In his rooms, Jean sat over the books spread out on the table before him. He ran a finger over a small map, searching for Kootznahoo Inlet. He had checked all the reports of furs bought in San Francisco in the last four months and nothing had come from Kootznahoo. He listed it as a likely call, then added four more names to the list.
This first trip must be fast. The places he visited must be near the accepted route but where he could lie at anchor in concealment, and every stopping place must have more than one opening so that if discovered he could get out fast. The deal for the schooner had been consummated, the rifles, ammunition and trade goods had been loaded. Kohl wasted no time, and the schooner was a tight, shipshape craft, easily handled and loaded. She would carry but one gun, and despite her strength and capacity she was a "light" ship with none of the bulky, overweight gear that characterized so many ships. The sour-faced man who had been in the saloon at the time of the Sullivan fight appeared and was signed on as second mate, and the last two members of the crew were signed. Gant was a broad-built man, and Boyar was tall, stooped in the shoulders, and spoke fluent Russian.
Kohl looked at him without favor. "You a Russky?" "I'm a Pole. But I worked for the Company." Kohl turned to Jean. "Cap'n, you sure you want this man?"
LaBarge turned. "Take off your shirt, Shin." Shin Boyar shucked off his shirt and turned his back for Kohl and Captain Hutchins to see. Scars lay like livid bands across his back, scars like twisted cords of white. Kohl glanced at them, then at Boyar's face.
"I served in the Navy under Zinnovy. That was ten years ago." The tall man pulled on his shirt. "I have a good memory, sir, a very good memory." "We can use you," Kohl said.
"After that I was promyshleniki for the Company, and I smuggled gold out of Siberia to China for a while. I was thrown into prison, but escaped." "No argument," Kohl said. "You'll do."
"After Monday," LaBarge told Kohl, "I want the crew kept aboard. No more than two men ashore at any time, and ready to sail at a moment's notice. When a man goes ashore, you know where he'll be, just which place. No last-minute delays." When all were gone he concealed his invoices under a board behind a bookshelf. Then, finally, he wrote one of his rare letters to Rob Walker. He was, he told Rob, going to Alaska himself. When he came back--
Behind him there was a slight rustle. An envelope had been slipped beneath his door.
He ripped it open. From the feminine handwriting and perfume he knew at once who it must be.
Can you come to see us? It is important.
* Helena
"Us" she wrote. She wanted him to come and see them both, but nonetheless, it was signed Helena.
He got up and walked to the window. Outside the street was empty and still. It was now Friday, and by Monday he wanted to be at sea, sailing north, and the master of his own ship. To Alaska ... to Sitka. They would be leaving soon, and he might even see them there. He remembered how Helena had looked that first day, flustered, mussed, and angry. He grinned at the thought. And then how prim, with her lifted chin, her too precise English.
She was charming, and so lovely, and he was in love with her and it would do him no good at all. She was married, and to a good man, a man of her own kind, her own rank.
He was a fool ...
But on Monday there would be the sea, the wind and spray in his face, and beyond there the places where nobody would mind, and where at night in the lonely hours, watching the seas roll aft, he could remember or forget.
Chapter 12
The tawny slope of the hill lay before them, dull gold in the afternoon sun, and beyond the hill the blue Pacific waters rolled to the horizon. When the two riders reached the trail's end high above the waters, Jean drew rein and relaxed in the saddle.
It was their second ride in two days, and might be their last. When riding Jean wore a tight-fitting Spanish-style jacket of buckskin, fringed in the Indian manner. It molded itself against his wide shoulders and was, Helena decided, most becoming.
"You ride like a vaquero," she said.
He pushed his flat-crowned Spanish sombrero back on his head and hooked a knee around the saddle horn. Filling his pipe, he watched her profile against the sky. "What about the plans for Alaska?"
"It is really the Baron who interests you, isn't it?"
"Of course. But when Count Rotcheff leaves, you will leave."
"We have more reason to fear the Baron than you, Jean. He is our enemy also."
"But you are the niece of the Czar!"
"You know what they say? 'God's in His heaven and the Czar is far away.' " Far out at sea a windjammer was beating in toward the Golden Gate, and they watched it for several minutes without speaking. There was intimacy in the silence, and it was such moments they had come to treasure above all else. There was no need to use words to build a fence about their emotions; during those long silences the barriers were down and something within each of them reached out to the other.
"You see, Jean, any investigation of what happens in Russian America would require a great deal of time. And any investigator they might send from Siberia would be corrupt, and whoever came from St. Petersburg would have to ask questions of the very people who have most to conceal. Paul has power even in St. Petersburg, Jean. Actually, he was sent out here because he was in trouble, but it is temporary only, a mild punishment, a means of keeping him out of the way for the time being. I believe he was sent here for other reasons as well. I believe his friends decided to accomplish two objectives with the one move. Get Paul Zinnovy out of the way of more severe punishment, but also place him where he could be of use to them."
She paused. "You know, in Russia he is considered very dangerous. He has killed several men in duels. And sometimes these duels are not exactly what they seem. Often it is not a case of offended honor but simply that some powerful person wishes to be rid of a man."
"Suppose," Jean suggested tentatively, "the charter is not renewed, nor another granted. What will become of Alaska then?"
"Who knows? It might be sold, but certainly not to England. Perhaps to the United States."
Jean lit his pipe, which had gone out. "I suppose it could be done if the negotiations were handled carefully. But it wouldn't be easy. There are a lot of Americans who think that Alaska's only a wasteland, not worth a penny." The sailing ship was closer now, making slow time of it against the strong current and a wind that helped little. They watched the ship while the afternoon trailed away like distant smoke, fading slowly. Soon it would be dusk. "You've never married, Jean? I wonder why?"
He swung his horse a little. "For a long time I couldn't find a girl I wanted, and when I did find her she was married to another man." "But there must be others, Jean. You're very attractive, you know."
"Oh, I've known girls ... here and there."
"You would lose your freedom, and a man like you should be free, free to fly far and high, like an eagle. A wife would tie you down, she would hold you." "Maybe. It might not even be so bad. I've been alone all my life, never known a real home. If you want to find a man who will love his home, find a man who never had one."
"I should think a man would always long for freedom. It is hard, I'd think, for a man who has known freedom to give it up."
He watched the ship. "Hard? With the right woman most men will settle down easy enough. Oh, sure! They look at the geese flying south, or maybe some night their eyes will open into the darkness as they lie in bed beside their wives, and they'll lie awake in the darkness and remember how native drums sounded, or the surf along a rocky shore, or how the bells ring from the temples ... but they stay where they are."
"Why?"
The ship was taking in sail now, approaching the passage gingerly, for many a fine ship had been wrecked in the Golden Gate.
"Because they've ... accepted their destiny, I suppose. They might think about the great world outside, but they wouldn't trade it for home." "Not you ... I believe you would go."
"I'd be the easiest of all, Helena. I've never k
nown a home, so even the faults would seem virtues to me. As for love, who doesn't want it? To love and be loved in return?"
"I think, Jean, you will find what you want."
"Will I, Helena?"
The sea was darker now. The last of the color was deepening reluctantly into darkness.
"We'd best be going back."
Swinging their horses they put the sea behind them. Jean's gelding tugged at the bit, eager to be running. Helena's mare started and then both horses were running. Over the tawny hillside, still faintly tinged by rose from the sun that had set, a hill that changed as their horses ran to an inverted bowl of burnished copper against which drummed the racing hoofs. Laughing together, they cantered down the long hill and something trailed off behind them like whispered laughter. Abruptly, as they rounded a bend, the city lay below them and a column of smoke lifted from the waterfront. Jean drew up sharply, standing in the stirrups "It's my wheat, Helena," he said. "They're burning my wheat. The warehouse is going and everything in it."
He touched the spurs to his horse. The gelding left the ground in a tremendous leap, and with Helena beside him they raced neck and neck down into the city and through the empty streets. Their hoofbeats echoed from the false-fronted buildings and thundered in the empty channels of the town, stripped of people by the demands of the fire.
Helena rode magnificently. Rounding a corner he caught the glow of reflected flames on her flushed cheeks and parted lips, and then they were running their horses down another chasm between buildings. As they thundered out upon the dock he knew this must have been a planned effort to destroy the wheat. Squads of men with buckets were wetting down the buildings around, and two long bucket brigades were passing water from the bay to the fire. One engine was working its pump near the wharf, another in the street behind the warehouse, yet he saw at once the building was doomed.
Swinging down from the foam-flecked horse, he pushed through the crowd and saw Captain Hutchins shouting to Ben Turk above the crackle of flames. Close by, Larsen and Noble were busy with a bucket brigade. "Anybody in there?"
"No ... thank God!"
The roar of flames all but drowned the reply, and Jean watched his wheat go up in flames, the black smoke shutting out the stars and sending the dark banners of its anger streaking across the bay, shrouding the silent ship in sudden clouds, then whisking away to leave the ship standing, amazed at the sight before it.
There was no wind. Had there been wind the whole of the waterfront would have gone, and nothing could have saved Sydney Town or any part of the city back of dark's Point. Yet no wind blew, and there was only the crackling flames beating their great red palms together above the bay's black water. His first impulse was to find Zinnovy for a showdown, but this would lead to nothing and might close all doors to Russian America. Wheat was the answer. The importation of wheat into Sitka was obviously something Zinnovy wished to prevent, but it was also his own open sesame to the northern fur trade. Staring at the fire, he began to think.
Sutler had grown wheat but had none now. How about Oregon? Many farmers had settled in those fertile valleys and they would need bread. Despite its proximity less news reached California from Oregon than from Hawaii; still there was a chance. The settlers of Oregon were a more substantial lot than most Californians. There would be wheat there, there had to be wheat. Swiftly, he pushed through the crowd, searching for Barney Kohl. When he found him Kohl was standing with the new second mate. "Tomorrow night," Jean said. "You sail tomorrow night."
"Without a cargo?"
"Fitzpatrick has some goods for Portland and has been looking for a vessel for a month. I don't care how you do it, but be loaded and under way by five tomorrow afternoon."
"If you say so," Kohl said. "Damn it, man. I was ready for Alaska. I was all ready."
"You'll go ... but meet me in Portland first."
Oregon ... Jean watched the wall of the warehouse fall in, saw the flames and the smoke puff up, saw the great smoldering ball of his wheat. Sparks showered upward. No need to think of that. What was done was done. He went swiftly to his horse and swung into the saddle. "Helena"--he turned the gelding--"I'm taking you home. Tell Count Rotcheff he'll have his wheat in Sitka as promised. Tell him not to worry."
"But how?"
"Leave that to me." They were walking their horses away from the fire. "I wish I knew I'd see you again. I wish--" "So do I," she said simply. "Oh, Jean! I do, I do!"
At the door of the house on Rincon Hill he helped her from the saddle and watched the boy lead the horse away. For a moment they stood together before the empty eyes of the dark building. He could hear her breathing, smell of the faint perfume she wore and which he would never forget. Together they looked back at the red glow of the dying fire. "It's been a good day," he said at last, "a good, good day."
"Even with that?" she gestured.
"Even with that."
He gathered the reins. If he looked into her eyes he knew he would take her into his arms, so hastily he stepped into the saddle. She took his hand briefly. "What is it they say here, Jean? Vaya con dios?" He felt the quick pressure of her fingers before she released them. "I say it now, Jean. Go with God. Go with God, Jean."
At his rooms he paused only a moment, throwing things into his saddlebags, packing some small bags of gold, filling a money belt. He took his rifle and his spare pistol, then for a long moment he stared at the map. He would not see that map for a long time.
There was a rush of feet on the stairs. Hand on his gun, he swung wide the door.
It was Ben Turk.
"I knew it!" Ben was ready for the trail. "You're riding! I'm comin' along." "I'll travel faster alone. You go to the schooner." He stuffed extra ammunition into the saddlebags.
"Nothing doing. I ride along or I quit. There's nowhere you can go that I can't."
Turk was a good man, a very good man, but ... "All right. We leave our horses at the river landing. We're taking the first boat for Sacramento, and if you can't ride a thousand miles you'd best head for the schooner." Ben Turk stared at him. "Mister LaBarge ... Cap'n, you ... you ain't goin' to ride to Portland?"
"It worries you?"
"There ain't no trail, Cap'n! The Modocs will kill a man as fast as look at him!
That's outlaw country. Why, man--I'm comin' with you!"
"You're inviting yourself. You're a damn fool."
"Why, now." Ben chuckled. "I just figure we're a couple of damn fools."
The riverboat was already moving when they raced their horses onto the dock. Jean swung his horse alongside and tossed his saddlebags. Then, rifle in hand, he sprang for the boat's deck and lit, sprawling. It was a bare four feet of jump, but both horse and boat were moving. Ben Turk hit the bulwark, caught it with his hands and swung himself over to the deck. Together they looked back. The fire was only a sullen red glow now. McCellan yelled at them from the pilothouse. "Law after you, is it? I been expectin' it for years!"
"Shut up!" Jean yelled genially. "Get a move on this crate! I've business in Knight's Landing!"
"Turn in," he yelled. "I'll call you!"
The last thing Jean LaBarge recalled as sleep took possession was the pressure of Helena's hand, the expression on her face. He remembered how she had ridden beside him through the dark streets, how she had waited to be with him after he realized his wheat was destroyed, his hopes ruined. She had waited for him as a man's woman would, only she was another man's woman. He opened his eyes. "Don't forget, Mac. Knight's Landing."
Chapter 13
A rough hand on his shoulder awakened him. Mac's florid face and blond hande-bar mustache bent over him. "Rise an' shine, boy. We're comin' up to the Landing now."
Ben was already on his feet rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Through the murky light the Landing was visible, right ahead.
Jean LaBarge got to his feet and hitched his gun belt into position on his lean hips, then threw the saddlebags over his shoulder and took up his rifle. McClellan peered over his s
houlder at him. "I hope you don't need those guns, boy."
"We'll have to be lucky."
If anyone had ridden the route they were to follow La Barge was unaware of it. There would be settlers here and there and a trail of sorts, but it would be sheer luck if they got through without fighting. Thirty minutes later they rode out of Knight's Landing headed north. The day was bright and clear, the horses eager. A few hours from now they would be less eager, Jean reflected, yet the horses proved gamer than he expected and it was almost midnight when they sighted a fire ahead of them. As was the custom of the country they drew up and hailed before approaching. A shadow moved but for an instant there was silence, then a cautious voice called, "What do you want?"
"Name's LaBarge. We're hunting a couple of fast horses. Can you help us?" Walking their horses into the firelight they waited. There was a wagon here, and a small camp, such a camp and wagon no outlaw would be expected to have. Six head of mules were in sight and some good-looking saddle stock. Two men, both armed and spread wide apart, emerged from the shadows. At the edge of the brush LaBarge could see two women who no doubt believed themselves concealed in shadows.
Sitka Page 9