The Language of Trees

by Steve Wiegenstein

  “I suppose so. I don’t think too much about my house. Anyway, what can I do for you?”

  “First, I need to know if you can keep a confidence. You’ll hear this from your mother, but I want you to hear it from me.”

  “All right. I’ll hold this to myself.”

  “I’m here to see about organizing the workers for the American Lumber and Minerals Company. Our union has picked them out as a company that’s ripe for organization.”

  Newton had to smile at the thought. Smug Mr. Bridges, hanging around Daybreak when he should be tending to his own affairs. His East Coast masters would not be pleased to learn that a union had formed while he was gathering posies. “All right. I can’t say that it would be easy, but I think it’s possible.”

  “Glad to hear it. My idea is to get on as a worker and organize from the inside.”

  “That shouldn’t be hard. Both the mine and the mill always need men.”

  “But I’ll need a place to live while I do it, and that’s why I came here. I’ve read about Daybreak as a place that values the workingman, so I thought you folks might help me out. Have you got a room?”

  Newton hesitated. It was one thing to enjoy the discomfort a union campaign would bring the company, another to participate in it. “I don’t know,” he said. “We don’t usually involve ourselves in the disputes of others.”

  “That’s not what I’ve heard,” Pierce said, a little disputatious. “I hear you all took a brave stand during the Civil War.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “Not to mention that you and this company are already at cross purposes.”

  “Maybe. They’re willing to pay a lot of money for land that we’re not using. We might just take them up on it.”

  “A people’s commune being courted by a banker’s combine. Ain’t that something for the archives.”

  The remark stung. “You have an odd way of making friends with the people you come seeking charity from.”

  Pierce’s face flushed and he closed his eyes briefly to compose himself. “I’m sorry,” he said. “My mouth gets ahead of my head sometimes. I didn’t mean to offend. Just remember that I’ve been fighting the money boys every day of my life, so quarreling is my habit.”

  Newton saw the truth in it. “All right,” he said. “You can stay here, as my guest. That keeps the community out of it, and if anyone has to answer for it, it’ll be me.”

  “Bully, brother!” Pierce cried. “You needn’t worry. I won’t draw you into anything you’re not ready for.”

  Newton smiled and shook his hand again, wishing he believed the man’s words. “We’ll not have violence,” he said. “The community won’t tolerate it.”

  “Do I look like a violent man?” Pierce said with a grin. “I’m the boy the violent men always picked on. That’s how I learned the power of collective action.”

  “All right. We may have more in common that I imagined.” Inwardly, he chastised himself for agreeing so quickly to let the man stay. He should have thought this through. Was his judgment failing? Too late to change now. “We eat in common most days, supper at least, so you’ll need to have a story ready if you want to keep your work under wraps. It probably won’t stay under wraps for long anyway.”

  Pierce nodded. “I know. Word always gets around eventually. That’s when they bring out the thugs. If I’ve got men on my side by then, we’ll have a chance. Otherwise I’ll have to skedaddle in the night.”

  “You’ve done this before, then.”

  “Oh yeah. I’ve slept in my share of stables. Jail cells too.”

  “Doesn’t that frighten you?”

  “Hell, yes. But what’s the alternative? Grind away for a dollar a day for the rest of my life? That frightens me, too.”

  They were interrupted by a knock at the door. Both men jumped, but then Newton, embarrassed by his nerves, opened the door to find Josephine Mercadier standing on the step. She began talking before he had the door fully open.

  “Newton, I think the time has come for us to take that vote on the timber company,” she said. “Putting it off any longer just prolongs the disagreement and plants the seeds for future conflict. Let’s settle it and—” She noticed Pierce. “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had company.”

  “That’s all right,” Newton said. “Come in, let me introduce you. Miss Mercadier, this is Reuben Pierce. He’s visiting and looking for work around here. Mr. Pierce, Josephine Mercadier, one of our community members.”

  After their greeting, she returned to her subject. “So you see my point?”

  “I do.”

  “Very well, I’ll introduce the motion at next week’s meeting and we can vote on it the week after that.” She turned to leave. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Pierce.”

  Pierce made a gesture that looked like tipping his hat, but he wasn’t wearing one so it ended up as a scalp rub. And then she was gone, with her usual abruptness that felt one step away from rude.

  “That was interesting,” Pierce said. “All this talk of motions and voting, like a little legislature.”

  “It’s our way,” Newton said.

  “Women vote too? I didn’t think that was legal.”

  “They vote in our community, same as men. County and state elections, they’re shut out.”

  “My. You folks are more radical than I am.” Pierce peeked out the window, but Newton knew that Josephine would be long gone. “You’re a lucky man,” Pierce said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “To have a sweetheart like—” He waved toward the door. “I mean, she’s quite the good-looker.”

  “She’s not my sweetheart,” Newton blurted, not wanting to go into details.

  “She called you ‘Newton.’”

  “We grew up together. She’s always called me that.”

  “So no suitor?”

  “Many admirers, no beau.”

  Pierce’s expression grew thoughtful. “I may enjoy my time here more than I thought.” Newton, feeling a little sour, didn’t reply. Pierce paid no notice. “What a fine figure! And it’s hard to judge by an ankle, but I’d say that ankle leads to a fine calf.”

  “Mr. Pierce, please. Keep your comments civil. This is a valued community member you’re talking about.”

  Pierce shrugged. “Sorry. Again, I didn’t mean to offend.”

  “I’m not offended, I’m just . . . “

  “One of the admirers?”

  Newton felt the heat in his face as he blushed. “No. Not at all.”

  “Then you won’t be jealous if I try my luck.”

  Newton didn’t know what to say. Of course he couldn’t be jealous. He had neither right nor reason for jealousy. But this man’s easy assertion of interest struck him wrong. There was a proper way to go about courting a woman and—

  He stopped himself. If ever a greater hypocrite existed in this world, he had never heard of him. “Jealous?” he said. “Last thing on my mind. Many men have tried to win her, all have failed. Maybe you’ll be the lucky exception.” He took his hat from its peg. “Make yourself at home. I need to get up to the fields and work a while. I’ll be back in time for us to walk together to the Temple for supper.” He paused in the doorway. “And you’re right. She’s got a damn fine ankle, and I venture to say a fine calf to match, and the rest to match that.”

  Chapter 23

  “I’ve got something to tell you, but I don’t want you to listen very hard.” Mason said.

  They were sitting by the relay box, waiting to see if Mr. Crecelius would reply to their weekly telegram. Bridges doubted it. Mr. Crecelius’ communication had grown ever more perfunctory lately, and though Mason assured him that this trend was simply the result of the press of business in New York, Bridges wondered if they had been forgotten. He cocked an eyebrow at Mason’s statement and spoke low so the telegraph operator wouldn’t hear. “All right.”

  “Yancey got everything straightened out down at Clearwater. But he had to knock so
me heads, and we’re going to blacklist a couple of boys. It wasn’t the smoothest solution, not by a long shot. We’ll keep him out of Wayne County until things quiet down.”

  Bridges nodded. He understood the need to keep him from knowing the details, in case awkward questions arose later. But it still felt strange. Just how not-smooth was this not-smooth solution? And how many heads got knocked, and how hard? Discretion was a fine thing, willful ignorance less so. He knew Mason wouldn’t budge further, so kept silent.

  Although the sun had not yet appeared, a warm wind from the south promised a fine day. Once he was sure the mill was running smoothly, he would ride over to check on the mine. And that meant passing through Daybreak, and if he was lucky he would reach it just after lunchtime. And if he was luckier still, Josephine Mercadier would be around and available to chat.

  In the dim glow of morning he daydreamed about Josephine. She was a beauty, true enough; but these days he thought less about that than about the ferocity with which she held her opinions. He found it both admirable and intimidating, and he wondered how she came by it. Certainly her mother was no jut-jaw, at least not in her present state. Although from what Josephine said, perhaps at an earlier age—

  The telegraph rattled into life, rousing him from his thoughts. Bridges listened intently, trying to catch a few letters and words along the way, but the signal came too fast. He stood and waited while the operator scribbled on his page.

  “Carry on with current plans as directed,” the operator read. “Anticipate passing through Ironton next month on way to Texas for honeymoon. You two await instructions on meeting date.”

  “Honeymoon!” Mason burst out. “I’ll be damned. The old goat.”

  “I thought he was married already,” Bridges said.

  “Widowed some years. I guess he still has the natural urges.” Mason dismissed the telegraph operator with a wave of his hand, and they started toward the mill town.

  “What did he mean by current plans?” Bridges asked. “As far as I know, our plans are just to keep sawing lumber and digging ore.”

  “I guess that’s what he meant, then,” Mason said. “We can ask him when he comes through next month.”

  “The men have started a choral society, you know. Maybe we should have them practice something for the happy couple.”

  Mason frowned. “Let’s wait for those further instructions. You notice he just said ‘you two.’”

  Bridges left the building and headed toward the mill building while Mason climbed toward the office. His unease grew. What else was Mason keeping from him? Plans as directed.

  No time to think about that now. All four sawyers had their crews running. He walked through the mill, careful to avoid the setters and off-bears as they muscled the logs and lumber on and off the carriages. Their intricate rhythm required precise timing that he did not want to disturb.

  On the downstream side of the mill sat the great pile of sawdust they had created, smoldering as it had done since June, from spontaneous combustion deep within. No amount of rain or passage of time had yet put it out, and the men said it would take at least a week’s downpour or a soaking snow of winter to do the job. “Mount Bridges,” they called it, behind his back, although he didn’t mind. The bigger the sawdust pile, the better the production.

  He could hear the first northbound train of the day in the distance, blowing off some steam to slow down for their siding junction. Others could hear it too, or perhaps they sensed the time, for he saw the wagon crews stop unloading logs and move to the landing, where the cut lumber sat stacked and ready. The mill and its men were like a fine machine, all its parts moving in harmony and on schedule.

  Bridges crossed over the frontage street from the mill to the short row of public buildings—the union church, the company store, the livery stable. As he passed by the store on his way to the stable, the clerk popped out the door.

  “Letter for you, Mr. Bridges,” he said with a bob of his head. Bridges took it from him and examined the sender’s address: Ambrose Gardner, near Champion Springs, Reynolds County, Missouri. He smiled. Maybe the old fellow had finally come to his senses and accepted their offer, which was three or four years’ worth of income for someone around here.

  The clerk was still standing there. “Thank you, Mr.—”

  “Ackhurst,” the clerk said.

  “Ackhurst. Right.” The clerk turned and walked inside, his goal accomplished, his name spoken aloud by the boss.

  Bridges slit the envelope and shook out Gardner’s letter.

  Dear Mr. Bridges,

  This is to inform you that I have spiked all the trees of any commercial value on my property. Please send your lumbermen elsewhere.

  Yours most sincerely, Ambrose Gardner.

  “Ackhurst!” Bridges shouted. In a flash, the clerk returned. Bridges carefully refolded the letter and tucked it into its envelope. “Take this up to Mr. Mason on the hill. I need to get started for the mine or I’d do it myself.”

  “But sir, there’s nobody to tend the store.”

  “Then you’ll have to hop. You’re not exactly swamped for business this morning.”

  The clerk dashed off, and while the stableman was saddling his horse, Bridges thought about Gardner’s incomprehensible message. No sane man would throw away that kind of money to make a point. It had to be a negotiating ploy, or an attempt to make himself indispensable after the sale to show them which trees had been spiked and where. Mason would have an idea of how to deal with him.

  The trail that led over the ridge toward Daybreak and the mine was familiar to him by now, and his mind wandered as he rode. His town had a church, a rail stop, and a store. What it needed was a post office to make it a real town. And with a post office would come a name. Up to now they had simply been calling it “the mill town.”

  By the time he descended into the Marble Creek valley, he had figured it out. He would learn the name of Mr. Crecelius’ new wife and name the town in her honor. The perfect wedding gift. And with luck, he could have it done by next month to present them as they passed through. Just hope it was a normal name like Mary or Margaret, and not something strange. Mary, Marysville, Marysburg. He spent the next few miles trying out variations.

  On the other side of French Mills were clumps of tall purple flowers on the roadside, bright and beautiful against the brown of the fields. Bridges decided to stop and pick a bouquet.

  But their stems were surprisingly tough and ropy. His tugging didn’t break them, and they were covered with a rough wooly fiber that chafed his hands. He had to saw through them with his penknife, which could barely manage the task. He ended up with six large heads of flowers, which he laid across his lap as he rode the rest of the way to Daybreak.

  Josephine, thank goodness, was at home, and she took the flowers from him with a smile and placed them on the porch in a galvanized bucket with a dipper of water to keep them fresh. “You know what these are?” She sat on the porch steps and gestured for him to join her.

  “No.”

  “Ironweed.”

  “Plain name for such pretty blooms.”

  She laughed. “Isn’t that always the case? Fine things are concealed under ugly names, while the prettiest-sounding things always disappoint.”

  Back East, Bridges would have taken such a remark as an opportunity for a flirtatious witticism, but by now he had learned that flirtatiousness was never the right choice when talking to Josephine. “I suppose there’s a philosophy to be had in that observation.”

  “Maybe so. I’ll just make the observation and leave it to you to find the philosophy.”

  “Have you always been so practical-minded? That book you lent me is full of philosophy.”

  She considered. “I suppose it is, but I read it for the insights into human nature, not the philosophy. Philosophizing is a luxury.”

  “I agree,” Bridges said. “If I’d paid more attention to practical knowledge, I wouldn’t have roughed up my hands trying to pick tha
t ironweed.” He didn’t want to mention that he had found the book’s ideas on human nature to be naïvely optimistic, with its notion that communal life would bring about some sort of transformation in people’s basic nature. A fine wish, to be sure.

  “But then we wouldn’t have these flowers,” Josephine said gently. “Here. Let me see.” She took his hands and turned them palms up, running her fingertips lightly over the raw places. “This isn’t so bad. I’ve got salve.” She stood and stepped inside, returning a moment later with a heavy glass jar and the copy of Scenes and Adventures he had lent her. She laid the book on the porch, unscrewed the lid of the jar, and dipped her fingers into the thick, yellow-white grease. “Mama swears by this. And I’m done with your book.”

  “And?”

  Her face puckered momentarily. “It had its moments. But it ends with the god-awfullest poem you’ll ever read.”

  The salve was cold and smelled faintly like overripe apples, but as soon as she spread it on his hands, the irritation ceased. “Your mama is right to like this stuff. Where is she, by the way?”

  Josephine looked down and smiled, the first time he had ever seen anything resembling a blush from her. “Inside. She saw you coming with a bundle of flowers and sent me out here. Said we should have some time to ourselves.”

  Bridges’ palms felt soothed, but suddenly his face was hot. He folded his hands over hers and gathered his strength. “Miss Mercadier, it has been a joy to me to converse with you these past months, whether alone or in company.”

  “My,” she said. But she did not pull her hands back. “How formal you sound. Has the company recalled you? Are you taking your leave of us?”

  “Nothing of the sort. I am formal because I’m trying to choose my words carefully. What I want to say is that I am in love with you. I hope that over time you may love me too.”

  At this she drew back and put her hands in her apron pockets. “We can’t talk about this now,” she said. “We will vote next week on whether to sell you our timberland. After that, perhaps we can talk unencumbered by that issue. If you still want to talk. If it makes any difference, I plan to vote against the sale.”