A crowd began to form as he and Billie Lapham and a few other men loaded the wagon with Molly’s things and Jimmy’s cradle, as well as the sacks of sequoia cones and the seedlings. Even Nancy Lapham came out and sat in a chair on the front porch of the hotel. She had insisted on getting dressed, and she made a point of kissing Jimmy and hugging Molly goodbye, though she stepped out of Molly’s mountainous embrace as soon as she could. Robert went and sat with her for a few moments.
Nancy took his hand. “Everything’s changing, ain’t it?” She seemed sad.
“I’ll still come up this way to collect sequoias,” Robert assured her. “I’ll stop in and see you.”
“You better!” Nancy squeezed his hand. “If I hear you’ve been to Cally Grove and not come here to Murphys, there’ll be hell to pay, Robert Goodenough!”
Robert smiled. It was hard to imagine Nancy giving him hell. He made to get up but she gripped his hand tighter. “But something tells me I ain’t gonna see you again.”
“Don’t talk like that, Nancy.”
“It’s not that.” She dismissed her own decline with a shrug. “It’s—never mind. You go on with your family now. Look after that little boy.”
“I’ll see you soon,” he said. “Real soon.”
“Sure.” Nancy let go of his hand.
After many handshakes and claps on the back—with Billie Lapham throwing his arms around him twice, and Molly laughing and crying, and the proprietor telling her she had a job at Murphys Hotel any time she wanted, and Jimmy squalling because of the noise—what Robert remembered most about their departure was Nancy seated and still on the hotel porch, dressed in white, watching them and nodding once. It turned out she was right.
Robert had only taken the steamboat from Stockton to San Francisco once before, when he’d traveled with William Lobb. Usually he preferred the gray and a mule or two and his own company coming down out of the golden foothills of the Sierra Nevadas and across the flat plain of central California, where the mountains disappeared; and then after a day of mesmeric riding in the bright hot sun, a blue haze of new mountains began to shimmer ahead. There were no miners in the plains to dirty it up, and the Indians and Californios he met along the way were benign.
But he could not travel with Molly and Jimmy and the wagon full of her belongings that way; it would take too long. As they boarded the steamboat, Molly grinned. “Ain’t this grand?” she cried. “I seen these steamers docked in Sacramento and always dreamed one day I’d take one. Now that day’s come!”
He left her on deck by the large paddle and went with the gray to his temporary stall. This time Robert could not stay with his horse for long—he had others to look after. He stood for a moment with his arm around the gray’s neck, feeling the rocking movement of the boat under his feet that he knew the horse hated. “Sorry about this,” he whispered. As he left, the gray turned to look at him, then pissed a long, hot stream all over the deck.
Molly was at the stern, feeding Jimmy and watching the buildings of Stockton pass by. When she waved at people on the bank they always waved back. Robert was amazed that she was able to nurse the baby while standing. “This is the way to travel,” she said, still grinning. “I could glide along all week like this.”
“Molly, I’m gonna need to collect some redwoods,” Robert said, thinking ahead to what he would need to do to fulfill William Lobb’s letter. “When we get to San Francisco I’ll have to take off again once you’re settled.”
Molly’s smile faded, her expression becoming one part annoyance, one part pity. “Can’t you jest enjoy this? How long have we got on board?”
“About ten hours to San Francisco.”
“Tell you what: for ten hours, let’s not think about trees. Here, you take Jimmy.” Molly detached the drowsing baby from her nipple and handed him over. “I’m gonna go and have some fun!”
Something was shifting between them: Molly had lost her desperation and was becoming impatient. Though she had been forced to leave Murphys because of Robert, somehow it no longer felt like she was chasing after him; instead she was sweeping ahead and making him decide if he would follow.
Robert sat down on a bench in the sun with Jimmy in his lap and let the scenery pass before him much as it had when he’d made the first trip with William Lobb. There were Indians strung along the bank on their horses, and even the same boys—or their younger brothers now—racing the steamboat. After these past weeks of rapid change, the familiarity of the trip was a comfort, as was the baby’s solid weight. He felt he should be thinking about something, worrying at a problem and finding a solution, but it was so peaceful sitting there in the sun that after a while he closed his eyes and, as Molly had suggested, allowed himself simply to be. Soon he was sleeping as soundly as his nephew.
It seemed Mrs. Bienenstock had seen everything before, for she showed no surprise when Robert arrived with a pregnant woman and baby just weeks after a different pregnant woman had come looking for him. California was like that. People had gone west leaving behind all sorts of trouble; what they found in California was the space and freedom to create new trouble. Though Mrs. B. had never had women or children board with her, she stood aside and let Molly and Jimmy cross her doorway without comment, except to say, “Soak the diapers out back—they can add to the smells out there rather than inside.”
Robert began to say something, to explain, but she cut him off. “You’ll need a bigger room. Take the one on the second floor at the back: two dollars a week more. You go on up,” she said to Molly. “I’ll bring up bedding—or you got your own you prefer?”
“We’re fine, thanks.” Molly and Mrs. Bienenstock eyed each other, then nodded at the same time, coming to a wordless understanding that left Robert to one side.
He watched Molly climb the stairs, then turned back to his landlady. “Is Mr. Lobb around?”
Mrs. B. frowned. “He’s down at the docks when he should be in bed. Couldn’t even walk down there—had to get a wagon to take him ’cause his legs are so bad. He’s been fretting about you, wondering when you’d be bringing back the redwoods. Fifty, is it? Where are they?” She glanced at the wagon loaded with all they’d brought from Murphys, Jimmy’s cradle turned upside down and anchoring the mountain of pillows and sheets and blankets and mattress that Molly always carted around with her. Sandwiched in somewhere with the others was the nine-patch Goodenough quilt.
“I haven’t collected them yet—I’ve been busy with—other things.”
“So you have.” Mrs. Bienenstock seemed amused.
William Lobb appeared an hour later, after Robert had unloaded their possessions and was in the yard, spreading out cones to dry. “Goodenough!” he cried, hobbling out. “Where are those damned redwoods I asked you for? I’ve just seen Beardsley nosing around down at the docks. He’s bound to be sending redwoods to Wales too. We have to get a move on!”
Before Robert could answer, Molly popped her head out of the window to their room. “Honey, bring up some towels if Mrs. B.”s got any to spare? Well, halloo there!” she called to William Lobb. “You must be the famous William Lobb. You ain’t gonna work Robert to death, are you? He’s got others need him now.”
Lobb stared up at her, with her curly black hair sticking out and the shelf of her breasts resting on the windowsill. Then Jimmy began to cry. “Ah, there he goes. Don’t forget the towels!” Molly pulled her head back inside.
William Lobb turned back to Robert. Unlike Mrs. Bienenstock, he did not keep quiet. “Who the hell is that? That’s not your sister. I met her. Quiet little thing, light hair. Didn’t have much—” Lobb gestured at his chest. “Where is she?”
The stark stillness on Robert’s face made Lobb stop. “Oh, lad, I am sorry.”
Robert reached for a sequoia cone that had been partially chewed by a chickaree and tossed it aside.
“Who is that?” Lobb nodded at the upstairs window. This time he asked more gently.
Robert continued to paw through the sack
of cones so that he would not have to look up. “Molly. I knew her back in Texas. She’s been up at French Creek a few years. I may have mentioned her before.”
“And the baby?”
“My nephew.”
William Lobb nodded. They were silent for a few minutes, Robert with his cones, Lobb inspecting the sequoia seedlings. Their needles were yellowing and they were inferior to what Robert normally brought back, but the Englishman did not comment. When he judged enough time had passed, he said, “There’s a ship leaves for Panama in three days. If you can collect fifty redwoods and bring them back by then, we can get them off to Wales quickly. No time to dry those cones.” He nodded at the cones spread at Robert’s feet. “We’ll just have to pack them green.”
“Why are you in such a hurry?”
“The gentleman’s not hired any collector in particular, just said the first to get a grove worth of seedlings to him gets the commission. Of course Beardsley will be looking to get it. Maybe Bridges, and it wouldn’t surprise me if the Murray brothers tried their hand too. The man’s planning a pinetum as well, so there’ll be plenty more work if he’s happy. He’ll want every kind of conifer we can send him—probably as seedlings or saplings. So we need those redwoods now to demonstrate our collecting ability. I thought you’d have brought them back with you rather than a woman and baby.”
“What does Veitch say?”
“This isn’t a commission through Veitch. It’s separate. We’ll get the whole payment.”
“Aren’t you collecting for Veitch anymore?”
Lobb frowned. “I’ve had enough of Veitch. I’m ill, and I’m tired. I’m done with him. This will be my way of thumbing my nose at him, and still get paid better.”
“What about me?”
“You?” William Lobb shrugged. “You, lad, can do what you like. The British will still want Californian trees. You can collect for Veitch if you want. I won’t stand in your way. It looks like you’ve got people depending on you.” He raised his eyebrows towards the window where Molly had appeared.
“But …” Robert couldn’t tell if he was being cut loose by his employer.
“You’ve got enough knowledge. Use it now: where are we going to find fifty redwood seedlings fast?”
At least Lobb had used “we.” That was something. Robert thought for a moment. “It has to be close by.”
“Yes. And?”
“There need to be a lot of seedlings germinating.”
“And where do you get that?”
“Someplace where there was a fire a year ago.” Rather than destroying the redwoods, fire cleared the forest floor of the thick duff around them and provided seeds with a new bed full of minerals. Robert had seen many more redwood seedlings in scorched earth than in a ground full of old needles.
“Yes. Fire. There was a fire above the Oakland hills a year ago. Good redwoods up there and it’s just across the bay. Oakland will do. You can take the ferry across.”
“But I need your help.”
Lobb winced. “Listen, lad, I can’t do a thing. There are shooting pains in my legs and I’ve no energy. All my years of travel have caught up with me.” He paused. “Don’t let that happen to you. Mind you, looks like you’re heading in the right direction.” He nodded again at Molly’s window.
“You can show me where the redwoods are, organize the wagon. You won’t have to do the digging. Just come with me. Please.” Robert didn’t know why he was so insistent that Lobb accompany him. Nonetheless, he stared at his employer intently until Lobb relented.
“Damn your brown eyes, Goodenough! All right. Never mind the ferry: run down to the docks and hire us a boat and a man willing to take us first thing tomorrow—as early as possible so we’ve got a full day. Now, wagons: I think we can manage with just one if we stack the pails right. And pails—we’ve got to get more. A whole lot more.” As he and Robert began discussing the logistics of collecting so many trees in one go, William Lobb seemed to brighten and regain his energy, pacing Mrs. Bienenstock’s yard without the stiff gait he had adopted over the past year.
Molly did not seem to mind Robert going off almost immediately after they had arrived in San Francisco. Like him, she was used to doing things herself without expecting much from others. When he went to tell her, she was busy in the bedroom, settling in with her blankets on the bed, dresses on pegs, bottles on the chest of drawers, and Jimmy popped into the cradle, with the Goodenough quilt as his bedding. Again she seemed to be able to quickly make a home out of a space, pressing down a tangible mark where Robert would have left no footprint.
He was relieved that she was cheerful and amenable. She was only disappointed not to see the ocean right away. “You could get Mrs. B. to take you out to Black Point,” Robert suggested. “Or out by Seal Rocks where they’re building a fort. You get a good view of it there.”
“Naw, I want to see it with you,” Molly insisted. “Anyway, there’s plenty for me to see around here. All those houses we saw on the way! And the saloons! And the ships! I’m gonna have me a little holiday.”
Going to Oakland felt like a little holiday to Robert. There were no women or babies to consider, and only a few drunk miners around. He did not have to be careful about tracking mud into Mrs. B.”s, or lie in bed at night with Molly too warm beside him, feeling the four walls closing him in. After crossing the bay in a boat large enough to hold fifty pails, two men, the boat’s owner and Robert’s horse, he saddled the gray so he could ride into the hills, while William Lobb stayed behind in the small town to hire a wagon he would bring up after Robert. It had been almost a year since the men had gone out collecting together. Lobb also seemed happy to be out and away from the responsibilities and debilitations of the city. He walked almost normally and his brow was clear of its usual furrows.
“Up there.” He pointed at a ridge above Oakland. “Take the Indian trail up, and go right at the fork. About a mile up you’ll find a beauty of a grove. I’ve been saving it. You should be able to find enough seedlings there. Take some pails to get started on—we’ll bring along the rest.”
He was right about the redwood grove. It was full of tall trees with their distinctive auburn bark and needled branches getting bigger the higher up they grew. Robert knew he didn’t have much time to collect fifty seedlings, yet when he had walked a little way into the grove he took a few minutes to sit on a log and look around him. Last year’s fire had charred parts of many of the trunks, but redwood bark was thick and full of tannin that protected it from burning, and redwood branches grew starting halfway up the trunk, which meant that flames couldn’t use them as a ladder to reach the top of the tree. The forest floor had been cleaned by the fire, and now tiny seedlings were sprouting everywhere, amid a carpet of emerald-green redwood sorrel.
Though not so big as the Calaveras sequoias he had been among weeks before, the redwoods gave him the familiar soothing sense of being insignificant. If only I could keep this feeling with me everywhere I am, Robert thought. Maybe then it wouldn’t be so hard to adjust to all the things that have happened to me.
He spent a happy few hours finding seedlings and digging them up. As he worked, he wondered which trees would not survive the long journey across the ocean, and what the rest would look like planted in foreign soil. It was a relief to think only of the trees and of what he needed rather than of what others needed from him. Though it was not easy finding so many seedlings at one time, Robert did not hurry or worry, but worked steadily, ferrying what he had on the gray down to the larger road where William Lobb waited with the wagon. The gray was not happy about being hung again with pails, but Robert had brought along a supply of sugar lumps and early Gravenstein apples to keep him reasonably quiet.
By sunset he had dug up the fiftieth tree and tipped it into a pail. When he brought the last seedlings down to the wagon, William Lobb nodded, satisfied. “They’ll do, lad. Good work.”
Back in Oakland, the owner of the boat was missing, and Robert went to search for him
among the saloons strung along the main street. He was passed out in one of them, and Robert couldn’t bring him to. “He’s too drunk to sail,” he said to William Lobb back at the wagon, worried about his employer’s response.
But Lobb was sanguine. “We’ll rouse him first thing tomorrow,” he said. “There’s no steamers leaving tomorrow, so Beardsley can’t take off before us. Star of the West leaves the day after tomorrow. We’ve got time.”
Lobb was too stiff to sleep outside, and took a room at one of the basic hotels, but Robert stabled the gray, borrowed a blanket and walked a ways out of town to light a fire, wrap himself up and sleep under the stars. He hadn’t slept outside since Molly’s arrival. As he lay by the fire, he marveled at how quiet it was without Molly and Jimmy with him, and how much easier it was to live this kind of traveling life. The next minute, though, he was feeling guilty about being apart from them. He would not describe it as missing them, exactly, but he was very aware that he was alone. He was not sure what a family was meant to be like. Not James and Sadie Goodenough, that was clear. But what else was there? It felt like fumbling around in the dark, trying to light a candle, losing track of where he was, touching things he didn’t mean to touch.
Despite these thoughts, Robert slept well. He woke at dawn feeling more like himself than he had in weeks.
Mrs. Bienenstock was standing in the doorway of her house, smoking a cigar. She stubbed it out when the wagon pulled up. “Jesus H. Christ,” she muttered. “Jesus H. Christ.”
Robert assumed she was reacting to the army of pails double-stacked on the wagon bed. The boat full of seedlings had attracted much attention at the docks when they landed from Oakland, and William Lobb had not been willing to leave them there, even for a night, for fear they would be damaged or stolen—or worse, other tree agents would see them and know they were collecting redwoods for the Welsh estate. So they’d brought them back to the boardinghouse till they could take them onto the Star of the West the next morning.
At the Edge of the Orchard Page 22