The Forever Tree

by Rosanne Bittner

  “They’re gonna start releasing us!” the man answered. “Some of the guards told us they ain’t even got enough food and supplies left for their own army, let alone us prisoners, and it looks like the war might be just about over. I got a feelin’ it’s already over, and they don’t want us to know about it. They’re probably afraid we’d riot and kill them all. I’ll bet Wirz has already lit out o’ here!”

  Will looked around at the celebrating prisoners. He wanted to join them, but there seemed little left to celebrate, except the fact that maybe soon he could go home…without Gerald. The joy he had always thought he would feel when he heard the war was over was not there at all, only a heaviness in his heart. He walked back to his shelter and leaned over to tell Gerald the news.

  “I don’t know who will be released first,” he said, “but we need to make some plans. I’m going to see if they’ll let me into the hospital tent so I can tell Tim. Maybe it will help him recover to know he can go home soon.” He waited for a reply, but there was none. “Gerald? Did you hear me?”

  Gerald finally moved into the light, his face blotchy from weeping. “I heard you.” He smiled faintly. “I’m glad, Will, for you, for Santana and the kids. You’ll get the mill running full force again, won’t you? Make Dad proud of Lassater Mills, make my sons and daughters rich.”

  Will frowned, hating the finality of his brother’s words. “I still think you should come back with me, Gerald.”

  He shook his head. “I know what this does to you, and I’m sorry. You just remember your promise, brother to brother.”

  Their eyes held, and an eerie suspicion crawled through Will’s gut. “Will you be all right while I go check on Tim?”

  Gerald nodded. “I love you, Will.”

  “I love you too.” He rose and walked away, heading for the hospital tent, his mind reeling with a hundred thoughts. Going home, seeing Santana again, the work that would be involved in getting the mills back to full operation, what he was going to tell Aggie and how he was going to tell her, what to do about Gerald, how he was going to take care of him, how he was going to get his own health back to what it had once been.

  He made his way through the crowd of ragged men, who looked more like walking skeletons, until he reached the hospital tent. He asked one of the guards there if he could go inside. Before, the answer had always been no, but this time the guard just shrugged. “Go ahead.” Will didn’t question why this time it was allowed, figuring it was because of all the celebrating in the compound. No one wanted to do anything that might start a riot. He walked inside the tent, wrinkling his nose at the smell of old blood and vomit, combined with damp, hot air.

  He walked up and down the rows of cots, where men lay either groaning or quiet, most bandaged in one way or another. None of them was Tim. His heart began to beat faster with dread. Where else could he be? He searched once more, but the boy was not there. He approached a doctor who was bent over one of the patients. “Excuse me. I’m looking for someone who was brought here about three days ago,” he said.

  The doctor straightened. He was a gray-haired man with a wrinkled face and several days’ growth of beard. His eyes were bloodshot, and he looked weary. “Describe him,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “Young. Only just turned eighteen. His name was Tim Sibly, and he’d come down with a painful cough that got so bad, he was even too weak to get to his feet.”

  “Tim Sibly. Yes, I remember. He was coughing up blood when they brought him in. He died yesterday.”

  The man turned around and continued wrapping the stub of a patient’s arm. Will just stared at him, wanting to kill him for telling him in such a cold, unfeeling tone that his young friend had died. The news itself stunned him. It wasn’t fair! And surely it wasn’t possible. Tim was so young. He had been surprisingly healthy, considering the living conditions, all the way up until the cough started. Will was sure the cause was the cold rain that had washed them out of their shelter one night, leaving all three of them shivering and wet. Somehow he and Gerald had avoided any serious sickness from it, but not Tim.

  He grabbed the doctor’s arm and jerked him around. “Just like that? He’s dead? You’re a goddamn doctor! Don’t you have any feelings? Or is it just because it was a Northerner who died that you can tell me so flatly, without a care!”

  The doctor looked down at his hand. “Don’t do something that will get you shot, son. You ought to know by now that if a man is going to be a doctor in this war, he had better learn to shut off all his feelings. If I let myself care, I’d be insane by now.” He pulled his arm away. “It might interest you to know that I, too, am a prisoner, a doctor from New York who served under Grant. I’ve been given the assignment of helping these men because the Rebs don’t have enough of their own doctors to go around.”

  He touched Will’s arm. “I’m sorry about your friend, but you should know better than to get too close to any man in this war. You must be Will Lassater.”

  Will blinked, still unable to believe Tim was dead. “How did you know?”

  The doctor smiled sadly. “You are all Tim talked about. I was going to try to find you when he died, but I was just too busy. He was buried in one of the common graves yesterday. I’m sorry.”

  Their eyes held in mutual understanding, and Will finally turned away. Tim! So young. Such a good person. He’d become almost like a son to him. Tim was going to go to California with him after the war and work at the mill. Was there anything left in this world that was right and fair?

  Will made his way back to the hole in the ground that had been home for a year, determined to try again to convince Gerald to come back to California with him. Soon he could go home, yet he felt so terribly lonely. He reached the shelter and knelt beside it. “He’s dead, Gerald. Tim’s dead. He died yesterday. I can’t believe it.”

  He put his head back and breathed deeply, wanting to kill someone, wishing he could get his hands on Wirz. His anger and his need for revenge for what had happened to Gerald and Tim, and for his own suffering this past year, welled up inside him until he began pounding the ground with his fists, growling like an animal rather than weeping. For several minutes he vented his sorrow and frustration, until he realized Gerald had not replied. Maybe he wasn’t even down there. His head ached, and he rubbed at his temples. “Gerald? Did you hear me?” Still no reply.

  He leaned over the hole, and his eyes widened at the sight of blood running along a little indentation in the floor of the shelter, pooling at a low spot. “My God!” He jumped down inside to see Gerald sitting against a wall, his wrists slashed, a pocketknife still in one hand. He had prized that pocketknife, given to him by their father, and had managed to keep it hidden from the prison guards.

  “Jesus, Gerald!” Will grabbed the knife out of his hand and folded it, shoving it into the only good pocket he had left in his pants. He ripped off his own shirt and began tearing it into strips to tie around Gerald’s wrists, but he already knew from the horribly pale look on his brother’s face, and the blood-soaked earth, that he was already too late. He started to wrap one wrist when Gerald opened his eye.

  “No,” he said weakly. “Please…no. If you love me…”

  Fighting tears, Will finished tying the bandage. “I won’t let you die, dammit! Not my brother!”

  “Please, Will. Let me be…with Mom and Dad. It’s best this way. You won’t…have to lie to Aggie…or worry about me. You will…have so much to do…when you go home. Just don’t tell Aggie how I really…died.”

  “You won’t die! You won’t! I won’t let you!” He started to wrap the other wrist, but with a last burst of strength Gerald grabbed his hand.

  “It has to be this way. You know…it does. Let me go, Will. If you love me…let me go.”

  His eye closed and his hand dropped, and Will knew it was too late. This was what he wanted. “Gerald.” He put his arms around him and pulled him against his chest, holding him there while above them men continued to celebrate what was now
a sure Union victory.

  Santana’s memories of her father were made warmer by seeing how many people came to his funeral, so many that the little chapel at La Estancia de Alcala was overflowing and a crowd stood outside during the service. This was the way Dominic would have wanted his funeral, right there on his beloved ranch, in the quiet chapel where he had come to pray so many times over the years, spoken over by Father Lorenzo.

  Birds sang outside, and it seemed so cruel to Santana that life must end, when the rest of the world continued unchanged, the everlasting redwoods still standing stalwart on the hills above. They had seen the passing of thousands. Santana felt small and insignificant, reminded of how short a human life was, and terrified that Will’s life might be over already. Her mourning that day was magnified by the fact that perhaps she should also be mourning her husband’s death. It had been nearly a month since they’d heard the war was over, but there had been no word from Will or Gerald.

  “Life goes on,” Father Lorenzo was saying. “And Dominic would want it that way. He left behind two handsome children and nine beautiful grandchildren, all sitting here this afternoon, quiet and obedient, an honor to their grandfather.”

  Santana hardly heard the man’s words. So many thoughts occupied her mind, so much sorrow filled her heart. Nine beautiful grandchildren. Yes. Hernando’s oldest, Rico, was fourteen years old now, and her own firstborn was eight. Juan, the child Will had never seen, was almost three. She had always thought of herself as young, even though she was twenty-seven years old now. But on this day she felt old, for instead of being the child, she was the mother. Her parents were both gone, and she had children who looked to her as she had once looked to her own parents. Four children to raise. What a responsibility it would be for her if Will never came home. They needed their father—she needed their father—and she needed her own father.

  Oh, the ache of it. How she would miss Dominic Chavez Alcala, who had always seemed to invincible, so strong. He had suffered so in his last days that it had been almost a relief when he died, for he was finally out of his misery. Still, she had never imagined him not being in her life, or La Estancia de Alcala going on without him. Several weeks before he died, when his mind was still sharp, he had gone over his will with her and Hernando. She and her brother would inherit the entire ranch, dividing its profits equally. Hernando would be in charge of running the vast spread, hiring and firing as he saw fit, but still required to discuss finances with Santana and keep her aware of income and expenses, consulting with her when buying or selling land or assets. If Hernando died, his half of everything would belong to his children, and the same was true if Santana died. And as long as the ranch stayed in the family, Will Lassater was to have stumping rights on the northern section for as long as Lassater Mills existed, or until the resources were used up. With as much timber as there was up there, that certainly would not happen in her or Will’s lifetime.

  Her father had been as generous in death as he had been in life, willing certain valuable heirlooms to each of his children. The house was Hernando’s to move into if he chose. Santana would stay in the house she and Will had built from the embers of that first fire. That was her home now, and that was where she wanted Will to find her when he returned.

  Yes, life went on. It would take a long time to feel the reality of Dominic’s passing and realize he would no longer join the family at supper or ride out to check on new foals or accompany the family to San Francisco. He would no longer be there to give Santana advice, or to look at her the way fathers had of looking at daughters of whom they were very proud. He had long ago asked her to forgive him for almost making her marry a man she did not love and who would have been cruel to her, and she had forgiven him.

  They went through the ritual of a Catholic funeral, and she prayed vigorously with her beads. When the service ended, the pallbearers carried the beautifully carved pine casket out of the chapel and to the ornate funeral wagon. The wagon would carry the casket to the family burial ground. Santana, Hernando, and Teresa and all of their children followed behind. Servants walked beside them to help watch the children, and Santana kept her face covered with a black lace veil.

  At the burial ground, the crowd of mourners surrounded the burial site, and Father Lorenzo continued the service. During the service in the chapel, Santana had been so involved in her deep sorrow, she had not looked to see who had come to pay tribute to Dominic. She took a moment now to look out at the mourners through her veil, seeing friends, neighbors, business acquaintances…

  Suddenly her heart nearly stopped beating, and she reached over and clasped Hernando’s hand tightly. Hugo! Hugo Bolivar was there with his wife! Why? Surely he knew Dominic would not want him there. The audacity of it! The man caught her looking at him, and he gave her a half-smile and a nod, a look of mockery in his dark eyes. He knew she could do nothing to make him leave, for she would never create a scene at her father’s funeral. And since his own father had been a close friend of Dominic’s, most people would think nothing of his being there. They probably thought, after all these years, that all had been forgiven.

  The man’s presence made her sick. He must know that Will was not home yet, for otherwise, Hugo would not have had the courage to come there. Oh, how she hated him for doing this to her on this sacred, mournful day! Dominic had told Hugo point-blank that their friendship was over and he never wanted to see him again. Now here he was, at Dominic’s funeral, putting on the appearance of a grieving friend!

  The service ended, though Santana hardly heard the priest’s final words. She and Hernando rose and each picked up a fistful of dirt. They threw it on top of the coffin, which was covered from one end to the other with a spray of roses cut from bushes on the ranch. Santana felt more tears coming, and she turned to Hernando, who embraced her. For a long time the two of them stood there after the rest of the crowd had departed, heading to the house to mingle and take part in the royal feast laid out for them.

  “We should go join the others,” Hernando finally said. “There is nothing more to do here, Santana. Let him be buried now.”

  “It just seems so unreal,” she said, her voice hoarse from her crying. “If only Will would come home. I need him so.”

  “It takes time, Santana. Even though the war is ended, I’m sure he has to report somewhere to be mustered out, and there are probably thousands of men trying to get on trains and stagecoaches, trying to get home. Everything is probably a mess back there, and he might be trying to find Gerald, and Gerald trying to find Will. Don’t lose hope yet.”

  She nodded, reaching under her veil to wipe at her eyes. “We can go to the house now, but keep Hugo away from me, please.”

  “Hugo!”

  “I saw him…in the crowd.”

  “The bastard! He knows he has no right being here.”

  “Do not create a scene this day of all days. Just watch him.”

  Hernando nodded and led her away from the burial site. They made their way to the house, talking with old friends, sharing memories. To Santana’s relief Hugo stayed away from her, and as long as he did so, Hernando left him alone. The afternoon wore on, and Santana began to feel the effects of the day’s strain. When she saw that everyone seemed to be taken care of and was enjoying the food and wine, she quietly left. Louisa was in the hallway. “How are the children?” Santana asked.

  “The little ones are napping. They are fine. James is watching the older ones.”

  “Good. I’m going to lie down for a while. I do not want to be disturbed.”

  “Of course.” Louisa grasped her hands and squeezed them. “You rest for as long as you need to. Everyone will understand. The servants and I will see that everyone has what they need and we’ll watch the children.”

  “Thank you, Louisa.” Santana left her and walked to her old bedroom, feeling more weary by the moment. She closed the door and leaned against it, a thousand memories flooding over her, of when she’d been young and free of worries and responsibil
ities, the pampered daughter of a wealthy Californio. She removed her hat and black lace gloves and walked over to the bed. She would lie down, just for a little while, then rejoin her guests. She would be glad when the day was over and everyone left, although some had come so far that they would stay overnight before starting for home. They would have to be fed in the morning. She would have to remember to talk to Hester about that.

  Later. She would take care of that later. Right now she was so weary, she couldn’t bear to stay on her feet another moment. She sat down on the bed, then lay back against the pillow and shut her eyes.

  In the great room Hugo stared at the hallway down which Santana had disappeared. Even though he had made a point to mingle with the rest of the crowd and make small talk, he had been watching her, waiting, thinking how vulnerable she must be, her beloved father buried that day, her gringo husband still not back from the war. Maybe he wasn’t coming back at all. Hugo glanced at Hernando, who was lost in conversation, then he leaned close to his wife. “I am going to take a walk outside for a few minutes,” he told her. “I will be right back. In spite of what happened between me and Dominic, I have many good memories of this place. I would like to go outside alone and ponder the good thoughts.”

  “Si, I understand,” Carmelita said. She had long ago learned not to argue with her husband’s wishes. “I see some women from our social circle in San Francisco. I will go and talk to them.”

  Hugo nodded, bending down to kiss her cheek as though he were a doting husband. Nothing, Carmelita thought, could be further from the truth. No one knew about the ugly things he did to her, how cruel he could be behind closed doors. She had learned to accept it. Perhaps if she had had children, he would be kinder to her. In public they pretended to be a happy couple, but at home she felt like a shadow of a woman, who wandered that big, cold brick house unloved and lonely. She had already had an affair with one of the gardeners out of sheer, aching loneliness, a need to be loved and held with passion and caring. If Hugo ever found out, he would most certainly kill the man, maybe her, too, but she didn’t care anymore. Marrying Hugo Bolivar had been the gravest mistake of her life, and now she would spend the rest of her life paying for it. How lucky Santana was to have been saved from such a fate. She was a lovely, warm, caring woman who never could have survived being married to a man like Hugo. Carmelita knew she should be jealous of Santana’s beauty, since Hugo still pined after her; but all she could feel was envy for the woman for being freed from Hugo’s cold grasp.