Трейси Шевалье - At the Edge of the Orchard

“They spoil too many cones.” Lobb threw a half-eaten cone at the chickaree and it flashed out of sight.

When they had stripped the branches of the fallen sequoia bare they moved further into the grove to the standing trees. There were about a hundred giant sequoias in Calaveras Grove, scattered among other trees within the area of a mile or so. Each one they arrived at astonished Robert more rather than less. Though freakishly large, somehow they did not announce their presence, except with a flash of orange in among the younger trees, until you were up close. Robert wanted to stop at each, steady himself against it with his hand, and look up. William Lobb was less inclined; as Robert discovered later, he had seen many unusual trees in his travels, and while he appreciated them he was also unsentimental, and brisk about his business.

There were fewer green cones around the live sequoias, as they mainly clung to the branches. Robert was beginning to think it would be impossible to fill the sack when William Lobb stumped off to his pile of equipment and returned with a shotgun. After loading it, he raised it, aimed high into the tree, and fired. There was a crack, and in a moment a branch swung loose and slowly tumbled down, knocking against the trunk and other branches, and showering them with needles and cones. Robert ducked. The Englishman chuckled. “Best part of the job.”

He left Robert to pick up the cones and went back to his equipment, returning with a spade and some metal pails. “We need a few seedlings,” he explained. “Often the seeds won’t germinate in a new country and climate, but seedlings might continue to grow.” He tramped through the undergrowth several times around the tree before he was satisfied he’d found a healthy foot-high seedling. Then he began cutting into the thick duff around it, made up of decomposed needles and red dust from the bark. “Course it’s much harder to transport them,” Lobb grunted as he worked. “Often they don’t survive the crossing.”

“Crossing what?”

“The ocean. Won’t like being brought down to San Francisco much either. Worth collecting some, though, especially with a new species.” He lifted the seedling and lowered it gently into a pail, adding soil around it and tamping it down with his fingers. When he was satisfied he picked up his spade again to find another.

Robert had collected all the cones he could around the tree, and began looking for seedlings to help out. It turned out not to be as easy as he had expected. Few seedlings grew under the giant trees, as there was little sunlight. Those that did grow were not what he first thought. When he pointed out a potential seedling, Lobb shook his head. “That’s incense cedar. Lots of them here.” He gestured at taller, thinner trees around them with red bark and deep furrows similar to the sequoias. “Go and feel the bark of that one. See? Much firmer than the sequoia. And the needles may be scaly but they’re flatter than a sequoia’s, like they’ve been ironed.”

They moved on to another sequoia, William Lobb handing Robert the gun to shoot down more branches. Robert took careful aim, aware that he was being judged and must not miss. He was used to hunting-it was how he ate his way across America-but he had never deliberately aimed at the branch of a tree. When he pulled the trigger, the slug struck the sequoia branch and it cracked but did not fall.

“One more’ll do it,” Lobb said. “Right at the base.”

This time the branch fell, as well as another shower of needles and cones.

There was a shout from the distant builders, and a man detached himself and hurried through the trees towards them. William Lobb swore under his breath. “So much for that. Fun is always paid for, one way or another.” He picked up his spade and began cutting the matted turf around another seedling, which to Robert looked like an incense cedar. Clearly he had a lot to learn.

Lobb did not look up as the man arrived, short and sweaty and out of breath, though he had not come far. Robert did not have William Lobb’s insouciance. He stopped picking up cones and stood with the sack at his feet, his hands dangling in guilt, though he was not sure what he had actually done wrong.

“Here, now, what was that shooting for?” The man fingered a long moustache that cut the lower third of his round face from the rest. He wore a ratty silk top hat pushed back from his forehead and a shirt with the sleeves rolled above his elbows, its whiteness revealing his trade: he was a money man, not a worker. “What are you doing there?”

Lobb continued working. “Digging.”

“Yes, but what are you digging? And why are you digging? And shooting too. There is no gold here, sir, if that’s what you’re looking for,” the man added, pulling a grubby handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his hands and then his brow. “Perhaps you’re new to this business and misunderstand the nature of gold, but I assure you there is none under these trees. You’re better off going to the river and following it down a ways. Though I’ve not heard of any gold found in the Stanislaus for a good two years.”

He stopped, expecting William Lobb to stop too. But Lobb kept slicing the ground around the seedling, then lifted it and placed it into one of the pails. Robert went back to picking up cones. The man fingered his moustache again, then held out his hand. “Name’s Lapham. Billie Lapham. I got a claim on this land.”

William Lobb ignored his hand. Robert felt a little sorry for Billie Lapham with his hand left suspended in the air, so after a moment he went over and shook it.

That seemed to perk up the money man. “Which is why I want to know when someone’s shooting on my land, and digging on my land, what it is they’re doing,” he continued.

“This is not your land,” William Lobb said.

“Oh, it is, it is. I got the papers. I can show you, back at camp.”

“This is Indian land, if it’s anyone’s.” William Lobb spoke as if he hadn’t heard Billie Lapham. “Those Miwoks encamped just south of here-they’ve been here longer than you. It’s theirs, or it’s God’s land-take your pick.”

“No, it’s mine, mine and my brother’s. We’re building, see, for the tourists. A saloon, a bowling alley, and farther back we’re extending the cottage to make it into a hotel. The Big Trees Hotel.” Billie Lapham listed these achievements proudly. “Wait a minute, is that trees you’re digging up?” William Lobb had placed another sequoia seedling in a pail. “You can’t dig up trees! What are you gonna do with them?”

Lobb paused. “What, aren’t there enough trees here for you? I noticed you don’t seem much concerned about the big ones since you’ve gone and cut one down to make it into-what? The floor of a bowling alley.”

“Well, now, it wasn’t me that cut it down! It was others decided to do that.” Billie Lapham wiped his hands again. “But there were good reasons why they did that. Educational reasons. People want to see how big the trees are, and it ain’t so easy, standing up close to ’em, did you notice? With a stump that big, though, and a trunk that long, you get a better idea of the size and scale of the thing. I figured with it already down like that I might as well make something out of it! The Great Stump is gonna be a dance floor, you know. And they only cut down just the one. We’ll protect the rest.” He must have been criticized before to be so well versed in his defense. Then he tried to flip the argument. “And I want to protect what’s growing too.” He gestured at the seedling in its pail. “If you dig these up and take ’em away, we won’t have them in the future, will we?”

William Lobb stopped digging; it seemed incredulity halted his spade. “You think these giants’-he waved at the trees around him-“are going to let these little ones survive? There’s no room. Look around you! Once these trees established themselves, nothing could grow to any height under them. I’m doing these seedlings a favor-giving them a chance. They might actually grow up somewhere.”