Chapter 14
Turnabout
Ingman was up at dawn. He shaved at the dry sink near the door, donned a new shirt, added a starched collar and tie, put on his new wool trousers, socks, garters, and boots. He then slipped on his vest and suit coat, fastened his watch fob to his waistband, and dropped his gold watch in a vest pocket. He fastened his tie with a gold pin, donned his derby hat, and stepped in front of the mirror on the dresser. Three minutes later, Ingman sat at the table near the window overlooking the state land office across the street.
While Ingman was finishing his sausage and biscuits, he noticed his new friend, Bob Thompson, unlocking the land office door. Ingman motioned to the waiter.
“I’m in room seven,” he said. “I need you to hold this table for me. I’ll be right back.” He placed a nickel in the palm of the waiter’s hand. The waiter nodded with a wide smile.
Seconds later, Ingman was in the land office.
“Mornin’, Bob.”
“Oh, Ingman,” said the clerk, looking up, “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“How ya doin’ this chilly morning?”
“Good as can be expected after all that beer we drank.”
“Now, Bob,” Ingman said, “about our conversation last night. Are we still gonna give those scoundrels what for? Are you still with me on this?”
“You’re dang right I’m with you. I will hail you from the window just as soon as I hear the Muldoon bid is canceled.”
“All right. That's what I wanted to hear. I’ll be across the street, watching for a signal. I have some work to do that will keep me there all day. You give me a sign, Bob. I’ll take the reins from there.”
“Like I said, though, you keep me clear of it, Ingman. I have a wife and two daughters to support. I can’t afford to lose this job. I won’t risk my life workin’ in the woods. No, sir. I’m no shanty boy and don’t intend to become one.”
“Don’t you fret. Like I said last night, I’ll keep this all under my hat.”
Ingman left the office, crossing the boardwalk and the rutted, frozen street to the hotel. He sat down at his table with a day-old copy of the St. Paul Pioneer Press. Within a few minutes four, big men approached him.
“You be Loken?” one asked.
“I am Ingman Loken. And you?”
“Name is Leonard Lewten out of Mankato, Minnesota. Me and me brothers, we’re up here lookin’ for work. Sign at the depot says you’re hirin’.”
“You fellows have any experience workin’ in the woods?”
“I got two years under me belt as a cross-hauler and river pig,” he answered. “Brother Norman, here, he got two years in as a swamper. Me other brothers, Thomas and Clem, they got no time workin’ in the pinery, but they are both strong as bulls and willin’ to do all what’s needed. Our Pa taught us to work hard. And, like I said, I been a river pig. I been on two log drives, and I can show me brothers the ropes. Us Lewtens don’t mind workin’ in the cold. Don’t matter none if it’s thirty below in Febrary or if we’s neck-deep in the river in April.”
Ingman pulled a small notebook from his inside coat pocket. “You boys drink much?”
“Only on Saturday nights, Mr. Loken. Never in camp, if that’s the rule of the outfit.”
“It is. Hard and fast. Pay is thirty a month guaranteed, plus a bonus if the timber sells high,” said Ingman. “You’ll be in the woods from first light until dark, six days a week. Three meals and bunk included. You’ll draw your pay when the timber gets to the mills, yust like everyone else. Anybody caught stealin’, cheatin’ at cards, or fightin’ in camp will be given his walkin’ papers on the spot. Any man who decides to yump camp to work up in the mines or yoin up with some other lumber outfit, well, he’ll get none of the pay owed him. Not a penny. Leonard, we are good to our men, and we expect them to be loyal to us. Any questions?”
“Them terms are agreeable. Sign us up, Boss.”
“All right boys,” said Ingman, writing four names in his notebook. “You’re in the camp. You’ll need to go north to Cable. You can walk or take the train. Seventeen miles. From there you’ll take the tote road eastward along the river to the dam. It’s a good eight mile walk. There’s a fellow there with a boat who will row you across Lake Namakagon to the camp or you can walk around the south trail, your choice. It’s a half-day on foot. When you get to the camp go straight to the office and tell my brother, Olaf, that I hired you. Your pay and your work starts the next mornin’.”
“That’s fine, Boss. We’ll be there fit and ready to work.”
“Your brothers have anything to say?”
They looked at each other without speaking. Leonard said, “No, sir. I don’t think they do.” Grinning, the four Lewtens left the hotel bar.
With an eye on the land office across the street, Ingman went back to his paper. A tall, broad-shouldered man approached. He wore calked boots laced to the top. Hand-knit green wool socks stretched almost to the knees of his black, wool britches. His green and black plaid wool shirt and black suspenders looked new, but his red mackinaw showed many seasons of use. A sweat-stained felt hat shaded his dark eyes, three-day beard, and heavy, black eyebrows. On the right side of his face lay the telltale pockmarks left after being kicked with calked boots. Overall, he had the look of a hard-living, hard-working, hard-fighting lumberjack. He walked straight to Ingman.
“Your name Loken?”
“Who’s askin’?”
“Jackson’s the name. Mill foreman’s my trade. Lookin’ for winter work.”
“We sold our sawmill near to three years ago,” said Ingman, glancing out the window. “Try A. J. Hayward over at the new dam. Maybe he can put you to work.”
“He’s full up. Thought you could put me somewhere else. I can get good hard work out of men, if hard work is what you want.”
Ingman noticed two men entering the land office and then looked back at Jackson.
“Woods boss yob is filled. Our barn boss yob is open, but I can see that’s not for you. Been on any spring drives?”
“In seven years I worked seven log drives on the Wolf River for the Paulsen outfit down near Fremont. Quit when they pulled up stakes and went down to Fond du Lac. That’s when I got the mill foreman job in Oshkosh. When the mill burnt to the ground I thought I’d give it a try in the pinery again. I gotta tell ya, though; I don’t have much good to say about driving logs on fast water. Loken, I seen men die on them drives. One wrong step and a man can disappear in that ice-cold, muddy water. Nothin’ left but his hat floatin’ twixt the pine. Ain’t no way for a fella to die.”
“Well, Yackson, you can fell or swamp if that’s your likin’, or I can try you out on a chain-haul team. You would be top-loadin’ sleighs. Yob pays thirty-a-month if you want it. You show me your mettle during the winter and, come spring, maybe you can help head up our drive—if you got the gumption. Fifty-dollar bonus, provided you stay with the yob till the logs make the mill. If you yump camp, Jackson, don’t expect to be paid. And, Jackson, no liquor, no guns, no brawlin' in camp.”
The big man nodded in approval. “I’ll take that top-loader job, Mr. Loken. One more thing, I don’t mind a scuffle now and then. You ever need someone with some backbone, you can count on me.”
“Good to know, Yackson. We all get along pretty well in our camp but you yust never know what’s around the next bend.”
“Boss, I’ll turn up in camp in a couple a days. I need to inspect the local scenery here in Hayward first. Might be the last chance for a long while to waltz with the young lassies instead of some ripe-smellin’ shanty boy.”
“Take your time. Yust be in camp before the snow flies.” Reaching for his notebook, Ingman added, “You got a first name, Yackson?”
“I go by Blackie.”
The big lumberjack turned and left, ducking as he passed through the hotel doorway. Ingman looked again at the land office window, saw the two men leave but no sign or signal from the land clerk. Ingman watched Blackie Jackson
cross the rutted street and enter a tavern.
“Blackie Yackson,” he thought. “Seems I’ve heard that name before.” He glanced again at the land office window, then returned to his newspaper. “Blackie Yackson.” He flipped back through several pages. There, in a small, page-three article he read, INFERNO DESTROYS OSHKOSH MILL. Ingman read on.
“A fire has burnt to the ground the Fox-Poygan lumber mill in Oshkosh, Wisc. The Oshkosh City Fire Department dispatched its new hand pumper but to no avail. Water pumped from the river was no match for the flaming pine, the smoke from which rose well into the sky as the fire blazed both day and night. Only the foundation now remains. A blacksmith shop aside the mill was also lost in the blaze, but other nearby mills were spared from the fiery conflagration. The Fox-Poygan mill foreman, who was recently demoted for mistreatment of a workman, is missing and presumed deceased and lost to the fire. Oshkosh police and the Fire Marshall tell this newspaper that they will search for the body of Irving Jackson Black, the missing mill worker, when the embers from the devastation are stone cold.”
“Well I’ll be gol danged!” muttered Ingman. “Blackie Yackson. Now don’t that take all the beer and the bucket, too!”
Five Ojibwe men came in carrying a letter from Chief Namakagon. Ingman hired them on the spot. The Namakagon Timber Company, like many of the camps in the north, counted on the skills of the Chippeways, as the French called them. Ingman assured them that, unlike most of the other camps, a good day’s work would net them the same pay as the other men received.
It took the Norwegian woods boss a while to write their names in the notebook. He sounded the names out as best he could and jotted them down as he thought best. He then numbered the five names in his book and looked up.
“Remember these numbers,” he said, pointing. “You are Yoe-one, you are Yoe-two, you are Yoe-three, you are Yoe-four and you are Yoe-five.”
Four of the Ojibwes laughed at Ingman’s inability to pronounce their names. The fifth man did not.
“I am Misakakojiish,” he said, sternly, “not Joe-five. You write Misakakojiish or you write Angry Badger or you write nothing. Not Joe-five!”
“Angry Badger it is,” Ingman replied, scratching Joe-five from the list and making the change. “I’ll see you fellas in camp.”
Ingman finished his newspaper and pulled his watch from his vest pocket. Half-past nine. He glanced across the street to see a well-dressed man approaching. Ingman watched him enter the land office. The same man stepped back into the morning sun moments later. He pulled a cigar from an inside pocket, struck a match on his boot and lit the cigar. Tossing the spent match into the street, he headed for the depot. Seconds later, Bob Thompson appeared at the window, pulled out a handkerchief, shook it open and blew his nose.
Ingman stood up to let Thompson know he saw the signal. Gulping down his coffee, he tucked his newspaper under his arm, pulled a quarter from his pocket, and dropped it on the table saying, “Hold this table for me again, ya?” He left the hotel and followed the well-dressed man into the depot.
The cigar smoker crossed the waiting room to the telegraph window. “I need to send this message,” he said, handing the telegrapher a note. Ingman sat on a nearby bench, opened his newspaper, and listened.
The telegrapher wore a collarless white shirt. Garters held the sleeves and cuffs up and out of the way of his nimble fingers. He was a younger man, perhaps twenty-three or four. A green visor shielded his eyes from the single, electric light bulb hanging above. He read the note, made some pencil marks on a sheet of paper, and said, “That’ll be nineteen cents, sir.”
The man counted out the coins, laying them on the sill of the barred window. “… Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen. There you are, Sonny.”
Ingman strained to hear the name of the recipient of the message. He could not. He hadn’t counted on the message being on a slip of paper. He needed that name if he hoped to make his plan work.
The man puffed on his cigar as he crossed the waiting room and left the depot. Ingman remained seated, wondering what he might do to get that name. He could hear the clicking and tapping of the telegraph operator’s key.
Seconds later, the depot door swung open. Cigar still in hand, the man approached the window again.
“Sir?” said the telegrapher.
“I need a receipt, Sonny.”
“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”
The telegrapher dipped his pen into the inkwell and began writing. “Let me see … message from Muldoon Lumber Company, Hayward, Wisconsin … to Marvin … Ambruster, Wisconsin Timber Sales Office, East Washington Street, Madison, Wisconsin …. A total of fifty-seven words …and a cost of, let me see… nineteen cents. There you are, sir!”
Ingman pulled his notebook from a pocket as he watched the man again leave the depot. He made a note in his book, tucked his paper under his arm, and returned to the hotel to watch the land sales office across the street. Within minutes he saw a telegraph boy deliver a message to Bob Thompson. Ingman knew Muldoon’s bid from the previous day had been canceled.
At ten before noon Ingman was back in the depot. He sat down in the same seat near the telegraph office window. He re-read his paper and watched the large clock on the waiting room wall while listening to a switch engine move carloads of white pine in the railroad yard.
When the minute hand of the depot clock reached twelve, a lumber mill whistle sounded. Ingman heard the peal of a church bell and saw the telegrapher stand, pull on his topcoat, and leave his post behind the window. Another man sat down in the tall chair behind the window.
Ingman watched and waited as the telegrapher left the depot through a side exit, pulling the collar of his long wool coat around his neck as he met the frigid air. Ingman tucked his paper under his arm and approached the window. The noon attendant looked up.
“I wish to send this message,” Ingman said, handing him a slip of paper.
The new telegrapher read the note out loud. “Disregard earlier message. We have been found out.” He looked at Ingman. “That’s all? No signature?”
“That will be enough,” replied Ingman. “Ya, quite enough. Send it to a Mister Ambruster, State of Wisconsin Timber Sales Office, West Washington Street in Madison.”
“Very well. Eleven cents, sir. Receipt?”
“No need,” replied Ingman, sliding a dime and a penny under the barred window. “Here’s for the telegram.” He slid two more dimes under the window. “And this is for you. I’d like you to keep this under your hat, friend. We don’t want to embarrass anyone.”
“I understand, sir. Thank you very much. Very much, indeed, sir!”
By the time Ingman returned to the hotel, nine more men waited for him, all hoping to become Namakagon Timber Company lumberjacks. He interviewed them, explained the details of their new jobs, and jotted some of their names in his notebook. The waiter took his order for pork roast and johnnycake with gravy, a bowl of canned peaches, and a glass of beer for dinner.
About one twenty he returned to the telegraph office. The young telegraph operator was again on duty. Ingman approached the window.
“Yes, sir? Can I help you?” said the telegrapher.
“I would like to send a message to Marvin Ambruster, Wisconsin Timber Sales Office, East Washington Street, Madison, Wisconsin.”
The telegrapher jotted the recipient on his pad. “And the message, sir?”
Ingman paused, looked over his shoulder to make certain no one was listening, then spoke slowly, pausing to let the telegrapher jot down the message.
“Olaf Loken’s Namakagon Timber Company,” he began, “offers one dollar and sixty cents per acre … for outright purchase of all acreage … within sections five, six, seven, eight, seventeen, and eighteen … of township forty-three north and range five west … including all rights. Stop. Total acreage is three thousand eight hundred and forty. Stop. Total price is six thousand one hundred … and forty-four dollars. Stop.”
Ingman looked over his shoul
der again, turned back, and continued. “Deposit of one hundred dollars will be made … on acceptance of this bid. Stop. Payment in full within eight months. Stop. Ingman Loken, Agent.”
Smiling, Ingman left the depot. He stopped at the Lumberman’s Bank before returning to his hotel table. Minutes later he saw the telegraph boy running down the boardwalk and into the land office. He knew his plan had worked. As soon as the telegraph boy left, Ingman crossed the street to pay the one hundred dollar deposit on the six sections.
“We did it, Bob,” Ingman said as he folded the receipt and placed it in his wallet. “We hornswaggled King Muldoon.”
“Looks as though we did, Ingman. I don’t reckon I’d want to be in the Muldoon Company office when they figure this out.”
Ingman gave his new friend a hearty handshake. With his left hand, he stuffed a twenty-dollar bill into the clerk’s jacket pocket.
Thompson looked at the bill. “That’s a month’s wages, Ingman. I can’t accept …”
“That’s not for you, Bob. It’s for your wife and your daughters. Buy them some new Sunday clothes, my friend”
Ingman checked out of the hotel the next morning. He caught the first train to Cable. By late afternoon, he was relating the tale of his land purchase to his brother and nephew. They both rolled with laughter at his outrageous ingenuity.
Olaf pulled the cork from a bottle he kept in his desk and poured two glasses of the amber liquid. He glanced at Tor, looked to Ingman, and with a nod and a smile, poured a third glass, handing it to his son.
“To the new Loken pinery,” he said. “May it share with us both its bounty and beauty for many years to come!”
The three Lokens touched glasses and Tor got his first taste of brandy.