The Language of Trees

by Steve Wiegenstein

The tang of woodsmoke from cookstoves and fireplaces seasoned the evening air, and the first stars salted the sky. It was a good six miles to the railroad as the crow flew, but she could hear the distant clack-clack of the northbound line, the banging of cars, and the screech of a whistle as it passed a crossing. Up from Texas with a load of cattle, no doubt. Cattle going north, emigrants and orphans going south. Bodies in motion.

  She walked away from the sound, up the road toward the river, her mind cluttered. Charlotte liked to sit by the river, always had, and Josephine could understand why. It had a balancing effect, the movement and silence, the faint murmur concealing deep power. Sitting by the river reminded her of lasting things and suspended the oppressive sense that she would rather be anywhere than in this valley, caring for a damaged mother, waiting for her to die so that the next chapter in her own life could begin. Even the cattle had a destination.

  At the ford, two wagons were parked on the opposite bank, corner to corner, with a campfire in their sheltering ell. Josephine stopped in surprise and listened. Robbers weren’t likely to be about, not in this day and age. Even Jesse James was five years dead. But it paid to be cautious.

  She heard female voices, and a moment later two women came down to the river with buckets, dipping up water in the dim firelight.

  “Hello,” Josephine called.

  The women stood up abruptly and gazed across the river. “Hello?” said one.

  “There’s a town over here. I’m sure someone could put you up for the night.” The woman turned toward the wagons. “Brother, there’s a lady across the way, says there’s a town over there.”

  A man stood up from the fire and came to the bank. “A town, you say?”

  “More like a village, I guess,” Josephine said. “Not much of a town.”

  With the light of the fire behind him, the man was no more than a looming outline. Josephine could make out a curly wad of hair that was either red or firelit red. He rubbed his chin.

  “Does it have a church?” he said.

  “No church,” she said. “Nor store nor hotel. But I imagine we could find a way put you up for the night. Better than ground or wagon bed.”

  “We’re accustomed,” the man said. “I didn’t care to try a crossing in the dark.”

  Josephine could see the sense in that. “It’s deep, but a solid bottom,” she said. “You’ll have no trouble in the morning.”

  “Tell me more about your town,” the man said. “I do me some preaching when the spirit moves. You have no church. No preacher either?”

  “No,” she said. “We’re not a churchy sort. Town’s called Daybreak.”

  “Daybreak!” the man cried. “I read about you in a book. Didn’t know you were still a going concern.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “We’re still going.”

  “Still following the communal way of life?”

  Josephine was a little unnerved that this man knew so much about them. “Yes,” she said. “And who are you?”

  “Braswell is the name,” the man said, his voice softer. “Barton Braswell. State of Michigan is my place of origin. Preacher and jour printer, scholar. I have argued a bit of law in my day, turned my hand to farming and prospecting. Now I am in search of a place where I can settle with my wife and her sisters, till the soil, preach the Word, maybe compose my memoirs. You know anybody has some land for sale down the way?”

  “Can’t say that I do,” she said. “But if you’re truly buying, someone will be selling.”

  “Simple words, but profound meaning,” Braswell said. His voice dropped into a lower register. “But please excuse me, ma’am. I don’t mean to give the wrong impression. It’s not proper for me to be out here in the dark talking to you without your husband on hand.”

  “I don’t have a husband,” Josephine blurted out. “And we’re not that old-fashioned over here.”

  “Every town is more old-fashioned than it thinks.” The night’s shadows darkened, throwing the silhouettes of the women around the campfire into deeper relief. “You’re not one of those sentimental young ladies who goes to a river every night to consider throwing herself in?”

  Josephine laughed. “I’ve been called a few things, but never sentimental.”

  “Then why are you out here in the dark of night?” Braswell’s voice was softer yet.

  Josephine hesitated. She had no need to explain herself to anyone, least of all to a strange man in the dark. But she answered him anyway. “Sometimes you just want to be out in the quiet, to think,” she said.

  To her surprise, the man waded into the river a few steps. “I sense a deep longing for spiritual nourishment,” he said. “Come out here and let me give you a blessing.”

  “No!” Josephine cried and stepped back. “That’s not what I meant at all.”

  “It’s not what you meant, but I have spent a lifetime divining the spiritual needs of others,” Braswell said. “It’s what you need.” He pushed forward through the water some more and stood thigh-deep in the river.

  “You shouldn’t cross the river in the dark. You said so yourself.”

  “You told me it had a solid bottom, and I trust you. Now you trust me.”

  For an instant Josephine imagined doing it—stepping out into the stream toward the man in the middle, letting him—what? Bless her? Baptize her? Induct her into some sort of strange denomination? She could hear the water rippling around his legs as he stood, silent in the stream. Then she lifted her skirts and ran back to the village, to the dull silent cluster of houses and the soft snoring of her insensate mother.

  Chapter 3

  J.M. Bridges had never imagined himself running a timber operation in the backwoods of Missouri, or anywhere else for that matter. He had never envisioned himself a captain of industry. He believed, rather, that he was simply a man whose diligence and attention to detail left no doubt about his trustworthiness, a man who could be counted on in any circumstance, a man whose loyalty could not be questioned. So when he was summoned to Mr. Crecelius’ office in May, he was pleased at the prospect of recognition, but mildly apprehensive about coming face to face with the great man himself.

  True, he had shown initiative during the godawful snow and ice storm a couple of months before, the worst anyone had ever seen, but he didn’t flatter himself. One inspired week would not vault him over the ranks in a company like American Lumber and Minerals.

  The March storm had indeed been a test, though. Starting on a Sunday, stinging torrents of rain had chased pedestrians up and down Broadway. Then overnight the rain changed to ice, then to sleet that rattled the windowpanes, and then by Monday’s sunrise to snow—heavy, blowing, whistling snow. A foot, a foot and a half, then two feet, drifting in great mounds against buildings, clotting streets into impassibility, and felling the forests of utility poles so that Bridges woke to the snap and sizzle of electric lines as they whipped in the street below.

  He knew few men would make it to work that morning and decided to be one of them. He wasn’t sure why. No commerce would take place. That much was clear. But it was a Monday morning, and what one did on a Monday morning was go to work.

  The thick, wet snow resting atop the layer of ice conveyed electricity, and Bridges quickly realized that when he got within sixty or seventy feet of a fallen line he felt a tingling sensation that told him to back up and try another route. Others apparently did not possess this ability, and as he trudged through alleys and down sidewalks, he heard the muffled cries of men who had been struck by wires and then more cries from their would-be rescuers. He made it to the building without incident, found it locked, kicked in a side door, and groped his way downstairs to the main power switch. After shutting it off, he had spent the rest of the day—and most of the week—organizing teams to keep the roof cleared, the boiler filled, and the doors barred.

  So when he’d arrived at Mr. Crecelius’ outer office in May, it was with the hope of receiving a bonus, and nothing else. He’d paused outside the door to tighte
n the back buckle on his waistcoat. No one would see whether it was tight, but in Bridges’ mind, the invisibility of his act only added to its need. The snug fit of the waistcoat assured a crisp line to the shoulders of his jacket, and the crisp line of his thrown-back shoulders sent the message he wanted to convey to all who met him, that here was a man to trust.

  Bridges’ given name was John Malcolm, but he had settled on “J. M.” after growing dissatisfied with the ordinariness of “John” and rejecting “J. Malcolm” for its pretense. Diligence and trustworthiness were essential, but the first and second floors were full of young men just like himself, earnest strivers who never rose. A man needed a distinguishing mark, and for someone who came from no family to speak of, belonged to no clubs, and possessed no college connections, a distinctive first name would have to do.

  Mr. Crecelius’ private secretary was a taut man named Ramsey, with a prematurely receding hairline and a permanent look of ill-concealed impatience. He glanced up but did not speak as Bridges entered.

  “I’m Bridges,” he said. “I’m supposed to see Mr. Crecelius at three.”

  “I know who you are,” Ramsey replied. “Mr. Crecelius isn’t in. He has a standing appointment after lunch on Wednesdays, and sometimes he doesn’t return at all. Go back to your desk and I’ll send for you when and if he comes in.”

  There was a sofa against the wall and a straight chair in the corner. Bridges chose the straight chair so he could see the elevator doors.

  “What, you don’t have work to do in the middle of the afternoon?” Ramsey said.

  “Nothing that can’t be done after hours. I’ll not waste Mr. Crecelius’ time having a boy fetch me upon his return.”

  “I don’t have time for chit-chat with you,” Ramsey said with a grimace. He gestured to a pile of correspondence on his desk.

  “Then I’ll not chit-chat,” Bridges said. He folded his hands in his lap. After half an hour, Ramsey couldn’t stand it. “Where is it you’re from again, young man? New Jersey?” he said, barely glancing up.

  Bridges let the “young man” remark pass, although the two appeared to be about the same age. “Delaware. Newark, Delaware.”

  “Ah. That explains my New Jersey thought. I remembered that you weren’t a New Yorker.”

  Bridges heard the slight in his words but let that pass as well. For all he knew, Mr. Crecelius had given instructions to test his mettle a bit. In any event, there was no point in antagonizing the man who controlled access.

  Another twenty minutes passed. “We liked the way you handled yourself in March,” Ramsey said. “You were observed.”

  “I’m glad to have been of use,” Bridges said.

  Another twenty minutes went by. Perhaps there would be no bonus, but only a certificate for his wall, or a photographed handshake. Mr. Crecelius was renowned for his thrift. That would be a disappointment he would need to brace for and properly disguise.

  “I’ve seen his Wednesday appointment,” Ramsey ventured quietly. “I wouldn’t come back to work either.”

  Bridges didn’t answer. He had just about had enough of Ramsey’s remarks and smirks.

  Then there was a deep groan from the rafters as the cable wheel of the elevator began to turn. Ramsey stiffened and took the next set of papers from his stack, jogging them on his desktop with a nervous clearing of his throat. Bridges stood up.

  Mr. Crecelius arrived in a cloud of cigar smoke, ignoring Ramsey, and was about to push his way through to his inner office when he noticed Bridges standing in the corner. He stopped and stared at him blankly.

  “This is Mr. Bridges,” Ramsey murmured.

  “Ah. Bridges,” said Mr. Crecelius. He strode into his office without another word, leaving Bridges uncertain, until Ramsey waved for him to follow.

  Mr. Crecelius had a bright red face and a fierce expression, and the wrinkles of skin from his bald head down his neck made him look like a snapping turtle, if a snapping turtle could grow a bristling white mustache that stuck out from its face as if it was trying to flee to another lip. Bridges stood quietly in the middle of the room while Mr. Crecelius glanced through a stack of letters and papers on his desk.

  No one on Bridges’ floor had ever seen this office, though rumors about it flew as regularly as pigeons from windowsills. Bridges vowed not to gawk. He clasped his hands behind his back and studied the room out of the corner of his eye while he waited.

  The room was much larger than he’d imagined. On his floor, a room this size would hold forty toiling clerks. There were high curtained windows, a billiards table on one side and what appeared to be a full laboratory on the other, and at the far end a stuffed moose, equally outsized. It felt somewhere between a museum hall and a gymnasium, with a twelve-foot-wide map of the United States on the wall for decoration.

  Mr. Crecelius stood abruptly and walked to the map. Bridges followed until he stood next to the great man, who snatched up a long maple pointer and smacked New England. “Cut over.” Then he smacked Pennsylvania. “Cut over.” He smacked the map again. “Can’t build if you have no lumber, and the farther you haul it the costlier it becomes. It’s a simple rule. And that’s why the growth won’t be here.” Smack. “And it won’t be here.” Smack.

  Mr. Crecelius didn’t seem to expect comment, so Bridges offered none.

  “Here’s where your growth will be.” Mr. Crecelius waved the pointer over a great swath of the midsection of the country. “And here,” he said, circling his pointer over southern Missouri. “Here’s where the trees are.” He stepped closer and felt the map with his hands, as if divining the springs from which wealth would emerge. “Virgin timber, yellow pines eighty feet tall, I’m told. Hundreds of square miles of it.” He traced a line from St. Louis to Little Rock. “And here, a fine little railroad to take it out on. It’s one of Gould’s lines, but we’ll give him his slice.” He bent closer to the map until his nose was almost touching it and placed a finger close to the Arkansas line. “An old boy from Pittsburgh has set up his son-in-law down here, so we won’t go there. Competing for product just drives up the price. No.” He stroked the map with his finger, following the dotted black line as it traveled south from St. Louis, each dot representing a settlement or town. “We’ll go in farther north. Closer to civilization anyway.”

  He turned to Bridges and gazed intently into his eyes, his expression almost angry. “I need a man who can talk to people, who can get us into the area and keep the local yokels from greeting us with rope. Mason is a good money man, but he doesn’t rub people right.”

  Bridges had no idea who Mason was, but he nodded anyway.

  Mr. Crecelius returned to his desk. “It’s a five- to eight-year job, depending on the quality and amount of lumber we pull out of there. That’s why we need a young man like you, unencumbered by wife and family. You are still single, are you not?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Engaged or attached?”

  “No, sir.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “And your parents?”

  “Still living, sir, and in good health.”

  “What’s your father do?”

  “Saddlemaker, sir.”

  For the first time, Mr. Crecelius’ face softened. “Ah,” he said. “Now there’s an honorable old craft.” He paused. “But a dead one. I’ll bet your father doesn’t do half the business he used to. I buy handmade saddles myself, but that’s because I can afford to. Your average Jonathan, he’ll buy a factory-made saddle and learn to live with the poor fit and cheap materials.” His eyes glinted. “Besides, we’re all riding the railway these days.” He smacked his hands on the desk. “So there it is. You will set up the mill, buy the land, oversee the lumbermen, keep the local folk happy if possible. You will communicate with Ramsey by wire every week at the least, and with me by letter. It’s a thirty-dollar-a-week job if you want it.”

  Bridges knew nothing about lumbering. But thirty dollars a week! A more experienced man would have asked for forty, probably,
but that was why Mr. Crecelius was rich.

  “Yes, sir,” he said. “I want it very much.”

  That evening, still dazed from the afternoon’s development as he walked home with a packet of instructions and legal papers under his arm, he stopped by the Leggat Brothers’ bookstore.

  “What do you have on Missouri?” he asked the clerk. “I need something about Missouri.”

  The clerk scratched his nose. “Missouri. Hmm. St. Louis?”

  “No, south from there. Out in the countryside.”

  The clerk led the way through shelf-lined rooms in the basement. “I saw something in here the other day,” he said. “It’s worn, but still has all its pages. Five cents, and I’ll throw in a copy of Song of Hiawatha.”

  Bridges turned the book over in his hands. Scenes and Adventures in the Semi-Alpine Region of the Ozark Mountains of Missouri and Arkansas. “Good heavens, man, this book’s from before the war.”

  The clerk shrugged. “Nothing ever changes out there. They probably still shit in the woods.” To Bridges’ dubious look, he added, “All right, take it for a penny. But no Hiawatha.”

  “I already own a copy anyway.”

  The book had gone into his trunk that night, but now in the hotel in Ironton, with Mason snoring robustly in the next bed, he took it out. They had secured half a section of flat ground beside the railroad tracks a dozen miles south, a perfect place for their mill and the town that would grow up around it. A bright, clear stream ran through it, clearer than New York City tap water. Even a piker like Bridges could tell the quality of the timber that surrounded it, miles and miles in every direction, a carpet of forest over ridgetop and river bottom, riches to be plucked up by the first men in. They already had contracts for ten thousand acres, and that was just the start. Mason might not know how to handle people, but he knew how to handle money, and so far Bridges had learned that the secret to handling people was to find out how much money they wanted and what they were willing to do to get it. And to cap off the week, he’d just caught a glimpse of the prettiest girl he’d ever seen. Her long black hair, pulled back into a twining braid, her deep brown eyes, and her small, sharply contoured nose and lips burned in his recollection like a sparking ember.