The Forever Tree

by Rosanne Bittner

  “You heard my husband,” she said. She glanced at Carmelita, who looked ready to cry. “I am truly happy to meet you, Carmelita, but I am afraid your husband and mine have had their differences. Pardon our rudeness, but it is best if Don Bolivar leaves.”

  Hugo finally turned his gaze back to Will. “I will go, but I will not forget the fact that you have insulted me one too many times. What I did at the duel was a crime of passion. I thought perhaps after all this time you could forgive and forget, and we could—”

  “Cut the bullshit, Bolivar, and get going!”

  It was obvious that a silent rage was building in Hugo, who began to tremble. He nodded to Agatha and Gerald, then turned and left, keeping an arm around Carmelita and greeting others with a fake smile as he escorted his wife to their carriage. “I have much other business to attend,” Santana heard him telling someone. “I only had time to stop for a moment to congratulate Senor Lassater.” He exchanged a few more greetings before finally boarding his carriage. He glanced again in Will’s direction, looking, Santana thought, as though he would gladly shoot Will again.

  “So, that’s Hugo Bolivar,” Gerald said as the carriage drove off.

  Will slid an arm around Santana. “That’s Bolivar,” he answered. “So far I’ve managed to avoid the man. This little visit was to make an impression on the others here, not because he truly wanted to congratulate us. He’s a liar and a fake, a back-shooter…and a man who knows nothing about forgiving and forgetting. He’s the one who’s still looking for revenge. He knew barging in on this affair would upset Santana and me both, and that was his real purpose for coming here.”

  Santana turned away, staring at the drips of champagne that still ran down the bow of the Santana Bello. “I feel sorry for Carmelita,” she said quietly.

  Will put a hand on her shoulder. “Try to put it out of your mind. We’ll go greet a few of these people, then you and Agatha can go back to the house and feed the babies. Don’t let that bastard spoil the rest of the day for you. It’s been four years since you’ve had to look at those eyes, and I’ll make sure this was the last time.”

  Those eyes. That was what bothered Santana, the awful hatred and vengeance there. Will squeezed her shoulders.

  “Santana, Hugo Bolivar will never bother us again because he knows better. He only came here today to try to impress the other important people here.”

  Santana turned and looked at her husband. His eyes, those wonderful, comforting blue eyes, told her everything was all right. Yes, this was a wonderful day, a day they had looked forward to for so long. She must not let a brief encounter with Hugo Bolivar spoil it. That would only mean he had accomplished his intention of upsetting them. She smiled. “I am glad for the way you spoke to him and for making him leave. You are by far the better man, my husband, and he knows it. Let us go and greet our guests.”

  As she turned to leave the dock, she caught a glimpse of Hugo’s carriage as it headed up a hill. She shivered, feeling a strange premonition that she could not name.

  Sixteen

  December 1861…

  Santana sat rocking her youngest son, Dominic Hernando, in the wooden porch swing Will had built for her. The eleven-month-old boy had been born in February, a good baby, very sweet and loving, but quite an armful, another sturdy son for Will. He had finished suckling at her breast and was sleeping soundly, and Santana’s arm ached from his weight. She carefully moved to one end of the swing and laid him beside her so that she could keep rocking him without holding him, using the blanket that had been around him for padding. The day had grown quite warm, and Glenn, who was four, and Ruth, now two and a half, were playing tag on the lawn beyond the portico.

  Three lovely children, a beautiful home, a fleet of ships, and now Will had built a third sawmill even farther north, nearly to Oregon, having gained stumping rights on government-owned land. It should have been a wonderful, happy time, with so much to be thankful for, but an ugly threat loomed on the horizon, destroying that happiness for her, and leaving Will and Gerald disturbed and restless. The United States had exploded into civil war, just as Will had feared for two years since hearing about the hanging of a man named John Brown.

  It was all confusing to Santana. John Brown had apparently dreamed of freeing all slaves and finding a place where they could all live together. He had attacked a federal arsenal in order to obtain weapons, and his radical idea had led to his death. News of what had happened had brought to light just how serious things were back East, and for years now they had been hearing about an ongoing civil war in Kansas, which had been admitted to the Union as a free state.

  A free state. Slavery and freedom seemed to be the only topics of conversation now at the supper table. Santana could hardly believe that slavery could be as terrible as it was made out to be in a book that had fanned the flames of antislavery. It was called Uncle Tom’s Cabin, and was written by a woman named Harriet Beecher Stowe. Santana and Will had both read the book, and while Santana had found it disturbing and hoped the country would find a way to end the practice of slavery, Will had become angry. His anger had grown as Southern states seceded from the Union, one after another. Eleven had seceded so far, and now a very real conflict was taking place, a conflict that Santana felt had no connection to California, and one in which neither Will nor Gerald needed to get involved.

  She continued rocking, looking out over the vast land before her, most of it Alcala land. For most of her life this place had been far removed from the rest of the country beyond the Sierras. Perhaps if California had remained as isolated as it once had been, she could keep her precious husband from thoughts of helping preserve the Union. All this news, mingled with excitement about what was happening back east, would not filter in so easily and quickly. But an overland stage now carried mail and passengers from Sacramento to St. Louis in less than a month. Not the most comfortable ride in the world, said those who had used it, but certainly a dependable link to the rest of the States for any man who needed to get there in a hurry. The year before, the Pony Express had started carrying mail across the country in roughly ten days, and now there was a telegraph line linking California with the East, so that in a matter of hours news of the war could be sent to San Francisco.

  Santana’s heart tightened at the realization that it was no longer such an arduous task to “go back home,” as most Americanos called going east. Santana had depended on the thought of a long, dangerous journey helping to keep her gringo husband there, in the place that had been home to him for nearly eight years now. How many times had he said himself that this was where he belonged, this was where his heart lay? Still, the rumblings of war were eating at him.

  “This war isn’t over slavery,” Will had said two nights ago. “It’s over stubborn pride and power. The Southerners are determined nobody is going to tell them what to do. Even the ones who don’t think slavery is right will fight for the South anyway, as a matter of pride.” He had paced half the night, smoking his pipe, getting angrier by the minute, talking about how he could not imagine any state even considering leaving the Union. He took great pride in being a citizen of the United States, and he felt this conflict should be ended swiftly. “The South deserves a good thrashing,” he’d declared, “and I’d like to help give it to them. How dare they try to break up the Union, let alone embarrass this country by continuing the practice of slavery. To call ourselves the land of freedom is a mockery, and other countries know it!”

  Will and Gerald had been attending meetings in Santa Rosa and San Francisco, meetings for men only, Americanos who wanted to discuss the war…men who still had family back east, or who simply felt a staunch loyalty to the Union. There had been some trouble at the mills between those who sympathized with the North and men who were from Southern states, and several brawls had taken place. In one of them a man had been stabbed to death. The man who had done it, a Southerner, had fled and could not be found. Many workers had already quit their jobs, gone east to fight. So many ha
d left that Will was about to close one of the mills until the war was over, so that he could consolidate what men were left at the two other mills.

  Santana hated the war, hated the United States for causing this strange new silence that had come between her and Will. He was so disturbed about what was happening, he had become distant. She could not understand why it mattered so much to him, and he in turn could not understand her attitude. He went to the meetings without asking if she minded, and when he came home he said little about what had gone on. He was at another meeting that day in Santa Rosa, instead of being at the mill where he belonged.

  If only the war would end, Santana thought. Then they could go on with life the way it had been before the war came, happy, successful, proud parents, a close family…a man and woman who shared everything so intimately, including their dreams for the future. Now the future held a dark foreboding. It was one thing to worry about death or injury on the job. That was always a threat, but at least at the mills Will was experienced and knew exactly what to watch for. But war—exploding cannons, men shooting at one another, attacking with bayonets, enemies lurking behind any tree or bush; let alone the thought of her husband being two or three thousand miles away. He could be hurt, and she wouldn’t be there to help him. He could die alone…

  Santana took a deep breath, rising and picking up little Dominic. She must not think of such things. Will would never leave her and the family, the mills, California. It was simply unthinkable. She walked out to the lawn where the other two children played and called to them to come inside for their lunch. As she turned back to the house she saw Agatha walking up the road toward her. She was carrying little William, and her other three children walked behind and beside her, thirteen-year-old James stopping at times to pick up a stone and throw it at a tree. The boy was looking more and more like his father, tall and strong. James dearly wanted to go to work at the mills, but Gerald wanted him to have two more years of tutoring first. He and Will both felt that fifteen was a good age to start learning all the things their sons would need to know so they could someday take over Lassater Mills, and to be good businessmen, they had to have proper schooling.

  Santana walked back to the portico as Glenn ran off to greet his cousins, Ruth running behind on legs too short to keep up, her glossy black hair dancing with every step. They were happy children, unaware of the ugliness of war or the deep worries their mothers suffered. Agatha set William down, and Dora took his hand. As they came closer, Santana heard Agatha tell James to look after the children while she talked with Santana. Santana studied her sister-in-law’s face and guessed she was feeling the same odd loneliness that Santana herself was experiencing, as though their husbands were already gone. Agatha came up the flower-lined pathway to the portico, and Santana could see she had been crying. Rocking a still-sleeping Dominic in her arms, Santana asked, “Agatha, what is it?”

  The woman blinked back new tears. “I think you know.” She shook her head. “It’s going to happen, Santana. Our husbands are going to go off to war, and we won’t be able to stop them.”

  Santana stiffened. “Do not say that. Will would never leave me or the children, or the mills. He would never leave California. This is his home now.”

  Agatha closed her eyes and sighed. “I know how much you love Will, Santana, but there is a part of him you don’t understand, because you aren’t—”

  She hesitated, and Santana felt the unintended hurt. “Because I am not a true Americano? Because I know nothing about the place from which my husband comes, or about what it is like to be a gringo from the land in the east?”

  “Santana, I didn’t mean…”

  “I know. We are very different, Agatha, but not when it comes to how much we love our men, and how we worry what will happen. I argue with you that they will not leave only because it hurts too much to think that it could happen. I do not want to believe it until I must believe it.” She turned. “Come inside. I will put Dominic down and have Anna bring us some tea.”

  Agatha followed Santana inside the sprawling home. Every inch of it, every piece of furniture, gave off the rich flavor of Spanish taste. She wondered if she would ever get over feeling like a foreigner here in California, would ever be able to call this place home. It was hard enough with Gerald here, but if he went off to war…

  Santana disappeared down a wide red-carpeted hallway to put the baby to bed. “Come,” she said when she returned. “We will sit in the rose garden outside the bedroom where Dominic sleeps so that I will hear him if he wakes. James can watch the other children.”

  Agatha followed her through the hallway and bedroom, on through double glass doors that led to a lovely private garden. As they walked, she admired Santana’s dark beauty. Santana was taller than she, and still slender after having three children, whereas her own waist had thickened over the years. Today Santana wore her black hair slicked back into a neat bun, but often she wore it long and loose because Will liked it that way. There was a lusty provocativeness about Santana, yet also an innocence of her own beauty. She was not arrogant about it, and she was a good wife and mother. Agatha understood how Will could love her, but she would never understand how he could abandon his Protestant upbringing and turn to Catholicism. Still, it was not her business, and right now it didn’t matter. At least they prayed to the same God, and she needed to talk to someone else whose faith was strong, for lately her own faith had been wavering.

  Santana offered a seat beside her on a white wrought-iron loveseat. “You have been crying,” she said.

  Agatha sat down. “I feel so helpless, Santana. I don’t like these meetings. I know Gerald’s sense of loyalty and patriotism. I need him so, especially out here, but when it comes to something like this, I don’t think my love or the children or the mills can hold him.”

  Santana stared at a yellow rosebush across the pathway. “I have the same fear. The only difference is I have my father and my brother here, and California is my home. I know you do not feel that way. For you home is Maine. That is why it is so important for you to have Gerald here.” She looked at Agatha. “You feel alone here, do you not? If Gerald goes to war, you will feel abandoned.”

  Agatha met her eyes. “Yes. I’m sorry, but I’ve just never quite gotten used to being here. It’s Gerald that makes it all okay.”

  Santana reached over to Agatha’s lap and took hold of her hand. “If Will wanted to take me to Maine, I would also be afraid and feel like a foreigner in another land; but I would go because it is right for a woman to follow her husband. I am sorry you feel displaced here, but please remember that although we are very different, I am your friend. If our husbands go away to war, we will need each other. And even though this is my home, if Will goes away, I, too, will be very lonely. All that matters is having him with me, no matter where we live. I know you feel the same way.” She rose and walked over to the yellow rosebush. Pinching off a rose, she held it to her nose to smell its sweet fragrance. “We will find a way to make them stay.”

  Agatha quickly wiped at a few tears with her fingers. “I don’t think we can do that, Santana.”

  Santana felt sick inside at the thought of Will being gone for weeks, perhaps months…years…fighting in a war that, to her mind, should not be his concern. “We must not let them go,” she answered rather absently, staring at the rose. She turned to face Agatha. “We must find a way to stop them.”

  Agatha shook her head. “I would like to be able to, Santana, but we have to remember that they are proud men, men of honor. There is nothing I want more in this world right now than for my husband to stay here with me and not get involved in that war, but if I did find a way to force him to stay, how happy would he be? Perhaps it would cause hard feelings between us. Perhaps he would only resent me for keeping him from what he feels in his heart is the right thing to do. I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

  “Honor? What is honor? I do not believe men understand the true meaning of that word. I was almost forced to marr
y a man I loathed because of honor. To me it is more honorable to do what is right than to make others terribly unhappy because of what you think is honorable. For a man to stay home and take care of his family, that is honor! And that is what Will and Gerald will do!”

  Santana walked over and kneeled in front of Agatha. “We will keep them here, Aggie. In spite of our differences, we are both women who love our men and our children. It seems that in both our worlds, it is the man who makes the final decision about where he will live, and the woman must follow him. Our only power is in finding ways to make a man change his mind. If either one of us can do that and make one of the brothers stay, perhaps the other will not leave. We have to try.”

  A tear slipped down Agatha’s cheek. “I have tried, but Gerald has made up his mind. I know it in the way he talks, the look in his eyes. He’s going, Santana, and when he does, Will will go with him.”

  Santana felt as though something was pressing painfully on her heart. She rose, desperation striking every nerve end. “He won’t!” she insisted. “I simply will not let him!” I will not let him! How was she going to stop him, though? Will was a man of determination and conviction, and that was part of what she loved about him. But if he went off to this ridiculous war, how could she ever forgive him for leaving her?

  Will rode toward the home he loved, Gerald at his side, a grim look on both their faces. Neither of them wanted to do what he must do, but neither felt he had any choice.

  “We have a lot of details to tend to,” Will said. “We’ll go up to the mill tomorrow and talk to Noel, maybe close number two up north. With two and three shut down, Noel ought to be able to handle number one. We hardly have enough men left to handle two anyway. The main mill can keep us going financially.”

  “That’s the least of my worries,” Gerald answered.