The Great Alone (62 page)

“Their totems aren’t idols of worship. They tell stories and legends of their clans.”

“How would you know?” he challenged.

“That is what I was told,” she murmured uneasily.

“Whatever they are, they’re heathen objects and should be burned. No decent person should have to associate with the likes of them—furs or not. If the Army had any sense, they’d clean out that pigsty they call the Ranche, with its disease and drunkenness, and ship all those filthy Indians off to some remote island.” With his diatribe finished, he stalked back to his chair and began writing furiously.

Nadia’s hand shook slightly as she lifted her teacup. But the tea was cold. She returned the cup to its saucer, wishing fervently that she had never brought up the subject of the Kolosh. From now on, she must remember how sensitive Gabe was and avoid any mention of them. It was all her fault that he’d become so angry. She should have known better.

A year and a half later the Stars and Stripes waved over the citizenry of Sitka who had gathered on the parade ground in front of Baranov’s Castle, now the residence of Alaska’s military commander. Ryan Colby stood on the fringe of the crowd, a thumb hooked in the watch pocket of his brocade vest. Nursing his customary cigar, he studied the slender, slouch-shouldered speaker standing on the veranda steps.

There was little about the older man to command such attention. His suit looked rumpled; the wavy locks of his gray hair were inclined to disorder. His high forehead and shaggy eyebrows emphasized his beak nose and receding chin. Yet this man was the former Secretary of State, William H. Seward, the man responsible for Alaska’s being purchased from Russia.

“Mr. Sumner, in his elaborate and magnificent oration,” Seward continued in a naturally hoarse voice, referring to the Massachusetts senator who had championed the purchase of Alaska, “although he spake only from historical accounts, has not exaggerated—no man can exaggerate—the marine treasures of the territory. Besides the whale, which everywhere and at all times is seen enjoying his robust exercise, and the sea otter, the fur seal, the hair seal, and the walrus found in the waters which imbosom the western islands, those waters, as well as the seas of the eastern archipelago, are found teeming with the salmon, cod, and other fish adapted to the support of human and animal life. Indeed, what I have seen here has almost made me a convert to the theory of some naturalists, that the waters of the globe are filled with stores for the sustenance of animal life surpassing the available productions of the land.”

Seward was indirectly defending the purchase of the land that had been sarcastically referred to as Seward’s Folly, Walrus-sia, and Seward’s Icebox in the nation’s capital. Ryan’s attention wandered to the select group of townspeople attentively standing to one side of the veranda. All but one were members of the de facto city government, composed of the mayor, who was also the government’s customs collector, and the councilmen. Ryan wondered how Gabe Blackwood had managed to get himself included, then supposed it was the letter campaign he had waged on Congress, agitating for some form of civil government to replace the present military rule in Alaska.

A black-haired man wearing the billed cap and pea jacket of a seaman was working his way around the outer edge of the crowd, pausing now and then to crane his neck and scan the onlookers as if searching for someone. Recognizing the young skipper of his fast sloop, Ryan stepped back from the crowd and motioned to Dimitri Tarakanov. As the young man joined him, Ryan was struck again by the hard and knowing look of those black eyes that belied the relative youth of his twenty years. In their first meeting in the spring of the previous year, Ryan had concluded that what Dimitri Tarakanov lacked in experience was made up for by his cunning intelligence and casual disregard for danger. He had not regretted his choice.

“Lyle said you were here.” Dimitri spoke sotto voce.

“Any problems?”

A smile lifted the outer corners of Dimitri’s spiky black mustache. “None. The furs are sitting in your shed and the whiskey is stashed on the island. As soon as it gets dark, we’ll bring it in.”

“Good.”

Ryan stuck his cigar in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully on it. He had quickly learned there was little profit in the fur trade any more, but it provided the perfect cover for his rum-running activity. Although the Army gave tacit approval to trafficking in liquor, they occasionally confiscated incoming shipments. Ryan considered smuggling the obvious choice to prevent a possible interruption of his supply.

“What’s going on here?” Dimitri indicated the speaker with a nod of his head.

“The good people of Sitka are hoping there’s something Seward can do for them in Congress,” Ryan answered dryly.

Hope was a mild word to describe the desperation he smelled in the crowd. Most of the people had become disheartened, doubting that their pleas would ever be heard by the government in Washington. Alaska was considered a customs district. There was no law, no legal conveyance of property title, no courts to legally try and punish the guilty, no legal tax levies except customs tax, and no right to vote.

Within a year after the purchase, more than seventy vessels had entered the port and left with their cargo holds loaded with nearly all the metal, equipment, furs, and stores that the Russians had in Sitka. The ships that didn’t carry those supplies hauled Russian passengers. The town had already been looted of everything of value, but most of the townspeople didn’t realize it.

The boom was over for most of them—the speculators and promoters who could no longer buy and sell land to which they could neither get nor give clear title, the merchants and tradesmen like the barbers and tailors and family men who could not tolerate the lawlessness and disorder. But it was a situation just made for saloon-keepers, gamblers, and prostitutes.

Sitka was literally a military town. Additional troops had been brought in, raising the number of soldiers in Alaska to five hundred, all but a few stationed right in Sitka. Their barracks were in the heart of town, and when the soldiers went on drunken rampages, which they often did, they ruled the streets and terrorized the population.

But the soldiers were Ryan’s main source of business—the soldiers and the Indians, both the Tlingits at the Ranche and the ones in outlying villages to whom he traded liquor for furs. Not that he didn’t have some competition, and not just from other saloons in town.

Some of the more enterprising soldiers had begun distilling their own brew. Supposedly it had all started at a Tlingit village called Hoochinoo, where a soldier showed the Indians how to take the simple brew they made from bark and berries, add some molasses and yeast, then distill the mixture. The process had since been slightly refined, but molasses remained the main ingredient, with additions of flour, dried apples or rice, yeast powder, and enough water to make a thin batter. The mixture was allowed to ferment to a highly alcoholic state, then distilled. The end product was referred to as “hoochinoo,” a potent, head-splitting molasses rum that tasted as bad as it smelled.

In the Ranche, hoochinoo sold for ten cents a glass. Ryan had his own still to make the liquor, which he sometimes used to cut his whiskey and stretch the supply, or else he sold it when his whiskey ran out, as occasionally happened in the winter.

“I’ll need you to transport some kegs of molasses out to the still for me,” he told Dimitri.

Dimitri nodded, his gaze directed at someone in the crowd. “My grandfather just saw me. I will have to go speak to him.”

“I’ll see you at the saloon sometime after midnight,” Ryan said.

Again Dimitri nodded affirmatively as he moved away to join his family.

At the conclusion of the speeches, the crowd milled around the former Secretary of State, their voices clamoring for order and justice and illustrating the many problems they faced because there was no jurisdiction in the land. Nadia Blackwood stood off to one side with her family and proudly watched her husband, who was in the center of it all next to Mr. Seward.

“There is no more to be learned here,” her father, Lev Tarakanov, stated. “I think it is time we walked home.”

“He says that because his stomach is hungry,” his Finnish-Creole wife, Aila, teased.

“I need to prepare an evening meal for my husband as well,” Nadia replied dutifully.

“Dimitri and I will escort you safely home if you don’t wish to wait for your husband,” her grandfather volunteered. “I have the feeling he is not eager to leave soon.”

“No. I’m sure he’d like to spend as much time as possible with Mr. Seward.” Nadia knew there was nothing she could contribute to his discussion with the American statesman, and the prospect of waiting here until he was through didn’t appeal to her. The idea of having a meal ready for him when he returned home sounded much better. “Excuse me while I tell him that you are taking me home. I don’t want him to worry about me.”

“We will wait for you,” her grandfather promised.

With difficulty she made her way through the crowd and reached her husband’s side. He was speaking to the politician. This was the first time since the famed Mr. Seward had arrived that Nadia had been this close to him. It seemed to her that his face resembled that of a very wise parrot. She stood quietly next to Gabe, hesitant to interrupt him when he was speaking.

“… are intolerable. Congress has bought and paid for Alaska. It can no longer neglect our needs simply because we sit off here by ourselves. This land is bigger than Texas. You’ve seen its wealth. Congress must be made to understand that they cannot leave us here alone and forgotten.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more …” Seward hesitated over his name.

“Blackwood, Gabriel Blackwood,” he quickly supplied.

“Mr. Blackwood. When I return, I intend to speak to my friends in Congress, but you understand I have very few of them. I am not exactly a popular figure in Washington. But someday Congress will recognize the wisdom of this purchase and applaud my foresight.” He used the cigar in his hand to punctuate his comments, then he noticed Nadia hovering at Gabe’s side. “I believe there is a lovely young woman who’s trying to gain your attention.”

“I don’t wish to interrupt,” Nadia said quickly as Gabe glanced at her in surprise. “I only wanted you to know that grandfather is walking me home.”

“Mr. Seward, may I have the privilege of presenting my very own Russian princess.” He tucked his hand under her elbow and drew her forward. “My wife, Mrs. Nadia Blackwood, the daughter of a very old Russian family here in Sitka. The Honorable Mr. William H. Seward, one of America’s foremost statesmen.”

“This is a privilege, sir.” Nadia gave him her hand and curtsied as he bowed gallantly over it.

“The pleasure is all mine,” Seward insisted, then turned to Gabe. “May I say that you are a lucky man to have so comely a wife.”

“I know.” Gabe smiled at her.

“You will excuse me. I am certain there are many important things the two of you wish to discuss.” She backed away, adding softly to her husband, “I shall be at home.”

“I will be along directly.”

But he wasn’t, and the sumptuous meal she had taken such pains to prepare for him was cold by the time he finally arrived. He didn’t seem to notice. He was filled with the excitement of his meeting with Seward, the long discussions that had taken place, and the support that was voiced.

Seward’s visit in early August raised hopes but not sufficiently to stimulate the town’s declining economy. September came with its depressing rains, and more and more people talked about pulling up and leaving.

As nine-year-old Eva lay awake in her bed, she listened to the voices of her parents in the next room. The dividing wall between the rooms muffled the sound, preventing her from catching every word, but she’d overheard enough similar conversations to enable her to fill in most of the blanks. It was always the same—her father worrying that he’d made the wrong decision by staying in Sitka and her mother doing her best to reassure him that the situation would improve. But she didn’t sound very convincing any more.

Eva couldn’t see how her father could even think about leaving Grandpa here all alone, but her father kept saying that his first consideration should have been what was best for his own family and talking about how he might be able to find work in the gold mines of British Columbia. She wished one of them would ask how she felt. But no one ever paid any attention to what she thought except her grandfather. Eva suspected it would be different if she were pretty like her older sister. Her grandfather insisted she was getting prettier every day, but she looked and looked in the mirror and knew it wasn’t true.

She pulled the blanket up to cover her ears and shut out the low voices in the next room. When that didn’t work, Eva tried to concentrate on other sounds, but the faint patter of the rain on the roof was a poor distraction. From the street came raucous laughter and loud voices. Probably American soldiers from the garrison, Eva guessed. She didn’t like them. They weren’t nice men. They were always drinking and fighting, saying bad things, and making fun of people.

Their noisy voices grew louder until Eva was sure they were right outside her house. Suddenly there was a loud banging on the front door. Eva jumped at the sound, then froze and clutched at the blanket. For an instant there was stillness in the house as the talking in the next room stopped.