CHAPTER XII—The Pine Comes In
That settles it,” exclaimed Halloran, tossing a letter on the desk.
Crosman looked up.
“We've placed our last order for lumber this season,” said Halloran.
“Have the Trust people waked up?”
“Yes. Our Oconomowoc man writes that they refuse to sell him another foot unless they're assured that it won't come to us. They're pretty late about it. We've got nearly all we want. Well, that ends it, anyhow. The next thing is to get it all in. There's no use paying storage to all those fellows now that we're found out. I wish you'd see about getting both steamers off as soon as you can—send them to Chicago and Milwaukee, where we have the biggest lots. We'll write for steamers and schooners for the other towns.”
“Can we get it all in the yards? There's a lot here now.”
“Got to. It will crowd up close to the mills, but we can't help it.”
“That will raise the insurance premium—clear up to the mill rate.
“I know it.”
“Do you want me to go ahead with the insurance?”
“No; not yet. Speak to me again about it in a day or so. This lumber isn't going to help us out very far if we let all our profits go out in storage and commissions and carriage and insurance. I don't know but what we'll have to carry it ourselves. It isn't just the weather I'd have picked out—but this business isn't of our choosing, anyway. I'd like to find out how much old G. Hyde knows about us. I don't believe he's got on the track of the whole stock.”
And so the order went out to concentrate all the lumber at Wauchung; and at the flying word, passing from house to house, that at last there was to be work at the yards, Wauchung stirred and aroused. Again men came flocking to the office, shouldering peavies and cant-hooks and clamouring for employment. Sailors appeared to man the steamers and were set to scrubbing and polishing. Coal-wagons rumbled through the yards to the wharves, bringing food for the furnaces. Men went about grinning and joking and slapping backs heartily, and swapping yams about the Old Gentleman in his palmy days, ten and twenty years before. Robbie MacGregor appeared, fatter than ever after his enforced idleness, growling at all the known works of the Creator, and refusing to speak civilly to any one until he had let himself into his greasy blue overalls and was free to finger his levers, and dress down the oilers, and swear gloriously at the new hands in the stoke-room.
“Good-afternoon, Mr. Halloran,” said Captain Craig, when he reached the office. “When are we to start?”
“To-night, if you have your men. MacGregor's on hand now, getting up steam.”
“Good for Robbie.”
“By the way, Captain, I'll try to have some work for George as soon as the first lot of lumber gets in.”
“That's good. You'll find him ready for you. I'll be glad to get started again myself—it's been a mean pull; and there just wasn't any getting along with Robbie. I never saw him so down. Dry weather, isn't it.”
“Yes, better for you than for us. Are you going to let Bigelow steal your men off you this trip?”
“I hardly think so.”
“You may have a chance yet—you're to go to Chicago.”
The Captain smiled dryly. He was in fine mettle now; his clear eyes and sound colour belied his wrinkles and the white streaks in his hair.
“I wish he'd try it,” he replied. “We'll be glad to hear from him any time.”
Late that afternoon the two steamers swung away from the wharves, one after the other, steamed out through the channel, passed the life-saving station and the lighthouse, and headed, the Higginson Number 1, sou'west-by-south toward Chicago, the Number 2 sou'west toward Milwaukee, to bring in the first loads of lumber. And a thrill went through the yards, where there were a few men at work, and passed on to the long lines of waiting labourers outside, as the shouts of the officers and the rumble of the engines and the wash of the propellers sounded through the dry autumn air. The mills were still silent the little world that depended almost for its existence on the movements of that machinery was still suffering from poverty and idleness, was still facing the possibility of a winter without employment; but somehow the sight of the two steamers once more plowing up the water of the harbour, of the blue smoke once more spreading low over the sand-dunes and over the sparkling lake that stretched beyond, spoke to them of new life at the Higginson yards. If the steamers were started out after the long wait, why might not the mills be soon humming and singing again, why might not the ax again flash and strike in the forest, and the songs of the river gang again ring down the long reaches of pine-edged water? The possibility was in the thoughts of them all as their eyes followed the steamers far out into the lake, and lingered on the fading smoke long after the boats themselves had dropped over the southwestern horizon. It was something to be moving again; and every one was a little more cheerful that evening for what they had seen and felt.
Now that the steamers were on the way, Halloran found that he had a problem on his hands. More than six million feet of lumber demands a large area, and the question of getting it into the yards was a serious one.
The Higginson yards occupied a peninsula, formed on the inland side by the Wauchung River, on the other side by the harbour. This harbour was in reality a small lake, such as one will find duplicated every little way for a hundred and fifty miles on the eastern coast of Lake Michigan. The prevailing west winds have thrown up a line of high dunes along this shore, forming a natural dam at the mouth of each of the many small rivers. The Government had at Wauchung, as at many similar places, dredged out a channel that enabled steamers to get in to the wharves and to turn in the harbour.
The two mills were on the upper or river side of the peninsula, where they could receive the logs that were floated down from the timberlands.
From the mills the cut timber was run out on elevated tramways and piled along the wharves. Ordinarily there was a wide space between the mills and the nearest pile of lumber. There was a provision, indeed, in the insurance policies, that it could not be piled nearer than two hundred feet without the payment of a higher premium; and if the piles should extend within fifty feet of the mills the rate mounted to an almost prohibitive point.
The yards were surrounded by water on three sides—on the fourth were the cottages of the labourers and of the other poorer residents of the town. Halloran had a choice, then, between piling the lumber close around the mills (there being already a considerable quantity in the yards) and either paying the higher rate of insurance or going without, or carting it off and renting outside land for storage, thus adding a new item to his expenses. Every spare moment between this day and the arrival of the first steamer was spent in looking over the yards and planning the arrangement so as to get the best advantage of the space.
It was on the second day after the departure of the steamers that Crosman burst into the office and cried:
“She's coming in—the Number Two! I saw her funnels over the sand-hills.”
His excitement was catching, and Halloran got up from his desk and looked out the window. Sure enough, there was the smoke, far out along the sky-line. A moment later, looking between the channel piers, he caught a glimpse of the steamer heading in toward the lighthouse.
Watchful eyes had already seen her from the cottages near the beach; and as man after man hurried over to the yards to get an early place in the lines, the news spread through Wauchung. These men did not know what it meant—Bigelow was a myth to them, known, if at all, merely as an employer of labour twenty miles up the lake—but there was the steamer, bringing in a cargo of lumber that must be discharged and piled, and this meant work. Soon she was entering the channel; and they could see her Captain standing on the wheel-house roof with a hand resting on the bell-pull. And while Halloran went over to the wharf to direct the work, Crosman was kept busy giving out time-checks and cant-hooks and sending man after man across the yards.
Then she was in the harbour, was slipping up to the wharf; the engine-room bell jingled, and the propeller churned the water; the lines were thrown out and caught by eager hands, and the Higginson No. 2 lay motionless at the wharf, her deck piled high with yellow hemlock and pine. The labourers swarmed over the rail and went at the work with the spirit of men who know what hunger means. The donkey-engines at each end of the deck rattled and clanked as the hoisting-spars were lowered over the cargo. And not a man on the ground, from Halloran down, but felt the impetus that the arrival of this first load of lumber had given to all Wauchung. Some of the men showed it by laughing easily, others by swearing easily, and now and then they would all break out into a song that would almost have shocked Jimmie McGinnis himself if he had been there to hear it—to the immortal air of
“My father and mother were Irish,
And I was Irish, too.”
They did not know that this song had been shouted by valiant fighters and workers in many tongues—sometimes to reputable words, oftener not—for centuries, nor did they care. It would not have interested them to hear that, thanks to its wonderful vitality, this same melody had served generations of students as “We won't go home till morning”; had swung thousands of wearied French soldiers along wild roads before Napoleon was born as “Malbrouck s'en va-t-en guerre”; had perhaps led white-clad swordsmen, with a lilt and rhythm that fairly lifted the feet, off to the taking of Jerusalem nearly a thousand years ago. And now here it was again, sung to disreputable words, but as truly as ever a shout of good-will and dauntless effort. Somebody had bucked the Old Gentleman—no matter who or how—and the Old Gentleman, through Mr. Halloran, was bucking back, was nearer than ever to winning. And when he should win, as win he must, there would be steady work and meat every day for the labourers of Wauchung. This was all they knew or cared. But was the spirit less honest and earnest than the spirit of those jack-booted Frenchmen or those white-clad crusaders? Allowing for the glamour of the past, for the shining mist that enlarges the old figures as their real outlines grow steadily fainter, were these hard-handed fellows, heaving the new lumber from the deck of the Number Two to the wharf, laughing and joking and swearing like pirates all the while, so different? Was there no romance here?
Before the work had begun, Halloran saw Du Bois, an old lumber inspector, on the wharf and called to him. The old man, a soft felt hat pulled down on the side of his head, his gray beard streaked with tobacco, turned and waited for him to come up.
“I have a boy here, Du Bois” [pronounced DoO Boyce], “who thinks he'd like to learn lumber-checking. Suppose you take hold of him and see if we can make anything out of him.”
“All right, Mr. Halloran. Where is he?”
“Up at the office. You'd better send a man after him. His name's George Bigelow.”
“All right, sir; I'll keep an eye on him.”
The Inspector spat voluminously and hailed one of the labourers.
“Hi, you there! Run up to the office and tell George to get a scale and a tally-board and come down here. Grease your knees!”
The labourer ambled off and soon returned with George.
“Well, young man,” said Du Bois, “they tell me you're a lumber-checker.”
“I—I thought maybe I could learn.”
“What's that in your hand?”
“A tally-board.”
“Other hand?”
“A scale.”
“What's the size of that stick over there? No, don't scale it—stand here. What are your eyes for?”
George had not passed the last few days idly. The lumbermen were a picturesque, vigorous lot of men, and simply by associating with them he had begun absorbing some knowledge of their work. Now he made a snap guess. “Two-by-twelve-sixteen.”
“Other one yonder?”
“Two-by-eight-twelve.”
“Call that a twelve? You'll have to do better than that. See that steamer? We're going to unload her in another minute, and I want you to mark down every stick on your tally-sheet as the boys take it off. Tend your business, now. We'll put some hair on your chest before we get through with you.”
So George took his place on the wharf as the Number Two came alongside, and promptly found himself the centre of a dozen gangs of men all hustling past with the sticks, while the two steamer-hoists lowered them over in bundles, and the men on the steamer slid them off from half a dozen points at once. Each plank and timber, Du Bois had said, was to be checked on the tally-sheet and its dimensions recorded.
Halloran, Crosman and Du Bois met for a moment near the office where they could overlook the yards. The Inspector was shaking his head at the still, blue sky.
“I'd like to see a few clouds up there, Mr. Halloran. We ain't had any rain since the devil knows when.”
Halloran, for reply, stirred up the sawdust with his foot. It was dry and loose.
“I don't like it, myself.”
“Are we going to pile it in all through here? You ain't figuring on taking any outside, are you?”
“No; we can't do that. Fill in the strip yonder”—indicating the narrow end of the peninsula—“before you take up the ground around the mills.”
“How about the insurance?” suggested Cros-man. “I haven't done anything about it yet. Shall I see to it?”
“No; we'll carry it ourselves.”
Crosman and the Inspector were silent for a time after this, and all three looked down at the activity on the wharf. Neither of the assistants knew what a relief it was to the Manager to see that one load of lumber and to know that there was a score of other loads already on the way. It was his first glimpse of the tangible cause of the fighting, and the sight of it gave him the feeling of actually getting his hands on something. There was still to be considered the guarding it from fire, and, at the right moment, the putting it on the market. He did not know what new move Bigelow might be considering, but he could not see how any living man could block him now. Every order had been delivered to a lake port, so that he had no need to call on the railroads. And an attempt to restrain him from using the lake carriers, in view of the fact that the Higginson steamers alone could do the work with an extra allowance of time, seemed out of the question. Bigelow would resort to rascality, of course, whenever he could see or make an opening; but it was a question whether he could find any more openings.
“You wasn't here when we had the big fire, in '79?” The Inspector was falling into a reminiscent frame of mind.
“Hardly.”
“That was before we had a steam fire-engine. There was only a hand-machine downtown—damn little syringe on wheels—wouldn't put out a box of matches if the wind was blowin'—and so the Old Gentleman kep' about a hundred buckets hung in the mills. Joe Brady was fire chief—he worked in the freight house. But the fire come on a Sunday and Joe 'd been loadin' up ever since six o'clock Saturday night, and when him and the boys come up with their squirt-gun they'd forgot the key to the fire-plug, and they hadn't brung hose enough to use the river. Buck Patterson—he was superintendent—was passin' out buckets, and he come out to see what was the matter, and you'd ought to a-heard him talk to Joe. Buck was pretty profane, sometimes, and he just busted out that night. I guess he'd never had much use for Joe, only he hadn't had a chance to tell him about it before. 'Why, you dam gutter-sponge of a patty de foy graw,' says he—I'm only tellin' you what he said; I was standin' right by and heard the whole thing—he called him a patty de foy graw!—'You wart,' he says, 'you liver-eyed, kettle-bellied soak, you ain't fit to polish toastin'-forks in hell!' He never talked just like nobody else, Buck didn't. All this while Joe was hollerin' to little Murphy to run for the key and Murphy was hollerin' back, 'You go to the devil, your father, and get it yourself,' and sayin' it over and over, he was so excited; when Buck just took Joe by the collar and give him a jolt with his knee, and told him to shut up and get that key, and Joe tun off meek as an infant in arms.”
“What was the loss that night?” asked Crosman.
“About twenty thousand—eighty per cent, insured. The Old Gentleman didn't have a very comf'terble time himself. He'd been ridin' around on his buckboard tellin' the boys what to do. He started downtown after more buckets, and just as he got out to the bridge I looked up and see him all a-blazin' out behind. He didn't even know it yet. Must ha' been a spark lit on his coat-tails. I hollered at him, but he was whippin' up the mare, and I had to chase him across the bridge. He begun to feel funny then, and when he pulled up I grabbed his arm and jerked the reins out of his hand, and hauled him off the seat and rolled down the bank with him into the river. I guess there ain't much doubt I saved his life——— Hello, they're stopping work down there!”
This last exclamation was caused by the Manager starting abruptly for the wharf. Crosman and the Inspector followed.
The work was not wholly stopped, but a little group of labourers was gathered about a stick of timber watching George, who was measuring it with his scale. Some of the other workmen were standing and sitting nearby, laughing and bantering, while a few made a small pretense of work. When Halloran came on the scene George looked up with a dogged expression.
“What's this?” Halloran asked the gang-boss.
“We was going a little too fast for the kid.”
Evidently George had interpreted his orders strictly, and when his eye failed him in the bewilderment of seeing a dozen sticks passing at a time, had stopped each one to scale it. Halloran turned to Du Bois.
“Give the boy a lift, will you?”
The old Inspector nodded, with a twinkle in his eye.
“Here, young man,” he said, “take 'em down for me. Go ahead, boys!”
He hitched himself up on the cap of a snubbing-post, and when the donkey-engines clanked again and the timbers came dropping and sliding to the wharf, and the files of labourers shuffled past, he went on with his story. His eyes roved absently up and down the wharf, and a half-circle of tobacco juice rapidly formed around the post. Not a stick escaped his eye, within a hundred feet of rapidly moving timbers; George's pencil was kept flying over the tally-sheet.
“Yes, sir,” he went on, “we went down that bank—two-b'-four-fourteen, two-b'-eight-ten—like two cats—two-b'-ten-sixteen—a-fightin'. Two-b'-twelve-twelve. The Old Gentleman didn't—two-b'-twelve-eighteen— know yet just what was up—two-b'-six-twelve, two-b'-six-fourteen—and he got his hand twisted up in my hair—two-b'-ten-ten, two-b'-ten- fourteen, two-b'-ten-twelve—and when we struck the water—two-b'- twelve-ten, two-b'-eight-eighteen—”
A few minutes later, when Halloran passed again that way, Du Bois was still in the story, though he had now no auditor but the preoccupied George.
That same night another steamer came in, and within a few days it was necessary to put on a night shift to keep up with the influx of lumber. The yards filled rapidly with high piles until the tramways and mills were nearly hidden from sight. New lumber it was, not yet so dry but that some of the water from the rivers still moistened it; and the air was sweet with the scent of pine. It brought to mind the deep forests far back from the lake, the rustle of the wind through the new boughs far overhead, and the long, still aisles, carpeted in fragrant brown, where the deer run. There were bears out there, skulking away from the axman, grubbing up wild turnips and hunting ants and slugs in rotten stumps; there were otter and muskrats and perhaps a lingering colony of beaver. Soon the time would come when the deer and bear could reclaim their lands, for the axmen were nearly through. Another score of years, perhaps, and where had been great forests would be a waste of blackened stumps—all “cut out” for the market. Rivers would be lower and dams useless. Thriving lumber cities on the lake would be facing ruin—their reason for being gone with the last timber—or casting about to attract manufacturers or to cultivate beets—anything to stop the drain on their vitality as the restless lumbermen should turn west or south for new lands where they could found new cities and begin the problem anew.
In ten days it was all in, the six million and odd feet of boards and timber. And as Halloran walked down to the bridge one night and leaned on the railing and looked over the broad piles he was nervous and depressed. A part of the strain was over and he was feeling the reaction. The key to the situation was in his hands now—it rested with him to carry the lumber safely over to the day for selling, and then to make it pay. He could not yet see Mr. Higginson. He had been to Doctor Brown's this evening and the Doctor was decisive. The moon came out as he stood there and shed its light on the river and the lumber. He straightened up to go; then waited until he caught a glimpse of the watchman on his round of the yards.