Will had planned to marry and settle in Maine once. It still hurt some to think of Helen. He had loved her, but she had drowned at sea on her way home from a trip to Europe to visit relatives. Now he understood more than ever how awful it must have been for her. It had been equally awful for him and for her family, not having a body to bury. Would he die the same way? How ironic that would be, and how terrible for his brother and his mother.
He hung on for dear life as the ship rolled and pitched again, and water seeped under his door and dripped through the ceiling above.
Will awoke to the sight of a blue sky outside the tiny window of his cabin. He was lying on his cot, still fully dressed, even to his slicker and boots. It took him a moment to remember how he had gotten there and why he had slept so hard. He shifted on the cot, gasped at the pain in his left shoulder. The rest of his body also ached, especially his right arm, from hanging on to the post for hours until the storm finally abated. He had stumbled to his cot, managed some sleep.
He looked around the tiny room. Only three private cabins were available on the cargo ship—one for the captain, one for the first mate, and one for any guest of the captain or a special passenger. The rest of the men slept in three-tier bunks in the hole, and ate in shifts in the ship’s small kitchen. Will and the captain and first mate took their meals in the captain’s cabin, which was the largest.
Now Will felt guilty for having nicer quarters than the sailors, who had struggled so valiantly the night before to save the ship and his cargo of lumber and syrup. One man had lost his life, maybe more by now, for all he knew.
He winced as he sat up and rubbed his shoulder, then rather gingerly stretched and bent his left arm. In spite of the pain, he could raise it, and he determined he must have a bad bruise, but probably nothing was broken. He closed his eyes and breathed a prayer of thanks, then removed his boots and stood up to take off his slicker. Everything underneath was still wet, and although every movement hurt him, he knew he had to get into dry clothes. He stripped down and threw the wet clothes in a corner, then hung his wool jacket over the back of a chair to dry out. He shivered in his nakedness and quickly grabbed a pair of clean long johns from his bag and pulled them on.
After throwing some wood in the small heating stove, he poured lamp oil over it from a large bottle kept in a secured compartment on the wall. He was glad to see that the oil had stayed put in the storm, and that the stove had not fallen apart. He lit the oil and closed the door, opening the damper all the way so that the wood would burn hard at first and quickly create hot coals.
Just as he grabbed a flannel shirt from his bag, someone knocked at his door. He got his right arm in the sleeve and opened the door, grimacing as he put his left arm in the other sleeve. Captain Eastwood stood outside the door with Derek Carlson.
“My sailor here says you were hurt last night,” the captain said. “I came to see how you were doing. Derek was also concerned.”
Will studied their faces, seeing the terrible weariness in their eyes. “I think I’m okay. Just bruised.”
Derek put out his right hand. “You saved my life, Mr. Lassater.”
Will guessed the sailor was about the same age as himself. He was a few inches taller than Will, and he seemed as broad as he was tall. His white-blond hair spilled in long waves around his ruddy, rather homely face. Will shook his hand, noticing the strength in the man’s grip.
“And you saved mine, as well as my barrels of syrup,” he answered. “I’m grateful for that, and I do wish you would call me Will.” He looked at the captain. “I wonder if I could have a minute alone with Derek.”
“Just as long as you’re sure you’re all right, Mr. Lassater. I do have a lot of things to do this morning, lots of things to be repaired. We’re in the clear now, and from here on the weather should be good. It won’t be long before we come into some warm Pacific winds. We’ll make good time then, and we’ll be out of this cold.”
“Sounds damn good to me,” Will said.
The captain looked at Derek. “Don’t be too long. There’s a lot of cleaning up to do, sailor.”
“Yes, sir,” Derek answered.
The captain left, and Will ushered Derek inside. He sat down on his cot and offered Derek the only chair in the room. Derek had to bend his head a little to keep from bumping it on the low ceiling. He sat down, and Will noticed he still wore the red jacket, which was so wet that Will could smell the wool. “I want to thank you again, Derek, for helping me. And I want to ask you if you’re completely happy working on a ship.”
Derek frowned. “Why would you ask that, Mr.—I mean, Will?”
Will grinned. Derek was known to the crew as an open, honest man who simply did as he was told. He was big and strong and a hard worker, never complaining.
“I ask because I would think a man like you would hate being confined to that hole below part of the time, let alone being a kind of prisoner when you’re on a ship. No way off, spending months at a time with the same men, not being able to eat right, putting up with the rats and insects that are found on any ship. Wouldn’t you rather be on land, out in the open, in a big land full of big trees, solid ground under your feet?”
Derek ran a hand through his blond hair. “I don’t know what you’re getting at, Will.”
Will took a moment to rummage through one of his bags, coming up with two cigars that he was relieved to discover were dry. He handed one to Derek. “Smoke?”
Derek took the cigar, and Will went to the heating stove and opened the feed door. He stuck a small stick of wood inside and lit it, then turned and held it to the end of Derek’s cigar. Derek took a puff, then Will lit his own before throwing the stick into the stove and closing it again.
“I’m headed to California to start up a new sawmill, Derek. There won’t be a lot of men out there with lumbering experience, but I can teach them. What I need are men who are big and strong and willing to work. The better they work and the more trees they log out for me, the more money they’ll make. I have a lot to learn myself about the kind of trees that grow out there, so we can learn together. I’m going to San Francisco first to sell my cargo, and I’ll look for some men to hire there. I’m hoping to find a few men who know a little bit about logging and who are tired of looking for gold.”
Will puffed the cigar for a moment. “The real gold out there is green, as far as I’m concerned,” he continued. “From what I hear, there are trees in the California hills and mountains three hundred feet high, with enough wood in them to make up ten of our biggest maples or walnuts in Maine. I intend to harvest them, if I can get some Spaniard to sell me some land, or at least rent it out to me. How would you like to try being a logger?”
Derek studied his cigar before answering. “I might. I’ve never known anything but sailing, though. Been working on ships ever since I was orphaned at ten.”
“How old are you now?”
“Thirty, I think. I lost track a few years ago.”
“No wife?”
“I’ve never stayed on land long enough to take one. Plenty of women in all the ports, though.”
Both men laughed. “Well, I don’t have a wife either,” Will said. “I’m doing this as kind of a promise to my father, who died last year. We want to expand Lassater Mills, and I’ve heard lots of stories about the supply of lumber in the West.”
“I’ve never gone far enough onto land when we’re in California to see any of those trees,” Derek said, “but I’ve heard about them too. I wouldn’t mind having a look at them myself.”
Will grinned. “I’m told one man can’t bring one down. Being a logger myself, I find that hard to believe. Maybe you or I can prove them wrong.”
Derek scratched his head. “I don’t know. I might miss the sea. Gets in a man’s blood, you know, just like logging is in yours.”
“I suppose, but after yesterday, I’m not sure I could ever get used to this life. Seems to me a man your size would hate being confined to a ship, having to wal
k bent over half the time. Why don’t you give it a try? One year. You can always re-sign with Captain Eastman when he returns next year.”
Derek smoked the cigar thoughtfully. “I guess I could.”
“I need strong, honest, dependable men, Derek. After yesterday, I can’t think of a better man to help me get started than you. Besides, I’ve also heard tales about the Barbary Coast and the docks of San Francisco. Hell, I might need someone along to help keep me out of trouble when I go looking for more workers.”
“That you will,” Derek answered. “The wharves of that city are alive with thieves and murderers. You’d better watch yourself there. But then, there are plenty of pretty whores ready to please a man!” He laughed boisterously. “I’m well acquainted with many of them. If you’re eager for a woman, I’ll take you to see the best. And handsome and strong as you are, they’ll be fighting over you.”
Both men laughed again, and Will shook his head. “I just might take you up on your offer to introduce me,” he joked.
“And there’s bound to be a lot of men hanging out in saloons and working odd jobs along the docks who are looking for better-paying work,” Derek said. “San Francisco is full of ex-prospectors who never found their gold but don’t want to go back home.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You know, with California becoming a state, and with the gold and all, it’s growing really fast. Every year when we go back there it seems San Francisco has doubled in size from the year before. That lumber below decks will bring you a fortune.”
Will’s eyes lit up. “That’s what I’m banking on, and if I sell California lumber cheaper than what they’re paying for lumber being brought in from the East and from other countries, I’ll have a near monopoly on the product. It’s like I told you, Derek, the real gold is in that lumber!”
Derek grinned. “I can see how excited you are.”
Will nodded, sobering. “This means everything to me, Derek. The family fortune and lumbering business depend on it. This isn’t just my or my brother’s dream, but our father’s. He had always wanted to come to California and see the big redwoods. As far as we know, there are very few sawmills in California. The only one of any importance was Sutter’s, and he’s about out of business, so we’ve heard, because of the gold rush. All his help left him, and prospectors supposedly overran his land and took off with his livestock, trampled his crops and such. If I’m successful, I intend to open more than one mill, maybe have all my own ships someday, send lumber all the way to China, Japan, India, Australia. I was picked to come out here first and get things started because I’m single and have no other responsibilities.” Will turned and opened the small trunk he had brought along. “This is what it’s all about, Derek,” he said, taking out the wooden box his mother had given him.
Derek frowned and stuck the cigar between his teeth. “I don’t understand.”
“My dad worked his own sawmill for over thirty years. About twenty-five years ago there was a forest fire and everything burned down, the mill, all his equipment. Some really hard times followed, and he could have given up. Instead he went out and scooped up some of the ashes into a little cloth sack and put them in this box, kept them all those years because to him they were a kind of symbol. He believed that from the ashes would come something even better. He built his first mill from nothing. He was a big, strong, determined man with a dream, one of the best lumbermen in Maine, and he borrowed and worked to get his hands on more wooded land, rebuilt, paid off all his debts, left his family wealthy. But because of all the demand in the West, our supply of lumber back in Maine is running low. We could go out of business someday without a new source. If I build in California, Lassater Mills could be bigger and more successful than it ever was in Maine.”
Will stopped to wipe away the tears misting his eyes. “That was our father’s dream,” he continued, “and now my brother and I will carry it out for him. Having this little box of ashes with me makes it seem as though my father is here with me, urging me on.” He looked up at Derek. “Will you help me? I could make you a rich man someday, and the big, open woods would surely be more enjoyable for you than this smelly, creaking ship.”
Derek drew in his breath and puffed out his broad chest, then reached out his right hand. “All right, Will, I’ll give it a try. I owe it to you for what you did yesterday.”
Will rose as he shook his hand. “You don’t owe me a thing. I’m just grateful to find you.”
Derek released his hand and took the cigar from his mouth. “I warn you, I don’t know anything about cutting down trees.”
“I’ll teach you. Hell, I’ll need some lessons myself on those big redwoods. I’m hoping to find someone who knows at least a little bit about it, someone who can give me a few pointers.”
“We’ll find him. I’ll help you.” Derek straightened and bumped his head on a beam. He winced, and Will laughed. “I suppose it will be nice to be out in those woods and be able to stand up my full height,” Derek said, laughing with him. “I am six feet six inches, last time I got myself measured. Say, you should come above after you get dressed. It’s a pretty day out there, and we’ve got good winds, strong but gentle.”
“I’ll come up. I guess you’d better get to your chores. What’s the damage?”
“Not as bad as we thought.” Derek patted the support post in the cabin. “She’s a strong ship, the Dutchess Dianna.” He grew somber. “The biggest loss was Louie being washed out to sea. It was impossible to save him. We’ll be having a little service for him in a bit.”
“I’ll be there. I’m sorry I couldn’t have helped him too.”
Derek nodded. “Out here at sea a man gets used to friends dying, or at least he thinks he does. I’ve worked with Louie for four years now. I will miss him. Actually, I think it will be good to get off this ship for a year or so. Maybe I won’t want to come back.”
Will put a hand on his shoulder as he walked to the door. “I’m predicting that logging will get into your blood just as strongly as the sea has.”
Derek stopped in the doorway. “Maybe it will,” he replied.
The man turned and left, and Will walked over to his bags to dig out a dry pair of pants. The cabin floor was damp from water washing over the decks and down the steps, and from cracks in the deck itself. He was grateful it had not reached his personal supplies, especially the trunk with its box of ashes. He was surprised he had so easily told Derek the story about his father. The big Swede was a good listener. He finished dressing, his pain more bearable with the thought that he had found at least one good man.
“Now I need about a dozen more,” he said to himself, “and a lot more than that before I’m through.” He hoped it would be smooth sailing from here on, with no trouble from pirates or more storms. He was more eager than ever to get to California, and he grinned as he recalled his brother’s comment that California was full of beautiful senoritas curious about handsome gringos. He shook his head. With the work that lay ahead for him, he’d have no time for women, except perhaps the wild ones along the wharves of San Francisco.
Two
May 1854…
Sixteen-year-old Santana Maria Chavez Lopez stood on the balcony of a guest room in the ornate San Francisco mansion belonging to Hugo Bolivar. She hated San Francisco, hated the mansion, and most of all she hated the man who owned this house. Hugo had been courting her for six months, but she still did not feel any desire, even any liking, for him. She despised being so far from her father and her brother, so far from the beautiful ranch north of San Francisco where she had grown up, La Estancia de Alcala.
This chaperoned visit to Hugo’s San Francisco home was a requirement of her courtship, and she hated every minute of it. Hugo’s mansion was not home to her. It could never be home, even though Hugo had told her that once they were married, after she turned eighteen, they would spend most of their time here, instead of on Hugo’s own ranch, Rancho de Rosas, which bordered her father’s land.
She wrapped her robe closer around herself against the cool morning air. Hugo’s house sat high on a hill, and she could see out over San Francisco and the bay in the distance. A morning mist hung over the water, but the rising sun was burning it off. In spite of the noise and stink and the dangers of the dock area, from here it looked pretty in the morning light, the tall masts of ships visible in the distance, sharply outlined by the brightening sun.
In contrast to the appealing view, Hugo’s house was, in Santana’s opinion, austere and forbidding. Made of brick, it was too big, with towers at the corners that made it seem more like a dungeon than a home, and no gardens outside.
A dungeon it was, a prison, as far as she was concerned. It did not have the warmth of her father’s stucco home back at the ranch, which had thick wooden doors and big, warm rooms filled with plants and leather furniture trimmed in rich, dark wood. Bright braided rugs were scattered across the tile floors, and all around the outside of the house were portals where vines climbed latticed walls. Plants and flowers grew everywhere in scented splendor. In the front portal a fountain fed by a natural spring flowed at the center, running down a white marble statue of the Mother Mary holding Baby Jesus. Santana enjoyed the sound of the splashing water, and liked to sit on one of the white wrought-iron benches nearby and listen to it, hear the birds singing.
She ached to go home and ride her favorite Palomino to her secret hideaway, a little clearing in the deep woods where a scraggly lodgepole pine stood alone, separated from the rest of the forest. The tree seemed lonely, and she well knew that feeling. She considered the tree her friend, and in that place she could pray, cry, dream…dream of the handsome young man who would ride into her life, a man she would love with great passion. Now that dream could never come true.
How could her father do this to her? she wondered, brushing away the tears that came so easily and frequently these days. She still remembered vividly the night her father, Dominic, had told her she was to marry Hugo. It had been during dinner. Hugo had been there, along with Santana’s older brother, Hernando, and his wife, Teresa. Santana’s mother, Rosa, had passed away four years ago.
The Forever Tree Page 2