by Janet Dailey
Silently she shook her head.
CHAPTER XII
Bald eagles dotted the sky, their dark wings spread as they rode the island thermals, circling higher and higher. Below, wind stirred the tawny grasses gilding the meadows. The lichen- and moss-covered upper elevations sported the reds, yellows, and oranges of autumn’s colorful palette. Yet the warmth of summer lingered.
Outside the Cossacks’ dugout, the upper half walled with drift logs, a dozen promyshleniki gathered for the ceremony. Andrei took the week-old infant from Tasha’s arms, carefully supporting its head, and awkwardly shifted the bundle into the cradle of his arm. Tasha retucked the ends of the blanket square around the squirming body and ignored the angry cries of protest. Andrei pushed the edges of the blanket away from the baby’s neck and rocked him gently. His chest swelled with pride as he gazed at his newborn son, but he experienced a flash of disturbance when he noticed the raveled ends of the wool blanket. His son deserved the best.
“You should have a christening gown,” he murmured to the infant, then smiled when the wind lifted the corner flap of the blanket and revealed the full head of soft black hair. Andrei was certain no baby had ever been as beautiful as his. He glanced at the somber-faced promyshleniki, then turned to Tasha. “They are waiting for us.”
“I have been thinking—maybe I should be baptized, too.”
His head came up slightly as he inwardly recoiled from the idea. He had never considered himself an overly religious man, and he had never considered his relationship with Tasha to be an adulterous one. After all, she was a half-breed, a heathen. But there was something more sinful about bedding a Christian.
“There is no need,” he told her. “Baptism insures that our son will not have to pay tribute when he is grown. Tribute isn’t collected from women.” Cradling the small infant in one arm, he placed a hand between Tasha’s shoulder blades and guided her toward the waiting group.
This was the first opportunity for the promyshleniki to view their commander’s son. When Andrei reached their party, they crowded around him, anxious for a look at the child. Comment, compliments, and congratulations filled the air for several minutes. Eventually Andrei called for quiet and, in front of his gathering of witnesses, baptized his son.
“The servant of God, Zachar Andreivich, is baptized in the name of the Father, amen, the Son, amen, and the Holy Spirit, amen.” He made the sign of the cross, his hand moving right to left in the tradition of his faith.
With the ceremony concluded, the celebration began. Cups of kvass were handed around and loud toasts were made to Zachar Andreivich. But the shouts and laughter and general revelry were considerably more noise than young Zachar Andreivich was accustomed to hearing. When his whimpers of protest weren’t heeded, he unleashed a full-blown bawl.
“I will take him.” Tasha came to Andrei’s rescue, and he gratefully handed her their squalling son.
She laid the baby against her shoulder, holding his head, and bounced him gently to hush his cries. Andrei watched her walk away from the boisterous group of Russian hunters. In some ways, she was more beautiful than before. If it was possible, she pleased and excited him more than she ever had. Yet lately he’d been having misgivings about his plan to take her to Russia with him.
He looked at her black hair sleeked into a bun native-style, her long sealskin parka trimmed with otter and embroidered trade beads, and her bare feet with soles hardened by calluses. Maids, dressmakers, and cobblers could change her outward appearance. But when he tried to imagine her playing whist at the governor’s home or dining at a merchant’s house, or attending the theater, he couldn’t. His culture was completely alien to her. No matter how beautiful she was or how fashionably dressed, she wouldn’t fit into the social life at Irkutsk.
It troubled him greatly, but so did the thought of leaving her behind. And there was his son. He had a duty and obligation to him. Andrei had waited too long for a child. He couldn’t give him up any more than he could give up Tasha. It was a problem he wrestled with many times during the long nights of autumn and early winter.
Snowflakes swirled in the night air. A thin layer of snow covered the ground and provided clear impressions of the two sets of bare footprints leading away from the village barabaras where the muffled beat of drums originated.
Tasha walked swiftly through the light snowfall, keeping pace with her brother’s long strides. Years of exposure had hardened her feet against the cold. Now she was more conscious of aching pressure in her breasts, full with milk. She hurried through the frigid air.
The communal feast held by the village to give thanks for the bounty of the sea had given her a contentment of spirit. The ceremonial foods and ritual dances had satisfied her need to feel close again to the ways of her people. She was glad Walks Straight had persuaded her to leave little Zachar in Andrei’s care and go to the annual feast with him. She only wished she had taken the baby along so she could have stayed longer, but Andrei had stubbornly refused to allow her to expose their son to the snow and cold even for the short trek between the barabara and their dwelling.
“Little Zachar must be very hungry by now. I should have left sooner, but I didn’t want to miss the masked dancers.” Each word was accompanied by a puffy cloud that the wind whisked away.
“It is wise to thank the Creator for the bounty of His sea or He may withhold it in seasons to come. And it will be good for Zachar to have the hunger of an empty belly for a short time,” her brother insisted.
“Yes, but Andrei Nikolaivich does not like for him to cry. The least little sound Zachar makes, he picks him up. I have never seen a father carry on so about a child.” But she said it proudly.
Andrei spent countless hours with their son. And since the birth of their child, his passion for her seemed to have become greater and his lovemaking more ardent. Everything was going so well. Even the murmurings of war had ceased. At least Walks Straight hadn’t spoken of it again.
As they reached the door to the small hut, partially hollowed out of the side of a hill, Tasha turned to her brother. “Will you come in and see little Zachar? He grows so much.”
But he shook his head and faded into the night, his bird-skin parka quickly blending with whirling snow and blackness. She opened the door and stepped inside the hut, immediately feeling the warmth of the interior. She shut the door quickly to keep in the heat of the lamp and turned, hearing the beginnings of a whimper. Andrei paced the room, jiggling his cranky son against his shoulder. As Tasha moved into the room, she noticed little Zachar sucking on his fist.
“He is hungry,” Andrei said.
“I know.” She pulled off her parka and laid it on the wide cot.
Wet circles of milk stained the front of her shirt. She unfastened the buttons as she sat down on the cot. Andrei brought their hungry son to her and placed him in her lap. His mouth sought her nipple almost before she had him positioned in her arms. He suckled noisily when he found it, his long-lashed blue eyes looking up at her.
Sitting in his chair, Andrei watched them. If they were in Russia, his son would have a wet nurse. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together. He dipped his head slightly to block the sight of Tasha’s hair glistening with droplets of melted snow.
His son was precious to him, more precious than he had dreamed. Andrei wanted things for him—things he could give him, and would give to him—even though it meant he would have to leave Tasha behind. It simply wouldn’t work to take her with him.
“What troubles you, Andrei Nikolaivich?”
He lifted his head but couldn’t quite meet her inquiring gaze. “I was thinking of home.”
She made an understanding sound. “It is almost time for your celebration.”
“Christmas.” He finally guessed what she meant.
“Tell me about your town, Irkutsk, again so it will be familiar to me.”
Andrei hesitated. The opening was there, yet he was reluctant to take it even
though he knew he must. “I have reconsidered. You would not like it, Tasha,” he said finally, then hurried on before she could question him. “Siberia isn’t like the islands. It is gray and drab.” He didn’t mention the copper-domed churches glinting red in the sun. Red was the color of happiness in Russia. “Our homes, our food, our way of life are different than what you know. It would be very strange to you. I see that now. You would have no family there, no friends. It is cold there, Tasha. Very cold.”
“That would not bother me.” Her eyes were wide, her expression revealing her attempt to understand.
“What would you do there, Tasha? There is no grass to weave baskets, no skins to clean, no bird skins to make into parkas, no salmon to catch in the streams, no sea urchins to collect on the reefs—nothing. There would only be rooms—rooms to sit in, sleep in, eat in, cook in. That is all. You would be very unhappy. And I care about you too much to see you unhappy.”
“What about the dances and the building where people tell stories?”
“That takes up only a little time of the day. Soon you would tire of that, too.” Andrei knew he was right. Even if she could learn to accept those things, there was still the problem of his son—and his wife, Natalia. Natalia might have turned a blind eye to Tasha alone, but it would hurt her deeply to have Tasha and Zachar there, the son she had so longed to give him born to another woman. And he could never hide his pride in the child. He knew also that Natalia would gladly raise his son. Tasha alone she could accept; Zachar alone she could accept, but not the two of them together.
“It is different for our son,” he continued quickly. “He can learn the ways of my people. I want him to have an education—to learn to read and write—make marks on the paper—and study wise things. I can do this for him.”
Her arms protectively circled the baby nursing at her breast. “You would take Zachar from me.”
“Only for a short time, Tasha,” he assured her earnestly. “Other Aleut children have gone to Russia to learn our language and our ways and to study our knowledge. They have come back.” He also knew Aleuts had been taken to Russia, claimed as godsons, and later adopted. Zachar would not have to be his bastard child. He could eventually be regarded as his legitimate heir. “Zachar will come back, too. So will I. Tasha, I have to take this cargo of furs to Russia this summer. I am a merchant, a trader. This is what I do—the same as Walks Straight is a hunter. I will return for more furs, and Zachar will be with me.” At least until he reached the age to be in school. “We will be together again as we are now—here on the islands where you are happy. Do you understand?”
Tasha stared at him with her dark, suddenly expressionless eyes for a long time. Then she said, “I understand.”
Andrei straightened in his chair, relieved. He wasn’t certain what he had expected her reaction to be—rage maybe. But her sharp native intelligence had listened to reason.
He smiled. “It is not something we have to worry about now. It will be a long time until summer comes.”
“A long time,” she murmured and stroked the soft black hair on their son’s head.
As the sun neared its winter solstice, the daylight hours shortened. Activity in the camp and the nearby village was at its peak during that time. Few paid any attention to Tasha as she hurried along the muddy path through the snow. The winter landscape was a mixture of stark white snow and black rocks, surrounded by gray clouds and gray-green water. A flock of auklets darkened the sky like a thick trail of smoke heading out to sea. But Tasha’s gaze was focused on her brother. He was crouched beside his bidarka, checking a section of its hide cover. He stood up when he saw her coming.
For two days she had waited for the opportunity to speak to him alone. She wasted no time coming to the point. “I have to leave. Zachar and I have to leave the island,” she quickly corrected herself. “Will you take us from here?”
“Why?” Her brother glanced sharply in the direction of the hut. “Has he harmed you?”
“No. He plans to take my son.” Agitation stirred her, and the pain of betrayal by someone she thought she could trust. “Next summer he wants to take Zachar with him when he goes to his village. I am not to go with them. He says I should stay here and he will come back.” She didn’t believe him. Of all the things he’d said to her the other night, one thing had been clear. “He would steal my child.”
“Cossacks can never be trusted.” Walks Straight glowered at the party of promyshleniki setting out to check their trap lines.
“I must take Zachar and leave the island while Andrei Nikolaivich sleeps. I cannot wait.”
“Where will you go?”
Tasha shook her head, having no answer. “I cannot go home to Attu. He would find us there.”
“My friends in Unalaska would welcome us to their village. He would not know to look for you there. We would be safe.” His face smoothed with decision. “We must leave tonight.”
“I have gathered my things and hidden them. As soon as he sleeps, I will take them from their hiding place and slip away with my son.”
“I will take the Cossacks’ baidar and meet you where the waters run under the shelf rock.” With their plans made, Tasha returned to the hut and her sleeping child to await the coming of night.
* * *
The night was filled with the quiet murmurings of the sea as the baidar sailed through its waters. The swaddled baby in Tasha’s arms made a few protesting noises, but there was no one to hear except her brother. The island of Adak was well behind them. Only Zachar’s cradle remained at the hut. Everything else they owned was in the large skin-boat, including her brother’s bidarka and all his hunting equipment. Walks Straight would build Zachar another cradle when they reached Unalaska.
The undulating waters glistened with a silvery sheen. Overhead, broken clouds revealed the stars in the night sky and the singing lights that dipped and swayed in changing white-green waves.
CHAPTER XIII
On Unalaska Island, final preparations were under way to engage the Cossacks in battle. The villagers were observing the rituals and appealing to the Creator’s protective presence. The strategies were set. It was to be a coordinated effort among the villages on the islands of Four Mountains, Umnak, Unalaska, and the surrounding smaller islands. The enemy strength in the area was estimated at less than two hundred Cossacks, while the Aleuts numbered more than three thousand warriors.
All summer and fall they had pretended friendliness to the Cossacks so they would be encouraged to divide into smaller hunting groups as was their practice when they didn’t feel threatened. The Aleuts had carefully observed the routines of the Cossacks and used their patterns to plot ambushes.
Listening to their final plans, Tasha realized that the formidable Cossacks could be overpowered and killed. The bitterness in her heart made her glad. They should be punished for the wrongs they had done and the suffering they had caused, suffering with which she now empathized.
The village where Tasha and her brother had taken refuge with her son was on an island in the large bay carved into the northern end of Unalaska. It was a small village, composed of twenty hunters living communally in a single barabara. A short distance from the dwelling, a party of eleven Cossacks had built a winter hut from driftwood. They came from a boat anchored in the bay which could be seen from the island when the fog didn’t hide it.
After Zachar finished nursing, Tasha laid him in his new cradle. Walks Straight entered the barabara accompanied by two other hunters. Triumphantly he displayed the knives he’d obtained in trade from the Cossacks, then passed them out to the other hunters.
“Tomorrow the Cossacks will know why we wanted so many knives,” he announced, and the Aleuts smiled and nodded their understanding. Walks Straight strode over to the cubicle where Tasha sat. The eagerness for battle was in his eyes as he squatted beside her. “It begins in the morning. Before the sun comes up, you will take little Zachar and hide in the hills with the others. The old ones have agreed to stay
so the Cossacks will not become suspicious.”
“I will stay, too.” Tasha knew the plan. Every morning half of the Cossacks left the hut to check their foxtraps on the island. One of the villagers would lure them into an ambush. The Cossacks remaining at the hut always came to the barabara. The rest of the hunters would attack them once they were inside. “Little Shell will look after Zachar for me.”
Her offer pleased him. At last they stood on the same side. “You will remain outdoors in the morning. When the attack begins, you will join the other women in the hills.”
“I will.”
After its flame was extinguished, the stone lamp was moved to the far end of the barabara so it would not be upset in the coming fight and its oil spilled. The daylight streaming through the roof hatch left much of the barabara in shadows. Two of the Aleut hunters stood within its spray of light, their clubs and knives hidden in the folds of their parkas. Walks Straight waited in the shadows with the others, positioned close to the notched log down which the Cossacks would soon descend. His nerves were tense, all his senses straining, the blood thumping loudly in the vein along his neck. He tightened his grip on the hunting club.
A short time ago, Looks Like Copper, the sentry posted on the barabara’s roof, had signaled to let them know that one group of Cossacks had left the hut to check their foxtraps. If the pattern stayed true, soon the other Cossacks would be making their regular visit to the barabara.
Suddenly greetings were called in the Cossack tongue. Footsteps approached the opening in the roof. Walks Straight watched as Looks Like Copper came down the notched log first. Very low, the Aleut murmured the warning, “Three come. One carries a hatchet.”
Walks Straight sank deeper into the shadows, turning his body slightly so that it wouldn’t appear his interest was centered on the Cossacks climbing down the ladder one after the other, the log groaning under their weight. The big-nosed one carrying the hatchet came last. As he neared the bottom, the first two Cossacks appeared to sense something was wrong.