by Janet Dailey
“This is interesting.” Baranov leaned back in his chair. “The Tarakanov family comes to plead for clemency on behalf of the Yankee captain. Yet, it was from the Kolosh woman who lives with you, Zachar, that I learned of his treacherous intentions.”
“Raven.” Larissa turned to her father, but his expression was a mirrorlike reflection of her own stunned and disbelieving look.
“She came to me this morning and said your good captain had asked her to relay the word to her people that he had guns and ammunition to sell them. She was afraid there would be more fighting if that happened.”
“What is he saying?” Caleb demanded in English. After Larissa told him, he sprang to his feet. “That’s a lie!”
Baranov shrugged. “The cargo of the Sea Gypsy included a large quantity of weapons. She knew that.”
“She could have learned that from any of the sailors on the ship,” Larissa insisted. “Caleb—Captain Stone made no secret of it.”
“A woman has the luxury of blindly believing what her heart says, but in my position I must look at the facts and judge accordingly. My opinion is unchanged, and my orders stand.”
No amount of appeal on Larissa’s part succeeded in dissuading him. Her grandmother laid a hand on Larissa’s arm to silence her. Caleb came back to sit in his chair after pacing to the window and staring at the harbor vista.
“We have known each other many years, Aleksandr Andreevich,” Tasha said. “When you first arrived at Kodiak, you were ill with a fever and I looked after you. My sons have fought at your side. My daughter-in-law pushed her little girl into your arms before she drowned in the tidal wave. Larissa was that baby girl. She has strong feelings for this Yankee captain. She told me she will leave with him. It is their request that you marry them.”
“Ask the captain if this is still what he wants now that he knows my orders are unchanged,” Baranov instructed Larissa.
She translated Baranov’s Russian to English and Caleb’s English to Russian. “The captain says he did not speak idly when he told you he wished to marry me. He says he would be honored to have me as his wife. And as he bowed to your authority earlier, he bows to it now. He binds himself to the vows we will make,” she asserted proudly.
“And you, child?” He squinted narrowly at her.
“I want to be his wife.”
“You would marry him knowing that my orders will then apply to you as well, that you will not be welcome in Sitka, that it is possible you will not see your family again?”
She felt the sting of tears in her eyes. “Yes, I would.”
They were married in the office by the windows overlooking the bay. The ceremony was conducted in Russian, and Caleb understood none of it, making the responses Larissa prompted him to say. During the prayer, his gaze strayed to the window and the tall bare masts of his ship in the harbor.
Raven. He might have known Baranov didn’t come out to inspect the manifest on mere speculation. He had been so concerned about Raven telling her lies to Larissa he hadn’t considered the damage she could do to him with Baranov.
There was a break in the drone of Russian. Caleb glanced at Larissa to see if there was something he was supposed to say. She gazed solemnly at him. “It is over. We are married.”
He forced aside his preoccupation and smiled at her. She was a lovely bride, even if she wasn’t bringing all that he had planned to their marriage. She had fought for him, but there simply wasn’t any antidote to Raven’s poisoning of his plans.
“You and your bride are to sail with the morrow’s tide,” Baranov stated in heavily accented English, and walked to his desk, relying heavily on his cane.
“One moment, Baranov.” Angered that the Russian wouldn’t relent and allow them an extra day, Caleb crossed the room. He reached into his pocket and took out a leather pouch, held it a moment, then tossed it onto the open journal on Baranov’s desk. “There’s five hundred dollars there in gold. It’s all for Madame Tarakanova. See that she wants for nothing.”
“A noble gesture, Captain.”
“She is part of my family now. I think you misjudge me,” Caleb asserted stiffly.
“So I have been told. But it is better, I feel, with your muskets in my arsenal.” Baranov didn’t even pick up the bag of coins.
It had been a desperate ploy to make himself look good in Baranov’s eyes. Its failure made all the previous ones that much more intolerable. Damn Raven and damn Baranov, Caleb thought bitterly as he left the governor’s residence with his new in-laws.
At the bottom of the steps, Caleb suggested to Larissa that she accompany her grandmother back to the cabin and pack her belongings, explaining that he needed to return to his ship. He promised to send a couple of men from his crew to the cabin to carry her things to the ship.
As Zachar lingered by the steps, Caleb recalled that Larissa’s father had said little during all this.
“Were you aware Raven had gone to Baranov? Or maybe it was your idea so you could get me away from here in case I started believing her lie that the boy is my son.”
“I knew nothing of it.” He looked beaten, as if he rather than Caleb had been the one who lost so much today. “She tells me nothing any more.”
No matter how much Caleb wanted a scapegoat, he believed him. “I wish I could get my hands on her.”
“You could have told Baranov the way she tried to make you give her presents because of the boy. It would have explained why she would make up a lie to hurt you. I am grateful that you kept silent.”
Caleb nearly laughed. He hadn’t kept silent to spare Zachar any shame or humiliation, as the Russian seemed to think. Unless he denied outright ever knowing Raven in the past, he would have had a hundred explanations and justifications to make. His past didn’t stand up well under close inspection. It would have been twice as hard for him to convince Baranov—and possibly even Larissa and her grandmother—that he had turned over a new leaf.
“There was nothing to be gained by spreading her lies. More people would simply be hurt, including Larissa,” he stated righteously.
“Has Larissa told you I leave soon?”
“No.”
“I go to the Pribilofs, the islands of the fur seals.” Zachar appeared to be troubled, yet hesitant, too. “You have helped me twice, Captain Stone. You rescued me after the massacre and you told no one that Wolf may not be my son. It is not fair that I should ask you to do more when I have been unable to help you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“So many seals have been killed in the Pribilofs during these last years, especially the pups, whose coats lose their black color and become soft silvery gray fur in September, and nursing females, too. No attention was paid to the age, sex, or quality of the fur. Sometimes thousands of bulls were slaughtered and left to rot with their pelts intact, and only their sex organs taken to be dried and made into a powder. The powder is highly prized in China. Last year, the company ordered the killing stopped to give the herds a chance to replenish their numbers.”
“And?” Caleb raised an eyebrow, not certain exactly what Zachar was suggesting.
“Since there is no more killing, most of the Aleuts and their families have been sent home to Unalaska. There will be only a few of us there to keep watch on the rookeries and guard the company buildings.”
“I see,” Caleb murmured.
“Raven does not wish to go with me to the Pribilofs. She says she will return to her people.”
“You’re lucky to be rid of her. She’s nothing but trouble.”
“I think you do not understand.” Zachar shook his head sadly. “If she leaves, she takes my son with her. Once I thought I could not live without Raven. Now I know I cannot live without my son.”
“Take him. How can she stop you?” It seemed simple enough to Caleb.
“Baranov will stop me. It is the law here. A child belongs to its mother. There is nothing I can do. If I could give Raven presents, I could have my son, but already I owe the company more than
I can repay.”
“How much would it take—What would you have to give Raven to persuade her to abandon her son?” Considering the value of the information Zachar had so generously given him, he was willing to spring for a few yards of cloth and some copper kettles or trinkets. “Come on board the Sea Gypsy with me and look over the merchandise I have.”
“You would do this?”
“We are family now.” Caleb clamped an arm around the older man’s shoulders and walked to the yawl with him.
CHAPTER XXVII
Larissa gathered her skirts more tightly around her with one hand, leaving the other free to hold the cup of steaming coffee as she started toward the stern of the ship. She nodded briefly to the sailor who stood beside the scuttlebutt slowly sipping at the ladle of fresh water.
All hands were at work on this fine morning in early July. Some were in the rigging mending the chafing gear, some braiding sennit or picking oakum. The ship’s carpenter labored at his workbench.
Larissa had had a little over two months to adjust to the sights and sounds of her new domain. As she mounted to the quarterdeck, her gaze went automatically to her new husband. The very word filled her with a sense of pride—and a yearning as well to play a larger role in his life than the one he’d thus far permitted.
The old sailmaker looked up from the topsail he was mending as she walked past him, but he offered no greeting. It was the same with the helmsman leaning lazily against the wheel. No one talked—to her or each other—when Caleb was on deck. This past month Larissa had noticed that everyone gave him a wide berth. She smiled at her use of the latter phrase, pleased at how quickly she had learned some of the seaman’s vernacular.
In the beginning it had sounded like a whole new language. Now she knew the difference between skysails and topgallants, clewing and reefing, halyards and lanyards. Right now, the Sea Gypsy was “under a cloud of sail,” her studding sails spreading beyond the ship on either side, canvas rising in a pyramid to royal studding sails and skysails.
Caleb stood with his feet braced to the roll of the deck, his brow furrowed with that troubled, brooding scowl he so often wore of late. All had not gone smoothly since they had left Sitka, although their marriage was not at fault. Trading had been poor along the coast. For all the time Caleb had spent haggling with the Kolosh, he had barely fifty pelts to show for it. Now he raced the brig north-northwest, risking every inch of canvas she could carry in fair wind or foul.
“Coffee.” She offered him the cup.
Preoccupied, he took the cup from her hand, grunting an absent acknowledgment as his attention returned to the clouds and horizon, watchful for some sign of a weather change. The brisk breeze had a bite to it. Gripping the edges of her shawl, Larissa crisscrossed the corners in front of her.
“Will we be there soon?” she murmured.
“Aye,” Caleb answered, then looked sharply at her. He had kept their destination secret, although she had guessed, and suspected the crew had as well, since much of their initial grumbling had stopped.
“The weather stays good,” she remarked.
“Aye.” A heavy sigh accompanied his response as he turned and looked again at the high, occasionally broken clouds.
“It will not stay,” Larissa assured him. “The wind will change. The thick fog will come. Landing the boats will be difficult if the winds and currents are bad.”
“What are you talking about?” His tone of voice was wary.
“The Pribilofs.” She faced him calmly. “I know you plan to raid the seal rookeries there.”
“How—” He broke off the question, half angry and half guilty.
“The chart was left unrolled on the table. Earlier I noticed fur seals feeding in the waters. They would not journey long distances from their islands at this time of year.” She smiled gently at his grim expression. “You cannot hide things from me, my husband.”
“Larissa, I can’t afford to spend two years on the coast to accumulate enough furs to go to Canton the way some merchant ships can. I have to show a profit on this voyage—a big profit.”
“There is nothing you must explain. I made my vows to you.” She would not let herself judge his actions.
During the times they spent alone in the captain’s quarters, Caleb had frequently talked about his dreams and future plans and she had come to understand the scope of his ambition. Once, after a particularly frustrating week of trading, Caleb had drunk excessively after dinner and told her about his dashed hopes for a trade alliance with Baranov and the Russian American Company. She had glimpsed the bitter disappointment that ate at him. While there was no doubt in her mind that his driving need to succeed was his prime motive in making this raid on the Pribilofs, she suspected the act was also a vengeful one, a means of paying Baranov back for ordering him out of Sitka.
“Your father—Zachar—suggested this to me,” Caleb stated.
That she would never have guessed. Somehow it didn’t seem right that he was involved in this.
“He will be on the island,” she said.
“Aye.”
There was a tightness in her throat and she coughed to clear the minor irritation. She noticed Caleb’s worried look and hastened to assure him. “It is nothing.”
“There’s a nip in the wind. Maybe you’d better go below before you get chilled.”
Larissa didn’t argue with his suggestion. She was feeling a little tired. According to Caleb, the sea air did that to a person.
* * *
By late in the day, a heavy overcast darkened the sea. A multitude of seabirds wheeled above the waters, filling the air with their lonely, mewing cries. Soon a bawling roar could be heard in the distance, coming from the island rookeries hidden by a shrouding fog. The brig stayed on a steady course toward the fog bank. Gradually Caleb was able to distinguish the crash of the breakers from the loud seal roar.
While the long daylight of the northern summer kept the darkness at bay, they entered and anchored offshore at a place Caleb judged to be on roughly the opposite side of the island from the Russian encampment that Zachar had indicated on his charts. He informed the crew they’d have four hours of sleep, save for the anchor watch, and that would be the last they’d have for forty-eight hours.
The first pearl of dawn came in the small hours of the morning. Only four experienced sea hands were left on the Sea Gypsy with Larissa. The rest, including the “idlers”—the steward, sailmaker, ship’s carpenter, and cook—piled into the boats and rowed for the beach. Although many had pistols shoved in the waistbands of their duck trousers, all were armed with clubs or belaying pins and sharp knives.
They landed on the rock-strewn beach amidst a harem. The men scrambled out of the boats, barely taking time to haul them ashore, and charged into the mass of hundred-pound female seals with black pups, swinging their clubs, stunning many of the thin-skulled mammals and crushing others. The killing orgy spread unchecked from one harem of cows to the next. The challenges of the massive six-hundred-pound harem bulls, the aggressive beachmasters, were futile, usually stopped by a shot fired into the brain, but with some, the sailors simply poked their eyes out and laughed at the blind charges and frustrated roars. More than a hundred seals died in the first hour.
But too many seals stampeded into the sea and escaped. Caleb called a halt to the chaotic slaughter and divided his men into groups, assigning each to a task to create a more efficient killing operation. Most he set to work skinning the already dead or unconscious seals, with instructions not to waste time on any with scarred or damaged pelts, but to remove the penis bone and sex organs of any of the males. The remaining handful of men, he let loose on the seals, ordering them to concentrate on the young males.
All morning and all afternoon the killing, skinning, and castrating continued unabated. Through the night they skinned, scraped, and salted hides by torchlight. Come morning, Caleb detailed a party of men to begin transporting the pelts to the Sea Gypsy. A morning meal of salt beef and se
a biscuit was distributed among the crew with a mug of rum-laced, molasses-sweetened coffee to wash it down. Caleb ate as they ate, worked as they worked, lending a hand wherever one was short, and roved constantly back and forth among the various operations. As the furs piled up, he drove the men harder, ignoring his fatigue and theirs.
His clothes were blood-caked, blubber-greased, and sweat-stiffened. The shadow of a beard darkened his cheeks. The stench of the bloody carcasses strewn in piles along the beach was all around him, but he was oblivious to everything but filling his hold with the thick glossy pelts.
The killing was amazingly easy. Already he was considering the possibility of letting his men rest in shifts and extending the operation another twenty-four hours. Why leave with five thousand pelts when he could take ten or twenty thousand? There were more than a million seals on this island. Why should he let the Russians have all of them?
Zachar walked, holding on to the legs of the boy who straddled his neck. Every now and then, he’d hold his hand up high so Wolf could take a few more crowberries from the pile cupped in his palm. The tundra grass came to his knees, and he waded through the lush tangle of stalks. The island was abloom with wildflowers, blue lupine, and white gentian.
A patchy, swirling fog drifted over the treeless island, here and there obscuring a hill or blanketing a hollow as he headed toward the beach with his son. The pandemonium grew louder with the scream of the seabirds—the red-legged kittiwakes, tufted sea parrots, red-faced murres, and seagulls by the thousands—the pounding of the surf on the rocky shores, and the deafening roar of the fur-seal masses.
Zachar wanted his son to see this awesome sight of the seething mass of fur seals—to see it and remember it always. That’s why they repeatedly made the long trek to this spot away from the encampment where they wouldn’t be disturbed by the others. He longed to tell Wolf the way it had been when he’d first seen it, to explain that the numbers had been reduced by ninety percent in his lifetime. He wished he could tell him about Walks Straight.