The Great Alone (32 page)

“Tasha.” The summons by Madame Shelekhova came from the main room.

Before responding to it, Tasha quickly checked the water in the samovar, but it was not yet hot enough for tea. Then she went to the main room and paused a step inside to wait for Madame Shelekhova to notice her. The tall, dark-haired woman had her back to the doorway and faced her husband, who was seated at the heavy wooden table, an array of papers spread before him and a quill lying beside a silver inkstand.

“I truly believe, Grisha, that by taking these natives back with us to illustrate the progress we’ve made civilizing them and instructing them in the True Faith, we will have a better chance of persuading the Tsaritsa to make an exception in our case and grant us the exclusive right to trade in this new land even though she has abolished all monopolies. All she has previously heard about this land have been reports concerning the wealth of furs—and the oppression and abuse of the natives by irresponsible promyshleniki. The latter has greatly displeased her,” Madame Shelekhova stated. “But with our natives, we can show the scope of all we are trying to achieve.”

“We also have an excellent argument in the English ships sailing in these waters. They are laying claim to islands long ago discovered by the promyshleniki. If they should take over these islands, as they show every intention of taking over the American coast, the whole of Siberia will be exposed.” Shelekhov paused as he finally noticed Tasha standing in the doorway. Quickly he assumed a congenial expression. “Ah, Tasha, there you are. Come in.”

“The tea is not yet ready,” she said, not understanding the significance of their plans or what they hoped to achieve.

“Tea? Yes … well, we’ll have it later then.” He dismissed it as unimportant. “Madame Shelekhova and I wanted to discuss another matter with you.”

“As you know, we are taking a small group of natives to Russia with us.” Madame Shelekhova took up the conversation. “We want them to see the greatness of our towns and villages, and the way we live.”

“I know this.” Tasha had heard them speak of it on previous occasions. It wasn’t unusual for Aleuts to be taken to Russia. Many had gone there over the years and come back with many stories to tell.

“Your son Mikhail is a very bright boy,” Shelekhov said, and Tasha felt a tingle of alarm. “He learns things very quickly. We would like to take him with us so he can be educated in our schools.”

“To Russia? He is too young,” Tasha protested in vague panic. “He is only ten summ— ten years old.”

“That is the age our children go to school and learn things like reading and writing,” Madame Shelekhova explained patiently. “There is a variety of skills he can learn—navigation, clerking, shipbuilding—that will be of great benefit to the settlement when he returns.”

“No. A child cannot be taken to Russia, you said. He belongs to his mother.” That was one of the first rules the Shelekhovs had issued during the establishment of their colony at Kodiak. Never again would a woman have to fear, as Tasha had, that her child would be taken from her by its Russian father. The Shelekhovs had said so.

“He isn’t going there to stay, only to be educated,” Shelekhov replied. “Madame Shelekhova and I will see that he returns.”

“It is only temporary, as Grisha said,” Madame added. “Visiting Russia will be a wonderful experience for Mikhail. Surely you recognize that, Tasha.”

But Tasha could only see that her young son would be leaving her and returning at some unknown time. There was a faint sound behind her. She turned and discovered Mikhail standing just around the corner of the door frame.

“Mikhail. You are supposed to be hunting with Zachar,” she accused.

Guiltily he stepped into the doorway, glancing quickly at the Shelekhovs. But he made no explanation for his presence as he looked at Tasha, an eager light in his eyes. “I want to go.”

“It is so far,” she murmured.

“I want to go there,” Mikhail insisted, then lowered his head as if sorry that he was hurting her.

Tasha straightened and again faced the Shelekhovs. “How long will he be away?”

“Five years.” Madame Shelekhova smiled complacently. “It will take that long for Mikhail to finish his schooling.”

On an afternoon in early summer, Tasha stood on the long sandbar that curled into Three Saints Bay and stared at the galiot sailing toward the open sea. Her gaze clung to the small figure on its deck, her heart heavy.

CHAPTER XIX

Three Saints Bay, Kodiak

Summer 1790

When word spread through the settlement reporting the sighting of a ship approaching the bay, Tasha abandoned the otter skins she was cleaning and hurried to the sandbar’s beach. Zachar’s wife followed her, slowed by the cradle strapped to her back that carried their four-month-old daughter, Larissa. As a crowd gathered around her, Tasha watched anxiously for the ship to heave into view, hoping Mikhail would be on this one.

There had been few changes at the Three Saints settlement since he’d left. No new structures had been built, although a large community of Koniaga Aleuts now lived close to the settlement. The sea winds had weathered the logs of the original buildings, and the Greek Eustrate Delarov had taken command, replacing Samoilov.

At last, Tasha was able to see sails against the horizon of a rare blue sky. Slowly the ship entered the bay and maneuvered into the calm basin that was formed by the long, curving spit of land. The brass cannons on its decks gleamed in the sunlight. As the ship anchored offshore, Tasha anxiously scanned the men moving about on deck, searching for Mikhail, but she did not see him.

Old Ismailov, the official government representative at Three Saints Bay, came striding down to the beach, dressed in full uniform, the buttons straining to hold the material together across his thickening paunch. Imperiously he ordered a boat to be launched so he could be taken out to the ship.

When Tasha recognized Zachar among the men pushing the boat into the water, she hurried over to him. “Go with Ismailov and see if Mikhail is on the ship.” She kept pace with him, talking quickly as she went. “If he is not, ask if they know about him.” Zachar nodded. The bay water lapped at her feet, and Tasha stopped. Ismailov climbed into the boat and moved forward to the bow. There he stood as the men rowed toward the ship, still the arrogant navigator eager to be in the company of his equals despite the years of dissipation that showed on his face.

Although Tasha doubted that Ismailov would soon return to shore, she waited until he was on board, and Zachar with him, in case her son signaled that Mikhail was there. But he made no sign, and, as always, her disappointment was strong. Tasha turned and walked back to the cabin, knowing Zachar would come there when he returned.

Much later, she was scraping fetid flesh from an otter skin when she saw Zachar slowly walking toward the cabin. She straightened to sit back on her heels, unconsciously tightening her grip on the wooden handle of the ulu she used. His head was down, his shoulders drooped, and his steps seemed leaden. Tasha felt the clawing of fear in her throat. Something bad had happened. She dropped the crescent-shaped knife and scrambled to her feet, clasping her hands tightly together as she waited for him to reach her.

“What have you learned about Mikhail?” she asked.

The glance of his blue eyes touched her face, then skipped away. “They knew nothing. They sailed from Okhotsk last year, but they are not from Shelekhov.”

Her forehead twitched with a bewildered frown. “Then what is it? What is wrong?”

When Zachar lifted his head, she saw the deep sadness in his eyes. “They have found them,” he said. “A man on the ship told me that four years ago a navigator named Pribilof discovered the islands of the fur seals.”

Choked with emotion, Tasha turned away and knelt on the ground. She picked up the ulu knife and began scraping at the otter skin again. In her heart, she cried. She cried for her brother’s sake and for a way of life that was lost.

The ship anchored in Three Saints Bay was the
Slava Rossie,
the Glory of Russia. She was on a scientific expedition commanded by Captain Joseph Billings, who had sailed with Cook to these waters and now explored them again in the service of the Tsaritsa. A priest of the Orthodox Church accompanied the expedition, distinctively dressed in a black cassock and a tall conical hat.

Many of the Russian hunters became very excited when they learned of the priest’s presence. Several hurried to the beach to be on hand when the black-frocked man came ashore. As the priest stepped onto the sand, carrying a rich gold cross, they kneeled and made the sign of the cross. The priest offered a prayer for the souls of the promyshleniki and the heathens whose hearts had not yet heard the gospel of Christ.

During the next two days, Zachar seemed unusually quiet to Tasha. More and more he was given to brooding silences. She knew the news of Pribilof’s discovery of the seal islands had been a blow to him. There would never be a return to the old ways—not for him, not for anyone.

Several times she had noticed him standing outside his cabin and staring at the tents that had been erected on the beach by the ship’s company, especially the one where the man of God called the hunters and sailors to prayer. He spent a lot of time watching Katya and their daughter, a troubled expression on his face.

One morning he came striding briskly toward the cabin. He was smiling, and his eyes were bright and clear. He went directly to his wife, Katya, and took hold of her hand. His smile seemed to beam at her.

“I have spoken to the priest,” he said. “He has agreed to properly baptize both our daughter and you … and to marry us.”

“ ‘Marry’?” Katya frowned. “What does this word mean?”

Zachar appeared to search for the right words. “It means we take a Holy Oath before God and you promise that I will be the only man you live with all your life. And I promise that you will be the only woman.… And that we will live together always.” He studied her anxiously. “Do you understand?”

“Yes.” But she seemed uncertain.

Tasha knew little about this Russian thing called marriage, but she understood what her son was doing. Just as she had once realized that survival for her and her small family meant living with the Russians, Zachar had arrived at the same conclusion. He spoke their language, wore their clothes, and lived in their style of dwellings. Now he chose to embrace their beliefs in the Creator they called God.

The following day they went to the priest. Katya and Larissa were officially baptized, then Zachar and Katya were formally married.

As far as Tasha could determine, to the Russians, living together wasn’t the same as being married. Two people could agree to live together, but to do so with God’s blessing gave it more meaning. The Russian way of life was different in many respects. As she watched the
Slava Rossie
sail out of the harbor, she wondered at the changes she’d find in Mikhail when he finally returned.

A year passed and no supply ship came from Shelekhov to bring provisions and replacements for the men who had already served their five-year terms. It had been three years since the last supply ship had come to the Three Saints village. Despite careful rationing, there was no more tea in the warehouse, and only enough rye flour to make breads on Sundays and Holy Days. There was considerable grumbling among the men that Shelekhov had forgotten them.

Back from a morning’s fishing, Zachar gave the catch to his mother to clean and dragged his bidarka beyond the tideline. As he turned it over to let its skin sides dry, he noticed a native baidar under canvas sail approaching the beach. It was unfamiliar to him, and he straightened to study its occupants, his eyes narrowing slightly. Seagulls filled the air, partially blocking his view as they fought over the entrails from the fish his mother was cleaning a short distance away. Their beating wings and screeching cries created a clamorous din.

More than a dozen Russians were in the skin-boat, but none that Zachar recognized, although he did notice that the waterproof kamleikas they were wearing had the markings of the Unalaska Aleuts. As they neared the shore, he could see their haggard faces and straggly beards. All of them were strangers to him, not hunters from outlying camps on the island.

“Who are they?”

Zachar glanced at his mother, now standing beside him, a basket of gutted fish in one arm, and shook his head. Others from the settlement had drifted to the beach. As the baidar entered shallow water, several of its occupants jumped over the side to haul it onto the sand.

“Praise the Holy Mother, we have made it,” one of them said, his voice cracking.

The declaration seemed to loosen everyone’s tongue. They were from the
Trekh Sviatiteli,
the supply ship Shelekhov had sent last year. The galiot had broken up at Unalaska during a gale and much of its cargo had been lost. Two more baidars loaded with the rest of the ship’s company should be arriving soon.

“Help us. We have a sick man here.”

As Zachar helped to lift the unconscious man, delirious with fever, out of the boat, someone warned, “Careful with him. Baranov is the new manager Shelekhov sent … if he lives.”