by Janet Dailey
There was no restriction of race. Only the uncivilized were denied citizenship, Wolf realized, relieved to learn he would not be forced at his age to leave the land of his birth. None of his family need fear their mixed Russian and native ancestry. Then he noticed the apprehension in his daughter’s expression and felt the first pang of separation. As the wife of a Russian naval officer, she had to leave with her husband.
“If, within a three-year period, any of you who have chosen to stay should change your mind and wish to move to Russia, the Russian government will provide transportation for you and your families. For those who stay, title will be given to the homes and land you presently occupy. The company will also sign over the various shops, mills, and equipment so that you may carry on your trade or profession. It is hoped that the men in San Francisco who are interested in furs will obtain a franchise from their government so that those of you who work in the peltry will continue to have employment.”
Prince Maksutov explained at length the provisions of the treaty of cession signed in Washington, D.C., and the options available to them. At the conclusion of his address, the crowd was slow to disperse, unconsciously clinging together. So much of their lives had been controlled by the company that this freedom of choice was new to them. There was no one telling them what to do.
“Perhaps it won’t be as bad as we feared,” Stanislav suggested, looking to Wolf, his father, for an opinion.
“They cannot claim we are uncivilized.” His Creole wife, Dominika, glanced anxiously at their grown son, Dimitri, who had recently graduated from the navigators’ school.
“It isn’t a decision we must make hastily.” Lev thoughtfully stroked his mustache. “We have the opportunity to see what it would be like to be ruled by Americans. It is my feeling we should wait. What do you say, Father?”
But Wolf was watching his daughter as she turned silently to leave, linking her arm with her husband’s, her head tipped down. For them there was nothing to decide, no alternative to consider.
Nadia darted quickly to her aunt’s side. “Where are you going?” Anastasia was her favorite aunt, the one who had introduced her to the festive parties and balls.
“There is much to do. Three months will not be as long as it sounds.” Although she appeared calm and poised, Anastasia’s eyes looked wet. The prospect of listening to her family discuss whether or not to stay when she must go was too painful to her at the moment, so she grasped for an excuse. “Everything has to be packed. And I must decide which household items to take and what to do with the rest.”
“Oh, but …” The protest died on her lips as Nadia glanced at her uncle, the sight of his uniform recalling the Prince’s order that all naval personnel were to return to Russia. For a frantic instant, she wondered how she could obtain invitations to the balls if Anastasia wasn’t here, then whether the Americans held such gala affairs. “I don’t want to stay. I want to go, too.”
“That is a decision for your father to make,” Nikolai stated and firmly guided his wife past Nadia.
Nadia turned to appeal to her father. “We aren’t going to stay, are we, Papa?”
“I haven’t decided what we will do.” There was a sharpness to his response; he hadn’t as yet determined what was best.
“But we are Russian, Papa,” Nadia reasoned. “How can we stay when the Americans come? It would be disloyal.”
“The Tsar betrayed us,” her cousin Dimitri argued. “Why was the pledge to grant a new charter not honored? Why was this country sold so secretly? The Tsar does not care what happens to us. I say we owe him no loyalty.”
“Grandpa.” Eva tugged at his hand. “What are you going to do?”
Wolf shook his head. “I must go tell Marya what has transpired.” He knew his wife would feel the same as he did and prefer to live out the remainder of their lives in the only land they knew as home. Yet he dreaded telling her that their only daughter would be leaving with her husband.
CHAPTER XXXII
Emerging from the governor’s mansion, Ryan Colby strolled to the top of the veranda steps, then halted and drew a long panatela cigar from his inside jacket pocket. Using the small knife that he kept in the pocket of his brocade vest, he deftly snipped off the closed end of the cigar. Unhurriedly, he returned the knife to his pocket and placed one end of the cigar in his mouth, then reached in another pocket for a match, all the while idly studying the castlelike fortifications atop the knoll and the harbor scene beyond the batteries.
Besides the two American gunboats riding at anchor in the harbor, the John L. Stevens was moored in the bay. American troops from the Ninth Infantry and the Second Artillery lounged on the decks. Landing permission had been refused by the Russians until the territory was formally turned over to the United States, an event that waited for the arrival of the official representative from the American government, General Lovell Rousseau, who was en route to Sitka on the U.S.S. Ossipee.
Ryan Colby raked the match head across the back of his trousers and cupped the fire close to the cigar tip. His hands and fingers were spotlessly clean and free of calluses. Sunlight showed the copper glints in his light brown mustache and hair, both neatly trimmed. His face rarely revealed what he was thinking unless he wished it. For most of his twenty-five years, he had lived by the quickness of his wits and hands, mostly in the mining camps of California, and of late in San Francisco’s Barbary Coast. Experience accounted for the cynicism that was permanently etched into his angular face and made his hazel eyes appear old.
As he shook out the match flame, the door behind him opened. He half turned, leisurely removing the cigar from his mouth, and studied the sandy-haired man coming toward him. He smiled crookedly, briefly commiserating with the eager young attorney over the deal they’d both lost out on.
“I could have saved my breath,” Gabe Blackwood declared, halting beside Ryan. He buttoned the jacket of his three-piece brown tweed suit, but it didn’t greatly improve its fit. “The Prince wasn’t even interested in hearing the offer I was authorized to make. I think he’d already made up his mind to sell the company’s stock of goods to Hutchinson.”
Ryan shrugged off the loss, too accustomed to luck sometimes sitting on someone else’s shoulders to let himself be upset by it. “And Hutchinson bought it for a song. A mere sixty-five thousand dollars.”
“How do you know that?” Gabe Blackwood frowned.
“I know. It doesn’t matter how. He can sell it in California and turn a quarter of a million dollars in profit. Of course, that shrewd New England trader has convinced Maksutov that most of it will stay here.” Personally, Ryan admired the feat.
“It’s obvious Maksutov wasn’t doing the negotiating when the Russians got Congress to pay seven million two hundred thousand dollars for this Alaska Territory.” The attorney donned his derby hat, then started down the steps. Ryan accompanied him.
The two men had met aboard ship en route to the newly purchased territory. In the beginning, Ryan had been amused by the idealistic lawyer who was roughly his own age. His own life had left him with few illusions. Countless times on the voyage, he had marveled at how naïve and gullible Blackwood was, always ready to believe the best and certain that right would prevail. The man was intelligent, but he didn’t have a grain of common sense. To some things he was as blind as the lady holding the scales. Still, Ryan rather liked the fellow, even though he felt sorry for him.
“What are you going to do now?” Blackwood eyed him curiously as they descended the fortress stairs to the town. “Head back to California?”
“Me? Not a chance. If Alaska is an iceberg as some of the newspapers claim, then the money Hutchinson just made is only the tip of it. I intend to get my share of the profit, then get the hell out.” Ryan stuck the cigar in his mouth, holding it between his teeth.
“Do you mean you’re going into business here? What kind?”
“Look at that town.” Ryan waved his cigar in a sweeping gesture that encompassed the buildings and
streets spreading out before them. “Show me where a man can go to quench his thirst. All you see are churches, a blacksmith shop, bakery, tailor, schools, but not a single saloon or gaming hall. The town could use a few.”
“But”—Blackwood frowned at him—“territorial laws forbid trafficking in liquor. It’s illegal to import it.”
Ryan laughed and shook his head. “It isn’t under territorial law yet. Legal or not, there’ll be saloons. And I’m going to have one, if not more. I didn’t come here early to buy the Russians’ stock of sheepskin coats, hardware, or dry goods. As far as I’m concerned, Hutchinson is welcome to them. I wanted to purchase the company’s barrels of rum and casks of wine, its supply of sugar, molasses, and grain to distill my own liquor. If I can, I’m going to buy it from Hutchinson now. If not, I’ll have it shipped in.”
“But it will be against the law.”
“Who’s going to arrest me, Gabe?” Ryan mocked. “The Army’s going to be in charge after the takeover, at least to start with. You show me a soldier who doesn’t like his liquor. The Army isn’t going to close down a saloon. But I tell you what—if I get arrested, I’ll send for you in California to defend me.”
“I won’t be there,” Blackwood replied quietly, appearing subdued and a little hurt by the way Ryan had poked fun at him. “I’m going to stay here and open a law office.”
“The hell you say.” Ryan had never pegged him as the pioneering sort.
“You saw what it was like in San Francisco before we left. Everyone was talking about Alaska and the opportunities here. It’s the same in Seattle and Portland, I’ve heard. People are going to be coming here. Someday Alaska is going to be a state, and I’m going to be part of making that happen.”
Ryan had heard a lot of big talk in his life. But the determination in Blackwood’s voice and the visionary look in his eyes struck Ryan. “Maybe you’ll even be the first governor,” he murmured.
Blackwood glanced sharply at him to see if he was being mocked again. “Maybe I will,” he asserted defensively.
However idealistically motivated, the man had political ambitions, Ryan realized. And he also knew that more than one man’s hide had been saved by influential friends. Blackwood just might be more useful to him than he’d first thought.
“If you’re going to open an office, we need to find you a place. Location’s important in any business or profession. Let’s take a walk through town.” Ryan directed him up the one and only business street in Sitka. “I’ve already picked out the location I want for my saloon. I’ll tell you what.” He slapped the hand holding the cigar on Gabe’s shoulder, knocking off the buildup of ash. “I’ll be your first client and you can handle all the legal work on the land I want to purchase.”
“I’d like that.” Gabe’s sudden grin was almost boyish.
“You’re an honest man, Gabe Blackwood.” But Ryan didn’t believe for a minute that he would remain so. Nor did he dwell on the thought, his attention moving to assess the town and the various potentials for quick gain. He decided if he had any cash left over, he’d buy up some land on speculation. If Blackwood was right and there was a large influx of Americans following the transfer, property values were bound to rise.
Ryan took a last puff on his cigar, then tossed the smoldering butt into the street. He noticed the small store they had just passed, tucked between two larger buildings on the boardwalk, yet in the center of everything.
“What about this shop?” He motioned the attorney to come back and look at it. Although he couldn’t see anyone inside, he tried the door anyway, rattling its hinges, but it was locked. He knocked, ignoring the gabble of Russian he heard coming from the street.
“Ryan.” Gabe Blackwood tapped his arm and motioned toward the young woman and little girl facing them on the boardwalk. “Do you understand Russian? I think she’s talking to us.”
“Nyet.” Which was the limit of Ryan’s conversational Russian.
But Gabe didn’t hear him as he stared at the young Russian woman cloaked in a burnous. Her hair was a shade of golden chestnut, parted in the middle and swept away from her face, framing its perfect features. To Gabe, everything about her was perfect, from the gentle curve of her lips to the delicate blush of her cheeks and the liquid softness of her brown eyes. He wished fervently that he had the Russian dictionary he’d bought at the bookstore in San Francisco, but it was in his trunk.
“Are you Americans?” The little girl’s voice jarred him, her English strongly accented but still understandable.
“Do you speak English?” he blurted in astonishment.
“I speak English, German, and French,” the young woman asserted, smiling faintly.
“You are lovely,” he murmured, then realized what he’d said. At the same instant, he became aware of his lack of manners and swept his hat off his head, simultaneously bowing to her. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to be rude. Permit me to introduce myself. I am Gabriel Blackwood, a lawyer. I plan to establish a practice here in Sitka. This is my friend, Ryan Colby.” He hardly noticed when his companion bowed to her.
“My name is Nadia Levyena Tarakanova.” Her curtsy was smooth and graceful, confirming his suspicion that she came from a family of some standing in the Russian community. “This is my little sister, Eva. And this is the shop of my grandfather. It is closed.”
“Is it closed permanently?” Ryan asked. “What I mean is—does he intend to leave Sitka after the Americans take possession?”
“No.”
“Will you be leaving?” Gabe knew that some Russian families had elected to return to their homeland.
“My father chooses to remain for a time.”
Although it was obviously not her desire to stay, Gabe smiled. “I’m glad,” he said, gazing at her in open adoration. A hint of an answering smile touched her lips. He thought her expression delightfully demure.
“We’d like to see the inside of the shop,” Ryan stated. “Is it possible to have your grandfather show it to us?”
“My grandfather mourns the death of my grandmother. He has not said when he plans to open the shop.”
“I am sorry to hear of your grandmother’s passing.” Gabe hurried to offer his sympathy. “Please extend my condolences to your family, Miss Tarakanova.”
“You are kind.”
“Not at all. Under the circumstances, this would not be a proper time to speak to your grandfather, but would you tell him that I may be interested in buying his shop if he wants to sell it?” It gave him the perfect excuse to become acquainted with the Tarakanov family—and the lovely Nadia. “Perhaps I might take the liberty of calling on him next week. Does he speak English as well as you do?”
“He speaks a little English,” she said.
“Maybe you or your father could arrange to be present in the event I have any difficulty making my offer understood.”
“Perhaps.”
“How may I contact you? Where do you live? I could come by your home.” Gabe wasn’t willing to let her get away without knowing where to find her.
She hesitated, as a proper lady should, then gave him directions to her home.
“Are you buying this land?” Nadia’s sister tipped her head to the side and studied him with a thoughtful frown.
“Maybe.” It was difficult for Gabe to believe this homely child was Nadia’s sister. The washed-out brown of her hair didn’t have that golden sheen to it. Her nose was too straight and her mouth too wide. “Why do you ask?”
“You are American. And everyone is sad because Americans are buying this land. The Kolosh say this land belongs to them,” she stated importantly.
“The Kolosh?” Gabe arched an eyebrow.
“I think she’s referring to the Indians,” Ryan said.
“You mean the savages living outside the stockade in those filthy hovels.” He’d noticed the Ranche beyond the gates and the small market area where the local Indians sold fish and game as well as a few wood carvings.
“They say
the Americans should pay the money to them,” Eva said.
“The Army should herd them onto a reservation, them and their half-breeds.” Gabe’s voice quivered on a note of hate that was buried deep inside him—a hate born at the death of his missionary parents. He’d only been six years old when they’d left him in the care of an aunt in San Francisco and gone to live among the filthy savages to save their heathen souls. Gabe still had their letters that spoke of their love for their red brethren—the same ones who rose up and killed them, led by a half-breed they’d trusted and called son.
“Half-breed,” Nadia repeated cautiously. “What does this word mean?”
“Someone who is part Indian and part white.”
“Oh. We call them Creole. Many live here and go to our schools and work for the company.”
“I see.” Gabe had his own opinion, but he didn’t consider it an appropriate topic of discussion.
Her sister started to say something else, but Nadia quickly shushed her. “Forgive Eva. She thinks everyone wants to talk with her, too.”
“I understand.” Gabe smiled.
“We must leave now. It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Blackwood, and Mr. …” She hesitated over Ryan’s name.
“Colby.” He nodded to her.
“Mr. Colby.” She cast another glance at Gabe, then ushered her sister past them.
Gabe turned to watch her walk away, observing the faint sway of the tassel that weighted the hood of her burnous.
“You didn’t waste any time staking your claim,” Ryan observed dryly.
Turning, Gabe looked at him. “You aren’t the only one who knows what you want. Remember when you said I might become the governor of Alaska someday. Well, I think you just met the woman who is going to be the governor’s lady.” The more he thought about it, the more auspicious it seemed. “It would be fitting, a marriage between the old Alaska and the new.”
CHAPTER XXXIII