The Forever Tree
Rosanne Bittner
Copyright
Diversion Books
A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.
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New York, NY 10016
www.DiversionBooks.com
Copyright © 1995 by Rosanne Bittner
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
For more information, email [email protected]
First Diversion Books edition January 2016
ISBN: 978-1-68230-329-0
Table of Contents
Thanks
Author’s Note
Part One One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Part Two Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Part Three Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Also by Rosanne Bittner
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A special thanks to Barbara Keenan and Louise Snead, publishers of Affaire de Coeur magazine in San Leandro, California, for helping me find author Nieves Lorenzo, a native of Caracas, Venezuela, currently living in Oregon. Nieves works as a teacher of conversational Spanish, and also as an interpreter. Her “Spanish Love Notes” in Affaire de Coeur magazine helped me with the Spanish I needed to use in my story. Nieves was also kind enough to answer some questions for me regarding Spanish customs. I have studied Spanish myself, and though I am far from fluent, I consider it a beautiful language, with poetic flow and a rich, romantic flavor. There is a beauty and richness in our Hispanic culture and language, and in the Hispanic history of our country, that I feel many Americans do not recognize or appreciate. I came to respect that culture and appreciate its gentle beauty as I researched and wrote this book.
Author’s Note
The setting and historical background for this novel are real. Only the characters and their stories are fictitious.
For those readers unfamiliar with Spanish culture, it was (and still is, for many Spanish people) a custom to give all children two last names. The first last name is the first last name of the father; the second last name is the first last name of the mother. Therefore, the children do not carry the father’s last name. They are identified with the father through their first last name. As an example, my heroine’s name is Santana Maria Chavez Lopez. Her father’s name is Dominic Fernando Chavez Alcala. It is the father’s and the daughter’s first last names that identify them as related. When the daughter marries, she drops her own last name (in this case, Lopez) and takes her husband’s last name.
Don (and Dona, for the woman) before a name signifies a wealthier, high-born Spaniard, almost like a title, as opposed to Senor and Senorita or Senora, although wealthier Spaniards can also be addressed as Senor or Senora.
Estancia means “estate.”
Carino mio means “my beloved.”
Mi esposo means “my husband” (esposa—“wife”).
Te quiero mucho means “I love you very much.”
A Californio is a person of Spanish descent born in California before it became a part of the United States. Californios considered California a separate country of their own, apart from Mexico or Spain.
There was a time, when our nation was young, when virgin forests covered almost the entire East Coast. As America was settled and land was cleared for farms, trees were cut for homes and for heating, and a great deal of this forest land disappeared. Then came the discovery of gold in California, and people rushed to the West Coast by the hundreds of thousands, creating new needs—new settlers needing homes, new cities needing buildings for businesses, people needing wood for fires. Not only was it expensive to ship that wood from eastern forests, but those forests could not furnish enough wood to feed a thriving, hungry, growing West.
All along the West Coast, from Washington to central California, lay one of the richest supplies of timber in the world. The only problem was that most of those trees were bigger than anything any eastern logger had ever worked with. It was impossible for one man to fell a California redwood, and in those early years, there were few men who had the knowledge and expertise to log the world’s tallest, heaviest trees. While men scrambled to realize their fleeting dreams of gold, paying dearly for precious eastern lumber, they ignored a product that would one day make some men, men of vision and determination, far more wealthy than those who struck gold—the vast forests that covered the hills and valleys of California, Oregon, and Washington.
Among the Sierra redwoods, Douglas firs, sugar pines, and western red cedars was the skinny lodgepole pine, useful only for fence posts and telegraph poles. It was not just the wealthy logging empires of northern California that gave me the idea for this story, but also the lodgepole pine; for as I read about it, I saw it as a symbol of how people can pick up their lives and start over, no matter what adversities and disappointments they face. The cones of the lodgepole pine are so tightly clenched, they do not open to release their seeds until the intense heat of a forest fire forces them to. After a fire, the lodgepole pine is among the first species of trees to begin new growth, rising from the ashes and bringing forth new life and hope for the future. It is the lodgepole pine that can make a forest last forever.
Part One
One
February 1854…
“Keep her steady into the wind!”
Will Lassater was sure the captain’s shouted order had been lost in the roaring storm. He clung to the rail of the Dutchess Dianna as the worsening tempest tossed the 300-ton vessel about like a rowboat. Although it was only early afternoon, the clouds had blackened the sky to near darkness, and the violent deluge had hit suddenly as the ship rounded the Horn. In spite of his powerful grip and logger’s strength, Will could barely hang on enough to prevent himself from being tossed overboard.
Until now, the weather through the South American seas had been tranquil and delightful, and they’d reached the tip of the continent yesterday. Now Will was worried he would lose not only the precious cargo of lumber he had intended to sell in California, but also his life.
Back in New England he had experienced many howling storms, but nothing like this, and at least then he had been on dry land. How would his mother and brother take the news of his death? Going to California to build a new lumber mill had been his father’s dream before his own death a year earlier. Now it was up to Will to make that dream come true. He could not disappoint his family.
Another spray of ocean water nearly sent him overboard, and his thoughts turned to his mother, gentle, loving Ruth Lassater, who had sent him off with tears and prayers…and with the precious wooden box that represented all the strength and dreams of her late husband, James Lassater. That little box was packed away in Will’s gear. He would carry it to California, God willing, and it would be as though James Lassater were with him, helping him build the family business in a new l
and. The stories they had heard in Maine about the trees in California seemed farfetched, that they were too big for one man to fell. Will was going to find out if that was true.
For now, though, he would be lucky to survive this storm. The rugged Dutch flute that carried his valuable lumber and maple syrup was usually easy to manage, requiring only a sparse crew. At the moment those men were running in every direction, answering orders shouted into the wind by the ship’s captain, David Eastman. Eastman had carried Lassater lumber to faraway ports for years. He had been highly respected and trusted by James Lassater, and now Will could only pray he was skilled enough to keep this ship afloat through what Will was convinced had to be the worst storm even the captain had experienced.
The wind roared in his ears, and salt water drenched him with such force, he could hardly find a moment to take a breath. He shivered from the cold, the wicked wind and rain penetrating the rubber slicker and hat he wore over his wool jacket. Somehow the rain had gotten down inside his rubber boots, and his feet were sloshing in cold water.
The ship groaned and tossed, and Will expected the lumber in its hull to burst through at any moment, breaking open a hole that would send them all to the bottom of the ocean. The biting wind numbed him; the rain that stung his face was mixed with snow and sleet. It was only by his own strength that he managed to hang on to the railing as another huge wave raised the ship’s bow so high, he was sure it would flip over. Two sailors came sliding down the deck, screaming all the way, trying to grasp something to stop their descent. One was close enough for Will to reach out and grab.
“Hang on!” he shouted, clinging to the man’s wrist. The second man kept sliding, and Will watched him roll up onto a stack of ropes, then fly over the top of the ship’s railing and disappear. “Man overboard!” he screamed, still clinging to the first man, but his words were lost in the wind.
The ship crashed down, creaking and shaking as a wave passed under it, and the sailor Will had grabbed was flung forward. Will lost his grip, but the sailor had already grabbed hold of some rope that was wrapped around one of the masts. The ship tilted in the opposite direction, and Will began to slide past the sailor. This time it was the sailor who grabbed hold of Will, yelling at him not to let go. They grasped each other’s wrists, and there was no time to wonder about the man who had gone overboard. It was impossible for any man to leave his post or let go of his security to try to go save another.
The rain continued to pour in windblown sheets, so violently that Will could not even see who he was holding on to. He guessed the sailor didn’t know who he was either. The ship heaved again, and somewhere in the wind Will could hear Captain Eastman shouting more orders. He clung to the sailor, managing to crawl to the same rope and grab hold of it himself as the bow again crashed down.
By God’s grace the ship held together, but it continued to pitch and roll, and Will closed his eyes and prayed. It was bad enough his mother had lost their father. He did not want her to get the news of her son’s death also. He silently begged God to save the Dutchess Dianna and its cargo, not for the sake of wealth or his own neck, but for his mother.
There came a rumbling sound above the howling wind. Only seconds later a heavy barrel rolled toward Will and the man beside him as the bow again rose. “Look out!” he yelled, throwing himself over the sailor. He grunted when the barrel glanced off his shoulder and rolled on past, smashing against a post at the stern and spilling its contents of maple syrup. The syrup was quickly washed away as another roaring wave battered the deck.
Will rolled off the sailor, agonizing pain in his left shoulder.
“You all right?” the sailor shouted.
“Don’t know,” Will groaned. “I can hardly move my left arm.”
“It’s you! Mr. Lassater. I didn’t know. My God, sir, you might have just saved my life. That barrel would have smashed into my head for certain.” The sailor put an arm around Will and clung to him as yet another wave washed over them. “Can you hang on, Mr. Lassater?” the sailor shouted. “Your barrels of syrup must be coming loose. I’ll go try to secure them.”
“I’m all right, but to hell with the damn syrup! It isn’t worth risking your life over.” Will could barely see the man for squinting against the freezing rain.
“All part of the job, Mr. Lassater. You’ve got cargo on board that’s damn valuable in California.”
The sailor left Will before he could answer. Will watched him stumble and crawl and grab on to things as he made his way toward the bow. He disappeared in another wave, and Will ducked his head against the pummeling water. When he looked up again, he could barely see the sailor maneuvering himself around the barrels tied at the bow. Will had had the cargo area of the Dutchess Dianna packed so solidly with lumber and even more syrup, there had been no place else to put the extra barrels.
“Damn!” he muttered. If the rest of the barrels broke loose, more men could be hurt. He struggled against the raging wind, making his way forward in spite of the wild heaving of the ship. Fierce pain shot through his left shoulder when the ship tossed him against a mast, and it took him a minute to recover his balance. The ship’s quartermaster appeared out of nowhere then, grabbing hold of him.
“You should be down in your cabin, Mr. Lassater!”
“I’m not going to let the rest of you risk your lives for my cargo without helping!” Will shouted in answer. “Help me forward so I can help that sailor up there secure those barrels of syrup.”
The quartermaster obeyed, and the two men hung on to each other as they made the precarious walk to the bow.
“I cannot stay with you!” the quartermaster shouted in his Scottish accent.
“Go ahead and do what you have to do! I’m all right!”
Both men’s faces ran with rain, and Will could feel more rain trickling down his back inside his shirt. “Throw me that rope!” he shouted to the sailor who was already tying more ropes around the barrels.
The sailor obeyed, and Will ran it around the barrels. He handed it back to the sailor, who had crawled across the tops of the barrels to the other side. He had already managed to tie one rope with no help, but with Will there it could be done much faster. Will ignored the pain in his shoulder and grabbed yet another rope. The sailor climbed back to the left of the barrels and tied it securely to a huge eyebolt in the side of the ship. He crawled back over the barrels while Will wrapped the rope around them, then handed it back up to him. The ship heaved mightily again, and Will slipped, crying out when he landed on his injured shoulder. He slid back down toward the stern, but managed to grasp the corner of a secured storage chest. He clung to it, amazed by the power of the storm, even more amazed that the Dutchess Dianna still had not broken apart.
“You’re going below whether you like it or not!” came a voice near him. He looked up to recognize the red jacket of the sailor who had helped secure the barrels. He wondered how the man could stand to be out in this cold rain without a slicker, but he figured he must be accustomed to such weather and predicaments. As for himself, Will was beginning to wish he had tried the jungles of Panama rather than sailing the Horn, and he decided that if he ever went back home, that was the route he would take. Or he would take a wagon across the American plains and risk being killed by Indians. Anything but this.
He tried to protest as the sailor steered him toward the door that led to the quarters below, but because of the pain in his shoulder, he couldn’t do much struggling. “I want to stay up top and help!” he shouted.
“You’re just distracting the rest of the men,” the sailor told him. “They feel responsible to protect you. After all, it’s your cargo we’re carrying, Mr. Lassater. You might say we’re protecting our wages.”
They both clung to the railings as they half stumbled down the stairs. “And here I thought you were being a good samaritan,” Will said.
The sailor laughed, something Will was surprised he could do in the midst of such anger. “Not on your life,” he answered. He g
uided Will to his cabin, and by the light of a madly swinging oil lamp, Will could finally see the man’s face. After three months of sailing with these men, he knew each one of them well, and had a pretty good idea which sailors were the best and most dependable. This was one of them.
“Derek Carlson,” he said. “You big Swede. I wasn’t even sure who was helping me out there.”
The ship rolled again, and Will caught hold of a support post with his right arm. Derek let go of him and clung to the doorsill. “You stay put till the storm is over, Mr. Lassater.”
“I think by now you can call me Will.”
“No matter at the moment. I’m going back up top. Soon as this storm is over we’ll take care of that shoulder.”
Before Will could reply, the man disappeared. The ship pitched again. Will kept his arm wrapped tightly around the post as he slid to the floor to sit down and ride out the storm. He hoped California was as peaceful and warm and beautiful as others had told him it was. “And those trees had better be as big as they say,” he muttered, “after going through all of this to get there.”
At the moment he wished he were back in Maine in his parents’ mansion, sitting by the hearth in his father’s study, drinking good whiskey with his brother Gerald and smoking his pipe. At twenty-nine, Gerald was four years older than Will. He looked just like their father with his dark hair and eyes. He stood six feet two inches tall, broad-shouldered from years of wielding axes and saws. Everyone told Will that he looked more like their mother, with his sandy hair and blue eyes, but he stood nearly six feet tall himself and was even burlier than Gerald, something he liked to tease his brother about. It was all in good fun, for they were very close, and had grown even closer since their father died and the running of the mill had fallen into their hands.
The Forever Tree Page 1