‘Not a lot,’ said Frank, ‘but my grandfather was on the flumes and he said it was a good life.’ He paused. ‘We hear there’s good money to be had,’ he added optimistically.
The problem for lumberjacks working this high up in the mountains was the distance from the remote camps to the main cart track. It was just not practical to have the huge, heavy logs dragged out of the forest by horse, and the solution was to send the logs down the mountain on a fast-running flume of water to the depot on the downs below. From there the logs could be transported to the towns and cities by mule cart.
It was a wonderful idea, and once the first flume got going, the idea spread. The men who became flume-herders lived in little sheds perched precariously on ledges dangerously close to turning points in the flumes, and they needed strength to be able to deal with blockages as several tons of wood came hurtling down the surging water towards them. There was no shortage of young men who would head to the mountains, determined to ride the flumes, if only to say they had done it! Some, of course, never got the chance to say anything to anyone ever again after an early mistake on the logs, but every camp had an Igor, so some parts of them might very well get a second chance. And occasionally you might meet a really old flume-herder who had been doing it for a long time, and might indeed be sporting a young man’s arms on his wiry old body.
‘The flumes don’t like babies,’ Mr Slack said. ‘It’s a man’s job and no mistake. I see you’ve got muscles, both of you, but I don’t care about that. There are lots of boys like you with muscles. What we need is boys with muscles in their heads. You never know what the flumes will do to you on a renegade turn.’ He frowned at them. ‘Do you know young Jack Abbott? Young lumberjack who lives down the mountain with his good mother and young sister? Near as anything chopped his own foot off just a week or so ago. Only just getting better, and that thanks to some lass with a squint who the witches sent on up to help. Think on that, lads, if you think you can take risks up here. Flume-herding is a lot more dangerous than lumberjacking.’
The boys looked downcast.
‘And it’s magic wood, some of this up here,’ Slack continued. ‘For the wizards. That’s why they need us, lads – can’t take it on trains, even once it’s down in the depot. You all right with that? Magic can do funny stuff to some of the men up here.’ He pointed at the snowy trees surrounding them and said, ‘These aren’t your ordinary pines, these are Predictive Pines. They know the future. Although dang me if I know why or how. What good is knowing the future for a pine tree? It can predict when it is going to be cut down – but you still do cut them down. Not like it can get away now, ha! But if you touch one, and it likes you, you’ll see what is about to happen. So, lads, you still interested?’
Martin wasn’t the kind to talk too much, but he said very simply, ‘I just need the money, boss. And the grub, of course.’
‘Oh, it’s good money. And you can buy all sorts and get it sent up here,’ said Mr Slack. He dug into a pocket of his checked jacket and pulled out a well-thumbed book. ‘Biggerwoods catalogue. We all swear by it. You can get anything you want.’
Frank peered at the catalogue, at its cover. ‘Says ’ere you can get a bride,’ he said in wonder. ‘Comes by train.’
‘Well, there ain’t no train gets up here – no iron near this wood. Nearest railhead’s down at Hot Dang. Near enough. And that there brides is a new offer. Just in time for you lads. It says that you can get a young lady – lots of fancy girls looking for men. Find yourself one, and on what you can make up here she can have a proper indoor privy and no messing and all the clothes she wants. That’s how good the money is.’ He paused and stuffed the catalogue back into his pocket, then added, ‘Women’s clothes are wonderful, don’t you think? Only the other day I met a man who said he travelled in ladies’ lingerie . . .’
‘Are you sure he was all right?’ Martin asked Mr Slack a bit dubiously. He had heard talk of one very remote camp where the tough, strong lumberjacks apparently chose to dress in women’s clothing as they sang songs about their big choppers, but he hadn’t believed it. Until now, anyway.
The lumberjack ignored his question. ‘Well, Martin, you are a fine boy, aren’t you?’ he said, then turned to Frank. ‘You, lad, why do you want to take your chances up here?’