Based on historical documentation, Green Gold proposes a solution to a real-life mystery: what happened to Scottish botanical explorer John Jeffrey after he was last seen in San Francisco in 1854? The young man, sent to the American Northwest by the specially formed Oregon Botanical Association 4 years earlier, had recently been summarily dismissed from his post as Collector for "desertion of duty." How did such a diligent, enthusiastic young man disappoint his patrons so acutely in carrying out his seed-gathering mission?
The novel's main structure consists in an assortment of clearly identified, genuine historical documents such as letters, minutes, instructions and plant labels — these last cleverly used as signposts along Jeffrey's route to show that "J.J. was here." To bridge the gaps between these records, Hemery imagined what Jeffrey might have set down in his expedition journals and created present-day scenes recounting the fortuitous discovery of these journals by Helen, a new intern at the Boston arboretum.
Alas, these fictional sections didn't work at all for me... The style of Jeffrey's writing isn't credible as coming from the pen of a mid-19th-century Scot, and sounds nothing like his actual letters that are reproduced in this novel. The dramatic incidents that supposedly lead Jeffrey to neglect the work he was initially so eager to perform are described matter-of-factly, without any emotional depth behind them. And to top it all off, we're treated to the usual clichés about Native Americans — one of which, you've guessed it, involves a pretty Indian girl coming to our European explorer's bed. (At least she's not an Indian princess.)
As for the present-day "plot," its superficial characters and stilted dialogue are only minor annoyances when compared with its regrettable lack of complexity. We're presented with a handful of bare branches that, with a little care, could have been turned into verdant boughs. Why does the author skim over Helen's investigative work, which could have been the most fascinating part of the story? Instead, we leap from Helen finding the journals (in the very first box she opens on the very first day of her internship, how convenient) to her travelling to Scotland (for no clear purpose) to her curating a great exhibition on John Jeffrey — all in a few sketchily drawn scenes and short emails. We learn nothing about her (save that she likes exclamation marks!) or why she's so fascinated by Jeffrey.
The writing of biographical fiction is a perilous endeavour. Crafting a story around selected sources demands remarkable skill. Stitching together the real and the imagined requires a deft hand, and though many attempt it, few succeed with any kind of credit. This novel, despite its claim at "epicness," is little more than large pieces of old yet sturdy material patched with scraps of dull, threadbare cloth.
I was provided with a free electronic copy of this book through NetGalley by the publisher, Unbound, in exchange for an honest review.
Rating: **
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