The Great Alone

by Janet Dailey

  “Retreat!” Baranov shouted.

  Zachar joined the mad scramble down the brush-covered slope, pulling the rolling, rattling cannon behind him. He saw Baranov fall and grabbed him by the arm, dragging him along. The air was filled with flying lead as the guns on the ships provided a fusillade of cover fire, and ultimately forced the Kolosh to turn back.

  Safely aboard the ships again, the cost of the abortive charge was tallied; the total came to ten dead and twenty-six wounded. Baranov was among the latter, suffering an arm wound. Conceding failure, he turned command over to Captain Lisianski. The next day, the frigate Neva was towed alongside the smaller ships, and a relentless bombardment of the enemy stronghold began. All morning and afternoon, the forest and the bay reverberated with the unceasing roar of the cannons.

  Twice the Kolosh waved a white flag from the ramparts. The first time a messenger from the stronghold promised to furnish Nanuk with hostages if he would allow them to remain on Sitka Island. Baranov refused, insisting the Kolosh must leave. On the second occasion, the messenger promised the Kolosh would leave the following day at high tide, and the siege was lifted.

  High tide came and went the next day and nothing happened. Lisianski ordered a log raft constructed and mounted several of his heavy cannons on it. At a closer range, the guns began pounding the enemy fort again, at last inflicting damage on the log breastwork. An old man appeared on the beach at twilight waving a white flag. This time he promised the Kolosh would leave. The battery ceased firing.

  Unable to sleep that night, Zachar walked the deck of the Ekatrina, his gaze continually drawn to the dark mass of the stronghold. When he’d been at Kodiak, distance had made it easier for him, but now to be so close to Raven and not see her was painful. He wanted to believe that she had cared for him, that he hadn’t been wrong to trust her.

  From the Kolosh fortress came a wailing chant. Zachar paused to listen to the mournful song. The heavy beat of a drum echoed the dirgelike rhythm of the song. Other voices joined in, lifting to a crescendo, then falling away to a near silence, only to have the pattern repeat itself. Zachar couldn’t understand the words, but the grief the voices contained needed no translation. The sound chilled his skin.

  All through the night, the eerie chant continued without letup. An hour before dawn, it finally stopped. The unearthly silence that followed was almost worse. Zachar waited for the sun to come up, but the pink dawn revealed only winged scavengers soaring in slow circles above the stronghold.

  There was no response when they hailed the fort. Zachar volunteered to go ashore with the armed party being sent to investigate. When they landed on the beach, everything seemed deathly still. They approached the stronghold cautiously, circling around through the forest. The gates stood open. There was no sound, no movement inside.

  With his musket at the ready and his finger close to the trigger, Zachar entered the stronghold with the others. Warily they fanned out, but the place appeared deserted except for the flock of carrion birds that hovered about a pile in the center of the compound. Zachar approached the strange-looking mound. As he neared it, he saw it was a pile of dead bodies, and he quickened his steps, breaking into a run for the last yards.

  Death’s rigor had already claimed many of the bodies as Zachar searched through them, frantically looking for Raven, terrified he would find her among the dead. But there was only one female adult among the heap of corpses, an old, almost toothless woman. The majority were warriors, showing battle wounds. The rest of the bodies belonged to young infants or the very old. Zachar sank to his knees with relief, certain that Raven was alive—somewhere.

  CHAPTER XXIV

  Sitka

  August 1805

  On the site of the former Kolosh village , the Russian settlement called Novo Arkhangelsk, New Archangel, now stood. A bastion, mounted with twenty cannons, crowned the broad knoll and commanded the harbor below. A set of steps led down to the main settlement where once the Kolosh log dwellings and totemic gravehouses had lined the shore. Now there were eight buildings—a bunkhouse, commissary, a storehouse, a few cabins, and a barn for the livestock, which consisted of black and white spotted cows, some pigs from the batch King Kamehameha had sent the previous winter, and two goats from a Boston ship. A stockade protected the landward side of the settlement and enclosed more than a dozen vegetable patches within its walls.

  The Navy frigate Neva was once again moored in the harbor after wintering at Kodiak. Alongside her was the brig Maria, on which the high chamberlain, Nikolai Rezanov, had recently arrived, the ship guided to its safe anchorage in the bay by Mikhail, now stationed at New Archangel and assigned the inglorious duty of harbor pilot.

  As Mikhail emerged from the small cabin atop the knoll, he spied Zachar standing guard at the bastion wall. He slogged across the rain-soaked ground to the cannon embrasure where his brother stood gazing seaward. Zachar turned at the sound of Mikhail’s footsteps, then glanced at the letter in his hand.

  “The Maria brought mail from Kodiak. A letter from your daughter, Larissa.”

  Zachar stared at the folded sheet of parchment, but made no attempt to take it from his brother’s hand. Unlike Mikhail and his daughter, he could neither read nor write. “What does she say? How is our mother?”

  “She is in good health.” Mikhail read aloud the short letter from Larissa in which she told about the continued instruction she was receiving from Father Herman and the help she gave Tasha in her work at the household of Ivan Banner and his Russian wife, the man Baranov had placed in charge of the Kodiak settlement. The last paragraph of the letter dealt with the high chamberlain’s visit to Kodiak, and the empty building he filled with hundreds of books, large maps, beautiful models of ships, and strange instruments. “ ‘I hope that you and Uncle Mikhail are both well and that soon we may be together again.’ It’s signed ‘Your faithful daughter, Larissa.’ ”

  Mikhail offered no comment on the latter wish that she’d expressed. In the foreseeable future, it was unlikely that the company would be sending either Zachar or himself back to Kodiak, and as yet it was unsafe for his mother and niece to be brought here to New Archangel, surrounded as it was by hostile Kolosh with the threat of attack ever present.

  When he had returned to Russian America as a trained navigator, Mikhail had thought his trade would enable him to visit many distant shores. Instead, he’d been made a harbor pilot and rarely ventured beyond the waters of this bay. It was a continual source of frustration to him, especially when there were letters to remind him of his static life. He handed the letter to Zachar and watched as his brother folded it and slipped it into his pocket, then glanced toward the crude cabin.

  “I heard that Baranov gave his excellency his resignation.” Zachar repeated the current rumor.

  “I don’t think the high chamberlain has accepted it yet.” Mikhail smiled faintly. “The large collection of books and pictures that Larissa mentioned in her letter—the ones Rezanov left at Kodiak—supposedly, Baranov told him that he wished his excellency had brought something to fill our bellies instead of our minds.”

  Zachar chuckled, although the shortage of supplies was hardly laughable. The camp dogs started barking near the base of the knoll, then ran in a pack toward the beach. Turning his head, Zachar saw a half dozen Kolosh canoes wending their way through the garland of islands toward the settlement. Both men and women were in the boats. The wind blew snatches of the song they sang.

  Short of the beach, they halted their canoes. One of the warriors—Zachar suspected the man was a chief—stood up and began to speak. Zachar was able to understand most of what he said.

  “We were your enemies,” he called. “We injured you. You were our enemies. You injured us. We want to be good friends. We want to forget the past. We do not seek to injure you again. Do us no more harm also. Be our good friends.”

  The same message was repeated over and over again through different phrases. Already several chiefs from various clans had come to
make peace with Baranov and resume a friendly trade relationship.

  “I’ll tell Baranov he has visitors,” Mikhail volunteered.

  Zachar waited outside the cabin while Mikhail summoned their leader. Baranov came out, his black wig fastened to his head with a scarf. The hard life, his advancing years, and the wet climate were all beginning to take their toll on him. His fingers were gnarled and stiff with arthritis, and he limped from the same problem, walking with the aid of a cane. Yet his eyes remained bright and his mind quick, belying his nearly sixty years of age.

  Together Zachar and Mikhail escorted him down the stairs to the tent that had been erected on the beach for the purpose of entertaining the Kolosh peacemakers. When they reached it, the native interpreters had already ushered the Kolosh into the tent to await their audience with Nanuk. Zachar walked in ahead of Baranov.

  His eye was caught by a Kolosh woman dressed in a brightly striped robe. Something inside him seemed to freeze as he stared at her face. It was Raven. Disbelief held him motionless until he felt the prod of Baranov’s cane urging him out of the way. As he stepped to the side, he noticed the young boy standing next to her. He looked to be about three years old. And his eyes—his eyes were a light shade of blue! Zachar stared at the child, who was definitely not a full-blooded Kolosh. The boy was the right age to be his son. Was he? His glance darted back to Raven.

  If anything, she looked more beautiful to him. Her eyes were as dark as he remembered them, and they still glowed with an inner fire. She studied him in that intent, close-watching way she had always had. Zachar felt the familiar rush of intense pleasure he’d always experienced when in her presence. Any doubts he’d had about her no longer seemed important. She was here and he still wanted her. Nothing else mattered.

  He smiled at her and watched her eyes darken and her lips curve faintly in response. The years seemed to fall away from him. Unconsciously he stood taller, threw his shoulders back, and pushed his chest out. Inside he was all eager and excited, filled with an intensely sweet happiness he’d never expected to know again.

  The ceremonial formalities were lengthy as Baranov and the clan chief both made several long speeches, professing their desires for friendship and peace. At last, Baranov ordered the feast that had been hastily prepared at the cookhouse to be brought in. The food was accompanied by a brandy keg, and a round of toasts were drunk. Zachar tasted neither. Feasting his eyes on Raven was sufficient nourishment for him, and drinking in the sight of her intoxicated him.

  After an agony of waiting, the Kolosh began to dance in celebration and Zachar had his chance to seek out Raven. As he sat on the ground beside her, his tongue suddenly refused to function. None of the things he’d planned to say to her would come out. All he wanted to do was touch her and feel her in his arms again. Raven watched him while she chanted the song to which many of her people danced, leaping nimbly in the air. The boy peered around her to stare curiously at Zachar.

  “Is this your son?” And mine? he wanted to ask, but couldn’t.

  Raven nodded once and dropped out of the singing. “He is Gray Wolf.”

  “He’s a fine-looking boy.” Zachar felt certain he saw a resemblance to himself in the child’s features, especially his light-colored eyes. “How old is he?”

  “He was born two winters ago at the time when the bear has young.”

  By Kolosh reckoning, Zachar believed that was roughly the month of February. The boy was unquestionably his son. His son. The knowledge seemed to swell inside him, filling him with an overwhelming joy and pride.

  The tribal dance was approaching some climax, the singers lifting their voices in a crescendo, the whirling dancers yipping shrilly. Zachar became irritated by the bedlam that intruded on his meeting with Raven.

  He leaned closer to her to make himself heard above the noise. “Will you come outside with me?”

  Her glance flicked over his face as she hesitated momentarily. “You go. I will come soon.”

  Briefly Zachar wondered at her response, but it was enough that she had agreed to meet him privately. Eager to be alone with her, he rose to his feet and headed for the open tent flap, hugging the canvas sidewalls in an effort to slip away unnoticed.

  Outside, twilight purpled the clouds and the distant slopes of Mount Edgecumbe. The salt breeze blowing off the water was cool and kept the swarms of gnats and mosquitoes confined to the muskegs in the wet forest. Zachar moved away from the tent toward the tall prows of the beached canoes along the shore.

  All his senses were sharpened in anticipation. When he heard the sound of a footstep behind him, he pivoted sharply, surprised and elated that Raven had followed him so soon. But it was Mikhail, not Raven, and Zachar struggled to conceal his disappointment.

  “Is something wrong?” Mikhail frowned.

  “No. Nothing.” Zachar smiled, because things hadn’t been so right in a long time, not since last he’d been with Raven.

  The furrows creasing his brother’s brow deepened in puzzlement. “Why did you leave? Was it something that Kolosh woman said to you? You seemed to know her.”

  “I do.” At that moment, Zachar saw Raven glide through the tent opening with her young son in hand. Nodding his head, he directed Mikhail’s attention to her. “She’s meeting me here. Did you notice the little boy? He’s my son.”

  “Your what?”

  But Zachar didn’t hear his incredulous response as he stepped forward to greet Raven. This time it seemed the most natural thing to do to take her in his arms and kiss her, to feel the softness of her lips beneath his and the pliant yielding of her body to his embrace. A powerfully tender emotion swelled inside him, and he trembled when he finally lifted his head and gazed down at her face. He thought he had loved her before, but that couldn’t compare with the passionate adoration he now felt. It was all-consuming and all-forgiving.

  Her dark gaze strayed to a point beyond him, reminding him of Mikhail’s presence. He turned while keeping an arm around her. “I want you to meet my younger brother, Mikhail Tarakanov. This is Raven.” Reaching down, he scooped the boy into the hook of his arm and picked him up. He smiled at the child, who seemed so fascinated by this closeup look at him. “And this little fellow is Gray Wolf.”

  Mikhail had the distinct impression that he was looking at a family portrait: the boy with his father’s eyes perched on his arm, and the loving husband gazing adoringly at the mother of his son. Only one image didn’t ring true to him, and that was the woman who looked at him instead of Zachar.

  “I thought I’d never see her again,” Zachar was saying. “Now I’ll never let her out of my sight.”

  A quiet seemed to spread over the island. It took Mikhail a moment to realize the dancing inside the tent had ceased. As his attention shifted to the canvas structure, a Kolosh warrior paused in the opening, looking into the darkening shadows as if searching for someone. When his head stopped its slow turning, it was pointed directly at them.

  Recalling his brother’s last words, Mikhail said, “I think he might have something to say about that.” He nodded to indicate the warrior striding toward them.

  Raven stiffened when she recognized Frog of the Forest. In utter loathing, she curled her tongue inside her mouth, then felt the pressure of Zachar’s encircling arm increase slightly.

  “Who’s he?”

  “He is Frog of the Forest, the brother of my dead husband. He has taken me to be his second wife.”

  During the Russian siege of the stronghold, Runs Like a Wolf had been struck in the legs by grapeshot. Crippled by the wounds, he had been ritually killed by the shaman so he wouldn’t slow the clan during their flight. According to the custom of her people, his brother was obligated to take Raven as a wife, even though he already had one. Try as she might, Raven had not been able to usurp his first wife’s position as the favored wife. That he preferred that flat-nosed woman over her proved to Raven that he was even more stupid than his brother. And that he thought he could order her around like
a slave increased her contempt for him.

  He halted in front of her, his blackened face shining in the half-light of dusk. The red painted circles that ringed his eyes made him appear all the more menacing as he glared at her, angry that she had failed to seek his permission and that she had shown her unfaithfulness to him and shamed him in front of the Russians.

  “You go back to the tent,” he ordered in their tongue.

  “You go back to the tent.” She could feel the hilt of the knife that was strapped to Zachar’s side and shifted slightly to bring it more easily within her reach.

  “You will do as I say.” Infuriated by her defiance, he grabbed for her arm to force her into obedience.

  But Raven eluded his grasp and snatched Zachar’s knife from its sheath, then flashed its blade in front of her toad of a husband. “I will stay with Zachar.” This time she spoke in Russian.

  After drawing back in surprise, he took a threatening step forward, cursing her roundly. But Zachar intervened, as she had known he would. “Leave her alone.” He pulled his pistol and leveled the barrel at him.

  “Zachar. In the name of the Holy Saints, what do you think you’re doing?” The one Zachar had called his brother laid a restraining hand on Zachar’s arm. “They have come in peace to treat with Baranov.”

  “I have no more wish to live with you,” Raven declared contemptuously. “It shames me to be called the wife of one who is no more than frog’s water.”

  “I have no wish for you to be my wife.”

  “Then I am no more your wife and you are no more my husband.” She lowered the knife, satisfied now that she had provoked that admission from him. The gifts exchanged at marriage wouldn’t have to be returned as long as the desire to separate was mutual.