The Measure of Katie Calloway,: A Novel (7 page)

“Are you going to cook or are you going to just stand there and gawk, woman?” Jigger said.

“I’ll cook.”

Katie found a large wooden bowl, opened the sack of flour, dipped out several ladles full of creamy white lard, worked it into the flour, and began to roll out piecrusts. There wasn’t enough time to set yeast bread to rising, so her plan was to make dozens of meat-filled pastries. It was the quickest meal she could think of on the spur of the moment. Canned corned beef, potatoes, onions, and carrots were minced and mounded in a large bowl, ready for the filling. By the time the meat pastries were finished, the oven should be heated enough for baking.

She cut circles into the piecrust with a large, empty tin can, spooned the vegetable and meat mixture into the middle, and pressed the edges together to create crescents. Soon, she had several trays laden with the savory pies. Each would be a meal, all by itself.

That chore finished, she cast about for some sort of dessert. It would have to be simple. No time for anything more. Her eyes lit on a case of canned peaches. She still had some piecrust left over. She dumped four large cans of peaches into an enormous baking tin and added cornstarch, sugar, and vanilla extract.

There wasn’t quite enough crust to cover the top of the baking dish, so she made another latticework. Then she sprinkled sugar over the whole thing and shoved the cobbler into the oven the minute the pies came out. A pot of green tea that Jigger had told her to make simmered on the back of the stove.

She checked the firebox. As she had suspected, it had died down. She placed three pieces of hickory inside to keep the temperature even.

Jigger ignored her. Instead, he took on the job of bossing the two men Robert sent over. As she worked, Cletus and Ernie swept out everything from cobwebs to dead birds. They helped Ned with his job, carrying in bucket after bucket of fresh water, scrubbing the floor until the heat of the stove made the steam rise from its damp surface. The long table was cleared of supplies and freshly scrubbed. After it dried, a red-checked oilcloth was rolled out and tacked on. Under Jigger’s supervision, the table was set with freshly washed tin plates and cups. Bowls of sugar and salt shakers were placed in the middle. Last, the two men washed and shined the filthy windows. She could see the whisper of a pink sunset reflected in them.

It had been three hours since they had pulled into camp, and she hadn’t had a chance to sit down, unpack, or even see where she would be sleeping. She was already exhausted, and tonight she was cooking for only a fraction of the men who would be coming. If today was any indication of how things would be over the next seven months, she would be earning her wages, indeed.

7

Potatoes, apples, turnips, beans,

and syrup, pure and sweet.

Although we have no appetite

we cannot help but eat.

“Johnny Carrol’s Camp”
—1800s shanty song

“Supper’s ready.” Katie blew a tendril of hair out of her eyes and placed the cobbler on the table.

“It’s about time,” Jigger complained.

Although Katie thought it was overkill with so few people in the camp, Jigger pulled a giant tin horn off the wall and marched outside. The horn was about two feet taller than he was. He rested it on a stump and proceeded to blow it like a bugle, trilling a few notes, flubbing a few more.

She wiped her hands on her apron and checked the table one more time. For so little notice, the food didn’t look too skimpy. She had unearthed some pickles from the cellar to add to the makeshift supper.

Ernie and Cletus were already inside where they had been working and commenting on the delicious aromas for the past hour. Sam and Ned stomped through the door as Jigger put away the horn. Ned was red-cheeked and breathless, having earlier been given permission to explore the rest of the camp.

Robert was the last in. He stopped and stared at the tray of cobbler and the mound of golden meat pies heaped upon the table. Then he took stock of the dining room, which was now as clean and shining as it was possible for bare wood to be. A look of relief settled on his face.

While Jigger assigned the others their permanent seats, Robert walked over to her.

“How in the world did you manage to do so much so fast?” he asked in a quiet voice. “I wasn’t expecting anything more than some canned beans and hardtack soaked in tea—maybe some cheese to go with it if we were lucky. That’s all Jigger fixes the first night. Instead, you’ve made us a real meal!”

His kind words took her breath away. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been complimented for her cooking—or for anything else.

“Jigger helped,” she said modestly. “He got the place into shape.”

“He’s a competent man when he wants to be. I apologize for the way he’s been acting.”

“I’ve dealt with worse.”

“Hello the camp!” A burly woodsman wearing a bright blue shirt and brown pants cut several inches above the ankles walked through the door with an axe in his hand and a sack slung over one shoulder. “Was that Gabriel’s trumpet I heard blowing? Or was it just the dinner horn?”

“Skypilot!” Ernie jumped up and pumped the man’s hand. “It’s good to see you. Are you working here this winter?”

“If your boss has a job for me.” Skypilot rested his axe on the floor. His eyes, a mild blue above a dark, bushy beard, were filled with good humor. “I’ve heard there’s a new cook in this neck of the woods.”

“Skypilot is one of the best axe men in Michigan,” Ernie told Robert. “We worked with him last winter.”

“I’ve always room on my crew for someone good with an axe, and welcome,” Robert said. “My name is Robert Foster. This is my camp. Come take supper with us.”

“I appreciate it.” The big woodsman leaned his axe against a wall and dropped his pack beside it.

As soon as Skypilot had seated himself, to Katie’s surprise, all hands grabbed a meat pie.

“Pass the pickles,” Ernie said.

Robert scooted the bowl down the table to him. The only sound was that of the stove making clicking noises as it cooled and men wolfing down food. Teeth crunched into crisp, hot pastry, and gravy dripped onto tin plates.

This didn’t seem right. At her mother’s table, there had always been polite conversation. Evidently, none of the men had been taught better manners than to eat in total silence. She decided it might break the ice if she initiated some polite dinner conversation.

“How did you get the name of Skypilot?” she asked.

The big logger stopped in mid-bite, acting surprised at the interruption. His eyes slid over to Robert, and he swallowed before he spoke.

“That’s camp lingo for preacher—which I used to be before the war.”

Jigger, standing near the head of the table, frowned. “No talking at the table!”

“Excuse me?” She had never heard of anything so ridiculous. “Why?”

“We got rules, girlie. Loggers don’t need to be wasting time jawing at each other while they eat. What do you think this is? Some sort of ladies’ tea party?”

“There are only a handful of us,” Robert intervened, glancing at her as she felt herself turning red. “Surely we can relax that rule a bit for tonight.”

“Humph!” Jigger set his mouth in a hard line of disapproval. “You’re the boss. If you want to start changing things just because a woman’s got fancy ideas, I guess that’s your right.”

“Why don’t you sit down, Jigger,” Robert urged. “You’ve had a long day and you must be tired and hungry. I’m sure your arm hurts. Let Katie handle things while you eat.”

Reluctantly, Jigger sat down, and Robert plopped a meat pie onto his plate. Jigger stared at it for a full minute before picking it up. Katie watched closely—afraid he would find fault with it. He nibbled an edge, looked at it, took a full bite, and gobbled the rest, reaching for a second.

“Not the best I ever et,” the old man mumbled. “Not the worst, either.”

She figured that was as close to a compliment as she could hope for from the old cook. She retrieved the kettle from the stove and walked around the table, pouring the scalding hot tea into mugs.

“Have you ever cooked for a lumber camp before, ma’am?” Skypilot asked, holding his cup out for her to fill.

“I’m afraid not.”

“Then I guess you don’t know the way us shanty boys like our tea brewed.”

“How’s that?” She had merely dropped a large fistful of green tea leaves into a kettle filled with boiling water. How else could it be made?

“Well, first, you need to find an old axe head,” he explained. “You got one of them things lying around that she could borrow, Foster?”

Robert solemnly agreed to loan her an axe head.

She couldn’t imagine how it could improve the flavor of tea, but she was eager to try. “Then what?”

“After you boil up the tea, you put the axe head in the water.” Skypilot paused.

“Please go on.” She had always been fascinated with new ways of preparing food. Could there be some sort of reaction between the iron in the axe and an ingredient in the tea that made it taste better?

“If the axe head falls to the bottom of the pot,” Skypilot said, “the tea is too weak.”

Katie noticed that several of the men were grinning.

Skypilot’s eyes were dancing, but his expression was sober. “And if it floats on the top, it’s pretty good.”

“Uh-huh.” She crossed her arms over her chest, realizing that Skypilot was joshing her.

“And if the axe head dissolves—it’s just right.”

Cletus snickered, and Katie smiled. She glanced around the table and saw that even Jigger was enjoying the joke—at her expense, of course.

Skypilot took a long slurp from his cup. “I believe an axe head would dissolve pretty fast in this brew, ma’am. It’s near perfect.”

“Thank you.” Strong tea it was, then. One large fistful per two-quart kettle. “I apologize that there’s no coffee. I couldn’t find any in the supplies.”

“Shanty boys drink green tea.” Jigger made a disgusted sound. “Everybody knows that. Keeps ’em from gettin’ sick—that and plenty of chaw tobacco.”

“I wouldn’t mind some coffee now and then,” Sam offered. “Got kind of used to it when I was a mule skinner in the army.”

“We drink tea in my camp!” Jigger glared at Sam. “Always have. Always will.” He reached for another meat pie as he warmed to his subject. “Next thing you know, you’ll be sucking on those fancy sticks called cigarettes. Real men drink green tea and chaw their tobacco.” He pointed the meat pie at everyone in turn. “I ever catch any of you smoking those little sissy sticks, I’ll kick you outta my camp!”

Katie noticed an amused smile playing around Robert’s lips at the old man’s belief in his ability to control the lumber camp, but he didn’t correct him.

Jigger, having voiced his opinion to his own satisfaction, resumed his meal.

The mound of meat pies was disappearing, and most of the cobbler. She had hoped there would be something left over for her, but at the rate the men were inhaling their supper, it didn’t appear likely. At least Ned was getting his belly filled. He sat beside Robert, concentrating on shoveling in as much food as possible. It did her heart good to see him getting plenty to eat.

All but the last pie was gone. Ernie reached for it, but Robert grabbed his wrist in midair. “The lady hasn’t eaten yet.”

“Oh.” Ernie blushed through the peach fuzz on his face. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I wasn’t thinking.”

To her surprise, Robert arose from the table, grabbed a clean plate, placed the meat pie on it, dished up what was left of the cobbler, and added a spoonful of sweet pickles. “Here. You’re dead on your feet, Katie. You eat and then I want you and Ned to go to your cabin. You need to get some rest before tomorrow. Ernie and Cletus will clean up. Jigger can supervise.”

It had been a long, long time since Katie had been treated with such civility. She sank down onto the far end of the bench, away from the knot of men, and gratefully tucked into her meal.

“Sam already unloaded your things into the cabin,” Robert said when she was finished. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll take you over there before I turn in.”

As they made their way to Robert’s cabin, she wondered if she should apologize. She and Ned were taking the man’s private quarters and there was not a thing she could do about it.

He opened the heavy door and she stepped into a room filled with the soft glow of a kerosene lamp covered with a golden shade. A fire snapped and crackled inside of a small airtight stove. Short, neat lengths of firewood were piled in one corner.

A double bed covered with what appeared to be a fresh sheet sat in another corner. A table with two chairs was pushed beneath the single window. A dresser stood against the opposite wall. In the middle of the room, near the stove, was quite a treasure—a large rocking chair. In one corner sat the trunk she had purchased in Bay City, ready to be unpacked. A strong woodsy scent pervaded the cabin.

“I like this place!” Ned said.

“It’s very nice,” she said. “But why does it smell like Christmas in here?”

Robert stuck his hands into his pockets. “It’s the spruce.”

“Spruce?”

“It’s a shanty boy trick. Sometimes they cut the tips off of spruce trees and layer them beneath a blanket. It makes it a little easier to sleep. I thought it would make things more comfortable for you if there were fresh boughs beneath that straw-tick mattress.”

“When did Ernie and Cletus have time to gather spruce boughs?” she asked. “I watched them cleaning the cook shanty the entire time.”

“They didn’t,” Robert said. “I did.”

She found it hard to imagine the lumber camp boss going to that much effort just for her comfort. Then the thought struck that Robert might have less chivalrous reasons for making her bed comfortable. They were, after all, going to be isolated together in this camp for an entire winter. A cold chill ran down her spine. What had she let herself in for? She glanced at the door. There was no lock or bolt. Feeling a jolt of panic, she grabbed for Ned’s hand.

Robert saw her looking for the reassurance of a lock, and realized why. He berated himself for his thoughtlessness. It had been stupid of him to fuss over her sleeping arrangements. Of course she would take it the wrong way.

While wondering what to do about the situation, he reached up to scratch his head.

Her reaction to his raised hand was startling. She flinched and ducked. Ned backed away and worriedly glanced back and forth between them.

Her terrified reaction stunned Robert. This woman and child acted as though he intended on hitting her! He had never struck a woman in his life. Never had. Never would. He despised men who did.

He had no idea what to say, so he simply stalked out of the cabin, went to the blacksmith’s shop, and came back with a hammer, a large nail, and a short length of oak board.

Without a word of explanation, he pounded the board into the heavy wooden door and then loosened it just enough that it could be moved in a circular fashion. It would make a sturdy makeshift lock for the night.