The Great Alone (38 page)

“Cap’n, we’re bein’ hailed from shore.” The first mate, Hicks, handed him the spyglass. “Three degrees off the starboard bow, there by the mouth of that little river. It looks like a white man.”

Caleb lifted the spyglass and located the figure waving at his ship. The man’s clothes were in rags, but he appeared to be white, not an Indian dressed in white man’s clothes. Probably a deserter from some ship, Caleb guessed, and lowered the glass.

“Lie to and lower a boat, but make certain the men go well armed. It might be a trap.”

“Aye, sir.” Hicks began barking orders to the crew.

The yawl was sent out and returned a short while later with the man aboard. As it came alongside the brig, a seaman shouted up, “It’s one a’ them Rooskies.”

The man was somewhere in his late thirties, early forties, Caleb judged, tall and more leanly built than most of the Russians he’d seen. His hair was dark, but his eyes were blue. His shirt and trousers were nearly in shreds, and his flesh bore scratches, both old and new, that indicated he’d been living in the woods for several days. The ship’s cook, Old Swede, brought him a mug of coffee and a piece of hardtack. The man tore hungrily into the biscuit, making it clear he’d been a while without food.

“He was jabbering something about a woman,” one of the crew ventured.

“Woman,” the Russian repeated and gazed earnestly at Caleb. “Woman, yes.” He pointed to the shore, then made a cradle of his arms and rocked them to indicate a baby.

“It seems we have a woman and a baby hiding out there somewhere, Hicks,” Caleb said. “Send the boat out again and see if the men can’t find them.” Then he turned back to the Russian. “Are you from Redoubt St. Michael?” The Russian frowned his lack of understanding. “What the hell do they call it?” Caleb muttered to himself. “Mikhailovsk?”

“Kolosh,” the man said grimly, then through a series of signs and pantomimes gave Caleb to understand the fort had been attacked by the Tlingits several days ago. The man had been hiding in the woods ever since. He wasn’t sure if anyone else had survived.

The men in the yawl located an Aleut woman and small child hiding in the rocks along the shore and brought them back to the ship. The woman was frightened and half starved. Caleb sent all three to the cookhouse for a meal and ordered Hicks to proceed on their course to the Russian fort.

All that remained at the site was a blackened rubble. Caleb had been given to understand by the survivor that Baranov had left more than a month before to return to his headquarters at Kodiak. A force of roughly thirty Russians had remained at the fort. With them had been twenty of their Aleut squaws. Caleb ordered the
Sea Gypsy
anchored offshore.

“Sail ho!” shouted one of the
Gypsy
’s crew, high in the rigging.

A twenty-gun vessel flying British colors hove into view. Caleb read the name painted on the ship’s bow, the
Unicorn,
and recognized her as a veteran Nor’wester, commanded by the notorious Captain Henry Barber, who had a reputation of being one of the most brutal and dishonest traders on the whole Northwest coast. Many claimed it was his indiscriminate acts, occasionally robbing and sometimes killing the Tlingits who came to his ship to trade, that were responsible for the hostile attitude of the Tlingits.

From his quarterdeck, Caleb could hear the British captain’s profanity as he raged at the sight of the burned-out fort, roundly cursing the “murdering bastards” who had committed the deed.

That afternoon, Caleb gathered a heavily armed landing party and went ashore. The survivor, who had identified himself as Zachar Tarakanov, accompanied him, his tattered clothes replaced by hip-hugging trousers and a voluminous checked shirt from the ship’s store.

A grisly scene awaited them. Along the beach lay the bloated bodies of infants washed ashore by the tide. Beyond, Russian heads, impaled on sticks, sat drying in the sun, dark beards matted with dried blood, mouths gaping, white teeth grinning, eyes staring. Big black scavenging ravens hopped about the naked decapitated bodies that lay rotting on the ground. Efforts to chase the birds away from the decomposing corpses met with little success. The ravens flapped their wide wings in irritation, uttering their harsh calls, then hopped a few yards away to another body. The stench was sickening.

The heavily palisaded fort was nothing but charred ash. All that remained was the half-melted barrel of a cannon. Knowing the greed of the Tlingits, Caleb suspected they had thoroughly looted the storehouses before the flames had devoured the buildings. He ordered the crew to bury the bodies where they lay.

Zachar stared at the ravens, so shiny and black in the sunlight. The raven was a deity of the Kolosh, regarded as the Creator. A hundred times during the eight days he’d spent hiding from the Kolosh, he’d raged at the timing of the attack. Everyone had been off guard, distracted by the prospect of a praznik.

But he had told Raven. Zachar turned away from the carnage, unable to look at his dead comrades. He had betrayed them, as she had betrayed him. Anger vibrated through him, anger and hurt. He walked back to the beach and sat in the boat with his back to the massacre site, his hands clenched into fists.

A third ship arrived at the scene, the
Alert
out of Boston, commanded by Captain John Ebbets. When he learned of the disaster, he called for a meeting with Captain Barber of the
Unicorn
and Caleb from the
Sea Gypsy.

That evening the three captains sat around Ebbets’ table in his quarters on the
Alert
and discussed the situation. As Caleb listened to the vengeful rhetoric being espoused by his English and American counterparts, he wished heartily for a drink. Unfortunately, Ebbets didn’t imbibe the devil’s spirits. A particularly acidic brew of black coffee was the only refreshment provided. Caleb was no more interested in it than he was in the direction this conversation was taking.

“I say we must stand together in this,” Ebbets declared, and waved a hand at Caleb. “Now, according to the Russian you picked up, thirty men were stationed at the fort. Yet your men buried only twenty-three bodies. We know your man survived, but that leaves six men unaccounted for, plus the women.”

“Who were Aleuts and half-breeds,” Caleb said of the latter.

“Nevertheless,” Ebbets continued, “it is entirely possible captives were taken. We cannot allow these savages to believe that we will permit such atrocities. I propose that we take joint action and demand they surrender all survivors to us.”

“And if they refuse, I would delight in blowing those devils straight to bloody hell,” the English captain asserted.

“When the Tlingits come to trade with us, I suggest we take several of them as hostages, preferably the chief or any other important member of the tribe and refuse to release them until the survivors are delivered to us.”

“If they refuse, all we’d have to do is hang a couple of the bastards from the yardarm. We should do it regardless,” Barber stated, warming to the thought.

“You have said very little on this matter, Captain Stone,” Ebbets observed. “What are your thoughts?”

Caleb lowered the hand he’d pressed thoughtfully against his mouth. “I think that it’s none of our business.”

“You can’t seriously mean that.” Ebbets frowned.

“Of all the bloody damned—” Barber sputtered.

“The way I see it, we buried Russians—not English or Americans. That makes it their affair, not mine,” Caleb stated. “Unlike you, I don’t consider myself to be my brother’s keeper.”

“If punitive action is not taken immediately, those blood-thirsty aborigines will turn on us next.” Captain Barber pounded his fist on the table. “I trade in these waters—”

“That is exactly my point,” Caleb interrupted. “I do business with these Sitka Indians, and I don’t intend to jeopardize my trade with them over this. We have no idea what provoked this attack. For all I know, the Russians may have gotten what they deserved.”

“Then, you will not stand with us.” The stern-faced Bostonian captain regarded Caleb coldly.

“No.” Caleb pushed his chair back from the table and stood up. “Do what you will, but count me out of it. The
Sea Gypsy
sails in the morning.”

“What about the survivors you have on board? What are your plans for them?” Ebbets goaded. “Perhaps you intend to turn them over to the heathens so they may finish what they started?”

Aware that the merchant captain was attempting to anger him into agreeing with their plans, Caleb ignored the insulting questions and pulled the brim of his cap lower on his forehead. “With your permission, gentlemen, I shall return to my ship.”

“I am bound for Kodiak when I leave here, Captain Stone,” Barber stated. “I shall be glad to return your survivors to the Russian settlement there.”

Caleb paused briefly. They were excess cargo to him. “I’ll have them transferred to the
Unicorn.
By your leave, gentlemen.” He bowed slightly from the waist in mock politeness, then left the ship to return to his own.

Once on board the
Sea Gypsy,
Caleb ordered the transfer of his passengers, then retired to his cabin for a long-awaited drink. Unbuttoning his jacket with one hand, he poured himself a glass of rum with the other, then sat back in a chair. After the first swallow of rum smoothly burned his throat, he idly watched the sway of the brass lamp overhead. He was convinced the retaliatory action planned by his colleagues was wrong, and more likely to inflame the Tlingits’ passions against them than teach the savages a lesson. He saw no point in becoming involved in something that didn’t directly concern him. The destruction of the fort eliminated the Russians from the area. As far as he was concerned, that meant he would have to compete with one less rival.

A knock sounded on his door. “Come in.” Caleb sat up and reached for the rum bottle to refill his glass. The door opened and the first mate stepped over the raised threshold, then paused inside, holding the door open. “What is it, Hicks?” he demanded impatiently.

“It’s the Russian Tarakanov, sir.” With a backward motion of his head, Hicks indicated that the man waited outside the door. “He wants to see you.”

But the Russian didn’t wait for permission to enter, and instead stepped through the opening into the cabin. Caleb sharply lifted an eyebrow at the intrusion, then asked his mate, “Did you explain to him the English ship was going to take him and the Aleut woman to Kodiak?”

“Aye, sir.” Hicks nodded, his bushy muttonchops brushing the collar of his jacket.

The Russian bowed at Caleb, claiming his attention, then began speaking in his own language, accompanying his words with gestures. He indicated the navy wool jacket and seaman’s trousers he wore, then rubbed his stomach, conveying his gratitude for the clothes and food that Caleb had provided for him, and thrust out his hand.

Caleb stared at it for an instant, then set down the rum bottle and stood up to shake hands with the Russian. He was conscious of the strong grip of the man’s fingers as he studied the Russian’s face, taking note of his perceptive blue eyes and angular features. Except for the scratches on his high cheekbones, there was little evidence of his ordeal.

“Good-bye,
Kapitan.
” Zachar Tarakanov offered the last in heavily accented English.

“Good-bye. And God’s speed to you,” Caleb replied and watched him leave. As Hicks closed the door behind him, Caleb picked up the bottle again and poured more rum in his glass. He’d picked up the Russian and put him on a ship for home. That was the end of his duty, Christian or otherwise.

CHAPTER XXII

The salmon were running, answering the ancient breeding call that summoned them from the ocean depths to the bays, rivers, and creeks of the islands and coasts of the Northwest. Relentlessly they came, a silver horde churning the placid waters of the bay where the
Sea Gypsy
lay at anchor. In some places, their large fins cleaved the surface, while in others, they ran deep, a lightning flash of white underbelly and argent sides, their color not yet turned the distinctive pink shade of spawning.

Bald eagles, scores of them, circled overhead and sat in tree perches along the spawning streams, while massive hump-shouldered brown bears waded the rivers and creeks, batting thirty- and forty-pound fish onto the banks with their huge paws or snatching them from the water with their fanged teeth. From their summer camp at the mouth of a salmon river, the Tlingits set their salmon traps to catch their winter’s supply of food.

Caleb watched two cedar canoes set out from shore toward his ship, slicing through the coursing multitudes of salmon. All was in readiness on deck to begin trading: the hide screens were up, the men armed, the cannon loaded and in position.

Again Caleb followed the routine procedure as the canoes pulled alongside his vessel: only one native was allowed on board; the rules were explained; and the number limited to three at a time. With the acceptance of his conditions, the first party was allowed to board.

The third Indian to climb over the taffrail was a young squaw. As she swung her legs over the rail, his eye was caught by the bright copper bands around her ankles. They clinked together, faintly melodic, when she walked. As his eyes traveled upward, Caleb noticed the rounded curves of her high-breasted figure. Her smooth complexion was no darker than an Italian’s or a Spaniard’s; her hair was long and straight, black and shiny as polished onyx. Silver rings pierced her ears, but no labret mutilated her lips. They were soft and full.