COOKING IN CAMP
As Robert and Ed Allen had no elder sisters, and the health of their
mother was far from robust, they were early trained to the simple
duties of the home. Rob, especially, prided himself that “there was no
woman who could beat him in plain cooking,” and, indeed, his bread was
voted, even by Mr. Allen, to be “almost as good as Mother’s.”
As the frosts began to increase, and November clouds hung gray and
heavy, tote teams, with their winter supplies for the camps in the big
woods, would frequently stop at Mr. Thompson’s for the night. With
one of these outfits there was a crew of twenty men with their cook,
bound for the upper waters of the Wisconsin river to get out a special
contract of “pumpkin pine,” a good sized tract of these forest giants
having been located during the previous summer. This variety of pine
was very white, exceedingly soft, and grainless, and not infrequently
would yield three cuts of logs of sixteen feet each in length, entirely
free from knots. These logs would saw into planks sixteen feet long,
with a width of from three to six feet. Of course such timber was very
valuable, even in those days of timber prodigality.
The Allen boys heard that the crew boss was young Medford, whom they
had met in Necedah. He was a clean, energetic young fellow, just out
of college, and, destined to take his father’s place in the great
lumbering operations of the state, was winning his way up in practical
service. But this morning, while his greeting was pleasant, young
Medford’s face showed a considerable anxiety to the boys. Pete Lateur,
the cook, while wholly dependable once within the big woods, had broken
faith with the boss, and had smuggled a flask of whiskey in with his
dunnage. During this, their first night’s stop, the liquor had provoked
a brawl in which the cook emerged with a broken arm. After the rude
surgery that he was able to give, Mr. Thompson would take him back to
the town for a month’s lay up. But there was no one else among the crew
who could take his place, and no time to send a team back to hunt a
cook in town.
“Rob,” said Ed, “you’re always bragging about your cooking, why don’t
you take the job?”
“What’s that?” exclaimed Medford, overhearing what had been spoken in
jest, “Can you cook, Rob?”
“He certainly can, Mr. Medford,” replied Ed, not waiting for Rob to
reply, “He can beat Mother baking beans, and as for bread--”
“Stop your foolishness, Ed,” broke in Rob, blushing red.
“But see here, boys, I must have a cook, and if you will take the
place, Rob, I will give you forty-five dollars a month for four months,
and your wages will begin today.”
Rob gasped at the thought of so much money. “I’ll see father” he
replied.
Mrs. Allen was averse to allowing her boy to spend the winter among
such rough men as the woods crews were known to be, but Mr. Allen said
it would “toughen the fiber of the lad” and gave his consent.
Alas, how many parents mistakenly think that association with evil, and
even evil experiences are a necessary part of the education of youth.
Nothing can be further from the truth. Instead of a benefit, such
association can but result in harm. If, in after life, the youth should
come into clean ways, the deep scars of evil will remain, and he will
carry with him to the grave that which he would fain forget.
For the first fifty miles the crew were able to get their meals at
least twice a day at rough wayside taverns, themselves but little
better than camps, but which afforded shelter and an abundance of food,
such as it was. Then the trail led up into the unbroken wilderness of
forest, where camps must needs be made at night, and there Rob’s winter
work began.
There was something solemn and majestic about the big woods. There
was little undergrowth, and the ground was covered deep with the
rich, brown carpet of needles. The tall trunks of the great pines
rose straight to the dark canopy above, like the pillars of some vast
cathedral. The very silence was suggestive of worship--the low moaning
of the high-up tops came to the ears as a soft, opening, minor strain
from some grand organ.
A dead, dry pine was felled, logs sawed from it and split, a fire
built, and soon a bed of glowing coals was ready for the great pans of
frying salt pork. Two crotched sticks were driven into the ground a
few feet apart, and a pole laid across them, upon which the big coffee
kettle was swung, and under it a good fire was soon going. Then biscuit
dough was mixed--not with milk, but with clear, cold water from the
river--and placed in the baker. This arrangement was something like
a three-leaved book made of tin, with folding legs for the upper and
lower leaves. When opened before the bed of glowing coals--the bread
being placed upon the middle leaf--it was a no mean substitute for an
oven.
Tin plates and cups, iron knives and forks and spoons, were
distributed; a jug of molasses and a bowl of brown sugar were
placed handy, and the cry of “Chuck’s ready!” was given. Not very
appetizing!--perhaps not to you, my reader, but with these hardy men,
living out of doors, at strenuous labor, bread and meat and strong
coffee, with plenty of fats and sweets to fortify against the bitter
cold, were eagerly consumed, especially when on the march. Later, when
in permanent camp, a greater variety of food would be prepared.
Wearied though he was with the long day’s tramp, and with his efforts
to satisfy the ravenous appetites of the score of men, Rob could not
roll up in his blanket before the fire with the rest, as they finished
their meal. In a little hollow scooped out near the log fire, were
to be placed a half bushel of Irish potatoes, with a jab of his knife
through the skin of each one to let out the steam. Over them the hot
ashes were raked and packed down tight, then a few coals, and here
they would bake slowly through the night, to be eaten in their mealy
whiteness, cold, with salt, at the hasty noon meal the next day. The
coffee kettle was replaced by another containing great chunks of corned
beef, and from the baker came several batches of delicately browned
biscuit to be packed away in a box for the morrow. There would be no
time allowed at the noon rest for more than the preparing of the hot
coffee.
It seemed to the lad that he had no more than closed his eyes, as he
finally rolled himself into his blanket--his boots under his head for
pillow--than he found himself sitting up, panting for breath, as though
exhausted by running, and trembling all over. Clearly he had been
frightened in his sleep; but by what? The horses, securely tied near
by, were snorting and frantically trying to break away. The men, here
and there, were rising upon elbows. Then, from the tall pine, seemingly
right over their heads, came the scream as of a woman in such agony,
despair, and heart-breaking entreaty, that it seemed to Rob nothing in
all the world could express more hopeless misery. With a “Sh-h, keep
quiet, boys,” Mr. Medford grasped his winchester and slipped around to
quiet the horses, peering up into the thick branches as he went. Again
that hideous cry--and Mr. Medford fired at the place from which the
sound seemed to come.
“What is it?” whispered Rob to teamster Jackson, next him.
“A panther. There is no danger. Lie still.”
There was the noise of something bounding from limb to limb, high up in
the pines, then all was still.
Exhausted, though he was, with the day’s march and labor, Rob was so
thoroughly awakened, that long after the quieted teams were again
munching their corn, and the men were snoring, he lay, looking up at
the one far-away star peeping through the boughs, and starting up now
and then as a soft pad-pad, or sniff-sniff, or low growl, or bark,
announced the presence of some other visiting woods-folk.
When at last they had reached the timber tract, a little knoll not far
back from the river, was selected as the site for the permanent camps.
These would be three in number--the main building where the men would
sleep and eat, and one end of which would serve as kitchen; a second
for the snug stable for the teams; and the third to be used as repair
shop and storehouse.
All hands went to work at once putting up the houses. It was now
the second week of November, and the fierce winter storms might be
looked for at any time. The buildings were constructed of logs, about
twelve inches in diameter, the cracks between chinked in with moss
and clay. The roof was made of split logs, the split faces being laid
together, breaking the joints. There was always plenty of chance for
ventilation. After the roaring fires in the sheet iron stoves should
finally succeed in drying them out, these rooms would be warm and
comfortable.
For nearly a week, during the house-building, the men slept in tents
which opened one end toward the big log fire. At this fire also, with
its undiminished abundance of live coals, Rob baked and boiled and
roasted. Now that there was to be no more traveling, the supplies
were overhauled, and great dishes of dried fruit--prunes, peaches,
and apples, were stewed. Later, Mr. Medford would have a team bring
in fresh beef and pork. Pea soup, hot, and rich with pork fat, was an
almost daily ration, and then the great staple--baked beans! Lucky for
Rob, indeed, was that accomplishment of which Ed had boasted for him.
Surely even Boston itself never knew such appetizing dish as that Rob
brought forth from the “bean hole.”
This is the way in which the delicacy was prepared: First, a hole
two feet in depth, filled with live coals; the big pot with just the
right amount of beans--(be careful to not put in too many, or you will
duplicate Mark Twain’s experience with dried apples), molasses, a chunk
of fat pork, salt and pepper to season--then water enough to swell the
dish full when done (a few disastrous experiments will teach you the
right amount), then the coals raked out and the pot, tightly covered,
placed in the hole; ashes packed around and over; more live coals
heaped above all--and everybody go away and forget it for twenty-four
hours--if you can--and then!
Bread, potatoes, meat, coffee, some kind of dried fruit--_and
beans_--such is the usual fare of the lumber woods.
With the completion of the camps, Rob found his duties a little more
complicated, but he was able to arrange his long hours so that, while
work was hard, he had the meals on time, well-cooked, and of abundant
quantity. At four o’clock in the morning the chopping boss would call
“Cookee!” and Rob would crawl out from his “feather bed” of pine boughs
covered with its heavy Mackinaw blanket. No time to roll over and take
the “forty winks” these mornings. Soon he would have the pitch-pine
roaring in the big sheet-iron stove for the men; then he would cross
over to the kitchen side, where the fire in the great range would set
to steaming the big pots of food. By the time the hot biscuits were
ready, the teamsters would be in from the stables, where they had fed,
curried and harnessed the horses, and the choppers and skidders would
be plunging through a hasty toilet. By five o’clock Rob would cry, “All
ready!” and then would come a rush, each man crowding in where he could
and more like a pack of hungry wolves than supposedly civilized men,
the crew would fall upon the food.
I must make one exception--a teamster who was early dubbed “Parson.”
This man, a little past middle age, never sat down to a meal without
silently bowing his head in thanksgiving. There was no spirit of
bravado in the act; cant seemed to be impossible to the man. He took
the ofttimes brutal gibes of the men with a kindly smile, and went his
own way. At night when the lanterns were swung from the ridgepole,
and the men, during the hour between supper and bed, would be playing
cards, telling stories, or singing songs of their wood and river life,
Mr. Jackson would take out a well-worn, black Testament and read, and
then, with always a kind word to Rob, and often some little helpful
act, would climb into his bunk.
Breakfast over, Rob had the bunks to put in order, and the house to
thoroughly sweep--for Mr. Medford’s camps must be kept clean and tidy.
Then, if the crew happened to be working at a considerable distance,
dinner must be put on at once, for an hour before noon a team would be
sent in for it, and it must be ready, safely packed in large, tightly
covered cans. What a job it was to get an out-of-doors dinner for
twenty hungry woodsmen! Actually, one of those men would often eat at a
meal as much as would be placed upon the table for a half dozen in the
city boarding house.
Dishes washed and the table set, the sponge, started the night before,
for sixteen loaves of bread (for it would take this number daily, in
addition to hot biscuits), would be kneaded down and placed in a warm
place to rise. Then there was the woodpile to tackle, and a big stack
of dry pine and birch cut and piled up for both cook stove and heater.
If dinner was to be eaten at the camp, there were a half-dozen pies
to be made from the dried fruit, or two great pans of pudding to
be baked, before the sixteen loaves of bread would demand the oven.
Peeling potatoes and turnips, and giving attention to the bean-hole
outside, helped to fill to the full every moment of the forenoon.
After dinner dishes were attended to, there came a chance for two
hours of sleep--and insomnia, at this time, was not even a passing
acquaintance of Rob’s. At four o’clock preparations for supper must
begin. Then serving the meal, washing dishes again, and making ready,
as far as possible, for the morning meal, filled the time until ten
o’clock.
It is not good for man to be alone. Explorers of the polar regions
declare that the terrors of that trackless waste are not found in the
intense cold, but that it is the awfulness of solitude, driving men
insane, that is most dreaded.
A strange malady of peevishness, discontent, developing into downright
meanness, seems to creep over a company of men shut in together for a
lengthened time. Seamen on long voyages mutiny; soldiers in isolated
barracks commit ugly acts of insubordination, or take desperate chances
to desert.
So it is not strange that during the long winters, when a score of men
are shut up together with little or no reading matter, no news from the
outside world--nothing to take their thoughts away from themselves,
or break the deadly monotony of their daily lives, that this untoward
trait of human nature should show itself. Usually, before spring comes,
the ill-nature of a crew settles upon some particular one, and from
becoming at first the butt of good natured jokes, he finally is the
object of genuine persecution. Woe be to that one if he be weak in body
or in mind, or if he be a boy.
It was perhaps natural that this crew, all unawakened to and untrained
in the higher sensibilities and ideals of life, and hardened by much
gross sin, should fall upon the teamster Jackson, who was so unfailing
in his religious observances. He seemed out of place to them; his very
presence was a rebuke to their profanity and foul stories and songs,
even more so than the sharp command of young Medford, that occasionally
brought them to silence. But to all of the chaffing and sneers and
cursing Jackson presented a quiet, even temper, and his smile held a
world of pity. As Jackson’s kindness to Rob became noticed, it appeared
to the crew that here was a way by which they could reach the teamster,
and all the devilish annoyances and coarse brutality of a dozen man
were directed against the boy. They began by growling about the “weak”
coffee, although, as swamper Flynn said, “Sure, ’tis as black as me
hat, and ’twould float me iron wedge, entirely.” The bread was “no
good,” the meat was “tough.” Day after day, Rob, having prepared a meal
that would do credit to a high-priced hotel, would be reduced almost
to tears through mortification, by the brutal complaints. That Jackson
stood up for the lad, and told the rude fellows that by their grumbling
they showed they had not been accustomed to good food at home, did not
help matters.
From complaints, the persecution passed to personal annoyances. Rob’s
axe would be hidden, and he compelled to gather dry limbs to keep
the fire going; one morning he found after the breakfast had been
delayed and the bunk house filled with smoke, that the stovepipe had
been filled with moss. At another time, his wool socks and felt boots
disappeared, and he was compelled to go about all day in bare feet.
Again, as he crawled into his bunk late one night, worn out, he found
that the blanket and boughs had all been saturated with water, and he
slept upon the hard floor in his overcoat.
At last, the ringleader in the meanness, John Dolve, a big Swede,
coming in at night and not finding supper upon the table, although it
was not yet time, declared he would fix it so that the boss would have
to get another cook.
“Come on, boys,” he cried, “he’s too fresh. Let’s put him in pickle.”
With the help of two or three of the others, he lifted the struggling
lad and forced him down into one of the big barrels half filled with
brine, from which the meat had been taken, and fastened on the cover.
The rough men roared with laughter over the “good joke on the cook,”
but the result might have been altogether serious had not Mr. Jackson
opportunely arrived. With face gone white, as they explained the
situation to him, he thrust the men right and left, and liberated the
poor boy.
“Now, Rob,” said he, as he fitted the boy out in some of his own warm,
dry clothing, “just keep yourself quiet; that’s the best way. Mr.
Medford is due to be back from below and when he comes there will be a
change in this camp for good.”
But Robert had not yet found that source of inner strength which kept
the teamster undisturbed in the midst of fiery trial. The boy had
reached the limit of human endurance. He kept his own counsel, but
determined to submit no longer to such indignities. He would start for
home that very night. That the way lay an hundred miles through what
was practically a wilderness, mattered not. No fear of hunger nor cold,
nor death itself, should keep him in the camp one day longer.
Mr. Medford, urging on his team the next day, in order to reach camp in
good season, caught sight of a figure staggering along the tote road
in the distance. At first he took it to be an Indian, but as he drew
nearer there was something that appeared familiar about the person.
What was his surprise as he came close, to discover that the traveler
was Rob.
The lad was so nearly exhausted that he could scarcely speak, yet he
endeavored to resist, as Mr. Medford, springing to him where he had
sunk down in the snow, picked him up in his arms and placed him in the
sleigh. More from what he guessed, than what he was able to get from
Rob, did he get an idea of what had occurred.
“Now, young fellow,” said he, “we’re going back; it’s the only thing
to do. You’ve good stuff in you, although the battle has been a severe
one, and now I’ll see about bringing up the reserves.”
With the first out-going tote team went the brutal Dolve and two of
his companions, and soon there came a change in the atmosphere of the
camp, and the attitude of the men toward the cook was as friendly and
appreciative as formerly it had been unjust and cruel.
Rob made good in his work, and the hearty commendation of Mr. Medford
was as precious balm to heal his wounded spirit. When the four months
were passed, and the camp broke up for the spring, the heart of the
lad glowed with pleasure as Mr. Medford, handing him a check for two
hundred dollars, said, “The extra is because you’ve been a extra good
cook. If you’ll agree, I’ll sign you now for next winter at sixty-five
dollars.”
Two hundred dollars meant much to the Allen family that spring, for by
it the mother was enabled to go to Chicago for treatment by a famous
specialist, who said she had come just in time.