The Great Alone (45 page)

Mikhail glanced at a wigless Baranov, his bald crown fringed by flaxen hair. Years of gazing at far horizons had etched lines into the old Russian’s face that gave him a perpetually quizzical expression. But the look in his eyes was one of sadness and resignation. Mikhail guessed the news wasn’t good. Any minute he expected Baranov to lift his hands and offer the usual declaration: “It’s in God’s hands.”

Rezanov spoke, not mincing any words. “We have received word, as yet unconfirmed, that the
Elizaveta
was lost at sea in a gale. There will be no supplies from Kodiak. In addition, the native flotilla of hunters sank in the storm with the loss of two hundred men and the season’s largest catch of furs.” All around Mikhail hands were lifted in gestures of resignation, but there was more. “A message has also been received which contained an unsubstantiated report that the convict settlement at Yakutat has been wiped out by the Kolosh.” The agricultural and shipbuilding outpost built on the Alaskan mainland had been an experiment modeled after the colonization of Botany Bay by the British. “The Kolosh have also attacked other redoubts to the north but were repulsed. However, I believe we can count on increased hostilities in our area.”

A few mumbled their remorse over the deaths of men they knew, but Rezanov discouraged any discussion of the news. He signaled for his personal manservant to bring the charts and books to the table, then spread them open for all to study. They were the records of the explorer George Vancouver.

As Mikhail listened to Rezanov expound on his plans for the future expansion of the Russian American Company’s territories, he had the distinct feeling that the two recent disasters had only made the high chamberlain more determined to forge ahead. Rezanov strongly recommended that the company abolish its practice of depending solely on the fur trade and engage in the merchant business as well. Mikhail’s lust for faraway places was aroused by Rezanov’s list of exotic foreign ports as he talked about establishing consuls in the company’s name at Burma and in the Philippines, building more settlements first along the Columbia River, then at California and Hawaii. Soon, he claimed, the Peace of Amiens would be broken and Europe would go to war against the belligerent Corsican Napoleon. That would leave the company free to solidify its holdings in Alaska and expand into new territories.

“Look at the map.” He punched a finger at the chart on the table. “The one who holds Alaska can control the Pacific.”

A drop of water splashed on Mikhail’s cheek and broke the spell woven by Rezanov’s grandiose dreams of an empire. The reality at Sitka was leaking roofs, lurking Kolosh, and dwindling supplies.

The arrival of the Yankee schooner
Juno
at Sitka provided a temporary solution to the provision problem. Rezanov purchased the vessel and its cargo, which consisted of a large quantity of trade goods, including tinware, pottery, utensils, hardware, muslins, and a variety of implements. More importantly, the ship had nearly two thousand gallons of molasses, nineteen casks of salt pork, four thousand pounds of rice, eleven casks of wheat flour, and other food stores, enough to last several weeks.

For a while, they had plenty to eat and there was music in the settlement, furnished by a duet of clarinet and violin played by a Yankee seaman who had signed on with the company and the high chamberlain himself. But a combination of unusually heavy rains and sleet and thick fogs during the latter months of the year and the constant menace of Kolosh prevented the Russians from supplementing their food supply with fresh game and fish. It was forbidden to leave the fort, and they were forced to begin eating the Aleuts’ supply of oil and dried fish.

The
Juno
was dispatched to Kodiak to obtain whatever provisions the Russian village could spare, but all she brought back was more whale oil and dried fish. By February, scurvy was rampant at Sitka. Out of the nearly two hundred Russians at the redoubt, eight were dead and sixty were completely disabled by the debilitating disease.

The situation was dire. A winter sea voyage to Hawaii was out of the question; crossing the storm-riddled Pacific was too lengthy and too risky. At another meeting, Rezanov proposed sailing the schooner down the coast, exploring the mouth of the Columbia River for a future site, obtaining fresh game and fish, and trading at the small Spanish presidio of Los Farallones del Puerto de San Francisco for foodstuffs. Although all Spanish ports along the California coast were closed to foreign ships, he intended to gain admittance by using his credentials as Russia’s ambassador to the world. A minimum crew of twenty was required to sail the
Juno,
but the weakened condition of the men at the settlement made it mandatory that she carry a full complement of thirty in the event of illness.

Mikhail immediately volunteered to go on the voyage, but Baranov banged his fist on the table in protest. “You cannot weaken this garrison by taking all of our able-bodied men! The Kolosh are a constant danger. We must be able to defend ourselves should they attack!”

After considerable dissension, a compromise was reached. Rezanov agreed that part of his crew would be made up of men showing the early signs of scurvy. Mikhail’s petition to join the expedition was refused. His disappointment quickly turned to resentment when Zachar was selected to go.

“Why do you take my brother and not me?” he protested. “He is older and has a family. I am an experienced navigator. I can be of more use to you than he will. He is a hunter.”

“There are other men with families who will be going. And we will have need for an experienced hunter before we reach the Spanish port,” Rezanov asserted sharply, making it plain he would tolerate no more questioning of his decisions.

Trembling with anger, Mikhail fell silent and heard little of the ensuing conversation. Inwardly he railed. He was the navigator; he was the one who longed to see new places. Yet it always seemed to be his older brother who ventured into unknown territory first—his brother who had no desire to go. All he had ever traveled was the old routes—Sitka to Kodiak, the Pribilofs, Unalaska, or mainland redoubts and back. Now he was stuck here, serving out his required enlistment in the company as a harbor pilot.

When the meeting ended, Mikhail left without speaking to his brother. His resentment and disappointment were too keen. At the moment he was so angry that he even blamed Zachar for being chosen instead of him.

Time was critical, and none was wasted as the schooner was hurriedly readied to sail. Little food could be spared from the settlement’s meager supplies if those remaining at Sitka were to survive until the
Juno
returned. But the cargo hold was loaded with trade goods—wearing apparel, fine English cloth, leather goods and shoes, tools ranging from axes to gimlets, plus bundles of cloth-of-gold, elaborate muskets, and other items originally intended as gifts for the Japanese Mikado.

Mikhail avoided the harbor area while the preparations for the voyage were under way, only grudgingly taking part when he had no other choice. The bitter knowledge that tomorrow the
Juno
would weigh anchor and sail without him, gnawed at him as he entered his private quarters in the company barracks where he had closeted himself much of the time. He walked directly to the cot and pulled a jug of kvass from beneath it, one of two he’d secreted away as protection against scurvy. But it wasn’t for medicinal reasons that he filled a tin mug to the rim with the home-brewed liquor, then drank half of it down. He carried both the cup and the jug to the table and sat down in a crudely finished chair. At Sitka they had only axes and chisels with which to hew the logs into board planks.

He stared morosely at his cup, resenting the clouds and the cold, and remembering the tales he’d heard about the California sunshine that he was never going to see. He dreaded the day Zachar returned and he’d have to listen to all his stories about the place he should have visited. He downed the rest of the liquor and refilled the tin mug.

“Mikhail.”

He stiffened at the sound of his brother’s voice, belatedly realizing that the click he’d heard had been the lifting of the door latch. “Yes, what is it?” he demanded tersely, not looking around.

“I need to speak to you.”

“No doubt you’ve come to say good-bye.” He had expected this visit and tried to smother his irritations, aware they were childish.

Mikhail stood up and turned to face his brother, gathering his pride so Zachar wouldn’t see how much he envied him. Raven and her son, Wolf, stood next to Zachar. Those disturbing black eyes boldly stared at him, and Mikhail immediately felt uncomfortable.

Ever since she had made that initial overture, he’d done his best to stay clear of her, and for the most part he’d succeeded. Yet, like all women, she had a way of making it clear whenever he saw her that she would welcome his attention. He’d often wondered if his brother noticed.

“It’s true, I didn’t want to leave without telling you goodbye. But there’s also something I’d like you to do for me while I’m gone.” Zachar laid his hand on top of the boy’s head. Mikhail became tense. “I don’t like the idea of Wolf and Raven staying alone at our cabin.”

“What do you mean?” He looked at Raven, wondering if she’d put Zachar up to this.

“I’d like you to stay there and look after them while I’m away.”

“I can’t.” Mikhail was shocked into the strangled protest.

“You are my brother. I have no one else to ask.” Zachar appeared hurt and confused by his refusal. “I know how you tried to take my place so I wouldn’t have to leave them.”

“I don’t think you know what you’re asking,” Mikhail declared tightly.

Zachar’s frown deepened. “That they receive their share of food, that they have wood for their fire, that they will have someone to protect them if the Kolosh attack—is that too much to ask for my family?”

“No.” Mikhail couldn’t tell him what he really meant.

“Then you will stay with them?”

It seemed the final irony. Zachar was making the voyage Mikhail wanted and was leaving him to care for the woman Mikhail desired, however reluctantly.

“Yes, I’ll stay with them,” Mikhail agreed.

The
Juno
sailed with the tide the next day, and Mikhail moved his things into Zachar’s cabin. With the number of healthy men reduced, he arranged to stand guard on the first shift of the night watch. When he returned to the cabin at the end of his watch, Raven was in the cot asleep. He made himself a bed on the floor in front of the fireplace, but he slept little, spending most of the night staring at the tongues of flame that licked over the red-white logs and listening to the sounds that Raven made as she turned in her sleep.

The daytime hours when he wasn’t working at jobs around the settlement, he spent with Wolf. Twice during the week, he shot a bald eagle that had foolishly soared over the garrison. Its meat provided a welcome change from their monotonous diet of dried fish and oil.

Raven set a dish of it on the table in front of him. Neither the sight nor the smell of the fish and oil was appetizing to him any more, but Mikhail knew he had to eat it. There was nothing else. And his trousers were already loose on him. He got his jug of kvass and set it on the table so he could wash down the meal, but it didn’t help much. Instead he became fascinated by the greedy way the boy devoured his food.

“You wolf that down like your namesake.” He smiled as he said it, then pushed his dish over to the boy. “You can have the rest of mine, too.”

“You are not hungry this night,” Raven said.

He looked at her, something he usually avoided. The yellow light of the oil lamp played across her face, shadowing her deep-set eyes and accenting her high cheekbones. He noticed the new gauntness that indicated her loss of weight. The only thing about her that didn’t look thinner to him was her lips. They remained lusciously full.

Half angrily, Mikhail grabbed the jug and poured more kvass into his cup. At that moment, Wolf dug into the dish Mikhail had given him. “I guess I’m not hungry for that,” he said.

“Do you desire something else?”

The tone of her voice coupled with the phrasing of her question caused him to stiffen. Both implied many things to him, all of them arousing. Mikhail wasn’t sure whether she intended them to or not. Not once had she made any suggestive move toward him since he’d been here. But neither had she had the opportunity.

“No.” He got up, taking the jug with him, and crossed to the fireplace.

“Do you walk with the guards tonight?”

“No.” A rotation of shifts had put him on the day watch.

“Mikhail must be tired from so many nights. You should sleep in the cot.”

“No.”

“I think this is the only word you know.” Her soft laugh mocked him. Mikhail swung around and found he couldn’t meet her taunting look. “I think Mikhail is afraid to say anything else.”

“I wish my brother were here so he could see what you are really like.” He trembled with the violence of his emotions, hating her and wanting her with equal fury.

“But Zachar is not here.”

“I should have told him why I didn’t want to stay here.”

“It is because you wanted this.”

“No!”

Raven responded to his vigorous denial with a shrug of her shoulders and turned back to the table to finish her meal. A burning log popped in the fireplace, its crack sounding loud in the silence. He stared at the glowing embers, gnawed by her accusation, and frustrated by the suspicion it was true. Perhaps he had kept silent because he wanted something to happen. He drank to kill the doubts she had raised.