Hump Corum had lived on Turkey Creek, and as Bridges had guessed, his place was a scratchy little cabin, with chickens and children in the yard in about equal number. But his wife was far from being uncivilized, polite even to excess, offering him coffee as he told her of her husband’s death. The two workmen who accompanied him waited outside, distracting the children while he delivered the news. Bridges didn’t go into details about the accident, and she didn’t ask, saying only “I’m sure you’ll do the right thing” when he told her the company would forward her his final wages and a death benefit.
The workers stayed behind. Bridges rode back alone, sodden and miserable in the cold rain, guiding his horse carefully through mudholes that only seemed to deepen the farther they went. In the gathering darkness he found his way more by feel than by sight. By the time he reached the mill and got his horse dried off and stabled properly, he was exhausted. He trudged up the hill to his house, took off his boots and wet clothes, and fell into bed.
An insistent knock woke him far earlier than he would have chosen. Bridges staggered from his rooms through the office to find Mason on the porch, crisply dressed as always, his tie knotted and his coat brushed. “Crecelius is stopping here on the way back from his honeymoon. He hadn’t planned to, but I wired to let him know about yesterday, so now he is.”
“When?”
“He’s on today’s Number Four.”
Bridges calculated. Mr. Crecelius would arrive at two-thirty. That gave him—how many hours? From the dim light of morning, it had to be seven or later.
“Did the whistle blow? I must have slept through it.”
Mason shook his head. “No boiler, no whistle. Nobody around to fire it. Almost nobody around at all, in fact.”
Bridges threw on some clothes and stepped outside. In the valley below, a few men scurried from building to building, but the streets were mostly empty and the mill quiet.
“The sons of bitches have all flown the coop,” Mason said. “Or are flying.”
Of course they have, Bridges thought. Why wouldn’t they? That pile of logs beside the railroad track was a lit bomb, each log capable of wreaking as much destruction on a saw crew as yesterday’s. Who would want to risk that harm, whatever the pay? No matter how carefully they examined the logs, the chance would always remain that one spike would escape them.
Mason’s face worked as they stood overlooking the town. “It’s going to be loss-cutting time, lad. Are you going to be an asset or a liability?”
“Who are you to decide?”
“I’m the man who counts the money. And in the end, the man who counts the money is the man who counts.”
“Count away, then.” Bridges turned toward the door, unwilling to attend to the man’s superior attitude. But before he stepped inside, he asked, “Where were you yesterday when all that mess was happening?”
“Up here. Same as always.”
“So it wasn’t worth your while to come down and be with the men after the accident?”
“Ha! The men hate me. You know that. My being there would only irritate them.”
Bridges had to acknowledge the truth of that, having seen the men’s faces whenever Mason went around with their pay envelopes, with meticulous notations recording every penny subtracted for lateness, sloppy work, or store purchases. He would have liked to leave Mason standing on the porch, but supposed he couldn’t, since the front of the house was the company office and only his rooms in the back were private. “I’ll be out after a while,” he said over his shoulder as Mason followed him in. “Got in late last night.”
Inside his room, he shut the door and sat on the bed. So this was it, his day of sacking. He had never been sacked before, but supposed it happened to everyone eventually. There was a hollow sense of failure about it, slightly nauseating, even as his mind raced to find a way to avoid it.
At least he would preserve some dignity about it. He pulled his valise from under his bed and began to pack.
His bloody clothes from the day before, piled in the corner where he had dropped them when he changed for the trip to Corum’s, could stay here. Let them serve as a reminder, however momentary, of what had happened. A life lost, a family bereaved. The man sent to clean out his quarters would probably burn them, or maybe take them home to be laundered and reused. Bridges didn’t care. He wouldn’t wear them again, that was sure.
Emptying his bureau, he came across his old book. Scenes and Adventures. He could certainly add a few of those nowadays. Too bad he’d never finished it. He flipped through the remaining pages. Here were beautiful views for the landscape painter, rocks for the geologist, minerals and fossils for the mineralogist, trees and plants for the botanist, soil for the agriculturalist, an advantageous situation for the man of business, and a gratifying view for the patriot, who contemplates with pleasure the increasing settlement and prospective improvements of our country. Bridges tossed the book into his suitcase. True words all, he supposed. Views and rocks and trees and dirt. And greed and stupidity and disaster.
And now to face the consequence he dreaded most of all.
He sat at his writing desk and took out a sheet of paper.
My dearest Josephine,
I write those words not because I am entitled to, but because I have longed to say them, so now I take my opportunity. “My dearest Josephine,” there, I’ve said it again.
And I write them because I fear I may never have the opportunity to speak them aloud. You have heard about the accident at the mill by now, I imagine. It was an accident in that it was unforeseen, but not truly an accident, because I should have foreseen it. I will take the blame for it, and I deserve it. So later today I will be fired.
I bear the blame as well for the machinations that led to the breakup of Daybreak, for I believe the company was behind them, and although I did not know of them, I should have known. I have been smug and complacent in claiming the privileges of a leader, but thoughtless about exercising the vigilance required in such a position. To lead one must take responsibility, and I have not done that.
Every moment that we have been together, I have learned something. About life in these parts, about the ways of man, about myself. You have always been honest with me, even when that honesty was unpleasant. And from that honesty I have learned to be honest with myself, a legacy that I shall try to preserve all my life.
I am sorry to be fired, but sorrier still to leave these hills and valleys. I have come to love you beyond all I thought I was capable of.
I am cleaning out my things at the mill, and tomorrow or the next day will do the same at the mine. After that, I suppose I shall return north to St. Louis, and from there to my parents’ home in Delaware to think about what to do next with my life. And from there I do not know. But I will always think of you, and love you, and I will write.
Yours,
John M. Bridges
He folded the letter into an envelope, sealed it, and walked out past Mason, laboring over his books. Roaming the mostly deserted streets, he found a boy loafing in the stable.
“Want to earn a dollar, son?” he said.
“Sure!” The boy jumped to his feet.
“Take this letter to Daybreak and deliver it to the hand of Miss Josephine Mercadier. Just ask for Miss Josephine. Everybody there knows her. Tell her Mr. Bridges sends his regards.” He took a coin out of his pocket and gave it to the boy.
“This is only fifty cents.”
“I’ll leave the other fifty cents at the store. When you’ve delivered the letter, come back and tell the clerk to give it to you.”
The boy looked at him suspiciously but took the letter.
On his way back to the headquarters, Bridges peered through the door of the company store. Ackhurst, the clerk, was on his hands and knees scrubbing the blood off the floor. “Well done,” Bridges said. “Mr. Crecelius is stopping by this afternoon, and he may take a tour around.”
Ackhurst did not look up. “The smell was getting to me,” he said.
Bridges didn’t reprove the man’s rudeness. Who bothered to be polite to a man on the way out? He wrote a note, wrapped it around the fifty-cent piece, and left it on the counter. Then he walked across the street to the empty mill, where fragments of the saw blade still lay scattered on the plank floor, then through the log yard to the railroad tracks, where he stood and looked out over the creek bottom. The swollen creek filled half the bottom, and it dawned on Bridges that if he left on the northbound train, he’d likely not be able to cross the river at the upstream ford on his way to the mine. He’d have to go overland, the same way he sent the boy. That could be awkward, passing through Daybreak and possibly seeing Josephine. Oh well, not the worst moment of his week.
He returned to headquarters, passing the big white “Lucinda” signpost he’d had erected at the whistle stop. Mason was gone. In the quiet of the house, Bridges climbed back into bed and pulled up the covers.
When he awoke, the broad daylight confused him for a moment until he remembered how he got there and where he had been. He looked out the window. Almost time for the Number Four to pass through.
Mason waited on the platform. Bridges stood beside him in silence. Finally Mason cleared his throat.
“I’ve been through things like this with him before,” he said. “You’ll be wise to let me do the talking.” Bridges didn’t answer.
The train swung into view from the south, already slowing, and came to a gentle stop with a huff and a hiss. Not a jostle to the passengers, the sign of a good engineer. Mr. Crecelius’ private car was hitched to the rear. They stood at the door.
Mr. Crecelius came to the first step, his mustache twitching. “How did it happen?” he said in Mason’s direction.
Mason stepped forward. “Spikes in the logs, sir.”
“Union men?”
“No. Just a crank.”
Mr. Crecelius nodded. “Bad enough.” He looked at the jumble of logs in the yard. “All spiked?”
“No, but we can’t tell which ones. They’re all mingled.”
“All right. Here’s what we’ll do. Put out the word that we’ll pay to have these logs hewn square with a broadax. Nobody’ll get killed if they hit a spike. What’s a price where we can get that done?”
“Twenty cents a log,” Mason said.
“All right. Put out the word. And you—” Mr. Crecelius turned to Bridges. “I want you to close this place down. The timber’s about played out around here, so shut down and move on. Ever hear of Leesville, Louisiana? Damn fine timber down there and lots of room to operate. Save a crew to load up the equipment and let the rest go.”
“What about the land?” Mason asked.
“Sell what you can but don’t drop the price. It’s improved land now, cleared for planting or pasture. Anything we can’t sell, let it go to the county for back taxes. Advertise back East, but don’t waste too much of your time on it. Find a good land agent here. I need you at the mine. Work it for another couple of months until you stop seeing a return, then close it down too. Silver’s dropping and we need to get out before we spend too much on wages.”
The train whistle blew a quick blast, first warning of departure, and Bridges heard the firebox door slam. Mr. Crecelius pulled a watch from his pocket and nodded in approval. He focused on Bridges again.
“Finish up here as fast as you can. I need you down in Louisiana before anybody gets wind that we’re moving on.”
Bridges found his voice just as Mr. Crecelius turned inside. “No.”
Mr. Crecelius stopped. “What do you mean?”
“I mean no, I won’t be going to Louisiana. I am leaving your employ.”
“The hell you say! Somebody around here bought you out?”
“No. I just don’t want to work for you anymore.”
“By God, we can accommodate that desire. Mason, make sure this man’s cleared out of here.”
“I’m already packed,” Bridges said. “So no worries.”
“Who’s worried? I’ll find myself another Bridges down South. Mason can handle things up here. I just want you out. Ungrateful bastard.” He climbed the steps to his car and slammed the door as the second whistle blew.
“What are you going to do?” Mason asked as the train inched away, building up steam. “You can’t go back to New York. Crecelius will blacken your name all over town.”
“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll take up my father’s trade.”
“A man of your abilities, a saddlemaker in the sticks? Now there’s a waste.”
“It’s honest work.”
Mason just sniffed, and Bridges didn’t feel like arguing. He saddled a horse for the trip to the mine, eager to put miles between himself and this place. He’d leave the horse at the mine so as not to be beholden.
Napping in the hay was the boy he had given his letter. “Couldn’t wait, eh?” the boy said with a wink.
In an earlier day he would have reproved the boy for dawdling. But instead he just silently waved.
“Do you still want me to deliver this letter?” the boy called. “I want my fifty cents.”
“Sure. It’s waiting for you up at the store.”
“That’s the spirit of fair play, mister.”
Bridges turned his face to the darkening east. With his luck, the rain would start again before he reached any shelter. He thought of the old joke: Where was Moses when the lamp went out? In the dark.
Where was Bridges when the rain resumed? In the damp.