A gray, windy, April morning found a light but steady drizzle falling across the Namakagon River Valley. The snow was all but gone. Across northwestern Wisconsin, skid trails and tote roads had turned to mud from five days of rain. The Namakagon Timber Company yard was no different. There would be no more timber cut this season.
Tor stood before the large windows of the lodge surveying the scene before him. Several inches of water stood on the lake’s diminishing layer of ice, now darkened by the warm temperatures.
Inside, the fire crackled in the fireplace, warming the room. Tor’s thoughts wandered to Rosie sitting at the family piano in Hayward, then to their gathering at Christmas. He hadn’t seen her in more than two months. It wouldn’t be long now. The log drive would start soon, and Tor was determined to ride the pine to Hayward with the river pigs.
“I’ll see you soon, Rosie,” Tor said quietly, gazing across the black ice now covering the lake.
“What’s that, Son?” came from the desk across the room.
“Oh, nothing, Pa, I was just thinking out loud.”
“About what?”
“The drive.”
“The log drive?”
“Ya. I talked with Blackie Jackson yesterday. He’s gonna put me with Lloyd Olson and his men on the front end.”
Olaf wheeled his chair closer. “I need you here, Son. I need you and Junior to push the log booms down to the dam with the Karina. You cannot be on both ends of the drive at the same time. Besides, it is too dangerous out there on that river when it is filled with those half-ton logs.”
“Pa, I have a fine pair of calks. I’ve been practicing. I can walk the logs as good as any blackbird in camp. And I know how to swim, too. Most of your drivers don’t, you know.”
His father wheeled his chair out from behind the desk and joined Tor at the window.
“Son, this winter you learned plenty about the timber business. In spite of your age, you are becoming a damn good lumberjack. I do not blame you for wanting to be part of the drive, but you have more important work to do. Some day you will run this outfit. Let Blackie and Ingman and the boys drive the timber to the mills. You will be far better off here.”
“Let me have my say, Pa,” Tor said, turning to face his father. “First off, I’m seventeen now. Second, if you and Uncle Ingman want me to learn this business, then I need to be in on the drive. Just like I needed to be on Mike Fremont’s saw crew. Just like I needed to be with Swede and Blackie on the cross-haul. Just like I needed to work with Elmer Schmidt and his Percherons, pulling sleighs down the ice roads. Pa, if I’m to learn this business, you need to let me be part of the drive, too.”
Tor turned back to the window, waiting for his father’s reply. He and Olaf stared in silence at more than a hundred thousand pine logs out in the bay.
“Those logs look friendly enough now, just lying there calm and quiet. They are not so friendly once in the river though. They turn mean and nasty. They do their damnedest to make trouble. They trick you. They hide in the brush and try to sneak into backwaters never to be found. They wait till they’re in the worst possible place, then they jam up on you. The other logs cannot wait to make the jam bigger and more dangerous. Sometimes the only thing that will break those jams up is dynamite.”
“The old timers say the logs seek revenge for being plucked from the forest. Son, there have been many a river pig who have been walking the logs with confidence one moment and drowned or crushed to death the next. I’ve seen it happen. A mean log will hunt you down and, when you least expect it, put you under. When the other logs rush in to close over the top of you, well, that’s it. You’re fate is sealed. Nothing left but your hat floating betwixt the logs. You’re gone. Gone forever.” His father’s voice trembled. “Son, last spring ten drivers drowned in one week on a two mile stretch of water upstream from Chippewa Falls. Ten good men. Strong, experienced drivers. Whitewater men. All dead and soon to be forgotten.”
“I have to do this, Pa.”
“Tor, you have no idea how much power the river has. Look at this lake—more than three thousand acres. And Phineas Muldoon has it dammed up eight feet high. Once that dam is opened, there will be millions and millions of gallons of ice cold water blasting down that river and carrying with it thousands of angry logs. It only takes one of them to kill you, Son.”
“Pa, I know you’re concerned about me. I know you want to keep me safe. But you know I have to do this. Just like you and Uncle Ingman had to.”
Olaf sighed. “All right. Once you and Junior get the log booms into the bay near the dam, you can join the drive. But, only if you stay close to your Uncle Ingman. You will get your bellyful of river pig work by the time you reach Hayward. You will be cold and wet and hungry and tired and sore. You will want to get yourself up to Adeline Ringstadt’s Boarding House to rest up. Then, when you are shaped up, catch the train and get back to camp so I can hear your stories.”
“I’ll take care. I promise. I’ll come back safe and sound with tales taller than ol’ Paul Bunyan himself.” He bent down and hugged his father. “Thanks, Pa. Thanks for having faith in me.”
They both stared out the window through the dreary sky. The large bay in front of the Namakagon Timber Company camp was packed with huge pine logs. They were joined together in six large log booms built by Junior Kavanaugh and several other lumberjacks. The ice had given way under the extreme weight of the pine, and the entire bay was now free of ice. The rest of the lake could go out any day.
“This rain will help melt the rest of the ice,” said Tor’s father as he rolled his wheelchair closer to the window. “Our timber will be bound for the mills before the week is out.”
“Junior and Gust ought to have the Karina going today, Pa. We’re figurin’ on launchin’ her later this mornin’. There’s enough open water for her now,” he said, nodding at the bay in front of the lodge. “Sure would be good if the rain were to let up some so we don’t get soaked to the bone when we launch her.”
“Soaked? Tor, you best get used to the idea. There is no such thing as a dry river pig.”
“You’re going to join us when we launch her, right, Pa?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Son, wheelchair or no damn wheelchair!”
Tor crossed the muddy yard to the horse barn. A dozen men examined the boat, still perched on its supports.
Gust was polishing some of the brass on the engine. “She’s fit to launch and all set to sail, Captain Tor,” shouted Gust with a salute.
“Charlie Martin,” said Tor, “how ’bout you and a few of the men lay down some of those tamarack fence posts ’cross the yard to help skid the boat down the hill. I’ll hitch up a couple of hay burners and we can have her launched by dinnertime.”
“Leroy, Mason, Red,” yelled Charlie, “grab some picaroons out of the tool shed and meet me outside. We’re gonna lay some corduroy, boys.”
Elmer Schmidt walked his two Percherons to the boat. Rusty O’Hara helped hitch the team to the boat’s bow. Ernie Milton and Frank Anderson pitched a dozen fence posts onto the barn’s dirt floor, making a bed of rollers leading to the door. Six long, oak poles were lashed to the supports below the hull and angled down to the ground.
More lumberjacks gathered to watch. Gust had the men line up along the boat, a dozen on each side. Grasping the gunwales, they steadied the craft as Ole urged the horses forward. The steamboat slowly slid down the poles and onto the tamarack rollers. Inch by inch, it followed the horse team out the door, crossing the corduroyed yard, and slowly sliding down to the lake. Ole walked the horses out into the water a few yards before unhitching and leading them back to the barn.
The rain turned to a light mist as nearly one hundred Namakagon Timber Camp lumberjacks stood on the shore of the gray lake. The small steamboat was eased into the bay. Gust, Junior, and Tor jumped up onto the deck of the long, wide boat. The blacksmith opened the door to the firebox, struck a match, and soon a coal-black cloud of birch bark smoke spewed from the stack.
Four men hoisted two large boxes onto the deck, each filled with hard maple firewood. Tor and Junior slid the wood bins toward the stern, nearer the large firebox door.
“Gust,” shouted Tor, “she’s drawing only about a foot of draft. That’s less than we figured.”
“Any leaks?”
“None yet,” yelled Junior.
Tor looked up toward the lodge to see his father being carried down to the shore in his wheelchair. Blackie and Ingman were on each side and Chief Namakagon behind, steadying the chair as they crossed the soggy slope. With them were four other men, dressed too well for lumber camp work.
“Friends of your Uncle?” Gust asked.
“Must be, Gust. Probably came to witness the big event.” He tapped a gauge lightly, watching the needle rise.
With pressure in the boiler, Junior pulled a chain, and the sound of Gust’s whistle split the air, echoing back from across the lake.
“Let King Muldoon try to figure what that bird call was, eh fellas?” shouted Junior above the laughter of the other lumberjacks. Screeeeeeeeet, screet, screet.
“Where’s Louie Thorp?” yelled Tor. “Louie, get up here where you belong.”
As Louie climbed aboard, Tor spoke to the men. “Fellas, this here boat would not have been built without the skills of our carpenter, Louie Thorp, and those of Gust, here.
“Junior had a good hand in it, too,” shouted Gust, “and don’t leave yourself out, Tor, and your Uncle Ingman for comin’ up with this lame-brained idea in the first place.” The men laughed and cheered, some waving their hats.
Tor shouted above them. “Many of you others helped out, too. Now it appears we have ourselves a mighty fine, steam powered sternwheeler to help us do our work.” More cheers came from the band of lumberjacks.
“Men,” shouted Olaf, “this is a proud day for me and my brother Ingman and, as you can tell, my boy, there. But there is an even greater day ahead as you well know. Just as soon as the ice goes out, our pine is bound for the mill. Now you know l generally offer double pay for each day spent on the drive. Well, men, that’s out the window.”
The men grumbled as the camp boss continued.
“Pipe down, men. Let me finish. This year, the Namakagon Timber Company will pay not two, but three dollars a day for every man who helps us get this timber over the dam and down to A. J. Hayward’s new mill.”
The lumberjacks cheered and cheered, waving their hats in the misty spring morning air.
“Fellas,” shouted Olaf, “I have one more thing to say. We have no way of knowin’ just what old Phineas Muldoon has in mind. What we do know is that he is not gonna show us any hospitality. There might be trouble. Ingman has learned Muldoon may have hired some Chicago ruffians. We figure, too, Muldoon will have his East Lake camp boys greet us at the dam. Now is your chance to bow out if you have a mind to. As for me, well, you know I am not one to back down.”
“We ain’t backin’ down, neither, Boss,” came a shout. “We’re with you, thick or thin.”
A roar of cheers and raised fists filled the air.
“Fellas, fellas,” yelled Ingman, “listen. We don’t want to be the ones who start the fight, should there be one. Like the fine gentlemen we are, we will wait for them to make the first move. When they do, though, there’s no holdin’ back. We have our rights, men, and, by golly, we are bound and determined to drive our logs, come hell or high water!” The men cheered again. Another screet, screet pierced the air.
“Time to launch this boat, pinery boys,” shouted Tor. “Grab on and give a shove.” While the others cheered, a dozen men waded into the icy water and gave the boat a mighty push. She slid out into the bay gracefully.
Tor pulled an empty wine bottle from the wood box, shouting, “I christen this boat the Empress Karina of Lake Namakagon. Long—may—she—sail!” He smacked it on the boiler and it shattered, falling back into the box.
Another round of cheers went up. Junior sent the head of steam to the engine, reached up, gave the large flywheel a spin, and released the clutch.
The paddlewheel turned slowly, then faster as the boat glided into the bay. Tor pulled the tiller to the far right and she turned easily to port. He then moved the tiller to the left and completed the figure eight before coming back to shore.
The lumberjacks on shore laughed and cheered, waving their hats.
The gray clouds now gave way, letting a thin stream of sunlight fall onto the bay of floating timber. Smoke billowed from the stack of the brightly painted Karina as she gently nosed onto the beach again. Tor and Junior stepped onto the bow rail.
“She waltzes as smooth as the gals in town, fellas,” yelled Junior, laughing and wiggling his hips.
“Say, Leroy,” Tor shouted, “Leroy Phipps. You should step up here, too.”
Leroy jumped at the chance, bounding from shore to deck with a grin.
“Leroy,” said Tor, “grab a couple of sticks of wood for the firebox, would you?”
“Hang on, Gust,” whispered Junior.
Gust grabbed the rail. Leroy bent over to reach into the wood bin.
“Now, Junior!” ordered Tor.
Junior engaged the clutch and the boat lurched back, tossing Leroy into the ice-cold lake. He sprang up and ran to shore, drenched, muddy and sputtering, his wet hat in his hand.
“Leroy,” yelled Tor above the laughter of the men, “I waited four months to get even with you for that kerosene whisky of yours!”
The men laughed and cheered again, but not loud enough to drown out Leroy’s long string of cuss words.
Just as Junior nosed the sternwheeler up onto the beach again, Zach Rigby blew the gabreel. The mass of lumberjacks climbed the slope, crossed the muddy yard, and piled into the cook shanty. Chief Namakagon, Tor, and Ingman helped Olaf back to the lodge. Soon the beach, shore, and yard were quiet again.
“Olaf, Ingman,” said Chief Namakagon as they sat down around the dinner table in the lodge, “this is a very fine spring day, very fine indeed. And, Olaf, this son of yours, well, I have come to believe he is meant to be a leader of men.” Tor beamed with pride.
“I agree, Olaf,” said Ingman. “Tor has earned the confidence of the men. He’s been workin’ shoulder to shoulder with them all winter and become quite the lumberyack.” Ingman reached over and patted Tor soundly on the back. “This boy is growin’ into quite a man, I’d say.”
Tor was at a loss for words.
“Well,” offered Olaf, “it is good to hear such kind words. I am very proud of my boy.”
The lodge door swung open. Both of the camp cookees came into the lodge lugging wooden shipping crates filled with tin dishes, food, and coffee for the noon meal. The aroma of Sourdough’s freshly baked bread soon filled the air. Zeke set a platter of roast bear and a pot of baked beans in the center of the table. The next platter carried stacks of both blackjack and yellowjack squares. A bowl of molasses and a tin plate of butter came next, followed by a stack of quarter-pound sugar cookies. As the men filled their plates, Zach filled their tin cups with hot coffee while Zeke placed a squash pie on the table.
Through the lodge windows, Namakagon noticed the sky now clearing. Soon sunlight glistened off the softening, black ice.
“Yes indeed,” said Namakagon as he stabbed a large piece of roast bear with his knife, “this is truly a very fine spring day.”
Chapter 37
More Skullduggery