John A. McDonald trembled with the weakness that indulgences and self abuse bring on. His body shuddered as he draped his thick, untidy, blue overcoat across his broad shoulders. He had been sick for a week but still continued to drink and neglect the good nourishment and sleeping habits that the discipline and confinement of camp demanded for the rest of the year. The break from camp was spent abundantly and lavishly, without regard to common sense. It was a break from which good habits were discarded for impetuous desires in a free-for-all demonstration of licentious behavior. It was a tradition, and one that the forestry industry accepted and from which the local businesses benefited.
John A. was a huge man; over six foot four inches and as strong as the bull of the woods that he was, having worked in the bush all of his life. His bearing was as straight as one of the cedars he felled: proud of his vocation and namesake of the first Prime Minister of Canada, he tried his best to behave honestly, and in a straightforward plain manner. He was about 40 and in his prime. He had always depended on his body and took it for granted as youngsters do. When he spoke to his men they listened to him or otherwise regretted not having done so. He was the woods foreman at Mahatta River Lot 652 logging camp and in that circle of men he was a highly respected leader.
Still, like most, he had his weaknesses and when opportunity permitted, indulged in heavy drinking and hard living. He steadied himself before checking his wallet and mentally trying to reckon his expenditures and loans made to anyone who asked at the right time. There were always the loans, never repaid. His hands shook as he used his thumb to riffle through the bills he had left. He couldn’t remember what had occurred the night before: drink after drink distorted his recollection and a blur of faces both friendly and mean occupied his tired memories.
Outside, where once only a hundred years ago, majestic fir and stately cedar lined the streets, now, Hastings and Main was the bleakest and most chilling corner in Vancouver. The refuse of society wandered these places now: lost pride; abandoned dignity looking for quick opportunity and another drink or fix. Now at this intersection in life, tall and squatted buildings, indistinguishable in color and bathed in a grey light had replaced the finest and tallest of ancient verdant, lustrous evergreens. Concrete blocks and bricks filled in where cement had not been warranted. Cold, hard, concrete sidewalks and asphalt roads marked the city’s trails; used by people, vehicles and animals.
He came out of his Astor Hotel room into the cold, wet, dreary streets. Vehicles cast waves of water as they sped by, oblivious as to who was in the way. John A. walked close by the walls cursing them and shaking all the more for the dampness leaking into his bones. Pedestrians approached or passed by from behind with intrepid purpose. The beer parlour was only a few more blocks and he began to feel sick for lack of alcohol. He imagined the first swallow and the peace and painless passage of warmth and pleasure resulting. He walked with his head down watching his slippery, slick city shoes now soiled from the beer and the vomit, spilled out on the floor. He swore each year that it would not be like this again, but he had always been defeated by his plain, pure, nature. Friends and enemies coaxed him on; and as he drank, his resolve became weaker and weaker.
Before entering the lounge door of the Cobalt Hotel he shook off the excess water from his overcoat. In a vain gesture he swept back his hair from his eyes and patted it down with his massive calloused hands. He drew his hands across his face to measure the length of his stubble. The beer parlour was already half full. He recognized some of the patrons but took a table by himself and waited for the regular drop of two beers that the waiters would always start a customer with. The first glass he drank greedily as if he was starved for liquid and the second one he succored with care. Immediately he felt the warmth flow through his body and limbs. He rummaged around in his pockets for a cigarette as one habit goes hand in hand with the other. An unfamiliar face tried to join him for a free beer but he raised his hand in a threatening way to encourage him to pass on. The man had had no money and might have been his drinking buddy the night before but John A. didn’t recognize him and he wasn’t ready yet for any slight indulgences or false friendships.
These first moments at the first table of the day were always times for decision making and John A. McDonald resolved to take it easy for the rest of the day otherwise when he returned to camp he would have the shakes and wouldn’t be able to work: a poor example to his men. So he drank slowly, tending to his glass in a casual way. But as the day grew longer and he had something to eat, he felt himself approaching a feeling of normalcy and his resolve gave way to arrogance and confidence in his physical ability to withstand the tremendous torture to his body that the binge drinking would bring. Gradually others joined him and the talk grew repetitive and loud. Where six strong, sodden men sat, rowdy and loud, the conversation was always interspersed with the historic legends and the recent heroics of camp life: Who had felled the most trees in a shift? Who held the record for setting chokes? Who was the best Gyppo on the west coast; and who was the best with a peavey? These topics seemed important to them all and they were serious about the discussions. Each had his own thoughts on these matters and was prepared to defend them. The dialogue often ended in fights and drunken animosity was the result. The whirl of tobacco smoke moved like a dance as the waiters seemed to skate among the tables and deliver and pick up glasses of whiskey, wine and beer on their wet trays.
A rough, threatening atmosphere was building and John A. was tired, having had a restless alcohol induced sleep the night before as with every night. He wanted to go back to his room to have a nap and return later for a “second shift” as he put it. It was about 4:00 pm.
Still cold, wet and unwelcome he opened the bar doors to the streets. The cars continued to splash by without regard to pedestrians again, and he cursed them once more. With an unfamiliar pace he uncomfortably plodded back to his hotel room and after discarding his coat, fell onto the bed. He slept soundly until 8:00 in the evening. Upon awaking he had a bit of a headache but nothing that another beer wouldn’t cure. He wasn’t drunk, but was reaching a pleasant plateau of alcoholic contentment. Recalling again that they all had to return to camp the next day, he was determined to take it easy for the rest of the night. He began to think about how he could smuggle some alcohol back into camp on his return. Alcohol was banned in camp but somehow, someone, always had a cache and if there were ever a raid, it would be passed on to others to hold for awhile. Nothing was ever found by the camp superintendant, a respected and experienced man but of a different nature from the rest of the men. But their differences were needed like a hierarchical glue that held the structure of the camp together.
When he returned to the beer parlour the news of the murder of Robbie Hawthorne was the topic of everyone’s thoughts. They all discussed the crime and each had his own idea as to what had happened. The police were still present and were still questioning the men randomly. The rest of the night was predictable: fights and friendships erupted just as abruptly and unpredictably as thunderbolts or soft summer zephyrs. The night ended in real sorrow and regret and false happiness as the men stumbled to bed with a repeated warning not to sleep in and to convene at the airport where they would depart for Port Hardy.
The morning brought cold, sober certainty and more bleak winter weather. The men were hung over and milled about as quietly as scolded children. Some were shaking and others were sick. They boarded the DC6 dutifully and most fell quickly into a deprived sleep. They landed after a two hour flight, grumbling and chilled by the island air. They would fly now in shifts to Mahatta River: six to a float plane and the promise of rough conditions. The last of the men left after two more hours. They all arrived at camp to hear the news that the police were coming to pay a visit and everyone was to co-operate. The camp collectively wrung their hands and each man collected his thoughts, not only about the night of the murder of Robbie Hawthorne, but of many other things they had done in the past which had not yet been discovered. How much did the police know was the question on each of their minds?
As soon as John A. landed he took his truck and headed out to the new cutting lot and walked the ground. He felt the slight resilience of the forest carpet under his feet. He smelled the thick pungent odour of the stand of cedars and looked to the towering first growth timber that was ready to fall. As he walked he pulled at the ferns rising waist high throughout the area. He crushed them in his hands and raised the strong aroma to his nose. John A. fixed his eyes on a random spot in the vastness of the forest and silently determined that no other footprint had ever marked that surface and oddly the thought calmed his troubled mind. He felt more settled now and returned to camp.
After two hours that Sunday morning, the drone of the bush aircraft could be heard approaching the landing. Tensions and anxieties sharpened. Each man was alone with his thoughts a repentant prisoner of his past.
The same cold, dreary winter weather which they had left, hung 50 feet above the ocean waves and the Cessna aircraft tried to navigate its way between the two atmospheres. Three police officers from Vancouver and two more form Port Hardy were approaching the rough coast of Lot 652 Mahatta River logging camp. The shoreline was drenched from the cascade of rain that continued to fall and the water was running off the scarred, rocky foreshore like an overflowing tub spilling out onto the floor. The police all wore stiffly pressed uniforms and solemn expressions and the men awaiting them, many fugitives from one long ago event or another, waited anxiously with a look of worried innocence upon their faces. It was Sunday, a haven to some and an agony to others; there was nothing to do but to lie in bed; to wait and think; think and wait.
The clearing for the camp was diminished by the surrounding tree filled mountains. A receiving dock; a management barracks, four or five private dwellings on the hillside; three workers’ dormitories; a cookhouse; an office, fuel tanks, a general store and the mechanics shop all geometrically placed in contrast to the flurry of logging activity that went on 8 hours a day except for Sundays. The logging trucks with their gear piled high on their backs were all lined up as if ready for inspection. The crummies that transported the men to and from the cutting lots lined the roads, four abreast. Mechanics were sharpening all the saws, axes and chains preparing for Monday morning. The men lingered; checked and re-checked their gear, and wandered aimlessly like delinquent schoolboys awaiting an unknown punishment. The superintendent waited by the dock to receive his guests.
John A. McDonald lay on his bed in his room smaller than the space he had occupied in the city. But for him it felt like home. The scent of cedars and ferns filled the familiar air. The bull cooks had cleaned, swept and changed his linen as they did every Sunday. The room was comforting and routine to him. He continued to wait until his appointed time. The superintendent had the interviews convene in the offices where privacy could be maintained. Each man had a fixed appointment. Each man was rehearsing his story, over and over.
They came and went, some staying longer than others. Some left more relieved and others wore a worried look, going over their stories in their minds again and again. Had they answered right? Did they make a mistake? The police were clever; sometimes kind and at other times mean. Robbie Hawthorne had been beaten and robbed. He was beaten so badly that his bones were broken from terrible blows. He died alone in his bed at the Astor Hotel.
Most men could not remember what they were doing at the time of Robbie Hawthorne’s death. Most were drinking or already drunk by 5:00 on that day. Some who had admitted that they were broke were questioned more intensely; those who were larger men were detained longer than others who were obviously too small to inflict such damage. Though they didn’t know why, these men were excused and told that they were not suspects. They returned to their bunks jubilant and brash. Those who were suspect were told to expect to return for more questions.
When it came to John A. McDonald’s turn, a suspect the police were favouring, he entered the office in his usual slow, confident way, wearing a slight grin that was more friendly than arrogant. He sat facing the five policemen with his hands folded in front of him. He was rested and clear headed.
“Why did you do it, John?” one of the policemen asked abruptly.
“I didn’t do it,” he answered with self-assurance, looking in the man’s eyes directly.
“Where were you at the time?” Another demanded.
“I was sleeping. I already told you guys. I went back to the beer parlour about 8:00”
“You didn’t hear anything? You didn’t see anything?” the first policeman asked in an accusing and doubtful manner.
“No, I was asleep.”
“Let me see your hands.” Another demanded, reaching for them aggressively.
They were cut and bruised from previous fighting. But it was not unusual for any of the men to have injuries like these.
“What happened to your hands?”
“”Fighting” John offered apologetically, somewhat ashamed of his behaviour. “I had a couple of fights in the bar.”
“How well did you know Robbie Hawthorne?”
“Not well. He was at the camp for three months before break up. He was one of my chocker men and I only talked to him a couple of times.”
“How’s your money…anything left?” a new policeman asked.
“I still have some. I lent a lot out too but I forgot who to.”
Some time passed as the police looked at John A. and he boldly returned their gaze. He was a man who understood the power of words relying on his common sense and experience he answered self assuredly. When he finished speaking, it was all he had to say on the subject and he got up to leave sensing that they had finished. They didn’t detain him but were reluctant to let him go.
In the end, though they favoured charging John A. McDonald, they had no strong evidence on anyone. Barroom brawls were common in that neighbourhood and hotel guests being beaten was not an uncommon event. No one claimed the bodies of these poor souls and they were soon forgotten.
John A. returned to his room and fell again onto the bed. He looked to the ceiling but not focusing and soon fell asleep until dinner time when the cookhouse whistle wakened him from a troubled sleep.
The cookhouse was a cacophony of high pitched conversation, wide-eyed finger pointing and emphatic hand hammering. Those who had been cleared; relieved of the burden of suspicion, were the most vocal and had the clearest theories about the death of Robbie Hawthorne. Inevitably, he had more friends now than before and was remembered with endearment and charming stories of his accomplishments. When John A. entered the cookhouse, the din diminished and only those who weren’t aware of his entrance, went on in normal tones. He sat at his usual table; on his usual chair. When he noticed some men leaving having finished their dinner, he made an announcement in a loud and clear voice.
“Our friend Robbie Hawthorne is dead. It’s too bad, but remember what I told you. You have to look out for yourself. Maybe Robbie was careless, maybe he was too trusting. Whatever happened could have happened to any of us if you’re not careful.”
“Anyway, were back in camp now and we have other worries and dangers. Monday morning, check your saws and cables. Watch the length of your laces and make sure you have your oilskins, we’re going to have a cold rainy winter.” Keep clear of the chokers when they’re released and watch the fallers. It’s dangerous out there.”
“Where’re we cutting tomorrow, John A.?” Someone asked.
“We’ll be back on the north lot where it’s thick and tall with cedars.”
And that’s all he had to say on the subject.
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