Sitka (28 page)

Helena had started the wheels moving to bring about the return of Paul Zinnovy.
 
There had been no word from Count Rotcheff but his friends were also active. It was soon obvious, however, that Baron Zinnovy had powerful friends, at least one of them highly placed in the Ministry. Her statement that Baron Zinnovy had attempted to murder her husband met with polite disbelief, even among her intimate acquaintances. Officials were courteous, but whatever might be done seemed to die somewhere in the chains of bureaux and offices that lay between an order and its execution. The powerful influence of the Russian American Company blocked every move she could make.

No delays are more infuriating than the delays of officialdom. She knew that many officials regarded her as a pretty woman interfering in matters that did not concern her. The reports she brought back awaited the Czar’s return; until then there was nothing to be done.

“They know who you are, Jean,” she warned him, “and they will do all they can to prevent you from seeing the Czar. Be careful, for the Baron’s friends are shrewd and powerful. They will stop at nothing.”

Russia, under Czar Alexander II, was restless with impending change. The Czar was studying a plan to abolish corporal punishment in the armed services as well as in civilian life. He knew the time had come to institute social reforms and bring his country to the level of other western nations in that respect, yet it was necessary to move slowly. Many feared loss of prestige even more than income losses, others opposed change as they opposed anything that interfered with the status quo, with every stratagem at their command.
 
The Russian American Company’s stockholders were among the elements he must win over, and they were well aware of the bargaining position they held. They used this position to avoid any change in the situation in Russian America, and indicated that faraway Sitka could wait until much was done at home.
 
Alexander II knew he must proceed with care. He had abolished many of the restrictions on the Jews, and had suggested the restoration of home rule for the Finns, but oddly enough, his greatest opposition came from the Liberals who demanded he do more and do it faster. Nothing would satisfy them but dramatic change and such a change was impossible under the circumstances.
 
Of these facts Jean LaBarge had been only dimly aware when he arrived in Russia, but Helena soon acquainted him with the situation. Then they received their first break.

Helena met him as he entered the palace one afternoon. “Jean! He’s here! The Czar is back and he has permitted an audience!” “When?”

“The night after tomorrow. It will be very late, and he will see us at the Peterhof, in a private audience.” It was, he knew, a rare privilige, and without the help of Helena it could never have been managed. Now they could do something for Rotcheff and there was a chance he might have time to talk of Alaska itself.

A half mile away a slim, erect man with iron-gray hair and cold eyes shielded by square-cut glasses sat behind a desk. He was tall; even seated he seemed tall.
 
His desk was bare of all but one sheet of paper and from time to time he glanced at it. There was a knock at the door.

“Come in!”

A young man in a naval officer’s uniform stepped into the room and closed the door carefully behind him, walked to a position before the desk, clicked his heels and saluted.

“Lieutenant Kovalski”—the man behind the desk studied the officer as he spoke—“I am informed that you have killed three men in duels with a pistol, two with the saber.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Lieutenant, there is a man in this city who is very dangerous to Russia. He interferes in Russian affairs and he endangers the position of a naval officer who is very important to Russia. The man I refer to has arranged to have a private audience with the Czar. It is not wise that such an audience take place, yet the Czar has given his word. You understand?” Lieutenant Kovalski understood perfectly, just as he had understood when a superior officer had suggested his coming to this address. There were enemies of the state who must be destroyed and it was often inconvenient to bring them to trial. He was also aware that the man before him controlled many avenues to power and prestige, and that a word from him...
 
“The man to whom I refer is called Jean LaBarge. He is an American and at present resides at the Rotcheff palace.”

Kovalski’s eyes flickered. He knew the man in question by sight. A tall, dark men with a scar ... there was something about him ... for the first time he felt uneasy at the prospect of a duel, yet it was foolish to be disturbed. He was one of the finest pistol shots in all Russia. Before coming here he had been informed that he would be transferred to the Army and given the temporary rank of Colonel, and that might be only the beginning.
 
“It must be done at once, you understand? The audience is for the night after tomorrow.”

“Thank you, sir. Is that all?”

“Only this.” The man behind the desk took a long envelope from a drawer and handed it to Kovalski. “Examine this in private when you are gone from here.” The man removed his glasses and placed them on the sheet of paper, taking the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger for an instant.
 
“One thing, Lieutenant. You must not fail. Do you understand?” “Of course.” Kovalski snapped to attention, did an about-face and walked from the room. When he reached the street he paused briefly opposite a lighted window and drew the papers from the envelope. The first was a deed for a small estate in Poland, a place he knew well. He glanced at the date and saw it was for several days in advance, and below was a note to the effect that to be valid the deed must be presented at the estate by Colonel Kovalski, in person.
 
He smiled wryly. “And if I’m dead ... ?” The answer was obvious.
 
He shrugged. No matter. He would not be dead. It would not be the first time he killed a man on instructions.

The place chosen for the duel was near a small castle outside of St. Petersburg.
 
Jean stepped down from the carriage and strolled casually across the grass under the trees into the small open park that lay beyond. Beside him was Count Felix Novikoff, who had consented to act as his second.
 
The challenge had been an obviously arranged affair. In company with Novikoff, who was a friend of Helena and the Rotcheff family, he had gone to a fashionable café. Several Russians in uniform had entered, and in passing, one of them deliberately bumped him. Then, turning, the officer looked LaBarge right in the eye and said, “Swine!”

Novikoff started to speak, but LaBarge was smiling. “Swine?” he questioned. “How do you do, Mr. Swine? My name is LaBarge.”

For an instant the Russian stood very still, blood rushing to his face. Then someone laughed and the Russian’s face stiffened with anger. He raised his hand to slap LaBarge, but Jean was in no mood to be slapped, so he struck first and hard, knocking Kovalski to the floor, half stunned.
 
There was silence in the café. The officers who had entered with Kovalski were shocked. Novikoff caught Jean’s sleeve. “Come!” he whispered. “We must go ...
 
now!”

He had recognized Kovalski at once, knew the man’s reputation, and what the sequel must be. Novikoff realized the quarrel had been deliberately provoked and was intended to result in a legal assassination.
 
Jean turned to go when Kovalski staggered to his feet. “Wait!” he shouted hoarsely. “Wait, damn you!”

LaBarge turned to face him. Kovalski drew himself up. He was wearing the uniform of a colonel in the Russian Army. “My seconds—“ “Send them. Send them, Colonel, and I’ll tell them what I tell you now. If you challenge me the choice of weapons is mine, and I choose revolvers, at thirty paces. We walk toward each other at the command and cease firing only when one or both of us is unable to continue.”

Kovalski opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. This was all wrong. LaBarge, he had been informed, was an American, businessman, not accustomed to duels. He ... with a shock the terms of the duel came home to him. They were to walk toward each other, firing! He had never fired a pistol while walking in his life.

“Will you act as my second, Felix?” LaBarge asked.

“Gladly, Jean! Gladly!”

Appalled by Kovalski’s challenge, Novikoff had seen the shock of LaBarge’s terms, and realized at once that Kovalski was disturbed. It had, perhaps, been LaBarge’s sudden acceptance, his immediate dictation of terms, and his coolness.
 
Also, it had been as obvious to Kovalski as to Novikoff that if the two men went toward each other shooting, one of them was sure to die. Many a man who is a fine marksman in firing at a fixed target is helpless in firing at a moving target while moving himself. And to know at each step that his own danger would be greater ... Many a duelist who is master of his weapon can act with complete composure as long as he is sure he is master, but at close quarters even a novice would have a chance.

Later, leaving the café, Novikoff, who was twenty-five, watched LaBarge with unstinted admiration. “Have you used a pistol? In a duel, I mean?” “In western America every boy begins to carry a pistol as soon as he becomes a man, usually at fifteen or sixteen. I’ve had duels, but on the spur of the moment, without warning, and always with men used to the pistol.” Count Felix Nbvikoff was excited. From Shin Boyar he learned more about Jean LaBarge, learned about his life in the west as Boyar had heard it, and about the fur poaching in Alaskan waters. LaBarge overheard Novikoff repeating the stories to friends, and did not mind. He knew that before long the stories would reach Kovalski.

When they had walked through the trees to the open park in the middle, Jean paused a moment, his eyes glancing over the area across which they must walk. He did not wish to step into an unexpected hole or trip over some unforeseen obstacle. The grass was smooth and well trimmed. He figured that if Kovalski was accustomed to firing from a stance he would without doubt attempt to score with his first shot from the original position.

Kovalski was jumpy and irritable. LaBarge looked to him almost like a professional duelist, although the terms he had proposed were ones no professional in his right mind would suggest. For the first time since he could remember, Kovalski had not slept well.

The distance was paced off and the two men took their positions, some thirty yards apart.

Colonel Balacheff stood at attention midway between the two and well out of the line of fire. “Does either gentleman wish to extend an apology?” “No.” LaBarge’s voice was calm. “I do not.”

He stood very still, waiting. His stomach felt hollow, his mouth dry. This was the worst part, this waiting. But he knew exactly what he was going to do.
 
“No.” Kovalski’s voice was steady.

“I will count.” Balacheff spoke clearly. “I will count to three. At the count of three you will commence firing and will move toward each other firing at will.
 
You will not cease to fire until one of you is unable to continue. Am I understood?”

Both men nodded.

The sun was not yet above the trees; there was still dew on the grass. Somewhere a bird rustled in the leaves and off across the fields a raven cawed hoarsely into the still, clear morning.

“One!”

Jean felt a trickle of sweat start down the back of his neck. Kovalski stood sidewise to him, his pistol raised in the orthodox position. He would shoot as the pistol came level, and Jean would be stepping out with that shot. If he led off with his right foot and Kovalski fired, his step would carry him a bit out of line with the bullet ... he hoped.

“Two!”

The raven called suddenly, and Jean saw Kovalski twitch, almost as if he had started to fire, then caught himself. Jean could feel the sweat on his brow; he hoped it would not trickle into his eyes. A muscle in his leg started to jerk.
 
“Three!”

Jean LaBarge stepped off with his right foot and felt the whip of the bullet.

Kovalski could shoot, but he had missed.

Holding his own gun slightly above belt height, Jean walked swiftly toward the Russian. The morning was very still and he could feel the grass against his shoes. A bead of sweat was trickling down his cheek and the stillness of the morning was slashed by a second shot. Only a split second had passed, yet he was moving. He felt the second shot go by him, then realized it must have been the third shot because he had already heard the report of the second.
 
He was walking fast but he was counting his steps and when he had taken seven steps he was going to fire. He felt the shock of the bullet as it struck him and the air lash of two more as they missed, and then his foot came down on the seventh step and he fired.

He fired his shot from hip level, the gun thrust out with his elbow close to the hip to steady it, the trigger squeezed off gently. He felt the gun leap in his fist and thumbed back the hammer for the second shot.
 
Kovalski wavered, then buckled at the knees and began to fall. As he fell the pistol dropped from his hand and when his body hit the turf his feet rebounded, fell hard, and he was dead.

LaBarge looked at the man who had been sent to kill him. He lowered the hammer on his pistol and from habit thrust it into his waistband. Novikoff rushed to him, hand outstretched. “Wonderful! Wonderful!” Novikoff was excited. “I never saw anything like itl He kept firing, and you—!” Balacheff had picked up Kovalski’s pistol. He glanced at the cylinder. “Empty!” He looked at LaBarge with unbelieving eyes. “Sir, let me congratulate you! I have never seen a braver thing! Never, sir!”