The Turning

Prologue

1890

T h e feeble warmth of the late-winter afternoon sun did little to alleviate the gloom in the office. Micah Hartman’s uncharacteristically slumped shoulders betrayed his upset as he peered out the dirt-streaked, solitary window.

You know, Crane, that you’ve put me in a hell of a position, Micah thought out loud. Turning from the window, his eyes landed on a framed daguerreotype resting awkwardly on a shelf crowded with books and old newsprint. He crossed to the image and picked it up. We were young then, you know? Didn’t know much about life. He handed the photo to Franklin Crane.

"You were young," Crane agreed as he took in the features of the man in the photo: long, lean face; slim, strong physique; earnest, innocent eyes.

That was made before any fighting, made at Camp Randall. That… hat? See that black hat? Lost it at Gettysburg. Micah’s voice softened. We thought that the war would be an adventure.

Micah wanted no part of this conversation but knew it was necessary. This was his last chance to persuade Crane to relent on the requirement he had placed on him.

See here, Frank, many years have passed between what you claim happened and today. I’ve asked you here to see if you could possibly reconsider, Micah said, redirecting the conversation.

Look, I don’t wish to argue. We talked about this, and you agreed. After all, the evidence is right in your desk drawer, Crane answered, irritably handing back the daguerreotype. Micah took the picture, placing it back on the shelf propped against a stack of newsprint. The evidence is all there, verified by the governor’s office. How can you draw any other conclusion? Franklin Crane’s voice had risen, reinforcing his believe that truth was all that mattered.

In the fading light, Micah’s gaze settled on the old ceramic chess set atop the battered corner table. Its chipped, worn pieces marked time as surely as the schoolhouse clock on the wall. He and Damon Hall had sat with that old board between them, battling over sixty-four squares, for more than twenty-five years. They’d built new lives after the war; lives forged from shared experience… or had they? You’re saying you will not reconsider, despite the damage your actions will inevitably cause? Micah came close to pleading. "Think! Think of the impact your book will have on the man! Hell, what the impact will be on this community? Did no one ever teach you that the correct answer is not always the right answer?"

Micah’s words flowed contemptibly off his tongue. "I brought you here, Crane, to give you a chance at prominence and help build the university. I did not bring you here to destroy! Yes, Frank, I’ve heard your arguments and seen your ‘evidence.’ I’ll even go so far as to say that I understand how you could have reached the conclusion you’ve drawn. I, however, know the man and cannot—no, will not—believe your allegation to be true."

May I remind you, sir, that at one time you did accept the findings of my study? You agreed that Damon Hall, your friend and this town’s benefactor, quite possibly embezzled money from the Soldiers Voluntary Bonus and Family Support Fund! Crane’s tone was oily with cynicism. "I am absolutely sure that Damon Hall is a thief!"

These last words cut deep into Micah. He took a strong step toward the desk behind which Crane was sitting, but the implied threat gave way to crushing fatigue. Micah steadied himself and camouflaged his fury by slowly retrieving his pipe, responding in a steely voice, What you say is true, Crane. I did think… just for a moment… think that… Damon had misappropriated the money. I know this man and knew him since before the war. Consider all he’s done for people of this community. Does that have no relevance?

Crane stood up from behind the old roll-top desk. Micah’s plea softened his voice. "Mr. Hartman… Micah… I’m sorry to have to put you through this, but the bigger picture must prevail. I accepted our… er… compromise out of respect for you and the friendship you share with Mr. Hall. However, if you do not confront him with what we know, and do so soon, I will have no choice but to publish the entire story." By the end of his response, Crane’s voice had once again assumed its rigidity. Placing one hand briefly on Micah’s arm, the younger man walked briskly to remove his hat and coat from the coat tree and left the office.

Micah did not follow the young man out the door. With resignation, he sank into his desk chair. Unconsciously reaching for the drawer that contained the fund ledger, he stopped. What’s the use? He sighed. Nothing new to be found there. Rising from his chair as encumbered by his thoughts as Marley’s ghost had been by its chains, Micah felt a crushing loneliness. Age had only emphasized his solitude. Death had robbed him of the wisdom and comfort his Mary could bring, and now he was on the verge of losing his closest friend. Labored steps took him to the coat rack. Stepping out the door, he continued his solitary journey.

Across the business district from Micah’s office, the lights of the Centurion Fire and Casualty Insurance Company lit the cement sidewalk below. On the third floor, the cadence of Damon Hall’s prosthetic leg working in rhythm with his cane resonated down the hall toward the company’s board room. Today the room held more than balance sheets and actuarial projections. Today, Damon Willard Hall would review the latest plans for the new hospital his company would fund.

Hall was a man with many tasks on his agenda. The former chaplain of the Seventh Wisconsin Volunteers had no time for thoughts of the past. His mind was set on the future. He was the force behind the community, having built the high school and college, modernized the business district, and brought the railroad to Reed’s Landing. This project was much needed and desired. In his more narcissistic moments, he often thought, this graduate of Harvard Divinity School is a long way from Harvard Yard. Hall entered the room precisely at 4:00 p.m.

Mr. Hall, sir, how nice to see you. I believe the drawings are ready for your review, Matthew Melcamps said as he turned from the windows he had been gazing out. Melcamps—always serious, covered in English tweed, and wearing Spanish leather boots—strode to a large oak table that occupied the center of the room and proffered his hand.

Hall, accepting the extended hand, replied, Melcamps, delighted to see you, as always. I pray that I have not kept you waiting? I’m afraid I have had a full afternoon. I am anxious to see the plan changes we discussed.

Well, sir, the drawings are ready, and I have laid them out in order of financial impact. As you know, making the surgical area in the operating theater more elliptical is a major and costly change primarily because it alters the manner in which the viewing galleries would lie relative to the surgical area. With that, Melcamps paused.

Placing his cane on the edge of the table, Hall leaned over to examine the drawings in detail, keeping careful grip on the table with his left hand to maintain balance. Earlier this week, I reviewed the Boston General Hospital drawings that you provided. This design is similar to that of the Boston drawings, are they not?

While the designs before you, sir, share the basic support structure used in the Boston drawings, this design makes better use of the natural lighting available from the sky lights in the ceiling. The enhanced visibility is crucial to both the surgical and observation areas and is further enabled by the absence of any taller structures surrounding the facility.

Although pleased with the architect’s response, Hall maintained the intensity of his scrutiny as Melcamps continued his presentation. Reaching into his vest pocket, Hall removed a leather cigar case, upsetting his balance. Regaining his stability, he opened the case and offered one to Melcamps.

Graciously accepting the offering, the architect savored the aroma. Thank you, sir. Always the finest quality Cuban tobacco. I shall enjoy it at my leisure after dinner, he said, indicating his preference not to interrupt his presentation. With that, Melcamps carefully placed the cigar aside. With a slight shrug, Hall bit the end of his cigar, struck a match, and inhaled enthusiastically, leaning forward to hear more.

On the first floor, I altered the front entrance to include an atrium for the general reception area and expanded the lobby to serve, if necessary, as a triage area. Because Hall’s demeanor remained unchanged, Melcamps continued pointing to the plan for the second floor. This is the most important change I made…

As Melcamps toured the plans, Hall took in the detail, mentally calculating stress points and foundation depth. In his mind’s eye, he added equipment completing the setting. Forty minutes of standing left Hall fatigued. Loath to refer to his frailty, he cleared his throat while peering absently at his half-finished cigar. Melcamps, he interjected, let us sit while we finish our discussion. I have had sufficient time to review your revised plans. Not waiting for a reply, he gathered his cane, clinched the cigar firmly between his teeth, and began his rhythmic walk to one of a pair of Queen Anne chairs that flanked a horsehair sofa. Melcamps selected the sofa so that he faced the hearth and, obliquely, Hall.

Well, Melcamps, how much does this add to the cost of the project?

Melcamps reached inside his portfolio and removed a single sheet of paper folded into three equal-sized sections. Each section recorded the cost of the changes by category of change.

Sir, I’ve calculated that the changes affect the cost by approximately $200,000. The most expensive change involved the surgical area, which required structural and foundational changes, accounting for about half of the increase in cost. The clinic revisions represent the next most costly change, with the amphitheater alterations adding little additional cost.

As he spoke, Melcamps handed the paper to Hall. As the older man scrutinized the cost breakdown, Melcamps’s eyes followed the meandering smoke from Hall’s cigar to the hearth before it disappeared. After a time, Hall looked up and nodded his acceptance. Now, let’s address the schedule. When can we expect to start?

We are set to start in the spring, Mr. Hall. Much of the material is in Cicero and will be shipped when the Mississippi clears. I expect that phase to take eight weeks, start to finish, which means that we can expect to begin construction sometime around the first of May.

This includes the stone? Hall queried.

It does. Even as he replied, Melcamps’s attention was drawn back to the traveling smoke.

Sir, I beg your pardon for the interruption, but it is five o’clock, and the sleigh is out front. Both men looked toward the doorway, which was filled by a man who stood well in excess of six feet, holding a wool great coat and a leather valise. The man was James Albert, Hall’s personal secretary and most trusted employee. Albert’s job was to ensure that the man kept to his schedule. His less obvious charge was to quietly assist Hall in negotiating obstacles that Hall would have found difficult to do on his own.

With that, Hall reached for his cane, anchored it firmly in front of him, and raised himself to a standing position. A nod and brief smile directed toward Melcamps signaled an end to their discussion. The smile, Melcamps knew, meant Hall was pleased with the meeting. Melcamps rose and extended his hand to Damon, who shook it warmly. Melcamps remained standing as Hall progressed toward the door. Once Hall had left the room, the architect placed the drawings in their tubes, removed his coat from the rack, and walked to the back stairs. As he left the building, he heard the bells of Hall’s team as the sleigh traveled east on Main Street to Hall House.

As the sleigh travelled east, Hall inhaled the crisp, cold air as he pulled the lap blanket tighter around his legs. He loved this time of year, drawing pleasure from the presence of the lighted houses lining the street. He wondered about their lives. Were they, too, satisfied with life? Hall thought about that young, earnest man he once was. How much of that man remained? Hall didn’t think about that much. He was content with what life had given him despite what he lost at Gettysburg. Damon Hall was a satisfied man.

James Albert guided the sleigh through the west entrance and into the rounded drive of Hall House, which allowed him to assist Hall onto the cleared walk closest to the door. Soon after hearing the team’s bells, Albert knew, the household would receive its master. The sturdy, carved oak door would open, and Hall’s wife, Katherine, would come forward to greet her husband and accompany him inside.

Hall pushed open the sleigh door, planted his cane firmly, and lifted himself from the seat. Albert’s hand was there to assist. The process seems more taxing now, Hall thought. Perhaps it is just the additional weight I’ve gained in recent years. As the door opened, a quick glimmer of refracted light from the crystal set on the dining room table preceded Katherine’s appearance, signaling the beginning of the end of the day. This evening ended with Hall reading his old battlefield Bible, reminiscing on how it all began.

Chapter 1

1857

M i cah walked west from Main Street toward the river as the rising sun began its ascent as a crease of light across the eastern sky. Angling south down River Road, he noticed fresh wagon tracks pressed in the mud, in the center of the road. May’s weather had been warmer this year than most, drying the road and making walking faster. The warmth was especially welcome because the men would begin to sort logs today, a cold, wet process at the best of times. With the logging season ended, the focus now was on sorting and milling the lumber. Only after the milling was completed would the rafts float down the Wisconsin to the Mississippi and the mill be paid.

My third cutting season, Micah reflected. He had already invested two years of his life learning his father’s business. White pine lumbering was Wisconsin’s lifeblood, the Wisconsin River the vein through which it flowed. How hard that first season had been with barely a foot of snow all winter. Last year made up for it, though, with its deep snow that made skidding easier. This year’s season is the easiest yet.

Moses Hartman, Micah’s father, had been one of the earliest to seek out Wisconsin and carve out a life. Reed’s Landing, in the middle of the state, was the perfect location. The forests to the north were limitless. Those logs had to float south to the Mississippi right past Reed’s Landing. With the Shaurette Falls blocking the flow, lumbermen would have to either portage their logs or have them cut and rafted past the falls. So it was at the landing that Moses built his mill, and by the time other mills got started in the ensuing years, the Hartman Mill had control of the industry. And Moses liked being in control.

Moses’s early experience working in Maine and Canada taught him the keys of success. Get control of good timberland, hire good crews, pay them well, run efficient camps, and accomplish everything with as little credit as possible. This knowledge was what Moses hoped to share with his son.

Micah’s introduction to the business world had been delayed, to Moses’s frustration, because his wife, Martha, insisted that her son receive formal schooling. He had completed five terms at the Landing’s church-run school before boarding with Moses’s brother, Isaiah, to finish his schooling in Milwaukee. Micah’s formal education ceased three winters ago.

Although the sorting was to start at sunrise, Micah wanted to arrive early to watch the crew install the new rotary saw. The saw would use the power of the river to cut like a wheel instead of slashing up and down in the manner of the horse-powered saws.

Viewing the saw installation was only part of the reason for Micah’s early arrival. He wanted to be present to witness his father and Sailor Jack argue about the cutting capacity of the new saw. Jack expressed his opinion that the rotary saw blades were thicker than those of the old saw and therefore would produce fewer board feet per log than its predecessor. Moses disagreed, so they would argue. Micah knew that Sailor Jack really didn’t care if he was right; he simply enjoyed getting Moses riled.

Sailor Jack, a ten-year veteran log runner, had invested in the Hartman mill and become Moses’s business partner. At age twenty-nine, Jack knew certain things to be true in the lumber business, primarily that, despite the respect and the swagger of a river pilot, none ever got rich floating another man’s lumber to market. Jack ran the mill’s operations to include floating the rafts to Cicero.

Jackson William Wadleigh, Sailor Jack, was six feet and a tight two hundred pounds. The man had a reputation for unimpeachable integrity and a quick temper, which was a puzzle to Micah because he never saw Jack mad. Micah liked being around Sailor Jack. He worked him hard, but he always was the first one to lend a hand. Micah admired Sailor Jack as a younger brother admires his older brother—just enough to compete with him. By the time Micah reached the mill, it was alive with sound and the yellow light of kerosene lanterns. Here Micah was at home. The sound, the light, and the smell of fresh cut lumber—all were compass points in his life. The drying racks were empty, but they would soon be filled. Once they were, the rafts would be made, and the cycle would start over.

Through the open door, Micah saw three men struggling with the frame of the rotary saw. Forged and milled in Milwaukee, the frame would hold the saw’s shaft in two slots, one on either side near the top. Cut from the bottom support bracket was another opening for the worm gear that would drive the saw. The frame weighed four hundred pounds and would sit on a foundation of two 12×12s resting on footings of flat-cut rocks. The men had worked hard to complete the foundation, and now they would crown it. As the men struggled to set the frame in place, it began to sway precariously.

Micah quickly stepped through the door, seeing Swede Halverson holding the team that was lifting the frame. He was struggling to steady the team so the swaying would stop. Sailor Jack and Moses were on opposite ends of the frame but not in control. Hermes Mendolson was working hard to hold his end steady, but his short stature worked against him, forcing him onto his toes just to reach the frame’s top, making it impossible to leverage his strength.

Micah picked up his step, moving to the sweating men. Where do you want me? he asked no one in particular before positioning himself opposite Hermes. The problem became clear. They had to set the casing over the gear shaft in direct alignment with the opening for that purpose. As the horses moved, so did the frame; Hermes was not able to guide it, and the frame oscillated ominously. If they did not gain control, the frame would drop and snap the shaft.

Micah, take hold of that side and hold ‘er tight, ordered Sailor Jack. Hold, my man. Hold ‘er!

Swede, get a hold of those horses and move ‘em back… slowly, Moses ordered in a voice breathless with strain.

Micah fastened his grip just as the team moved back. Feeling a sharp, tightening of the muscles of his shoulders and chest, he worked through the pain. As the team backed toward the foundation, the frame descended slowly. It was still off center but lower, so Hermes was able to get a grip. On the opposite side, the swaying slowed and finally ceased.

Now, boys, take a good hold. Swede, slack the line. Everyone steady? Okay, lower it… There. Lower. Easy. On? Moses encouraged as the casing slipped onto the foundation just over the shaft.

Ah, Jesus, Maria, och Josef, that be’s a heevy one, Swede proclaimed to the group. It was not so heevy de utter day we moved her from da wagon. De horses had all they could do to hold ‘er.

Moses studied the frame as it sat on the foundation. It didn’t look right, but he couldn’t pinpoint the cause of his uneasiness. Micah looked over at Sailor Jack, who was down on one knee.

Moses, the holes for the bolts. They’re not on the sides. They’re drilled wrong. You start cuttin’, and she’ll run right off the foundation. We got to drill new ones.

Moses let out a string of oaths as he walked to Sailor Jack.

How’re we gonna drill new ones? This is hard metal. Our brae bits are made for wood, god damn it! This is gonna set us back if we have to get a new frame. That’ll take weeks, and we can’t wait that long. We got wood to cut! Damn it! Damn it!

Haul that blacksmith over here as soon as some of the boys get here. We can get through the wood, but the casting’s another story. Not much room to move under there, Moses ordered, glaring at the frame.

Jack continued to study the saw. Moses, we still got sortin’ to complete. We’ll move some of our logs over to the boom closest to the old saw. When the boys come in, we’ll take half of ‘em and get ‘em to settin’ up the old saw. We’ll have to dig the pit out again, but at least we’ll be cuttin’.

But we’ll be behind, Moses complained stubbornly.

Sailor Jack spoke, ignoring Moses. Micah, you take the rest of the boys and start the sortin’. I want that boom full of our logs in two days, he ordered.

Micah, also studying the frame and half paying attention, rejoined the conversation when he heard… two days.

Two days? Jack, I’ll have only half a crew. Two days?

Jack looked straight at Micah. Two days. You want to start cuttin’, don’t ya?

Micah took one last look at the frame and foundation. Two days. Half a crew, he muttered. With that, he stood, brushed sawdust from his hands, and walked out the back of the mill to take a look at the booms. The boom Sailor Jack wanted filled was north and up-current by at least one hundred yards from the rotary saw. The booms closest to the new saw held enough Hartman logs, so the sawing could have started if everything would have gone right. To make matters worse, Micah would have to sort the six booms farthest from the old saw.

How the Sam hell am I gonna manage this? Micah wondered. It seems darned near impossible! Micah was used to making plans, methodically, well-thought-out plans, before he acted. Now he had little time and fewer resources. What would Jack do? He knew Jack was an expert at making tough jobs look easy.

Break down the problem, Micah thought, and you’ll have your answer. As he surveyed the booms, he noticed that five had available space because Hartman logs had been moved in anticipation of the rotary saw. How can I use this? he pondered as he walked the riverbank and stepped on the nearest boom. Leaping onto the logs, the young man walked downriver from the mill and inspected six of the twelve booms before turning back. He had his plan.

Back at the mill, Micah mentally measured the frame. Base sixty inches long, four holes at each foot, not all of them are touching the foundation. Without the bolt support, the pull of the rotary blade against a log would jerk the saw off the foundation. That’s why the design called for the extra support. Well, look, Micah made a mental note, the gear shaft opening is way too high for the shaft. It’s a wonder both Father and Jack missed this during their inspections. Given Moses’s current black mood, Micah elected to keep silent on this issue.

After all members of the crew had arrived, Jack assembled them to explain the situation.

Swede, you and Hermes are with Micah’s crew, Jack directed. Both men were expert loggers. Swede could move across a body of floating logs like it was his kitchen floor. This was the man for the big jams. Solid and tough, Swede could work twenty hours a day and more. Hermes, a block of a man, was nearly as wide as he was tall, and due to his strength, many insisted he was a giant. Strength combined with amazingly quick hands made him essential on a drive. Few could match him with a jam pike and cant hook, and his ability to read the disposition of a floating log was legendary. Sailor Jack’s experience showed in the crew divisions he created. Micah’s was the larger and more experienced because it had to move logs and move them fast—pulling, tugging, and pushing while atop uncut board feet. Yes, Micah would run the job, but Jack would never be far away. Micah’s crew gathered near the booms.

Micah, now how is it you’re tinking ta do dis? Swede led off.

In response, Micah knelt on one knee and drew in the dirt. See here, this is what the booms look like. These lines are the booms. We’ll move the logs from number twelve to number two. Micah pointed to the sketch. Twelve is the last boom, and two is next to the upper mill. Ten, seven, and four are half-empty, so we’ll move Hartman logs from twelve to ten. Hermes, take three men and start moving logs to ten. D’ya see how we’ll leapfrog from twelve to ten to seven? Swede, you troll the line. If anybody gets behind, help ‘em. I’ll take two men and start sorting out booms that don’t have teams assigned to them. Just remember: Hartman logs only and keep ‘em moving.

The men hurried to the tool shed to grab pike poles, cant hooks, or peaveys, each to his preference. Swede and Hermes divvied the men into teams and sent them to their stations.

The last to leave the shed, Micah rested a peavey on his shoulder as he walked to boom seven with his crew. They needed to separate Hartman logs from those of other companies before they could begin transferring them. At the same time, Hermes and his crew hustled to number ten. Micah watched as Hermes rolled a log to find the circled cross on the end before rotating his peavey and pushing its captive to the opening of the boom. A second man walked on the boom wall and used a pike to drive it out of the opening and run it upstream where a third logger’s pike speared and propelled it toward boom seven. We better be getting busy before Hermes’s men fill number seven before we’ve even got ‘em separated! With this, Micah got to work.

Toiling half the morning, Micah’s crew barely kept pace with the crews behind them. After sorting and packing the logs in seven, Hermes had enough logs to start moving them to four. Swede moved up and down the run, pushing and pulling logs with a grace and easy motion that made his work appear effortless. As the May sun climbed higher in the sky, the men stripped off jackets and heavy shirts in favor of sweat-stained undershirts. Caulked boots and thuds of pikes on logs created background music for the work, accented occasionally by a slip and a splash. The crews worked without talking.

Micah speared and shoved, reached and pulled in tandem with his crews, but his thoughts were on squared right angles, punched holes, bolts, and screws. In Milwaukee, he had learned about the transfer of power through large wheels pulling smaller ones. Could we transfer the river’s power to the saw if the drive shaft were connected to a flywheel? If so, Micah reasoned, he could place the worm gear almost anywhere, and the rotary saw would work… so long as it was secured. Securing the rotary saw to the frame was crucial.

After Sailor Jack’s crew commenced working on the pits, the veteran logger headed to the booms below the lower mill. He