
Tor had planned this for days. His father would take the chair at the head of the table, as usual. Uncle Ingman would sit at the opposite end. Tor would sit in the corner seat next to his father, and Rose would sit beside him. He didn’t care where the others sat as long as he could be near Rosie.
As she neared the table, Tor pulled out a chair. She smiled at him, but before she could step forward, her younger sister Daisy slid into the seat. Tor did not flinch, at least not outwardly. He looked at Rose, then moved around to the other side of the table and pulled out another chair for her, thinking he could sit near his uncle and still have Rosie by his side.
“Why thank you, Tor,” said Adeline as she plopped down in the chair. “How very polite. Olaf, I see you have raised a well-mannered gentleman.”
Tor rushed to the other side of the large pine table where two more open chairs stood. “One for me, one for my Rosie,” he said to himself. Reverend Spooner stepped in front of him, taking one of the chairs, Oscar the other. Back he went again, but too late. Namakagon pulled out a chair and motioned Rose to sit next to him. She did. Tor took the last seat, between Chief Namakagon and his father. His plan had failed. He would not sit next to the girl he longed for. He glanced toward Rosie. She looked back with a hint of sympathetic sadness in her eye after seeing her would-be beau work so hard to be near her.
“Excuse me, Sir,” Rose whispered to the chief, “would you mind switching places with me?”
“Of course. I was wondering which of you would ask first.”
“This is such a delightful treat, Olaf,” said Adeline. She wore a long, gray wool dress and had her dark hair tied up in a tight bun. White silk handkerchiefs peeked out perfectly from under each of the tight cuffs on her long sleeves. Her daughter, Rose, sitting across from her, also wore a long-sleeved dress, but the color was a better choice for her age—a bright red and green plaid. She wore a red ribbon in her long brown hair.
“I am so pleased you could join us, Adeline. Don’t get many visitors out this far,” said Olaf, reaching for the biscuits.
“Perhaps it would be good to give thanks for these gifts before we indulge,” said the Reverend. Olaf drew back his hand.
“Dear Father who art in Heaven,” began the preacher, “we miserable sinners deserve neither your graces nor this bounty of food you have sent down to us from above. Please have mercy on us when our judgment day comes and reward most those of us who have given generously to your house of worship so that your will may be done. May each bite of this, your food, remind us that those who honor you by giving most charitably are those most likely to have their prayers answered. Amen.”
“That was so moving, Reverend,” said Adeline, reaching for the apple butter. “You are so clever with your words.”
“I agree,” said Namakagon. “I cannot recall when I heard such words.” Then, whispering to Tor, “Perhaps the last time was during that holdup on the train.” Tor forced back his laughter.
“Say now, Olaf,” said the preacher, “as long as I have ventured out this far, I would like to hold a church service for your men after dinner. I would imagine they haven’t uttered the Lord’s name for a while.”
“Oh, no, Reverend,” said Tor, “I hear the men use the Lord’s name mornin’ noon, and night.”
“Reverend, you are welcome to use the cook shanty after the tables are cleared,” said Olaf. “I have no objection. Surely can’t do much damage.”
“Ya,” added Ingman, “I suppose some of the fellas might appreciate some words from the good book. Those who don’t want to listen to your talk, well, that is their choice. I have a feelin' most of our men are not the prayin’ type.”
“Maybe not,” said Olaf, “at least not till a man sees a big pine falling toward him instead of away.”
“Tor, did you know you are a hero in Hayward?” interrupted Daisy. “Everyone is talking about you and how you saved the Omaha.”
“Saved the Omaha?”
“Saved it from being robbed, Tor.”
“That’s not quite how the story goes, Daisy. It wasn’t a train robbery at all. And I sure didn’t do a whole lot to help.”
“That does not liken to what the St. Paul Pioneer Press professed,” said Reverend Spooner. “We brought you a copy. Tor, they have you and Chief Namakagon portrayed as quite the champions. They filled four entire pages discussing the glories of your noble battle with those hooligans. They have artist’s depictions of you wrestling the revolver from the thug’s hands, of the train, the trestle, and even one of the villain all bandaged and shackled up in the county jailhouse. The paper says they haven’t found the other hooligan yet. Seems he was lost to the icy Namekagon River for eternity.”
Chief Namakagon interrupted, sternly. “No battle. No glories. We were victims. We used our heads, turned the tables. One man is now crippled for life and will spend much of that life in prison. The other is lost under the ice. The word glory, Reverend, does not apply. Perhaps it should be saved for your sermons.”
“Whether it applies or not,” said Rose, “it pains me to admit that my little sister is correct. Chief Namakagon, Tor, they do speak of you two as the heroes of the pinery. The paper says the new governor thinks so, too. He’ll be coming soon—all the way from Madison, just to honor you. Pretty good evidence you are heroes, I would say.”
“When is he coming?” said Ingman.
“Just before Christmas, or so the paper reports,” said the Reverend.
“Is the governor coming here for us?” asked the chief. “Or for himself.”
Olaf answered. “There are thirty, forty thousand lumberjacks and miners up in this country now, and another twenty thousand to the east, near the Wisconsin River. More and more come every day. He is wise to visit the north if he values their votes.”
“That story in the Pioneer Press was the work of the railroad company,” said Oscar, stabbing a large piece of roast pork with his fork. “The head office knows it’s good for business to get a railroad adventure story in the paper. Over the next year we will probably have hundreds of folks voyaging up here—each, mind you, at four cents a mile, just to see the bridge where that fella met his maker. And they’ll be searchin’ every passenger car to look for bullet holes and bloodstains. Tor, you and Chief here, could not have done better for the rail business unless you captured Jesse James himself, by God!”
Reverend Spooner shot him a piercing stare.
“Rose,” said Adeline, “how ’bout fetchin’ up a round of beers to celebrate our pinery heroes.”
“I’ll help!” said Tor, almost knocking over his chair as he stood.
“Good idea,” added Oscar. “I brewed that beer myself, and brought it along just to mark this event. I have no intention of takin’ back more than the empty keg.”
Ingman held his glass high. “Well, here’s to our two pinery heroes, whether they like being called that or they do not.”
“And here’s to the charming ladies seated at our table,” Tor said, looking at Rosie. “May they return again, and gol dang soon! Uh, oh, sorry, Reverend.”
In the cook shanty, the empty bowls, platters, and dishes were cleared and the tables wiped down. Reverend Wilmer P. Spooner soon stood before the men, bible in hand. He offered a rousing service, inspiring the thirty-two men who attended to put any pocket change they had left from their Saturday night fling into the hat he passed. His sermon was so moving that four of them pledged to swear off cussing until Christmas.
The rest of the men went down to the lake for their usual Sunday afternoon game of lacrosse. They broke into teams, divided up their homemade equipment, and played in the deep snow covering the ice. Those unwilling to suffer the punishment of the rough game cheered others on.
Tor did not play today. Instead, he gave Rose a tour of the camp.
“Me, too,” shouted Daisy. “I want to see the camp.”
“Daisy, you stay here with me,” said Adeli
ne. “Let Tor show your sister around.”
“Mother,” cried Daisy, “that's not fair! I want to go, too.” But her pleas did not work and, much to her dismay, she stayed in the lodge with the adults, silently pouting.
Tor gave Rose a complete tour, showing her everything from the filing shed and blacksmith shop to the tool shed, horse barn, pigpen, corral, and woodshed. He pointed out the dynamite shack far up on the hill, and they ended in the cook shanty, just as the reverend finished his service.
“Don’t mind the smell in here, Rosie,” said Tor, “most of the men don’t take a bath until the spring drive. In fact, most are convinced it is bad for your health to take a bath in the winter.”
“Tor, how can anyone stand to eat in here?”
“Oh, you get used to it.”
“So they wait until spring to take a bath?”
“Well, the men that drive logs fall in the river enough to get a good washin’. Most of the others don’t like mosquitoes much, so, come spring, they still don’t take a bath. They think if they can keep up a good stink it’ll keep the bugs away. I don’t think it works, much. They still get bit. Graybacks get ’em in the winter, mosquitoes and ticks in the summer. It’s a wonder they have any blood left, come fall.”
“Tor,” Rose said quietly, “I think I had too much of Mr. Felsman’s beer. I need—I need to go.”
“Go where?”
“I need to go, Tor. I need to go!”
Tor looked puzzled, then suddenly understood.
“Oh, oh, I see,” he said, turning red. “You need to see a man about a horse.”
“A horse? Lord, no, Tor, I need a privy. And gol dang soon!”
Tor was shocked to hear such language used by a girl, especially his Rosie. He whisked her out of the cook shanty and escorted her down the trail behind the lodge to the outhouse used only by the Lokens and their guests.
“Here you are, Rosie. I’ll keep a look out and fend off any train-robbin’ hooligans who come this way.”
“See, you are a hero—my hero. Now you go way up on the path. Way, way up.”
Minutes later, Rosie and Tor walked down to the lake. Watching the men play lacrosse, they talked and laughed. It seemed only moments before Daisy called down from the porch to tell Rose it was time to leave.
As they walked back to the lodge, Tor reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the small, white box. “Here, Rosie, this is for you.” He placed the box in her hand. “Remember the light blue ribbon you gave me to remember you by?”
“Yes?”
“Well, this is so you don’t forget me, Rosie.”
She opened the box and pulled out the small, heart-shaped, gold locket.
“Tor, it is lovely! I've never had such a wonderful, thoughtful gift.” She pulled it carefully from the box and held it in her hand. “And I have never known such a nice boy. You are my hero, Tor Loken, and you always will be.” She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.
Stunned and thrilled, Tor was speechless once more. And relieved when, right then, Uncle Ingman opened the door to say, “Better get a move-on, you two. Nephew, we don’t want our guests to miss the southbound.”
Before entering the lodge, Tor put the chain around Rosie’s neck and found his voice again. “I’m comin’ to see you just as dang soon as I can. I want to hear you play your piano and sing your sweet songs. I’m comin’ to see you, Rosie. You have my solemn word on it.”
“I will measure every day until you do, Tor Loken,” she replied, taking his hands in hers. “And don’t you worry about my little sisters. I’ll lock them in the attic when you come—or maybe I should forget about them, and we can just lock ourselves in the attic!” Rose leaned in and gave him another kiss on the cheek.
Tor’s heart was racing when they entered the lodge. Ingman sat at the table enjoying the last of Oscar’s home brew. Chief Namakagon’s dogs were still sitting on the bearskin robe. The traveling dinner guests wore their coats and hats. Olaf wrapped a long scarf around Daisy’s neck and face. Tor handed Rose the floppy felt hat she wore on the trip to the camp.
Farewells were exchanged as the Lokens’ guests boarded Oscar’s sleigh. Tor stood on a runner, riding alongside as it traveled down the hill in front of the lodge. When it reached the lake he jumped off, shouted his goodbye, and waved as Oscar’s horses picked up speed. The sleigh skimmed across the snow-covered ice.
With the mid-December sun still high above the tree tops on the southwest shore, Tor sprinted back up the hill. He rushed into the lodge, grabbed his father’s binoculars, and ran up the stairs, two steps at a time. From his window he watched as the sleigh appeared to get smaller and smaller until it rounded the point and disappeared from sight.
“I’m comin’ to see you, Rosie,” he whispered. “You have my solemn word on it.”