Chapter 16
Yellowjack, Blackjack, and Flapjacks
Sourdough, his two cookees, Zeke and Zach, and Harry Green, the bull-cook, were always first to rise. Harry had already stoked up the stoves and pumped water for coffee, tea, and cooking. Meanwhile, Sourdough sliced enough smoked pork for a hundred men. The pork now sizzled in four huge cast iron pans on the two big Monarch wood-fired ranges while water boiled in the reservoirs built into the stoves. Roaring fires inside each range made both stovepipes glow a deep red in the dim light from two oil lamps.
Harry used a two-foot-long wooden spoon to stir a large bucket filled with yellowjack batter. He ladled several cups of pork fat from the frying pans into four enormous cake pans, swishing it around before pouring in the cornbread batter. Next, he transferred boiling water from the stove reservoirs to pots and tossed a handful of tea into each pot before opening the oven door to remove three more big pans filled with steaming blackjack. The yellowjack pans went into the oven in their place. Harry moved the blackjack to the chopping block, flipped it out of the pans and cut it into four-inch squares. Trays stacked high with the hot blackjack squares were set on the tables.
Next, Harry dished the pork onto large platters and scooped the hot pork fat into bowls. The cookees distributed the platters and bowls to tables already set with pots of baked beans, bowls of molasses, tin plates, cups utensils, and the blackjack.
While the cookees and Harry attended to the daily breakfast duties, Sourdough was mixing batter, pouring, flipping and stacking golden brown flapjacks onto tin platters. Each was the size of a plate and a half-inch thick. Two of these, along with the baked beans, blackjack, yellowjack, and smoked pork would satisfy even the hungriest lumberjack on this cold winter morning.
“Time to rattle the bear cage, boys,” shouted Sourdough, “ and don’t take no guff. Get those lazy bums out of their bunks and tell ’em to leave the graybacks where they be.”
“Yes, sir, Sourdough!” shouted Zeke. He and his brother set out the last bowls of hot pork grease before Zeke ran down to the end of the bunkhouse, turned, and cried out, “Five o’clock! Chow down or go hungry till dinnertime.”
Some men stirred. Others grumbled obscenities at the boy who walked the row waking the workers. “Day’s a-wastin’, bark eaters. Food’s on the board, hot and ready to go.”
Sourdough looked up from his work. “Harry, watch the oven. This time, don’t burn your dang johnnycake. I don’t want to be blamed for your mistake again today.”
Using a washrag to protect his hand, Harry opened and closed the oven door. “Still needs another two minutes, Boss.”
“Yellowjack, blackjack and flapjacks, get ’em while they're hot, lumberjacks,” Zach cried out, ducking a shoe-pac thrown by one of the men. “Up and at ’em, bark eaters,” Zeke shouted, throwing it back.
Harry pulled his pans of Yellowjack from the hot ovens. He then crossed the room and propped open the large double door to cool down the cook shanty. The hot, humid air escaping into the frigid, black December night immediately turned into a great cloud of steam before rising.
“Must be ten, fifteen below,” complained Klaus Verner, returning from his walk to the latrine.
“Them pines don’t care how cold it is, boys,” hollered Blackie Jackson. “Don’t matter to them and, by God, it shouldn’t matter to you, neither.”
“Ya, Blackie, but that don’t mean we gotta like it,” yelled Tex Ketchum from the far end of the bunkhouse.
“Move it along, shanty boys,” bellowed Sourdough. “You’ll enjoy the cold more if you have your bellies full, And what you don’t eat I throw to the hogs. It’s them or you, and it don't make no matter to me!”
Within moments the benches along the long oilcloth-covered tables were filled. The men ate in silence as Harry and the cookees shuttled hot coffee and tea to them. Only the sounds of knives and forks against tin plates could be heard.
Up and down the tables, food disappeared from the large serving plates and bowls, all placed within reach of every group of four men. Hot pork grease and molasses were poured over the flapjacks. Sourdough supplied more flapjacks as the lumberjacks emptied the platters.
Barely awake, Junior Kavanaugh, stumbled in from the barn, oat straw on his hat, coat and britches. Ingman Loken was right behind him. “Daylight in the swamp, men!” shouted Ingman. “You can’t earn your pay by sittin’ here sippin’ that shoe polish ol’ Sourdough calls coffee!”
Sourdough looked up from the stove. “Anyone here who don’t like my coffee don’t have to drink it,” he bellowed, staring directly at the woods boss.
Grinning, Ingman sat down at the table nearest the cook stove just as Tor and his father entered through the cook shanty door. Tor pushed his father’s wheelchair up to the table. They filled their plates as some workers, hats pulled down and clad in mackinaw coats, filed out into the dim morning light. The side door opened again, and Chief Namakagon entered the room.
“Boozhoo,” muttered Namakagon. “Sourdough, what delicacies have you prepared for us this fine morning?”
“Delicacies? Oh yes, delicacies, let me see …” The camp cook slapped a big tin plate heaped with flapjacks onto the table. “Sautéed salamanders, pickled porcupine, fried frog feathers and field mouse pie!” Then, pouring hot coffee into their tin cups, “And here’s some sparkly champagne to wash it all down your gullets, moin-sewers.”
“Doesn’t smell half bad in here, Sourdough,” said Ingman. “Don’t tell me you got the boys to wash their socks.”
“Wash their socks?” replied Sourdough. “These roughneck bums? Never! Ingman, the sweet fragrance of my good cookin’ mixed with the smoke from this leaky old stove is what covers up the fumes from them foul-smellin’ shanty boys of yours.” Then, “Junior, fetch that bowl of butter from off the window sill for the boss and his guest. And bring over the maple syrup, there.”
“Junior,” said Olaf, “how are you getting on here in camp?”
“Good, sir. Real good.” he replied, setting the butter on the table. “Better than danged ol’ farm work! And when ol’ Sourdough ain’t lookin’, I get my fill of pies.”
“Hey, you skinny little whippersnapper, you best not be pilferin’ my pies!” griped Sourdough. “I’ll kick your skinny butt into section thirty-seven!”
“You’d never catch him, Sourdough,” said Ingman. “You got forty more years on Yunior and two hundred extra pounds.” Sourdough grunted.
“Junior,” said Tor, “Chief Namakagon and I are taking the mornin’ train to Hayward to pick up some supplies.”
“Well, ain’t you the lucky pole cat,” exclaimed Junior.
“We need some more stove lids here,” said Ingman. The cookees brought a fresh stack of large pancakes and another platter of smoked pork.
Tor spread butter on his second plate of flapjacks and poured the hot molasses over the flapjacks, the baked beans and his corn bread. He stabbed a piece of pork so large that he almost had to drag it from the platter to his plate. Harry poured more hot coffee into their tin cups.
“Tor,” said Sourdough, “can you bring me two quarts of lemon extract from the grocer? I’m plannin’ on making up some lemon pies for Christmas day. And a pound of nutmeg, too.”
“I surely can, Sourdough,” replied Tor.
“Need anything else, Sourdough?” asked Olaf. “Now’s the time to speak up.”
“We’re pretty well stocked up for now, Boss,” replied Sourdough. “If I put much more in the cupboard, there won’t be any room left for the mice.”
Ingman gulped down his coffee and stood up.
“On that fine note, I think I best catch up with the boys,” he said, pulling on his mackinaw. “I have two crews movin’ into those pines along the creek today. I need to blaze a skid trail across the swamp for ’em. No way they can cross that ridge.” He opened the door, then turned back into the room. “Oh, Tor, I’ll see to it that the cutter is hitched and ready for your trip to town.”
Ingman heade
d toward the horse barn. Olaf, Tor, and Chief Namakagon finished breakfast and returned to the lodge. Harry Green and the cookees started the breakfast clean-up as Sourdough measured out ingredients for twenty-five loaves of bread. Junior helped for a while, before returning to the barn to start his daily chores.
Back in the lodge, Olaf wheeled over to his desk. “Tor,” he said, handing his son a letter, “I want you to take this note to the Lumberman’s Bank as soon as you get to town. The bank president will prepare a canvas wallet containing some money for you to pick up just before you return tomorrow. Now Tor, it’s important for you to keep to yourself on your way back. I’ve already talked this over with Namakagon. He’ll stay close by until you return.”
“All right, pa.” Tor said, buttoning the note into his back pocket, “Can I ask what the money is for?”
“Well, Son, there’s been good snow and cold temperatures. The boys have been working plenty hard and we are already well ahead of the game. I decided it’s time we gave the fells a chance to blow off some steam. I’m going to give them an advance on their spring wages so they can go to town Saturday night. You’ll have five hundred dollars under your care, Son. I don’t expect you’ll have any problems. A young boy and an Indian aren’t likely to attract attention. Just keep to yourself, stay near the chief and all will be fine.”
“Olaf,” said Namakagon, “Bury your concern. I will keep close watch on your son and his cargo.”
The new snow squeaked sharply under the weight of the cutter’s runners. The ride across the lake went quickly and the travelers came into Cable just as the southbound locomotive was pulling into the rail yard. They bought their tickets and waited near the depot’s pot-bellied stove.
“Well, Chief Namakagon, Tor Loken. It is good to see you, my friends,” exclaimed Oscar. “My clerk mentioned you were here. Tell me, how are things coming along at the Loken camp? Your father, Tor, how is he doing?”
“Pa? Oh, Pa’s doing great, Mr. Felsman. He’s happy to be home and running the camp again. Pa and Uncle Ingman have the camp just a-buzzin’ along like a beehive. Every man is hard at work and each crew is trying to out-cut and out-haul the next. Pa is happy as a dang fisher in a chicken coop!”
“Your father has a fine lumber camp, Tor,” said Namakagon. “Hard-working men and good employers. I believe your pa’s lumberjacks are quite pleased to be part of the Loken outfit.”
“Well, they should be,” said the stationmaster. “The Lokens treat their men well and offer the best pay around. I suppose it doesn’t hurt that Olaf has the best cook in the pinery working for him either. I am told your outfit is the only camp around that pours coffee instead of tea.” He glanced down at his clipboard as the locomotive’s whistle blew. “Well, I see you are off to Hayward.”
“Ya,” said Tor. “We’re going’ to the city to pick up some …”
“Supplies,” interrupted Namakagon. “Sourdough is short of some Christmas fixings, and we are proud to save the day!”
“We’re coming back tomorrow,” said Tor.
With a metal-to-metal squeal, the huge, black locomotive slowly rolled past the depot platform. It slowed to a stop with a rush of steam, a whistle blast, and its bell ringing. Namakagon with his walking staff and Tor with a knapsack, they stepped onto the train. Seven other men and four women boarded the same car. Soon the train left the station, sending a huge cloud of smoke and steam into the icy morning air.
“Tor,” said the chief, “your manner of speech, is very good. How did this come to be?”
“Well, sir, my folks moved to America right before I was born. Mother was an English teacher back in Norway. When Pa left for Wisconsin, Ma stayed in New York and got hired to teach English to others from the old country. She taught me to read and write and such. You think I learned pretty well?”
“Quite well. It is not often you hear proper English in the north woods.”
“And what about you?”
“I, too, had good instruction—by a close friend, the Commander of a United States Army post. He, his wife, and daughters won my heart. Taught me reading, writing, and language skills. I studied every book in their family library. I read, learned, and read more.”
“Do you ever see them?”
“No. Circumstances have steered me far from them. I have never returned. Perhaps one day .”
The train crossed the Pac-wa-wong springs, Mosquito Brook, and soon rumbled across the large iron railroad trestle north of Hayward. The train’s whistle told them they would soon pull into the Hayward station.
They later walked through the large front door of the Lumberman’s Bank. Tor approached the teller, asking to speak with the president.
“I am sure Mr. Forbert is busy,” said the teller with indifference. “What is it you want, Sonny.”
“My father told me to give this letter to the bank president,” said Tor, holding up the letter.
“And who might your father be, boy?”
“Olaf Loken.”
The teller’s eyes widened. “Oh! Yes. I see. Yes, I will deliver this to Mr. Forbert myself.” He walked briskly toward the door behind him.
Seconds later, a well-dressed man accompanied the teller to the window.
“Please come in, young man!” he said. Tor and Namakagon walked around the end of the tellers’ windows toward the office door.
“Wait,” said the teller. “The Indian is not allowed.”
Both Tor and Namakagon stopped. Forbert turned. An awkward silence loomed in the bank lobby.
“Tor, I will be right here when you are finished with your business,” said Namakagon in a measured voice.
Tor followed the bank president into the office. In a moment, Forbert rushed out exclaiming, “Chief Namakagon, please accept my apologies. I didn’t know it was you, sir. Please step into my off …”
Namakagon spoke slowly. “If, Mr. Forbert, you are not willing to let any other of my people enter your office, then I, like them, will not enter. I am my people and they are me.”
“Dearborne!” snapped the banker angrily, “Why in the name of the Almighty did you not tell me this was Chief Namakagon? Why do you think I keep you employed here?” The teller was silent.
The bank president returned to his office. He read the letter and assured Tor the money would be ready to be picked up at eleven thirty on the following day so they could make the noon train to Cable. Tor and Namakagon left the bank after hearing another apology from the banker.
Several horse-drawn wagons trudged down Hayward’s snow-covered Main Street. A half-dozen horses were tied to posts in front of the Hotel Pion, and a woman carrying several packages walked down the plank sidewalk across the street. Her stylish long wool coat and scarf contrasted with the wide-brimmed, wool hat she had pulled over her head. Tor and Namakagon walked down the block, crossed the street, and headed up the hill past the new courthouse. Adeline Ringstadt met them at her boarding house door.
“Why, of course you can stay here. Please, please do! I have a room at the top of the stairs all ready for you, and supper will be served promptly at the strike of five.”