The Great Alone (36 page)

“I must make it clear how strongly I protest. Weapons are not to be traded to the natives. Truly you must see it is for the safety of all who come to our coasts.”

“May I make a suggestion, Mr. Baranov?” Caleb inquired smoothly, and received an assenting nod from the bewigged Russian before Richard had relayed his question. “Since you are claiming all of the Northwest coast as Russian territory, that means the natives are under your jurisdiction. Why don’t you simply forbid them to trade with us for guns?”

There was the faintest glimmer of admiration in Baranov’s eye when Richard finished his translation of Caleb’s rejoinder. Both of them were fully aware that the rule couldn’t be enforced, either against the American and English merchant ships or against the Tlingits. But Baranov remained adamant in his protest against the sale of firearms and liquor to the native population.

Privately, Caleb admired the tactics of the peculiar-looking Russian, first establishing a friendly intercourse, then registering his protest. As Caleb had understood from the reports he’d received from other merchant captains, the Russians traded very little with the Tlingits, refusing to offer the one commodity most demanded by the natives, and relied heavily on the Aleut hunters they had enslaved to hunt the sea otter in these waters. Baranov had confirmed that the Russians wouldn’t compete in the sale of muskets, which meant the field remained wide open. And Baranov had neither the naval power nor the manpower to stop him. There were fortunes to be made in this fur trade and Caleb intended to have one of them. With his sizable share, as the ship’s master and supercargo, of this voyage’s profits, he planned to buy his own ship. On his next voyage, he’d make even more.

As Caleb reached for the brandy bottle, Dawson sprang quickly to snatch it up and refill both glasses, darting a snooty look at the Bengalese servant. Now that Baranov had stated his position regarding the guns, he let the matter drop and displayed the interest of a man long isolated from the outside world for news of it.

Caleb relaxed and told Baranov what he knew about the Napoleonic wars in Europe that had reduced the number of English ships engaged in the Northwest and China trade this year. Baranov wanted to know about King Kamehameha I of the Hawaiian Islands and about the small Spanish presidio of San Francisco, two thousand miles away, the closest settlement to the Russian redoubt. Caleb couldn’t tell him much about the latter, since the Spanish continued to keep their California port closed to foreign vessels, but he talked about the Hawaiian monarch. And, yes, the last he’d heard, Tsar Paul was still in power, succeeding his mother, Catherine the Great, to the Russian throne.

The two men talked and drank, trading tales and information. The stories Caleb had heard about the amount of liquor Baranov could hold were all true. When the puckish little Russian finally left for shore, his black wig was askew, but he was walking more or less unaided by his servant. Dawson, on the other hand, had to haul Caleb to his bunk.

At the edge of the forest, Raven paused, still hidden in its dark shadows. She could see Zachar standing by the stockade gate waiting for her. She counted the number of sentries in the blockhouses. Always the same. The laughter of the Russian chief called Nanuk boomed from the Boston ship. She was certain there were muskets and powder, maybe even some of the new guns with cartridges on board the ship.

Other clans along the coast were angry with her Sitka
kwan
for letting the Russians build their village on the island in exchange for some beads, brass, and bottles. They urged her Sitka kwan to drive them out. Already her clan had acquired many guns, but they needed more. And the Russians always were on guard, even though her people had pretended to live in peace. Raven suspected this Nanuk was very clever.

Someone shouted to Zachar. Many of the words escaped her understanding, but she recognized the chiding tone and guessed he was being teased. She stepped out of the forest thicket and approached the gate, moving with deliberate slowness, conscious of his eyes watching her. She knew it would make him impatient for her. As she drew near enough to see his face in the spring twilight, she saw the hungering ache in his look that spoke of his great need for her. She was pleased by the power she had over him. Remembering how much he’d been willing to pay for her made her smile.

The high log walls that surrounded the Russian village cast a long shadow. Raven walked to the square of twilight that shone through the gate’s opening and stopped when she was fully in its light, allowing Zachar to stare at her.

“I come as Zachar wanted,” she said at last.

The night air was cool and damp, but she could see the beads of sweat glistening on his upper lip below the thin black mustache. As he took her arm, Raven felt the faint tremor that shook his hand. Briskly, he guided her inside the walls directly to the tall barracks. All the while she was looking about to note the activity in the village.

Inside the barracks, he led her past the rooms occupied by Russians who had brought their squat, fish-eating Aleut wives with them. Zachar entered the small room that belonged to him and pulled her inside. He drew her into his arms and pressed his hot, damp lips on her mouth.

Raven brought her hands up and firmly pushed him back. “My looking glass and beads.”

He looked at her half angrily, then moved away, walking to a corner of the room. When he came back to her, he carried the smooth glass that showed her reflection and two necklaces of blue beads. Raven took them from his hands, examined them briefly, then laid them on the floor by the wall. She untied her apron and laid it atop her new possessions, then removed her buckskin dress and turned to face Zachar, the copper bracelets jangling around her bare ankles.

“Now Raven will make Zachar happy,” she murmured huskily and walked very close to him as she moved to the cot.

A steady light rain fell from low gray clouds, pattering softly on the quarterdeck around Caleb. He stood hunched in his sou’wester, his head throbbing. He peered upward, without tilting his head, to check that the sails were loosed, then looked away from the sailor coming down the rigging with the sureness of a cat. This was one morning when he didn’t miss the physical demands of a deckhand’s job or the camaraderie of shipmates.

“Sails loosed, Cap’n.” Asa Hicks’s deep, rumbling voice seemed to vibrate right through him.

Caleb scowled. “Man the windlass.”

“Man the windlass!” Hicks boomed the order, and Caleb was barely able to suppress a shudder of pain. He swore that his first mate knew he had a hangover and was deliberately aggravating his condition. Hell, he’d done the same when he was mate—and delighted in the doing of it, too.

Water trickled down his neck. Caleb pulled the neckline of his sou’wester more tightly together and hunched his shoulders higher, trying to shield his ears.

“Yo heave ho!” Hicks bawled to men manning the windlass, preparing to haul up the anchor. “Heave and pawl!”

At sea it was claimed a song was as good as ten men. Caleb flinched at the loud and hearty rendition of “Cheerily, Men!” the crew sang as they put their backs into the handspike to turn the windlass. The clatter of the anchor chain added to the racket.

Roughly twenty minutes later, after catting the anchor, making sail, and bracing yards, the
Sea Gypsy
was under way. Caleb looked back at the Russian fort of St. Michael, half shrouded by the low-hanging clouds and the gray drizzle. The Russians could have this miserable country, for all he cared. He was only interested in its furs.

The wind was light and fair. The brig glided down the channel, carrying royals and skysails at the fore and main as well as her studding sails. Caleb watched the dark shore, the towering firs and cedars and the impenetrable undergrowth that grew almost to the water’s edge.

Ahead lay the open waters of the sound, and off the port bow stood the bluff that commanded a view of the whole area. The long row of totemic-fronted houses marked the site of a village, the vividly colored columns darkened by the rain. The wood smoke rising from their massive houses was spread through the drizzle as a haze.

Hangover or no, it was time to start trading. Caleb ordered the light sails clewed up and the main topsail backed. The
Sea Gypsy
came to anchor well off the village’s shore, with slip ropes attached to her cables, ready to slip anchor and make for the sea at a moment’s warning of trouble.

The crew scrambled about to make the brig both a trade vessel and a bastion of defense, double-checking the lines that secured the bullhide shields in place and closing off the forward part of the ship with a screen of sails. The cannons were moved into position forward on the deck, and their muzzles trained to rake the afterdeck. A pair of blunderbusses on swivels sat on the taffrail. Trade goods were spread on the quarterdeck in a display of wares.

There was a stir of activity along the shore. “Look brightly, lads!” Hicks warned the crew.

“Two men aloft,” Caleb told his mate. All orders to the crew were relayed through him.

“Aye, sir,” Hicks said and sent two armed sailors up the mainmast.

Three canoes of Indians approached the brig. Caleb noticed there were two Tlingit women with the warriors. In his experience he’d discovered whenever a native woman was present during the trading, no sale was final unless she gave her approval. Invariably they drove hard bargains.

When the canoes were alongside the brig, Caleb requested that only one of the warriors come on board so he could explain the rules before the trading began. A tall, muscular warrior climbed onto the ship, his face plucked free of whiskers and painted black. A brown woolen blanket was draped across his shoulders in a manner that kept his arms free. He faced Caleb with the arrogant disdain of one dealing with an inferior.

Caleb drew the Tlingit’s attention to the ship’s armament, its blunderbusses and cannons loaded with grapeshot cartridges, and the two armed sailors in their lofty perch with a clear view of the quarterdeck, then indicated that there were many more men behind the canvas screen. Finally, he told the warrior that only three of his people would be allowed on board at one time and warned that if any of those three ventured further than ten steps from the rail, they would be shot, and such an act wasn’t to be regarded as breaking the peace.

The warrior nodded his understanding and went back to his canoe to inform the others of the Boston man’s rules. Shortly afterwards, the warrior returned, accompanied by another warrior and a squaw. The Tlingit woman was older, although her grease-rubbed hair showed no grey. The warriors treated her with deference, but Caleb had to stifle the repugnance he felt at the sight of her jutting lower lip. A spoon-shaped wooden disc, roughly the size of a snuffbox, was inserted in the slitted skin and extended her lip. The weight of it pulled her lip down, exposing her teeth and gums. In Caleb’s opinion, “Spoonbill”—as he privately dubbed her—was a revolting sight that did little to ease his hangover.

The warriors presented their fur pelts for his inspection, an assortment of full otter skins and pieces cut from a pelt. Caleb examined them, gauging their worth, while the Tlingits looked over his merchandise. Finally the bargaining began.

Trading with the Tlingits was a long and sometimes futile process, Caleb had found. They argued endlessly over the price for their furs, working on a trader’s patience and shrewdly using the presence of other trading vessels in the area to drive up the price. If they weren’t offered what they wanted for their furs, they simply gathered up the pelts and left, no matter how many hours had been wasted haggling.

But Caleb had also learned that the Tlingits were a highly materialistic society. A man’s status in his village was determined by the number of his possessions. Like the white man’s world, there were the rich and the poor, with some in the middle. Therefore, as a trader, Caleb could count on their avarice.

As the negotiations continued, he felt definite progress was being made. Then “Spoonbill,” the squaw, said something to the two warriors. Silence descended. Caleb didn’t like it.

“Boston man pay one gun and four pounds of powder for one otter skin.” The black-faced warrior repeated Caleb’s last offer, then motioned toward something behind Caleb. “Big gun is how many guns?”

Frowning, Caleb glanced over his shoulder and realized the “big gun” referred to a cannon. Why on earth would these devils want a cannon? he wondered. Then he carefully avoided coming up with an answer. Slowly he turned back and shrugged his shoulders. “Many guns. Many more than you have furs,” he said.

The black-faced warrior stiffened indignantly. “How many?”

Caleb paused deliberately. “Forty otter skins. Full skins, no pieces, and the fur must be thick and soft.” If otter pelts had held their price in Canton, China, that meant better than three thousand dollars for one small cannon. Definitely a bargain.

“Boston man wait. We come back with furs,” the Tlingit announced.

The trading party left the ship and returned to the village in their canoes. Caleb blew on his hands to warm them and turned to his first mate. “Tell the cook to pour some coffee.”

“Aye, sir.”

Hicks came back a few minutes later, carrying a steaming mug. “You really gonna let those sons a’ Satan have one of our cannons, Cap’n?”

“Aye.” Caleb clasped both hands around the hot cup. Cannon or musket, he didn’t see the distinction. It was no more his concern what the Tlingits did with the cannon than it was what they did with the muskets. Anyway, he doubted that the Indians knew how to load it or fire it, let alone aim it at something.